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

by Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER TWO

  Though the Code forbade Seekers all private belongings, long-standing custom permitted them a small allowance for luxuries. The High Seeker, being Vovimian-born, spent most of his allowance on books and art, and one evening in autumn, while the rain beat upon the crystalline rock that shed the only light into the underground Eternal Dungeon, the High Seeker had shown his love-mate an etching of a Vovimian theater company in performance. For the next two hours, Elsdon had listened with fascination to the talk of stage scenery and costumes, of introductory mimes and dramatic dialogues, of divisions into acts, of conflicts, climaxes, and finales, and (since this was, after all, a Vovimian theater) of bloody corpses on the stage afterwards, and of the theater companies’ decision whether to fake the deaths or use criminal volunteers who had decided to let their execution be a final act of theater.

  “But don’t the condemned criminals panic at the last moment and spoil the show?” Elsdon had asked.

  The High Seeker had bestowed upon Elsdon that look he often gave when they were discussing his native land, as though a lifetime of words could not complete Elsdon’s education in this matter. All he said, though, was, “Not in Vovim.”

  Elsdon had spent the following night dreaming that he was watching a play in Vovim, performed by the world’s finest players. For the next few weeks, his thoughts had lingered upon the regret that he would never have the opportunity to watch a Vovimian theater performance – not unless luck turned his way.

  Luck, unfortunately, had turned his way. Amidst all his past dreamings, it had not occurred to Elsdon that he might take part in the performance himself, and that he would play the role of the criminal.

  It was perhaps not surprising to learn that the King’s palace was equipped with a theater, nor that the theater was located directly across the hallway from the throne room. Nor was it particularly surprising to learn that all of the courtiers and palace guests who had been milling about in the hallway, waiting for the King to emerge from his private audience with his High Master, were delighted to accept the King’s invitation to enjoy the performance. They crowded into the vast theater, jostled their way into cramped rows, and stood on benches at the back and sides of the theater in order to get their best glimpse of the stage.

  The stage itself had been stripped to the bare minimum, making a striking contrast with the fripperies and frills that usually adorned a royal performance. At Master Toler’s orders, the only scenery left on the stage was a blood-red curtain, which would make for an arresting contrast with both the master torturer’s uniform and the prisoner’s lack of clothes. The middle part of the curtain had been pulled up to reveal the naked stone wall behind, and here a wooden post had been fastened to the stage floor. Attached to it halfway up was a set of iron chains, which sparkled under the lamps. The other lamps in the room shone their light on the stage, or on the narrow walkway leading from the theater door to the stage.

  Elsdon made his entrance down this walkway. He was not permitted to walk.

  “Crawl,” said Master Toler.

  Elsdon stared at him. They were alone now in the throne room, though an occasional guard poked his head in to see whether Master Toler needed any assistance with the other player in this performance. The room had grown dim with twilight.

  Elsdon waited too long. With a movement too quick to see, Master Toler used his whip to send Elsdon to his knees. “Crawl,” he said in the flat voice a man might use toward a stubborn animal.

  Elsdon’s hands were still manacled behind his back. He was quite sure the master torturer had not forgotten this. Hesitantly he shuffled forward on his shins, keeping his head bowed, less for the sake of appearances than in order to avoid the remaining glass on the ground.

  It took him a quarter of an hour to reach the entrance to the theater. He was watched most of the way by the spillover crowd in the hallway. The onlookers murmured to one another, as Vovimians do during the opening mime. Three or four reached out to touch Master Toler, seeking the blessing of the gods’ favored, who had been permitted by the King to undertake the sacred task of play-acting.

  Elsdon did not notice how the master torturer reacted to these touches; he was concentrating on not collapsing in exhaustion. All that could be said of this exercise was that it took his mind off the manacles, but even this gift seemed to fade as his knees grew bloody from rubbing upon the tiles, and his legs began to ache hard.

  He had made his way halfway down the spectator-lined walkway, and was trying to decide whether play-actors were permitted to whimper, when Master Toler stopped him by cracking the whip a sheer inch from his face. “On your belly, swine,” said the master torturer in his deep-pitched voice.

  That was how Elsdon made the rest of the journey: desperately wriggling his way forward, like a fish on dry land. He managed to hold his groin up high enough to keep from scraping the most delicate parts of him, but this only increased the pressure on his face and shoulders. By the time he reached the stage, his face was dark with dust, except where tears had trailed their way down, escaping Elsdon’s control.

  Master Toler let him walk the rest of the way to the post. The master torturer had not yet touched Elsdon, nor did he do so while passing the post’s chain through the links joining the manacles. He stepped back from this chore, took off his cloak, and tossed it up to the top of the post.

  It fell perfectly, draping down as a backdrop for the prisoner. There was light applause – mere tapping of the feet – and then came the sound of shifting upon the floor as the Vovimians settled down for the play.

  Elsdon looked past the stage lamps to where the King sat in the front row. He was the only spectator sitting on a chair. The High Master, as before, had taken his place at the King’s feet, and the King was feeding him what looked like candies. It was the most royal act he had undertaken since Elsdon had met him.

  Master Toler made no preliminary speeches. “Turn round,” he told Elsdon.

  Elsdon twisted to look behind him. The chain was quite loose, enough to take him several paces away from the post. He turned his body, and there was a murmur of approval as the audience caught sight of his manacles and chain. A few of the women began cooing and whispering remarks about Elsdon’s beauty, debating which part of him was most lovely. Elsdon felt his face grow warm.

  He pressed himself against the flat post, whose hardness was softened by the thick cloak. He could guess what was coming next; he did not even need to hear the whistle of air to know that the blow was about to land.

  The blow was followed by another; it fell, as had all the others, upon the fleshy part of his upper back. He caught part of the cloak into his mouth in order to cushion his teeth, which were now clenched tight together. He knew that he had the strength to withstand a beating for long periods. The trouble was, the torturer standing beside him undoubtedly knew this as well. He wondered how long the beating would last before he fainted.

  Then the beating was over. There had been only five lashes in all; he heard the mutter of surprise from the audience, overridden by the King’s loud query, “Why’s he stopping?” The sing-song voice of the High Master murmured something in reply that must have satisfied the King, for when Elsdon turned back at Master Toler’s order, he saw that the King was feeding candies to his High Master again.

  “Now,” said Master Toler to Elsdon, “you understand that I could continue?”

  Elsdon nodded, and was rewarded by a slap. The slap was hard enough to drive his body back against the post; his only thought as his head swam from the pain was relief that the master torturer was wearing gloves better suited for holding a whip. If he had been wearing chain-mail, such a slap could have killed Elsdon.

  “This is not a mime, swine.” Master Toler’s voice was still flat, as though he were an animal trainer. “I asked you a question. Answer me.”

  “Yes, si— Yes, master. I understand that you could continue beating me.”

  “Do you understand that I have the power to torture you in every other w
ay? To burn you with irons? To tear off your nails? To place boiling water in your stomach or stinging insects in your private parts?”

  Elsdon leaned against the post in an attempt to stay upright. “Yes, master,” he whispered.

  The next slap took him awares. He let his body go limp long enough to absorb the shock, and then concentrated all his effort on not falling to the floor. The women were beginning to coo again; the men were growling with evident enjoyment of this performance. The King was saying, “I must have him back at my dungeon! Do you hear me, Milly?”

  “This . . . is not . . . a mime,” Master Toler said in an exaggerated manner. “Answer my question clearly.”

  “Yes, master. I understand that you can torture me in any way you wish.”

  “And you are powerless to stop me, aren’t you, swine?”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Dear me.” For a moment, the master torturer’s voice was as light as the High Master’s. “And here I thought the Yclau were all-knowledgeable and all-powerful.”

  For a moment, the theater was silent, except for the whispers of the palace children, sitting in the front row. Then the spectators fully absorbed this change from tragedy to comedy, and laughter sprang up from the audience. The King was stamping one of his feet enthusiastically; the High Master simply smiled. His gaze was fixed, not on Master Toler, but on Elsdon.

  Master Toler waited for the laughter to die down, and then said, “I can make this hard for you, you know.”

  “Yes, master.” He could not raise his voice above a whisper; he could feel the manacles biting into his wrists.

  The master torturer did not slap him this time. Instead, he added, “Or I could make this easy for you.”

  Elsdon’s breath froze in his throat. A whisper passed through the crowd, like wind across grass. The King leaned forward, frowning.

  “I can break you by brute force,” Master Toler said. “Such a breaking would be sloppy, inartistic – in no way worthy of the refined tastes of our audience.”

  The whisper turned to an approving murmur; the King nodded vigorously. The High Master’s smile had slid into amusement, as though he were continuing to watch a comedy.

  “I can break you that way,” said Master Toler, “or I can break you with the artist’s touch – with the skill of a craftsman, through rule and measure rather than in measureless chaos. Which would you prefer, swine?”

  Elsdon felt the audience’s anticipation in the silence that had fallen upon the theater. Even the crowd in the hallway had gone still. He knew what Master Toler wanted him to say, but even if he had not, he knew what the crowd wanted him to say. He was surprised to realize that his answer was as much influenced by the latter as by the former.

  “Whichever would allow me to play my role best, master.”

  The thudding of feet startled him; he was even more startled to realize that the applause was for him. He stared around the crowd. Some of the men were growling again, and their growling was evidently not out of desire for his blood.

  “Good,” Master Toler said briskly. “That will make our performances in union with one another. What is your name, player?”

  He felt his breath catch once more as he passed through the first turning point in the play. “My name is Elsdon Taylor, master.”

  “Taylor. Mr. Taylor.” The master torturer’s voice took on a tone of faint mockery. “That is how you are addressed at home?”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Well, then, we must follow your custom, since the Yclau are notoriously bad at learning to follow other people’s customs.”

  To his surprise, there was no laughter this time, simply nods and exchanged looks. The King yawned, and for a moment it looked as though he would fall asleep, but the High Master poked him and opened his mouth wide. The King leaned forward and placed another candy in it. A titter of amusement came from the people sitting nearest to the King.

  “These are the rules we play by, Mr. Taylor,” said the master torturer. “You violate them at your peril. You will reply to every question I ask you. You will reply with truth. You will listen carefully to all the questions I ask, and you will not defy me in any way.”

  “Yes, master.” He felt an easiness enter him at the familiarity of this. If it had not been for the manacles binding his wrists, he might have been able to imagine that this was a day like any other day.

  Master Toler paused a moment. With his cloak off, it could be seen that his body was lean rather than muscular – the body of a dancer rather than of a heavy laborer. In the bright light of the stage-lamps, his facial features showed more clearly through the veil: a mouth set grimly, eyes that were dark in color rather than light. Still, though, Elsdon could not tell what expression the eyes held.

  “Why did you come to Vovim?” The question was as quick as a lash. Elsdon could tell that their audience was awaiting his answer with still breath.

  “We heard in the Eternal Dungeon that the King of Vovim had—” He hesitated, but Master Toler’s eyes were upon him, so he said, “We heard that the King had reneged on his promise to reform Vovim’s dungeon and prisons. I came here to teach the King and his people about the Code of Seeking, so that they would know how to improve their prison system.”

  He could not have said more if he had wanted; his closing words were swallowed up in a roar as the audience surged to its feet, like a wave in the moments before a beach is destroyed. In the front row, the King was screaming, “Kill him! Kill him now!”

  The High Master’s face was dark with anger, but he said nothing; his gaze had switched to Master Toler.

  Master Toler raised his hand. Such was the power he had established in this place that the audience began to subside almost immediately. He waited until the spectators were settled back down in their places and the shouts had turned to murmurs before he asked Elsdon, “What crime have you committed?”

  “Master, I have committed no crimes.”

  Growling began in the audience, of an unfriendly sort. It was clear that Elsdon had lost whatever sympathy the spectators had held for him before. Master Toler said nothing; he simply looked at Elsdon silently with his dark eyes.

  Elsdon said, somewhat desperately, “Master, I can’t answer your questions if you ask me the wrong ones! If you—”

  “Turn.”

  The coldness of Master Toler’s voice was like a blast of icy air upon the heated crowd. There was instant silence. Elsdon turned slowly to face the post; he could feel that he was beginning to shake. He kept his eyes fixed on the master torturer.

  “Now,” said Master Toler, so softly that the audience leaned forward as one in order to hear him, “do you understand why I am punishing you?”

  Elsdon swallowed in an attempt to clear the dryness in his throat. “Yes, master. I failed to show respect to you.”

  “You defied me,” Master Toler clarified, perhaps for the sake of the slower-witted members of the audience. “Do you accept this punishment as just?”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Good.” Master Toler drew back his arm.

  It was true that Elsdon had the ability to withstand long torture, provided that it was not the wrong kind of torture. But his day had been lengthy, and this was the fourth time he had received a beating. By the end of the third lash, he felt his legs begin to give way. Only Master Toler’s sudden, tight grip on his elbow saved him from sliding to the floor. Behind him, the audience was utterly mute; the loudest sound was Elsdon’s suppressed sobs, muffled against the post.

  For a moment the scene was still, a tableau freezing the action in the play. Then Master Toler released him. Elsdon pressed himself against the post, having received no order to turn. It was the first time Master Toler had touched him, other than to slap him. He could feel the master torturer’s touch burning his skin.

  From beside him, Master Toler said, “My fellow player requires a moment of respite, so I will take this opportunity to explain the nature of the drama tonight. . . . . You a
ll know what crime this man has committed.”

  There was a murmur of agreement, punctuated by the King saying, “Milly? What is he talking about?” This was followed by the High Master’s voice, too low to be heard. Then, “Oh!” said the King, with evident pleasure.

  Master Toler took no notice of the interruption. “You know what crime he has committed, but he is an Yclau, ignorant of his offense. Where he comes from, such misdeeds are so common as to go unnoticed. So I will guide him, through my questions, to knowledge of what he has done, and along the way, if I am not mistaken, we will learn that his malefaction is not isolated, but is instead part of a larger pattern of deeds that offend the gods.”

  Elsdon had forgotten about the sharp pain of the lash, had forgotten even about the bindings at his wrists. He was staring at the master torturer, trying to ascertain whether this was some new form of deception or whether Master Toler had spoken truthfully of a horror to come.

  The master torturer flicked his hand at Elsdon, who turned round to face the crowd in obedience to the gesture, slower than before. His heart was beating him as hard as the lash had.

  “Since you seem incapable of following my instruction to listen carefully to my questions,” the master torturer said with a light irony that raised laughter from the audience, “I will rephrase my question. What crime have you committed in your lifetime?”

  Elsdon took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Four years ago I committed a murder, master.”

  “Indeed.” Master Toler sounded unsurprised. “And what was the cause of the murder? Anger? Jealousy? Lust?”

  “I . . . There were a number of causes, master. But my primary fault lay in my unwillingness to acknowledge to myself that I had the capacity to murder. And also that I allowed myself, in my pride, to think that I could resolve the problems in my life in this way.”

  “Thoughtlessness. Arrogance. Those were the roots of your crime?”

  “Yes, master.”

  “You acknowledge that.”

  “Yes, master. From the time I gave my confession, I have always been honest about what I did.”

  “Really?” The master torturer sounded so skeptical that several of the listening children giggled. “Well, Mr. Taylor, if you are as honest with yourself as you claim, the rest of this performance should travel as trimly as a well-crafted boat. Were you judged by the authorities for your crime?”

  “Yes, master.” Elsdon tensed in expectation of the questions about the nature of his crime.

  Master Toler, though, asked only, “What punishment were you given?”

  “Eternal confinement in the Eternal Dungeon.”

  A moment later he flinched, realizing that he had not addressed Master Toler formally, but the master torturer had evidently reached the stage where his mind was on the substance of the searching rather than the form. “The Eternal Dungeon. That is where you work as a Seeker now?” he asked.

  Elsdon nodded. Master Toler leaned toward him, saying, “Those who run the dungeon must trust you greatly, if they permit you the freedom to remain unbound – the freedom even to hold power over others.”

  “Yes, master. I know that I have received fortune I do not deserve.”

  In the audience, a number of the men were beginning to nod their heads; the women had begun their cooing again. The King yawned.

  “You say that you were eternally confined within the Eternal Dungeon. Yet you have left the dungeon, haven’t you?”

  He felt the words like the pricking of a torturer’s dagger, warning of an upcoming flaying. With a halting voice, he said, “Yes, master. I . . . I have left the dungeon three times since my arrival there.”

  “The first time was on your previous visit to Vovim?” Master Toler waited only long enough for Elsdon to nod, then asked, “How is it that you were allowed to leave the dungeon then?”

  “I carried a message from my Queen. She gave me permission to leave the Eternal Dungeon, for the duration of my mission.”

  “And the second time . . .”

  “It was for an urgent family matter.” He felt Master Toler’s gaze upon him, heavy like a stone upon the chest, and he added, “The Codifier – the man who supervises the ethical conduct of the Eternal Dungeon – gave me permission on that occasion.”

  “And he had the power to give you permission because . . .”

  “My confinement is regulated by the Code, master. I am bound to the Eternal Dungeon, not only by the sentence given to me by the Queen’s magistrates, but also by my oath as a Seeker.”

  “I see.” The master torturer’s voice was light. “And who granted you permission to leave the Eternal Dungeon on this third occasion? —Raise your voice, Mr. Taylor,” he added, though Elsdon had not yet opened his mouth. “I believe that some of the members of our audience are having difficulty in hearing you.”

  He did his best to follow the order, but his voice emerged as a squeak. “No one.”

  The King, who had been on the point of nodding off, jerked awake as the High Master gripped his leg tightly. A rumble like an incipient earthquake had begun in the audience. In the hallway, several people were shouting the news to those who had been unable to hear.

  “No one?” No sign of surprise lay beneath the heavy mockery of Master Toler’s voice. “No one in Yclau gave you permission to leave the Eternal Dungeon and come here?”

  “I . . .” It was becoming hard to breathe; he had to make a second try at speaking. “I asked the High Seeker’s permission.”

  “Oh, I see.” Master Toler folded his arms without loosening his grip on his whip. “And he granted you his permission.”

  “No, master,” Elsdon said breathlessly. “He – he thought it would be too dangerous a mission for me. Because of what happened last time I visited Vovim.”

  “Let me see whether I understand you.” Master Toler raised his voice above the rising murmur of the crowd. “Your High Seeker forbade you to leave the Eternal Dungeon, your Codifier did not offer you release from the dungeon, and your Queen, presumably, knew nothing about this. Have I understood you correctly?”

  Elsdon gave up the effort to speak; he nodded.

  “Mr. Taylor.” Master Toler’s voice was so soft that the audience was forced to hush itself in order to listen. “You appear to have all the signs of being an intelligent young man. I assume that you had a reason for breaking the rules placed upon you by your workmasters, for defying the wishes of your monarch, and for violating the trust given to you by those who had shown you mercy after you committed a vile act. I would be most interested in hearing what that reason is.”

  Elsdon squeezed his manacled hands together tightly. He tried to speak steadily, as a Seeker should. “Master, my highest loyalty is not to any man or woman, but to the Code. The Queen and Codifier and High Seeker all understand this – the Queen permits the Code to be used in her dungeon with the understanding that it will be the supreme guide for Seekers’ consciences. And the Code is quite clear in stating that, if a Seeker’s superior should try to force a Seeker to act in a manner that would violate the best interests of the prisoners, the Seeker must follow the Code rather than his superior.”

  Master Toler nodded. “So you sought to follow the Code by coming here.”

  “Yes, master. I thought I could help the Vovimian prisoners if I could persuade the King to adopt the Code of Seeking in his dungeon and prisons.”

  “You knew that you might receive punishment from your own people for this act?”

  “I was sure I would, master.”

  In the audience, the women were beginning to coo again; the men were watching Elsdon with sober eyes. The High Master’s grey eyes were as blank as a cloudy day.

  The King was fiddling with the candy in his lap and sighing.

  “So you risked punishment in order to come here.” No mockery could be heard in the master torturer’s words. Then, like the sting of an unexpected lash, he added, “And have you been successful in your mission?”

  Els
don was left too breathless to speak. Nor did Master Toler give him time to do so; he rained down the questions hard, in short intervals. “Have you been successful in the past in such work? Are you trained in diplomacy? Have you learned the methods by which to make your words to high persons be a healing balm rather than a cause for war? Did you come here with any expectation whatsoever that you might fail in your mission, and did you think about the consequences for Yclau if you angered the King and his people?”

  Elsdon bit his lip hard and shook his head.

  “You did not think of the consequences for failure.” Master Toler let the words drop like heavy irons upon him. “You did not think of what would happen to Yclau if, presenting yourself as a representative of the Queen’s dungeon, you gave offense to the King. You did not think of what would happen to the Eternal Dungeon if your offense was so great that you were tortured and executed – you did not think of what your loss would mean for the prisoners awaiting you at home. Did you even think of what it would mean to the prisoners in this kingdom if you angered the King so greatly that he decided to take harsher measures against the prisoners than he had in the past?”

  “No, master.” He could scarcely keep his voice level now. “I didn’t think—”

  “You didn’t think,” Master Toler cut in. “You were thoughtless. And what else were you, Mr. Taylor?”

  There was a short silence, and then Elsdon said in a small voice, “Arrogant.”

  Master Toler kept his gaze fixed upon Elsdon for a long moment. Then he turned to face the audience. On cue, the spectators stamped their feet, pleasure written across their faces. Master Toler gave them a brief bow. Elsdon resisted the odd impulse to do likewise.

  A long pause followed. Elsdon guessed that, under ordinary circumstances, the stageworkers would have been scuttling about, changing the scenery for the next act. In the front row, several of the youngest children climbed into the laps of their mothers and promptly fell asleep. The King looked as though he would have liked to have joined them. The rest of the audience, though, remained wide-eyed.

  Finally Master Toler turned to Elsdon and said, “You have confessed to committing one crime against the gods. Good. What other crime have you committed?”

  “Master, I . . .” His eye was on the whip, which the master torturer continued to hold in hand. “I am not aware that I have committed any other crimes.”

  “Mr. Taylor,” said Master Toler in a voice so soft that several of the women in the audience shivered visibly, “I would ask once again that you listen carefully to my questions. Have you committed any crime against the gods? Does nothing weigh upon your conscience?”

  The audience leaned forward. Several of the children gulped in air and then waited, cheeks puffed, to prevent the sound of their breaths from obscuring the answer.

  “Yes, master. Something weighs on my conscience.”

  Grumbles began in the back of the theater from those who were having difficulty hearing the dialogue. With a terse gesture, Master Toler indicated that Elsdon should speak louder. Elsdon found himself desperately wishing that he was performing in Yclau. The audience there would be more inclined to lose interest, and the theater acoustics would be better. He said, “When I departed the Eternal Dungeon, I left no note for the High Seeker, telling him why I had left—”

  “This is the High Seeker of the Eternal Dungeon, your love-mate?” Master Toler’s voice was pitched to carry out the door and into the hallway.

  Elsdon felt the beginnings of a flush upon his face. That fact did not go unnoticed by the children, who giggled, nor by the women, who cooed once more. Elsdon said, with the start of panic tightening his chest, “I thought he would understand that I was leaving because I believed that the Code required it of me. But I learned today that the High Seeker has entered into illness. Master, I am responsible for that illness—”

  “Turn.”

  The command caught the audience off-guard; several of the men frowned, and several of the women shook their heads. The King brightened and tossed three candies toward the High Master.

  Master Toler waited until Elsdon was facing the post again, and then said, “Do you understand why I am punishing you?”

  “Yes, master,” Elsdon replied in a shaking voice. “I claimed a greater crime than I could be sure I had committed.”

  “Do you accept this punishment as just?”

  Elsdon nodded. Master Toler said, “You were overzealous rather than intentionally deceptive. Your punishment will be less this time.” Over the groan of disappointment from the King, Master Toler brought his whip down in one brief, burning lash, and then gestured to Elsdon to turn back.

  Elsdon did so. His vision was swimming, but he could see that the men who had been frowning before were still frowning. Some of the women were actually dabbing at tears with their handkerchiefs.

  Master Toler paused a moment, and then said, “You were speaking of the High Seeker’s madness.”

  His voice contained so much sarcasm that several of the children giggled. Elsdon felt the flush spread to his ears. “Yes, master. I believe I may be partly responsible for the High Seeker’s ill health. He— My presence has been important to him for the past four years. He may believe that I left the dungeon, not out of duty, but because we quarrelled over whether I should go to Vovim. He may believe that I left him because I was angry at him, and my loss may have sent him into – into madness.”

  Master Toler’s veiled eyes did not shift from Elsdon. “You are speaking of the High Seeker? The man who rescued you from Vovim the last time you were imprisoned here?”

  “Yes, master. He risked his life to save me.” Elsdon felt his throat closing.

  “And you left no note for him? Did you leave a note for any other friend who might have been concerned for your welfare if it was discovered you were missing?”

  “No, master.” He felt the weight of those unshifting eyes and added, “It was thoughtless of me. And . . . and my act arose from arrogance. My mind was on myself rather than on those I left behind. If the High Seeker is truly mad—”

  His voice was swallowed up by the sound of stamping, so loud that the stage vibrated under Elsdon’s bare feet. Master Toler responded to the applause with another swift bow, and then glanced at Elsdon, who was standing motionless, staring at him as his Adam’s apple worked up and down in his throat.

  “You have confessed to two crimes,” said Master Toler as the audience settled down for the third act. “That is two more crimes than you were willing to admit you had committed at the beginning of this play. Are you willing now to guess what crime you committed that so angered these good people?”

  “I . . .” His throat was still tight. He wished, with hopeless despair, that he could clear the room of all the spectators and go down on his knees before the master torturer, receiving his judgment alone for what he had done. At least in the Eternal Dungeon, confessions were given without several hundred people listening.

  “I would be willing to have you educate me on what I have done,” Elsdon said finally.

  “Indeed.” Master Toler’s voice was dense with skepticism. “You are willing to learn from me. How very unlike the Yclau.”

  There were a few scattered chuckles as the heat in Elsdon’s face grew worse. Then Master Toler said, “Let us speculate here. Let us suppose that the two crimes you’ve confessed to had not been committed. In this supposing, you came here lawfully, as an ambassador for your Queen, trained in the arts of diplomacy. The High Seeker gave you his blessing for the journey; the Codifier granted his permission for you to leave the Eternal Dungeon. Under such circumstances, would you consider your mission to be in any way flawed?”

  “No, master. I may have been the wrong person to undertake this mission, but I don’t believe it was wrong for someone from Yclau to come here and teach the Vovimians how to reform their dungeon and prisons through the Code.”

  Like a dog on a tether, the audience growled. The King said loudly, “Milly, when
will he torture him again?”

  Master Toler’s eye flicked over to the King; then he said, “Turn.”

  Elsdon stared at him blankly. Then he saw the master torturer’s hand begin to rise and he quickly turned to face the post. His stomach churned from sudden sickness, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He no longer wanted to see what lay within those veiled eyes.

  He heard a step beside him, and the ritual words were spoken. “Do you understand why I am punishing you?”

  Elsdon shook his head. The voice continued as though there had been no break in the routine: “Do you accept this punishment as just?”

  “No, master.”

  The audience’s growling had stopped. The crowd waited, poised in anticipation for an unexpected change in the drama. Master Toler raised his voice. “I know, sire, that you and all other intelligent members of this audience understand what has been occurring for the past minutes. If I had simply used brute force against my fellow player, he would not have been able to offer to me the confessions he did, for his awareness that he had committed these crimes lay deeper than surface thought. He offered his confessions freely because my questions forced him to confront what he had done, and also because he was secure in his knowledge that truth from him would be rewarded and lies would be punished.

  “Now he believes that he is about to be punished for telling the truth. Believing that, he will no longer have incentive to answer my questions, and he will return to his previous obstinacy. I ask you, good onlookers: Shall I beat him? Or shall I continue with the searching?”

  Phrased this way, there could be no doubt which answer the master torturer desired, but the audience entered into the spirit of the drama, crying out, “Search him, master! Search him! Search your fellow player!”

  “Beat him!” screamed the King, oblivious to the consensus elsewhere in the theater.

  Elsdon opened his eyes in time to see Master Toler bow in the direction of the King. “Your humor is famed throughout the world, sire. I would give much to see you perform in a comedy.”

  The King made no reply, evidently taking Master Toler’s words as a compliment – and indeed, Elsdon guessed, such a statement was a compliment in Vovim. Master Toler gestured, and Elsdon slowly returned to his previous position. His stomach was still churning, but only because he guessed that this third act would be the worst.

  “Tell me, Mr. Taylor,” said Master Toler, “when you were in Vovim last, did you have the opportunity to speak about the Code to anyone?”

  “Yes, master.” Elsdon saw the King lean forward, frowning, and he hastily added, “I spoke of the Code only with my torturer, who later died. And . . . Well, I suppose I ended up learning as much from him as I sought to teach. He was a wise man.”

  “Really?” The master torturer’s voice was light. “Does that fact prompt any additional thoughts in you?”

  Elsdon shook his head, and Master Toler sighed. He glanced at the audience, whose members sighed in unison. Elsdon felt the bewilderment of someone who has not been told the meaning of a joke that everyone else understands. As far as he could tell, the King – whose brow was creased with concentration – was the only other person in the theater who failed to understand which direction Master Toler was headed in.

  “Mr. Taylor,” said the master torturer, “I would like you to reflect for a moment on the confessions you have offered. Think of what caused those crimes, and what the consequences of your crimes were. Think how far back the roots of your crime lie, and of what the consequences for your acts have been in the past. . . . You have thought on that? Good. Now, I trust that, being a Seeker, you have a good memory. I would like you to cast your mind back to the speech you gave at the beginning of this searching, and to repeat that speech again.”

  “I said that we’d heard the news that the King had . . . had decided not to institute certain reforms—”

  “Mr. Taylor.” The coldness of Master Toler’s voice caused several of the children to clutch at each other. “I know that you have difficulty listening carefully to my instructions, so I will state them once more. You are to repeat what you said earlier. Not what you would say now, after two confessions. I wish you to say what you said before.”

  Elsdon licked his lips, which had turned dry. “I said that the King had reneged on his promise to introduce prison reform. I said that I had come here to teach the King and his people . . .”

  His voice died away. Before him, the audience sat motionless. An Yclau theater audience would have shuffled or whispered during a pause in the action, but this audience was so perfectly trained that even the children did not wriggle. The High Master, from his position at the King’s feet, showed no inclination to break the silence.

  “Sweet blood,” Elsdon whispered.

  “You have a confession to offer, Mr. Taylor?”

  Elsdon turned his gaze toward the master torturer. Master Toler had positioned himself to one side, allowing the lamps to center their light upon his fellow player. At no point in the performance had he obscured the audience’s view of Elsdon; at no point had he sought to turn their attention away from Elsdon’s words. He was a player in a supporting role; he had bound himself as much by the rules of theater as had the audience below.

  Elsdon knew then what he must do. He would not have done it if he had been imprisoned in a cell of the Eternal Dungeon, speaking only to his Seeker and perhaps a guard or two. But he was standing on a stage in a kingdom famed for its theater, and he guessed what it was that Master Toler would have done, if he had been playing this role.

  He sank to his knees and bowed his head. Without looking up to see how the audience reacted to this, he said, in a clear voice meant to reach into the hallway, “Sire, I would like to ask your forgiveness, and the forgiveness of the High Master and all others here who have heard my words. When I spoke earlier, on this stage and in private with you, I spoke with arrogance and thoughtlessness, presenting myself as a teacher who had nothing to learn from those I sought to teach. I . . . I still believe that the Code is a great work and worthy to be followed. But I see now that I have made the same mistake I made on my previous trip to Vovim, of believing that I had nothing to learn from those I spoke with here. This play . . . It could have been performed in Yclau, perhaps, but few of the Yclau would have understood its meaning. You in Vovim are far better at listening, and at learning from what you have heard, than anyone I have met in my own queendom.”

  After a moment, he raised his eyes high enough to see the audience. The people were motionless, as though they dared not break the silence after such words. Master Toler looked down upon him, as silent as the rest. The High Master’s eyes had gone blank again.

  “Where’s the punishment?”

  The King’s shout spread murmurs through the audience, like ripples when a still pond has been unexpectedly jarred by a rock. Several of the men glared at the King.

  The High Master jumped to his feet. “Oh, yes!” he said. “The prisoner has confessed, he must be punished! We could pull him up on weights like this—” He stood on tiptoe, raising his hands high above him. “Or we could strangle him—” He put his own hand to his throat, made strangling noises, and fell to the floor, his limbs jerking in spasms. “Or we could use the horses—” He stretched himself out spreadeagle, and began crying, “Oh! Oh! Oh!”

  The audience’s mood changed from anger to amusement; laughter swelled as the hapless High Master struggled to escape his invisible bonds. Even the King joined in the laughter, throwing candies onto his High Master.

  Master Toler alone seemed incapable of recognizing the comedy. As the High Master finally sat up, brushing dust out of his hair, the master torturer said soberly, “Thank you, High Master; I appreciate your reminders of the possible consequences for ill deeds. And I thank you also, sire, for recognizing the needed finale to this play. But I will not be the one to supply the finale.” His eyes turned toward Elsdon.

  Immediately the audience was still once more. Even the King who, m
oments before, had been counting the remaining candies with a frown, showed interest in this concluding portion of the play. The master torturer said, “Mr. Taylor, under ordinary circumstances it is the torturer who decides the penalty for a prisoner’s ill deed, following in conformity with the wishes of his King. You, however, have shown yourself capable of honesty beyond that which most prisoners are able to demonstrate.” There were nods throughout the audience, and several of the women called out Elsdon’s name. It was clear that, if nothing else, Elsdon’s name would be remembered afterwards for his single role as a play-actor.

  “Mr. Taylor,” said Master Toler, in carefully spaced words, “our King, who is the supreme judge of crimes committed by persons who dwell in or visit this land, has heard your confessions and considers that you are deserving of punishment. Full punishment, I would guess – am I right, sire?” He turned to look at the King, who nodded energetically. “Full punishment,” repeated the master torturer. “Not lesser punishment. Not mercy. You are to be given the full penalties of the law. Mr. Taylor, by your honor as a Seeker, tell me what punishment you would receive if your Queen considered you fully guilty of the crimes you have committed.”

  Elsdon looked at the crowd. Some of the children were now sitting on their hands in an evident effort to keep from wriggling with excitement. Most of the women had their handkerchiefs out and were holding those cloths against their mouths in anticipation of his reply. The men looked even more sober than they had at previous points in the drama.

  Elsdon said, “For the third crime I committed, of failing to see how much I could learn from the Vovimians . . . I would receive little punishment for that. The High Seeker might reprimand me, but in Yclau we believe that honest mistakes are a source for learning and should not receive harsh punishment.”

  The audience’s heads swivelled to look at Master Toler, as though doubting that he would accept this statement. The master torturer nodded, though. He said, “And the second crime?”

  “The second crime, of causing anguish and perhaps even madness to those who care for me . . . I would receive no punishment for that. It will weigh on my conscience to the end of my life, but it is not a crime under Yclau law.”

  The audience began to frown. The King said loudly, “He’s lying, isn’t he, Milly? He’s trying to avoid being punished.” The High Master did not reply. His head was upon the King’s lap again, and his gaze was once more fixed on Elsdon.

  “That leaves us with the first crime,” said Master Toler. “That crime would be judged by the Codifier, if I understood you correctly before?”

  “Yes, master. The Codifier serves as magistrate to Seekers who break the Code. The High Seeker offers his recommendation for a sentence, and the Queen and her magistrates have oversight upon the judgment, but the Codifier is the one who issues the sentence, and his rulings are rarely overturned.”

  The King looked as though he were disposed to react to this speech by going to sleep. Only the restless movement of the High Master, raising his head from the King’s lap, kept the monarch from missing the final lines of the play. The rest of the audience showed no inclination to lose interest. They had grown tense, as though fearing that the beauty of the play was about to be spoiled by a player’s willful refusal to play his part.

  “Mr. Taylor, what sentence would you be given for leaving the Eternal Dungeon in violation of the Code, if you were judged fully guilty?” asked Master Toler.

  Several of the women bit their knuckles in their anxiety. A few of the children began to cry, apparently fearing that the play would be ruined. The men exchanged shrugs with one another. If one performed a play with a foreign player, what else could one expect?

  Not in Vovim. The High Seeker’s words shot through Elsdon like a mortal blow. He had not understood the words then. He understood them now.

  He turned his gaze to the master torturer, who was waiting in silence. The torturer’s eyes remained veiled. In a voice as clear as that in which he had given his final confession, Elsdon said, “Death.”

  Master Toler’s eyes closed. His whip slipped from his hand and landed upon the stage with a thud. He bowed his head, as though he were the one who had just entered into defeat.

  Elsdon heard a rustling sound and turned his face back toward the crowd. He was not sure what to expect; he had never known much about Vovimian theater.

  He remembered what the High Seeker had told him during their conversation over the etching. “What is the audience doing?” Elsdon had asked, pointing. “They look as though they’re crawling toward the stage.”

  The High Seeker had given a snort of laughter. “They do, don’t they? Vovimian religious rites look odd to outside observers.”

  “Religious rites?” responded Elsdon. “You said this was a theater perfor— Oh. This is part of the sacred nature of Vovimian theater, then? The people are performing a rite?”

  “They are praying to the gods. To Mercy, if the protagonist of the play has received mercy; to the torture-god, if the protagonist has been condemned to death. You’d be unlikely to see this rite performed if you attended a Vovimian play, though. It occurs only at the most sacred performances, when the audience believes that the play-acting has reached such heights that the players have truly transformed the stage into a dwelling for the gods.”

  On the royal stage of Vovim, a condemned criminal stood silent, looking down at his audience. He could not see the people’s faces. All of the spectators – men, women, and children – were now on their forearms and shins, in the position of adoration before the gods. Even the High Master’s head was bowed, though whether from piety or from sleepiness it was hard to tell, for his hair obscured his face.

  In the hallway, where Elsdon could not be seen but had been heard, one of the young men raised his voice and began chanting the words of evening prayer.

  Elsdon closed his eyes. He had faced death before, and he had thought then that he knew what an execution entailed: a brief, ugly hanging, with no witnesses other than family. In his case, as he was a kin-murderer, no one would have attended his execution except his Seeker. His Seeker, perhaps, might have mourned his passing; no one else would have.

  Here his death, like the deaths of other condemned criminals before him, would bring grief to the hearts of a large number of strangers. The women who had cooed and wept no longer seemed odd and distasteful to him; they were acting in a manner natural to Vovimian theater-goers, caring deeply for the protagonist in his final moments. Yclau knew nothing of this method of bringing comfort and love to a condemned criminal. Only the Vovimians held this secret.

  “Where’s the treasure? I want to see the treasure!”

  Master Toler raised his head. Even with the veil in place, the anger in his face was clear. All around the room, worshippers were rising slowly from their ritual positions, fury in their faces at this interruption to the sacred rite. Some of the men were beginning to bang their fists against their thighs. Clearly, if the King had been anyone less than who he was, his interruption would have caused the audience to sacrifice him to the gods.

  The High Master looked for a moment as though he were going to leap to his feet and renew his capering performance. Master Toler, though, said in a brief, taut voice, “Do you wish me to speak of this matter in front of the others, sire?”

  The King looked round, as though suddenly aware that the play had been performed for others beside himself. “No!” he said quickly. “I want to hear it alone. With my guards,” he added.

  “And me?” the High Master asked eagerly. “Please, sire, may I hear the secret also?”

  The King chuckled and rumpled the High Master’s hair. “Of course, Milly. I wouldn’t close my door to you.”

  The audience left slowly, casting long looks behind them. Clearly they regretted not being able to stay with Elsdon during his final moments. Elsdon stood motionless for a while, watching them leave. Then, as the last rows began to depart, he spontaneously bowed.

  This caused a
final flurry of stamping, much more vigorous than any that had occurred before, and then the door was closed, and Elsdon was left alone with the King, his guards, the High Master, and the master torturer.

  Master Toler waited until the voices in the hallway had faded in the distance. Then he said, “You have already seen the treasure, sire – it lay in our performance. The play we enacted tonight has been performed many times in Yclau. There it goes by the name of the Code, but that is only the Yclau’s way of trying to pretend that they invented this method of breaking. In actual fact, this method of handling prisoners was invented by the Vovimians, and the King ought to be receiving the fame for this discovery that the world has given to the queendom of Yclau.”

  “That’s all?” the King said in a disappointed voice. “All that talking you did – that’s the missing treasure?” He looked over at the High Master. “Milly, what’s special about what this torturer did? I don’t understand.”

  The High Master looked up from where he had been playing with a piece of candy on the floor. “I believe, sire, that Master Toler has just demonstrated to us a method by which prisoners can be broken with little use of physical torture.”

  “But my torturers can do that! Can’t they?”

  “Of course they can, sire,” Master Toler said before the High Master could reply. “The man sitting next to you is more accomplished at that art than any other torturer I knew at the Hidden Dungeon. Much of what I performed tonight I learned from observing him at his work. I would not presume to teach the High Master on such a matter.”

  A catlike smile crept onto the High Master’s face, and then was hidden as he bowed his head to look down at the candy.

  “No, sire, breaking by means of words is still practiced in the Hidden Dungeon,” Master Toler continued as he pulled his cloak from the post and placed it over his shoulders. “But the rest of what I did – using strict and measured rules by which to search the prisoner – has been forgotten in Vovim, except in my province. It was only by binding myself and the prisoner to such rules that I was able to break him in so swift and effective a manner. This the Yclau know, and this is why they have twisted the original Vovimian knowledge of the value of rules, called the results their ‘Code,’ and told the world that they are the greatest torturers in the world. If there is any truth to their claim of skill, however, it is only because they have stolen Vovimian treasure. If I were so bold as to advise you, sire, my counsel would be that you take back what is rightfully Vovim’s, and show the world that the King’s torturers know best how to break prisoners by rule and measure.”

  The King frowned, like a small child trying to make sense of a lesson. The High Master sighed, apparently because he was unable to find enough green candies to line up with red candies. “Sire, I’m sleepy,” he said, looking up. “Could we finish the punishment now and decide about the rest of this later?”

  “Oh, yes, the punishment.” The King brightened. “I want eight horses used – all eight. I want to see his body torn asunder all at once!”

  Elsdon pressed himself back against the post in a desperate attempt to stay upright. He looked over at Master Toler, but the master torturer seemed disinclined to argue against the King’s choice. The High Master rose to his feet and began bouncing up and down.

  “Oh, yes!” he said as he clapped. “Yes, let’s use all eight horses! And we can castrate the prisoner beforehand! Oh, sire, it will be so wonderful. It will only take four or five hours to ready the horses and their drivers and to gather an audience—”

  “Four or five hours?” The King’s face fell. “I don’t want to wait that long for an execution. I want him to die now!”

  “Certainly, sire,” said Master Toler in a serene manner, scooping up his whip. “I can take care of that matter for you. So you would prefer that I perform the execution in private?”

  The King appeared uncertain. He looked up at the High Master, who shrugged in a resigned manner. “Well, it would be nice if you could watch, sire. Master Toler is so skilled at strangling. But if it is not to be a public execution . . .”

  “I do want to go to bed.” The King looked over at Elsdon, who was now staring with wide eyes at the master torturer’s hands. The King smiled. “All right, Master Toler; I’ll let you exercise your skill. But you must tell me tomorrow how it went. I want to know every detail.”

  “Certainly, sire.” Master Toler bowed, and then said to the High Master, “I will need a private place for the execution.”

  “Of course,” said the High Master, leaping to his feet. “I know just the place for you. Oh, it is so exciting to see you at work again. I always liked the way you snap the bones of prisoners’ necks. It makes such a nice crunching sound.” And he skipped down the walkway as Master Toler gripped Elsdon’s arm hard and pulled him, half-fainting, toward the door.