The Spirit Lens by Carol Berg Page B

and why. He doesn’t trust the Camarilla . . . the prefects . . . any mage . . . knowing how they resent him.”
    “But for some reason he trusts you, who lives and works among them. You’re his spy.”
    “I prefer the title agente confide .” It bore a certain gentility; less resonances of ugly execution. “As it happens, I am His Majesty’s distant kinsman—fortunately for you, very distant, so I’ll not take exception to your loose-tongued name calling. Though we’d never met until a half month ago, my cousin subscribes to the old virtues in the matter of family, thus has charged me to protect his life and search out the answers he needs. He believed I was—”
    Again came the uncomfortable confession. Nine years previous, Master Kajetan had first forced me to admit failure aloud. As my mentor, he had insisted I speak the verdict to my parents, else I would be tempted to live forever with a delusion. My father, who had ever lived in his own delusions, had taken umbrage. I still wore the scars—within and without. The ugly episode had left me shy of discussing my paucity of talent.
    Dante waited. I inhaled deeply. “As you judge correctly, Master, I cannot even begin to unravel such magic. Though I have informed the king of my lacks, he insists he trusts me to solve his mystery. As for the spying—well, for that we must include the chevalier in our conversation. Are you willing to go on, Master Dante? It is time for yea or nay, in or out.”
    The lamplight scarce touched the bottomless well of the descending stair, and the sinewy, black-haired mage with the unsettling gaze might have been Dimios himself, returning to the world of light for his annual visit, the blighted hand the manifest evidence of his corruption. He halted just below me.
    “I doubted you could present me a mystery that I would take on—a librarian with self-loathing so exposed as to make him bold. But I don’t like events that contradict my view of the world. So, go on, tell me the rest.”
    I took that as a yea .

CHAPTER THREE
    36 TRINE 61 DAYS UNTIL THE ANNIVERSARY
    I lario’s lanky frame sprawled like a creeping vine over an armchair at Lady Susanna’s card table. He was spinning his crocodile charm above his head like a pinwheel, occasionally rattling a crystal-globed lamp or clinking his wineglass. The lady herself, a serene, intelligent beauty with the most luxuriant black hair I had ever seen, laid down her fan of cards when I tapped on the open door. She was a gracious hostess indeed to tolerate Ilario for more than a tennight without the least ripple of aggravation.
    “Pardon, my lady,” I said, bowing. “I’m sorry to steal your company. Chevalier, you wished to speak to our visitor. . . .”
    “No matter,” said Susanna, shifting a richly colored shawl to her shoulders as she rose. Her smile illumined her large eyes and the deep cinnamon glow of her complexion. “I am a hopeless night bird. My husband is long to bed, and I have teased poor Ilario into one game too many in search of evening’s amusement. Though he carries the most perfect tenor, he will sing only when we play at cards. Alas, he seems to have run out of cheerful ditties.”
    Indolence abandoned, Ilario contracted his spread limbs and slithered to the edge of his chair, peering curiously through the empty doorway behind me. “Your exceptional loveliness demands excellence, dear lady, a responsibility that weighs heavy on my bardic soul. My supply of drivel is endless; my supply of poetry not so, especially when awaiting a visit from a fiend. My companion Portier, as you see, is of a depressive cast of mind, but this fellow who’s come to visit us makes Portier appear but a frippery. Where is the devilish visitor, good curator?”
    “He awaits us in the wild garden,” I said.
    “You must persuade him to come inside,” said the lady. “The night closes very dark. If he prefers more privacy, Hanea will open the guesthouse.”
    Ilario got out an