CHAPTER THREE
The apartment in which he was placed was divided into two rooms. His own room, he discovered with relief, had a door with a lock.
Remembering Mr. Sobel’s set of keys, Layle took the added precaution of propping a chair under his doorknob. He had pledged himself not to kill anyone here, since the Code did not permit that, but he could not be sure whether Mr. Sobel felt himself to be under a similar obligation. The guard might decide that Layle remained a threat to his bed-honor.
With the door safely barred, Layle carried out his usual nightly routine of checking his bedroom for traps and poison. He did not yet know how high the murder rate was between torturers here, and until he knew, he would take no chances. He had been the most talented apprentice to enter the Hidden Dungeon in recent years; all the other youths’ hands had been against him, once they had realized that he was a future contender for the position of High Torturer.
Here he would be lucky if the Codifier permitted him to clean the floors, but the other young torturers could not know that. So he searched diligently, but the bedroom was clean of all murderous items, perhaps because it ordinarily served as Mr. Sobel’s bedroom. Mr. Sobel himself was spending a night on the sofa in the next room, which he had termed his parlor.
Layle surveyed the bedroom, trying to decide how to spend the next few hours. The Code of Seeking required junior torturers who were assigned to the night shift to be on-duty from the end of dusk shift to the beginning of dawn shift, other than a brief break for a midnight meal. At this time of year, in early autumn, that meant his shift lasted roughly ten hours. A further four hours – the length of the dusk shift and dawn shift combined – were set aside for meals and leisure. That left the junior torturers with a luxurious ten hours in which to sleep.
Layle required only six hours of sleep. Seeking a way to entertain himself, he brought out the Code and began browsing through it. This time he did so with a critical eye, searching for ways in which the Code could be exploited to bring about abuse.
There were many. After a while, Layle sought out a pencil in the room and began making careful notes of how an unscrupulous member of the dungeon – himself, for example – could follow the rules of the Code, yet destroy other members of the dungeon . . . including the prisoners.
He must have fallen asleep in the process. When he slept, he dreamt of his old workplace, and of what he had done there.
He awoke, shivering from cold sweat, just as he was on the point of spurting his whammer. He was so very close . . . but once awake, the image of a battered prisoner was taken from him, and he knew that he was in a place where he could not carry out such deeds.
Not because it was impossible to do so. He knew that now. He knew that he could commit every crime in the Yclau law books and get away with it here. That meant he was more of a danger to this place than he had contemplated upon his arrival.
He fell into fitful sleep again, and this time he dreamt, not of his past prisoners, but of the prisoner awaiting him in the breaking cell. He would find some excuse to send away Mr. Sobel, or else he would find a way to bribe or intimidate the guard; Mr. Sobel, who had arrived here with honor shining upon him, had clearly had his honor gradually stripped from him under the corrosive influence of his fellow workers at the Eternal Dungeon. So Layle would exploit Mr. Sobel’s weakening ability to tell right from wrong, would strip the prisoner of his clothes and his defenses, would use all the instruments in the rack room on him, would end with the instrument of his own body . . .
Again he awoke in the moment before he would have spurted. His baubles ached unendurably. Shivering, he knelt down and began building a fire in the grate.
This must not continue. It had happened every night since he had left the Hidden Dungeon, with the result that he had barely received any sleep. To a certain extent, he could offset that with the training he had received to remain clear-headed when called upon to torment a prisoner for many hours. But if this continued, he would soon be falling asleep at his work.
And the dreamings when he was awake were a worse threat. How could he break the rapist of the Queen’s niece if he was sucked into a dark dreaming of abuse every time that he contemplated torturing a prisoner?
He sat back on his haunches, watching the flames lick the wood, and remembering that he must wean himself from this comfort, since the torturers’ living cells contained no stoves and presumably no fireplaces. The autumn-cool dungeon was considerably warmer than the winter streets he had slept on as a child; he was unlikely to die of pneumonia here, sleeping under the warm blankets.
But the coldness inside him could not be eradicated so easily. He had realized that on his way to the Queen’s palace – had realized that he had established habits too deeply rooted to be weeded immediately. Even as he outwardly vowed to remain loyal to the high principles of the Code, the dark desire within him rebelled. And the form that rebellion was taking was unending images of what he had done and what he might do. Dreams when he slept; dreamings when he was awake.
And now temptations to act on those dreamings, having realized how easy it would be to continue his old life here.
“This isn’t why I came here,” he murmured as he stood up. “If I had wanted to continue serving Hell, I could have stayed in the Hidden Dungeon.”
The charcoal glowed red, like the eyes of Hell, watching, waiting.
Since an early age, he had served the High Master of hell – whose name could only be spoken in the presence of the damned – and had been formally dedicated to the god when he reached his journeyman years. Hell was the patron god of all the torturers in the Hidden Dungeon. Layle Smith in particular had reason to be grateful to the torture-god who had granted him such great talents.
And now, by fleeing from his work for Hell’s representative, the King of Vovim, Layle had broken his oath of loyalty to the god. It occurred to him that he had not prayed since he had made the decision to leave the Hidden Dungeon. How could he pray to a god he had spurned?
But there were other gods in the world. And staring down at the red eyes of Hell, Layle knew what he must do.
He raised his face and his hands toward heaven, awkwardly, having never taken this position of prayer before. He whispered, “Mercy, I do not deserve your grace—”
And then he stopped. What else, after all, could he say to the goddess Mercy?
He thought hard, for so long that his arms began to ache, but he did not lower them. Finally he added, “I broke my oath of service to your Brother . . . but I believe that you are the one who guided me to this dungeon. If I am wrong, I will accept any punishment you deem proper for my broken oath. But if I am right in believing that you sent me here for your own purposes, please show me how I may serve you.”
Yes, that was good; that was a proper petition from someone in his situation. He lowered his arms, feeling relieved. He had thought himself alone in his struggles here, but if Mercy had enticed him away from his work for Hell, then she must have some plan for him. He merely had to figure out what it was.
o—o—o
Mr. Sobel was sitting in an armchair, absorbed in a newspaper, when Layle emerged from the bedroom near dusk, his body wrapped in a dressing gown he had found in Mr. Sobel’s wardrobe. The uniformed guard did not look up as he entered.
Frowning, Layle asked, “Am I interrupting?”
“Mm?” The guard remained absorbed in the paper. “No, no – I’m just wasting time with the gossip columns.”
He was reading one of the scandal sheets, Layle saw. Layle considered the situation for a brief moment; then his eye flicked round to the objects in the parlor.
A minute later, Mr. Sobel stiffened. The paper dropped from his fingers. His gaze, after a brief moment of shock, turned solid as steel.
Seeing all this in the mirror facing the two of them, Layle quickly withdrew the knife he had placed against the back of Mr. Sobel’s neck. “Now am I more interesting than the newspaper?” he enquired in a mild voice.
Mr. S
obel’s gaze remained like steel, but his mouth twisted into the faint shadow of a smile. “You have a rather dramatic way of making your point, sir.”
“If you think I’m dramatic, you should have met my former employer. He would have had your privates chopped off after that performance.”
“I’m not on duty, sir.” His gaze glacial now, the guard stood and turned to face Layle.
“No, thankfully. If I’d been a prisoner, you’d be dead.” Layle tossed aside the butter-knife.
The guard considered him for a long moment before asking, “How old did you say you were, sir? Eighteen?”
“Eighteen, and a bit more experienced in such matters than you are, unless you grew up in the sort of neighborhood I did.”
Mr. Sobel’s expression was sliding subtly into puzzlement. “You sound high-born, sir.”
“It’s a lengthy tale. Is that for me?” He pointed toward the uniform draped over the sofa.
Mr. Sobel did not respond for a moment. He had not yet shaved, his jacket and vest were off, and his cravat was not yet tied at his neck. He looked much like the prisoners that Layle had questioned over the years. Finally the guard replied, “Yes, sir. It arrived a little while ago. It’s the uniform for a torturer-in-training . . . since there is no uniform for situations such as yours. You can have it tailored to your needs.”
Layle examined the clothing, not yet permitting himself the pleasure of examining the whip beside the uniform. He could see at a glance that it was shorter than the whips he had wielded in the past, but he prided himself on being able to learn to use any instrument of torture he was given.
As for the uniform, he could see no difference between this uniform and the ones that the other torturers had been wearing, except that the black hood had a thin red strip of cloth at the hemline. Examining the loose stitching, he said, “The red shows I’m in training?”
“Yes, sir. The strip is removed once you’ve completed your training.”
“Why red?”
He turned to see that Mr. Sobel was regarding him quizzically. “For death, sir,” replied the guard. “Because you are dying to your old life.”
He managed to stop himself from asking further revealing questions about the hood. Dimly he remembered that the seal of the Queen of Yclau, which he had seen in the palace, was tri-colored. “Is that why the corridors are painted green?” he asked in what he hoped was a casual manner.
“Of course, sir. The green reminds us that our goal is the prisoners’ rebirth.”
Red for death, green for rebirth . . . that meant that the blue in the seal must stand for the transformation from death to rebirth. He wondered where he would see that color.
The red silk of the rest of the uniform still looked too rich to him, but now he could understand the color’s symbolic purpose. Red meant death in this land, just as black meant death in Vovim. Well, at least the hood here was black. He ran his fingers over the face-cloth. The torturers in the Hidden Dungeon wore no hoods; the prisoners were forced to confront the sneering faces of their torturers. The Code’s requirement that the torturers’ face-cloths be lowered whenever torture took place was for humanitarian reasons, as well as a symbolic reason: the torturer’s identity at such moments was supposed to be less important than the role he was playing in assisting the obstinate prisoner to rebirth.
He felt vaguely surprised that the Yclau were capable of understanding symbolism. He had already been shocked to learn – while in the midst of seducing one of the palace guards – that most people in the queendom did not attend the theater regularly, and that only the rich adorned their rooms with artwork, other than an occasional print torn from a scandal sheet. Yet somehow, against all odds, the Eternal Dungeon had retained understanding of the important part that symbolism could play in a man’s life.
Without even realizing that his mind had travelled this far ahead, Layle asked, “Is there worship here?”
“Sir?” Mr. Sobel sounded puzzled again.
Layle could have cursed himself. Of course there was no worship here. The Yclau were atheists; everyone knew that. “I meant . . . if prisoners arrived here from foreign lands . . .”
“Oh.” The guard’s voice relaxed. “No, sir, we don’t have any foreign worship services in this dungeon, though the prisoners are welcome to pray in whatever manner they wish, provided that their prayer does not break the Code. However, we do hold a daily service, during the dusk shift, for dungeon workers. Would you like to attend?”
A service for atheists? It seemed that the Eternal Dungeon would be a place of continual surprises. “Certainly,” Layle responded. “Let me dress first.”
o—o—o
Half of an hour later, his toiletry and dressing were completed, and he had rejected Mr. Sobel’s offer of a ginger bun to break his fast. He knew what was proper, even if Mr. Sobel didn’t; one did not eat before entering the presence of the gods.
Feeling odd in his new riding boots, which did not quite fit, he accompanied Mr. Sobel. They returned to what Mr. Sobel termed the “inner dungeon” by way of the corridors they had taken the previous night, and once again they walked through the dim stretch of corridor between the rack rooms. But they did not pause this time; their destination evidently lay at the end of the corridor, where two doors guarded an arched doorway. The doors were painted blue.
The service had already begun by the time Mr. Sobel ushered Layle inside. There were perhaps two dozen guards and torturers inside the spacious room, far fewer than Layle had seen in the entry hall. The room, like the entry hall and the Codifier’s office, was untamed cave. The room was brilliant with candlelight; Layle’s head swum from the smell of beeswax and smoke. In the portion of the room near the doors hung a pulley, though it did not appear to be there for the prisoners; it was attached to what appeared to be a great manhole.
The guards and torturers encircled a great fire-pit in the ground. If there was a leader here, Layle could not identify him; everyone was reciting the same words. Some men read the words from books; others appeared to have the words memorized.
Mr. Sobel pulled a book from his jacket pocket, opened it, and handed it to Layle, pointing to the appropriate line. Layle, who had never attended school, was a slow reader, but he managed to follow what was being said, for the words were familiar. They were taken from the Code of Seeking, though altered to address some unknown being who was never named. Or perhaps, he thought, concentrating hard on what was being said, the words were merely expressed hopes.
“. . . that once reborn, our prisoners may renew their lives, gaining strength from what they have suffered in the past . . .”
The words were as fine as any worship liturgy Layle had attended in the past, but he thought to himself that whoever designed the service could have done more to impart drama to what occurred. He said as much to Mr. Sobel as the service ended and people left the room, again without any indication that a leader was conducting the service.
“You attend traditional chapels, do you?” Mr. Sobel smiled. “Yes, I suppose our services look dull and anarchic compared to the traditional rites, sir. The service is still being shaped; we’ve only been conducting it for a couple of decades now. And we’re having to figure matters out on our own, because ours is the only service that bases its rite, not only on the traditional Sayings, but also on our Code of Seeking.”
Everything in the service that Layle had heard he remembered reading about in the Code. Now intrigued, he said, “That must have been a difficult composition. I don’t own a copy of the Sayings myself; do you have one you can lend me, so that I can refresh my memory?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Sobel promptly. “You’ll find my copy in the topmost drawer of my bedroom bureau. You’re welcome to keep it; I haven’t read the Sayings for years.”
“I suppose,” said Layle, looking about at the candles again, “that you stopped reading them around the time you came to the Eternal Dungeon.”
Mr. Sobel began to speak, then hesitated.
Layle walked over to examine the candles more closely. They were on ledges that were carved from the cave wall itself – ledge upon ledge, all the way to the domed ceiling, and nearly all of the ledges held candles, though only the lower candles were lit. “Do you attend these services, normally?” he asked.
After a while, Mr. Sobel said, “No, sir. The services are voluntary. And I work long hours—”
“I expect that this is fairly low in your priorities.” He trickled his fingers over the candles, which were blue.
He had always had a talent for attacking in such a manner that the other person could not accuse him of doing so. Mr. Sobel’s face had flushed red, but Layle ignored this; he was reading the hand-written labels in front of the candles. After a while he asked, “Are these the prisoners?”
Mr. Sobel said stiffly, “Yes, sir. Prayer-candles are set out for every prisoner who has been executed for his crimes. This is our crematorium for the prisoners; you can see the ash-pit over there.” He pointed to what Layle had mistaken for a manhole.
“And do you light candles for the prisoners yourself?”
A pause, and then: “No, sir. The torturers do that.”
“Are the guards not permitted to light candles for their prisoners?”
This time, Mr. Sobel did not respond. When Layle looked back at him, Mr. Sobel was gazing round at the flames, as though seeing something he had not seen for a very long time.
o—o—o
“And what about the junior night guard?”
“Sir?” Mr. Sobel appeared more startled than this question would warrant.
“Doesn’t the Code of Seeking require that both a junior guard and a senior guard be on duty at all times when a prisoner is within his cell?” Layle asked patiently as they reached the corridor where the breaking cells were located.
“Oh. Yes, sir.” Mr. Sobel relaxed, having evidently decided that he was not being asked too esoteric a question. “The High Torturer has lent you his junior and senior day guards, since he is between prisoners at the moment. As for the junior night guard, I’m afraid he’s unavailable – he’s on leave this week from his regular duties. I can request a substitute for him, if you wish.”
“Only if the Code requires that.” Searching a prisoner with one eyewitness would be bad enough. Searching it with two . . . “I’d like a chance, though, to meet your regular junior—”
“Watch out!” called Mr. Sobel, halting suddenly.
There was a cry, inarticulate; then someone bellowed, “Stop him!” and shouts resounded along the corridor. Layle, his reflexes as swift as usual, hardly needed the alarm; he had already taken in the image of the furiously racing man.
Fortunately, the man was running in the wrong direction, away from the dungeon’s exit. Layle waited until the man was alongside him; then he grabbed the escaped prisoner and slammed him brutally against the wall.
The prisoner’s cry of pain put an end to the guards’ shouting. Layle, pressing his groin against the prisoner’s backside as he twisted the man’s arms agonizingly behind his back, heard the prisoner sob. Layle reacted in the same sedate manner as he might have if he had heard a bride give a cry upon being entered for the first time on her wedding night. He barely noticed the stiffness at his groin; his mind was on his work.
—leans over, as though to inspect the body, and begins to bring his weight down upon the prisoner—
Shaking, he pulled himself back. “Mr. Sobel,” he said, unable to hide the tremor in his voice, “please take charge of the prisoner.”
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Sobel was staring at him, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. Layle wondered how long he had been sucked into his dreaming. But Mr. Sobel was too much of a professional to ask questions in front of a prisoner. He grasped firmly the prisoner, who was trying to take this opportunity of transfer in order to escape again. Leaning forward, Mr. Sobel murmured something in the prisoner’s ear. Whatever threat he made was evidently effective, for the prisoner went limp.
Layle was too far away to hear the threat, for he had backed as far away as possible. His heart was still pounding; his shaft was still cock-high. He had a terrible feeling that, if he approached the prisoner, his dreaming of abuse would merge with reality.
“Sir? Shall I return your prisoner to his cell?” asked Mr. Sobel.
His prisoner. Oh, gods.
“Yes, please. Thank you, Mr. Sobel.” It was surprising how handy long-ago lessons in etiquette from his mother could be in situations like this; his automatic response sounded calm.
“Come with me, please.” Evidently, Mr. Sobel had decided to take his cue from Layle’s politeness; he was no harsher in addressing the prisoner than the circumstances demanded. He propelled the prisoner down the corridor, toward his cell, as Layle trailed behind, at a safe distance.
They were met halfway by a pair of guards who looked surprisingly unconcerned, considering that they had evidently been the men who had let the prisoner slip past them. “Sorry,” said one of them, speaking to Mr. Sobel rather than Layle. Then, taking another look at the prisoner: “Are you okay?” The question was addressed to the prisoner.
The prisoner, his face screwed up in pain, made no reply.
“Nothing broken, I think,” murmured Mr. Sobel. “If you would open the door to the cell, please . . .”
“How did the prisoner get past you?” Layle asked the day guard who had spoken – probably the senior day guard, since he was the elder of the two.
“Er . . . not quite certain.” The senior day guard was avoiding Layle’s eye. So was the junior day guard, who was steering the prisoner into the breaking cell.
Layle was left with the quite distinct impression that the day guards had deliberately released their prisoner. His lips tightened grimly. If the High Torturer wished to test a new torturer’s abilities by ordering that a prisoner be released at the very moment that his torturer approached the breaking cell, that was the High Torturer’s privilege. But Layle very much hoped that this was the last bit of interference he would receive from the High Torturer, until the prisoner was broken.
He glanced at the day guards, and then drew aside Mr. Sobel. “A question. Am I permitted to give orders to the High Torturer’s day guards?”
“Of course, sir. They are your guards this week.”
“But I’m not permitted to give orders to you.”
Mr. Sobel hesitated. All around them, the corridor was settling back to its usual, disorderly self; apparently, even the attempted escape of a prisoner had not jolted the other guards into an awareness of the consequences of laxness on duty. “Sir, I believe that the High Torturer may have exaggerated somewhat for effect when he spoke to you of my role in relation to you. It’s true that, as a senior guard, I have the authority to intervene if a low-ranked torturer acts in a manner that clearly endangers the prisoner’s life or soul. But barring that, I am under your command.”
“Good,” said Layle crisply. “Will you be accompanying me inside the breaking cell?”
“That is for you to decide, sir, but I am required to take notes on your performance. Although there is a watch-hole in the door, it would be easier for me to take notes if I were inside the cell.”
Layle thought about this. If Mr. Sobel had the means to spy on him while he was in the cell, it made little difference, from Layle’s perspective, whether the guard stood inside or outside the cell. And he had to admit that it was something of a relief to know that Mr. Sobel would be there if anything went wrong.
He decided to say this to Mr. Sobel; he felt he owed the guard that much, after the knife-against-the-neck episode. Mr. Sobel misunderstood him, though, and said carefully, “From what I’ve seen of him so far, sir, this particular prisoner is unlikely to attack you.”
Layle stopped himself in time from asking, “Can you guarantee that the opposite won’t happen?” He was letting his nerves get to him. Just because he was plagued by these evil dreamings, that was no reason to question his ability to control
himself. Control was the hallmark of a torturer; if he lost that, he lost his profession.
Turning, he dismissed the day guards, saying that he hoped to have the opportunity to talk longer with them at dawn, when they returned for their next shift. They were continuing to avoid his eye, but at least they were not insolent toward him. After they had gone, Layle waited impatiently as Mr. Sobel checked the watch-hole before opening the cell door.
The prisoner was standing toward the end of the cell, well beyond the stove. He was a man about Mr. Sobel’s age, fair-haired, neat in appearance, even though he had been stripped to a prisoner’s clothing: shoes, shirt, and trousers. He was wearing suspenders. Layle – who had once nearly been strangled by a desperate prisoner who thought of a creative way to use his suspenders – thought to himself that one manner in which the Code of Seeking made life especially hard for the torturers and guards was by permitting the prisoners to keep most of their clothing. He could think of a dozen places within that clothing where this prisoner could have hidden a blade. Well, he would just have to hope that the guards at the dungeon gates had searched the prisoner thoroughly. Or – since this seemed unlikely, based on the current level of achievement in this dungeon – he would have to hope that his quick reflexes would save him if the prisoner attacked.
He looked the prisoner in the eye, trying to judge his character. The prisoner returned his look, but not in a way that seemed to suggest defiance; indeed, he appeared nervous, which was hardly surprising after Layle’s attack on him in the corridor.
Layle decided that, for both their sakes, it would be best to overlook that episode. He opened his mouth and realized, to his horror, that he didn’t know what to say. How did a torturer in the Eternal Dungeon begin a session of searching? He could not recall that the Code had anything to say on this matter.
He tried again. “Good evening, Mr. . . .”
“Howard,” Mr. Sobel murmured in Layle’s ear. He was in the midst of pulling from the inside pocket of his jacket the memorandum book and pencil he had brought out the day before.
“Good evening, Mr. Howard,” said Layle.
The first flicker of an expression appeared on the prisoner’s face. It was gone nearly before Layle had seen it, but that one second was enough to allow him to recognize the emotion it conveyed. Layle added, “Your name is Howard, isn’t it?”
“Er . . . That was the name I was born with, sir. But I usually use my foster parents’ name—”
Layle waved him to a stop. He had no interest in hearing the tale of the prisoner’s life. “If your name in the legal records is Howard, that is how I will address you. Mr. Howard, I am your torturer.”
Mr. Howard looked less than happy at this introduction – which, Layle was prepared to admit, was not the most comforting introduction that a prisoner could receive. Nonetheless, Mr. Howard seemed to take his cue from Layle’s polite greeting; he said in turn, “How do you do, sir?”
Layle thought to himself that any prisoner who began calling his torturer “sir” from the very start was exactly the sort of prisoner he liked working with. “I am well, thank you. Mr. Howard, you realize, by my title, that I have the power to torture you.”
Mr. Howard flicked a glance at Mr. Sobel before returning his attention to Layle. “Yes, sir. That has been made quite clear to me.”
So Mr. Sobel had already prepared the groundwork here? Layle felt a momentary irritation that the guard had not told him this. Though to be fair, Mr. Sobel must have spoken to the prisoner the previous day, before Layle’s arrival. At any rate, it wouldn’t hurt to repeat whatever message Mr. Sobel had given the prisoner; he could guess that Mr. Sobel had sought to impart to the prisoner the unique nature of the searching he was about to undergo. “I want you to understand, Mr. Howard: what concerns me most is not your pain, nor even your death. What concerns me most is your soul. If I must use torture to break you, I will do so. But I would prefer that matters not go that far. If you are honest with me – if you are completely truthful – then I promise I will not torture you to obtain a confession. But you must not lie to me.”
The prisoner had been gradually relaxing through this speech. Now he said, “Yes, sir. That’s been made quite clear to me as well.”
Layle eyed him, wonder whether the prisoner was complacent because he thought Layle could be easily manipulated, or was genuinely relieved to be offered an alternative means by which to make his confession. “You have been accused of raping the Queen’s niece.”
“Yes, sir, I know that.”
“Do you have anything to say in response to that charge?”
The prisoner hesitated before saying, “Only that I didn’t do it, sir.”
It was the refrain of every prisoner who had ever been placed in Layle’s hands. Layle had made it himself, when he was arrested for murder. “We shall see. Tell me about yourself, Mr. Howard. What is your age?”
“Twenty-six, sir. The same age as— That is, I think I’m around the same age as your guard there.”
Mr. Sobel, quite properly, said nothing. He had slipped his right hand in his pocket and was fidgeting there. Layle wondered whether Mr. Sobel was doubting whether the new torturer had the ability to tell when he was being lied to. Many men did doubt this, who hadn’t previously seen Layle at his work.
Layle continued, “And your work?”
“Sir?” The prisoner looked uncertain.
“What sort of work do you do?”
The prisoner hesitated again before replying, “I am employed by the Queen.”
“What sort of tasks are you assigned?”
Once more the hesitation. “I assist with any tasks my supervisor deems necessary.”
“What sort of work does your supervisor—?”
“Look,” said the prisoner suddenly furious, “I don’t have to put up with this sort of bloody probing. Ask me about my supposed crime, or shut your trap!”
There was a long, deadly silence in which the prisoner seemed to realize what he had said. Or perhaps Layle’s face was revealing a bit too much. At any rate, the prisoner’s face drained of blood.
He did not immediately apologize, though. A shame, that.
“Mr. Sobel, a word with you. Mr. Howard, stay where you are. Do not move.” Layle retreated to the front of the cell, keeping a careful eye on the prisoner who, for the moment, did not appear to be eager to make any sudden moves. Mr. Sobel, tucking away his memorandum book, followed Layle, then leaned forward to listen to him.
“Mr. Sobel, how many lashes do I give him?” Layle spoke softly as he pulled his looped whip from the hook on his belt. He felt on solid ground here; the Code did not merely permit but actually required the torturers to beat their prisoners if the prisoners were insolent. Layle would not be breaking his word to the prisoner; this torture was for discipline, not in order to obtain a confession. Any schoolboy who talked back to his schoolmaster in such a fashion could expect a flogging, so presumably the prisoner would recognize the nature of his error as well. Layle could not remember, though, how much of a beating the prisoners were supposed to receive.
“That’s for you to decide, sir.”
On the point of unrolling his whip, Layle stared. “Are you saying that I can beat him for as long as I want?”
For the first time, the guard looked uneasy. “Sir, the High Torturer trusts the good judgment of the men working under him.”
The High Torturer trusted the good judgment of torturers? Gods above and below. “And the Code has nothing to say on this?”
“Only that a beating is required in situations like this, sir.”
This was absurd. You placed a vulnerable prisoner in the hands of a man who, in all likelihood, had taken up the profession of torturer because he enjoyed seeing other men suffer . . .
. . . and then you placed no limits on him. None whatsoever.
“Mr. Sobel,” said Layle, almost in despair now, “I am not accustomed to using my own judgment in so important a matter as this. Can you o
ffer me any advice, based on your past experience with prisoners in this dungeon?”
He half expected the senior night guard to grow contemptuous at this confession of ignorance, but Mr. Sobel, if anything, looked relieved to have his expertise called upon. “Well, sir, I don’t have a torturer’s ability to judge character, but my impression is that the prisoner spoke as he did simply out of fear. I don’t think he’s the type to normally be insolent. So I think a light beating would be in keeping with this situation.”
“You mean fewer lashes?”
“I mean beating him lightly, sir, as opposed to hard.”
Layle had no idea what the difference was between a light beating and a hard beating. A beating was a beating, as far as he knew. “And how many lashes?”
“Perhaps . . . five, sir?” The guard spoke tentatively, obviously believing that Layle would overrule him with a higher number.
“Thank you, Mr. Sobel. You may bind the prisoner.” Layle watched the guard approach the prisoner and murmur some sort of order to him. Layle usually performed his own bindings, but Mr. Sobel seemed to enjoy being part of the proceedings . . . even though the guard had no natural lust for pain. That was clear from the manner in which he conducted himself.
Layle had met a few men like Mr. Sobel in the Hidden Dungeon. Not many; all of them ended up refusing to obey orders eventually, so their lives did not last long. It was odd to find himself in a dungeon where a man with a sensitive conscience would not only be permitted to live but would be given high rank. Mr. Sobel’s place in this dungeon – Layle thought as he slid the whip between his fingers to check for accidental knots – was indication enough that the Code of Seeking reigned supreme here.
Meanwhile, Layle needed to figure out what the difference was between a light beating and a heavy beating – a difference that would no doubt have been clear to him had he been the Yclau torturer that Mr. Sobel assumed him to be. He dared not ask the guard so revealing a question, but he considered the issue as Mr. Sobel helped the prisoner to strip himself bare. The prisoner was making no last-minute protest, though his face remained pale; he compliantly turned toward the wall and allowed Mr. Sobel to bind his wrists to the whipping ring.
Layle had been the most accomplished whipster in the Hidden Dungeon. He had beaten hundreds of prisoners. He should not feel as though he had just been pulled out of a collegiate lesson-room and thrust into a primary-school lesson. He eyed the naked prisoner, calculating where he would lay the lines of pain, trying to figure out how to keep the beating light—
—prisoner stands bound and bloody against the wall, his skin mutilated in dozens of places by the blades and brands that his torturer has used upon him. His hands are tied high above him, and he stands upon his toes, his feet barely reaching the ground. He is naked, of course—
“Mr. Smith?”
With a shudder, he emerged from his dreaming. He awoke to see that Mr. Sobel was standing beside him and staring, not at Layle’s face, but at his groin. The guard’s expression was troubled.
Layle had to suppress the instinct to clap his hands over his groin, like a young boy caught for the first time with a stiff whammer. “Mr. Sobel,” he heard himself say in a voice too soft to be heard by the waiting prisoner, “do you know how to flog?”
Mr. Sobel managed to tear his gaze away from Layle’s groin. “Yes, sir. The High Torturer is in charge of the discipline of disobedient torturers and guards. At his command, I do all the disciplinary beatings in this dungeon.”
“Then you will do this one.” Layle handed him the whip.
Mr. Sobel stared at him, though he took the whip in an automatic manner. “Sir, you are the torturer . . .”
“I am delegating this duty to you. Is there anything in the Code that would prevent me from doing so?”
Mr. Sobel licked his lips nervously. “No, sir. Not that I know of. But the torturers in this dungeon usually do their own work.”
“My work, Mr. Sobel, is to search the prisoner and care for his soul. I can more easily do that if my mind is not preoccupied with lesser matters, such as whether I am applying a lash properly.”
His words all sounded very reasonable. He wondered whether they were in fact reasonable. All that he cared about at the moment was getting that whip out of his hand before his dreaming should return. What if he began dreaming he was killing a prisoner with the lash at the very moment that he was beating this prisoner?
No, it was unthinkable that he should beat this prisoner. As long as his dreamings continued to recur, he must refrain from torturing – refrain from even touching – any prisoner who was placed under his care.
“The torture must occur in this case,” he said aloud, “but there is no reason you should not do it, since you are trained in these matters.”
“Yes, sir, I see.” It was difficult to tell what Mr. Sobel thought of this change in plans, but he did not seem inclined to argue further. “Shall I start now?”
“Wait.” Layle looked at the prisoner again, naked against the wall. His whammer jumped as he thought of what he could do to a prisoner in that position – had in fact done to past prisoners.
Mercy preserve him. Next time he would make sure that any prisoner beaten in his presence kept his trousers on. It was just as easy to beat a half-naked prisoner, and safer too. “Keep your beating above the waist, Mr. Sobel.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Five light lashes, as we agreed. Don’t spend too much time between lashes. The quicker this is over, the better.” Better for the prisoner, and better for Layle.
He could not watch this. That would be too close to his dreamings, to see the lash landing on the prisoner’s naked flesh. But neither could he retreat from this cell; he was in charge here.
Cautiously, Layle approached the prisoner, who was trying to look over his shoulder. At the last minute, Layle steered himself clear of the prisoner and positioned himself further along the wall that the prisoner was bound against.
Yes, this was good. It was difficult to see the prisoner’s back from this angle, but he could clearly see the prisoner’s face. Faces were revealing; Layle had often regretted that he could not watch his prisoners’ faces in the same moments that he was beating them.
Perhaps, then, delegating this beating to Mr. Sobel need not be an admission of defeat. Perhaps it could be a way for Layle to obtain new information.
“Shall I proceed, sir?” Mr. Sobel was well within Layle’s field of view. The guard had unbuttoned his jacket, so as not to restrict the movement of his torso, and his arm was back, ready to throw the first lash. His position was textbook-excellent; Layle decided that he need not fear whether the beating would be done properly.
He turned his gaze back to the prisoner, who was staring at him, still white-faced. Layle knew that even high-born Yclau boys could be beaten in school, but perhaps this one had always done his lessons properly, for he looked as though he were going to faint at any moment. Then Layle realized that the prisoner had not overheard the earlier conversation between his torturer and guard; he did not yet know how heavy a punishment he was going to receive.
“It’s all right, Mr. Howard,” said Layle. “You will only receive five lashes – light lashes.”
This was ridiculous. One did not comfort a prisoner at the very moment one was torturing him – not unless one was seducing the prisoner at the same time. Layle had certainly comforted many a prisoner for that reason; it had always amused him to persuade a prisoner to offer up his body voluntarily, out of a belief that his torturer loved him.
Layle was not trying to do that here . . . and yet, as a bit of color returned to the prisoner’s face, he heard himself say, “Simply bear the pain, Mr. Howard, and it will be over soon. —All right, Mr. Sobel, you may begin.”
He spared a quick glance at Mr. Sobel as the first lash came down. Mr. Sobel’s jacket was swinging in an odd manner; his right pocket seemed weighed down by some heavy object. But the weight did not impede him; the lash landed cor
rectly. Layle quickly turned his attention back to the prisoner.
The prisoner took three lashes without making a sound; then he broke down into tears. Layle, still following some inner instinct he had not hitherto known, held up his hand toward Mr. Sobel. The guard stopped beating the prisoner immediately.
“Mr. Howard,” Layle said softly, “do you understand now how important it is for you to conduct yourself in a civil manner?”
Still struggling to contain his tears, the prisoner nodded.
“Then there’s no need for the last two lashes. —Thank you, Mr. Sobel. You may release the prisoner.” Layle pushed himself away from the wall. His groin was still aching from need, but it hardly seemed to matter now. He was learning that a part of himself that he had despised – the part that spoke false, soothing words to prisoners – could be used to bring genuine good to the prisoner.
If the prisoner repents, he will find his evil transforming to good. . . . The Code had spoken the truth. Until now, Layle had possessed no real proof that the Code was true; he had simply held faith that it was true.
And now his faith had borne fruit. His evil was transforming to good.
He felt humbled rather than exultant, as though he had been a minor player in a magnificent drama that brought the gods to life. He looked at the prisoner, wondering – with deep, reverent calmness – what was the next step he should take in this drama.
The prisoner, still bound to the ring, was biting his lip against the pain of the previous lashes. If Layle had been in the Hidden Dungeon, he would have used this opportunity, when the prisoner was still vulnerable, to force a confession from him. There was nothing in the Code that would have prevented Layle from doing so.
But Layle was not here primarily for a confession. His main goal was to help the prisoner recognize and repent of the misdeed he had done. A small thread of trust now bound the prisoner to Layle; Layle knew this, from all his experience of falsely wooing prisoners.
He would not break that trust by taking advantage of the prisoner. He would allow the trust to grow until the prisoner, of his own volition, offered his confession and recognized his need to offer recompense for his evil.
As Layle had done.
“Mr. Howard,” Layle said quietly, “I will give you time to think now about what you have done in this cell and to think back upon anything you have done in the past that you may now regret. Once you have had time to collect yourself, we will continue our conversation. . . . Do you have a handkerchief?” He asked Mr. Howard this as Mr. Sobel released him.
Looking understandably bewildered by this approach from his torturer, the prisoner said, “No, sir. I mean, yes, but I used it early this morning, when I was waiting for you.” His mouth quirked as Mr. Sobel handed him his own handkerchief. “I’m not as brave as everyone seems to think.”
It was a confession, Layle reflected, that the prisoner would not have offered a few minutes before. “Tears are nothing to be ashamed of; the measure of a man lies in his deeds, not in whether he feels pain and fear. I will look forward to talking with you later.”
“Thank you, sir.” There was something in the prisoner’s eyes that Layle could not quite identify. It was not until he reached the door that he realized what it was.
The prisoner felt pity for him.
o—o—o
Snow entered the Eternal Dungeon. It was stamped from boots, was shaken from mittens and scarves, and drifted down the steps from some open window in the palace above. At the bottom of the steps leading to the dungeon gates, blocks of ice were being placed on what looked like an elaborate, open-doored ice box, complete with drainage buckets, while some of the male laborers sculpted a ring made of ice.
Thunderstruck, Layle had paused to watch. Near him, a torturer grumbled, “The least they could do is let us have a festival night off from work.”
“The prisoners don’t have the night off,” another torturer pointed out.
“It’s not as though the prisoners can eat festival food,” contributed a third with a laugh.
“Festival?” said Layle, turning toward Mr. Sobel, who had just emerged from the High Torturer’s office after speaking privately with him.
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Sobel smiled as he surveyed the scene. “Blessed New Year.”
“New year?” exclaimed Layle, disconcerted. “It’s the tenth month – two months short of the new year.”
Mr. Sobel turned a puzzled eye toward him; then his expression cleared. “Oh, do you follow the Vovimian calendar near the border? We celebrate the old festivals here. The Commoners’ Festival has begun.” Then, seeing that Layle still didn’t understand, he waved his hand. “The first snow of the year. The beginning of the cycle of death, transformation, and rebirth.”
Layle looked over at the ringed ice sculpture again, and at the laborers carving it. An entire festival dedicated to the commoners? What a strange land Yclau was.
Yet to celebrate commoners, he reflected, was no stranger than comforting prisoners. Indeed, the two might be linked: most prisoners, in Layle’s experience, were commoners. Only a few high-born prisoners – such as his current one, judging from the man’s accent – had the ill luck to be arrested for a crime without being able to ease their way to freedom by way of bribes or family influence.
“Only in a land like this,” he murmured, watching as some of the torturers went over to wish the laborers a blessed new year.
Disconcertingly, Mr. Sobel understood what he was saying. “Oh, yes, only in a nation like this could there have grown such concern for the prisoner and the commoner. I’ve heard it said that Yclau is too class-bound a society, yet we’re no worse in that respect than Vovim . . . and I’ve never heard of any Vovimians celebrating the existence of their commoners.”
“Nor the existence of their prisoners,” murmured Layle. He felt something move deep within him – a feeling of longing and reverence such as he had experienced in the moment that he had finally grasped what the Code of Seeking had to offer. He turned to Mr. Sobel. “When does the festival end?”
“Traditionally, it extends from the first evening of snow until the beginning of the next evening.”
Layle nodded. “Then we will let our prisoner alone for the rest of tonight. See to it, please, that he is sent appropriate food for the festival.”
For a moment, Mr. Sobel simply stared at him, speechless. Then the guard said, “You are taking time off from work, sir?”
Layle shook his head. “I have no permission to do so. No, you and I will spend the rest of tonight in the rack room. I want to investigate the instruments there, and this is my opportunity to do so. But the prisoner should be permitted to celebrate so important a night and day.”
“I see,” said Mr. Sobel slowly. “Very well, sir. If you will wait here, I will arrange for festival food to be delivered to the prisoner.”
Layle nodded without looking as Mr. Sobel departed. His gaze was fixed on a group of young guards who were pelting each other with snowballs.
In their play, they looked very young indeed – boylike. Layle tried to remember a time when he had played in the snow lightheartedly. He must have done so at some time in his life, but those days were long gone. Orphaned, he had become a thief at age ten, a murderer at age twelve, a rapist at age fifteen, and had soon after become a professional torturer.
Somewhere along the way, he had cut himself off from all amiable interactions with the rest of humanity. Only Master Aeden, stubbornly affectionate, had managed to break through Layle’s barriers . . .
Master Aeden was gone forever from Layle’s life. And so Layle stood here, amidst the convivial warmth of the torturers and guards and laborers who were greeting one another with arm-shakes and embraces and even kisses, and he felt the coldness of the empty space surrounding him.
o—o—o
The rack room had less drastic an effect on him this time. Layle thought that it must be because of what had occurred to him in the breaking cell. He looked round at the ol
d, familiar instruments, the toys of his youth, and he knew, with an awareness he had lacked during the previous visit, that he could not use most of these deadly instruments on his prisoners.
Still following his instincts, he began to strip himself of the top half of his uniform.
Mr. Sobel, turning away from having locked the door behind them, paused. “Sir?” His voice was cautious rather than fearful, which Layle took as a good sign.
“Mr. Sobel,” said Layle, tossing away his jacket and vest and shirt and undervest, “I want you to beat me.”
Mr. Sobel gaped at him; then, with seeming reluctance, his gaze lowered to Layle’s groin again.
Layle felt a chuckle escape him. “No, Mr. Sobel, I am not one of those men who enjoys receiving pain. You will find that out soon enough,” he added dryly.
“But . . .”
“I need to understand what the difference is between a light and heavy beating. In my pride, I would have beaten the prisoner in ignorance of that difference, rather than confess to you my lack of knowledge.” As Layle spoke, he turned and placed his forearms onto the cold stone wall of the rack room. “Even though you are now conducting any necessary beatings, I still must know all that you know about the use of the whip in this dungeon, so that I can supervise you properly. So I’d like you to give me a beating – first a light beating, and then a heavy one – so that I can understand what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Sobel’s voice was subdued as he took Layle’s whip in hand once more. “How many lashes, sir?”
Layle tried to think, amidst his growing fear. He had very little tolerance for harsh pain; he knew that from his time under torture by Master Aeden. On the other hand, he had a very high degree of curiosity about how instruments of torture worked. That had allowed him to hold out against Master Aeden far longer than the master torturer had expected, simply because Layle had known that, when he gave his confession, Master Aeden would cease to demonstrate on Layle’s body how his instruments worked.
So Layle thought he could hold out against whatever pain Mr. Sobel inflicted on him, for the sake of the lesson he was about to receive. The only question was how many lashes would constitute a lesson.
“Twenty light lashes,” he said finally. “As for the heavy lashes . . . Try twenty of those as well. We’ll see whether that’s enough.”
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Sobel sounded quite sober now, which led Layle to wonder whether he had just committed a folly. Would twenty heavy lashes bring him close to death?
He had no time to wonder, for the first lash landed.
Layle had first learned to inflict pain with a whip under the instruction of Master Aeden, with assistance from his other apprentice, who was close to journeyman age. Layle had soon exceeded both of them in skill. But the first lesson he had learned had served as the base axiom for all that followed: you lashed a prisoner as hard as you could.
Now, feeling Mr. Sobel’s gradual build-up of intensity, Layle wondered how he could have accepted so foolish a proposition. He knew well enough that he could vary the intensity of how a lash landed; he had taken advantage of that fact when dispensing disciplinary beatings on wayward guards, allowing them more pain or less, depending on how well he liked them or how big a bribe they gave him. It had simply never occurred to him to do the same to the prisoners.
But now he realized that a whip was an instrument very much like the rack – one that could be used to bring small pain or large. The small pain could be short or extended, depending on what sort of pain the prisoner was most likely to break under; or one could simply build up the pain, higher and higher, to a crescendo of agony . . . and thereby allow the prisoner enough time to make his confession before the worst pain.
“Mercy,” Layle gasped into his arms.
Mr. Sobel paused. “Sir?”
“Continue.” It took all Layle’s strength to speak that single word.
“Sir, I’ve finished the light beating. Are you sure that you want me to continue with the heavy beating at this point? The Code recommends a break in time between different punishments, in order to give the prisoner a chance to confess—”
“We’ll continue later, then.” The words were cowardly; Layle did not need an opportunity to offer a confession. But if Mr. Sobel continued, Layle was very much afraid that he would begin pleading with the guard to stop.
Besides, he reminded himself as he pushed himself shakily away from the wall, he had a prisoner to search. He was aching now, and he expected that it would be even harder to sleep tomorrow than it had been to sleep today, but he thought he was likely to make a nearly full recovery by tomorrow night. On the other hand, if Mr. Sobel had given him a heavy beating . . .
No, it was best to digest now what he had learned and save the additional lesson for later. Layle was already thinking that there was no reason why a beating should take only two forms, light and heavy. Surely there could be an intermediate state between the two? Three types of beatings multiplied by however many lashes were safe . . . It was like seeing a whole new pallet of paints that he had not known existed. Now smiling, he spared a look at Mr. Sobel.
“Thank you, Mr. Sobel; that was very educational. I understand now what you were saying. The Eternal Dungeon knows about aspects of the whip that I had not been taught at my previous workplace.”
“I’m glad I could be of assistance, sir.” Mr. Sobel’s voice remained quiet as he rolled up his whip. He was eyeing Layle with uneasiness. Layle supposed that most men did not smile broadly in the rack room.
“You will have to teach me later how the shorter whip length affects how you swing the lash. In the meantime . . .” Layle looked round at the instruments. “I don’t need these.”
Mr. Sobel paused in the act of hooking his looped whip around the sheathe of his dagger; Layle made a mental note that the belts in this dungeon needed to be redesigned to allow guards to carry both daggers and whips. “Sir?” said the guard cautiously.
Layle spread his arms to indicate the instruments on the wall of the dungeon. “These are crude instruments, incapable of the level of control that you have just shown me that the whip possesses. Indeed, many of them bring too great a degree of danger of death.” His eye lingered somewhat wistfully on the Swelling Globe.
“I’m not sure, sir, that all of the prisoners can be broken by the whip alone,” Mr. Sobel said with obvious reluctance.
“No, the whip is too familiar an instrument to inspire fear in men who have been beaten often for disciplinary reasons,” Layle agreed. “Besides, the Code decrees that the whip shall be used to dispense discipline. We need another instrument that can be used as a means to force a confession, and that will strike fear into the prisoner, yet can be controlled as well as the whip.” His eye roved the room until it settled in one place. He nodded to himself, satisfied.
“Mr. Sobel,” he said to the guard, whose uneasy expression was edging into horror, perhaps because he had guessed what Layle’s next words would be. “Has anyone ever taught you to rack a prisoner?”
The Eternal Dungeon: a Turn-of-the-Century Toughs omnibus Page 4