CHAPTER TWO
Thatcher was having difficulty deciding who to attack first.
It was a familiar problem for him. He stood in the corner of his cell, watching the delivery of his meal. The junior guard placed the tray on his sleeping bench while the senior guard stood at the door with watchful eye and with his hand on his dagger-hilt. The junior guard was the obvious target; he kept flicking frightened glances at Thatcher. He was too obvious a target. The senior guard would flay Thatcher with his whip if he tried that tactic.
The senior guard, though . . . Ah, he was full of possibilities. “Senior” was a relative term – the older guard of the two couldn’t be more than halfway through his twenties. He was gripping his dagger-hilt rather than his whip, which was just as Thatcher wanted it. And he had an assured look on his face. Thatcher liked assured looks. They were a sign that someone was about to make a mistake.
Thatcher stepped out of the corner, walking rapidly toward the junior guard. “Excuse me,” he said. “I was wondering—”
The guard squealed as he spun round to face Thatcher. The senior guard’s grip tightened on his dagger, but as Thatcher paused, he evidently decided to allow the junior guard to handle this challenge alone.
“Yes, Mr. Owen?” The junior guard’s voice broke on Thatcher’s name, and his face flooded with shame. Thatcher felt a moment of pity for the boy. Though a decade had passed, he could still remember keenly his own shame at his wavering voice at that age. Then he reminded himself who the boy was.
The enemy. No mercy for the enemy.
“I heard— Well, there was a rumor floating in the army that this dungeon has a rule book its workers must abide by, a rule book that lists a prisoner’s rights.” Thatcher did his best to look sheepish, as though he were imposing upon the guard’s time.
The junior guard’s blush receded. “The Code of Seeking,” he said quickly. “Yes, that tells what your rights are.”
“Would it be possible for me to request permission to view a copy of your Code?” Thatcher kept his voice polite. He was watching the senior guard out of the corner of his eye.
“Yes, of course,” said the junior guard promptly. “Any prisoner may request permission to read the part of the Code pertaining to his rights. I have a copy here—” His hand, which had been hovering near his whip, rose to his shirt.
“Mr. Meakem, step back!” The senior guard’s voice was sharp. No doubt he had seen Thatcher’s eye flicking over the space between himself and the junior guard, judging how far he needed to jump. The junior guard – ill-trained, it seemed – looked over his shoulder, turning his face from Thatcher. A perfect moment to pounce, but Thatcher kept his muscles relaxed, and even stepped back a couple of paces as the senior guard came forward.
“I – I’m sorry,” he said to the senior guard, letting himself stammer. “I don’t mean to cause trouble.”
“It’s no trouble, Mr. Owen.” The assurance was in the senior guard’s voice as well as his look. “Mr. Meakem is not yet fully trained, so it would be better if I showed you the information you have requested.” He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a small, leather-bound book, similar in appearance to the devotional book that Thatcher’s grandmother had given him as a child, which told of the transformation that awaited him in the afterdeath.
Thatcher stood motionless as the senior guard stepped forward. He kept his eye on the guard’s dagger, which would be natural in any case. The senior guard held forward the book to Thatcher as the junior guard – who had not stepped back as ordered – watched the procedure, obviously memorizing the senior guard’s movements.
Thatcher took the book with a deliberately tentative hand. He looked down at the cover. Although the volume was the size of the mass-produced devotional books, this book had gold lettering on the cover, bearing the title of the Eternal Dungeon’s Code. He opened the cover with a rough hand and took note of how the junior guard winced at his handling of the book.
“The final chapter,” the senior guard told him. “You’ll find that the information on your rights starts on page 178.”
Thatcher began to fumble his way through the book, eliciting more winces from the junior guard, who evidently regarded this book with reverence. Thatcher turned his attention back to the book, slowing his pace of browsing as he became conscious of the senior guard’s gaze narrowing. No doubt he was under orders to prevent Thatcher from reading the rest of the book, lest he uncover the Seekers’ secrets. The senior guard was to Thatcher’s left, against the wall opposite the sleeping bench; the junior guard had moved to the front so as to see better.
Thatcher let his pace of flipping die away and silently read the words before him. “Under no circumstances may a Seeker lie to a prisoner. . . .”
His well-wrought plan was nearly foiled by a tugging desire to burst out laughing. This book was as filled with falsehoods as the devotional book his grandmother had given him. He wondered why the Seekers, who held absolute power over their prisoners, bothered to deceive themselves.
“The final chapter, sir.” The senior guard’s voice was sharp again. Thatcher flinched as he looked toward the senior guard, and the book flew from his hands, landing two paces away from the junior guard. In an automatic manner, the junior guard began to kneel to pick it up.
“No!” In a flash, the senior guard’s dagger was out. It was the signal Thatcher had been awaiting. He did not bother to target the senior guard’s dagger arm – no doubt the senior guard was trained to defend himself against such attacks. Instead, Thatcher whirled, burying his fist in the senior guard’s stomach.
The senior guard gave a grunt but did not let go of his dagger; he was well trained indeed. Feeling the noose of time tightening on his throat, Thatcher sidestepped the dagger thrusting toward him, grabbed the guard’s hair, and slammed the back of his head against the wall. The guard did not lose grip on the dagger, but this unexpected move – not listed in the normal arts of body battle – left him swinging his dagger futilely in the direction that any normal attacker would have taken. Thatcher slammed his head against the wall again, and again.
This was the dangerous moment. His back was now turned to the junior guard; if the junior guard had any training at all, he would use this moment to take out his whip and lash Thatcher into submission.
The junior guard did not do so. Instead, he wasted time by beginning to scream.
The senior guard made no noise. His eyes had rolled up in his head, and a moment later the dagger slipped from the senior guard’s hand. Thatcher caught it as it fell. Released from his grip, the senior guard slid to the floor, his eyes closed and his head plastered with blood.
Thatcher turned to look at the junior guard, who was still screaming. The boy’s scream cut off abruptly and his eyes widened as he looked at Thatcher, smiling with dagger in hand.
The cell door burst open two minutes later; a guard outside, alerted by the noises within the cell, had sent out a whistle of warning. By then, Thatcher was where he wanted to be: at the far end of the cell, with the boy pinned against his chest and the senior guard’s dagger hard against the boy’s throat.
The first man who arrived – a civilian, judging from his clothes – took one look at the situation and wisely backed out of the doorway. He glanced over his shoulder at the crowd that was gathering behind him and barked something. Several guards who had begun to wriggle forward stopped in their tracks. There was a moment of indecision as the rescue party stared into the cell at the captor and his captive.
Thatcher was not surprised. He had heard in the army – who had not heard? – that the Eternal Dungeon had been leaderless for the past three years. Its High Seeker had gone mad and killed himself, or had been placed in a cell with strong bindings upon him – the rumors varied. All that was certain was that the High Seeker was no longer at his post. Which meant, Thatcher knew from his experience in the army, that no one here would be willing to take the chance of rescuing the hostage. No one would be so bold as to act without or
ders.
Thatcher’s back was beginning to sweat; he had positioned himself against the wall of thick glass blocks that was next to a furnace. He raised his voice to be heard above the shouts in the corridor, from guards who were just arriving. “I want to talk to one of your Seekers!” he called. “Your highest-ranked Seeker, whoever he may be.”
The shouting continued. Thatcher could feel the junior guard shuddering against him; he was making small noises whenever Thatcher pushed the knife harder against his throat. Thatcher wondered whether he had drawn blood yet, but it hardly mattered. He had performed this maneuver enough times to know the difference between causing pain and draining life from a hostage. Not that the hostage ever survived this exercise, but death would come later, once Thatcher was sure of his freedom.
He keenly missed his men. They should be here now, ready to take the daggers and revolvers of the villagers who surrendered. He had worked out this plan long ago, on sleepless nights when he tried to think of more effective ways to fight the enemy. It was so simple: take one vulnerable hostage, and the rest of the village would surrender. And once the villagers had surrendered . . .
This time, he could not kill all the enemies standing before him; he lacked the support of his fellow soldiers. But he could ensure that the enemy did not kill him.
The shouting cut off, as abruptly as the junior guard’s scream had. The crowd parted as cleanly as a head being severed from its neck. Through the crowd came two men.
Thatcher’s eye was on the first man who entered the cell. He was a couple of decades older than Thatcher, in his late forties, and was dressed in the grey uniform of a guard. He was armed, but he was not touching his weapons, unlike most of the other men in the doorway, who were brandishing daggers and whips as though the mere sight of them would scare Thatcher into submission. This man scarcely looked at Thatcher. The moment he stepped over the threshold he turned his gaze to the man entering the cell behind him. The second man was dressed all in black and wore a hood.
“No weapons!” Thatcher said before the hooded man could speak. “Tell that guard of yours to strip himself, or else to leave the cell.”
“As you wish, sir.” The Seeker’s voice was deep and courteous. His eyes were nearly hidden in the shadows of the hood’s eye-holes. He was a tall man, but leanly built; Thatcher knew that he could overcome his opponent in any hand-to-hand fight. Not that it was likely to come to that. Already the Seeker was saying, “Mr. Sobel, disarm yourself, if you please.”
The guard did so with eagerness. Thatcher found himself sighing inwardly, wondering whether anyone here would prove to be a worthy opponent. The Seeker’s guard handed his dagger to his master, who reached back and handed it to the redheaded civilian standing amongst the guards crowding the doorway. Then the Seeker reached for the guard’s whip.
The boy in Thatcher’s arms made a sound in his throat, as though protesting this betrayal of his best interests. The Seeker, distracted as he was about to hand the whip back to the man at the door, paused and said in a loud voice, obviously meant to reach the far ends of the crowd, “Do not worry, Mr. Meakem! The prisoner will not harm you.”
Thatcher felt laughter building in his belly. The Seeker, in taking the whip from his guard, had gripped it so that it was pointed backwards, useless in a fight. Now the Seeker was staring around the cell, obviously trying to assess whether anything here could prove to be of use to him during the coming battle.
All he found was the senior guard, still slumped to the ground about halfway down the cell. The Seeker took several steps forward in the direction of the unconscious figure, his anxiety causing him to forget about the captor and captive. “Mr. Urman . . .”
“Stay back!” cried Thatcher. The Seeker was still holding the whip backwards in his hand; Thatcher was less worried about this than by the fact that the Seeker’s guard, like a shadow of his master, had followed the Seeker forward. That man, at least, had the sort of build that made him look as though he would be capable of winning a body battle.
“No further, unless you want his throat cut.” Thatcher pressed his stolen dagger harder against the boy’s throat and heard him whimper again.
The Seeker stopped dead in his tracks. “Sir,” he said, “you already have one hostage; a second can be of no use to you. Please allow me to remove Mr. Urman from this cell, so that he can be tended to.”
Thatcher glanced at the slumped figure and made a quick calculation. He did not want the Seeker to think that he was careless of the welfare of hostages; then the Seeker might begin to guess how little chance there was that the boy in Thatcher’s arms would survive this encounter. Besides, if the Seeker ordered his guard to remove the prisoner, Thatcher would have one less person in this cell to deal with. He jerked his head in agreement.
The Seeker immediately leaned forward and murmured something in the ear of his guard. The guard nodded, but to Thatcher’s disappointment, the Seeker’s guard simply beckoned forth from the doorway the redhead in civilian clothes. The redhead quickly hurried forward, keeping his gaze upon the injured figure. Thatcher held his breath – three men in the cell was two more than he wanted – but nothing happened except that the redhead scooped the injured figure into his arms and disappeared out the door with him. The crowd, now utterly silent, parted to let him through.
“All right,” Thatcher said in a rough voice. “I’ve given you what you want; now let me tell you what you will do for me. You will give orders for my release. You will ensure that no one is in the corridor except yourself and that guard of yours. You will escort me and my hostage from the dungeon, not by way of the main entrance, but through the back entrance by which you receive deliveries—”
He felt laughter rumbling in his belly again at the expressions of the guards at the doorway. “Yes,” he said, smiling, “I know more about this dungeon than you think—”
“I doubt that.” The Seeker, whose voice till now had been tentative, abruptly turned cold. “If you knew anything about this dungeon—”
Thatcher was never able to figure out later how it happened. It was impossible; no man, holding a whip backwards, could have flung the lash forward with precision. But a moment later, Thatcher felt the sting of the lash upon his face, cutting into the side of his nose and narrowly missing his eye. With a cry, Thatcher began to raise his right hand to his nose. Then he remembered that his right hand held the dagger, and he reached down to return it to the boy’s throat.
It was too late. The Seeker’s guard, moving as fast as the lash, had sped forward and wrenched the boy out of Thatcher’s grasp. Thatcher’s dagger followed in the direction of the boy—
And in the next second the dagger fell to the floor, along with Thatcher’s knees. He clutched his arm, wondering how it was that a single whiplash could feel so much like a bullet.
Above him, the Seeker said calmly, “If you knew anything about this dungeon, you would know that Seekers do not normally touch weapons, and when they do, they use them. —Mr. Meakem, are you well?”
“Yes, sir.” The boy’s voice was faint from the doorway, where the Seeker’s guard had paused with him; he looked ready to pass out. “He didn’t harm me, sir.”
Thatcher took several deep breaths. He had endured worse wounds than this in the army, and he had killed men who inflicted such wounds. Before he could plan his next move, though, a figure burst through the doorway, shouting, “Bloody blades, man! Don’t you give me enough work caring for the wounds of your tortured prisoners without supplying me with injured guards also?”
The Seeker did not turn his head to look at the new arrival. He was still gripping the whip backwards in an easy manner that Thatcher did not find reassuring.
“Good evening, Mr. Bergsen,” he said in a cool manner. “Mr. Meakem may have need of your services, but I would ask that you tend to Mr. Urman first.”
“I’ve just come from him.” The healer’s voice was grim.
“And how fares he?” The Seeker’s voice was utterly
level. He sounded as though he were discussing a change in daily rations.
There was a pause. The healer’s face was bright red, though incongruously, his anger seemed aimed at the Seeker before him rather than at the prisoner who had scooped the dagger back into his hand and scrambled to his feet, trying to figure out how to attack the opponent before him.
Then the healer said flatly, “The same as the last guard who was attacked in this dungeon.”
“I see.” The levelness of the Seeker’s voice did not change, though the healer’s words had caused a murmur to ripple through the crowd.
“Well, sir,” said the Seeker to Thatcher, in as cold a manner as before. “I fear that you have just shortened your chances that any magistrate will find you innocent of murder. I would invite you to look at Mr. Urman’s body and see the results of your action, but somehow I doubt that you are the sort of man to be moved by images of death.” And with another swift movement, too quick to be followed by the eye, he sent his whip lashing forward to briefly encircle Thatcher’s wrist. The dagger spun from Thatcher’s hand, out of reach.
“Welcome to the Eternal Dungeon, Mr. Owen,” the Seeker said. Thatcher, raising eyes that were now stinging with tears, took note of the glacial green eyes before him, and realized in that moment who his opponent was.
Then the mad High Seeker scooped Thatcher’s dagger off the floor and turned away, and a moment later Thatcher was alone in his cell, with blood dripping from his wounds.
o—o—o
“Gerson has a lot to answer for,” said Mr. Boyd.
They were sitting in the entry hall among the guards, whose chatter was more subdued than usual this afternoon. Even the lamps seemed dimmer than usual. The Eternal Dungeon’s Codifier, whose phlegmatic exterior hid a fire that scorched any person unwise enough to draw near, glanced out of his doorway and beckoned the next in a line of guards waiting to offer their testimony as to what had caused so serious a breach in the dungeon’s security.
Seward looked away. He had been the third man to give his witness, preceded only by Mr. Meakem and the High Seeker. Rumor held it that the Codifier had visited the prisoner first, to learn his perspective on the assault, but the prisoner had refused to speak to him.
“Nine guards,” said Mr. Boyd, slamming down his pen with such force that ink spattered from its nib. “Mr. Meakem offered his resignation before the night was out.”
“Perhaps it’s just as well,” said Seward. “By his own testimony, he showed poor judgment.”
Mr. Boyd snorted. “He was only in his third week of training – how else can you expect a pup to act when threatened? I blame Mr. Urman. With four years’ experience, he ought to have known better.”
Seward said nothing, gathering together his papers into a pile. It was his written report of what had occurred, the first report he had composed on a prisoner for thirty-four months. He wished he could feel more satisfaction at the return to a familiar task.
Mr. Boyd said in a quieter voice, “I’m sorry. I forgot that you trained him.”
Seward carefully screwed on the cap of his pen and said, without looking up, “In any case, this hardly seems the moment to be speaking ill words against him.”
Mr. Boyd stayed silent. Seward raised his eyes high enough to see the door to the far right of the entry hall, the one that led past the doors to the Seekers’ living quarters, then past a doorway leading to the outer portion of the dungeon, and finally ended in a black door likely to go unnoticed. That door led to the healer’s office, which was adjoined by the crematorium. Every man, woman, and child who died in the Eternal Dungeon, or who died as the result of trial witness offered by the dungeon’s Seekers, was buried in the crematorium’s single pit, which seemed to extend to the center of the earth.
Seward wondered when the prayers for the latest dead man would begin. He turned his eyes away to the chair where Mr. Urman usually sat, and then turned again to Mr. Boyd, who was saying, “Did you hear that the Codifier has ordered that the prisoner be transferred to another Seeker? That’s why I’m not on watch now. It’s just as well – I spent all of last night in bed imagining different ways in which I could throttle Mr. Owen.”
“Yes.” Seward carefully gathered his papers together, as though the pile were not already neat enough. “I must go. I’m on duty soon.”
“So?” Mr. Boyd eyed him curiously. “You’ll be the same place I’ve been all day, doing documentwork here while this mess is worked out.”
Seward shook his head. “The High Seeker has need of me. I’m guarding tonight.”
It was a moment before Mr. Boyd understood; then his breath rushed in. He said slowly, “He must be mad.”
Seward gave him a sharp warning look, and Mr. Boyd added hastily, “I mean the Codifier. He’s the one in charge, in cases like this. How the bloody blades could he consider assigning a prisoner who made a murderous attack on a guard, to the Seeker whose guard was the victim?”
“I doubt he had any choice,” Seward replied. “This is the first prisoner the High Seeker has asked to be assigned since his illness began. If the Codifier refused him, Mr. Smith might lose all confidence in himself.”
“Confidence in himself.” Mr. Boyd stared at Seward as though the madness had claimed a new victim. “The prisoner’s best interests are what matters, not the Seeker’s interests! You know that, the Codifier knows that – sweet blood, even the High Seeker knows that. I can’t believe he would wander so far from his duty as to manipulate the Codifier into giving him this prisoner. It’s deplorable! The High Seeker is—”
He stopped, though Seward had not shot him any looks. Perhaps his pause was simply due to the fact that Seward had not shown the sort of rage that any other senior guard might have done if his Seeker was attacked. Mr. Boyd was oddly considerate toward the guard who never raised his voice, never threatened violence, never used force of any sort – except when his duty required it of him.
Mr. Boyd glanced at the guards sitting nearby, who were beginning to take interest in the conversation. He lowered his voice and added, “It’s not fair to you, Mr. Sobel. If anything goes wrong, you’ll be the one who must deal with it. The High Seeker is endangering your life without need. You ought to tell him that.”
“My job,” said Seward quietly as he drew out his dagger, “is to endanger myself for the High Seeker. That’s why I was assigned to him.”
There was a long silence. Then Mr. Boyd said, “Very well – you, perhaps. But his other guards— Does he even have any other guards now?”
Seward nodded as he poked a hole into the corner of the pages with his dagger. “The Codifier has assigned Elsdon Taylor’s day guards to the High Seeker, since Mr. Taylor is still in mourning.”
“They have the easy job, guarding the prisoner when the High Seeker is off-duty. What about the junior night guard? Even under normal circumstances, I can’t imagine that anyone would want Mr. Urman’s job.”
“No.” He finished pulling a ribbon through the hole and raised his eyes to Mr. Boyd.
After a long while, Mr. Boyd said, “I can’t be your first choice. How many other guards have you asked?”
Seward told him. He could hear some of the whispers at the adjoining tables, and he felt his hands tighten as he tied the knot in the ribbon holding together his report. The only mercy was that the High Seeker had retired to his bed for a brief rest before he began his searching of the prisoner. Though no doubt Layle Smith could guess what was being said. He knew well enough where his duty lay, and he would know how his actions would be regarded by others.
Mr. Boyd drummed his fingers on the wood of the table, cursed softly, and then looked up to say, “Well, it was a nice dream. Throttling the prisoner, I mean. I suppose, though, that he deserves a second chance.” He stood up, and the screech of his chair legs rebounded off the cavern walls. “I’d better go arm myself.”
Mr. Boyd turned away before Seward had time to ask him whether he believed that it was the prisoner who deserv
ed a second chance, or the High Seeker.
The Eternal Dungeon: a Turn-of-the-Century Toughs omnibus Page 58