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

by Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER THREE

  He arrived the next morning to find Birdesmond lying upon the floor, turned on her side toward the far end of the cell wall.

  For a moment, he thought the worst had happened, and he opened his mouth to shout for his guards to fetch the dungeon healer. Then Birdesmond rolled over onto her stomach and turned her head. She was smiling.

  “This is marvellous!” she said, struggling up onto her hands and knees. “Simply marvellous!”

  “What is?” asked Weldon, who was having to resist the impulse to rush forward and help her to her feet.

  “This wall,” she said, rising to her feet. The right side and front of her dress was now covered with grey dust, as was her hair. “Do you know, it took me two whole days to understand what you had done here? I honestly thought at first that it was a magic lantern display, used to decorate the room. Instead . . . What a sophisticated way to bring heat and light to a cell! To use glass blocks and place the fire beyond the cell – I never would have thought of it.”

  Weldon was silent, regarding her bedraggled appearance. If this event had occurred on their first meeting, he would have described her behavior as unfeminine, the sort of behavior that one could expect from a woman whose ambition was to be a Seeker. But now . . . She was beginning to brush the dust off her dress in small, ladylike gestures.

  He had spent the night trying to remember all the reasons why he and other men he knew had laughed at the idea that women should become Seekers. Women were too moody – they would cry or storm the first time a prisoner opposed them. Women were too tender – they would never have the strength of mind to order a prisoner to be punished. Women were too frail – the very sight of them would cause a prisoner to become defiant and dangerous.

  Pairing all those reasons with the women he had known in his life, Weldon began to wonder why he had ever believed such tales. They did not match many of the women he had known over the years, and they most certainly did not match this lady.

  He had fallen asleep not long after that, and had spent the night dreaming of darkness and a missing door. When he awoke exhausted the next morning, his only thought had been the clear understanding that, in the end, there remained one immutable reason to reject an applicant for the position of Seeker: the applicant must be rejected if he did not possess the quality that was absolutely necessary in a Seeker. And this applicant did not. That was reason enough to send her away, without worrying about whether her gender made her unsuitable for the work.

  He wondered how he would break the news to her. This was going to be less easy than he had thought.

  He stepped forward just as Birdesmond pulled from her seemingly bottomless pocket a small, jeweled comb. Weldon eyed it suspiciously, but its tines did not look sharp enough to use as a weapon, either against him or against herself. She paused in the midst of putting the comb to her hair, looking at the note-card Weldon proffered. She took the note from him, and Weldon hastily withdrew his hand, lest he accidentally touch her.

  “Do you see what that is?” he asked, withdrawing several paces.

  She held the note up so that the light streaming into the cell from the furnace beyond fell square upon the note. “It appears to be a letter from your Codifier, granting you permission to sit in the presence of your prisoner.”

  “Indeed. Now will you please sit down?”

  As he spoke, he seated himself at the end of the man-length bench, as close to the door end of the cell as he could manage. Birdesmond, laughing, sat down at the other end. She raised the comb to her hair again and began combing out the dust in long, slow strokes.

  Watching her, Weldon was grateful again, as he had been many times over the years, that he was a man of enough self-control that he could be immune to such sights when searching female prisoners. Given the manner in which the High Seeker had been tormented many times over the years, by the presence of both male and female prisoners, Weldon had no desire to fulfill any of the sickly ballads about Seekers acquiring passion for their prisoners.

  She had finished combing her hair and was now brushing off her skirt again. Watching her, Weldon asked abruptly, “What does your family think of your ambitions?”

  She looked up. A dimple had appeared in her cheek. “Oh,” she said, “I think the closest my parents ever came to reconciling themselves to my dreams is when my mother suggested that, if I tended an innocent high-born prisoner, we might fall in love with one another and marry.”

  Weldon gave a chuckle and then said, “They are concerned for your safety, no doubt. Prison work can be exceedingly dangerous.”

  Birdesmond nodded, accepting this statement. “As can nursing. Many of the nurses, you know, work near the battlefields and undergo danger alongside the soldiers. I used to envy them when I heard tales of them as a child.”

  Weldon was tempted then to search her to see how deep this surface courage extended. But Layle had suggested letting Birdesmond take control of the conversation, and Layle was rarely wrong in his instincts. So Weldon contented himself with asking, “And your fiancé? How does he feel about you working in prisons?”

  “Ah.” Birdesmond’s gaze wandered away as she glanced back at the far end of the cell, with its flames leaping up from the pit below ground level. “Well, I was fortunate to find him. He has encouraged me to visit Parkside Prison – he says that he can think of no better way for a lady to spend her days than by acting in charity toward less fortunate women and children.”

  “And your ambition to be a Seeker? Does he approve of that as well?”

  Birdesmond looked back; her smile was strained. “We have quarrelled about that, I admit.”

  Her voice was strained too. Weldon suggested gently, “Perhaps he too is concerned about the danger to you. Or perhaps he is simply upset because he knows that you will not be able to marry him if you become a Seeker.”

  “Perhaps, but that is not the reason he has given for his opposition. He says that no lady would want to work amongst vile criminals – unless, that is, she wished to do so out of immoral desires.”

  Weldon had to bite back the cry of outrage that rose to his lips. After a minute he said, “Men often speak in anger when they feel threatened. I trust that your fiancé will come to see that your ambition, whether wise or unwise, arises out of pure motives.”

  “Oh, we have already come to an understanding,” she said lightly. “And what of you, Mr. Chapman? Is your family glad that you became a Seeker?”

  He was silent a moment. This was not a subject he often spoke of, even to his friends. Finally he said quietly, “My parents are dead. They died in the Commoners’ Bread Riot of 339.”

  Birdesmond was silent a long while before saying softly, “I am sorry. . . . And brothers and sisters? Do you have any?”

  He shook himself away from the darkness of his memories. “Two sisters who were married before I was born. I never knew them well. I had five older brothers, but . . . Well, they all died as babies. It was due to malnutrition, I think – our family was always on the edge of starvation. I nearly died as well, and my parents valued me all the more for being the only surviving son.”

  “You were close to them, then?”

  Weldon turned his head toward Birdesmond. She was sitting quietly now, her gaze steady upon him; the comb lay abandoned upon her lap. Weldon found himself wondering how she had learned to question prisoners first about their family background. This method of searching was not mentioned in the Code of Seeking, either in the public editions or the private one. It was simply a tip that had been passed from generation to generation of the torturers working in the Eternal Dungeon. It was the best way to proceed with cooperative prisoners: to learn as much as you could about their family background before launching upon a more narrow search of whether they had committed a crime. Small clues learned while talking about a prisoner’s early years could be put to use once the serious searching began.

  Weldon was tempted to push her question aside; of all the subjects he would have chosen to talk
about, his parents were at the bottom of the list. They were too painful a subject. But, he thought, looking at Birdesmond’s steady gaze, perhaps that was why she had chosen to ask him about them. A Seeker, after all, must sometimes apply pain in order to begin a prisoner’s breaking. If she had read the Code of Seeking, she knew that.

  Weldon began to wish that Layle had given him different advice on how to handle Birdesmond. But Weldon remembered his oath. No one said that the life of a Seeker was supposed to be easy and pain-free. Taking in a deep breath, he said, “Even after all these years, I have never met anyone I admire as much as my parents. They lived amidst immorality and crime, yet they rose above it. They taught me that living a life that will lead to a quick rebirth is not a matter of riches or poverty, but a matter of a person’s strength of will. And above all, they taught me about love. They were so much in love with one another – it flowed out of them. They taught me that love is the highest gift a person can give, and that any person who cannot love cannot truly be called human. . . . Theirs was the highest love, the love of self-sacrifice. Their passion for one another— Well, it was the stuff of ballads. They would have died for each other—”

  He stopped abruptly. Birdesmond asked softly, “Is that how they died?”

  It was several moments before he was able to speak again. Then he said in a voice made gruff by pain, “They died for me.”

  He turned his gaze to the ground. This would not have been wise if he were with a male prisoner, but with a guard at the watch-hole, he thought he could take the chance. It took him another moment to clear his throat so that he could speak again. “I had the early shift at the manufactory where my father and I worked, and I had just set out for work when the protestors came marching down our street, crying out against the rise in bread prices. They were headed for the palace, where they planned to petition the Queen. It was meant to be a peaceful protest; some of the men had brought their wives and children with them. But my parents were worried about me getting caught up in an unlawful protest.

  “I had not noticed the protestors; my back was to them, and though their noise was loud, I was absorbed in thoughts of a recently failed courtship. My parents rushed onto the street to alert me to what was happening, and then— Well, then the horsemen arrived.”

  Birdesmond said nothing. She would have been in school when it happened, Weldon thought, or more likely at home, being privately tutored. He wondered what high-born children were taught about the riot.

  He continued, “I turned round and saw my parents and the protestors at the same moment that the horsemen appeared at the end of the street, behind the protestors. A woman screamed, and I heard a man shout, ‘They’ll kill us all!’ I could not believe it at first. I was sure that the soldiers would simply order the protestors to disperse. But the horsemen did not hesitate: they charged right into the crowd, their sabers unsheathed.

  “Some of the male protestors had pistols hidden in their clothing; that is when the shooting began. After the horsemen charged, not before. I remember little of what happened next. I must have picked up a saber that was dropped by a dead soldier; I remember swinging it toward a horseman in an attempt to keep him from slashing down at my mother. There was blood on the saber afterwards. The horse reared, and its hoof struck my mother in the forehead. . . . My father was separated from us in the panic. I learned later that one of the soldiers killed him.”

  Still Birdesmond did not speak. Faintly, the fire in the furnace roared behind her. From behind Weldon, the guard at the watch-hole coughed softly. Weldon hoped that his own voice was low enough that the guard could not hear what he was saying. He did not wish this tale circulated as gossip in the dungeon.

  “A third of the protestors died – men, women, and children. The rest escaped or were arrested. Six of the protestors were sent to the Eternal Dungeon, to serve as an example through their executions.”

  “And you were one of them.” Birdesmond’s voice remained soft.

  Weldon flicked a glance at her, and then turned his gaze back to the ground. “I was the first to be placed on trial. The Queen’s courtiers were exultant. They had invited all of the pressmen in the city to cover the trial – foreign reporters as well as Yclau ones – so that everyone could witness my humiliation. And then, to their consternation, the Seeker in charge of me gave witness that he believed I was telling the truth when I said that we had been attacked without provocation. To make matters worse, the Seeker brought forward the testimonies of the other five prisoners who had been searched in the Eternal Dungeon. All of the testimonies, made independently, corroborated one another. The magistrate had no choice but to rule that I had acted in self-defense and to order my release. And the pressmen – even many of the Yclau reporters – went home and wrote gleeful reports of how the Queen’s courtiers had been humiliated by the Eternal Dungeon. . . . The courtiers were livid. There was talk at the time that my Seeker would be placed on trial for his life, for treachery to the Queen.”

  “And was he?”

  “No,” said Weldon, a smile touching his lips. “A few years later, the Queen made him High Seeker.”

  He looked up in time to see that Birdesmond was smiling too. “Ah,” she said. “I have heard many tales about Layle Smith.”

  “Ill ones, no doubt.”

  “And good ones, too. It intrigued me, how he seems to be equally gifted at acquiring tales that portray him as a dark villain and tales that portray him as Yclau’s savior. I should like to meet him someday.”

  Weldon was glad that his hood hid his face; his smile had grown too broad. “I am afraid he is rather busy at the moment.”

  Birdesmond did not pursue the matter. “And so that was when you came to work in the Eternal Dungeon?”

  “In the outer dungeon, as a furnace-stoker. My Seeker’s behavior had stunned me. I thought to myself that, if his behavior was typical of the other men and women working in the Eternal Dungeon, then this was a place where my parents would have wanted me to work. . . . The dungeon did not turn out to be so ideal a workplace as I had imagined, but it was close enough to my dreams that I was satisfied.”

  “And you stayed here after that?”

  “During my years in the outer dungeon I was permitted to visit the lighted world, but I rarely did so. From the time I arrived here, this seemed to be the right place for me.”

  “Mm.” Birdesmond’s eyes wandered away, staring aimlessly at the glass-blocked wall. “And how old were you?”

  “Twenty-nine. I took my oath as Seeker five years later.”

  “That is a young age at which to decide that you want to be imprisoned for the rest of your life.”

  “Not so young as that; most Seekers take their vows when they are in their early twenties. Besides, there is comfort in knowing that all Seekers have made the same sacrifice – that none of you are worse off than the others.”

  Birdesmond considered this remark at length before saying, “And you had no ties outside the dungeon, other than the two sisters you did not know well?”

  “I had a couple of friends from the manufactory – Seamus and Jock. I was sorry to have to break ties with them, but I made other friends here.”

  “Among the men and women in the outer dungeon?”

  “Among the men,” he clarified. “I am afraid those friendships turned out not to be permanent. All of my lasting relationships have been with Seekers.”

  Birdesmond’s gaze wandered, dancing up and down the wall like the flames behind it, until it came to rest on an iron ring set high upon the wall. After a minute, Weldon said, “Mistress Birdesmond?”

  “Mr. Chapman.” Birdesmond’s voice was far away. “You have given me a great deal to think about. I was wondering . . . I know this must be an unusual request, but I was wondering whether we might end our conversation today, so that I could have time to think.”

  Weldon frowned. “I fear that would not be possible. You see, we are overcrowded with prisoners at the moment, and the High Seeker has as
ked that we conclude our searchings quickly—”

  “Yes, I am sure.” Birdesmond’s voice remained distracted. “But you know, I am still new to all this, and I really think it would be best if I give careful thought to what I am to do next. I would not want to make any terrible mistakes that I would regret afterwards.”

  Weldon opened his mouth, and then closed it. Birdesmond was perfectly right. If he was really going to permit her to search him, then he had to do so properly. That meant she, not he, was the one who must decide the length of the sessions. And after all, he could be sure that she was not lengthening their time together out of sheer perverseness. She wanted to see the High Seeker; she would spend as little time with Weldon as was needed to obtain her true goal.

  “Well,” he said, rising from his seat, “it is true that I have a great deal of documentwork awaiting me. Perhaps this is the day when I will catch up on my work.”

  “Or perhaps you may rest,” she suggested, rising with her jeweled comb in hand. “You look rather tired, Mr. Chapman. I hope your sleep is untroubled.”

  “Perfectly,” he said tersely. “I will see you tomorrow, Mistress Birdesmond.”

  She swept him a curtsey; he bowed. Then he walked to the cell door, trying to push back the uneasy feeling that she knew about his dreams.

  o—o—o

  The common room was different in the dark. Lamps glittered like stars along the walls, while the back portion of the room, usually sunlit during the day, was black but for an occasional candle. Only murmurs could be heard.

  Most of the day shift had gone to bed already. The only people still up were a few retired Seekers and a handful of junior Seekers and guards who were still young enough to think they could keep late hours without being weary the next day. Weldon look round the room till he saw a group of three Seekers sitting together. He walked over.

  The eldest man at the table was retired; though he still wore his hood, the face-cloth was flung up, as it had not been in public during his working days. He frowned at the chessboard before him. Glancing at the new arrival, he said, “You’re up late, Weldon.”

  “A dream woke me.” Weldon looked down at the positions of the chess pieces, willing the elderly man to make the move. Retirement was not a luxury open to all Seekers: only Seekers who were disabled by ill health were permitted it. This particular Seeker – who happened to be the man who had trained Weldon – had acquired a crippling arthritis, due to his long years in the dungeon’s damp cave. He had rejected the dungeon healer’s recommendation that he be released to the lighted world, saying that he wished to fulfill his oath.

  Softly, so as not to disturb the Seeker’s train of thought, Weldon asked, “Where’s the High Seeker?”

  “Elsdon Taylor is on duty – where do you think the High Seeker is? —Check to your King; I’ll have him in four moves.” With effort, the elderly Seeker picked up his black Queen with his fist and moved her forward one square, in the direction of the white Vovimian King.

  His fellow player swore. He was middle-aged, but he too had the face-cloth of his hood pulled up. He said, in a musing manner, “Layle Smith makes the rest of us look like free men by comparison.”

  The third man at the table, a junior Seeker scribbling documentwork, said, “I wish I could go mad and take a lengthy holiday from my work.”

  The silence at the table alerted him to trouble. He looked up to see three Seekers glaring at him. “What?” he said weakly. “For love of the Code, I was only making mock!”

  “Make mock about a less serious matter,” the elderly Seeker growled. “Weldon, you’re likely to find the High Seeker awake. I’ve heard that he spends the night shift doing documentwork.”

  Weldon shook his head. “I won’t disturb him. Good night, all.”

  The elderly Seeker opened his mouth to give his farewell just as the middle-aged Seeker, with a cry of triumph, picked up one of his guards and moved it forward to pick off a black Seeker. “Check! I have your Queen in two moves.” He scooted his chair back, revealing that one of his legs was cut off at the knee. He had survived his prisoner’s attack, but gangrene had set in afterwards.

  The elderly Seeker groaned. The junior Seeker, leaning forward, said, “No, wait! He’ll have to sacrifice his High Master to do that, so all that you need do is bring forward your High Seeker, and then . . .”

  The conversation faded as Weldon moved into the hallway, little more than a dark tunnel, since the lamplighters had not yet renewed this portion of the dungeon. He wondered to himself, as he walked back to his cell, why it was that he had wished to speak to the High Seeker. He was too old to seek out the comfort of another person just because he was plagued by nightmares.