The Last Defender of Camelot. Roger Zelazny

me a reading? All right. I’ll tell you a little about myself and what I want right now, and you can tell me whether I’ll get it. Okay?”

      “I’m listening.”

      “I am a buyer for a large gallery in the East I am something of an authority on ancient work in precious metals. I am in town to attend an auction of such items from the estate of a private collector. I will go to inspect the pieces tomorrow. Naturally, I hope to find something good. What do you think my chances are?”

      “Give me your hands.”

      He extended them, palms upward. She leaned forward and regarded them. She looked back up at him immediately.

      “Your wrists have more rascettes than I can count.”

      “Yours seem to have quite a few, also.”

      She met his eyes for only a moment and returned her attention to his hands. He noted that she had paled beneath what remained of her makeup, and her breathing was now irregular.

      “No,” she finally said, drawing back, “you are not going to find here what you are looking for.”

      Her hand trembled slightly as she raised her teacup. He frowned.

      “I asked only in jest,” he said. “Nothing to get upset about. I doubted I would find what I am really looking for, anyway.”

      She shook her head.

      “Tell me your name.”

      “I’ve lost my accent,” he said, “but I’m French. The name is DuLac.”

      She stared into his eyes and began to blink rapidly.

      “No . . . ” she said. “No.”

      “I’m afraid so. What’s yours?”

      “Madam LeFay,” she said. “I just repainted that sign. It’s still drying.”

      He began to laugh, but it froze in his throat

      “Now—I know—who—you remind me of . . . ”

      “You reminded me of someone, also. Now I, too, know.”

      Her eyes brimmed, her mascara ran.

      “It couldn’t be,” he said. “Not here . . . . Not in a place like this. . . . ”

      “You dear man,” she said softly, and she raised his right hand to her lips. She seemed to choke for a moment, then said, “I had thought that I was the last, and yourself buried at Joyous Gard. I never dreamed . . . ” Then, “This?” gesturing about the room. “Only because it amuses me, helps to pass the time. The waiting—”

      She stopped. She lowered his hand.

      “Tell me about it,” she said.

      “The waiting?” he said. “For what do you wait?”

      “Peace,” she said. “I am here by the power of my arts, through all the long years. But you—How did you manage it?”

      “I—” He took another drink of tea. He looked about the room. “I do not know how to begin,” he said. “I survived the final battles, saw the kingdom sundered, could do nothing—and at last departed England. I wandered, taking service at many courts, and after a time under many names, as I saw that I was not aging—or aging very, very slowly. I was in India, China—I fought in the Crusades. I’ve been everywhere. I’ve spoken with magicians and mystics—most of them charlatans, a few with the power, none so great as Merlin—and what had come to be my own belief was confirmed by one of them, a man more than half charlatan, yet . . . ” He paused and finished his tea. “Are you certain you want to hear all this?” he asked.

      “I want to bear it. Let me bring more tea first, though.”

      She returned with the tea. She lit a cigarette and leaned back.

      “Go on.”

      “I decided that it was—my sin,” he said. “with . . . the Queen.”

      “I don’t understand.”