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

by Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER THREE

  When Thatcher Owen was seventeen years old, he visited a diviner. The diviner lived permanently in the dumping area near Thatcher’s town; Thatcher ought to have guessed from that alone what he would see within the tent. As it was, he stood speechless for a moment, appalled at the diviner’s surroundings.

  “You could live better than this!” he cried.

  The diviner was unmoved. “This is the fate that has been decreed for me,” he replied. “I am content with what I have been given by the fates.”

  That was the moment when Thatcher first began to love the diviner. He was old for the type of adoration that boys often hold for their elders, but he had never known his father and had been searching all his life for a man to model himself after. Now, seeing the diviner’s quiet contentment with his poverty, Thatcher knew that his search was over.

  At the diviner’s urging, he revealed why he had come: to resolve a conflict between himself and his grandmother, who was raising him. His grandmother wished him to take over the family business when he reached his adulthood; Thatcher wanted to become a soldier. He had decided to trust to the fates for the decision.

  The diviner would not give him an immediate answer. “Never before have I been asked to prophesy how a man should lead his full life,” he said. “I must pray upon this for several days before I give you answer.”

  If Thatcher’s heart had not already been pledged to the diviner, it would have leapt to the diviner at the moment he said the word “man” rather than “boy.” Thatcher returned to the tent the next day, not expecting to receive an answer yet, but only wishing to be in the presence of so wise and generous a man.

  The diviner tolerated his presence. He more than tolerated it: he encouraged Thatcher to visit him, answering all his questions and listening to the boy tell of his troubles in reconciling his conscience with his sense of duty to his grandmother. “The fates have given you a hard road in life,” the diviner said. “I can tell that, even without knowing yet what your life will be.”

  After a few days, the diviner gave the fates’ answer, which was cryptic. “The fates say that they have a higher ambition for you than soldiering,” he told the boy. “They have not yet said what it is. Perhaps they wish you to discover it for yourself.”

  It was a hard answer for Thatcher, who had long dreamt of being a soldier, but he accepted it, for love of the diviner. He came every day now, listening to the diviner’s talk of the glorious old days when all in Yclau had followed the fates rather than try to determine their own fates in the foolish belief that such efforts could change their lives after death.

  And so it went, all that long, lovely summer. Thatcher no longer dreamt of soldiering but of pleasing the diviner who had shown such affection to him. He was determined now to accept whatever life the fates decreed, so as to keep the diviner’s love.

  Then came the morning when his schoolmaster took ill and Thatcher arrived home from school earlier than usual. His hand was on the door-latch to the house when he heard a familiar voice within.

  “It will not be long now,” said the diviner. “I dared not proceed too quickly – he would have been suspicious if I had prophesied immediately a future in your family business. But his heart is mine now. He will do whatever I tell him the fates decree.”

  Thatcher stood up on tiptoe and peered through the door’s window of colored glass, just in time to see his grandmother give the diviner a handful of bills. The diviner smiled.

  And so Thatcher’s life was indeed changed, but not in the way that either the diviner or the grandmother had anticipated.

  o—o—o

  “The fourth day of the second month of 359,” said the High Seeker. “One of the border towns of our queendom was attacked by a Vovimian raiding party. A quarter of the men in the village were killed, three of whom were tortured before their death for information on where the Yclau village’s riches were located. A number of women were raped, and several more women were carried off as captives. The high command of the Queen’s army, receiving news of the raid shortly after it took place, sent out orders that six units of Yclau soldiers were to be dispatched to pursue the raiders, recover the captive women and booty, and capture as many Vovimian soldiers as was possible. The six dispatched units soon lost the trail of the wily raiders, but a seventh unit, which had not been dispatched, followed the raiders doggedly.”

  He paused, as though expecting comment at this point, but none came, so he continued: “This is as far as the high command’s own records go; the remainder of the report comes from the Yclau unit. Its lieutenant reports that the raiders were traced to a border town in Vovim, from which the soldiers in the raiding party evidently originated. The Vovimian soldiers immediately settled down to a night of celebration for their victory. The other villagers joined the celebration. During this time, the captive women were passed from man to man, undergoing rape at the hands of nearly all the village men. The women of the village held the captured Yclau down so that their men could assault the captives. All of this is reported by the lieutenant and is backed by the testimony of the lieutenant’s men.

  “In the early hours of the morning, when the sated captors had lapsed into drunken sleep, the Yclau unit attacked the village. The Yclau soldiers encountered greater resistance than they had expected, as every man, woman, and child in the village rose up to prevent the Yclau from saving the captives, who were sobbing in their cellar prison. The Yclau soldiers were forced to kill all the inhabitants of the village in order to save the women. Again, this is the lieutenant’s report, and it is backed by his men. The captive women were unable to witness how the rescue took place, but they confirm the lieutenant’s account of their rapes. The Vovimian army confirms that all the inhabitants of the village were killed. Although the death figures they give are higher than those supplied by the Yclau lieutenant, they concede that there is no sign that the village inhabitants were tortured or raped before their deaths.”

  The High Seeker looked up from the piece of paper he had been glancing at. Carefully folding it, he tucked it into his shirt pocket before adding, “A standard report from the present war. The only oddity about the Yclau unit’s behavior is the fact that the Vovimian men were not tortured, the Vovimian women were not raped, and the Vovimian women and children were killed. All three events are unusual in wartime. However, the raid might have been overlooked, if not for the fact that, in the past year, four other unauthorized raids took place, all by the same Yclau unit, and all of the same nature.”

  The High Seeker paused. His hood was licked with light from the flames beyond the glass blocks at the end of the prisoner’s cell; his eyes alternated between gold and green as the fire danced in and out of them. His body was stiff, barely moving

  He waited a minute. Then, when his recital received no response, he said, “Well?”

  “It was defense,” Thatcher replied in a bored voice.

  He did not bother to say more. He had been over this ground dozens of times now; after each raid, he would be asked the same bloody questions, by the same chair-bound clerks who had never been on the field and who had no idea what conditions were like in battle. In their world of paper and pen and ink, two dozen Yclau soldiers politely asked two hundred Vovimian murderers and rapists to surrender the women they were brutalizing, and the Vovimians immediately handed over the captives. The idea that it might actually be necessary to shed blood in order to save abducted women had never occurred to these bladeless clerks. They were shocked at such an idea – so shocked as to recommend that the unit’s lieutenant be placed under arrest and sent to the Eternal Dungeon.

  The High Seeker said, “Even if it was defense, the unusual features of the raids remain. Why didn’t you torture the men and rape the women? Few Yclau soldiers would have been able to resist the impulse to do so, under such circumstances.”

  Thatcher passed a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. He could well guess that the High Seeker would regard the lack of desire to torture as
puzzling behavior. “There was no need. We were there to rescue the captives and recover the booty, nothing more. If we could have captured the responsible parties and handed them over to the high command for punishment, we would have done so. As it was, the only way to rescue the captives was to kill the enemy. We were outnumbered ten to one; it was a miracle that we were able to save the women.”

  He allowed resentment to trickle into his voice. In a just world, an officer who managed to rescue captives against odds that high would be raised in rank, not handed over to torturers for questioning. But Thatcher had long known that no justice existed in the world. He was simply pleased that, when it had come to the test, his men had backed him with the truth. He hadn’t been sure that they would; he’d encountered too many lies from them in the past.

  “You admit that you ordered the death of all the village inhabitants during your five raids?”

  “Of course I do,” said Thatcher with a gesture of impatience. “I’ve always been honest in my reports. I don’t lie.”

  The High Seeker’s guard – the same man who had rescued the boy from Thatcher – flicked a glance toward Thatcher, and then returned his gaze to the High Seeker. The guard’s eyes had remained fixed on his master since the moment that the High Seeker entered the cell. Thatcher had toyed during the intervening night and day with the idea of taking the High Seeker hostage, and his hopes had risen when the man was foolish enough to enter his cell unarmed. But the presence of the armed guard put an end to that plan. Instead, Thatcher must find a way to make the High Seeker see that he was innocent. And the odds against that, Thatcher knew, were even higher than the odds against a successful raid. He had heard too many tales about the High Seeker.

  And now he knew that the tales were true. Thatcher cursed himself again as he remembered how the High Seeker and his guard had played him the fool on the previous day. Then he forced himself to pay attention to what the hooded man was saying.

  “I am glad that you value honesty, Mr. Owen,” said the High Seeker. “We esteem the truth in the Eternal Dungeon.”

  Thatcher wondered then whether the High Seeker was trained to torture prisoners through laughter. Thatcher ended up bent over double, clutching at his pained sides. “I – I see,” he finally sputtered. “I’ve been searching for honest men all my life. It never occurred to me to search among torturers.”

  The High Seeker ignored this comment. “So you commanded your men to kill the Vovimian villagers in defense. Including the villagers who weren’t soldiers.”

  Thatcher sobered rapidly. “How do you know they weren’t soldiers? Those cursed raiding parties don’t dress in uniforms. For all we know, every man in that village had served his turn as a raider. They’d nearly all of them raped the women; they were all a threat.”

  “And the women of the village?” The High Seeker’s voice was quiet.

  “Helped their men. You’ve seen my report, High Seeker – you know that the women took up arms against us. Even the snake-tongued Vovimians don’t deny that.”

  He wondered briefly whether this dagger-prick would arouse a reaction, but the High Seeker merely said, “And the children?”

  Thatcher snorted. “‘Children’? Some of those so-named children were nearly full-grown, and they’d already been trained in the blood-letting customs of the Vovimians. A Vovimian child with a weapon in his hands can be as dangerous as a full-grown man – you of all people should know that.”

  This time the guard flicked a glance at Thatcher, his brows drawn low, and Thatcher guessed that the dagger had penetrated that man’s skin. But the High Seeker’s voice continued to be flat as he said, “The youngest child you killed was barely out of her cradle.”

  Thatcher felt anger rush into him suddenly. It was always this way when he was questioned. The questions would start out calm and measured; only gradually would Thatcher realize that his questioner was twisting the truth, coming as near as he dared to an outright lie. “We esteem truth in the Eternal Dungeon” – oh, if it were only true. Thatcher thought that he would have been willing to pay any price asked by someone who was really honest with him.

  But such a person did not exist, he reminded himself. He had learned that long ago.

  “If I explained to you why that was defense also, you wouldn’t understand,” he replied in a rough voice. “I don’t know why you’re wasting your time with this game. You have a witness who can testify I killed your guard – and though that was defense as well, no doubt you can twist the truth to make the magistrate send me to the hangman. Then you can burn my body and fling my ashes into the gutter.”

  “We are somewhat more careful of our prisoners’ ashes than that,” the High Seeker said softly. “In any case, what took place in this dungeon will not be charged against you unless we are unable to obtain other confessions from you. We prefer not to give witness against prisoners in matters that concern ourselves.”

  Thatcher permitted himself to bark out a laugh. Of course the High Seeker would be eager to hide from the world the fact that his guards had bumbled the simple task of serving a prisoner his meal. And because of that, the High Seeker was determined to invent another crime for Thatcher to be hung for. Thatcher found himself wondering why the High Seeker did not simply forge a confession and claim it came from Thatcher.

  But if he did, of course, he would not be able to torture Thatcher.

  Thatcher felt a chill run through his body; then he resolutely thrust that thought aside. He had joined the army knowing that he would undergo pain and might undergo death, but he had been determined to save his Queen and his fellow countryfolk against the connivings of the vicious, lying Vovimians. It had not surprised him much to discover that lies abounded in the Yclau army as well, nor that he should find his life threatened by some of the very men he had been seeking to defend. That was what life was like. He had not expected it to be any different, not for many years.

  But if he must be tortured and executed, he would at least hold to his principles, dying as a true man must. As a truthful man must.

  He pulled himself upright and said, “Ask me whatever questions you want. You’ll get nothing but honest replies from me, however much you’d like me to lie.”

  The High Seeker did not speak for a moment. Thatcher had been watching him closely since his arrival that evening, intently examining the man’s body and eyes for signs of his rumored madness. The High Seeker did not seem in any way hysterical – in fact, he was much milder in manner than Thatcher had expected a Seeker to be. As the torturer spoke, his guard’s expression would occasionally waver into brief frowns, as though the High Seeker was taking a path not expected.

  Perhaps, then, the High Seeker was mad, but his madness had taken an uncommon form. If so, Thatcher could make use of this knowledge.

  He decided to change his tactics. Emitting a hollow laugh, he said, “This is all a charade – having you of all people search me. Don’t you think I’ve heard about you? I know why you’ve decided to question me yourself. You want to know whether I killed any of your kinfolk.”

  The High Seeker’s voice was calm, measured. “As far as I know, Mr. Owen, I did not have any kinfolk in the villages you destroyed.”

  “But you could have had kin there, couldn’t you? So this is your revenge: you can break my body in order to pay me back for what I did to the Vovimians.”

  “Can I?” The High Seeker’s voice was utterly neutral. Thatcher felt himself itch with irritation. He had successfully used this tactic on all five raids – he had lured a young man into attacking him by taunting him, then had used the youth as a hostage to force the other villagers to surrender.

  This time he doubted that he could lure the High Seeker into arm’s reach. The man had taken care to place himself as far away from Thatcher as possible, and his guard was watching the proceedings with careful eyes. But if the High Seeker was really as unbalanced as Thatcher guessed, perhaps Thatcher could force him out of his abnormally calm state into whatever frenzy w
as hidden within him.

  “You’re just like the villagers I killed,” Thatcher said in a voice heavy with mockery. “I’ve met men like you dozens of times on that side of the border. Cruel, callous— Oh, yes, callous,” he said as though the High Seeker had spoken. “I can tell that just by our short acquaintance. Look at your companion!” Thatcher waved a hand toward the guard.

  The High Seeker was too well trained to look. Thatcher forced himself to laugh again. “You don’t even look at him. He hangs on your every word, probably follows you from room to room like a shadow – and what does he get in return? Nothing. You’ve probably never looked him straight in the eye the whole time he has worked for you. You barely remember that he exists.”

  “Mr. Sobel’s duty is to watch me,” said the High Seeker. “My duty is to watch the prisoner.”

  Thatcher’s blood surged warm through his body. The High Seeker had responded to one of his challenges; it was like seeing an opponent stumble during a fight. He remembered his imaginings about entering into body battle with this man, and he envisioned the High Seeker pinned to the ground, struggling to rise . . .

  “And do you care about any of the men who work for you?” asked Thatcher. “Did you care about the guard I killed? Did you instruct him on how to avoid death? If so, your training was poor. I wonder what he was thinking during his final moments of life? I’ll bargain he was thinking of your betrayal – he was thinking of how he might have lived to old age, unbloodied, if you hadn’t been so cold-hearted as to deny him the training he needed to survive.”

  He stopped only because he had run out of breath. There was no sign that the High Seeker was paying attention to his words. The man had not moved; his gaze had not faltered; his fists had not clenched.

  But when he spoke, it was in a voice so soft that it was nearly lost by the faint sounds of the flames flickering behind Thatcher.

  “Mr. Owen,” the High Seeker said, “since you are evidently not in the mood to discuss the serious charges placed against you, I think it would be best if we continued this conversation tomorrow. Good evening.”

  The High Seeker turned his back. The door at the end of the cell was already opening; the redhead, now in the uniform of a guard, had his dagger out, and for a moment it looked as though he would enter the cell. Then he stepped out of the way, and the High Seeker disappeared into the darkness of the corridor, while the first guard followed him as close as a shadow.

  Thatcher grinned. In his mind, the High Seeker lay writhing on the ground, stunned into surrendering the first round.

  o—o—o

  “So who do you reckon you’re guarding?” asked Mr. Boyd. “The High Seeker against the prisoner, or the prisoner against the High Seeker?”

  Seward took out his dagger, held it a moment over Mr. Boyd’s hands, and then deftly sliced the red ribbon that the other guard was holding for him. As Mr. Boyd laid aside the stack of documents they had just bound, Seward said, “It’s the duty of every guard to protect prisoners against anyone who might break the Code of Seeking. Including a fellow guard.”

  Misunderstanding, Mr. Boyd snorted. “As though I could do any damage to the prisoner from behind a closed door. Mr. Sobel, I had my eye pressed to the watch-hole the whole time. The High Seeker nearly went for the prisoner’s throat toward the end.”

  Seward shot him a dark look, jerking his head slightly toward the guards at the other end of their table in the entry hall. He and Mr. Boyd had been released early from their duty of guarding the prisoner’s cell, for the day guards had arrived an hour before schedule. No doubt the day guards were driven by the same curiosity that held all of the workers in this dungeon captive: to know whether the High Seeker had attacked his prisoner yet.

  Mr. Boyd looked properly rueful. He was not normally prone to gossip; the fact that he had spoken so loudly demonstrated how strong the tension was in the dungeon at the moment. Lowering his voice, Mr. Boyd said, “If you hadn’t been there, he would have killed the prisoner. Or mutilated him. Or whatever it is he dreams of doing to prisoners.”

  Seward knew more than most of the dungeon’s inhabitants did about what the High Seeker dreamed of doing to prisoners. He busied himself with tying another bundle of documents before saying, “You could say the same for me.”

  “Oh, Mr. Sobel.” Mr. Boyd, who had been standing in order to place the documents in a storage box destined for the documents library, sighed as he sat down beside Seward at the table. “You don’t think anyone could take you seriously when you say that, do you? Your record is spotless. Sweet blood, man, one has only to look at you to see how unlikely it is that you would break the Code! I’ve never met anyone so serene in disposition. You’re like day to the High Seeker’s night.”

  Seward said nothing, curling the ribbon into a perfect loop before tying it.

  The other guard, watching him closely, said, “You’re worried. You must be. You saw what I saw.”

  “What I saw,” said Seward, carefully slicing the next ribbon, “was a Seeker doing his duty.”

  Mr. Boyd was silent for a long time after that, watching Seward neatly slice out lengths of ribbon for the coming bundles, each one exactly as long as the previous one. Finally the younger guard said, “He was right, you know.”

  “The High Seeker?”

  “The prisoner. The High Seeker doesn’t look straight at you, ever. I’d noticed that.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me if he does,” Seward said, leaning over to take another stack of papers and straighten its edges. “He’s only a workmaster to me.”

  Mr. Boyd snorted again, and then lapsed into silence as another guard, wearing a black wrist-band in honor of Mr. Urman, sauntered over to ask, ever so casually, how matters were going with their prisoner.