The Black Throne

II

A wisp of fog rode the evening wind by me as I approached the shore. The vessel was too far off to hail.

I began a quick search of the darkening beach hoping for some small boat that might take me out to her.

Minutes passed, and the futility of the enterprise asserted itself.

I turned my attention once more to the ship. Despite the oncoming night and the fog, I realized that I was going to swim out to it. There was no other way to get there. Though I had been skilled at rough-andtumble even before I'd joined the army, I had no illusions concerning my ability to defend myself against an entire ship's crew. My speed as a boxer, my expertise at wrestling would hardly serve me against a dozen sturdy sailors with belaying pins and boat hooks. Yet I could not let the black ship sail away again, taking Annie out of my life for what was likely the last time. I would have to take any chance, run any risk rather than let her get away.

But even as I knelt to unlace my boots, I heard the creaking of a winch. It came from the ship, where moments later I saw that a boat was being lowered into the water. My boots remained laced and I stood slowly, squinting. Obviously, the ship was not about to sail away this instant. With a party about to disembark from it, I might stand to increase my chances of helping Annie by observing rather than splashing my way out to the sinister hulk. It was also possible that the entire affair might be handled with less risk than I had first anticipated.

After all, could I be certain that there was something nasty afoot? Might I not have misunderstood a situation wherein Annie had been hurrying of her own volition to keep a pressing shipboard engagement? Could I not be projecting my own fears and apprehensions onto an innocuous event—turbulent emotions bred of our mysterious relationship?

The perverse imp which invariably appeals against my reasonings shouted No! It is unfortunate how often that imp seems possessed of the greater part of wisdom. I felt this minutes later, after the rowers of that boat had commenced their way shoreward through the deepening fog. For I hailed them, and they corrected their course, coming in my direction.

There were eight or ten men in that longboat, headed toward me with rapid, powerful strokes. I wondered just then what their purpose might be in coming ashore here, at just this time. Then I caught clearer sight of their leader, an evil-looking ruffian. The man was staring at me, grinning, rubbing his knuckles. Somewhere, my imp chuckled.

It bothered me, the way the man stared—not so much his general mien and apparent intent, as the fact that I seemed the object of his entire attention. I could not help but feel that their purpose in bringing the boat ashore, right now, right here, was only to do me some strange harm. A feeling—irrational, yet unshakable—filled me: They wanted me, and they had somehow known that this was where I would be this evening.

Fog blew between us as they reached the shallows, and I heard them shipping oars, splashing over the gunwales, heard the grating of the boat's bottom as they drew it landward over pebbles and sand. I turned and bolted.

A cry went up at the fog's next parting, and I heard the sounds of pursuit. I turned inland, crashing through a thicket. The landing party followed, nearer now, trailing me easily.

"Hold up or we'll go harder with you!" called one of the men—the leader, I believe. This was all the inducement I needed to double and redouble my effort to escape.

Something grazed my shoulder—a thrown stone most likely—and the next cry sounded even nearer. I kept going, aware that someone was gaining on me. From the sounds of his breathing, the sounds of his passage, I could tell that he would be upon me in a moment.

I turned quickly and faced my pursuer, a swart, wiry fellow with a club in his right hand. He halted and drew back in apparent startlement at the unanticipated confrontation. I kicked immediately at his nearest kneecap, missed and struck his thigh. The leg gave way, and I stepped in, punched his throat and snatched away the club. Another, a shorter man with a nasty scar running from mouth to ear was rushing toward me, and I knew I could not escape him.

I waited, hands low. He was unarmed and I let him swing at me without interference, stepping back, leaning a bit. His fist shot by me and I clubbed his elbow. He howled and I stepped in immediately, swinging toward his temple, missing and clipping the hinge of his jaw. He was pushed aside by a large, black-bearded individual who swung a dagger at my stomach. I dodged the stroke, struck at his arm and missed. His left hand caught me beside the head then, knocking me against a tree. I saw his teeth and two gaps through his beard as he slid forward, the knife beside his hip, left hand extended to clear the way.

Too stunned to move, I watched him come on. Then an unnaturally long hairy limb crossed his breast from the right, jerking the knife arm back up against his body. A misshapen hand appeared upon his left hip. He was then raised high into the air and hurled back among his fellows.

I shook my head, clearing it somewhat as I beheld what I knew, from pictures, to be an ape; as to what sort, though, I was ignorant. It was difficult to tell its true size because of its slouch and its shambling gait. Its advent and action produced considerable consternation among my pursuers, however. Two of them had been knocked down by the hurled man. At that moment a brace of pistols was fired from behind me, to the left. One man fell, another clutched at a suddenly incarnadined arm.

"This way, mate!" came a raspy voice from the rear and my arm was seized in a powerful grip. "C'mon, Emerson! Move it!" he cried, and the ape turned toward us and followed.

I allowed myself to be led, through the brush to a cleared area which took us to the beach. We commenced running then. I'd no idea where we were headed but the short man at my side moved with a definite purpose. There were sounds of pursuit, but the fog muffled them more than a little and it was difficult to tell whether they were on the right track. My first glance at my rescuer had made me think him, for a moment, to be a child, as he was no more than four-and-a-half feet tall. But then I glimpsed his strange ruddy face beneath an unusually coarse shock of dark hairs, and I realized simultaneously the width and thickness of his shoulders and upper arms.

He ran, I jogged, the ape lurched and sprang along the shore. At length, we halted beside a pile of brush which the man immediately attacked. I gave him a hand as soon as I realized that a small skiff was concealed beneath it. Before we had done with it, however, one of our pursuing sailors stumbled toward us out of the fog. He held a cutlass in his right hand and he raised it high when he beheld us.

"Damn!" he cried, rushing forward.

The small man stood between us. His left arm went up as the blade was swung toward his head. He caught the wrist of the man's swordarm, halting its descent entirely. Then, without particular haste, he reached forward with his right hand, catching hold of the fellow's belt around its buckle. At that moment, I heard a crunching sound, as of grating bones, from the vicinity of the wrist he was still squeezing. The swordsman repeated his earlier observation, but he was already off his feet by then, raised into the air by the small man, who turned and cast him out over the waters. Immediately, the short man caught hold of the skiff, which he pushed, effortlessly, seaward, having paused only to give me a wink and an evil grin.

"All aboard, Mr. Perry! Emerson—you, too! Come on!" he said. Then, in afterthought as we boarded, "It is Perry, ain't it?" he asked.

"It is indeed," I said, taking up one of the oars. "I never saw any of those men before. I've no idea why they attacked me." As we commenced rowing I added, "I must thank you for your intervention. It was most timely."

He snorted something resembling a laugh.

"Aye. It were most necessary," he said. "And almost too late."

We drew heavily upon the oars, and after several minutes I could discern nothing but fog in every direction. The ape pushed its way between us, moved forward into the prow and crouched there. Every now and then it made a gesture which seemed to mean something to my rescuer, and he corrected our course slightly on these occasions.

"Peters," he said suddenly. "Dirk Peters, at your service. We can shake hands another time."

I grunted. Then, "You already know my name," I said.

"True," he acknowledged. I waited for several strokes, but he did not elaborate. The fog remained heavy.

The ape gestured again.

"Hard to port. A pair should do it. I'll ease up and you pull," Dirk said then.

I complied, and when course was corrected, we resumed our normal rowing, I asked, "Where are we headed?"

Following a two-stroke pause, he replied, "There's a gentleman aboard a certain ship as has expressed a devout wish to see you. The same gentleman as sent me and Emerson ashore to look after your interests."

"It seems an awful lot of people know who I am, knew where I was going to be and knew when I'd be there."

He nodded slowly.

"So it seems," he said.

A little later, the ape uttered a low sound and bounced several times in place.

"What's that, Emerson?" Dirk asked. Then, "Oh. Oh-oh," he uttered and suddenly we were backing water.

There followed some eerie echoes, and then a great dark shape loomed ahead and sliding to starboard. It was the ship from which my pursuers had come. Even as we turned we drew nearer, and I was able to make out her name. She was the Evening Star.

Nearer still. Then through a lighted port above the poop deck, I saw a dear, familiar form: Annie. She stood gazing out into the fog, not even turning her head in my direction. In fact, something about her demeanor and her mien gave me the impression that she was sleepwalking, entranced, drugged. A

slowness of movement, an air of detachment—

A hand fell upon her shoulder and she was jerked away from the glass. Immediately, a heavy drape was drawn and the light was gone. And Annie was gone.

I uttered some sound, released my oar, and began to rise.

"Don't even think of it!" Peters snarled. "Yer a dead man if you set foot on her! Emerson, hold 'im if he tries to go overboard!"

And the creature actually did take hold of my collar. It could have weighed no more than I did, but having seen what it could do to a man I knew I should have no chance of escaping.

In a moment I realized that Peters must be right. Dead, I would be of no use to Annie. I slumped. Then I took hold of my oar again.

We rowed on, for some considerable distance. The fog broke and re-knit itself several times, though there was nothing to see but water and a few stars on those occasions when it opened. For a time I wondered whether we might have become lost, rowing in a great circle, or out to sea, or about to run aground. Then the shape of another vessel came into view—as mysterious and formidable-appearing as the first.

"Ahoy!" Peters shouted.

"That you, Peters?" came the response.

"It is, and I've brought company."

"Come alongside," called the other.

We did, and shortly thereafter a rope ladder was cast down near us. Emerson snagged it immediately.

Before we climbed to its deck, I caught sight of the vessel's name: Eidolon.

The man looked frighteningly distinguished, with his dark hair light at the sides, gray mustache neatly trimmed, impressive brow, jawline rugged as he clenched a delicately carved pipe between perfect teeth.

His well-tailored uniform was impeccable. He was tall and slender within it and his smile inspired confidence.

"This is Captain Guy," Peters said.

The man removed his pipe and smiled.

"Edgar Perry ... ?" he said.

"Yes."

He extended his hand. I took it.

"Welcome aboard the Eidolon," he told me.

"Thank you. Glad to meet you," I said. "Everybody seems to know who I am."

He nodded.

"You have been the subject of some attention."

"Of what sort?" I asked.

The captain glanced at Peters, who looked away.

"Um, I'm not certain it is my place to say," he stated.

"Is there anyone around who might be able to say?"

"Of course," he said. "There is Mr. Ellison."

He looked to Peters once more, and Peters looked away again.

"Mr. Seabright Ellison," he said then, as if that explained something.

"Do you think I might be able to make the acquaintance of this gentleman?" I inquired.

Peters snorted and took hold of my wrist.

"Come along," he said. "We'll be about that business right now."

"Just what sort of vessel is this?" I asked then.

Captain Guy paused in the process of replacing his pipe and said, "Why, this is Mr. Ellison's yacht."

"Come along," Peters repeated, and we left the captain puffing in the fog.

He led me below, and had I not already been informed I should have guessed from the fine woods and the high level of craftsmanship employed in facings and moldings that the ship must be a pleasure craft devoted to private use rather than a commercial vessel. And as we made our way, I wondered that Dirk Peters rather than Captain Guy was conducting me to my visit with the owner. Might he be somewhat more than the common seaman I had taken him for?

He halted before a door carved with swimming dragons and rapped sharply upon it.

"Who is it?" someone called from the other side.

"Peters," he replied. "An' Perry's with me."

"A moment."

Shortly, I heard a chain fall and the door was opened. I beheld a large man—over six feet in height and of great girth. He had on a dark green and black dressing gown over an unfastened white shirt and trousers. A white fringe was all that remained of his hair, and his eyes were bright blue.

"Mr. Perry!" he greeted. "I cannot say how delighted I am to see you in good health!"

"It appears that I have you to thank for it, sir," I told him.

"And you are most heartily welcome. Come in, come in!"

I did that. Peters—at my side—gave a small salute, which Ellison returned, and departed.

"Pray be seated," the big man said. "Are you hungry?"

I thought back over the supper of marsh-hens which Legrand's slave Jupiter had fed me only a few hours ago.

"Thanks, but I've eaten," I told him.

"Something to drink, then?"

"Can't say as I'd have any objection to that," I answered.

He went off to a cabinet from which he returned with a squat decanter of ruby fluid and a pair of shot glasses. He filled the tiny things, raised one and said, "Your health." I nodded and watched as he took a small sip. I sniffed it. It smelled like wine. I took a sip. It seemed a Burgundy. I took the rest in a single swallow, wondering at the eccentricity which prompted the man to drink in this fashion. His eyes widened slightly, but he refilled my glass immediately.

"Good man, that Peters," I said. "He timed his intervention perfectly, moved strongly, efficiently. Got me away against strong opposition. I confess I still haven't the least idea why those men attacked me, though. Or why—"

"Yes?"

"There is someone aboard their ship—the Evening Star—someone with whom I have an intimate connection. I'd be grateful if you could tell me anything of their purposes. Or simply who they are." I drank my other tiny portion of wine in a quick swallow, and went on, "How did you know I was going to be where I was? And that I'd need rescuing?"

He sighed and took another sip of his own drink, then refilled my own again.

"Before going into that, Mr. Perry," he said, "there are a few details about your background concerning which I'd like to be certain. I must be sure—absolutely sure—that you are the gentleman I think you are.

Have you any objection to answering a few questions?"

I chuckled.

"You saved my life and you're buying the drinks. Ask away."

"All right. Is it or is it not a fact that your mother was an actress," he began, "and that she died in poverty."

"Damn it, sir!" I responded, then got hold of myself. "Those are the facts," I said more softly, "as I understand them. I was not quite three years old when her death occurred."

His expression did not change, and his gaze fell upon my wineglass for the barest instant. Almost as a cue, I felt obliged to raise it and drain it. I did so, and he refilled it immediately, following this with but the smallest sip from his own.

"She died of consumption?" he went on. "In the city of Richmond?"

"That is correct."

"Satisfactory," he replied. "And what of your father?"

" 'Satisfactory,' sir?" I inquired.

"Come, come, young man," he said, touching my arm. "Sensitivity must wait. Matters of great moment hang in the balance here. I meant only that it was the answer I hoped to hear from you. Now, your father?"

I nodded.

"He was an actor, also, by all reports. He vanished from my mother's life and from mine, a year or two before she died."

"Indeed," he muttered, as if that, too, were satisfactory. "And you had the good fortune, upon your mother's death, to be adopted by a prosperous Richmond merchant," he continued, "John Allan, and his wife?"

"I would say rather that Mrs. Allan took pity on an orphan, and took me in. I was never formally adopted."

Seabright Ellison shrugged.

"Still, as a member of the Allan household, you enjoyed advantages denied to many," he observed. "For example, your four years in a private school in England—Manor House School, in the north of London, was it not?"

"It was," I admitted. "Your knowledge of my life astonishes me."

"And I suppose," he said, "it might have been at about that time when, in some—shall we say dream, or vision—you first encountered Annie?"

I stared at him. No one in waking life could know of her. I had never spoken of her.

"What do you know about Annie?" I whispered hoarsely. "What could you know about her?"

"Not a great deal, I assure you," he answered. "Certainly not all that I should like to know. Still— more than you do, I dare say."

"I have seen her," I said. "Two days ago, in Charleston—and again, within the hour. At this moment she is aboard—"

He raised his hand.

"I know where she is," he told me. "And while there is some danger involved, nothing threatens her at the moment. I can quite probably help you to reach her—eventually. But things will really proceed more swiftly if you will permit me to take things in my own order, at my own pace."

I nodded.

"Very well," I said, and I drained my minuscule wineglass once again. He refilled it, shook his head and muttered something that sounded like "Amazing."

Then, "Are you familiar, Mr. Perry, with the name of 'Poe'?" he asked.

"There is an Italian river, I believe," I stated.

"Really!" he hissed. "P-O-E. A man's name. Edgar Poe. Edgar Allan Poe."

"Sorry ..." I said, then, "Ah. A confusion of identity. Is that it? Those men on the beach— They really wanted to kill this Edgar Poe."

"No." Ellison raised his hand. "I beg of you, be of no illusions on that score. I've no doubt those men knew exactly whom they were to kill. It was you, Sergeant Edgar A. Perry. I will not say that Edgar Poe is in no danger. Far from it. But his fate will be more subtle, I suppose ... and it need not directly concern us."

He sighed, regarded his drink, then raised it, and finished it.

"There is," he began slowly, "a confusion of identity, certainly. Yes, you are confused with Edgar Poe, in such a way as two human beings have rarely been confused in all the history of the word. But—I repeat—there is no confusion in the minds of those from whom I saved you tonight, and who will certainly seek your death again. No. It is certainly Edgar Perry they want dead."

"Why?" I asked. "I don't even know them."

He drew a deep breath, sighed again, refilled his own tiny glass.

"Do you know, sir, where you are?" he asked, after a time. "The question is not rhetorical—and I do not mean it in the sense that you are in my cabin or aboard my ship. Pray, think in larger terms than that."

I stared, studying him, I suppose, trying to decide what he was getting at. But I felt too buffeted by events to be particularly creative. So, "Charleston Harbor?" I suggested, to keep up my end of the conversation.

"True. Quite true," he replied. "But is this, indeed, the Charleston harbor with which you are familiar?

Have you seen nothing, during the past few hours, to suggest that this is a Charleston harbor which you have never seen before?"

I saw again those wooded bluffs at sunset, and I recalled that strange golden beetle, hopefully still in my pocket. I reached inside and felt around. Yes. The leaf was still there. I withdrew it.

"I've something here," I began, as I unwrapped it.

The golden beetle was still present. It moved slowly upon the leaf which I placed atop an adjacent table.

Ellison donned a pair of spectacles and studied it for several moments. Then, "A beautiful specimen of scarabeus capus hominus," he remarked, "but not, I think, that unusual. You find it truly remarkable, however?"

"I have a friend on Sullivan's Island who collects insects, extensively," I explained. "His collection contains nothing remotely like this. Nor have I seen anything like it anywhere else."

"But in this world, Mr. Perry, it is most common."

"This world. Meaning—?"

"Meaning the world where Charleston Harbor has bluffs and ravines just inland," he stated. "Where this beetle is common. Where a certain sergeant serving at Fort Moultrie ought to be named Edgar Allan Poe—but now is not."

I raised my wineglass and stared at it. I drained it. He chuckled.

"... Where wine is commonly served in glasses no larger than the ones we have before us," he went on.

"Yes, pour yourself another, please." He took a sip from his own as I did so, and I extended the decanter in his direction. "No, no more for me, thank you. My tolerance for alcohol is not remotely the equal of yours, I am sure."

"I still do not understand," I said, "about Poe, and why he's not at the fort, where you say he should be.

Where is he? What has become different?"

"He has gone to the world you came from," he said. "He has taken your place in your world, as you have taken his in this." He paused, studied my face. Then, "I see that you do not find the idea completely unbelievable."

"No," I told him, "I do not. I have—known Edgar Allan for most of my life, through a series of strange encounters—as I have known Annie." I could feel my palms growing moist as I spoke. "You seem to have some idea what's going to happen to her aboard that ship. What do they want with her? What are they going to do to her?"

He shook his head slowly.

"She is not in danger of immediate bodily harm," he said. "In fact, her health is probably a matter of considerable concern to her captors. It is her mental and spiritual powers they wish to exploit."

"I must get to her, find a way to help her," I said.

"Of course," he agreed. "And I intend to show you how. You and Annie and the man you knew as Edgar Allan have met many times over the years, you say, under unusual circumstances ... ?"

"Yes—sort of dream-like encounters. Real enough, but with a special feeling to them."

"Beyond the experiences themselves," he said, "have you any understanding as to what they represent?"

I shrugged.

"Impossible to say, sir. We've discussed it occasionally but never found any satisfactory answers."

"You and Poe inhabit separate worlds, similar yet different," he said. "As for Annie, though, I am not certain which might be her true home—possibly yet a third alternate Earth. I see you nod, sir—as if the notion of other versions of your world were not unfamiliar."

"The possibility was discussed—once, briefly," I said.

"Oh? Poe's idea?"

I nodded.

"Interesting mind there," he remarked.

I shrugged.

"I suppose so," I admitted. "A trifle melodramatic, and inclined to take off after chimera, though."

"He was right."

"Really, sir."

"Really. I am telling you the truth, as I understand it."

"I can follow you," I said. "I can even believe you, I guess. But I suppose it bothers me a bit to see the man right again—and in such a bizarre matter."

"He was often right in odd matters?"

"Yes. As you say, interesting mind, interesting ways of thinking."

"Imaginative," Ellison supplied.

I finished my drink.

"All right," I said then. "Premise accepted. What follows?"

"You, Edgar Poe, and Annie constitute a sort of psychic unit transcending the several worlds," he began.

"It is Annie's exceptional abilities along these lines which provide the motive force of your connection.

A number of people who see a way to profit by her mesmeric talents have kidnapped her and confined her in this world. It could only be done by switching around everyone in your triad. Hence, it was necessary that you and Poe also be exchanged—"

I snorted.

"Mesmerism, sir! Really!" I said. "This sounds to me like the makings of a hoax."

His eyes widened and he smiled. He shook his head.

"You have no trouble with alternate realities, yet you balk at the notion of subtle influences? Between people, between people and nature? Indeed, you are an amazing man."

"I have seen something of alternate realities," I explained, "yet I have never seen this so-called animal magnetism in operation."

"I have reason to believe it operates in all affairs to some degree, mainly beneath the level of our attention—though I do believe its effects to be much more potent in this world than in your own.

Anything which affects the psychic faculty seems particularly strong here. Were I to consume as much alcohol as you have this evening I should be ill for days. This, I believe, is why her captors desired your Annie's presence here. Wherever she was, her abilities were considerable. Here, they will become even greater. If you truly do not believe, you need but wait. I will show you evidence before too long."

I wiped my palms again.

"Enough," I said. "I spoke hastily. I accept it, arguendo, as I want to know where this takes us. Who are these people who have Annie? What are they doing to her? What is it they want her powers for?"

He rose, and clasping his hands behind his back, paced a few paces.

"You've heard of the famous inventor, Von Kempelen?" he said at last.

"Yes," I answered. "Of course. I believe he even had something to do with the creation of the famous mechanical chessplayer I saw in Charleston a while back."

"Possibly so," Ellison replied. "Have you heard it said that he has gone more deeply than most into the writings of Sir Isaac Newton, Father of Alchemy?"

"No," I said.

"There are stories," he continued, "rumors that he'd transmuted lead into gold and grown homunculi."

I chuckled. "Human gullibility being what it is—" I began.

He chuckled, also.

"Of course," he said. "I doubt he succeeded with the homunculus."

I waited for him to continue, and he did not. I glanced at him.

"As to the transmutation," he finally said, "I speak as one who knows that he succeeded."

"Oh," I answered, both out of politeness to my host, and out of a sudden realization that in this place such a thing might actually have happened. "A useful skill, to say the least."

My gaze followed Ellison in his pacing, which had taken him to the far end of his quarters. I noticed for the first time that a low bench he was passing bore various pieces of arcane equipment. Noting my attention, he smiled wistfully and flipped a hand in that direction.

"Alembic, retort, distillator, furnace," he announced, in passing. "Yes, I dabble a bit in these matters myself—which is why I understand both the achievement and the conspiracy." He picked up a small burnished object, held it for a moment. It emitted a high-pitched shriek, lowered its voice to a growl, grew silent. He set it aside casually, shifting his attention to something floating in a green liquor within a helical vessel. "Von Kempelen found the secret," he continued, "then fled back to Europe when he realized the Unholy Trinity had discovered him out and was after it. They feel that Annie can be used to run him to earth and to force the gates of his mind."

"Can she?" I asked.

"I believe so," he replied. "By all reports she is a formidable lady."

"Whose reports?"

"Yours, and that of a thing which came into a mirror at my command, to advise me. And there is yet another—"

I felt momentarily dizzy, and I knew it wasn't the wine because the total of all those little glasses hadn't even equaled one good goblet of the sort to which I was accustomed.

"I'm trying," I said, "to understand. I repeat, who are these people who have Annie and wish to use her to steal Von Kempelen's secret?"

"Goodfellow, Templeton, and Griswold," he replied. "Dr. Templeton—a somewhat elderly and mysterious individual—is their mesmerist. I believe they are employing his powers to control Annie in the tracking of their prey. Then there is old Charley Goodfellow—a hearty, good-looking honest seeming fellow as ever slid a knife between a man's ribs. And, finally, Griswold. He is their leader and is considered rather a ruthless gentleman."

"And these men are aboard the Evening Star?" I inquired.

"So I believe," he answered.

" ... Where this Dr. Templeton is attempting to place Annie in a trance, so that she can divine Von Kempelen's whereabouts for them?"

"So I fear."

"If she is as strong as you think he may not succeed."

"Most likely they would drug her first. I know that I would."

I studied him, his back against the laboratory table, and he gave me more than casual scrutiny in return.

"So," I said after a time, "I thank you again for the timely rescue, and for the information on Annie... ."

He smiled. "And you're asking me 'Why?' " he said then.

"It's not that I disbelieve in altruism," I told him, "but you have gone to a lot of trouble on behalf of strangers."

"I'm prepared to go to a lot more," he said, "to thwart these men. And you are correct. There is a measure of self-interest involved, as in most human affairs."

I shrugged. "Results leave more of an impression than motives," I said. "I'm grateful, whatever your reasons."

"I'm a rather wealthy man," he said then.

"I'd guessed as much," I replied, sweeping my gaze significantly over the handsomely carved furniture, across the oriental rug and over a number of tasteful paintings. "So if it's not love or money it must be revenge, right?" I asked. "I'd guess one or all of these fellows did you a very bad turn at some point—"

He shook his head.

"A good guess, but wrong," he said. "It is money. I know sufficient of the area to believe the story of Von Kempelen's success, and I know sufficient of Annie's strength to believe that she will succeed in discovering his secrets. And I am sufficiently wealthy to have my own affairs disposed in such a fashion that any serious disturbance in the price of gold could be disastrous to me. I am uniquely positioned both for being harmed by them, and for anticipating them and thwarting them. So your reason is love, mine is money, and we can leave revenge out of this. We are therefore, as I see it, natural allies."

"It does look that way," I said. "And I'm certainly willing to go with you against them."

He pushed himself away from the workbench, smiling.

"Good, that's settled," he remarked.

He crossed the room to a small writing table, seated himself, took out stationery, ink, a pen, and began writing even as he continued speaking: "Shortly, I must introduce you to my own chief mesmeric consultant, Monsieur Ernest Valdemar."

"I should be happy to meet him," I stated.

"To be sure, to be sure," he replied. "You are to take command here, to pursue these men, to thwart them, to recover your lady."

"Me? Take command?" I inquired.

"Yes. Good that you're a military man, isn't it?"

"I don't understand. What of you?"

"Long sea voyages upset me in the extreme these days," he replied, "and I believe that Griswold and company will be heading for Europe shortly, since that is where Von Kempelen's fled."

"Where in Europe?"

"You'll have to apply to Monsieur Valdemar for that information."

"When might I get to meet him?"

"His nurse, Miss Ligeia, will introduce you at some point."

"The man is an invalid?"

"Oh, he has his problems. But his virtues more than compensate."

He completed a page, began another.

"Yes," he went on, "this ship will be at your disposal, captain and crew. And that includes Peters and his

'orang-outang,' Emerson, as he calls the beast. I will provide you with letters of introduction and credit for people and banks in any of a variety of places in which you might find yourself, before I leave."

"And where might one get in touch with you?" I asked.

"I suppose it is possible that you have never heard of the Domain of Arnheim?" he said.

I shook my head.

"It lies in New York state. I will include directions," he stated. "Hopefully, you will be by to report the complete success of the enterprise. And a trio of obituaries would make me a very grateful man."

"A moment, sir," I stated. "My intent is to rescue Annie. I'm not enlisting to kill anyone."

"Of course not," he replied. "What I said was merely that their obituaries would please me, for these are ruthless men and I see the possibility of a confrontation in which you—a professional soldier—might be forced to employ violence in self-defense. In such an instance I would be very grateful.

"Trebly so, in the best of all possible worlds," he added, smiling.

I nodded.

"Lives are but dice in the hands of the Almighty," I observed, which seemed sufficiently ambiguous to keep him happy without committing myself to anything. At least his smile broadened and he returned my nod as if we had an understanding.

I rose, turned away, did some pacing of my own, trying to order my thoughts. Ellison went on writing.

"You would give me command of this vessel?" I inquired, after a time.

"Captain Guy will continue in command," he replied without looking up. "He is the sort of man who would not dream of overruling the ship's owner. He will obey your orders."

"Good," I replied. "I know nothing of the actual management of a ship's affairs."

"All that would really be necessary would be for you to tell him where you want to go, and when."

"And this I am to discover from Valdemar?"

"By way of Ligeia, yes." He stopped writing for a moment and looked at me. "If you have any problems," he said then, "I recommend you talk to Dirk Peters. While it is true that his manner is rude, his formal education nonexistent, and his appearance uncouth, he is totally trustworthy and very shrewd.

No one aboard this ship would dare to cross him."

"I can well believe it," I said.

I returned to the decanter, bore it across the room to the workbench, where I appropriated a decent-sized glass. I filled it and took a drink. I saw then that Ellison had paused in his writing and was watching me.

He shook his head and looked away.

"Amazing," he said. I took another swallow. Then he asked, "Is there some problem?"

"Yes," I replied. "This means I'll be taking off without leave from Fort Moultrie."

"So it does," he said. "Do you really think they would grant you leave for an enterprise of this nature? Or that you'd even have time to request it?"

"No," I answered. "I understand the situation. But I've enjoyed my service, in the main, and I don't want to end it looking like a deserter. I want to write a letter to my Commanding Officer, requesting leave and explaining how I've serious personal matters to attend to."

He appeared to ponder it for a moment, then smiled again.

"Very well," he said. "Compose your letter and I will take it with me when I go ashore and see that it is delivered. Of course you must sign it 'Edgar Allan Poe.' "

"I didn't think of that—" I began.

"On the other hand, I can speak to a senator of my acquaintance and arrange for your immediate discharge."

"Perhaps that would be preferable... ."

"Settled then. I'll have the papers waiting for you at Arnheim when you return with the good news."

He winked and returned to his writing. I paced, sorting my thoughts. After a time, I cleared my throat.

He glanced up again. "Yes?" he asked.

"Where are my quarters to be?" I inquired.

"Why, right here, this stateroom," he responded, "as soon as I vacate the place." He blotted his letter, folded it, put it aside. "And that will be very soon," he added.

I fingered my shirtfront. I was wearing civilian garments fit for rambling in the wilds, and looking the part.

"Pity I've no chance to obtain a change of clothes," I remarked. "Feels strange to be taking off on something like this with just what I have on my back."

"Rummage through the sea chests," he said, with a gesture which took in a big one at the foot of the bunk, another in a corner, and a large armoire across the room. "They've all manner of garments in 'em."

So I did, and as I was about it he inquired, "You're a Master Sergeant, I believe?"

"Yes," I replied.

"So you've had more than one tour of duty?"

"Yes."

"Ever do any time in the cavalry?"

"I did."

"Then you know how to use a saber."

Memories of sweaty saber drills—stamping and cutting under an afternoon sun—returned in detail.

"Yes," I replied. "The guard makes a good knuckle-duster."

He squinted, as if trying to decide whether I were making some sort of joke. Actually, I was, though I was also speaking the truth.

"A good weapon," he said at last, "for its silence—however you use it. I just wanted you to know that Captain Guy has many in his armory, in case you've a desire to practice with one."

"Thanks."

I studied him. Finally, I could not resist asking, "Ever use one yourself?"

"Oh, yes," he replied, "in my younger days, in the Caribbean."

"What part?"

"All over, aboard ships," he answered.

"I thought you'd a tendency to seasickness."

"Not so much in those days," he said.

"What sort of ships?" I could not resist asking.

"Oh, merchantmen, of course," he replied, as if awakening from a reverie and realizing the line of my questioning. "Merchantmen, naturally."

"I guess a little practice wouldn't hurt," I said then.

Was that twitch to his left eye something of a wink? For a moment I covered it with an eyepatch, grew him a black beard and wrapped a red bandana around his skull. I tried to see him that way perhaps forty years ago, swinging a cutlass. I wondered... .

"Good idea," he said.

I turned up several trousers and shirts of medium to high quality, as well as two jackets, one light and one dark, which looked as if they would serve me. The russet shirt and black trousers I tried fit well, and I decided to keep them on.

"Well enough done," Ellison observed, glancing my way as he put his signature to the last of the letters.

"I'll show you my hidden safe, where we'll file these. Then I'll introduce you to Miss Ligeia before I take my leave."

"Very good, sir," I replied.

And these things were done. Thus did I make the acquaintance of Seabright Ellison, master of the Domain of Arnheim.

He wrote, as the fog crept up to the window, pressed against it: I have spoken of Memories that haunt us during our Youth. They sometimes even pursue us into our Manhood:—assume gradually less and less indefinite shapes:—now and then speak to us with low voices... .

A wind stirred the fog, a slice of moon found its way through the parting. He thought ahead to the end.