The greasy fellow tripped and nearly fell. Might have been the tunic’s fault, but the man had been so tightly strung, Farilane was surprised he didn’t explode altogether. His behavior was hard to read. He might merely be shy. Arranging a date with any woman could be a trial; making one with the imperial princess had to be a nightmare. Then again, it could also be that he was luring her to a kidnapping, a plan far less appealing with a Teshlor Knight suddenly tagging along.

“Sheldon Faust,” the greasy guide answered. Then after gathering up his tunic’s excess material, he rushed forward once more. He moved with all the speed of a superstitious man dashing past a graveyard—fast enough to cut the misery short, slow enough not to attract attention. He led the way out of the square and onto Reglan Road. They went but a block before turning onto the less traveled, far narrower Tope Street. Sheldon stayed out in front, glancing back often to reassure himself she was still there. Each time he looked, he seemed surprised. Then those same eyes would flutter to Ethan and instantly jerk away as if the knight were a hot pan.

“So you don’t know anything about this guy?” Ethan asked, ignoring the fact that Sheldon could easily hear their conversation.

She rolled her eyes. “Of course I do. Sheldon Faust here is in his mid-thirties, unmarried, born and raised in a small village in Warica where he apprenticed to become a carpenter, but settled for journeyman joiner. All that changed recently when he delivered a cabinet to a customer here in Percepliquis and met a man called Proust who fundamentally changed his life. Oh—and he’s right-handed.”

Sheldon stopped in the middle of Tope Street and stared at her. “How . . . how do you know all that?”

“Well, you just told me your name, didn’t you?”

“Yes, yes, but what about the rest?” Sheldon appeared absolutely terrified—which wasn’t all that different from how he’d been before, but her supposition had clearly tipped the scales enough to force a stop.