CHAPTER FOUR
Another bedtime of sweet dreams of abuse, another bedtime of unmet needs. Layle, leaning over the grate in an effort to dry his sweat-soaked body, thought to himself that Mercy was proving to be as exacting a master as Hell had always been.
And without any of the rewards. Turning away abruptly from the fire – which was beginning to evoke memories of firebrands – Layle spent a moment scrounging in Mr. Sobel’s bureau drawer before he located what he was seeking: the “Sayings” that Mr. Sobel had spoken about after the dusk service. Sitting down on the bed, Layle set out to compare the Sayings with the Code of Seeking.
The Sayings turned out to be a document worth reading. Layle gathered, from the book’s introduction, that different volumes of the Sayings, produced in different regions, held somewhat different contents. This edition included, not only the Sayings themselves – thoughts about rebirth from a long-ago wise man – but also Yclau legislation that had stemmed from the Sayings. Much of the legislation was dead now (the footnotes told him), but the wise man’s beliefs about death, transformation, and rebirth continued to live on in the queendom’s system of justice. Not just the Eternal Dungeon, but all the lesser prisons of Yclau, required that prisoners be permitted an opportunity to express repentance for the crimes they had committed. All of the magistrates who judged prisoners were required to allow prisoners, or their representatives, an opportunity for defense. All of the magistrates were encouraged to seek alternatives to death sentences for prisoners who had repented and renewed themselves – had transformed and been reborn, in the parlance of the Yclau. And children were to be judged less harshly than adults, because their rebirth into a new body had only just begun, so they had not yet had time to establish a pattern of misdeeds.
Layle snorted at the latter bit of piety but turned with interest to the next section, which contained what the volume’s editor termed the “myths” of the Yclau religion. These were – Layle recognized at once – the Yclau’s sacred dramas.
How odd to find that the Yclau handed on their dramas, not through play-acting on a stage, but through stories told from one generation to another, until the stories were finally written down. Odder still to find himself reading sacred dramas in which the gods played no role. The central figures in the dramas were two friends – or were they love-mates? The editor refused to take sides in this long-standing argument. One man drained his own blood in order to be reborn from the world of afterdeath; the other man, weeping at the loss of his friend, assisted the first man to this death that brought renewed life. The sacrifice of both men opened the door to allow others the chance to be reborn.
One feature that the Yclau sacred dramas held in common with the Vovimian sacred dramas, Layle reflected as he sat back from his studies, was that love and strife played a central role in both. In Vovim, the dramas centered around the love and strife between Mercy and Hell. Here in Yclau, the love and strife was between the two mortals who struggled their way to a better understanding of the nature of transformation.
But much remained alien about the Yclau’s dramas. The stories said that the two men had been born in the same year and held the same rank – two love-mates who were the same age and the same rank? Layle mentally filed away this information for further investigation. It would help to explain, perhaps, why Mr. Sobel was so disturbed by the activities of the torturers who exploited the guards under their control. Layle himself had only been concerned at the fact that the torturers were misusing the beloveds they ought to have been protecting, but if the Yclau sacred dramas encouraged men to take love-mates of their own rank . . . Yes, the dramas provided much material to think about.
And yet, he reflected, he had already known the dramas, the legislation, the Sayings. For turning back to the Code, he saw that every section of the Code, every sentence, every word was drawn from the religious beliefs of the Yclau. Without understanding those beliefs, he had found the Code of Seeking to be a puzzling document; now the Code seemed nothing more than a logical outcome of the Yclau religion.
Layle rested his chin on his fist, frowning. Until now, he had considered himself to be a Vovimian torturer coming to work in an Yclau dungeon. The fact that his mother was Yclau had played no role in his decision to leave Vovim, other than the fact that it meant he already knew the language here and could therefore pass himself off as Yclau.
Now, though, he was beginning to realize that it was a miracle he had managed to fool Mr. Sobel into thinking he was Yclau. The gulf between the Yclau religion and the Vovimian religion was wide . . . and what was worse, it was now clear that he could not be a torturer in the Eternal Dungeon without believing in Yclau’s religious tenets.
His first impulse was to pray. To ask Mercy what he should do, to beg her to explain why she had sent him to work in a dungeon where he could not work without repudiating her. But Mercy preferred men to seek her assistance only when they had exhausted their own efforts. So he forced himself to think instead as he rose and paced the floor restlessly, like a prisoner in isolation.
Was the Yclau religion truly in opposition to the Vovimian religion? That was the crux of the matter. For in reading the Sayings, Layle had gradually become aware that the Yclau were not atheists after all. The Sayings had nothing to say, one way or the other, about the existence of the gods. It seemed to Layle that there was nothing in the Sayings that would prevent a man from believing in the gods while believing in rebirth as well.
But what of the Code? Layle remembered what Mr. Sobel had said: “The prisoners are welcome to pray in whatever manner they wish, provided that their prayer does not break the Code.” Try as he might, Layle could think of nothing in the Code that would forbid him from praying to Mercy. On the contrary, she seemed admirably suited as a patron god of this dungeon.
But what of Hell?
That was the center of Layle’s difficulty. He had been trained, by no less than his Yclau mother, that Hell and Mercy were inseparable – that you could not worship one without worshipping the other. Had his mother repudiated her Yclau beliefs? Or had Layle’s father forced her to teach tenets to their child which she opposed herself?
No, Layle could not believe that. Unhappy though his mother had been at being abducted to a strange land and forced to live as the concubine of a married man, she had never shown any sign that she was unhappy at raising Layle as her child. And surely she would have been unhappy if her training of Layle had included falsehoods.
The bedrock of his life – the immovable foundation of his life – had always been that his mother was a good woman, that she had loved him, and that she had spoken truth to him. He could not destroy that bedrock without destroying what little good lay within him.
His mother had been Yclau, and she had worshipped Hell. Layle still could not see how the worship of a god who tortured mortals eternally could be reconciled with a belief that all mortals were offered the opportunity for transformation and rebirth. But his mother had been wiser than him. Perhaps he would simply have to wait for this part of her wisdom to reach him.
“Mercy,” he murmured, “I will continue to worship you, for I know that you dwell in this dungeon. Forgive me if I do not yet understand what tribute I should pay to your Brother . . . but I hope you will reveal that truth to me in time.”
He sat down and looked again at the Code and at the Sayings that had inspired the Code’s creation. He was not sure what steps he should take to become a member of the Yclau religion – essentially, to become Yclau. Perhaps Mr. Sobel could tell him, if Layle could figure out a subtle enough manner in which to make an enquiry. In the meantime, it seemed to Layle that memorizing the Code of Seeking would be an appropriate way to begin.
He started to reread what had become for him his own sacred drama.
o—o—o
“Layle,” said the High Torturer, “how are matters going with your prisoner?”
Layle and Mr. Sobel had just emerged from the evening service at the crematorium, somewhat delayed because Mr. Sobel
wished to light candles for a number of his past prisoners. Now, as Mr. Sobel dismissed the day guard from their shift of guarding the cell of Layle’s prisoner, Layle turned to respond to the High Torturer, who had been grilling the day guard on some matter or another.
“Matters go well, sir,” Layle replied briefly. If the High Torturer wanted details, he could ask for them.
“Any confession yet?” the High Torturer pressed him.
“Not as of yet, sir. I’m still trying to determine whether the prisoner feels remorse for what he did.” This was quite true. Layle had always sought out remorse in his prisoners, because it was the easiest way to pry a confession from them. Now he simply had a new reason to do so.
“Well, step up your timing,” the High Torturer said sharply. “We have other prisoners that require searching, you know.”
“Yes, sir. I was wondering . . .”
“Wondering what?” The High Torturer, who had been about to speak to Mr. Sobel, turned back, frowning.
“Whether we have any more information on the prisoner than what his crime is.”
The High Torturer’s frown deepened. “Are you saying that you are incapable of obtaining any pertinent information yourself?”
Layle counted to ten before replying. Master Aeden had taught him this trick early in his apprentice years, when the master torturer learned that Layle’s natural reaction to criticism was to strike the other person to the ground. “No, sir,” he replied evenly. “But the Code of Seeking says that the torturer should take into account the prisoner’s full background in determining the course of searching. If I knew the prisoner’s background . . .”
“He raped the Queen’s niece,” snapped the High Torturer. “He was caught in the act, by the Queen herself. That’s all she saw fit to tell me. If you have any more questions, you can search her.”
Envisioning how the Codifier would react if he approached the Queen again, Layle remained silent. The High Torturer turned to say to Mr. Sobel, “All is ready inside. You may proceed with the searching.”
For all the world, Layle thought sourly, as though Mr. Sobel were in charge of this searching. He watched as the High Torturer departed, offering a greeting as he passed Mr. Longmire, who had emerged from the breaking cell on the other side of the corridor, just as a new pair of guards arrived there.
Mr. Longmire nodded his greeting back, then said to the newly arrived guards, “Fetch me some coffee, for goodness’ sake. After fourteen hours of searching, I need something to keep me awake.”
“Both of us, sir?” said one of the guards doubtfully. “Your day guards are off-duty now.”
“Do you think I can’t handle a prisoner on my own?” Mr. Longmire flashed them a grin, and they hurried off. “You too,” he said to the day guards, then: “No, wait, Argus. I want to talk to you.”
Looking exceedingly uncomfortable, Argus paused on the point of departure as his fellow day guard disappeared down the corridor. Argus was fair-haired in the manner of most Yclau, with long, blond eyelashes and big eyes that made him look even younger than he was.
Layle, seeing the look that Mr. Longmire gave Argus, turned his back and pretended to be absorbed in the conversation that Mr. Sobel was holding with the High Torturer’s day guards, concerning whether their prisoner was showing loss of appetite at mealtime. He could hear all that Mr. Longmire said, however, even though the torturer kept his voice low.
After a minute’s consideration, Layle murmured to Mr. Sobel, “Stay here.”
Mr. Sobel flicked a glance at Mr. Longmire, then looked back at Layle and nodded. He returned to his conversation with the day guards, raising his voice.
Mr. Longmire broke off his low-voiced conversation as Layle approached. “What do you want?” he asked sharply.
“Whatever he’s getting.” Layle directed his smile at Mr. Longmire, leaning his hip, in a sinuous fashion, against the wall. He hooked his thumbs over his belt and let the remaining fingers trail, in an obvious manner, across the hard lump in his trousers.
After a moment, Mr. Longmire dismissed Argus with a jerk of the thumb. Argus left, relief clear on his face. Mr. Longmire seemed not to notice his departure; his gaze was fixed on Layle’s groin. “You approach me like this, after what you did to me in the entry hall?” he said. “You’re a bold one.”
Layle continued to smile at him as he reached up to release the top two knots of his shirt. “I have to be, when there’s competition.”
Mr. Longmire gave a bark of laughter. “Argus? He’s no competition.”
“Doesn’t he want you, then? Foolish boy. Perhaps, though, he’s toying with you in hopes that you’ll grant him favors. I know his type.” Layle allowed his voice to grow contemptuous.
Mr. Longmire glanced toward Layle’s guards, who were continuing to discuss the prisoner’s dietary habits. Then he shrugged. “They always want something. I’m usually generous in return.”
Layle’s smile deepened. In the same sweet, coaxing voice he had used before, he said, “I won’t need bribes.”
“Won’t you, now?” Mr. Longmire gave his body a lingering look. “Too bad you’re on the night shift.”
“Maybe I’ll have the day shift eventually. In the meantime, you can always persuade Argus to keep you warm.”
This time, Mr. Longmire did not even look in the direction of Layle’s guards as he grinned. “No doubt. But I’ll see that your shift is changed – you can count on that.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Rolling his hips like water, Layle walked back to his guards. Mr. Longmire, evidently forgetting that he was supposed to be guarding his prisoner, strode down the corridor toward the entry hall, casting a glance or two at Layle. Layle took care to smile at him until the other torturer was out of sight.
Then his smile disappeared with the swiftness of an execution knife. He turned. Mr. Sobel had already sent the day guards on their way; he looked soberly at Layle.
“You heard?” said Layle.
“Every word,” replied Mr. Sobel quietly.
“But you already knew.” Layle spoke flatly.
Mr. Sobel shook his head. “Not for certain. I had suspicions . . . but I’m so high-ranked that the other guards have been reluctant to name names to me.”
“Nobody likes a tell-tale,” Layle agreed. He wondered briefly what Mr. Sobel would do with this new-found knowledge; then he dismissed the matter from his mind. He had other concerns. He was still cock-high from the thought of his seduction, which was not the way in which he wanted to enter a breaking cell.
Well, it was unlikely this would be the last time he would have to question a prisoner while his shaft was stiff with need. Taking a deep breath, he gestured to Mr. Sobel to open the cell door.
o—o—o
The second night of searching was going no better than the first. As Mr. Sobel studiously took notes and occasionally slipped his right hand into his pocket, Layle tried to figure out how, by all the minor deities, he was supposed to establish trust with the prisoner at the same time that he grilled the prisoner for information.
Layle knew now what it was that the prisoner was hiding from him: the nature of his employment. But Layle did not yet know in what way Mr. Howard’s employment had played a role in his rape of the Queen’s niece.
In the meantime, the prisoner was being tediously honest.
“What sort of work do you do?”
“I am employed by the Queen.”
“What sort of tasks are you assigned?”
“I assist with any tasks my supervisor deems necessary.”
“What sort of work does your supervisor do?”
“He is employed by the Queen.”
By the end of the morning, Layle was resorting to a game of Thirty-three Questions.
“Are you a courtier?”
“I don’t know the law that well.”
“But are you a courtier?”
“No.”
“Are you a healer?”
“I swoon at the
sight of bad injuries.”
“But are you a healer?”
“I’ve never joined the Guild of Healers.”
“Answer my question yes or no. Are you a healer?”
“No.”
“Are you a soldier?”
“Do you mean in the army?”
“I mean any type of soldier.”
“I’ve never been called that.”
Scenting blood, Layle said, “But you’re classified as part of the military? Are you one of the Queen’s Guard?”
“Sweet blood, no.” The prisoner sounded amused. “I’ve never held that type of privilege.”
“No idle oaths, please, Mr. Howard.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Layle thought about the amusement. Could it be that, despite his high-born accent, Mr. Howard had been given a low-ranked job? “Does your work involve cleaning rooms?”
“Not thus far.” The amusement in the prisoner’s voice increased. The scent of blood faded from Layle’s nostrils.
He said, “You realize that, if you continue to obstruct me, I can resort to harsher methods.”
Mr. Howard raised his eyebrows. “I shouldn’t think that would be necessary, sir. I’m replying to your questions honestly.”
His tone said, as plain as can be, “Resort to brute force if you must. That will show how poor you are at this game of wits we’re playing.”
Layle said nothing. After a moment, the prisoner turned a bit pale, and Layle realized that his own face was revealing too much of what he desired to do to the prisoner.
“Sir, I won’t lie to you.” The prisoner’s breath was too rapid. “Please understand, I’ll answer honestly any questions you ask.”
And Layle had promised that, if the prisoner was honest, there would be no torture. Very well; he would keep his promise. “Let us continue discussing the military, Mr. Howard. . . .”
o—o—o
“Is this yours, sir?”
They had returned to the apartment after Mr. Sobel gave his daily report to the High Torturer. Layle had been ready to toss himself immediately into bed. He had never realized how exhausting it could be to search a prisoner when you did not permit yourself the pleasure of torturing him.
But Mr. Sobel had needed to enter Layle’s bedroom first in order to retrieve a clean shirt for himself. Now he emerged from the bedroom, holding up the Code of Seeking, its pages open. Layle stared blankly at the book in the guard’s hand until he recalled the marginal notes he had made of all the ways in which he could break the Code.
He lifted his eyes to Mr. Sobel’s face. The guard’s expression was so thoroughly stripped of identifiable emotion that Layle began to think that Mr. Sobel would be the perfect, unbreakable prisoner; Layle could never tell what he was thinking.
“Yes,” Layle replied tersely. He would not seek to justify what he had done. After all, he could have glibly lied about his motives for the notes if he were indeed the intended abuser that he appeared to be.
Mr. Sobel looked down at the volume. “You seem to have a thorough understanding of the Code, sir.” His voice was as burnished of emotion as his face.
“Hardly,” replied Layle. “I make new discoveries every time I read it.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. Sobel in so plaintive a voice that Layle laughed.
“I don’t consider it to be a useless document,” he assured Mr. Sobel as he rested his hand on the back of a chair where Mr. Sobel had laid his jacket.
“I hope not, sir,” said Mr. Sobel, looking down at the book and wincing at whatever note he read there. “You seem to have a talent for pinpointing weaknesses.”
“It’s part of the job of a torturer,” Layle pointed out.
“You have more a talent for that than other torturers I’ve known.” Mr. Sobel carefully laid the volume aside.
Layle made no reply. He knew that he was more skilled than other torturers his age; older torturers had told him that. He had never seen the point of exhibiting false modesty.
Though he was beginning to understand the nature of true humility. Remembering this, he asked, “Do you have any suggestions for additional notes?”
“Perhaps a few, sir.” Mr. Sobel sounded troubled, as well he might. He seemed to be struggling for words; but at that moment, there was a knock on the door. “Excuse me, sir.”
Taking the hint, Layle returned to his bedroom, with Code in hand, and closed the door. He contemplated barring the door again but changed his mind. Whoever else in this dungeon might be a danger to him, he doubted now that Mr. Sobel was. If anything, Layle was the danger to Mr. Sobel: he was bringing turmoil to the guard’s peace of mind.
Some things never changed. Setting aside thoughts of all the trouble he had brought to Master Aeden, Layle lay down on his bed, still fully clothed, and contemplated the ceiling. He supposed that there were some men – Mr. Sobel might be among them – who felt their world crack and crumble if something good that they followed was shown to be flawed. While Layle had not initially set out to find flaws in the Code, he was not particularly surprised to find them. Even the gods made mistakes; the sacred dramas revealed that. The only question facing him was how to put these mistakes to rights.
And in order to know that, he needed more information than he currently possessed about the state of the dungeon.
All this while, he was vaguely aware of a conversation taking place in Mr. Sobel’s parlor. With his acute hearing, Layle caught a word or two of what was said: “arrest” and then “release” and then “junior night guard.” And then there was the sound of a door closing, followed by silence.
And more silence.
Too much silence, Layle thought. He rose from his bed, trod soft-footed over to the bedroom door, and listened. Nothing; no scrape of a chair, no sound of a breath. He eased the door open with the same silence that he had used in the years when he was a thief.
The parlor was empty.
The only sign of Mr. Sobel was his jacket; evidently, he had left with such haste that he had forgotten that article of clothing. Layle first bolted closed the door to the corridor; then he eased his fingers into the right-hand pocket of the jacket, taking care not to move any of the contents there.
It turned out there was only one item in the pocket. He slid it out far enough to be sure of what he felt.
Mr. Sobel had been carrying the Codifier’s pistol.
o—o—o
They heard the sound of Mr. Sobel’s voice outside the door, saying something to his junior night guard. The High Torturer rose from his seat. The Codifier waited, fire in his eyes.
The two guards entered, escorting the prisoner. He was as they had taken him, still in the uniform of a torturer. The junior night guard had a tight grip on him, though there was no sign that the prisoner had resisted arrest.
The High Torturer waited until the door to the Codifier’s secretary’s office was closed before speaking. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“No.” Longmire gave a smile that did not quite touch his eyes. “But I think I know how this will end.”
The Eternal Dungeon: a Turn-of-the-Century Toughs omnibus Page 5