Your shoes.

After a short moment of consideration, you point down at your footwear. You're wearing your standard pair of shoes you bought two or three years ago. By now, they fit you like another layer of skin. "Behold this pair, mylady. Do they look as if had stolen them only few days past? No, they were made specially for me." Well, that is a lie, and maybe not the most convincing of arguments, but better than nothing. "See, I've walked miles and miles in them, without getting blisters. If you wish, I can show ..."

The duchess who has mustered your shoes attentiously, smiles—almost wickedly—for a moment. "That won't be necessary, good sir. Fine shoewear, indeed, and I do believe it fits you."

"Still, he could have stolen it, just having fortune on his side", the minister objects.

Lady Elizka tilts her head, then nods. "Not that I would accuse our guest of such treachery, but, truly, a certain risk remains. Maybe it would clear up things, if you told us what roads led you here? Where did your journey begin?"

You can't quite hide your nervousity. Now is the time for your cover-up story. You clear your throat, straighten your back, try to look as noble as possible. "I hail from a fiefdom far, far away. You won't have heard of it, as we do not possess a great lot of political power, but our technology is rather advanced and our lands prosper." It's not all that far from the truth, and will, you hope at least, explain why you are an unknown besides your presumed riches.

The minister, though, frowns. "And where exactly lies this fiefdom?"