The Black Throne

by Fred Saberhagen

  While nobody knows for certain just where the hell his body is, there is now a monument to Edgar Allan Poe; and generally, on the eve of his birthday, he is remembered. A bottle of bourbon may turn up at his tomb, along with a few flowers and an occasional stuffed raven. Baudelaire and a number of his countrymen thought him one hell of a fellow. Henry James disagreed, but he always was a bit of a spoilsport. Poe is one of those writers, as someone said, who holds a great special place in literature rather than a great general place.

  It happened this year, too. But he doesn't touch a drop anymore.

  V

  There came a night when my sleep was troubled. I tossed fitfully, drowsing and rousing, and seem to recall at one point hearing the sounds of a November storm. My dreams were a rag-bag of ill-matched people and places, going nowhere. At some unmarked hour the storm faded. I found oblivion for a time and its taste was sweet. . . .

  I found myself sitting up, listening, searching the shadows, waiting for awareness to catch up with my senses, uncertain as to what it was that had called me awake. It felt as if there were someone present, but moonlight streamed through a porthole and my eyes were entirely dark-adjusted. I saw no one.

  "Who's there?" I asked, and I swung my feet over the side of the bunk, dropped to one knee and fetched out the saber from where I had stowed it beneath. No one responded.

  Then I noted the glow upon the wall, near the apparatus table. Rising, I approached, halting when I realized it to be only the small, metal-framed mirror which hung there. The angle must be such that it was catching that intense moonlight.

  Only, it retained a uniform luminosity as I crossed the room to inspect the armoire. Satisfying myself that no menaces lurked among the garments, I approached the mirror for a closer look.

  It was not the moonlight, however, but an effect produced by its reflecting a foggy daytime beach, against which my own reflection was but a pale ghost. A young Annie, as first I had known her, stood before one of our sand castles. What I had heard now seemed to have been a call from her, for the ghostly echo of a plaintive "Edgar!" hung suddenly in memory's dim vault.

  "Annie!" I said. "I'm here!"

  But she paid me no heed. I continued to peer, but I could think of no way to make her aware of my presence. Then, through the fog which lay heavy upon the beach to her right, I saw a figure approaching, the form of a man moving slowly, unsteadily, toward her.

  As I watched, she turned in that direction. Even before be came into view, I knew that it would be Poe. But I had not anticipated his appearance. He had on a thin, ill-fitting shirt and outsize trousers. He staggered and swayed, leaning heavily upon a Malacca cane. His face looked far older than my own now, muscles slack, eyes unfocussed, so that at first I thought him intoxicated. Closer scrutiny, however, changed my opinion. The man was obviously ill, his mien one of fever and delirium rather than inebriation. Annie rushed to meet him, but he moved as if unaware of her presence. When she caught hold of his hand he collapsed suddenly to his left knee, a wild sweep of his cane toppling several towers and piercing a wall of the castle. For an instant, he regarded their fall. Then his eyes met Annie's. She rushed to embrace him, but a moment later he was struggling to rise. Footing regained, he continued on his way, heading, it seemed, directly toward me. Annie followed, and though her mouth opened and closed several times, I could hear nothing that she uttered. He drew nearer, nearer. He seemed to be staring into my eyes. I felt his gaze. . . .

  A moment later his body emerged from the wall, his face from the mirror, and he continued his advance without any sign of distraction from the transition. His gaze moved beyond me.

  "Edgar!" I called. "Poe! Old friend! Hold up! Stop and rest. We want to help you."

  He halted, he turned, he stared.

  "Demon!" he said. "Doppelganger! Why have you haunted me down all these years?"

  "I'm not a demon," I said. "I'm your friend—Perry. Annie and I want to help—"

  He moaned, turned away and began walking again. I took a step toward him, just as he reached the patch of moonlight. It passed through him as if he were made of tinted glass. He raised his hand, staring at it, staring through it.

  "Dead—and gone ghostly," he said. "I am already spirit."

  "No," I responded. "I don't think so. I've an idea. Let me fetch Ligeia and—"

  "Dead," he repeated, ignoring me. "But how can a spirit feel as I do? I am ill."

  I took another step toward him.

  "Let me try—" I began.

  But he let his hand fall and went out like a snuffed candle.

  "Poe!" I cried.

  Nothing. I turned back to the mirror and it was dark now.

  "Poe. . . ."

  * * *

  In the morning I wondered how much of the night's drama had been dream. Then I noticed my right hand still held the saber. I went and looked in the mirror and all I saw was my own curious expression. I wondered whether this was the mirror Ellison had used in some of his alchemical experiments; and, if so, whether such usage made it more readily available to whatever forces had been at play.

  Later, during the day's regular session with Valdemar, I asked him how the bond 'twixt Annie, Poe, and I now stood.

  "The same, the same as ever," he replied.

  "Then I do not understand," I said. "Now the experiences are unlike any others I have known. Something must have happened."

  "Yes," he answered. "But the bond remains the same. It is the character of the experience that has changed."

  "So, what's causing it?"

  "Annie is trapped in a cage of narcotics and mesmerism. They warp her perceptions, distort her sendings."

  "How can I help her?"

  "Too many probabilities come together in her presence," he said, "for me to see a single course of action as best."

  "In effect, she is calling for help and there is no way we can help her?"

  "Not at this time."

  I turned away, grinding my teeth together, biting off an oath.

  "Then there is nothing I should do?" I snapped.

  "I cannot make a moral judgment on your behalf."

  "Damn it! I just want to know how to help her!"

  "Then you must protect yourself. You must be alive and unmaimed when the opportunity occurs to effect her deliverance."

  "The opportunity will occur?"

  "It is possible."

  "Where and when will it be most possible?"

  "I cannot say."

  "Damn," I said. "Damn! Can't you tell me anything that might be useful to me?"

  "Yes," he said, at length. "When things grow truly horrifying, not everything may be real."

  "You've lost me," I said. "I do not understand."

  "Even now," he responded, "Templeton and Griswold are seeking the means for turning Annie into a weapon."

  "Annie? A weapon?"

  "Yes. If she can move people from one world to another—she may be able—to do other things—to them—as well."

  "Such as?"

  "I do not know—yet. But whatever—may come of it—remember that you can tolerate—more poison or animal magnetism—than anyone—on this—planet. . . . Please! let me go."

  I made the gesture myself, returning him to his doom.

  After this pessimistic revelation I grew concerned as to Valdemar's continuing value in this venture. If Annie's entranced condition canceled his second sight when it came to herself, what did I need him for? She was the only reason I'd agreed to head this odd odyssey.

  I spoke of the situation with Peters during a card game that evening. We'd gotten in the habit of passing a little time in this fashion each night, during which I had confided my story as well as what ailed poor Valdemar.

  As we talked, Emerson moved around the cabin considerably. At times, he came to rest somewhere behind my right shoulder. Sometimes, on those occasions, I would catch sight of peculiar gestures on his part. Generally, Peters would win that particular hand. Apart from the fact that each had resc
ued me from a dangerous situation, I could hardly accuse them of cheating because it felt stupid even to suggest that the ape possessed that sort of intelligence let alone the will to use it in such a fashion. Still, I took to placing my cards face down on the table before me whenever Emerson passed to the rear, and of discoursing at some length on my history or whatever was troubling me most. Peters did not seem unaware of my ploy and its precipitating action, but appeared vastly amused by the state of affairs and the unspoken assumptions each obtained, as well as genuinely interested in my story and my present dilemma.

  That night when Emerson did his little dance at my back I put my cards aside and told Peter what Valdemar had said about Annie having become unpredictable.

  "Ha!" he said. "So you take Kain-tuck windage."

  "Beg pardon?"

  "If the wind's blowin' from yer left, you aim a little to the left and let her carry yer shot over where you want her to go."

  "Meaning?"

  "Yer askin' the dead fella the wrong questions," he told me. "Ask 'bout other things likely t'involve the lady. Let the wind carry yer questions where you really want 'em."

  Emerson wandered off about then, and when we ended our game—was it at about six bells?—we were fairly even in our winnings. On the other hand, I felt ahead for his advice, as the next morning I'd some fresh questions for Valdemar.

  The tapers flickered, the currents flowed. . . .

  "I hate to keep bothering you," I said, when Valdemar had finished with his moaning, "but can you tell me where the inventor Von Kempelen is right now?"

  "Paris," he replied.

  "Could you be more specific?"

  "No," he said. "This information is blocked from my regard."

  "Why? How?" I asked.

  "Griswold has anticipated your line of inquiry," he answered. "Templeton has directed Annie to block my sight in this area."

  "Already?" I said. "The man plans well ahead. I wonder whether there might be some more physical means of obtaining this information?"

  "Mr. Ellison maintains a number of agents in Paris . . ."

  "Yes, I've a list of them."

  "They keep a watch over the Paris harbor and will recognize the Eidolon when it docks. The watcher will be in touch at that time."

  "I am not sure we can make it past Le Havre," I said. "A ship this size may draw too much water to make it up the Seine as far as Paris. We may have to go by coach from Le—"

  "It will make it," he said, "and when the agent gets in touch you must ask to be introduced to one particular agent—a Monsieur Dupin. This man will find Von Kempelen for you."

  "And Griswold will come to Von Kempelen, and we can follow him back to Annie."

  "Presumably. As I said, her presence clouds my view of outcomes."

  "Close enough," I said, "for Kentucky windage. Thank you, sir," and I let him return to his rest.

  Later, from within the hidden safe, I unearthed a list of Ellison's French agents. There was indeed a Dupin, a Cesar Auguste Dupin, entered there. His address was given as 33 Rue Dunot, Fauborg St. Germain, and beneath it was entered, "Completely reliable; first-class mind; poet, though, and other eccentricities."

  Later, I checked with Captain Guy and he assured me that the Eidolon had made it to Paris before and would again. As I cut and parried my way through a saber drill I thought about Von Kempelen and his secret. I had to assume that Annie would locate him and Griswold reach him before I did. When I finally stood face to face with the man what would I say? Emerson came up beside me, aping my movements for a time. Would Griswold attempt to purchase Von Kempelen's secret? Or would he attempt coercion? Purchase, I guessed. Too much room for deception in detailing a complicated process—even if they made him perform it under scrutiny. No, I judged they would want the man's cooperation.

  What do you offer a man who can make gold, anyway?

  Tricky. The process might require expensive equipment, expensive ingredients for setup and operation. And even if this were not the case, Griswold might be able to offer him something else he wanted. As I toweled myself down following my exertions, I wondered concerning the efficacy of an appeal to the alchemist based on preserving the stability of the world gold market. For an ethical concept it seemed pretty abstract. I felt I might be better off trying to demonstrate Griswold's baseness. But even that. . . . Supposing Von Kempelen were somewhat base himself and not at all impressed by this argument?

  As I drew on my shirt, I tried to imagine Seabright Ellison standing before me, considering the question. Without hesitation he smiled and reflected, "The secret dies with the man." I was not, however, about to kill anyone to preserve the price of gold. So what did that leave?

  Back in my stateroom, I opened a hidden safe and considered the French letters of credit. It appeared I could put my hands on some very large sums of money should the need arise. While I did not like the possibility of Von Kempelen's turning the conflict between Griswold and my employer into a bidding situation, it might be simplest to try topping Griswold's offer. I resolved to try it, after doing my best to show the man up as a blackguard.

  I strolled the deck feeling somewhat lighter of heart than earlier. At last I'd some information and something of a plan. The day was clear, brisk, bright, and dinner only a bell away.

  Fair stood the wind for France. . . .

  * * *

  The Seine flowed slowly, meandering in a generally southeast direction. And we ascended slowly, amid a great deal of other shipping. A small steam tug took us the last part of the way, under leaden November skies. The trees stood bare upon the banks. The water was gray. It was difficult to tell when the day began. I had stood upon the deck in darkness, watching the passing shadows, and the world brightened gradually about me but there was no real sunrise. There were bridges, windmills, passing carts. More and more buildings came into view—larger, closer together. . . .

  "A few more hours, Master Eddie, and you can try out yer parlay voos," said Peters. I had not heard him come up beside me. I glanced about after his shadow but the simian was not in sight.

  I shook my head.

  "I'm afraid I lack the equipment in that area. You ever been here before?"

  "A few times," he replied, "on errands for Mr. Ellison."

  "You know the lingo?"

  "Well, yes and no," he answered.

  "What do you mean?"

  "My pappy, like I said, was a voyageur. I picked up some when he was about—but the rest is argot, gutter French, from the folks I'd sometimes deal with. I can understand a bit, but I open my mouth around anyone respectable and he's gonna know there's somethin' untrustworthy about me."

  "You mean he's going to think there's something untrustworthy."

  "No, he's gonna know it."

  "Oh."

  He laughed then. So did I. But I wondered.

  Later that morning, getting on toward noon, we reached the quay. The smells were a combination of spice and rot, and we heard the noise and witnessed the movements of the port before we had docked. I told Captain Guy that I would be taking Peters with me and heading into town as soon as we might disembark. He allowed that the formalities would not be overlong, suggesting, however, that we had time for a meal. So Peters and I headed for the saloon, taking a leisurely luncheon while the ship was herded to its anchorage and the port authorities dealt with.

  Sometime after the gangways had fallen into place and the shouts of crewmen subsided, Captain Guy came to us.

  "Edgar," he said. "Would you come with me, please? And bring Peters."

  I was about to ask him what for when he caught my eye and brushed his lips with a fingertip. I nodded, got to my feet and followed him. Peters came along, and Emerson emerged from beneath a companionway and joined us.

  Captain Guy conducted us to his cabin, where a small, slim lady of the dark-haired variety waited. She was attractive and tastefully, though not conspicuously, garbed. She rose from the captain's leather chair, smiling faintly, to acknowledge introduction
s.

  "This is Miss Marie Roget," Captain Guy began, "one of Mr. Ellison's French agents. She was waiting for us upon our arrival."

  I immediately wondered how Seabright could have gotten a message to her in advance of our arrival. But she explained, even before I asked, that an agent at Le Havre automatically passed word to Paris when one of Seabright's vessels was headed this way. Seeing that this was his personal yacht it was decided that someone had better be on hand to help deal with any problems.

  Emerson seemed to have taken a fancy to her and she patted him several times as she spoke, as if he were a large dog. This seemed to please him in the extreme, and he cavorted about the cabin till Peters growled something at him which resulted in his immediate retirement beneath the table.

  " . . . So, if there is anything I can help you with," she said, "just ask."

  "All right," I said. "I will. We are following the inventor Von Kempelen. Or rather, we are following someone who is following Von Kempelen. I suppose it comes to the same thing—"

  "The man has been seen in Paris," she interrupted. "He enjoys the reputation of being worth watching, here on the Continent. So we should be able to give you some assistance. Pray, continue."

  I told her of Annie and of the Unholy Trinity and of the possibility of alchemical gold. I did not tell her anything of my own origin or of anything—such as Valdemar—not material to the problems at hand. "And so," I concluded, "we were about to go in search of Monsieur Dupin when you arrived."

  She nodded.

  "A good choice," she said. "I have worked with the man and can vouch for his brilliance and his integrity. And while I have not yet spoken with him on the matter, he may well know more about the Von Kempelen affair than I do. Shall I take you to him?"