The Black Throne

"Not just now, thanks," I replied. "I am looking for a tu

Their laughter returned.

"Why would you want to go there? The company is far far better here."

"I do not doubt your conviviality, but I am looking for an ancient tu

"Nay, you'd best dig your own," said the man with the wrapped leg. "Start here. We'll fill it in after you."

The ladies tittered. The paralyzed man rolled his eyes. My host banged his bone and swilled a few drops of wine.

"Silence!" he roared. Then, using the bone as a cane, he levered himself to his feet. He lurched toward me and raised the bone, pointing it. Disconcerted, I saw that he held it as an expert swordsman might his blade. "You will be so good as to drain an entire skull of grog," he a

He extended the dripping skull toward me and I drew my saber.

"An unkindly act," he observed, and he gestured to his opposite number. The fat lady began to sing.

Peters must simply have jumped into the opening. His feet struck the stair about halfway down and he leaped, catching hold of the skeleton upon which he swung. The singing ceased and shrieks arose. King Pest's minions must have been taken aback by one whose appearance was every bit as outre as their own and far, far more sinister. Peters let go and landed upon the table.

"Up the ladder, laddie!" he called. "'Tis time to drown all sorrows."

King Pest backed quickly away from me and turned toward Peters, pointing the bone. Peters moved forward and caught hold of the big vat. It must have been ponderous in the extreme, filled with liquid as it was. But he raised it, threw me a wink, and began to tip it. I swarmed up the stair as the gurgling began, mixed with screams.

A moment later I heard the rattle of the skeleton, a thud on a tread, and a chuckle. Peters emerged from the opening and kicked the trapdoor shut. A moment later he was raising a heavy coffin which he deposited upon it.

Emerson suddenly came into the shop, the light of a new-risen moon at his back, and commenced gesturing to Peters.

"I think we'd better be gettin' back," Peters said then to me. "We've done all the good we can here."

We followed our shaggy companion into the night.

Mews by moonlight: Lovely lady seated on a coffin, a few of our belongings piled nearby, nightbird perched atop them.

"Ligeia," I said, "what's become of the coach?"

"I heard the driver unloading it," she replied, "and when I got out to see what he was about he leaped back to his seat, snatched up the reins and rode off. He feared the Red Death."

"He took the time to say that?"

"He'd said it earlier, right after you left to explore. He said he thought you mad. He suggested the two of us depart."

"We passit a barrow back a ways, Eddie," Peters remarked. "P'raps I should fetch it."

"Good thought. Yes, do that," I answered.

Which is how we came to be wheeling a cart bearing our worldly and otherworldly possessions up and down the streets of Santa Creus when two men staggered across our path heading to the northeast, one of them clad in jester's motley.

I was about to hail them when I felt Peters' hand upon my arm.

"They're tipsy," he said.

"So?"

"Recall the ones in the cellar."

"These may well be part of some more normal group of survivors."

"Let's follow them then, rather than approach them."

"I'd prefer that, too," Ligeia said.

So we settled into a pace which kept us a decent distance behind the men, overhearing bits of their conversation on occasion. They reeled a bit as they went, though they sobered somewhat farther along and straightened their gait. I gathered that the one in jester's garb was named Fortunato. The other was called Montresor.

The latter looked back once or twice, but I could not tell whether he saw us following.

As other snatches of dialogue drifted our way I gathered they were talking, with considerable erudition, of wine. At least, their discussion seemed full of specialized knowledge.

They slowed as they neared a large, rambling, antique mansion, set among gloomy trees apart from other buildings. From their comments, I gathered it to be Montresor's house, despite his momentary difficulty in unlocking the door.

There came a knocking from inside Valdemar's box. Ligeia placed her hand upon its lid, possibly doing something mesmeric, as—after a time—she a

So we kept going, right up to the front door. Shortly, I was knocking on it. Peters and I had to pound long and hard before Montresor answered. When he did he looked surprised, a

I suppose the general appearance of our group was not reassuring.

"Mr. Montresor?" I said, hoping hard that he knew some English.

He studied my face for several long seconds, then nodded.

"Yes. What is it?" he asked.

"It concerns the delivery of this case of Chateau-Margaux, of the antelope brand, violet seal," I explained.

His gaze shifted to the large case, where it was instantly taken prisoner. His wariness and a

"I do not understand," he said. "I did not order this. Are you selling it? Is it a gift? Are you messengers?"

"You might say we are messengers," I told him. "Though in this city, at this time, ordinary messengers are hard to come by."

"True," he said, nodding. "And what sort might you be?"

"We are," I told him, "all that is left of a troupe of entertainers. We were sent for by Prince Prospero, but we were not able to reach the abbey before its gates were sealed. The soldiers refused to admit us, and they also refused to inquire of the prince himself whether he wanted us admitted.

"And so," I continued, "we have been reduced to trying to trade this crate of fine wine for food and a secure place to stay. It was originally intended for Prospero, but those who brought it here abandoned it and fled, for fear of the Red Death."

"Of course," he muttered, opening the door wider, still staring at the case. "Won't you bring it inside?"

At this, we all moved forward simultaneously. Eyes widening, he raised a hand. "No," he said. "The ape and the bird must remain outside."

"They can't be left unattended," I said.

"Then let the lady keep them company while you transport the crate," he suggested. "I ca

"But a certain matter of great moment compels me to remain," he added, almost under his breath.

Fortunato suddenly lurched into view behind him, still wearing his jester's cap and bells. He took a swig from a small glass flask with a broken, jagged neck, then tried focussing his gaze in our direction.

"What's keeping you?" he asked. "I want to go at that pipe of Montal— Montin—"

"Amontillado!" Grip shrieked, and the man stumbled back, a look of terror suddenly upon his face.

"The Devil!" he cried, continuing to back away.

"No," I answered Montresor. "We don't bring it in unless all of us come with it."

"An ass! Luchesi's an ass! You know that, Montresor?" Fortunato suddenly exclaimed. "An ignoramus!

Couldn't tell sherry from vinegar—"

The man in motley broke into a suspicious coughing fit.

"Nothing," he said quickly then, his English more heavily accented than Montresor's. "It is not the plague. I will not die of a cough."

"No," said Montresor, eyeing him thoughtfully. "I think we may safely say that you will not."