CHAPTER FIVE
Midnight was well past by the time that Layle returned to Mr. Sobel’s rooms, but the guard was still absent. Grateful for that fact, Layle snatched himself a snack from Mr. Sobel’s stash of edibles, then went into the bedroom in order to change out of his clothes.
For the past eight hours he had worn, not the uniform he had been issued, but the black shirt, black trousers, and scuffed work-boots he had worn during his flight from Vovim. He had worried at first that he would be mistaken within this dungeon for an escaped prisoner, but he had passed unnoticed; the normal clothing of a prisoner was no different from the normal clothing of many commoner laborers.
And that was what he had been for the past eight hours. A commoner, newly emigrated from Vovim and still speaking in a thick accent, who had moved boxes, split logs, blackened stoves, and undertaken many other menial tasks. All the laborers in the outer dungeon had seemed willing to accept his story of what he was; Layle had mentally added lax security in the outer dungeon to his long list of the Code’s failings.
The hardest part had not been passing himself off as a commoner – after all, that was how he had started life. Rather, the hardest part had been working in the same rooms where serving-women passed to and fro. He could not say why women were a special temptation to him. As far as he knew, he had started off as a normal boy, attracted equally to males and females. But the scarcity of females in the Hidden Dungeon had perhaps heightened his appetite for womanly flesh. All he knew was that, by the time he grew old enough to want to explore brothels, his first choice had been the women’s brothels.
But not his last choice. Layle reminded himself that, short of committing rape or torture upon them, he could not hope to receive satisfaction with any of the women in this dungeon – nor any of the men or youths, for that matter. The limits of his ability to satisfy his desires were a firmer boundary than the border between Vovim and Yclau. In a word, he could not spurt his whammer unless he was raping or torturing his victim.
No, pleasures of the flesh would be denied to him from this point forth; he firmly turned his thoughts from such matters, not allowing himself to feel the old, odd yearning for an exchange of love. He had more important matters to think about than carnal pleasures.
The outer dungeon, where a few of the guards lived and where the laborers worked, was as rife with corruption as the inner dungeon. Layle had witnessed backbiting, bribes, blackmail, and every other vice imaginable.
Yet overlaying it all, just as in the inner dungeon, there was a sense among the laborers that they dwelt in a special place, with special rules. Nobody had had a bad word to say against the Code of Seeking, though everyone seemed to think that it was impossible to follow completely the Code’s ideals.
Layle had gradually come to the conclusion that part of the problem lay with the High Torturer. The laborers respected the High Torturer. According to them, he overlooked peccadilloes, and even ignored large misdeeds, provided that those misdeeds were not flagrantly waved in his face. He was a tolerant employer, a good man to work for . . . though Layle caught whispers suggesting that the High Torturer’s tolerance had its limits, and that it was exceedingly unwise to anger the High Torturer.
Layle, sitting in bed and flipping his way through the Code, could see how the Code itself encouraged the High Torturer to adopt his policy of tolerance. The problem, Layle decided, was not so much in the tolerance as in the arbitrariness of it all. Nobody in the outer dungeon seemed quite sure which deeds would cause them to be punished. This left the dungeon workers on edge, and also inspired a gambling attitude: if you didn’t know which deeds were considered wrong, you might as well draw a bone and take your chances. Hence the spread of vice within the outer dungeon.
The problem with the Code, Layle decided, was that it was not concrete enough. It provided numerous passages which spoke of high ideals, but often it did not back those ideals with practical rules. The fact that the torturers decided for themselves how much torture a prisoner should receive was a sign of how badly the Code needed to place limits on the dungeon workers. The Eternal Dungeon, though it remained a place of high ideals, was currently in a state of anarchy. Sooner or later, the anarchy was bound to erode the ideals.
Scrutinizing the Code in hopes of finding new insight, Layle reflected to himself that it was strange that no torturer or guard in this place had reached similar conclusions. Perhaps that was because, according to the laborers, the inner-dungeon workers were a motley crew. Though all high-born or of the mid-class, the torturers and guards came from dozens of backgrounds. Mr. Longmire had owned a tavern prior to becoming a torturer; Argus had worked as a business clerk; the High Torturer’s junior night guard had flirted with the idea of taking up the theatrical arts before his parents persuaded him to adopt a more respectable calling. From the gossip that Layle had overheard and encouraged that night, he gathered that very few of the inner-dungeon workers were what he would term “professionals”: men who had chosen prison work as their lifelong profession. Even the torturers, whose oaths bound them to the dungeon until death, seemed to treat torturing as a sideline to their off-duty leisure activities.
What the Code needed, Layle decided, was more passages about the dungeon workers. There needed to be passages that instilled pride in the torturers and guards and laborers for the unique, precious work they were doing. The men and women of the dungeon needed to recognize that they were the only people in the world who were doing this work: they alone held the privilege of helping to search prisoners by means unknown in other prisons. Even if other prisons should imitate the Eternal Dungeon – and Layle gathered from the gossip that the Eternal Dungeon was not without influence – this place would still be the hub for all experiments in prison reform. The Eternal Dungeon was the heart of the prison world.
But how to make the dungeon workers recognize that? Layle frowned as he reached the title page of the Code. The authors’ names were written there – more than one name. The last name in the list gave him pause.
He turned the page to where the date of the publication was listed and found, not one date, but many.
Original edition, H. Wallace et al., in the year 202 by the Tri-National Calendar.
First revision, R. Platt, 228 TNC.
Second revision, N. Douglass, 255 TNC.
Third revision, B. Harrison, 283 TNC.
Fourth revision, T. Jenson, 313 TNC.
“‘T. Jenson,’” Layle murmured to himself. “How can the Code be improved if its latest author is also the dungeon’s High Torturer? You’re not likely to listen to me, High Torturer, if I point out to you all the mistakes you’ve made.”
Nonetheless, the multiple publication dates cheered him. There was a note on the bottom of the page which stated that the Code must be updated in every generation, to reflect the consensus of the inner-dungeon workers about any changes that needed to be made. So there was a chance that the current Code’s flaws could be removed during the next revision.
Layle thought hard. He did not know who the next reviser of the Code would be, and on reflection, it didn’t matter. What mattered, if he understood correctly, was that there be “consensus” among the torturers and guards over how to run the dungeon.
At the moment there was consensus, but all in the wrong direction: the consensus was that the current Code worked well. How could Layle hope to change that belief?
He must have fallen asleep some time later, for he dreamt again of a prisoner being mercilessly tormented. But the prisoner was a kitten found on the street, and its torturer was four years old.
His mother, discovering him with the dying kitten, listened to his shouts and curses as he angrily denied that he had done anything wrong. At length she said, in that cool manner she had when she was very disappointed with Layle, “If you must be a torturer, my dear, the least you can do is be a polite torturer.”
He woke then, startled, and looked over at the water-clock in the corner of the room. Two hours were left before the dusk
shift began. Stretching, he rose and then went over to fetch his uniform. As he did so, his mother’s words echoed in his head: “The least you can do is be a polite torturer.”
He paused, his hand on the uniform. He had possessed a reputation in the Hidden Dungeon, not only for viciousness, but also for politeness. Master Aeden had once remarked drily that, if Layle managed to survive to adulthood without being murdered by one of his fellow torturers, he had his politeness to thank.
He thought again of the manner in which Mr. Sobel’s attitude had begun to change toward him at the beginning. Was it because he had reprimanded Mr. Sobel? Or was it perhaps because he had granted Mr. Sobel the dignity of a title? And a similar transformation had taken place in the prisoner when Layle had shown courtesy toward him.
Be polite. That was what his mother had told him, and it seemed that Mercy, in sending the dream, had the same message. Be polite, be formal, act with the dignity that the Code of Seeking seemed to demand of him. And perhaps . . . perhaps that would make a difference.
He must not break the current Code. He knew that, without even having to think the matter through. If he began picking and choosing which bits of the Code he wanted to follow, his own life would fall into as much anarchy as the Eternal Dungeon was experiencing.
But there was nothing to stop him from doing more than the Code demanded, was there? While following the current Code, he could circumscribe stricter boundaries for himself than the Code demanded. He could set an example. And in doing so, perhaps he would influence other workers in this dungeon.
He turned away from the uniform and began rereading the Code of Seeking to determine what new limits he should impose on himself.
o—o—o
Layle arrived at the entry hall that evening to find himself ignored.
He had half-expected everyone to gawk when he entered, but it appeared that they had heavier matters on their minds. The torturers and guards were clustered in groups, muttering with one another; the drinks and the dominoes lay abandoned. Even the Record-keeper kept casting looks toward the Codifier’s office.
What finally emerged from that office was not the Codifier, nor even the High Torturer, but two guards. One of them turned away immediately, before Layle could identify him; he made his way to the door leading to the outer dungeon and departed swiftly. The other – Mr. Sobel – went over to the Record-keeper and spoke to him. The Record-keeper, without a word, rose and went over to a giant slate tablet behind him. He wrote something on the tablet; Layle was too far away to see the words. Then the Record-keeper crossed out what he had written.
All of the mutters in the hall had died out. Men were exchanging glances with one another. Most did not even bother to go up to the tablet; it appeared they already knew what was written there.
Layle caught hold of a guard who was standing on his own, staring bleakly at the tablet. “That slate-board,” he said, pointing to the slate. “What is it for?”
The guard did not look away from the tablet. “It lists our prisoners and the cells in which they were searched. The prisoners whose names are crossed out have been executed.”
Layle made his way slowly forward. Some young guards was jostling each other in front of the tablet, in an attempt to see what was written there, but they made way for him when they saw his hood. He stared at the new words on the tablet, which were crossed out: “A. Longmire. Codifier’s office.”
Beside him, the young guards were whispering.
“I heard they brought out his body at noon.”
“That’s a lie. No one ever sees the bodies afterwards. The Codifier has flesh-eating fish that eat them.”
“Don’t be a fool. He was a torturer. Torturers’ ashes are placed in the crematorium. They’re prisoners, after all.”
“A condemned prisoner, in this case.”
“But what did he do?”
“I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.”
“He angered the High Torturer. That’s all we need to know.”
“If we don’t know what he did wrong—”
The speaker stopped abruptly. Layle, turning his head, saw that Mr. Sobel had joined them.
“Night shift has started,” the High Torturer’s senior night guard said in his usual mild voice. The other guards melted away.
The entry hall was emptying now of everyone except the night guards who were awaiting prisoners. None of them seemed inclined to talk, though several had begun to pour drinks for themselves. Layle had a vision of a drunken party following this episode.
“Mr. Smith? Why are you dressed this way?” Mr. Sobel spoke in a low voice.
Layle turned his attention to the guard. He had forgotten, amidst everything, his change of appearance.
“Sir, if you had no time in which to dress properly . . .” Mr. Sobel’s voice ended on a hesitant note. Layle guessed that he was trying to reconcile the torturer’s half-dressed state – no jacket, no vest, only the black shirt, black trousers, and scuffed work-boots that Layle had worn during his flight from Vovim – with the fact that Layle had lowered the face-cloth of his hood.
Layle managed to gather his wits together in order to make his prepared speech. “The Code of Seeking requires that face-cloths be lowered during torture. It gives no other guidance as to the use of the hood. I prefer to remain formally dressed from the moment I leave my living cell.”
“But . . .” Mr. Sobel gestured toward the rest of his clothes.
“Formally dressed,” said Layle, “as a prisoner. And I trust that, on this night, you won’t protest that I and the other torturers aren’t really prisoners.”
Mr. Sobel’s mouth twisted. “No, sir. Torturers are bound to this dungeon by their oaths of eternal commitment. And if you prefer to wear clothing which signifies that fact . . . Well, I’ll speak to the High Torturer about this. It would be best to obtain his permission.”
“I gathered that.” Layle did not bother to look at the tablet.
Mr. Sobel began to speak, then flicked his eyes toward the guards sitting nearby. Layle gestured again, this time toward the door to the inner dungeon, and after a moment’s hesitation, Mr. Sobel followed.
The corridor was silent; for once, none of the guards there seemed inclined to chat. All were at their posts . . . except for two who were sitting on the floor, eating buns.
Mr. Sobel sighted them in the same moment that Layle did. “On your feet!” he said, striding over. “You have a prisoner to guard.”
“But—” The senior day guard cut off his protest abruptly as he caught sight of Layle. “All right. Sorry.”
Layle waited until the day guards were back at their posts in front of his prisoner’s cell before he came forward. “I’ll check on the prisoner now,” he told them.
Mr. Sobel, who had been speaking in a low tone to the senior day guard, said to Layle, “Sir, I haven’t had my breakfast yet . . . nor my supper from yesterday morning. Do you mind if we delay the searching for a few minutes this evening?”
Layle would have said no – the need for punctuality had been beaten into him by Master Aeden – but he still had questions to ask, and they could not be asked in the presence of a prisoner. “Very well,” he said. “Let’s go back to your rooms.”
Mr. Sobel hesitated before saying, “I’d like to stop at the crematorium first, sir, if you don’t mind.”
o—o—o
The crematorium was empty, except for a body in the fire-pit, awaiting burning. Looking down at the blanket-covered object, Layle said, “You told the High Torturer?”
Mr. Sobel replied quietly, “I am required by my duty to report to the High Torturer everything that you say.”
Layle nodded. He had expected as much. “And you reported our conversation about Mr. Longmire?”
“Yes, sir. The High Torturer told me that he hadn’t been aware before now of Longmire’s misuse of power.”
That was a lie if Layle had ever heard one. Any fact that was widely known among the guards must surely be kno
wn by the High Torturer. Layle wondered why, if Mr. Longmire had been blackmailing guards into his bed for some time, the High Torturer had chosen this moment to take him to task.
“Is this the High Torturer’s usual manner of issuing a reprimand?” Layle gestured toward the body.
Mr. Sobel hesitated before saying, “In serious cases, sir.”
“And he doesn’t tell anyone afterwards why he has executed the torturer or guard?” The Eternal Dungeon was beginning to feel more and more like his old workplace. He remembered how the High Master had treated one torturer who was foolish enough to protest that he couldn’t torture a prisoner who was innocent. The torturer had not been allowed to die quickly.
Layle turned to Mr. Sobel, who was struggling for an answer. “At what point,” Layle asked the guard, “do you stop carrying out the High Torturer’s orders?”
Mr. Sobel was quiet a moment before saying, “When he breaks the Code, sir. That’s where the limit lies for me. He has never broken the Code, to my knowledge – but if he did, I would not obey orders.”
It was a daringly honest response; Layle appreciated that. And it was a response he could accept. What it came down to once more was that the Code needed to be revised. Mr. Sobel, it seemed, had made the same choice that Layle had: to follow the current Code, even where it was flawed. If he and Layle were in that much agreement, they could continue to work together.
“As far as the Code requires,” he told Mr. Sobel, “and farther, if it is in keeping with the Code’s principles.”
Mr. Sobel’s gaze drifted over Layle’s new uniform. “As I say, sir, it would be best to clear all matters with the High Torturer.”
Layle wondered how the High Torturer would react when he learned that Layle was stepping beyond the normal customs of the Eternal Dungeon. Well, there would be time enough to worry about that if Mr. Sobel turned up at Layle’s door to arrest him. For now, Layle had a prisoner to break.
o—o—o
“Sir, I hope you don’t mind if I say . . . That is, I hope you won’t be offended . . .” Mr. Sobel trailed off a second time and bit his lip as he closed his apartment door. Layle, already standing in the outer-dungeon corridor, eyed the guard with curiosity, wondering whether he should have spoken more during the midnight meal. After all, Mr. Sobel had been Layle’s host.
During the first night of breaking, Mr. Sobel had invited Layle to dine in the entry hall. No special provisions were made for the dungeon workers at the dusk and dawn mealtimes, for it was assumed that most workers would prefer to eat outside the dungeon, either in the palace above or in the surrounding city. The prisoners and torturers, who could not leave the dungeon, were served meals in their cells, brought from the kitchens in the palace.
But at midnight and noon, a light meal was served in the entry hall, so that the torturers and guards could eat quickly before returning to their duties. One visit to the entry hall during dining hours had been enough for Layle; he had watched, with appalled fascination, as a prisoner on his way to his trial – and perhaps to his execution – had been forced to weave his way between the wadded-up food balls thrown by the younger guards at each other.
Fortunately, Mr. Sobel, who was one of the few guards to live within the dungeon, kept a stash of food on hand in his rooms. At Layle’s suggestion, the two of them had retreated in quiet dignity from the riotous dining in the entry hall.
Perhaps he had been a bit too quiet tonight, Layle reflected. His mind had been on the Code, trying to figure out whether he had missed anything important. He had tried an old mental game he had learned as a lad when his mother set him to memorizing the simpler of the sacred dramas: he had searched his memory for all instances of particular words within the Code, then had checked the Code itself to see whether he had missed any places where the words were used.
“Rack.” Only three mentions; the Code had surprisingly little to say about this instrument of terror, other than to make analogies between the rack and the stress placed upon the prisoner’s conscience.
“Innocent.” The word never appeared in the Code. That was hardly surprising; Layle had gathered from various passages that any prisoners sent to the Eternal Dungeon had already been determined guilty by other authorities; the job of the dungeon’s torturers was simply to obtain a confession before the trial . . . and hopefully a statement of remorse.
“Madness.” Oddly enough, four passages mentioned madness, all in metaphors to describe the anarchic state of a criminal’s soul.
Enough. Mr. Sobel was waiting for an answer.
“Go on,” said Layle, not very helpfully.
Mr. Sobel, staring at the floor as he pocketed his key, said, “I was wondering, sir, whether you might have the inclination to speak to our healer.”
Layle, who had been about to turn in the direction of the inner dungeon, stopped dead. After a moment, he said, “You have a healer here?”
“Yes, sir. He was hired by the Codifier three years ago, because the dungeon was having to call upon the services of the palace healers so often. Our healer is fairly young – he only completed his training half a dozen years ago – but he has a good reputation. He not only cares for the prisoners but also for any dungeon workers who wish to consult with him.”
Without thinking much about it, Layle fingered the place on his belt where his whip had once been looped. “He works for the Codifier, you say?”
Mr. Sobel’s gaze flicked up. “Yes, sir. But he’s a member of the Guild of Healers. I don’t know whether you’re aware, sir, but all healers who belong to the guild are required to take an oath not to reveal to others what they learn from their patients, other than with the patients’ permission. As far as anyone knows, the Codifier has never pressured our healer to break his oath. And I don’t think David – Mr. Bergsen, that is – would ever break his oath, even under pressure.”
Layle considered this. One fact he had learned during his night as a dungeon laborer was that only two torturers in the entire history of the Eternal Dungeon had broken their oaths of eternal commitment. Given that the Eternal Dungeon had now existed for a century and a third, this suggested that the Yclau treated their oaths with great seriousness.
Mr. Sobel added hesitantly, “He has a reputation, sir, for being concerned with the health of the whole man: body, soul . . . and mind.”
Layle said nothing. After a minute, Mr. Sobel dropped his gaze again. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“That’s all right.” He spoke the polite response automatically, but decided, after further consideration, that he had spoken the truth. “I appreciate your suggestion. It isn’t a course of action that would have occurred to me. I’ll give it some thought . . . but not until I finish with my current prisoner.”
Mr. Sobel glanced up at him, his gaze opaque, and Layle wondered whether Mr. Sobel thought he was afraid of having his secret torments revealed to the Codifier before he had been accepted into training.
In actual fact, Layle was worried about what would happen to him within the healer’s office. He had seen healers cut men open; would something like that happen to his mind if the dungeon healer began probing him to discover a medical cause for his dreamings? If so, it would be better for Layle to wait for a day when he was momentarily free of his duties to the prisoners.
Though perhaps, Layle reflected, Mr. Sobel thought it would be better for him not to wait too long.
Layle said, “Mr. Sobel, I know that I can trust you to have good enough judgment to take charge of the situation if my . . . illness should endanger the prisoner.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mr. Sobel murmured. “I don’t see any need to do so at this point. Many of the torturers here prefer to continue searching prisoners, even at times of the year when their health is not the best. In most cases, they’re able to carry out their duties.”
“Yes?” said Layle, intrigued by this analogy. “Well, after all, any duty that is also a pleasure . . . What does this door lead to?” He pointed to the door that was next to
Mr. Sobel’s apartment door.
Mr. Sobel started, visibly startled by this change of topic. “Sir?”
“The door,” Layle replied patiently. “Where does it lead to?” What was quite obvious was that it led to a space that was directly behind Layle’s room. Layle had not managed to stay alive for three years in the Hidden Dungeon without taking care to check that nobody could enter his bedroom from any direction whatsoever.
Unless he was seducing them, of course.
Mr. Sobel hesitated. It was the hesitation that decided Layle. He tried the door, found that it was unlocked, and slid his way inside while Mr. Sobel was still trying to articulate a protest.
The stove and lamps in the room were unlit, but with the aid of the dim light from the corridor, Layle had no trouble seeing his surroundings. A quick look at the walls, ceilings, and floors assured him that there was no easy way to travel from this room to his own. And in any case – he thought, running his eye over the tables, the food bins, the jacket and vest folded over a chair, and the colorful framed posters on the wall – it was clear that this was a living space, not a workspace.
“My junior night guard lives here?” he said to Mr. Sobel. Odd how, after only three days, Layle had come to think of the High Torturer’s guards as his own guards.
Mr. Sobel, who was still standing outside and had been saying something about the tradition of privacy in the Eternal Dungeon, stared at him.
Smiling slightly, Layle added, “You don’t have much faith in my ability as a torturer to search for clues, do you?” He waved his hand toward the posters. “Theatrical scenes. I heard that my junior night guard liked the theater.”
“Ah . . . yes, sir.” Mr. Sobel looked visibly uncomfortable.
So Mr. Sobel did not like to gossip about people behind their backs? That was good to know. Taking pity on him, Layle withdrew from the apartment, closing the door behind him. “Will I receive the opportunity to speak to him soon?” he asked. It would be good to talk with someone in this art-forsaken land who knew the difference between a backstage and a forestage.
Mr. Sobel’s mouth quirked. “Yes, sir. Quite soon.”
Layle eyed him, wondering whether Mr. Sobel had faith in Layle’s ability to break the prisoner quickly, or whether, instead, the guard had concluded that Layle was likely to fail to break his prisoner. Either way, it was likely that Layle would indeed have leisure time on his hands within a short while.
He resolutely turned his thoughts from what might come from the appointment with the healer.
o—o—o
“Layle,” said the High Torturer, “how are matters going with your prisoner?”
Suppressing a sigh, Layle turned to face the High Torturer as Mr. Sobel paused to reprimand a guard who was sloppily dressed. Layle had noticed that, in the past three days, Mr. Sobel had become less and less inclined to overlook poor performance by the other guards or to accept backtalk from them. Some matters in this dungeon were changing for the better.
Other matters, on the other hand, remained tediously the same. Layle told the High Torturer curtly, “I’ve determined that he’s lying to me, sir. I’m trying to determine now the exact nature of the falsehood.”
“Bloody blades, man, we don’t have this kind of time!” The High Torturer gripped hard the handle of the whip on his belt. “The Queen wants a report of progress by tomorrow. Tomorrow, do you understand?”
Layle was still a moment. Then he said, “Yes, sir. I’ll have his confession by the end of my shift.”
His statement caused the High Torturer to stare. “How can you be sure—?”
“By the end of my shift,” Layle repeated flatly. “Now, if you will excuse me, sir . . .”
He turned away, very aware of the High Torturer’s hand upon his whip, but too angry to heed the warning. Searching was not supposed to proceed like this – not in the Eternal Dungeon. The Code said that the torturer should take however long was needed to obtain a confession and a statement of repentance.
Well, perhaps if he obtained a confession quickly, he could persuade the High Torturer to let him spend a day or two more on his searching, helping the prisoner recognize his wrongdoing.
On the other hand, it was unlikely that the prisoner would be in any shape for thought if Layle had to proceed with his breaking that quickly. As Mr. Sobel came to join him at the door, Layle said to him, “I’m going to be making one last chance tonight to make the prisoner see reason.”
Mr. Sobel flicked a glance at the departing High Torturer. “Yes, sir.”
“That last chance will not be pleasant.” With those words, Layle entered the breaking cell.
o—o—o
Breaking a prisoner by words alone was a skill he had learned when he first arrived at the Hidden Dungeon, at age fifteen. The young man who had taught him – Master Aeden’s other apprentice – had been far more skilled at that form of searching than Layle would ever be. Layle’s own native talents lay in physical torture, quickness of movement, keenness of eyesight and hearing, deception, and seduction. Nonetheless, he had done his best to learn what he could of this arcane skill of word-breaking, rarely practiced in the Hidden Dungeon because the torturers there could use any instruments they wanted to break the prisoner.
Later, during his flight to Yclau, it had occurred to Layle that he had received perfect training for being a torturer in the Eternal Dungeon, whose Code encouraged the torturers to delay physical torture until all other methods of breaking had been exhausted.
Layle was beginning to think, though, that he would have shown greater mercy to this prisoner by placing him straight on the rack.
Layle paused to let Mr. Sobel hand the prisoner a handkerchief. The prisoner had thoroughly soaked his own handkerchief a while back; Layle made a mental note to carry an extra handkerchief at all times.
Mr. Sobel’s expression had been one of uneasiness throughout the night’s searching, perhaps because he knew that, if this searching failed, he would be the man to turn the wheel on the rack. He had ceased, however, to fiddle with the pistol in his pocket; apparently his conversation with Layle at midnight had reassured him that there would be no need to use the gun in order to protect the prisoner.
Though protecting the prisoner seemed a moot point now. Layle said in a mild voice, “You’re making matters more difficult for yourself than they need to be.”
By this time, the prisoner had come to know what Layle’s mild voice meant; he flinched at this preparation for a new onslaught. “I’m telling you the truth, sir,” he protested in a breathy manner, obviously trying to hold back sobs.
“I know you are. And I also know that you’re holding back information. What work do you do?”
“I am employed by the Queen. I assist with any tasks my supervisor deems necessary—”
“—because you’re a spoiled boy who never would have received a privileged post if it weren’t for the fact that your foster father has influence?”
The prisoner bit his lip so hard that it bled. Layle’s probing had uncovered Mr. Howard’s underlying insecurity: his fear that he had no real skills at his current work, which had been chosen by his family rather than himself. The prisoner also keenly feared that his employer and his supervisor would recognize his worthlessness. Layle had continued to probe at that weak point, driving the prisoner into more and more despair. Hopefully, in time, the prisoner would begin to doubt his ability to hold out against Layle.
It appeared, though, that Mr. Howard had some inner reserve of strength connected with his searching, for after a moment he threw the handkerchief onto the floor defiantly, saying, “Maybe. And maybe after this is all through, I’ll be sacked from my job. But that doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t do what I’m accused of doing.”
“Don’t be absurd,” said Layle, still in his mild voice. “You were caught by the Queen herself.”
“Who told you that? The High Torturer? And you trusted what he told you?”
For the first tim
e in three days, Layle felt himself hesitate. It was an old trick, of course; the prisoner would accuse his accusers of lying, because that was the only way in which to escape the charges.
What made Layle hesitate was a memory of how many times in the Hidden Dungeon he had heard statements like that, and the statements had been true.
In the Hidden Dungeon, it did not matter whether a prisoner was actually innocent. The torturers were ordered to obtain a confession of guilt, no matter what. And here in the Eternal Dungeon . . . Here in the Eternal Dungeon, every prisoner questioned had already been determined guilty by other authorities.
But what if Layle’s prisoner was innocent?
This was ridiculous. Mr. Howard was lying about something, probably something connected with his crime. And he was clearly trying to avoid answering the question about his work, which evidently was the key to the evidence of his crime. “Very well,” said Layle in a light voice that caused Mr. Howard to flinch again, “let me ask you a question that even you should find simple to answer. Look at me while you reply. Did you rape the Queen’s niece?”
The prisoner looked him in the eye. In a steady, calm voice he said, “No, sir, I did not rape the Queen’s niece. I have never met the Queen’s niece. I have not committed a crime of any sort.”
The cell was still. Mr. Sobel, who had been watching the proceedings with a troubled expression on his face, made a note in his memorandum book. Layle felt the blood pound in his body.
After a minute he said, “Mr. Howard, you will lie on the rack tonight.”
The prisoner’s knees gave way. Mr. Sobel managed to catch him in time and ease him into a sitting position on the bed-shelf.
“But I told you the truth!” The prisoner’s cry rent the stillness.
“Then confess to a lesser crime. That is your only hope at this point.” Layle signalled to Mr. Sobel, who hurried over to open the door. Mr. Howard buried his face in his hands.
Layle left the cell quickly and then stood stiffly as the senior night guard locked the door. The blood continued to pound through his body. Mr. Sobel, looking considerably shaken, turned toward him.
“Mr. Sobel,” said Layle in a remarkably steady voice, “how soon can the rack room be ready?”
Mr. Sobel hesitated before saying, “Not before the day shift, sir. All of the rack rooms are in use at the moment.”
“Then arrange for one to be assigned to the prisoner at the beginning of the next night shift, and explain to the High Torturer that the prisoner’s confession has been delayed for that reason. I will have Mr. Howard’s confession on the High Torturer’s desk within the second hour of the beginning of tomorrow’s night shift.” This was being generous. From what Layle had seen, the prisoner would break within minutes, provided that Layle took him up to the highest levels of the rack immediately.
“Yes, sir,” murmured Mr. Sobel. “May I have permission to stay with the prisoner for a while longer, in order to prepare him for his ordeal?” His troubled expression had increased, but he made no protest against Layle’s orders.
He knows, thought Layle, feeling foul liquid enter his mouth from his throat. He knows that the Code makes no provision for prisoners who are truly innocent.
The Eternal Dungeon: a Turn-of-the-Century Toughs omnibus Page 6