CHAPTER SIX
Layle sat sleepless, forlornly flipping through the Code, seeking a word that was not there.
The room was quiet. Mr. Sobel had not yet returned from the breaking cell, while the corridors in this part of the outer dungeon received few visits from the laborers and serving-women, much to Layle’s relief. He turned another page as the lamp flickered, the flame guttering as it reached the end of the oil.
The words blurred in Layle’s tired vision.
When the prisoner arrives at the dungeon, he shall be placed in a breaking cell. His dignity as a human being must be recognized; he shall be provided with bedding and warmth and other such comforts as shall keep him in conditions no worse than that of his torturers . . .
Who had lied to Layle? The Queen? Had she delivered an innocent prisoner to the Eternal Dungeon for some political purpose, or out of petty revenge for some small harm done to her?
Or was it the Codifier? Had he delivered the Queen’s message, and twisted it to seem as though the prisoner himself was the criminal, when in truth the Queen merely desired that the prisoner be questioned for evidence on who the true criminal was?
Or was the High Torturer the culprit, as the prisoner had implied? Had the High Torturer lied about the prisoner’s guilt for his own reasons, as the High Master was accustomed to do from time to time? Had he believed that Layle was not skilled enough to know that the prisoner was telling the truth when he proclaimed his innocence?
Or perhaps the prisoner was Layle’s test.
The prisoner shall be searched within one day of his arrival, so that he shall not have to endure undue apprehension. He shall be questioned by a torturer, who may receive assistance from his guards. At all times, the prisoner shall be watched over by at least two guards . . .
Yes, that made the most sense. The prisoner was Layle’s test. The High Torturer had deliberately given Layle a prisoner who was known to be innocent. The High Torturer wanted to see whether Layle had enough loyalty to follow the Code even under these circumstances.
And what difference did it make if Layle should rack the prisoner in order to obtain a false confession? No doubt the prisoner would be given some suitable reward afterwards for his suffering. But if Layle should refuse the High Torturer’s orders . . .
The torturer must keep in mind at all times the best interests of the prisoner. If the torturer searches a prisoner who has committed murder or rape, he shall proceed in the following fashion: He shall encourage the prisoner to offer a confession without compulsion. If this does not work, the torturer shall use whatever harsh words are necessary to break the prisoner. If the prisoner continues to remain obdurate, then, and only then, will the torturer resort to—
Layle stopped. His eye turned back to the beginning of the paragraph. “The torturer must keep in mind at all times the best interests of the prisoner. If the torturer searches a prisoner who has committed murder or rape . . .”
He stopped again. “If the torturer searches a prisoner who has committed murder or rape . . .”
“‘If,’” he whispered aloud. “Not ‘when.’ ‘If.’ Oh, sweet blood.”
It was the first time he had spoken an Yclau oath. He would recognize this later as the moment when he became Yclau.
o—o—o
The corpse in the crematorium was gone. There was a label on a shelf with the corpse’s name, but no candle was lit. Layle took a candle from its box, lit the candle, and carried it over to stand behind the label for Mr. Longmire.
Then he stepped back, contemplating the prayer-candle. Contemplating the possibility that his own candle would stand on this shelf in a short time.
He had tried to sleep, hoping that rest would clear his mind. But over and over he had dreamt that he had seen the goddess Mercy, and he had tried to speak to her, but she had turned away from him, failing to recognize him as her faithful servant.
“Is this why you brought me to this dungeon?” he murmured to the goddess, staring at the candle. “Is death your grace?”
Perhaps it was. Perhaps Mercy was giving him the opportunity to die for the only good deed he would perform in his life.
And if he declined her gift, his life would return to evil. He thought of Mr. Sobel, lighting candles in the crematorium, and he wondered what would become of the guard if Layle chose life rather than honor.
As far as the Code requires, and farther, if it is in keeping with the Code’s principles. It had been a pledge, though he had not known it at the time.
He turned away. He was not quite good enough a man yet to sacrifice his life only for a prisoner he barely knew. But perhaps he was good enough a man to sacrifice his life, not only for the prisoner, but also in order to save the soul of a guard he had come to respect. Combined together, those two motives would have to suffice.
o—o—o
“Well?” said the High Torturer sharply. “Don’t waste my time. Have you broken him?”
Layle took a deep breath. “It all depends on what you define as broken, sir.”
“Don’t turn the scholar on me, young man,” the High Torturer replied in an irritated voice. “Have you beaten him? Racked him? Done any of the things you were hired to do?”
“I beat him when he was insolent to me, but—”
“But? But?” The High Torturer rose from behind his desk, leaning onto the desk with his fists. “Give me a straightforward answer: Have you made him give you his confession?”
He met the High Torturer’s eyes then. He felt a strange sort of calm – the same sort of calm he had felt on the day that Master Aeden placed him on the rack, and he had known that all was lost. “No, sir,” he said quietly. “I believe that he’s innocent.”
The loudest sound in the High Torturer’s office was the hiss of the lamp-flame feeding on its oil. The High Torturer said, in a very soft voice, “I will give you one more chance. Will you, or will you not, carry out your duty?”
“No, sir.” He heard his voice as though from a long distance away. “I won’t torture anyone whom I know to be innocent. Never again.”
The High Torturer’s unforgiving gaze was as heavy as a pressing-stone upon him. Then the High Torturer sat down. “Leave,” he said.
“Sir,” he said, trying to keep desperation from his voice, “the Code of Seeking says—”
“I know what the Code says. Leave this office.”
The High Torturer was no longer looking up from the papers on his desk. Layle departed, before he should attempt something suicidally stupid, like telling the High Torturer that he was wrong in his interpretation of the Code.
Outside, he leaned back against the High Torturer’s door, his eyes closed as he tried to think. Surely, if the High Torturer planned to torture him or kill him or merely throw him in a life prison, he would have given orders for Layle’s immediate arrest. Or had he decided that the young torturer was so monumentally stupid that Layle would passively await such punishment?
As, in fact, he would. Layle opened his eyes and contemplated the scene before him. In the three days since he had arrived, matters in the entry hall had gradually settled back to normal. With nobody willing to back Layle’s efforts, the guards and torturers had gradually returned to their idle gossip, their idleness of mind. The Record-keeper – one of the few men in the dungeon who showed any diligence in his work – had returned to struggling alone to keep up with the tide of documentwork, while nearby, a group of impressionable young guards watched their elders gambling their hours away.
“Oh, High Torturer,” murmured Layle. “This dungeon could be so much better than it is. How can I make you see that?”
He stood for a long time, watching the business of the dungeon continue. The Record-keeper turned a page, a prisoner arrived under escort, the Record-keeper questioned his escort, the prisoner was handed over to dungeon guards, the prisoner was taken to the breaking cells, the Record-keeper wrote down his name and cell number on the slate tablet . . .
Beyond this image, for some reason, Lay
le’s thoughts failed to go. He had never been one to ignore instinct. Turning to face the tablet, he carefully read all the names there. Failing to find the one he sought, he read it again. Then he looked thoughtfully at the Record-keeper.
No, on second thought, he would not ask the Record-keeper, who might feel duty-bound to lie to him. So might Mr. Sobel. There was one man – and one man only – who could answer his question truthfully.
The cell door was deserted this time; no day guards stood outside. Layle had no key to enter the cell, but that had never stopped him from entering any place he wished to go. He managed to jigger the lock without his tampering being noticed by the other guards in the corridor.
The prisoner was where Layle had left him, sitting on his bed-shelf, stripped of his jacket and vest, talking to Mr. Sobel. He broke off as Layle entered; both men turned to look at him and then rose to their feet.
Both looked highly apprehensive. It was quite clear, from their expressions, that they believed that Layle was here to take the prisoner to the rack room.
So, that much of what had occurred in this cell had been true.
If nothing else.
“Mr. Howard,” said Layle, “there is one question I forgot to ask you – one very important question.”
“Yes, sir?” The prisoner sounded puzzled.
“Are you my junior night guard?”
A smile slowly spread across Mr. Howard’s face. He turned toward Mr. Sobel. “You win. I owe you a week’s pay.”
Mr. Sobel returned the smile. “You ought not to take wagers when the odds are that high against you.”
o—o—o
The Hidden Dungeon had never been known for its cuisine. Whatever other grumbles that the Vovimian people might make against their royal dungeon, nobody had ever complained that the torturers there ate much better than their prisoners.
Layle, poking half-heartedly at the rich pastry of his midnight meal, did not look up at the other inhabitants of the dungeon’s entry hall. He knew already what expressions were turned toward him. Gradually, as the days had passed, the initial mockery toward him had shifted, in an ominous manner, toward fear and anger. First there had been his attack on Mr. Longmire in the entry hall; then there had been his brutality toward the High Torturer’s junior night guard in the dungeon corridor; then Mr. Longmire had been arrested and executed, mere hours after speaking to Layle; then rumors had begun to fly about Layle’s assault on the Queen’s guards . . .
. . . and now, somehow or other, the tale had spread of his moments of unawareness. Nobody knew for certain what Layle Smith’s glazed looks meant, but everyone was prepared to speculate.
The whispers, hostile and malicious, continued around him. Across the table from him, Mr. Sobel leaned back in his chair to accept a light from a passing guard.
“Still minding the baby?” The guard cast a venomous look at Layle as he lit Mr. Sobel’s cigarette. “Can’t you join us in our game, then?” He shook the dominoes in his free hand.
Mr. Sobel glanced quickly at Layle before saying, “Maybe tomorrow, Harry. Save a place for me.”
The guard snorted and passed on. Mr. Sobel, reaching for his cup of rum, said in a low voice to Layle, “I wouldn’t let all the talk worry you, sir. Underneath those bloody grumbles, you’ll find that some of the men here respect what you’re—”
He dashed the cup from Mr. Sobel’s hand.
The silence in the entry hall was as complete as on the first day of Layle’s arrival. Mr. Sobel stared down at the rum, which had splattered onto his uniform and had drowned his lit cigarette. Then he looked up, with an expression on his face that was so blank that even Layle could not interpret it.
Layle had spent the last few hours contemplating images of his idiocy: The day guards, missing from their post, surprised to receive a rebuke from Mr. Sobel. Mr. Sobel, luring Layle from the prison cell that was empty because the junior day guard had spent all night assisting with Mr. Longmire’s arrest. Mr. Sobel, declining to return to his rooms, because he and Layle might pass the junior night guard on his way back from changing out of his uniform.
The High Torturer, informing Mr. Sobel that “all was ready” in the prisoner’s cell.
Layle had risked torture, he had risked death, he had shown himself faithless to the High Torturer and the Codifier and even the Queen. He had thrown away his only chance to work in the Eternal Dungeon. And he had done all this, not in order to save a prisoner’s life, not in order to save Mr. Sobel’s soul, and not even because he loved the Code more than his life. No, he had sacrificed what he most wanted, simply because he was so much a dullard that he had allowed himself to be tricked.
Since his time with the Queen, Layle had never been so close to tears. But it seemed that a certain role was expected of him here. Very well; if everyone in this dungeon considered him to be a dangerous rebel, let him be a dangerous rebel.
He rose to his feet. Looming over the High Torturer’s guard, he said in a clear voice that reached to all corners of the entry hall, “Mr. Sobel, I have no doubt that my work time with you will be short. But as long as you remain working under me, you will not drink, you will not gamble, you will not smoke, you will not curse, you will not address other men informally while on duty – in short, you will act in a manner that demonstrates respect for the principles put forth by the Code of Seeking. Whatever anyone else in this dungeon may do, I will not allow the purity of the Code to be tainted by a guard who has been placed under my command. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, sir.” Mr. Sobel’s voice was as denuded of emotion as his face. His eyes flicked to something over Layle’s shoulder. “Excuse me, please.” Grabbing a napkin with which to wipe his uniform, he slipped from his seat.
Not bothering to see what excuse Mr. Sobel had used for his departure, Layle sat down and begin poking listlessly at his food again as the vicious whispers returned with greater force. So, he had lost his last ally – if Mr. Sobel had ever been an ally. Layle was now officially the most despised man in the Eternal Dungeon.
Which, after all, was no more than he deserved. He felt his jacket pocket to be certain that the Code of Seeking was still there, and resolutely turned his mind from all lingering, wistful thoughts of what he had done before his arrival in the Queendom of Yclau.
o—o—o
“Well?” said the High Torturer.
Seward Sobel was too well trained to shift in place, but he did not quite meet the High Torturer’s eyes. “Well, sir, I would say that you have allowed into this dungeon a firebrand. He dislikes the customs here, dislikes the regular methods of searching, dislikes how the Code is applied . . . and has every intention of fighting anyone in this dungeon who refuses to adhere to what he deems to be the Code’s ‘purity.’”
“And he has won your loyalty,” observed the High Torturer, leaning back in his chair.
Seward Sobel, never a man to directly lie, dropped his gaze and said nothing. The High Torturer glanced over at the Codifier, who was leaning back in his own chair behind his desk. “Any further questions, Josh?”
The Codifier shook his head. “You may go,” he told the guard.
The guard, reserving a final, apologetic look for the High Torturer, made his exit. The High Torturer waited until he was gone before saying, “Well!”
“Aptly put.” The Codifier contemplated the book under his fingers. “I would have thought the cycle of time would end before that exceedingly faithful guard of yours would switch his loyalties elsewhere.”
“He is dangerous,” said the High Torturer, not speaking of his guard.
“He is indeed. He passed the test you set for him: he refused to torture an innocent prisoner . . . and even proved to be skilled enough to strip your courageous junior night guard of his well-acted disguise. So what will you do with him?”
The High Torturer shrugged wearily. “What else can I do? You know the position we’re in, Josh. Even before Abe Longmire was fool enough to flaunt his misdeeds in the presence
of my senior night guard, you and I had realized that neither Longmire nor any other torturer in this dungeon possessed the skill and integrity to be trusted with that.” He pointed to the book in the Codifier’s hands.
The Codifier nodded. “Twenty years ago, you revised this book, removing the worst of its past errors. In five or ten years, we must select another man to take on the same task of bringing the Code up to date – but him?” There was a genuine note of query in his voice.
“Him,” replied the High Torturer flatly. “If we survive so long. Josh, Layle Smith may be the Eternal Dungeon’s savior . . . or he may destroy our dungeon.”
The suggestion of a smile appeared on the Codifier’s face. “You were ever a gambler.”
The High Torturer sighed. “And now my gambling days are over. Curse it, I always enjoyed a good game of whist.” He raised his hand to his head, and as he did so, his own smile appeared. “I suppose,” he said to the Codifier, “that I will have to get used to addressing you as Mr. Daniels.”
He pulled down the face-cloth of his hood.
o—o—o
o—o—o
The Unanswered Question
AUTHOR’S NOTE
After the original publication of The Unanswered Question, Zoe Cannon posted a friendly review of the novella, in which she noted, “The plot in this book was very similar to something that happened in An Exchange of Hostages by Susan R. Matthews. (I won’t give it away, because it would be a major spoiler for this entire story.) Maybe the author read that book years ago; on the other hand, it could also have been a complete coincidence.”
Alas, her first speculation was the correct one: An Exchange of Hostages – a science fiction novel about the training of a young torturer – is one of my favorite novels, which I had read some time before writing The Unanswered Question. Clearly, my Muse must have swiped the incident in that novel when I wasn’t watching. (Much of the rest of the Eternal Dungeon series was plotted before I read Susan R. Matthews’s novel; in fact, the novel was recommended to me by friends who had noticed the similarities between The Eternal Dungeon and Ms. Matthews’s series about a torturer.)
I’d therefore like to take this opportunity to express my appreciation to Ms. Cannon for pointing out the parallel, to apologize for not acknowledging my debt to An Exchange of Hostages at the time I first published The Unanswered Question, and to thank Susan R. Matthews for writing a novel that was so inspirational, on several levels.
o—o—o
o—o—o
o—o—o
=== Rebirth ===
Then straightaway Love came toward me with quick steps, and as he came he cried out: “Vassal, you are taken. There is no chance for escape or struggle. Surrender without making any resistance. . . .”
I replied simply, “Sir, I surrender willingly, and I shall never defend myself against you. May it never please God for me even to think of ever resisting you, for to do so is neither right nor reasonable. You may do with me as you wish, hang me or kill me. I know very well that I cannot change things, for my life is in your hand. Only through your will can I live until tomorrow, and, since I shall never have joy and health from any other, I await them from you. If your hand, which has wounded me, does not give me a remedy, if you wish to make me your prisoner or if you do not deign to do so, I shall not count myself deceived. . . .”
With these words, I wanted to kiss his foot, but he took me by the hand and said, “I love you very much and hold you in esteem for the way you have replied here. Such a reply never came from a lowborn fellow with poor training. Moreover, you have won so much that, for your benefit, I want you to do homage to me from now on: You will kiss me on my mouth, which no base fellow touches. I do not allow any common man, any butcher, to touch it; anyone whom I take thus as my man must be courteous and open. Serving me is, without fail, painful and burdensome . . .”
Immediately, with joined hands, I became his man.
—Guillaume de Lorris and Jean de Meun: The Romance of the Rose (Roman de la Rose, 1230-1275), as translated by Charles Dahlberg.
Rebirth 1
THE BREAKING
The year 355, the fourth month. (The year 1880 Barley by the Old Calendar.)
More than one student of psychology has been shocked to learn that the origin of our nation’s superb system of counselling and “transformation therapy” lies in the whips and racks once used in a dark chamber of torture.
Of course, no psychologist today would countenance some of the methods that were used in the Eternal Dungeon. But modern-day psychologists who react with horror at the idea that their profession’s roots lie in this place have not taken into account the historical context of the Eternal Dungeon. For what occurred in places like this during the preceding centuries was indeed beyond any measure of defense: a heartless system designed to destroy prisoners and satisfy the basest desires of the men who tortured them.
The Eternal Dungeon represented a step forward in the progress of civilization, largely because of its code book, a product of several generations of foresightful torturers who saw that the application of pain might not be the only means used to bring about a change in the criminal’s character. The introduction of the Code of Seeking marks the birth of the Eternal Dungeon, whose emphasis was on transformation rather than destruction, for the Code’s carefully delineated rules required the torturers to place the best interests of the prisoners first. However often this principle may have lapsed, the principle did at least exist, and from this strange birthplace sprang, in due time, the modern psychological movement.
The Eternal Dungeon’s Golden Age – a phrase I use with no intention of irony – came at the time that the torturers first adopted the term “Seeker” to refer to themselves. Their leader – always the most skilled torturer of his generation – was in turn called the High Seeker.
The first of the Eternal Dungeon’s High Seekers was also its most famous . . .
—Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon.
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