The Eternal Dungeon: a Turn-of-the-Century Toughs omnibus

by Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER FIVE

  “Why are you doing this?” Elsdon whispered.

  There was no reply. He felt the hand touch his legs, then brush his ankles. The rope around his ankles burned into his flesh as it tightened. Elsdon, his face turned toward the bedroom ceiling, tried to concentrate his thoughts on each rising breath. It was hard, though; even his chest was constricted, now that his wrists and ankles had been bound to opposite ends of the bedstead. He tried flexing his hands – which were bound together – and found that his fingers were already numb.

  “Too tight?” said the gentle voice.

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  He heard rather than saw the figure in the dark room as it moved to the head of the bed. A finger slipped between Elsdon’s wrists and the bond. Apparently judging that Elsdon’s assessment was correct, his captor slackened the knot somewhat.

  The adjustment left Elsdon little better off than he was before. “Why?” he asked again, his voice raw with unspoken sobs. “Just tell me what I’ve done wrong, and I won’t do it again.”

  His captor made no reply except to brush Elsdon’s hair back from his eyes, very softly. “Do you want the gag?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  For a moment, Elsdon did not speak; he was trying to judge what lay within his raw throat. Then he jerked his head once in a nod.

  A moment later, his captor had placed a knotted handkerchief into his mouth. The taste of the cloth was bitter and dry. As he raised Elsdon’s head to tie the handkerchief in the back, his captor said, “It’s good that you cooperate. That’s good. You know I’m doing this in your best interests. If you cooperate, it will be easier for you.”

  Elsdon could not have replied now if he wished; nor could he call out to the footsteps he heard outside the door. He tried to swallow, but the gag was absorbing all the liquid in his mouth.

  The hand brushed his hair once more. “I’ll check on you in the middle of the night,” the quiet voice said, “and at dawn I’ll come back again. And then . . . Well, we’ll see. Perhaps the binding will be enough to help you.” He pulled up the covers to the top of Elsdon’s chest, then leaned forward and kissed his forehead lightly. “Good night, son.”

  When he had left, Elsdon tried to turn his thoughts to sleep, but he knew that it was of no use. He could never sleep, not on the nights when his father bound him like this. Just the very slight pain in his ankles and wrists was enough to wake him with a jerk whenever he started to drop off.

  He could feel his midriff begin to itch, but he could do nothing about it. Eight hours until he could scratch it – maybe four hours if his father was willing to scratch it for him. He would do that sometimes. Elsdon knew that his father did not wish him to be any more uncomfortable than was necessary for his punishment. If only he knew what the punishment was for – if only he could change whatever it was that his father, in his loving manner, was trying to change.

  Another servant passed the room, but thanks to his father’s gift of the gag, the servant would not discover him – would not learn of his shame.

  His left shoulder-blade, drawn upward by the position of his arms, was digging into a lump in the mattress. He tried to squirm away from the lump, but it was no use. His shoulder-blade would continue to be pressed that way for the next eight hours.

  Eight hours. He could hear the water-clock in the corner of the room, dripping one slow drop at a time: one . . . two . . . three . . . He began to count backwards the time remaining: twenty-eight thousand eight hundred, twenty-eight thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine, twenty-eight thousand seven hundred and ninety-eight . . . The scream was building in his throat. Twenty-eight thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven—

  A crash jolted him into wakefulness. For a moment, all he could hear was the water dripping in the corner, one drop at a time. Then the crash came again.

  He scrambled out of the bed. He had just enough wakefulness to remember to pull on his trousers and place his hood over his head as he stumbled forward. Then he was fumbling for the latch in the dim light of the single lamp that still lit the sitting room of the cell.

  Garrett stood in the doorway. He was dressed in his grey uniform, but his hair was all awry, as though he had been running; a trickle of sweat made its way down his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, then looked down at Elsdon’s bare chest. His mouth twitched into a grin. “Well, well, well,” he said. “So the High Seeker knows how to use his dagger.”

  The sickness left over from Elsdon’s nightmare was replaced in an instant by the coldness of embarrassment. He said, “The High Seeker is at work right now. He said I could sleep here while he was gone.”

  “And I’m sure he lets all his Seekers sleep in his bed.” Garrett stepped into the cell and closed the door to the inner dungeon; then, in that careless manner of his, he flipped Elsdon’s face-cloth up. “Say, do you know where he’s working tonight? I have a message for him.”

  Elsdon noticed for the first time the paper in Garrett’s hand that was folded into a triangle, then folded again so that its tip could be tucked into its base. “He didn’t mention which cell he’s working in,” Elsdon replied. “Couldn’t you ask the Record-keeper?”

  Garrett sniffed. “I could if I thought he’d answer. Aaron hasn’t spoken to me all week, not since I blotted a line in one of my reports, or some other such death-sentence crime.”

  “He has to answer questions that pertain to your duty. You should report him to the Codifier.”

  Garrett sniffed again. “Since when did higher-ups here follow the Code if it didn’t suit them? Taylor, you have much to learn.”

  His voice held a mixture of amusement and condescension that made Elsdon’s back tingle. But all that Elsdon said was, “The Record-keeper’s tablet should tell where the High Seeker is tonight—”

  “Listen, I don’t have time for this,” Garrett said swiftly. “Chapman wants me back right away – he’s at a vital point in the searching. You give this to the High Seeker when you see him next.” He flipped the message into Elsdon’s hands.

  Elsdon stared down at the paper. “But he might need to see this right away. Besides—”

  “Then go find him and give it to him; I’ll come back in an hour and see whether there’s a reply. See you, Seeker!” And before Elsdon could say a word, Garrett had pulled open the door to the outer dungeon and was running down the corridor.

  By the time that Elsdon was able to pull down the flap of his hood and step into the corridor, Garrett was out of sight. Elsdon sighed, looking down again at the message. He had been about to remind his friend that, being in training, he was not authorized to carry Seekers’ messages. For a moment, he was tempted to leave the message under the door leading to the inner dungeon and pretend he knew nothing about it.

  But the message might be urgent, and a prisoner’s welfare might depend on the answer. He closed the door to the outer dungeon, reflecting to himself that Garrett had been in such a frenzy that he had not noticed he was running in the wrong direction.

  A few minutes later, fully clothed in black uniform and boots, he made his way into the entry hall. He was not noticed. A newly arrived prisoner had decided that this was his last chance to escape the dungeon alive; he was desperately trying to break away toward the passage leading to the lighted world, and six guards were in the midst of trying to subdue him. Nearby, the Record-keeper sat, calmly sorting the prisoner’s records.

  Elsdon looked at the scuffle for a moment, hesitating, but nobody in the entry hall noticed him amidst the emergency. So, after a moment, he slipped behind Mr. Aaron and looked at the great tablet there. His eye lingered momentarily on the High Seeker’s name at the top of the tablet – “Layle Smith – 1, A” – and then travelled down to the names below. For a minute, he scanned the columns, trying to remember the name of Layle’s present prisoner. Then his eye caught sight of four lines at the bottom of the tablet, separate from the rest. The first of these lines read, “Layle Smith – A.”

  His breath caught in hi
s throat until he remembered that the lettered rooms, unlike the breaking cells, were labelled with the names of the Seekers making use of them. His gaze lingered upon the words before him; then he turned to look at the guards hidden at the dusky edges of the entry hall. Any of them were authorized to carry messages—

  —but if he asked any of them to carry a message to the High Seeker, they would want to know who had given him the message. Sighing again, he slipped through the doorway to the inner dungeon.

  The shouts of the new prisoner faded away, leaving silence. Elsdon’s boots tapped against the flagstoned floor, and his body cast a shadow that grew long and then shrank and then grew long again as he passed the oil lamps on the walls. The corridor was thick with the smell of smoke, though the ventilation shafts above carried most of the smoke away to the lighted world, far above. It was a familiar smell; the corridor always reminded him of his school. Even the doors he passed might have been doors into classrooms. Only a few of them were guarded, and the guards took no notice of him as he passed.

  He reached a point where the corridor narrowed. He paused, straining his ear for new sounds, but none could be heard. The corridor grew dimmer, too, for no lamps lit this area; the only light came from further back. Four doors lay here, and at the first door stood a guard.

  With a feeling of descending heart, Elsdon realized that the guard was not the High Seeker’s senior night guard, Mr. Sobel. Layle’s junior night guard had never forgiven Elsdon for their initial encounter, which had earned Mr. Urman a reprimand from the High Seeker.

  Trying to pull forth all of his dignity as a Seeker, Elsdon went up to the guard and said, “I have a message for you to deliver to the High Seeker.”

  His attempt at authority failed. Mr. Urman glanced at the paper and said, “I’m in training, sir; I’m not authorized to carry messages.”

  He did not say, though his face did, that Elsdon was not authorized either. Elsdon looked at the door. It was black in the shadows, and no sound came through it.

  “Well . . .” He decided abruptly that what was needed here was not authority but supplication. Changing his voice to that which he had once used with his father, he said, “I really don’t know how to do this. What’s the proper procedure?”

  For a moment, Mr. Urman remained stiff at his post. Then a melting took place in his body, and his expression softened.

  “It’s not hard,” he said, in the sort of voice he might have used to another guard who had less training. “You just need to remain quiet when you enter. The prisoner won’t be able to see you, so you mustn’t cough or do anything else that would make him aware of your presence. Wait until the High Seeker has a moment to spare you, and then give him the message and wait to see whether he gives you a reply. I’ll be watching and will let you out then, without need for you to knock.”

  Elsdon nodded, and Mr. Urman turned, peered briefly through the pinprick of the watch-hole, and said softly, “It’s all right to enter now. Be sure not to make any noise.”

  He opened the door, and the sounds of torture emerged.

  They were faint, as far as matters in a dungeon were likely to go: the slight creaking of a machine as it moved, accompanied by gasps and groans. Nor was the scene in the room as bad as any of the scare-tales that Elsdon had heard about the Eternal Dungeon when he was a boy. As Mr. Urman closed the door noiselessly behind him, Elsdon took a swift look at the room and ascertained that little had changed since he had been there last.

  The most prominent figure in the room was Mr. Sobel, who stood like a captain at the helm, manning the great wheel that controlled the rack. His head was bowed to look downward at the rack. Elsdon could not see the man there: he was entirely hidden by Mr. Sobel’s body and the wheel. But he could see the black-hooded Seeker in the room; like Mr. Sobel, his head was bowed to look down, though his eyes were in view to Elsdon. They were cool, as they had been upon his first meeting with Elsdon.

  He was standing halfway down the room, leaning upon the wall in a relaxed manner as his hand lightly brushed the Swelling Globe. “You know that this is in your best interests, Mr. Parris,” he said. “Things would go considerably easier for you if you were to cooperate.”

  The hidden prisoner gave a muffled curse, followed by a sharp gasp. Elsdon flinched, but there was no change in the High Seeker’s expression as he said, “Mr. Parris, I don’t think you understand the dangerousness of your position. The scale on this rack runs from zero to ten – once the prisoner has reached eight on the scale, I can no longer guarantee that he will have future use of his body. Are you really sure that you wish me to order Mr. Sobel to take you to nine?” He leaned forward and added with intensity, “It need not be this way between us. Truth is always the best path in life.”

  “Truth!” The man sounded as though he spoke with a heavy weight on his chest. “Truth means nothing to you. You say—” He gave another gasp and concluded rapidly, “You say this is for me, but it’s for you. I can see that you’re enjoying this.”

  For a long moment, the High Seeker continued to look down upon the prisoner in a detached manner. He still had not looked up to where Elsdon stood by the door, nor even at the guard standing motionless at the head of the rack. Then a change came to his expression: the skin next to his eyes wrinkled.

  Elsdon felt the coldness of the room enter his depths.

  When the High Seeker finally spoke, the smile was in his voice as well. “You speak as though you were making a great revelation, Mr. Parris.” His voice was light with mockery. “Have you never heard the tales about me?”

  From the prisoner’s swift response, it was clear that he had. “Don’t – don’t you touch me!” he said in a strangled voice. “I’ll tell your Codifier!”

  “Mr. Sobel.” The High Seeker kept his gaze fixed upon the prisoner. “Mr. Parris wishes to speak with the Codifier. Will you make the arrangements, please?”

  “Yes, sir.” The guard’s voice was colorless.

  The High Seeker leaned forward yet further; his hand was now on the rack. The smile had not left his eyes. Through the renewed moans of the prisoner, he said softly, “You are welcome to discuss this matter with the Codifier, Mr. Parris, but do you truly believe that you will be telling him anything he doesn’t already know? I have worked in this dungeon for seventeen years; I’ve never made any secret of my predilections. The Eternal Dungeon finds it . . . useful to have someone of my sort breaking the prisoners.”

  The prisoner emitted a sound from the back of his throat that soared, like the whine of a cornered beast. The smile deepened in the High Seeker’s voice as he said, “I work here on condition that I keep the Code, Mr. Parris. You are in no danger from me.” Even as he spoke, his hand slid further forward, belying his words. “The issue you face is simply whether you will truthfully answer the question I have asked you – or whether you would prefer to increase my pleasure. I admit,” he said lightly, “that I have mixed emotions over what sort of response I wish you to give.”

  The prisoner made no reply, though the whine in his throat continued. Mr. Sobel was as immobile at his post as though he had turned into a corpse. The High Seeker leaned so far forward that he was now nearly spread upon the rack, and upon the man who lay there. He said, quite softly, “Where were you on the night of the murder?”

  “With my brother until—”

  “Take him up.” For the first time, the High Seeker flicked a glance at the guard.

  “No!” The prisoner’s voice transformed to a scream as the guard pushed the wheel, clicking forward to the next notch. The High Seeker had straightened to watch; the smile in his eyes had turned to joy. As the prisoner’s scream broke into a racking cough, the High Seeker said, in the voice of a man deeply satisfied, “Thank you, Mr. Parris. I appreciate your consideration of my welfare.”

  The prisoner’s coughs rose into another scream. The High Seeker took no notice, moving past the rack and past the guard, walking in the direction of the door. And it was then that Elsdon
, standing with sweat chilling his body, knew that the High Seeker had been aware of his presence all along.

  Elsdon remained as immobile as the guard, unable to move any muscle as the High Seeker came forward. He could not even lift his eyes above the High Seeker’s waist. He was seeing what the prisoner had seen: the evidence that Layle Smith’s words had not been an artfully crafted lie. Elsdon closed his eyes.

  The High Seeker stopped before him, and he felt the message being removed from his hand. When he opened his eyes a minute later, Elsdon saw that Layle Smith was turned toward the wall, using a pencil to scribble something upon the message. Then he refolded the paper and turned, handing it to Elsdon.

  There was no smile in his eyes now, only the same chill darkness that Elsdon had known when he was the High Seeker’s prisoner. For a moment, the High Seeker kept Elsdon’s gaze captive. Then he turned and walked back toward the rack, saying, “Now, Mr. Parris, will you begin to tell me the truth, or will you give me the opportunity to increase my pleasure yet further?”

  He reached the rack, and his hand went out toward the prisoner.

  Elsdon’s skin prickled as he felt a hand tug at his sleeve. He turned to see that Mr. Urman was holding the door open for him. Elsdon stumbled into the darkness of the corridor, and then, as the guard turned to close the door, he hurried down the corridor, in the direction of the breaking cells.

  His hand fumbled as he brought out the master key from his hidden pocket and used it to open the first door he reached. The cell was black; apparently, the cell being in disuse at the moment, the furnace had not been lit this far down in the dungeon. Leaving the door open behind him, he half-ran, half-stumbled his way to the corner of the cell. He was just in time to reach the chamber-pot there before he fell to his knees and began to vomit.

  Behind him, the abandoned door pivoted on its hinges and slammed shut, leaving him in darkness.

  o—o—o

  When the door opened again finally, he was awash with sweat and was shaking from sobs and muffled screams.

  He did not hear the new arrival until a hand touched him. He flinched and felt his body racked with trembling again. The hand touched the back of his head, the fingers gently curling into his hair. Then the blindfold fell off, and he could see his father.

  Auburn Taylor was standing beside the bed, holding his belt in his hand. “Why?” Elsdon tried to say. “Please tell me why!” But the gag was still within his mouth.

  “This is for your own good, son,” his father said softly. “You must believe me.” His face held the look it always did, of a man driven to a hard duty by necessity. He pulled down the covers, went to the bottom of the bed, and released Elsdon’s ankles from the bedpost. Then he carefully pushed Elsdon onto his stomach and pulled his trousers down.

  Elsdon’s body already ached from the hours of thrashing and tugging at his bonds; he thought nothing worse could hurt. But as always, he was wrong: as the belt hit his naked backside, the leather seemed to dig down to his bones, and he desperately burrowed his face into the mattress, knowing that his shrieks were so loud that they were penetrating the barrier of his gag. Sweet blood, no, he thought. Don’t let them hear. Don’t let the servants know of my disgrace . . .

  “Mr. Taylor?” The voice spoke from the doorway, and Elsdon’s scream ended in a choke. Sweat turn cold upon him as he tried to gain the courage to look back to see which servant had witnessed his ignominy.

  “Mr. Taylor?” The voice came again, and this time Elsdon realized that his father was not the one being addressed.

  He opened his eyes slowly. Mr. Urman stood in the corridor, his hand upon the latch as he held the cell door open a crack. “Are you all right, sir?” he asked.

  Elsdon scrambled to his knees. His body was slick with sweat. He moved to the door and then through the doorway in an automatic manner. Only once he was in the corridor did he look down the emptiness of the darkness ahead and realize that the young guard had abandoned his post for Elsdon’s sake.

  Quickly Elsdon moved back to stand beside the door to Rack Room A, trying to ignore the tugging at his heels to flee. “I—” He stopped, not knowing what to say.

  “It’s hard the first time.” All of Mr. Urman’s former disdain had left. “Or so I hear – I haven’t witnessed Mr. Smith close-hand at work yet. But Mr. Sobel says that being in the rack room is the worst part of his work.”

  He did not want to think about Mr. Sobel yet. “What do I do now?” he asked, expecting no answer.

  But Mr. Urman misunderstood him and said, “If there’s a reply, sir, you take it back to the Seeker who sent the message. Do you know who that is?”

  “Yes, I—” He looked down at the folded paper and remembered the guards’ penchant for carrying one another’s messages. He could not be certain that Garrett was the initial messenger. “No,” he told Mr. Urman. “I’m not sure.”

  Mr. Urman chewed on his lip a moment before saying, “Well, then, you’ll have to check the message to see. Open it up— No, don’t show it to me, sir. Just read the name there and tell me what it is.”

  He looked down at the page.

  My prisoner has broken the Code once more. Request use of the rack, in accordance with our conversation yesterday. —W. Chapman

  Permission granted, provided that you do not take him above level three. I’ll discuss the matter with you before your next shift. —L.S.

  He looked up to where Mr. Urman was watching him. The guard’s hand was resting upon his dagger, as though he were in the presence of danger. “It’s from Mr. Chapman,” Elsdon said.

  Mr. Urman nodded. “He’s in Breaking Cell 4. It’s near the entry hall—”

  “I remember where it is.”

  He saw Mr. Urman’s face change as the guard recalled how Elsdon had gained this knowledge. “Yes,” said Mr. Urman. “Well. You don’t have to go into the cell. Mr. Chapman’s guards are fully trained, so just hand the message to them.”

  The tapping of Elsdon’s bootsteps was hollow against the corridor walls as he made his way back. He felt like a snail pulled from its shell, shrivelling in the harsh exterior world. As he reached the door of the cell he remembered so well, his feet had begun to drag.

  He could hear the faint sound of Mr. Chapman’s voice from within the cell, but no one was guarding the door. He knew what that meant. He stood for a moment, indecisive, the letter crumpled within his tightening fist. Then he pulled from his shirt the master key.

  No one noticed him as he entered. Mr. Chapman’s eyes were intent upon the prisoner, the prisoner’s face was pressed against the wall, and Mr. Chapman’s senior-most guard, Mr. Boyd, was in the process of bringing his whip down upon the prisoner’s naked back.

  The prisoner gave a sharp cry and pressed himself harder against the wall, pulling himself toward the bound hands above his head, as though he might thereby escape the next blow. His head was turned toward Mr. Chapman, but his eyes were closed, and already tears were beginning to trail down his face. Upon his back lay a series of red, angry welts.

  In the next moment, Mr. Chapman saw him. The Seeker held up his hand to the guard, who was drawing back his arm in preparation for the next lash. Mr. Chapman murmured something to the prisoner and turned away, walking toward the cell door.

  He took Elsdon by the arm. His grip was so tight that, under ordinary circumstances, Elsdon would have screamed, but now he felt emptied of all energy and warmth; his body was so cold that he was beginning to shake. He let the other Seeker steer him out of the cell and into the dim quietness of the corridor.

  The corridor was cooler than the cell had been. He pressed his body against the chill plaster, sucking in great gulps of air, as the older Seeker watched him.

  When it became clear that he would not sink to the floor, Mr. Chapman said in a hard voice, “What is the meaning for your entrance, Mr. Taylor? You are not yet authorized to enter a breaking cell while it is in use.”

  Wordlessly, Elsdon held out the note. Mr. Chapman too
k the letter, glanced at the name written on its exterior, and narrowed his eyes. “Did Mr. Gerson give that to you?”

  Elsdon was concentrating all his efforts on combatting the waves of dizziness that shuddered through him, like wavering heat from a flame. He had barely enough thought left in him to nod. Mr. Chapman gazed at the note for a long moment before opening it. Then his body grew still.

  He looked up and said quietly, “You delivered this directly to the High Seeker?”

  Elsdon nodded again. He was wishing that the corridor would stay still rather than rock beneath his feet. He clutched at the wall harder, closing his eyes.

  “Mr. Boyd.” Mr. Chapman’s sharp voice caused Elsdon to jerk his eyelids open. He turned his head to see that Mr. Boyd was in the process of locking the cell door. The Seeker said to his guard, “Go to Mr. Bergsen and tell him that Mr. Taylor has immediate need of his services.”

  The guard, without waiting, plunged down the corridor in the direction of the rack rooms. Mr. Chapman took Elsdon lightly by the elbow. After glancing around for a moment, he led Elsdon to the cell opposite, opening it with his key.

  This cell, though empty, was furnace-lit; flames leapt behind the wall of glass blocks at the far end. Instinctively Elsdon, seeking warmth, went to that end. But it made no difference; his body was cold through and through, and he could not stop the shaking. He tried rubbing his hands together. As he did so, he felt a sharp pain upon his wrist. He looked down and saw the blue bruise there.

  “You’d best sit down,” Mr. Chapman advised.

  Elsdon had been trying to determine whether to fall to his knees and be sick. Mr. Chapman’s voice caused him to lift his head. He stared at the hooded Seeker blankly before saying, “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  For a moment Mr. Chapman was silent. Then, for the first time in Elsdon’s presence, he lifted the face-cloth of his hood. The face behind the mask was gentler than the voice, and he had lines of age criss-crossing his face. It was the face of a middle-aged laborer, careful in his duties, but worn down by his work. He let out his breath slowly as he said, “There is too much gossip in this dungeon. No doubt I and others here went to the other extreme.”

  Elsdon fumbled with his own hood, knowing that he should match the Seeker’s gracious gesture. He stopped suddenly and felt the chillness in his body once more. “Your prisoner,” he said. “You left your prisoner alone.”

  “We had only just begun the punishment. He will keep for a few minutes more.”

  “But he’s unguarded! If you leave him alone, the High Seeker could find him, and if he does—”

  His voice hit a choke and fell, stunned. Behind Mr. Chapman, the door to the cell had opened, and the High Seeker stood there.

  He looked as neat and unruffled as he had when he had left his bedroom earlier that night. His clothes were not mussed, and his voice was even as he said, “Mr. Chapman, your prisoner is untended.”

  The other Seeker pulled down the face-cloth of his hood swiftly and turned to face the High Seeker, saying, “I realize that, sir. I’m afraid that I’m short of a guard at the moment.” For the first time, bitterness appeared in his voice. Then he said in a more formal manner, “Mr. Taylor is ill. I have sent for the healer—”

  “So Mr. Boyd told me when I met him.” The coolness in Layle Smith’s voice was like a winter wind. “I will stay with Mr. Taylor until the healer arrives. Please return to your prisoner.”

  Mr. Chapman glanced at Elsdon, standing cold-skinned at the end of the cell; then the Seeker nodded and slipped past the High Seeker. Not until the door was closed again did Elsdon open his mouth to call him back. He was cut off by the High Seeker’s swift remark, “You need not speak, Mr. Taylor. The healer will be here soon.”

  The levelness of his voice brought a new emotion to Elsdon. The floor ceased to sway, and he felt the blood building up its beat within him. “You enjoyed it,” he said in an incredulous voice.

  The High Seeker made no reply. Elsdon repeated, “You enjoyed it! You enjoyed racking your prisoner!”

  For a moment more, the High Seeker was silent, as though Elsdon’s words had not touched him. Then he said softly, “We all enjoy our work in some fashion, or we would not choose to become Seekers.”

  The wild beating of Elsdon’s blood resolved itself into a hard war-drum. With a thick voice, Elsdon said, “Are you telling me that every Seeker goes cock-high when he racks a prisoner?”

  Another pause, and then: “No,” said the High Seeker in his chill darkness.

  The silence stretched between them. The High Seeker remained next to the door, blocking Elsdon’s exit. His pose was stiff and formal, and he had not raised his hood. After a while he said, still quiet, “I did advise you to consult my records—”

  “No! Don’t send me to records or to other people to give me answers – tell me yourself. Why were you suspended from your duties?”

  When the High Seeker spoke again, his voice was colder than Elsdon’s body had been. “I raped a bound prisoner.”

  The flames behind Elsdon leapt. A single drop of sweat chased its way down his spine, tickling him in a place between his shoulder-blades that was difficult to scratch. He did not move.

  The High Seeker said, in a voice so quiet that it barely reached Elsdon, “I will arrange for you to be transferred into Mr. Chapman’s care.”

  “You do that.” Elsdon’s voice shook. He walked forward, heedless now of the consequences, but the High Seeker made no move to stop him; he stepped away, allowing Elsdon to fling open the cell door.

  Elsdon was on the point of stepping through the doorway when he whirled around and said to the hooded man, “Tell me one thing more. When you kissed me a few hours ago, what were you dreaming of?”

  When he finally spoke, the High Seeker’s voice was frost upon the skin. “I was dreaming of the day we met. I was remembering you stripped half-naked, being beaten upon my orders.”

  It took Elsdon a moment to pull enough air into his lungs to speak. When he spoke, it was in a voice that was half a sob. “If you come near me again, I’ll kill you.”

  The High Seeker did not reply. Elsdon took hold of the cell door, and in a movement that sent reverberations down the corridor and caused the guards there to jerk round and stare, he slammed the cell door shut upon his captor.