The Black Throne

by Roger Zelazny

  I wondered. Prior to his departure, Ellison had introduced me to the large-eyed, raven-haired lady, Ligeia, a woman of such fascinating beauty as slowed the cadence of my thinking to at least half its normal pace. Yet, it was not entirely her appearance which, I realized after a minute or so, was doing this to me. It was some other element about her person which was producing an actual physical effect.

  Immediately I realized this, I stepped back a pace and took a deep breath. The sensation vanished. The lady smiled.

  "Delighted to make your acquaintance," she'd stated as Ellison named me, her voice low, hypnotic, accented in the manner of a Russian immigrant I had once known, eyes staring into my own with an unusual intensity.

  "This is the man of whom I was speaking earlier—"

  "I know," she stated.

  "—and he has agreed to manage the business to which I referred."

  "I know," she repeated.

  "So I would appreciate your placing our special resources at his service."

  She nodded.

  "Of course."

  "However, he has had an extremely filled day," he went on, "and I feel that any farther excitement would not be in his best interest. So I suggest we postpone his introduction to your charge until tomorrow. He is already aware that Monsieur Valdemar is able to obtain us information from places beyond this version of reality."

  "I understand," she said.

  "I don't," I said, "but I'll take your word for it."

  "I will obtain sailing information and relay it to Captain Guy before my departure," he said.

  "Very good," I replied. "In which case—"

  "—you may retire," he finished for me, "and I'll bid you farewell and good luck as well as good night."

  He clasped my hand with a firm grip.

  "All right," I said. "Good-bye and good night."

  I nodded to Ligeia. "I'll see you tomorrow," I told her.

  "I know," she said.

  I headed back to the stateroom, where I cast myself face downwards across the big bed. I was asleep almost immediately, later going away to our kingdom by the sea. And now... .

  Sufficient light streamed from the ports for me to shave by, drawing fresh water from a large tank at the alchemical end of my quarters, emptying my basin out the nearest port when I had done with it. When I had finished grooming myself I went in search of breakfast. In the mess I was told that I might be served in my stateroom and instructed in the system of signaling for service. Since I was already in the saloon, however, I elected to remain, while eggs and onions, toast and halibut were prepared for my refreshment. The night's shadowy farrago of dreams and bewilderments, puzzles and fears, was washed from my spirit by several cups of excellent coffee, the final of which I took with me on deck, to sip as I beheld the icy, sun-spotted waves, a few benign-looking clouds drifting like white islands in the placid blue overhead. The sun was still low in its corner of the heavens, and taking my bearings therefrom I sought in what I thought must be a shoreward direction for signs of the coast we had departed, but my gaze met land neither in that direction nor any other. A trail of gulls rode the winds behind us, dipping into and rising out of our wake. When the cook—a one-eyed Spaniard named Domingo—called something loudly (whether curses or snatches of song, I am uncertain) and dumped the morning's slops, they answered him and fell quickly to feasting in the churning waters. I moved forward then, seeking for some time in that direction after any sign of the great dark vessel Evening Star. But, it too, lay beyond the blue edges of my world.

  I shivered and gulped more of the steaming coffee. I resolved to wear something warmer the next time I was above deck this early in the day. Turning to head below and return my cup to the galley on the way to Ligeia's cabin, I encountered a grinning Dirk Peters, who touched the bill of his cap in mock salute and growled, "'Marnin', Master Eddie."

  I gave him a smile and a nod and returned, "Good morning, Mister Peters."

  " 'Dirk' will do," he responded. "Lovely day now, ain't it?"

  "Indeed," I agreed.

  "And how does it feel, bein' in charge?" he continued.

  "Hard to say," I replied. "I haven't given any orders yet."

  He shrugged.

  "No need, so far as I understand," he said. "'Less some emergency comes along. Mr. Ellison should've taken care of all the orderin' for a time."

  "That's how I understand it, too," I said.

  "You much of a seaman?" he asked.

  "I was abroad, as a child. I don't remember getting seasick, if that's what you mean."

  "Good," he observed, as a dark shape fell from the rigging, to bound across the deck and come up beside him. He reached out to clasp the hirsute shoulder of his ape, Emerson. The beast responded in kind, and I could not help but note that they resembled each other more than slightly. I say this not to disparage the man who came to my aid in a time of need—for I agree that it is more pardonable to trespass against truth than beauty—but because the very ugliness of his physiognomy was, in some wise, a thing of far greater fascination than those paragons of handsomeness the artists favor. His lips were thin, his teeth, ever-visible, long and protruding. He might almost give the impression of amusement were one to pay him but a casual glance. On return regard, however, one might liken it more to the merriment of a demon. In fact, his face was twisted, as if convulsed with laughter, and of paler pigmentation in patches between some of these creases than others, leading me to wonder whether some areas of his face might not be formed entirely of scar tissue. It was a frightening face, especially when one realized that its transition from seeming jollity to ferociousness was entirely a matter of one's own deepening perception rather than of any action on the man's part—as if reaching after a jewel beheld in some shadowy recess, one realized it to be embedded in the head of a serpent. "Good."

  "What can you tell me about Valdemar?" I asked him.

  He reached up as if to scratch his head, passing his fingers beneath his fantastical crop of black shag, raising it in the process and revealing it to be a peculiar wig. Observing my fascinated gaze he grinned a genuine grin and said, "Cut it from the skin of a bear who'd meant me ill." Then, "Valdemar," he observed. "Never laid eyes on 'im. He keeps in his stateroom, next to yours."

  While there was something of the sailor in Peters' speech and manner, there seemed even more of the frontier. So, "You from the West?" I asked him.

  He nodded.

  "My pappy was a voyageur, a fur trader," he said, "and my mammy was an Upsaroka Injun out of the Black Hills. I've tracked and hunted all over the West. I've walked through Colter's Hell and been down in a canyon so big you could drop Charleston in and lose it." He spat over the railing, striking a luckless gull with terrible accuracy. "I've been down in Mexico and up where the northern lights hang like curtains at the end of the day." He scratched under his wig again. "All b'fore I was twelve," he added.

  While I was not unfamiliar with tellers of tall tales, the man's ruggedly bizarre appearance and casual manner of speaking had me believing him entirely. A liar cares whether people believe what he said, for he wishes to impress them. I did not believe Peters gave a damn what anybody thought.

  "About Valdemar ..." I suggested.

  "Yes?"

  "How long has he been aboard?"

  "Don't rightly know, sir," he replied. "Longer than me. The men were told he's an invalid and likes to travel. But I kinda wonder how much enjoyment there can be, stayin' in one room like that."

  "You think there's something involved we don't know about?" I asked.

  He shrugged.

  ".Quien sabe?" Then, "The lady Ligeia, I s'pose," he finished.

  "What do you mean?" I inquired.

  "Somethin' strange about that lady, his nurse. 'Minds me of a Crow medicine chief I once met. Johnny- Walks-With-Two-Spirits. Spookiest fella I ever knew in his comins and goins. When he talked to you you could almost see the ghostlands at his back, an' hear funny sounds in the winds. She's like that, too. />
  Dunno any other way to put it."

  I shook my head.

  "I was kind of sleepy when I met her," I said. "Didn't really talk at any length. Has a kind of striking appearance, as I recall."

  He grunted.

  "She pretty much keeps to herself, too," he said. "I suggest stayin' on her good side. Got a feelin' she could be a tough enemy."

  "I'm all for harmony," I said. "In fact, I should be paying Valdemar my respects soon."

  "I imagine the captain will be wanting to talk soon, too."

  I studied him as I nodded agreement. He did not seem aware that Valdemar was Ellison's resident expert on the trail we were to follow, rather than a simple tourist. So it seemed prudent to depart the subject, though sooner or later I would have to discover exactly what he did and did not know. I mused aloud,

  "Wonder which I should do first?"

  "Hell, you can see the cap'n anytime," he said.

  "You've a point there," I agreed. "Who knows how long it might take to meet our mysterious traveler if things aren't well with him? Wonder when I should drop by?"

  "You been hearin' the bells?" he asked.

  "Yes. Don't know how they work, though."

  "They mark the watch," he explained. "They ring 'em every half-hour, from one bell to eight. Then they start again. Eight-thirty was one bell, nine o'clock was two. Next'll be three bells, nine-thirty. Might want to go by at three or four bells. Give him a chance to wake up and freshen."

  "Thanks," I said, extending my hand. He did not take it, but Emerson reached forward, seized it, squeezed it, and pumped it. Had he wished, I could tell, the beast could have crushed it like a handful of dry sticks.

  Peters grinned a totally evil grin and nodded.

  "Anything I can help you on, Eddie, just give me a holler."

  Then he threw me another mock-salute, turned, and passed below. Emerson sprang upward, to vanish behind a sail.

  Three or four bells. Okay. I went below, myself, to fetch another cup of coffee while I waited. By three bells I'd had enough. I returned to my stateroom, where I sought through my wardrobe once more. A

  white shirt and cravat might well be in order, I decided. By four bells I'd also turned up a suitable vest and jacket as well as a tin of bootblack, and I'd allowed my Army habits to take over.

  I walked past the intervening stateroom and knocked upon Ligeia's door. It opened immediately, and she met me with the faintest of smiles.

  "I was expecting you," she said.

  "I expect you were," I replied, finding a faint smile myself.

  She had on a nondescript gray smock-like garment, and her fingers and wrists no longer wore the jewelry I half-remembered from the previous evening. Again, there was a peculiar feeling in her presence—as if lightning had just struck or was about to.

  She neither invited me in nor joined me in the corridor. She simply studied me for several moments.

  Finally, "You are even more unusual than I first thought," she observed.

  "Really?" I said. "In what respects?"

  "Geography," she replied.

  "I don't understand."

  "You don't fit anyplace I know of," she said, "and I thought I knew everyplace. So you must be from someplace else."

  "It would seem to follow," I replied, deciding not to pursue matters further as I could see a strange exercise in tautology upon the horizon. "And I will be happy to leave things there," I added, "if you will, too."

  She furrowed her brows, narrowed her eyes.

  "Where?" she inquired.

  "Someplace else," I said.

  Then her face relaxed and she smiled fully.

  "You Americans are always joking," she said then. "You are joking with me, yes?"

  "Yes," I said.

  She leaned against the door jamb. Was there a slight sway to her hips as she did so?

  "Is it that you wish to see Monsieur Valdemar now ... ?" she asked, as if inviting me to complete the sentence on a different note.

  "I would," I replied.

  "Very well," she said, gesturing toward the door to my left, which came between hers and my own.

  "Wait by that door."

  With that, she withdrew into her stateroom and closed its door. I heard a bolt or bar fall or slide into place.

  So I did as she'd ordered, walking to the next door and waiting there. Several minutes passed, and then abruptly, the door was opened for me. It stood perhaps a foot ajar, and I could detect nothing but blackness within.

  "Come in," I heard her say.

  "Uh— I can't see a thing," I said.

  "That's all right," she replied. "Just do as I say."

  Reflecting that Ellison had enjoined me to trust her, I took two steps on the oblique, sufficient to carry me past the door's edge into the dark interior. The door closed immediately, I heard the snick of a bolt, and I stood stock-still.

  "Mightn't we have a little light?" I asked. "I don't know which way to move."

  Immediately, I felt my hand taken.

  "I will lead you," she said softly. "Monsieur Valdemar's condition is such that the light bothers him considerably."

  "Even a small candle?" I asked.

  "Even a small candle."

  She led me back and to my right. After several paces, she squeezed my hand and placed her other hand upon my chest. "Halt," she said; then, when I did, "That's just fine. Stay there."

  She released me, moved a few paces away. Shortly, I heard a creaking sound as of a door being opened, from somewhere before me. There followed a total silence, and after several minutes of it I cleared my throat. She ignored this, so I finally asked, "Is everything all right?"

  "Of course," she said. "Be patient. It takes a little time to establish rapport."

  I could not tell what she was doing, though I detected the rustling of movement. Then I felt the peculiar tingling sensation which I immediately recalled from the previous evening. And I became aware of a faint line of light to my right. Of course, the connecting door between her suite and this one—it was not entirely closed. Then came the murmurs. She was speaking very softly.

  "Let's not wake the poor fellow up now," I said. "Let him get his rest. I'll come back later."

  "No," she answered. "He's doing just fine. It takes him a while to—pull himself together. That's all."

  There followed a terrible moan.

  " ... And I hate to put an invalid under such a strain," I added.

  "Nonsense!" she replied. "It's good for him. Keeps up his interest in life."

  Again, the moan.

  I edged a trifle nearer, as my eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness and I was hoping to discern something of interest beyond the movements of her arms over the dark object upon the bed. Again, I felt the vibratory sensation. Before I could remark upon it, however, the moan came again, followed by a distant "No! No! ... Let me be. Please! I beseech you!"

  "Are you sure ... ?" I began.

  "Of course," she responded. "He's always a little out of sorts when I rouse him. Just a matter of mood."

  "Sounds the way I feel before I have my coffee," I said. "Perhaps we should send for some breakfast for him."

  "Oh! Ooh!" he moaned. "I am dead!"

  "No, he's not much for food or drink," she replied. "Come around now, Monsieur. There's a gentleman here I'd like you to meet."

  "Please! Just—let me—go ..." came a raspy, distant voice. "Let me die."

  "The more time you waste arguing, Monsieur, the longer it takes," she stated.

  "Very well," he said then. "What is it—that you want?"

  "I wish to introduce Mr. Edgar Perry, who is now in charge of our expedition."

  "Expedition ..." he said softly.

  " ... In pursuit of Messers Goodfellow, Templeton, and Griswold, who have kidnapped the woman known as Annie."

  "I see her," he said, "ablaze—like a crystal chandelier—before us. She is not of this world. They use her.

  They use her—to follow—another.
Let me die."

  "Von Kempelen," I said.

  "Yes. But I know not—where they—are headed—because—it is not clear—where he is headed—yet.

  Let me die."

  "We do not need that information now," I said, an extraordinary thought occurring to me and causing me to begin sidling to my right. "Tell me what you can of the connection between Edgar Allan Poe and myself."

  "You are—somehow—the same—person," he said.

  "How can that be?" I asked.

  "Crossover," he said. "Poor Poe—will—never know. Never to find what is sought—through hollow lands—and hilly lands."

  "Why not?"

  "Let me rest!"

  "Tell me!"

  "I know not. Only Annie—knows! I am dead!"

  One more step to the right, then I turned and kicked open the door. Daylight spilled through from Ligeia's own quarters, catching the lady in mid-gesture above an opened casket, within which lay a frightfully pale individual whose white whiskers stood in violent contrast to the blackness of his hair.

  His eyes were opened but the pupils rolled upward. His face was twisted, lips drawn back, teeth bared.

  His tongue, slightly protruding, appeared to be black.

  "Good Lord!" I said. "The man is dead!"

  "Yes and no," she observed. "He's an unusual case."

  She gestured slowly and his eyes closed. She shut the lid.

  "But then, we all have our problems," she added. "Would you care for some tea or hashish?"

  "Have you got anything stronger?" I answered, as she took my arm.

  "Certainement," she replied, and I cast a backward glance as we departed, surprised to note that the casket when closed possessed the shape and size of a large crate of wine-bottles, even to the point of bearing labels, producing the impression of a doublebox of Chateau-Margaux, of the antelope brand, violet seal.