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

by Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER FOUR

  “Now, don’t you worry, my dear,” said his master as they made their way carefully down the ice-stairs leading to the cells. “I know that your tastes have altered somewhat since you were my apprentice. No one here will expect you to place your prisoner in the sort of agony he would have endured in our old workplace – it wouldn’t be permitted in any case. Just a little light pain over an eternal period, enough to provide justice for the crimes the prisoner committed.”

  “Master,” Layle said in a tight voice, “this is madness. I can’t torture my own love-mate.”

  Master Aeden looked upon him with bemusement as he trotted steadily down the slick steps. “I was under the impression that you’d done so already.”

  “Only when he came as a prisoner to the Eternal Dungeon. He’d committed a crime and had to be brought to the point of breaking so that he could start his new life. I wouldn’t even have used torture to help with the breaking if I’d realized his background with his father. This time . . . Elsdon has done nothing to warrant being brought to this place, and none of the prisoners here, least of all Elsdon, should be placed in eternal punishment.”

  Master Aeden gave a soft laugh. “Religious disputes bore me, I’m afraid. —The High Seeker of the Eternal Dungeon is here to see his new prisoner.” These words were spoken to a group of guards armed with naked swords, who were guarding the narrow archway at the bottom of the steps.

  The evident leader of the guards – a tough-looking youth with scars across his face and bare arms – nodded and said something in the old tongue of Vovim to the other guards. They immediately obeyed him, drawing back to allow the torturers through. Eyeing the guards as he walked past, Layle decided that they had heard some of the many scare-tales that circulated about him. Hardened a lot though the guards were, they kept well back and viewed him with cautious gazes.

  “Master,” Layle said as soon as he was out of the hearing of the guards, “how could Elsdon have come here anyway? He’s full-blooded Yclau.”

  His master shrugged. “His tie to you brought him here? I don’t know, my dear; all I know is that he turned up with a new shipment of prisoners around the time we heard that you’d be coming here. As soon as I learned he was here, I made sure you were assigned to him. —Here we are, Cell 43,516. Do you have the key?”

  Layle took the key from his pocket and handed it to his master in an automatic manner. They were in a dim corridor now, much like the one he had travelled through upon his arrival at hell, except that this one’s ceiling consisted of the translucent ice he had seen from the balcony. He caught hold of Master Aeden’s hand as his master was leaning toward the door. “I cannot do this,” Layle said firmly. “I cannot bring unnecessary pain to Elsdon.”

  Master Aeden sighed as he straightened up. “Then you wish me to have another prisoner assigned to you? That will mean another torturer for Elsdon, you know.”

  Somewhere further down the corridor, water dripped upon the ice floor, creating a bell-like tone that broke the faint groans in the cells nearby. Frost crackled under the feet of the guards shifting in their place at the entrance to the ice-cells.

  Layle said, “Give me the key.”

  Master Aeden offered one of his sad smiles as he handed Layle the key with one hand, while patting him on the shoulder with the other. “You’ll have to do without a guard, I’m afraid – you’re not senior enough to qualify for one. However, you may ask the guards at the entrance here for any equipment you need.” He took a step back.

  “You’re headed to sleep?” Layle asked with his inherent courtesy, which had never disappeared, even during the apprentice years when he routinely strangled his prisoners.

  “Oh, sleep isn’t permitted here. Ordinarily, I’d go over to the common cavern to chat with the other torturers about how their work is going, but . . . Well, I gather that everyone who’s not on duty is on the balcony today. I think I’ll join them. I’m interested in seeing your techniques.” He gave a broader smile and left Layle in the frigid corridor, with dim light streaming down through the ice above.

  Layle looked up. He was so close to the balcony that he could see clearly the torturers standing above. All of them had their heads turned toward him. He suddenly felt himself seized by a sensation he had not felt since his boyhood.

  “Play-acting fright,” he muttered. “That’s the last thing I need.” He leaned forward and placed the key in the lock.

  The door opened easily, despite the frost crusted upon its hinges. He entered the cell quietly, shutting the door behind him. Elsdon was still huddled in the corner of the cell, his body pressed against the ice that varnished the rock walls. Layle had difficulty seeing him, for though light made its way through the icy ceiling, the rocks here were so heavily laden with ice that the phosphorescence from them was blocked.

  Elsdon’s sobs stopped abruptly; he stiffened, raising his head. For a moment he simply stared toward the doorway. Then he stood up slowly and waited, his back hard against the icy wall, his face set in expectation of pain.

  Layle felt his own body respond in kind, as though he had been abruptly pushed up five levels on the rack. “Elsdon,” he whispered.

  “Layle!” The junior Seeker’s face transformed immediately from fear to joy. He flung himself across the small space of the cell, into Layle’s arms. “Oh, you’re here, you’re here . . .”

  He was sobbing again, his face pressed against Layle’s shoulder. Layle put his arms lightly around his love-mate. “Shh. It’s all right, Elsdon, there’s nothing to be afraid of. I won’t hurt you.”

  Elsdon gulped in air and sobs, saying, “Layle, I thought you weren’t coming! I had to wait so long; I was sure I’d lost you forever—”

  “I’m sorry I made you wait,” he said softly, feeling the pain in his body heal with every word Elsdon spoke. He pulled back from Elsdon and wiped dry with his thumb his fellow Seeker’s cheeks. “Elsdon, what are you doing in this place? How could you end up at hell?”

  Elsdon stared at him blankly. He was beginning to emerge from youth into full manhood, the delicate lines of his younger years transforming into something no less beautiful, but less soft. At the moment, though, he looked very young, his eyes wide with lack of understanding.

  “Elsdon.” Layle took firm hold of his shoulders. “They did tell you where we are, didn’t they?”

  Elsdon took several gulps of air, as though finding it hard to breathe, and stared down toward his toes. “Yes,” he said in a low voice. “That is, I wasn’t sure— I’m finding it hard to imagine—”

  “I know,” Layle said quietly. “It was a shock for me as well. Remember that etching I once told you about, of the ice-cells of hell as imagined by one of the old artists? To find myself inside one of those cells . . .”

  Elsdon peered cautiously up, saying in the same hesitant voice as before, “If . . . if you could tell me what this place looks like . . .”

  Layle felt himself go rigid. “You don’t know? Elsdon . . .” His fingers went up toward the gaze staring blankly at him, and he whispered, “Elsdon, have they blinded you?”

  Elsdon stared at Layle a moment more; then, abruptly, he began to laugh in a hysterical manner. Layle cradled the other Seeker into his arms again, struggling to hold back his own tears now. “Shh, be still, my dear. It’s all right. Whatever pain they’ve put you through, it’s over now.”

  He could feel Elsdon trembling in his effort to control himself. “No . . . No, Layle, I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to . . . Oh, bloody blades, do you have a handkerchief?”

  Layle quickly fished the cloth out of his pocket, grateful that he had been sent to this place wearing his old uniform. A handkerchief was part of the standard uniform for a Seeker, for sooner or later, most prisoners in the Eternal Dungeon reached the point of crying.

  Elsdon wiped his eyes and nose, his hysteria lessening as he did so. “I don’t know why I did that,” he said finally, looking up. “It was stupid of me; I thought I was better prepared.
. . . Layle, I swear, they haven’t hurt me in the least. They wouldn’t dare – I told them I was your love-mate, and they’ve all heard of you.”

  “But you can’t see the cell?”

  “Well, it’s dark in here,” Elsdon said in a matter-of-fact manner. “My night-vision has never been as good as yours.”

  Layle felt his breath travel in swiftly. “So when I walked in here, you didn’t realize it was me? It wasn’t me you were afraid of?”

  Elsdon stared at him once more. “Afraid of you? Layle, have you gone mad again? How could I be afraid of you?”

  Layle closed his eyes and bowed his head, feeling, as he had so many times before, the heavy burden of Elsdon’s perfect trust in him. In the darkness beyond his vision, Elsdon was saying, “No, I didn’t know it was you. I thought it was— Layle!”

  Elsdon’s sudden, hard grip caused Layle to open his eyes. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Layle, we have to leave here! They told me that they would be sending a torturer here – we must find a way to escape before the torturer arrives and begins punishing us!”

  Layle shivered, his first reminder of the frosty chill of this cell. He could not speak for a moment. Elsdon, who could read him too well, put his hand up to Layle’s cheek and said quietly, “What is it, love? Do you know something?”

  “Elsdon—” His voice broke, and he had to start again. “Elsdon, I was brought to this place for a consultation.”

  For a moment more, Elsdon’s hand touched his cheek. Then the hand dropped, and his love-mate’s gaze dropped as well. “I see,” said Elsdon in a level voice.

  “Elsdon, I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Elsdon’s hands reached forward and grasped Layle’s; he raised his eyes. He no longer seemed young. His expression was that of a Seeker, preparing himself calmly for a difficult searching. “I’m glad, Layle. If it has to be someone, I want it to be you. At least I can be happy that you’ll receive pleasure from this.”

  Layle felt his hands tighten upon Elsdon’s hands, and he quickly released them. His love-mate was doing an admirable job of refraining from hysterics; he must try to match Elsdon in self-control. “My dear, no,” he said quietly. “That’s not why I’m here. I would never cause you unnecessary pain—”

  “But it’s necessary in this case,” Elsdon replied, still calm. “If you don’t torture me, someone else will. Layle, it will be much easier for me if you’re the one to do it.”

  Layle was silent. The groans in the other cell had faded from his consciousness. All he could hear was the slow drip of water in this cell, like a water-clock. Finally he said, “Come sit down, my dear, and tell me what’s been happening to you.”

  o—o—o

  Elsdon’s tale was not long. He had been questioned upon his arrival, not by the record-keeper, but by a group of torturers trying to determine which of them should be assigned him. When he told his name, one of the torturers laughed and said, “You have the same name as the love-mate of the High Seeker of the Eternal Dungeon.”

  “I am the High Seeker’s love-mate,” said Elsdon, with such firmness that the torturer’s laughter stopped abruptly. His questioner looked round at the others.

  “I’m not touching him,” said one of the torturers.

  “Nor I,” said another. “Layle Smith took revenge on the last man who tortured his love-mate.”

  “Put him in the holding cell,” suggested a third.

  Elsdon, taking one look at conditions in the holding cell, did not hesitate to invoke Layle’s name as protection. He was not harmed by the other prisoners, though he quickly learned that the Yclau were much hated in this place.

  “You Yclau have a secret,” said a sneering, whining man who was, as it turned out, destined to remain a prisoner rather than become a torturer.

  “What do you mean?” asked Elsdon.

  “You have a secret for keeping out of this place. The Yclau are never sent here – never. You’ve found a way of keeping the guilty from being punished eternally.”

  “Of course we have,” said Elsdon. “Everyone is reborn, both the guilty and the innocent.”

  “Reborn?” cried a woman nearby, who had been trying to decide whether to bash her young daughter’s head into the wall in order to impress the torturers. “I’ve never heard of that.”

  Elsdon soon had a crowd of prisoners around him, listening open-mouthed to his tale of Yclau beliefs about afterdeath. Even some of the guards wandered up to listen.

  “So that’s where the innocent go,” said one of the prisoners. “I always wondered.”

  “But you say that the Yclau guilty are reborn as well,” said another prisoner.

  Elsdon nodded. “Eventually. If someone who has done evil has not yet regretted his misdeeds at the time of his death, he is held in death for a while – I suppose in a holding cell like this. Eventually, though, he breaks, and once he has broken, he’s reborn into a better life. The Seekers try to assist the prisoners who are likely to be executed for their crimes by helping them to break before their death, so that there won’t be any delay before the prisoners’ rebirth.”

  “But that never happens here!” said a young boy who had been pummelling a weaker boy a moment before.

  “Of course not,” said an old woman. “It’s obvious why it doesn’t, isn’t it?” She turned to glare at one of the torturers who had entered the cell to remove some of the prisoners. The other prisoners and guards gave each other knowing looks but said nothing.

  Having learned where he was, Elsdon asked one of the guards whether Layle was here as well. He could think of no explanation for his presence at this Vovimian hell except that he and Layle had died at the same moment – perhaps from an underground cave-in occurring in the Eternal Dungeon – and that his love for Layle had kept him tied to the High Seeker, even in afterdeath. If Layle was anywhere in this vast holding cell, Elsdon must find his love-mate.

  The answer came back eventually that Layle was not here but that he was on his way. Soon afterwards, Elsdon was taken from the holding cell and brought to one of the ice-cells. Here, he was told, he must await his torturer.

  o—o—o

  “A dreaming? That’s what you think this is?”

  They were sitting huddled in the corner now, Elsdon resting within the warmth of Layle’s arms as Layle absentmindedly dropped kisses onto the back of Elsdon’s neck. Layle lifted his head to say, “I can’t be sure. But it would explain why you came with me. You and I had been making efforts to stay connected to each other when I entered into my dreamings.”

  “Only this dreaming is real,” Elsdon said quietly. He was as calm as Layle had ever seen him: his breath steady, his body relaxed. Layle was quite sure this was not because Elsdon had forgotten their earlier conversation.

  “I can’t be sure of that either,” Layle said. “But this is unlike any dreaming I’ve had before; never before have you spoken to me in the dreamings as you really are. In all my previous dreamings, you were a mixture of reality and my memory of other people and a goodly dose of my own imaginings.”

  “Oh, I’m real,” said Elsdon, with a chuckle. “At least, this cramp in my foot is real. Layle, could we shift a bit?”

  They did so as Layle thought to himself that the soft ping of the water dripping in the cell sounded very real too. It was an irritant to him, reminding him of passing time. The observers on the balcony must be growing impatient; sooner or later, word would be sent to the High Master that the new torturer was neglecting his duty.

  “I hope this is real,” said Elsdon. “Because if it isn’t, quite honestly I don’t see how we’re going to escape.”

  “I know,” Layle said softly. “Last time, the only way I was able to escape when my dreamings trapped me was with your help. This time . . .”

  “This time we’ll assume this is really hell and that we can find a way out of here. So what do we do to escape?”

  Layle felt himself tense. Elsdon immediately twisted in his arms, looking b
ack as though he could see Layle. “What is it? Do you have a plan already?”

  “I had half a plan when I arrived here,” Layle said slowly, “and I think you’ve given me the second half. Elsdon, you’re a Seeker. You must have guessed by now why no one is reborn here.”

  “Of course.” Elsdon’s voice was matter-of-fact. “The level of torture is too low. The prisoners are never permitted to reach a high enough level of pain to begin breaking beyond the hard wall of their ignorance, so that their minds are open to new ideas and they can come to accept their guilt and repent of their misdeeds.”

  “Torture isn’t the only way to bring the breaking,” Layle said. “Often it’s not even the best way; conversation with one’s Seeker is far better. But here . . . If any of the prisoners here have a chance of breaking, it’s through pain so great that they begin to question their most fundamental beliefs.”

  “But they’re never permitted to break.”

  “The rule here,” Layle said carefully, “is that a torturer must not break a prisoner, either through physical pain or through mental pain.”

  Elsdon waited. Then, when Layle said no more, he burst out, “Sweet blood, Layle! Don’t they realize what the third possibility is for breaking?”

  “Apparently not,” Layle replied. “The High Master certainly doesn’t know – he wouldn’t have left that possibility open if he’d been able to see it.” He hesitated, and then decided to word his next sentence carefully. If Elsdon knew that his old torturer was in this dungeon, it might frighten him needlessly. “I’ve spoken privately with a torturer here – one of the better ones, a man of conscience. He was able to understand what the Seekers try to do. But he’s skeptical as to whether such a transformation can take place.”

  “I can’t believe that such a transformation has never taken place in Vovim. Your old master, for example – he’s someone I could imagine creating the sort of conditions that would allow a prisoner to break himself.”

  Elsdon’s body was relaxed as he spoke. Layle reflected to himself, not for the first time, that Elsdon’s strength went far beyond what anyone might imagine. He kissed Elsdon’s hair – the other Seeker had been stripped of his hood also – before saying, “Oh, he can do it. He did it with me. He allowed me the opportunity to turn myself from an abusive torturer who murdered his victims into an abusive torturer who executed his victims upon the King’s orders. It was a small change, but it helped ready me for my greater transformation into a Seeker. Vovimian torturers don’t lack ability, Elsdon – they simply lack vision.”

  “But we know better,” Elsdon said with the smallest hint of smugness.

  Layle smiled at this proof that his love-mate could still speak with youthful imperfection. “We do – and that’s our advantage here. My dear, the conditions of my work require that I remain here until I am finished with my prisoner.”

  The tension came finally, instantly; Layle had expected that. Elsdon was too quick-witted not to understand what he was suggesting. Layle waited, and after a long while, Elsdon said breathlessly, “I wish I was back home, where the worst I had to fear was that I’d lose my argument with you over whether you should help me with my new prisoner.”

  Layle hesitated a moment before deciding to give Elsdon the time he needed to consider whether to consent. “Elsdon, you’re a Seeker. You’re qualified to break prisoners on your own.”

  “Not this one. I told you, Layle – his medical records show that he’s delusional. Not delusional enough to be placed in a home for mental healing, but criminal delusional. He’s convinced that his strange worldview is the only way of seeing things.”

  “And so,” Layle said calmly, “you want a delusional Seeker to search him.”

  “You understand what it’s like to live in a world of dreamings, Layle. You understand it better than any other Seeker. You could help my prisoner in a way that no other Seeker could.”

  “I could help him, or I could destroy him.” Layle sighed as he held Elsdon closer. “My dear, you know I can’t come near prisoners yet. Not as long as my dark desire remains unfed. Not as long as it remains unchained.”

  Elsdon sighed in turn, shifting in Layle’s arms for a more comfortable position. “Love, you always talk about your desire as though it were your prisoner, or you were its prisoner. Yet if it’s your prisoner, you treat it with a hatred you’ve never shown toward any prisoner in the Eternal Dungeon. And if you’re its prisoner . . . You know what possibilities that offers you.”

  Layle nuzzled at Elsdon’s hair for a minute before saying quietly, “That’s all far away, my dear. Here we face the same question: You know what possibilities are offered to you.”

  “Yes.” He heard Elsdon swallow. “Of course I’ll do it, Layle. It’s the only way in which to help you escape.”

  “To help you escape. I wouldn’t leave you here in the dungeon. I’ve been promised my release if I finish with you – a promise the High Master has no intention of fulfilling, since he believes that the rules here will keep me from breaking you. But if you break yourself, under my guidance, then I will remind him of his promise. As for you . . . I will remind him that you are reborn. The reborn have no place at hell.”

  Elsdon gave a shaky laugh. “Let’s just hope that his vision extends that far. Layle . . . I’ve been reborn once already, when I first came to the Eternal Dungeon. Can I be reborn a second time? And can I break in a dramatic enough fashion to convince the High Master to let us go?”

  “I believe I know a way,” Layle murmured. “Let your Seeker worry about that, Mr. Taylor.”

  Elsdon gave another laugh, this one more easy. “All right, I’ll let you be my guide once more. But it’s hard to think of you as a Seeker, Mr. Smith – you’re acting in a most unSeekerly fashion at the moment.”

  Layle kissed his ear lightly. “There’s a reason for that. We’re being watched.”

  “Oh?” Elsdon sounded unconcerned. “And listened to as well?”

  “No, our audience is on a balcony high above us. Look up, and you may see them.”

  Elsdon tilted his face up cautiously, then shook his head. “My night-vision is too poor – all I can see is a white blur. Is everyone from hell up there?”

  “A significant number of torturers are. And I understand that the gossip here flies quickly.”

  Layle’s voice was so sour that Elsdon laughed. “Poor High Seeker,” he said. “You can never escape prying eyes. So this is how you will let the High Master know of your new method of breaking? By holding a demonstration in public? I’m not sure how anyone will be able to tell what you’re doing, if they can’t hear what you’re saying to me.”

  “It won’t be a demonstration of that sort.” Layle looked at the audience above. Some of the onlookers were shifting their feet, but nobody appeared bored yet; it seemed they had all guessed that what they were witnessing was part of the drama. Quite a few of them looked interested, as well they might. This was not, Layle guessed, the normal manner in which torturers at hell proceeded.

  “Mr. Taylor, did you ever play Torturer and Prisoner when you were young?”

  Elsdon started in his arms, as though he had been touched by a jolt of lightning. “Layle, how could I?”

  “Address me formally, my dear – it will be easier for both of us if you do.” Layle kept his voice soft. “You didn’t play Torturer and Prisoner, but you witnessed it being played?”

  “Sometimes. When I could bear it. I . . . Sir, I don’t want to think about it.”

  It was hard for Layle to continue speaking; he had to draw upon all of his professional knowledge of when to drive a pain-ridden prisoner into further pain. And this required in turn that he draw upon his dark desire, which was dangerous.

  Even before he spoke, he could feel Elsdon shifting in his arms, aware of the change that had taken place in Layle’s body. For a moment, Layle thought that his love-mate would flee from his arms. Then Elsdon settled back, his trust once more driving him to place his life and soul in
the hands of a man whose dark past gave no reason for trust.

  Layle paused a moment to push back his desire. It had served its purpose of making Elsdon squirm visibly in his arms, but now it was the last thing he wanted present. He was pleased to find himself successful. At least for the moment.

  “I need you to think on that, Mr. Taylor,” Layle whispered into Elsdon’s ear. He could feel the effects of that whisper enter Elsdon as a shiver. “Remember what the torturer did. Did he know beforehand what he was going to say or do?”

  Elsdon’s voice was tight when he replied. “Not entirely. The boys would discuss beforehand what the general setting for the tale would be – who the prisoner was, and why he was brought to the Eternal Dungeon. But after that, the boy who was hooded – the torturer – would ask whatever questions he wanted, and the boy who was the prisoner would answer them. And if the torturer didn’t like the prisoner’s answers—” His voice ended in a shudder.

  His whole body was shaking now. “That’s enough!” Layle said sharply. “Withdraw. Come back to me.”

  He could feel the strain in his prisoner’s muscles as Elsdon strove to obey the command to return out of the memories of his terrible childhood. Layle kissed Elsdon’s neck to help him along, and then stole a glance upwards. The expressions on the onlookers’ faces told him that the nature of this exchange had been witnessed, if not understood. The onlookers seemed puzzled, even downright bewildered. It was clear that none of them before had ever witnessed a session of torture that was accompanied by love.

  He hoped that they did not draw the conclusion that his signs of love were a false mask he had donned in order to harm the prisoner. He had done that often enough in his youth. But when he glanced up again, he saw that a small crowd had begun to gather around Master Aeden, and that his master was steadily addressing the crowd.

  So all depended now on whether Master Aeden would tell them the truth, which was that Layle truly loved the man he had just tortured. With that knowledge, the third scene of the play would end.

  o—o—o

  It was a long while before Elsdon’s shaking stopped. Layle communicated with him only through kisses during that time. He dared not rush Elsdon’s recovery, not only because the roots of Elsdon’s pain lay so deep, but also because this was the beginning of the fourth scene. All of the comfort he was offering Elsdon during this time would be witnessed, and with luck it would be questioned.

  Finally Elsdon’s body had calmed enough that the junior Seeker was able to say in a taut voice, “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Elsdon,” Layle murmured, “it’s over. You may call me by my name.”

  “Layle. Why—? I’m sorry; I know you had a reason. I shouldn’t ask.”

  “I had two reasons.” Layle tilted Elsdon’s head back onto his shoulder so that he could see his love-mate’s face. It was flushed, but otherwise showed no sign of pain. He traced his finger down Elsdon’s nose, causing the other man to smile. “Do you remember my telling you about the Vovimian theater?”

  “Yes, of course. But why—? Oh, I see.” Elsdon’s voice grew thoughtful. “The games the boys play in Yclau. You told me once that was a form of play-acting. But love, if you wanted to talk to me about Vovimian acting, couldn’t you have just—? I mean, was it necessary to—?”

  “Yes.” He dropped a kiss onto Elsdon’s nose. “My dear, I would not have done that if it weren’t necessary.”

  Elsdon gave a small smile then. “Stupid. I’m being stupid. Of course you wouldn’t have. What is it about the Vovimian theater that I need to know?”

  “That which you just spoke of, the method of acting. Elsdon, what are the stages of transformation?”

  Elsdon furrowed his brow, but did not ask why this leap of topic had occurred. “For what type of prisoner?” he asked. “A prisoner who is innocent? A guilty prisoner who confesses at once? A guilty prisoner who refuses to confess but is cooperative? Or a guilty prisoner who refuses to confess or cooperate?”

  “The most common one, the guilty prisoner who cooperates but does not confess. What are his stages of transformation?”

  Elsdon gave an incredulous laugh. “You want me to recite them? As though I were a Seeker-in-Training?”

  “Please.” He had to stop himself from looking up to see whether Master Aeden was in the midst of reciting the stages in his translation of the drama. Layle guessed that he was; he needed to give his master time to complete his recital.

  Elsdon raised an eyebrow, but said without hesitation, “There are five stages. The first stage is one that all prisoners go through, Fear. Every prisoner fears his Seeker when he first meets him, though the degree of fear depends on the prisoner’s background and temperament. The Seeker must therefore find some way to make the prisoner understand that he will not be harmed if he cooperates, whether or not he offers his confession. The Seeker also uses this stage to begin to determine whether the prisoner is in fact innocent of his crime.”

  “That’s not important here,” Layle said. “Imagine you’re in a dungeon where all of the prisoners are guilty. What is the next stage?”

  “Cooperation. Only the cooperative prisoners enter this stage: it’s marked by the prisoner indicating his willingness to cooperate to some degree with the demands of his Seeker. A few prisoners will offer their confession at this point, but the great majority will refuse to confess, either because they fear the consequences of their confession or because, more likely, they do not consider themselves guilty in any true sense of the word.”

  “Is that what the goal is of the Seeker?” Layle asked. “To extract a confession?”

  “No,” Elsdon said swiftly. “That’s what the prisoner thinks the goal is, and what most of the world thinks the Seekers want. But a confession from the prisoner is merely a natural byproduct of the Seeker’s true goal, which is to make the prisoner aware of whatever in his life is preventing him from reaching his full potential, either in this life or in his next life. It could be darkness or a flaw – whatever it is, it’s likely to be connected, either directly or indirectly, with the crime he has committed. The Seeker will seek to discover the root of the weakness in the prisoner and transform it, rather than simply obtain the confession and leave the root cause of the crime untouched.”

  Layle nodded. “So this prisoner of yours cooperates. Do you deal with him gently?”

  Elsdon sighed. “If I could remake the world into my imagining, yes. But if the prisoner has reached the point of committing a crime, it’s unlikely that he has the discipline to continue cooperating with his Seeker once the Seeker begins asking him questions that touch at the root of his evil. And so the discipline he lacks from within must be applied from outside. This is the stage of Discipline—”

  He stopped. Layle could guess why, but he did not allow Elsdon time to explore the connection he had just made. “Yes?” he prompted. “How is the prisoner disciplined?”

  “It depends on the prisoner,” Elsdon said slowly. “Some prisoners are so callous and dangerous that they require physical torture: whipping or the rack. But wherever possible, the Seeker will make the discipline verbal. With the most cooperative prisoner, the only discipline need be the Seeker requiring the prisoner to answer his questions. This causes the prisoner anguish, but the pain comes, not from the Seeker’s application of pain, but from the prisoner’s desire to avoid confronting the evil in his life. Or in his past life,” Elsdon added softly.

  Layle planted several kisses on Elsdon’s forehead before saying, “And the next stage?”

  “The next stage is Compassion,” Elsdon said quietly. “The Seeker has shown compassion from the beginning, but it is unlikely that the prisoner has recognized this. Now, though, the pain that the prisoner has undergone from the discipline will likely cause him to begin to break open and see things anew. As the Seeker comforts him during and after his discipline, the prisoner will become aware of how deeply the Seeker cares for his best interests, and— Sweet blood, I wish I could say that this le
ads to the fifth stage. In most cases, it doesn’t. This is where we lose most of our cooperative prisoners; they become frightened and turn back to what they were before.”

  “But if they do not?” Layle said between kisses.

  “If they do not, then comes the stage of Breaking. Of Self-Breaking, I should say, because the prisoner who accepts the Seeker’s compassion and who trusts that the Seeker wishes to bring good to him will turn on himself and apply the methods of Seeking to himself. With the Seeker’s guidance, he starts the final, painful steps, which only he can take in order to be broken in such a way as to be reborn into a new life.”

  Elsdon was silent after finishing his recital. Layle wondered whether he was remembering his rebirth; it had taken place only four years before.

  Layle’s own rebirth had occurred just over twenty years ago, but it was still vivid to him. He remembered that, amidst all his pain at recognizing his villainy, his only regret had been that Master Aeden had not been present to witness this, and to learn from it.

  “Layle,” said Elsdon in a hushed voice, “we’re play-acting, aren’t we?”

  “This is real, my dear.”

  “I know that. But we’re also performing a play: everything we’ve done since you entered this cell has been a way to dramatize the five stages of transformation. When you first entered, and I shrank back from you – that was the stage of Fear. Then I rushed into your arms. That was the stage of Cooperation. Then you forced me to remember something painful from my childhood. That was the stage of Discipline. And now—” He turned his gaze up toward Layle, just at the moment that Layle bowed his head to kiss his love-mate’s hair. “This is Compassion, Layle,” Elsdon said. “You’re acting out the fourth stage of transformation, for the sake of our audience.”

  “The fourth scene,” Layle corrected with a smile. “We’re in a play. And I’ve rarely worked with a fellow player who played his role so well.”

  Elsdon gave a short laugh. “It helped that I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  “It would have made no difference if you did – you would not have had any memorized lines to recite. My dear, we’re performing theater the Vovimian way: we have a general sense of what the setting is, but neither of us knows for certain what will take place next. We wait for the gods’ inspiration, as the Vovimians would put it. And we hope that the results will be fruitful enough to make us a success with our audience.”

  Elsdon frowned. “Our audience. Layle, do you really think that the torturers who are watching us will understand what we’re doing? I wouldn’t, if I were them.”

  “They’ll understand.” Layle’s voice was so firm that Elsdon raised his eyebrows. Layle added, “Vovimian theater-goers are quite sophisticated, my dear. Vovimian theater has little dialogue – most of the drama is conveyed through movement and gesture. Our audience is accustomed to attending plays where complex ideas are conveyed through symbols. They’ll be expecting that, and if they don’t know what the symbols mean, they’ll talk with others until they find someone who seems to have a good understanding of the meaning of the play.”

  Elsdon let out his breath. “And the torturer you talked to before—”

  “Knows the Code of Seeking. Even if he isn’t yet convinced of what the finale of this play will be, he’ll explain to the others what we’re trying to dramatize through our gestures and movements.”

  “They could believe that this is all imaginary,” Elsdon objected. “They could think that we’re creating a play about something that has never really happened.”

  “They could. But they won’t. The final stage will be acted in such a way that they will know this is real.”

  He felt Elsdon tense once more, but Layle had no time in which to add anything, for at that moment the door to the cell opened. Not for the first time, Layle inwardly cursed the lack of locks upon Vovimian cell doors. He was intensely aware, as he had not been before, that he was practicing the intimacies of his bedroom before a rapt audience.

  The audience in question was the scar-faced youth, who stared at Layle with a dumbfounded expression. Layle quickly extracted himself from Elsdon and rose. “Well?” he said sharply. “What do you want?”

  The suggestion of a grin began to emerge onto the youth’s face. “Not wanting to disturb you,” he said in the thick accent of a southern Vovimian, “but this here silence had me worried. Had the feeling that you hadn’t started your work yet.”

  Layle waited a long moment, till his cool gaze had done its job and the youth began to look less smug. Then Layle said, in the old tongue of Vovim that he had learned from one of his fellow street-children when he was a boy, “Meddlesome servant with the brains of a pig. What would you know of my work techniques?”

  The old tongue was a language well-suited for insults; he saw the impact of his words as the guard’s eyes grew wide. Layle gave the guard no time to consider whether to attack back. Instead, he said in an acid voice, “I was brought here as a consultant for the High Master. So highly does our master value my services that he did not ask me to prove my worth in the holding cell. Can you say the same?”

  The guard mumbled something about being duty-bound to report on lax torturers.

  “Oh, yes?” said Layle with raised eyebrow. “And what do you plan to tell the High Master in your report? That the High Seeker, the highest-ranked torturer from the best-renowned dungeon in the living world, didn’t happen to be torturing his prisoner by the same techniques that you had seen in the past? Obviously, I am wanting in education. Tell me, please, how I should proceed in this matter. Or perhaps I should ask the High Master to have you train me?”

  He had not thought it would be possible for the guard’s eyes to grow wider, but he was proven wrong. The guard began to edge his way out of the cell, mumbling apologies in a fumbling manner that suggested this was a new activity for him. Layle waited until the moment when the guard was sure he had made his escape; then he said, “Wait.”

  The blade of his voice transfixed the guard in his place. Layle walked over to him, let his cool gaze travel over the guard in a manner suggesting that he was fitting him for the rack, and finally said, in an equally cool voice, “Your vigilance is to be commended. I will see that the High Master knows of your loyalty.”

  The guard narrowed his eyes, obviously uncertain as to whether this was a trap, but Layle added nothing more, and after a moment the guard relaxed. “Sorry I disturbed you, sir,” he said.

  “Not at all,” Layle said, keeping his voice cool. “I can see why you would be confused; my techniques are new to this place. Tell me, Mr.— What is your name?”

  Bewilderment covered the face of the guard. “Jack. Jack Ifor. But nobody’s ever called me nothing but Jack.”

  “It is the custom where I come from to address others formally,” Layle told him. “I’ve found that it improves work conditions. I imagine that work conditions here aren’t as good as they could be, Mr. Ifor?”

  He waited patiently as Jack struggled with this question, clearly at two minds as to whether to give an honest answer. Layle had no doubt what that answer would be. He had learned long ago that, if he wanted to know what conditions were like in the Eternal Dungeon, it was of no use to ask his fellow Seekers. The dungeon’s guards were the ones who bore the brunt of any difficulties caused by poor work conditions.

  “Well, sir,” said Jack, rolling his tongue around the word “sir” as though it were unfamiliar to him. “It ain’t the High Master’s fault. I mean, he’s good to us. But . . . well . . . shifts are long. And we get piles of prisoners these days, almost more than we can handle.”

  Layle nodded. “We had similar problems in Yclau long ago, before we found a solution to the problem.”

  “Killing some of the prisoners?” Jock suggested hopefully.

  “That’s one solution,” Layle replied evenly. “But that’s not a solution here, is it? The prisoners can’t be killed when they’re already dead.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, we ca
n’t let any of the prisoners go, sir – they’re too dangerous. They’d cause more harm in the world.”

  “I can well imagine,” Layle said dryly, once more running his eye over the guard’s scars. “What if I told you, Mr. Ifor, that the Eternal Dungeon has found a way to remake the prisoners so that they are no longer harmful? So that they can be released into the world safely, in order to make room for new prisoners and to make the guards’ schedules less strenuous?”

  Jock looked duly impressed. “Without breaking them, sir? We have a rule here against breaking prisoners.”

  “I will not violate any rules,” Layle assured him. “However, I require absolute privacy in order to accomplish this difficult task.”

  Jack took the hint. “I’ll see that you’re not disturbed again, sir,” he said, reaching toward the door. Then he added as an afterthought, “I’ll break anyone’s arms who tries to disturb you.”

  He closed the door before Layle had time to thank him for his thoughtfulness. Layle continued staring at the door for a moment, wondering whether his skills at binding could be refined in such a manner as to allow him to bind the door shut. Then he became aware of a strange sound behind him. He turned swiftly, and found that Elsdon was on his knees, choking with half-suppressed sounds.

  He did not draw any hasty conclusions this time. He slowly walked forward and knelt beside his love-mate, touching him softly. Elsdon looked up. He was in the midst of trying to swallow a laugh.

  “I’m sorry, love,” he said. “But seeing you there, speaking with all the deep-voiced authority of the High Seeker . . .”

  Layle relaxed into a smile. “Uncooperative prisoners can sometimes be frightened into cooperation. We were in danger there; your guard was on the point of reporting me to the High Master.”

  “The High Master.” Elsdon’s laughter subsided, and he raised his head as he stared in the direction of Layle. “Have you met the torture-god yet?”

  Layle said slowly, “I’m not sure.”

  “Not sure? What do you mean?”

  Layle tilted his head to look up at his audience. The latest episode in the drama had evidently gone over well; even though they could not hear what he had said to the guard, his onlookers had apparently read rightly the threat of his stance. They looked delighted, as though someone they had begun to suspect was a kitten had turned into a preying lion. Layle could see the bully he had encountered in the common cavern, leaning over the railing with pleasure spread across his face.

  Layle shuddered and looked away. He told Elsdon, “The gods of Vovim are not disembodied beings; they take the form of humans. Mercy walks in the world above. When I was young, my mother told me that I must always be kind to others I met, because the other person might be host to Mercy. The torture-god, though, dwells in afterdeath, taking the form of one of his torturers.”

  “You said ‘host.’” Elsdon leaned forward. “Does that mean that the gods enter the bodies of humans who are already alive?”

  Layle nodded. “The torturer who hosts the High Master is not destroyed – that would be against the High Master’s purposes. The torture-god merely seeks to join himself with whichever of his servants is best able to forward his goal.”

  “To torture prisoners,” Elsdon said dryly.

  “To bring justice,” Layle corrected. Elsdon twisted his mouth in a skeptical fashion, and Layle added, “That is the goal of both Mercy and the torture-god. They only battle each other over souls whose lives have been so entwined with both good and evil that it is unclear which divinity should have custody over the soul. In cases where the soul has clearly led an evil life, Mercy gives him over to the High Master to be punished, and in cases where the soul has clearly led a good life, the High Master gives him over to Mercy to be rewarded. Or so I was taught.”

  Elsdon thought upon this for a while before saying, “The host – is it always the same person?”

  Layle smiled. “No. Every few centuries, the High Master finds a new host, one who can bring him closer to his ideal of perfect justice. It’s considered a great honor, you know, to become host to the High Master.”

  Elsdon laughed then. “Was that your ambition? I can envision you dreaming of becoming the torture-god.”

  Layle gave him a soft smile. “When I was a boy. I have my own dungeon now; I don’t need someone else’s dungeon. . . . The host remains free and unbound in his will, for the High Master has chosen him precisely because the High Master is pleased with the workings of his will. The High Master does not enslave his host; rather, the host and the High Master work together in the interests of justice.”

  “A benevolent master,” Elsdon murmured. He linked eyes with Layle, as though he could see him in the dark. “Layle . . . you’re planning more than just our escape, aren’t you? You’re trying to show the High Master a new way of justice – you’re trying to change hell.”

  “My old master always said I was overambitious,” Layle admitted ruefully.

  Elsdon laughed. “The Eternal Dungeon has long been indebted to your ambition. So the High Master could be any of the torturers here?”

  “Anyone at all. The bully I met in the common cavern . . . The young girl who tortured puppies . . . Even the man in green who recently became a torturer. Perhaps the time had arrived when the High Master chose a new host; that could explain why the ground rumbled at that moment.”

  “Could the High Master be hosted by the torturer you spoke with?”

  Layle shook his head slowly. “No. That man referred to himself as a lowly servant of the High Master. I’ve known him in the past; he has never told a direct lie to me. Not that torturer . . . but someone else here. Perhaps someone I’ve already met.”

  “Layle,” Elsdon whispered, “if there’s a chance the High Master is watching us now . . .”

  “He could intervene when he realizes what we’re planning to do. I know. I think it’s time, my dear, that we finished this.”

  Elsdon nodded, the apple of his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Then he raised his chin. “Layle, the symbol of breaking will have to be a visible one; it has to be dramatic enough to convince those skeptics up there. You can’t just discipline me with words again.”

  “I know,” Layle said quietly. “They cannot hear us. With words alone, it would not be clear that you were the master of the breaking rather than me.”

  Elsdon nodded; he appeared calm now. “Which instrument shall we use?”

  “It will have to be quick, my dear. We may not have much time.”

  Elsdon swallowed again, but his voice was steady as he said, “We knot your belt? Or did you bring rope?”

  Layle still had his mouth open to answer when the door crashed open. He leapt to his feet and whirled, his hand where his dagger would have been if he had been wearing one. It was his automatic reaction to being disturbed unexpectedly, though it had been nearly a quarter of a century since he ended his life of crime.

  All words withered on his tongue as he saw two of the lesser guards struggle into the cell, holding a bulky object. Jack, who followed them into the cell, gave Layle an apologetic look.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said. “High Master’s orders. Master Aeden told him that this was your preferred instrument of torture, so the High Master made sure earlier today that it would be delivered to you when you arrived.”

  “I see.” Layle let his eye travel over the instrument in question. It had been many years since he had last used it, but its design appeared no different from the design of those used in the Hidden Dungeon. “Please give the High Master my thanks. This is exactly what I need.”

  Jack’s face relaxed into relief. He glanced over at the other guards, who were busy positioning the heavy object at the far end of the cell. Then he looked at Layle, his eyes flicking toward the door.

  Layle took the hint. He stepped into the corridor, followed closely behind by Jack, who immediately glanced up toward the crowd on the balcony. Everyone there, though, seemed absorbed by the setting up of the eq
uipment. Satisfied, Jack drew an object from his pocket and held it out toward Layle, being careful to shield it from the view of those above him. “From Master Aeden, sir,” he whispered. “He remembered that you liked to use it with prisoners.”

  Layle took a quick glance at the contraband object, which turned out to be a bottle of lovemaking lotion. It was a murky color, and he did not like to think about what it was made of, but he slipped the bottle into his pocket, murmuring his thanks.

  The lesser guards emerged from the cell. They seemed inclined to show curiosity as to why their leader had left the cell early, but Jack soon put their minds to other matters by berating them in a loud voice for a sloppy job in installing the instrument of torture. The guards disappeared down the corridor, their voices fading, until no sound was left but for the endless drip of water.

  “Scene five,” whispered Layle, and returned to his waiting prisoner.