The Eternal Dungeon: a Turn-of-the-Century Toughs omnibus
Page 65
CHAPTER THREE
Where Vovim’s dungeon was hidden that month Elsdon did not know; nor did he ever learn. The royal palace itself, he discovered, had a small dungeon, presumably a holding place for criminals destined for the High Master’s home. It was far darker than the Hidden Dungeon.
They made their way mutely down the steps: first a palace page-boy carrying a lantern; then the High Master; then Elsdon, still gripped hard by Master Toler; and finally the High Master’s personal guards, their bayonets occasionally pricking Elsdon in the back.
No one appeared to be in the palace dungeon – at least, no one who was still alive. They stopped finally at an iron door in the stone wall, and the High Master waved forward one of the guards, who opened the door. The page-boy, reaching up on tiptoe, hung a lantern from a hook on one of the cell walls. Then he emerged from the cell, casting admiring looks at the prisoner who had performed his part so well. Master Toler pushed his prisoner through the doorway so swiftly that the junior Seeker nearly fell to his knees. Elsdon caught a last glimpse of the High Master’s simpering smile, and then the door closed, footsteps receded, and Elsdon was left alone with his torturer.
He turned slowly round to face the door; his heart was beating hard in his throat. The first thing he noticed was not Master Toler, but the carving above the door. He had seen prison art during his visit to the Hidden Dungeon, but not in his cell; the royal palace, it appeared, was especially well decorated. The scene in the carving was familiar.
To the far left were three figures in a row, bowing in adoration toward the right. Further to the right was a man in a chair, presumably the King or some other high official; his head was bowed toward the right. And then came the stage: upon it stood the supporting player, blade in hand, ready to strike. Below him was the main player, bound and writhing as he awaited his death.
Elsdon’s gaze fell to the man standing in front of the closed door. His torturer was busy winding his whip into a circle and hooking it to his belt. This done, he removed his leather gloves and carefully placed them in his cloak pocket. Only once these preliminaries were finished did he reach up and remove his veil.
His eyes were clear, and they glittered in the torchlight. Elsdon felt the breath go out of him. He moved forward blindly, his own eyes veiled with tears. “Layle,” he whispered.
The High Seeker of the Eternal Dungeon held him tenderly, without speaking, for a long moment. Elsdon could hear Layle Smith’s blood beating hard through his neck. When Layle finally drew back from him, he spoke no words, but reached forward and pulled Elsdon’s lips apart.
Elsdon let him probe the mouth, but when the fingers withdrew, he said, “The glass didn’t cut me, love. I didn’t dare let it. I wasn’t sure how you’d react to the sight of my blood.”
“You know how I would have reacted.” The High Seeker’s voice was taut. “And you know how long it would have taken me to forgive myself if I’d hurt your mouth. As it is . . .” He turned Elsdon round gently and began inspecting his back.
Elsdon gave a short laugh then. “Layle, you must be the only person in the world who could doubt your ability to land a whiplash in exactly the manner you’d planned. Of course you didn’t break my skin. It was no worse than any beating I received while in training; stop fussing over me. I—”
He stopped abruptly as Layle’s hands trickled down to his manacles. He held his breath, not doubting that the High Seeker could open the manacles with his hands alone. After a moment, though, Layle’s hands withdrew, and Elsdon felt the High Seeker’s cloak descend onto his shoulders.
Layle’s arms travelled round to hold him as the High Seeker rested his chin on his junior Seeker’s shoulder. Layle said softly, “The rest of you?”
“Just scrapes; they will heal quickly.”
“Let me see.” Layle kissed his bare neck, then came back round to the front and dropped down onto both knees to inspect Elsdon’s shins. He frowned, saying, “These should be washed and bandaged soon, or they’re likely to become infected.”
Elsdon looked at the cell door. He could hear nothing outside the door; unless the High Master’s guards were unusually quiet, nobody had been left behind. “Layle,” he said hesitantly, “couldn’t we just . . .”
Layle’s gaze remained on Elsdon’s legs. “We could. We might be able to manage to make it to the border. Is that what you want?”
Elsdon’s gaze rose again to the bound prisoner in the carving, awaiting the blade. So large was the carving that Elsdon could see that the prisoner was smiling. Elsdon wriggled his wrists within the manacles, trying to find a more comfortable position.
“No,” he said. “However foolish it was for me to come here, and however poor a player I’ve proven to be, I don’t want to give up on this play until I’m sure it’s a failure. I still have my mission.”
Layle looked up at him; his eyes were smiling. “Our mission.”
Elsdon smiled back at him, and then gave a short laugh. “It’s a good thing nobody in that theater ever saw you searching a difficult prisoner in the Eternal Dungeon. They would have recognized the role you were performing.”
The smile in Layle’s eyes faded; he looked back down at Elsdon’s legs. “I had to make some adjustments to my usual performance.”
“Yes, I know. That must have been hard for you.”
“No. As a matter of fact, it was all too easy.”
Layle had not yet moved from his kneeling position, even though, by now, he must have finished inspecting Elsdon’s legs. Elsdon knew that this could be no coincidence. He felt his throat tighten, and he instinctively tried to reach out to Layle. The manacles bit at his wrists.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally.
“You’ve already made your apologies. In fact, I seem to recall that you’ve confessed three times over. I trust that you will allow me the same privilege.”
“Layle, it’s not your fault! It’s my fault. After all these years during which you’ve resisted the temptation to abuse prisoners again, I put you in a position where you’ve been forced to act as a Vovimian torturer—”
Layle rose to his feet and took gentle hold of Elsdon’s arms. “This trip has been good for me,” he said firmly. “It helped me to remember why I left the Hidden Dungeon; I’m less likely in the future to become nostalgic about my time there. Now, we’ve both made our confessions and our apologies. Let’s let the matter pass.” He put his hand up to Elsdon’s cheek.
Elsdon leaned into his touch and tried to put his hand out to cover Layle’s. Once again the manacles bit into his wrists. He felt his breath cut short, and he had to close his eyes against the wave of nausea that travelled through him. When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the High Seeker was watching him with brows drawn low in concern.
“Layle,” Elsdon said in a voice too near to panic for his liking, “can’t you remove my manacles?”
“Not yet.” Layle kissed him lightly on the cheek to soften the blow of his words. “That’s the High Master’s prerogative. It wouldn’t be wise to anger him.”
Elsdon’s awareness of the binding faded as he thought through this response. After a while he said, “The High Master . . . He’s good at play-acting.”
Layle’s mouth quirked. “I was wondering whether you’d noticed that. The King and the rest of the palace residents would undergo a shock if they ever saw the High Master at his work.”
“That was how I guessed,” said Elsdon. “If the High Master had really been what he appeared to be, he couldn’t possibly have broken any prisoners. And he does know how to break prisoners – he was pulling me into pain through his words with as much skill as though he were a Seeker.”
“He’s a talented man. He’s the only man I knew in the Hidden Dungeon who was truly dedicated to the art of torture.”
“He’s a dangerous man too, isn’t he?”
“Very dangerous.” Layle’s voice was quiet. “Far more dangerous than the King. If nothing else, he has survived eight years in his title.”
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br /> Elsdon raised his eyebrows in enquiry. The High Seeker added, “Being appointed High Master is the equivalent of a death sentence, Elsdon. If you refuse the honor, you are suspected of disloyalty and executed immediately. If you accept the honor . . . Well, Vovim’s Kings have always rightly guessed that their closest rival in power is the head of their dungeon. This is true in Yclau as well, but the Queen has bound the torturers there through the Code. Here in Vovim, no binding exists to keep the torturers from gaining power at the King’s expense, so the King purges his dungeon of suspected traitors at regular intervals. The High Master rarely lives more than one or two years.”
“I see,” Elsdon said after a moment. “So if a High Master wanted to gain power without suspicion – or even to stay alive – he would have to give the appearance of being completely harmless.”
Layle nodded. “The present High Master doesn’t use his power to play the King as a puppet – his honor is too great for that. But a good deal goes on in the Hidden Dungeon that the King knows nothing about. It is High Master Millard who decides prisoners’ fates, not the King.”
“Layle,” said Elsdon slowly, “how do you know so much about the High Master? What is your connection with him?”
Layle’s expression did not change. “You heard Millard explain our link: we were both trained by my old master. Millard was just finishing his apprenticeship when I came to the Hidden Dungeon. He’s the only person alive in Vovim who knows that I arrived at the Hidden Dungeon as a criminal, destined to be executed.”
“So Toler Forge . . .” Elsdon hesitated.
A brief look of pain passed across Layle’s face. “Toler Forge is my real name. I was counting on Millard to remember that.”
“So he knew who you were all the time? Layle, how could you count on him helping you at all? You haven’t seen him since you left the Hidden Dungeon.”
Layle said nothing, but a faint smile travelled onto his face. After a moment, Elsdon groaned. “I’m as much an idiot as the High Master tries to act,” he said. “The prison reform conference.”
Layle nodded. “I had to appear before the United Order of Prisons when they considered my request for them to ask the King of Vovim for permission to raid the Hidden Dungeon for you. I was in the guise of a guard, so I appeared naked-faced—”
“—and the High Master attended the conference and recognized you. He didn’t tell anyone?”
“No, even though the King was beside him at the time. It was professional courtesy, no doubt. Torturers everywhere in the world are so despised that they tend to stand by one another, even when national loyalties are divided. At any rate, that’s when our link was reforged.”
Elsdon considered this. The dungeon was so deeply placed below the palace that he could hear nothing, not even the dripping water that was so common in the cavern housing the Eternal Dungeon. The air was chill, but no more so than at home, and Layle’s heavy cloak kept him warm. The flagstones were cool under his feet.
Finally he shook his head and said, “Something is still missing from this tale. The High Master was gone from the throne room for only a couple of minutes before he returned with you. You couldn’t possibly have convinced him to help you in that amount of time, if you’d had no opportunity to speak with him since you left the dungeon as a youth. And I very much doubt that professional courtesy extends as far as letting your fellow torturer disguise himself in order to rescue his love-mate. Especially not if that torturer has brought about the death of your beloved master.” He looked hard at the High Seeker, who was making no sign that he would respond. “Layle, you’re hiding something from me. That performance – it was for the High Master rather than the King, wasn’t it? Why did he want you to demonstrate the Code to him?”
For a moment more, Layle was silent. Then the right side of his mouth rose, in something between a grimace and a smile. “Because,” he said softly, “I have been in correspondence with the High Master for the past three years.”
Elsdon sucked in his breath and held it. Then he said, “But you didn’t tell—” He bit off the rest of the remark.
“He contacted me through means known only to the King’s torturers,” Layle said, still quiet. “He trusted me not to disclose his letters to anyone. That is professional courtesy – professional courtesy as it is practiced in the Hidden Dungeon. One of the honors of being a King’s Torturer lies in keeping the secrets of that dungeon. Millard took a chance in supposing that I would still hold to this honor after breaking my oath as the King’s Torturer.”
Elsdon toed the gravel between the flagstones. Whether as a Seeker or as Elsdon’s love-mate, Layle rarely said outright, “You ought to have understood this without need for me to tell you.” That made his quiet statements of fact all the harder to bear.
Layle continued, as though no reprimand had been implied, “I expected him to speak of our master’s death, and to ask how I could have committed such a terrible act. But he said nothing of that. He simply asked me how I had been able to force you to go to Vovim, despite the danger to Yclau visitors at that time. I explained that I had merely asked you to go, and you had gone. Then he began to question me about what other acts I required of my Seekers, and how I was able to persuade them to undertake their duties. I answered all the inquiries that he made, and none that he did not make. Some of my answers required me to explain parts of the Code, but otherwise I did not speak of the Code. Vovimians dislike being made to feel like ignorant barbarians.” His gaze rested upon Elsdon.
Elsdon swallowed heavily around the growing lump in his throat. “As I made them feel, you mean. Oh, Layle – all this careful work you’ve been doing to persuade the High Master to adopt the Code of Seeking, and I’ve destroyed everything for you—”
Layle gave half a smile then. “Things could have gone badly, yes. Fortunately, I was gifted with a fellow player of talent. I arrived here half-expecting to find you screaming the palace walls down, and instead I found you standing upright before the King, speaking boldly, as though you felt no pain.” He reached round Elsdon’s side and touched lightly the manacles. “No one here could have guessed that, three years ago, my master managed to break you in the space of a few minutes, simply by binding you.”
Elsdon felt his breath quicken, as it had throughout the day when he let himself become aware of the manacles. He managed to give a crooked grin. “That wasn’t talent; that was fear. I was afraid that, if they guessed what effect binding my wrists was having on me, they’d bind my ankles as well.”
“A little more than fear, I think. Your performance on the stage would have been hard to surpass. When we reached the finale, I swear that I half believed you were truly offering up your life to me.”
Elsdon said nothing; he could feel his heart beating hard in his throat again. After a moment, Layle’s face changed.
“Sweet blood,” he said, softly and reverently. “You didn’t recognize my voice.”
Elsdon looked down and toed the gravel again. “I knew it was you. But I wasn’t sure . . . The way you addressed me, and the orders you gave . . . If I’d been able to see your eyes, I would have been sure—”
Layle pulled him into his arms in one swift movement. Elsdon laid his head upon the High Seeker’s shoulder, worried that Layle would break out into another series of apologies, but Layle said nothing. He simply held Elsdon close, as though fearing that only his arms were keeping the junior Seeker from breaking into bits.
The sound of a step caused them both to turn. The door opened, and into the cell walked the High Master.
In the short time he had been gone, High Master Millard had changed into his uniform. It looked much like Layle’s clothing, except that his cloak was midnight black, and his hands were covered with gloves of chain-mail. As far as clothes went, he gave all the appearance of being a man like Layle: sober, stiff, formal.
This was as Elsdon had imagined him being behind his disguise, but a moment later, the junior Seeker realized that he had made a grave
error. He ought to have remembered that, even when Layle was play-acting, something of his true self always peered through.
The High Master closed the cell door and leaned against the doorpost. Lounged against it, rather – his hips swaying to create a curve of body. His long hair fell toward his belt, giving the illusion of a delicate pattern upon his clothing. He was smiling, except for his eyes, which had turned from impenetrable grey to hard granite.
“Well,” he said lightly in the Yclau tongue, “the King has decided, upon reflection, that he doesn’t much care for your play. Too much dialogue, my darlings, and not enough action. He said that it felt to him like an Yclau play he had once been forced to sit through. At any rate, he has given orders that you both be executed.”
Elsdon forgot to breathe. Layle was standing a pace behind him; Elsdon could hear a slight movement but did not dare look back to see what it purposed. His gaze was captured by the High Master, who had not turned his eyes toward Layle since his entrance.
For four years Elsdon had known the High Seeker, and never, during their time together, had he known anyone who dared to stand in the presence of Layle Smith and turn his gaze entirely away from the High Seeker. No one had that much courage. If this man believed he could afford to pronounce Layle’s death sentence without even looking at him . . .
The High Master gestured briefly to Elsdon to come forward. For a moment Elsdon was paralyzed, like a bird watching the flickering of a snake’s tongue; then he remembered why he was here. Without looking back at Layle, he walked forward, stopping just short of arm’s reach of the High Master.
The High Master seemed amused by this. For a long moment, he let his gaze drift down to where Layle’s cloak had fallen open. Then he stepped forward, saying to Elsdon in his sing-song voice, “The High Seeker was always skilled as a player. But you, I think, were not play-acting.”
Elsdon shook his head. He was resisting the instinct to step back as the High Master’s cloak brushed his bare body. “I believed the story you told about the High Seeker going mad.”
“How foolish of you. And how very foolish of me to have joined you in that belief at first. The Queen must value her High Seeker greatly if she goes to such lengths to protect him.”
His voice was unchanged from when he had spoken in the palace above: it held no greater weight than a feather and was much higher in pitch than Layle’s. A faint scent of roses came from him – perfume? – and his hair shone like the light of a setting sun on a dancing pond. It fell partly over his face, as it had when he had capered in the theater, in order to draw anger away from the King. The hair had been in his face also when the King had kicked him and called him a traitor.
“So when your love-mate entered the throne room in his old uniform, you thought he had gone mad,” concluded the High Master. “Because, of course, only a madman would want to serve the King of Vovim with his art.”
Elsdon stared down at the mailed hands. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I knew very little about you and the other King’s Torturers. I ought not to have made judgment upon you.”
One of the mailed hands rose to push his chin up. The High Master was still smiling. “How pretty you are in your apologies, my darling. Tell me, if you thought the High Seeker was mad, why did you answer his questions honestly? In particular, why did you state honestly that you could be sentenced to death for what you had done?”
Elsdon put all his effort into not jerking away from the hand, which was beginning to creep up his jawline. “I was afraid of him, I suppose.”
The High Master rolled his eyes. “Mercy above, and he has humility too. The combination is breathtaking.” He returned his gaze to Elsdon as his metal-clad fingers stroked the lobe of Elsdon’s ear. “Not fear, my darling. A man who is ruled by fear does not return to the kingdom where he has been tortured, and place himself in the same trap again. What rules you? Loyalty to your love-mate?”
Elsdon shook his head, mainly in an attempt to escape the hand. The hand simply followed him, reaching down to stroke his neck.
“What, then?” asked the persistent voice.
Elsdon swallowed beneath the cold metal. “He was searching me as a Seeker does. It didn’t matter whether he was mad; it was still my duty to answer him in truth.”
“Ah.” There was no surprise in the High Master’s voice. “Your beloved Code leads you onto foolish paths once more. My darling, I assure you, it is very foolish to place your life in the hands of someone you are not sure you trust.”
With those words, his hand clamped down upon Elsdon’s jaw, and he jerked Elsdon’s head to the side; his other hand snatched Elsdon’s arm, preventing him from moving away. The hand on the jaw tightened.
For a moment there was no sound except Elsdon’s ragged breath. Then the High Master said reflectively, “Odd. The last time someone touched you roughly, that same man was found a short time later with an Yclau dagger through his chest. Yet your love-mate stands armed and does nothing while I maul you.”
Elsdon, still unable to move his head in any direction, turned his eyes toward the middle of the cell. There, as the High Master had said, Layle stood with whip in hand, within range to strike.
The High Seeker said softly, “If you try to kill Mr. Taylor, I will indeed act.”
“But not if I give him anything short of death?” The High Master’s voice remained light.
Layle’s gaze flicked toward Elsdon, who was struggling to keep from crying out, and then back to the High Master. “Mr. Taylor is a Seeker, on a mission for the Eternal Dungeon. I will do nothing that might endanger that mission.”
The High Master’s smile deepened. “Ah, so you have bound yourself by the Code as well. Tell me, ‘Layle Smith.’” His voice danced with mockery. “Which do you value more, the Code or your love-mate’s health?” He tightened his grip, digging his metal fingers into Elsdon’s jaw. The cry that Elsdon had been trying to suppress escaped him.
Layle was motionless and silent for a moment, though Elsdon knew that he had answered this question long ago. They had talked of it in the dawn hours, when they lay together in bed and imagined the worst that might happen in their lives.
Then the High Seeker tossed away the whip, as though it were of no importance. “The Code comes first,” he said in a flat voice. “Always.”
The High Master chuckled. With a flick of the wrist, he released Elsdon and pushed him firmly upon the chest, sending him stumbling backwards. Elsdon would have fallen, but Layle caught him and remained behind him, providing the support of his body.
The High Master’s adamantine eyes moved finally to Layle. “You were always a skilled player,” the High Master said, his voice turning equally hard. “You convinced an entire theater full of people that your only concern was to establish effective ways of breaking prisoners. But you do not fool me, High Seeker. Your goal is the same as your love-mate’s: to improve the lives of prisoners, to give them a cozy home where they can lay their heads on torturers’ laps and sob out their troubles. Well, you can keep that childish vision for the Eternal Dungeon. I’ll have no coddling of prisoners in my dungeon.”
Layle did not reply. His hands were tight upon Elsdon’s shoulders, yet he had made no move to retrieve his whip.
After a while, the High Master said, “I’ve had trouble in getting my men to obey orders.”
“I remember that was a problem faced by previous High Masters as well.” Layle switched suddenly to the thick-accented tongue of east Vovim, which came as naturally to him as the Yclau language he had learned from his mother. Elsdon had the sudden vision of two master chess players, approaching the climax of their battle.
Or perhaps, he decided upon further reflection, this was also professional courtesy.
The High Master’s mind seemed to run along similar lines; his lips twisted into a smirk. “Courtesy was always your mark, High Seeker; I would have recognized you from that alone, if nothing else. Yes, part of the problem may be long-standing. The Hidden Dungeon has n
o tradition of providing guidance to High Masters in how to order their men.”
He reached inside his cloak; Elsdon tensed, but all that emerged was a familiar black book with gold lettering upon it. The High Master contemplated the book for a minute, turning it this way and that. Then he said, “Pampering prisoners is of no interest to me. But if a code of behavior can make my men more inclined to obey me, I think it’s worth trying.”
Then, with a movement nearly as swift as the High Seeker’s hand when he flicked his whip, the High Master threw the book at Elsdon’s chest. Layle caught the volume neatly before it touched Elsdon.
“My code,” said the High Master, with a growl like that of a mountain cat. “Not a foreign import. I have no need for Yclau rules.”
Layle said quietly, “I’m sure that any code you design will be admirably suited for conditions in the Hidden Dungeon. I’d appreciate hearing from you what the results are. It’s likely that we can learn from you how to improve the Code of Seeking.”
“Perhaps.” The High Master swept his hair back over his shoulder with a languorous hand. He gave all the appearance, at this moment, of being as weak as a young girl. His eyes fell to Elsdon, and he smiled again. Elsdon felt his face grow warm.
“I’ll have you brought to a place where you can be bandaged and dressed,” the High Master said in a voice suggesting that he himself would be the one doing the dressing. Then he added, as though in afterthought, “My guards will escort both of you to the border.”
Elsdon released the breath he had not known he was holding. From behind him, Layle said quietly, “Thank you, Millard.”
The High Master reacted to this intimacy with an abrupt nod. “It’s good to have the chance to talk with you again, Forge, but I warn you – three visits is one too many.”
“Neither Mr. Taylor nor I will impose on your hospitality again,” Layle replied. Elsdon vigorously nodded his agreement.
The High Master’s gaze returned to Elsdon. His mouth quirked with amusement. For another long minute he allowed his gaze to run up and down the full length of Elsdon’s body. “What a pity,” he said finally. “I would have enjoyed making Mr. Taylor my guest in the Hidden Dungeon.”
Then he turned, and with a swift, elegant movement, he opened the door and left the cell.
Elsdon did not realize he was shaking again until he felt Layle’s hands stroke his shoulders, steadying him. “He’s trying to scare you away from returning, Elsdon.”
“I know,” replied Elsdon in a breathless voice. “And I also know that he meant what he said.”
He felt cool air touch his back as Layle lifted the cloak and slid his fingers between Elsdon’s wrists and the manacles. Hidden latches clicked, and then Elsdon was free.
His knees gave way.
Layle was ready; he caught Elsdon and held him as the junior Seeker sought to regain his breath. “Shh,” said the High Seeker softly. “Just stay still for a while.”
He did so, burying his head between Layle’s neck and shoulder, and taking in the High Seeker’s familiar musky scent. Then he heard a clang and turned his face to see that Layle had tossed away the manacles.
Elsdon pulled himself upright. His jaw still ached from the touch of the metal fingers, but he ignored the pain, trying to stiffen his back. “Layle,” he said quietly, “I know that this isn’t the end of the play. I know that when we return home, you’ll have to arrest me.”
“No.” The High Seeker’s hand slid into the pocket of his trousers.
“But Layle, I broke the Code—”
The High Seeker’s hand re-emerged; in it was a clean handkerchief, which he placed across the lips of Elsdon to muffle his protests. “No,” he said firmly. “You applied to me for permission to leave the Eternal Dungeon on a mission to Vovim. I passed on that request to the Codifier, with my recommendation that it be approved. The Codifier sent me his approval the day before you left.” He spat on the cloth and began wiping Elsdon’s face free of the dust and the dried blood and tears.
Elsdon waited until he was finished before saying, “You knew that I would run away?”
“As did the Codifier.” Layle pocketed the cloth and moved his hands to tie his cloak closed on Elsdon. “Along with his approval, the Codifier sent an approval for me to leave the dungeon to go after you.”
Elsdon felt his face turn hot. He bit his lower lip and looked down. “Layle, why didn’t you lock me in a cell rather than let me endanger your plans and your life?”
The High Seeker gave a snort that sounded like laughter. “As though any cell could hold you if you were determined to do something. Besides, that is the difference between Yclau and Vovim: we leave people free to make honest mistakes, and to learn from those mistakes.” He reached forward to kiss Elsdon.
A finger’s width short of the kiss, Layle jerked his head up. Through the open doorway came angry mutterings: the voice was that of the High Master’s chief guard, who was apparently ill-satisfied at the idea of aiding in the escape of two condemned criminals. His complaint was cut off by sharp words from the High Master.
Listening, Elsdon said, “Love, if the High Master restricts his torturers and guards through a code of behavior, it’s bound to have a positive effect on the prisoners.”
“He knows that, Elsdon,” Layle replied quietly. “He just wouldn’t admit that before the Yclau.”
Elsdon gave him a sharp look. “Layle,” he said, “you can’t make me believe that a man like that would willingly bind himself and others if it would bring benefit to the prisoners. It defies common sense. . . .”
Layle gave him another of those looks that said, Not in Vovim. He said carefully, “Elsdon, Millard is an artist. A true artist, one who will sacrifice pleasure for the sake of his art. Since the time I knew him as a youth, Millard has been seeking the most orderly and craftsmanlike means of breaking prisoners. That is why he uses words as his primary means to break prisoners – not because he dislikes physical torture, but because he is more skilled at verbal torture. And if someone should come along and offer him a yet more artistic means to break prisoners . . .”
The High Master’s reprimand ended; his footsteps started up and then began to fade away. The reproved guard growled again: a final, biting remark meant to reach the ears of the High Master. There was no pause in the footsteps.
It came to Elsdon then that the great mistake he and Layle had made was to hold their performance in public. Too many people had seen the demonstration; sooner of later, one of the spectators was bound to notice the similarity between the High Master’s new code of behavior and a play performed by a highly skilled torturer whose name appeared nowhere in the records of east Vovim’s prisons. And if that spectator told the King . . .
Elsdon turned his gaze toward Layle. From the soberness of the High Seeker’s expression, it was clear that his thoughts matched Elsdon’s. Elsdon said, “I thought that our sacrifice was going to form the finale of this play.”
Layle smoothed back Elsdon’s hair from his face. “I told you long ago, my dear: the Vovimians are less barbaric than they are thought to be.” He touched a light kiss to Elsdon’s lips. “Let’s go home.”
“Home.” Elsdon reached up and touched the smiling prisoner on Layle’s torque. “Layle, this is your home. I just never realized it.”
“The Eternal Dungeon is my home now,” the High Seeker replied. But as he spoke, he lifted his face and looked at the carving above the door, as a man might look at a beloved he must leave forever.
And then he hooked his veil back into place, and Master Toler and his prisoner took their first steps on their final journey from Vovim.
o—o—o
o—o—o
. . . The torture-god is so strongly identified in the popular mind with Vovim’s old dungeon of torture that one historian has gone as far to say that Vovim’s Hidden Dungeon was devoted to the service of Hell, while the Eternal Dungeon in neighboring Yclau was devoted to the service of Mercy, but this is clearly a s
hallow perspective on a complicated situation. Even a cursory glance at the history of the two dungeons will assure us that Mercy and Hell were to be found in both places, sometimes even within the same torturer.
A classic example of this is the Eternal Dungeon’s first High Seeker. In recent years, it has become fashionable to portray Layle Smith solely as a devotee of Hell, mercilessly breaking prisoners with no thought but his own pleasure. We will leave aside the fact that this view reveals no understanding of the deeply sacrificial nature of Vovimians’ traditional worship of Hell. What is important to note is that this new, “modern” view is nothing other than the older view of Layle Smith turned on its head. Whereas previous biographers of the first High Seeker portrayed him as a man of pure mercy, with no flaw to stain his life, recent biographers have similarly simplified the truth, merely substituting one god for another.
Of course, humans are too complex to easily categorize in this way. This is particularly the case with Layle Smith, whose life seems to have been lived in perpetual tension between a desire to serve Mercy, whose face was best known in Yclau’s Eternal Dungeon, and a memory of what he owed to Hell, whom he had served in Vovim’s Hidden Dungeon. It is perhaps inevitable that the time would come when the fragile balance he had achieved began to tilt, so that one deity was worshipped almost to the exclusion of the other. This is in fact what happened in 360, roughly a year after Layle Smith returned from his final trip to Vovim. And at that point, as one historian has wryly put it, “Hell broke loose in the Eternal Dungeon.”
That Layle Smith wished to serve both deities makes the tale of what followed his trip to Vovim especially poignant.
—Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon.
The Balance 3
HIDDEN
The year 359, the twelfth month. (The year 1881 Clover by the Old Calendar.)
Much thought has been given by psychologists to the vexed question of how a child’s gender and sexuality are formed. The predominant theory in our times is that the child’s impulses toward particular gender behavior and sexual behavior are not fully formed until he or she takes on his or her first romantic partner. At that time, most psychologists believe, the training that the less experienced partner receives under the aegis of the more experienced partner serves to seal his or her future. In extreme cases, the person’s sexuality may be so narrowed that he or she can only be attracted thereafter to a single gender.
This is the predominant theory; but many other ideas have been advanced over the centuries. Perhaps the oddest comes from a fourth-century manuscript – not originally intended as a psychological document – whose author theorizes that one’s gender and sexuality are determined, not by one’s first romantic partner, but by one’s parents.
We may be tempted to dismiss such a theory as the ravings of a sexual deviant. Indeed, even by the standards of his own society, the author was out of the ordinary . . .
—Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon.
o—o—o
o—o—o
Day 3: One hundred lashes today. At least, it was supposed to be one hundred lashes, but my darling torturer (I call him that to annoy him) was fooled when I pretended to faint after the fifteenth lash. He didn’t even order the guards in the corridor to poke me back to wakefulness with their bayonets. Makes me ashamed to acknowledge that we belong to the same profession.
Afterwards he complied with my request for pencil and ledger-book. He even sharpened the pencil for me with his dagger. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Doesn’t he realize what could be done to him if anyone finds out he’s giving special favors to me?
Why am I surrounded by incompetents? This dungeon is filled with torturers who bungle simple rackings, burn themselves on their own pokers, and grow enamored with their prisoners and help them escape. I’m glad Toler isn’t here to witness this.
Day 4: Another attempt at the hundred lashes, another bluffed faint. This time my darling torturer brought water to me. Any hopes I’d had, though, that he would dash it in my face were frustrated when I discovered that he was planning to give me water to assuage my thirst. I would have screamed at him, but I was too busy gulping down the water. It’s been four days since I was allowed to eat or drink.
I reminded him of his duty afterwards, though. He looked hurt, and then slapped me to the ground. There might be some hope for him yet.
Day 18: The gap in time is because we actually managed to finish the hundred lashes. Instead of immediately following up on his advantage, though, my darling torturer allowed me time to heal. I might as well admit that he’s a loss and resign myself to being in the care of the kindest, gentlest torturer who has ever performed in the Hidden Dungeon.
Curse it, no. He will not disgrace me like this. I’ll see him dead first.
Day 19: Gave my darling torturer a small lecture yesterday about the duty of a torturer to his art. It seems to have done him good; he used the poker on me afterwards. I’m still able to write, which means he was too soft on me. I wish I could figure out how to reach him.
In the meantime, I can continue keeping this record, which I expect will be invaluable to future generations of the King’s Torturers. This must be the first time in history that a prisoner has recorded his reactions while being tortured to death.
Day 20: More of the poker. My darling torturer doesn’t seem to have the ability to vary his performances. He hasn’t even raped me yet.
I reminded him of this – oh gods, why must I spoon-feed the men here as though they were small children? He growled, “You’d like that too much,” which was quite a satisfactory answer.
I gave him a simpering smile and said, “Not quite, my darling. I’m always the husband.”
This wasn’t as truthful an answer as I could have given, and I’m thankful that Master Aeden is no longer around. He would undoubtedly have been assigned the production of my slow death, and he would have caught me out on that lie at once. I forget how many times I tried to slip into my old master’s bed – eight? nine? “I won’t sleep with my apprentices,” he always told me.
Cursed man. He failed to tell me that he wouldn’t sleep with men either. “That sort of thing isn’t proper,” he told me on the day I became a master torturer and triumphantly came to his living cell, expecting to receive my just reward. “A man’s job is to serve as husband – to a woman if he’s properly made, or if need be, to a boy in one of the brothels. You’re not going to disgrace yourself by acting as wife to me, and I can assure you that I have no intention of acting as husband to you. You must follow in the footsteps of your father and learn to be a husband.”
Oh, so easy for him to say. He hadn’t grown up with a mother who proudly told the world how my father was master of our house, and then proceeded to make most of the household decisions on his behalf. Cursed woman. I wish she were still alive so that I could place her on the rack. I suppose it’s too much to hope that the torture-god is taking care of that for me.
Why am I thinking about such things? I hope this isn’t a sign that my mind is starting to go. I need to stay alert till the end, for the sake of this record.
Day 21: The leg locks today. Gods. Now I know why my prisoners always lost their voices screaming.
Day 40: He has let me heal again. I’m beginning to have the terrible feeling that he’s acting under orders. How long has it been since the Hidden Dungeon received orders that a prisoner be tortured for years? It hasn’t happened in my lifetime anyway. But it would be just like him to choose me for the honor.
Self-sucking, foul-breathed, brainless man with not a single speck of art in his soul . . .
Oh, why do I bother? If I recited a thousand curses, it would only be to repeat what the whole world knows. Why didn’t I seize power when I had the chance? It was what my men expected me to do. And then, when I didn’t, they decided that I was what I presented myself to the world as being: the King’s lackey, a girlish, cowardly, idiotic man.
They
may have been right.
Day 42: I had to have another little talk with my darling torturer: he has been letting too much time go before my next torture. He promised to bring me into the rack room tomorrow, to use the instruments there.
That sounded more like what I’d expect from one of my men. I tested him, saying, “Please don’t use the hook on me. I want my hands to be well enough to write in my ledger.”
He hit me then. And kicked me. And told me he’d be the one to decide my fate, and I’d better keep my mouth shut if I wanted any teeth left.
It was all so artificial – none of it was from the heart. What a shame. I would swear that my darling torturer has fire in him; I would never have let him work for me if he hadn’t had promise. I can’t imagine where that fire is going. To the brothel boys, I suppose.
When I suggested this, though, he turned red. “I don’t hold with making boys into wives,” he said. “They’ll be men some day.”
“Well,” I suggested, letting my hand linger on him, “you could let them be the husbands. I’d help you train for that.”
His kicks then were much more convincing. Really, he has the potential in him to be a true artist, if he would only put his mind to his work.
Day 43: Not the hook. The claw. Gods help me.
Day 58: My worst fears are confirmed. My darling torturer admitted today that he is under orders to keep me alive as long as possible.
I’m ashamed to admit that I tried to subvert him. I’m glad to report that he refused to be subverted. “It’s the King’s orders,” he said. “It’s as much as my life is worth to disobey him.”
“Shall I tell you what I think of the King’s orders?” I asked, and proceeded to do so. I have no real hope, though, that he’ll report my words to the King. He undoubtedly wants to stay as far away from the royal personage as he can. Wise man.
Day 64: He still hasn’t raped me. I can’t figure out whether I’m disappointed.
I don’t know why it keeps running through my mind that I’m to die a virgin. The torture-god knows that, from a certain perspective, I lost my virginity long ago. With a sweet, frail prisoner who screamed when I took him – I’ve never forgotten him. A shame that I had to strangle that one.
I don’t think anyone, not even Master Aeden, guessed what it was that I really wanted. Master Aeden thought I’d be happy enough once I started raping prisoners, and I let him think that. True, it was a pleasure to practice my art, especially as I came to know how skilled I was in this role. That ought to have been enough.
Toler knew, curse him. Toler, “Layle Smith” as he now calls himself, that traitor who betrayed the King of Vovim and took charge of the dungeon in the Queendom of Yclau. Intelligent man, though I would have chosen a different country to flee to: nobody in that barbaric land besides Toler knows that torture can be an art.
Anyway, he guessed. Came to me one night eighteen months after he started his apprenticeship under Master Aeden, and told me – me, Journeyman Millard – that he believed I had not yet been fully trained, because I did not know what it was like to be a prisoner.
“I can show you,” he said in that cold-blooded manner of his. “I can rape you.”
I threw him against the wall. Most foolish thing I ever did. Not simply because it was like throwing a cold, deadly viper against the wall – I was lucky to escape alive from that encounter. No, it was foolish because it was the only chance I’d ever had and would ever have.
Until him. But that doesn’t truly count.
Day 65: My darling torturer tried a little flaying on me today. He took it ill when I attempted to show him how he could improve his technique.
He still hasn’t crippled my hands. I ought to reprove him for that: he should know that, if a prisoner begs to have a certain part of the body preserved, it’s the torturer’s duty to destroy that part of the body. I’m losing interest in training him, though. My mind is on how I can end this. I wish I hadn’t been so effective in finding ways to prevent prisoners from killing themselves.
I thought of death after that first night with him. Then I decided that, if I were any sort of man, I would have killed myself on the day he named me High Master of his dungeon. Or at the moment I decided to go to his bedroom to keep him sweet. Yes, that act preserved my life for nine years, far longer than any other High Master survived. I was able to keep him convinced that I had no ambitions, that I wasn’t any threat to his throne.
But at what a price. It wasn’t simply knowing what my men and the rest of the world thought of me. It was knowing what I thought of myself. I would lie awake at night, after it was over, and remember the dreams I had had when I was young, of lying on silken sheets covered with rose petals, as my new husband took my maidenhead.
Here is where such ill-made dreams had brought me: to having what remained of my manhood stripped from me, as the world watched.
I could comfort myself in those days that my work remained. Whatever the others thought of me, my prisoners still knew that I had power over them. I could take them, I could break them, I could make them regret they’d ever met me.
All that is gone. What am I now?
Day 66: He says he’ll rape me tomorrow. Thank the gods. However long I linger in death, at least I’ll die knowing that someone besides him has taken me.
Day 67: Curse. Curse. He lied. It was the rack. Oh, gods, I cannot continue this. How can I find a way to die?
Day 68: I begged him to kill me today. I have been reduced to that.
It took me an hour to write the two sentences above. I don’t expect I’ll be able to continue this record. I fail at this as at all else.
Day 89: He healed me again. I forgot. I am not to be allowed to die.
He is better at his art than I had thought. He knows how to raise hope, only to dash it again. I told him so; he deserves the praise. He said nothing. I wish I had Toler’s ability to read the thoughts of other men. If I could anticipate which instrument he was going to use on me next, I might be able to figure out a way to make him kill me.
Day 94: Gods. Gods. Gods. Every offering I ever made, every prisoner I ever sacrificed to the torture-god, was worth it.
I am to be allowed to die. My darling torturer – who is not quite so wise as I’d thought – went to the King and told him what I’d said about him. Or words to that effect; I don’t think my torturer remembered the exact wording after all this time.
Amazingly, he survived. The King, it seems, was too furious at me to execute the messenger. Acting on his usual stupid impulses, he ordered my immediate death rather than letting me linger on as I deserved. There are advantages to serving a king who has the mind of a child.
I quizzed my darling torturer carefully to be sure that he understood his duties. He must seal the wound with the brand immediately after cutting me: otherwise, I will die on the castration table and not be available for the horses. And when he ties me to the horses, it must be tight. The King will not be pleased if the knots give way when the horses begin pulling, and I’m left alive and whole rather than rent asunder.
I don’t think he was listening properly – he kept turning green. Well, I must be fair; I felt a bit queasy too when I performed my first royal execution. And believe me, there is little in this dungeon that makes me queasy.
Day 95: A slight delay: one of the royal horses has gone lame and must be replaced. I wish this were over with. I’m beginning to think about what it will be like.
I’m determined to do this right, if I’ve done nothing else right in my life. When they take me to the castration shed, I will not whimper and whine and look like the man I have been for the past nine years – like the man I have been my whole life, if I would be honest with myself. I will be the man my father should have been: strong and full of courage. I will not bargain for my life, I will not plead for mercy. Nor will I plead for Mercy. I’m sure She gave up on me long ago. It will be her Brother who welcomes me into afterdeath, and I am determined to show the torture-god that I ha
ve the skills to continue my art in his dungeon.
For if he declines my services and sends me instead to the cells of hell . . .
I can do this. I can be what Master Aeden wanted me to be. I will be cursed if Toler hears that I ended my life grovelling. He knows my weaknesses already; let him know my strengths.
Day 96: Tonight. It’s to be tonight.
I asked my darling torturer to preserve this volume after my death, for the sake of future generations of torturers. He refused. Here I’ve been waiting for him to become a true artist, and he chooses the worst possible moment to comply.
I hope he is equally competent with the knife. I’ve seen messy castrations, and I—
o—o—o
Oh, gods. I cannot do this. I cannot. Mercy, remember me.
o—o—o
They are coming. Curse my mother again. If it had not been for her, I would have the courage to do this. I am sure of it. May I meet her in the hell-cell where I am placed.
o—o—o
May the torture-god of hell take my darling torturer and flay him until his bones have been scraped clean, and then break those bones into a thousand pieces.
He spared my life! I’m too angry to write more.
Day 148: I finally managed to cool my fury enough today to ask my darling torturer where we are.
“Yclau,” he said.
This is the limit. I must find a way to kill him.
Day 157: The cottage is on the outskirts of a city, I think. The capital city, perhaps? If so, we must be near Toler’s dungeon. I wonder whether he has heard yet of my death.
I let my darling torturer tell me about it tonight, after I had ascertained that I had enough patience to keep from throttling him. It was quite simple, really. He showed the King my bloody body and told him I’d died under the cutting. Apparently, the King turned so green that he didn’t even notice I was still breathing.
His guards noticed, I’m sure. But the King had decided I was dead, and you don’t contradict the wishes of the King. My body was testimony to that.
I told him, “My darling, you were too sweet. And to have gone to the trouble to make my death look so authentic.”
He turned pink then. “I had to cut you,” he said in a low voice. “The King isn’t such a fool that he couldn’t tell the difference between a castrate and a whole man.”
I wonder. I’m having a hard time telling the difference myself. Oh, there’s the pain, of course – I hate to think how many months it will be before that is gone. And there are obvious results – no rose-petalled sheets in my future. But I would have expected that the change from being a man to becoming a half-man would be greater than it has been.
Unless I was a half-man all along.
Day 161: I found myself staring out the window today at the women passing by. When I was young, I used to hate my mother for not giving birth to a girl. Now, though, I suspect that I would have been just as unhappy that way: I would have been a boyish girl, play-acting at torture and being shunned by the other girls.
I don’t miss the torture, oddly enough. I ought to – it was my art, and without it, I’m nothing. Nothing lies ahead of me in life, and nothing dwells behind me that is worth thinking about – except the knowledge that I did not plead on my way to the castration shed. I hope Toler heard that.
It’s not too late to kill myself. This would be a good time to end matters.
Day 169: It really is a lovely cottage. I asked my darling torturer how he could afford to buy it.
“It was a present from the King,” he told me. “He rewarded me with gold, and with my freedom from the dungeon, in thanks for services rendered.”
I didn’t bother to ask him how he managed to smuggle my unconscious body to the border. Did he have help from some of my other men? I don’t suppose there’s any hope that I left behind a single torturer who was worthy of his calling. The only worthy successor to me lives in this city, in the dungeon he runs.
I wonder whether he had as much contempt for me as the others did. I suppose I’ll never know.
Gods, I’m tired. I could sleep forever.
Day 177: I decided today that, if I truly did not have the courage to kill myself, I must at least make a show at being what I never was: a man, capable of caring for myself. I told my darling torturer that I was planning to look for a job.
“A job?” he said, staring at me as though I’d proposed hiring myself out to a boy brothel. Perhaps he thought that was what I had in mind.
I gave him another of those simpering smiles I perfected nine years ago, and which I haven’t been able to rid myself of. “Work, my darling. Money. Your gift from the King won’t last us forever. —Unless,” it occurred to me suddenly, “you’ve been waiting for me to move out?”
I don’t know why the pause that followed seemed so long. I suppose it was simply that there was nothing else left for me to lose. I was no good at facing the end: I’d already acknowledged that to myself.
He had turned pink again. “There’s no need for that,” he said. “I mean . . . You shouldn’t do outside work any more. Not with you changed like you are. It’s not proper for you to . . . It was proper in the past, but now . . .”
Gods help me, I don’t know why I ever thought myself competent in my art. It took me three whole minutes of listening to him babble before it finally came home to me what he was saying.
When I realized, I suddenly remembered the smile that had been there before I taught myself to simper. “My darling,” I said, “you don’t mean to say you’ve grown enamored with me?”
He turned yet more pink, but stood rooted as I walked forward. Nor did he pull away when I put my arms around his waist.
“Blue,” I purred. “I shall wear a blue gown for you. It matches your eyes.”
He swallowed heavily, and when he spoke, his voice was husky. “There’s no need to go that far,” he said. “I just want you to understand . . . I’m the husband.”
“My darling, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said, slouching myself so that it would be less obvious that I was the taller one.
It would have been more accurate to say I couldn’t have it any other way. But there was truth to what I said, though I did not yet wholly realize it – gods, looking back on my entries in this ledger, I ought to have realized it. The knowledge that had been hidden from me didn’t fully emerge, though, until this evening, when I was sitting on my darling’s lap, feeding him the food I’d cooked, as I had in all my childhood imaginings. As I fed him, I told him of my other childhood imagining, of what it would be like on my wedding night.
By the time I was through, I’d put him in such a state that there was no question of my being given rose-petalled sheets: he simply thrust me to the floor and took me there. Thank the gods I’d had enough foresight to serve butter with the dinner.
Afterwards, he apologized at length, telling me he’d give me everything I’d asked for, and more. I told him not to think of it again – that knowing he wanted me was better than all the silken sheets in the world.
It was true too. I realize now that, during all these years, I’ve never imagined myself being taken except by slow, stolid Master Aeden (who didn’t want me) or by cold, calculating Toler (who didn’t really want me either). To be taken by a man who truly wanted me, and who is as hot and forceful in bed as myself . . . My toes tingle now, just to think of it. Why didn’t I ever realize that a man’s nerve endings can still function when his manhood has been taken from him? I would have recommended to the King long ago that castrations be replaced with flayings.
Day 200: This is the last page of my ledger, but it hardly matters: for days, I have been too busy to write. I never imagined that taking care of a house could be an art.
My darling has been ever so helpful, offering to work extra hours at the manufactory so that he can buy me cloth for curtains and promising to get me a cat so that I can be rid of the mice in my kitchen. I told him not to bother with the last, that I had my own
way of dealing with mice. I don’t want to lose my hand entirely at my old profession.
I’ve decided to tear out the final pages of this ledger and have my darling send the remainder of the account, up to the time of my execution, to Yclau’s dungeon. It may help Toler with his work. If he sheds an uncharacteristic tear or two upon reading of my death, it will be as much as he deserves, for not taking me after I threw him against the wall so long ago. But I suppose all has worked out for the best: if I had become Toler’s wife when he made his offer, Toler would not have become master of his own dungeon, and I would not be where I am today. Where I belong at last.
My darling is so very sweet. He let me help him with repairing the chimney yesterday, and didn’t say a word when I carried the heaviest loads. And last night in bed . . . Well, as I told him, a true husband is one who is artistic enough to master from below, now and then.
Dear mother. She would be so proud if she knew that I’ve followed in her footsteps.
o—o—o
o—o—o
. . . Indeed, even by the standards of his own society, the author was out of the ordinary, though from our perspective, his oddity lies in the fact that he tried to conform himself to the behavioral standards of his society rather than recognize the essential flaws in his society’s concepts of gender and sexuality. This has led psychologists who have examined the manuscript to put forward a new theory: that one’s gender and sexuality are determined, not by other individuals in one’s life, but rather by a person’s attempts to shape his or her inborn impulses into a socially acceptable pattern.
One may ask what all this has to do with the Eternal Dungeon, for though the manuscript in question was found in the archives of the Eternal Dungeon, its origins evidently lie in Vovim. What is interesting about the manuscript, from the point of view of historians of the Yclau dungeon, is that it is the only document found in that dungeon which makes explicit references to sexuality. Occasional references to gender can be found in documents describing the early hiring of women as inner dungeon workers, but the inhabitants of the Eternal Dungeon seem to have been singularly uninterested in the topic of sexuality – or at least considered this to be a highly private matter.
A historian may be tempted to judge from the dungeon’s silence about sexuality – its lack of agonized and self-deprecating memoirs, such as can be found in Vovim during this period – that the Golden Age of the Eternal Dungeon was also the Golden Age of sexuality in Yclau. But perhaps that would be taking a step too far, for what is kept hidden is not always hidden for reasons of pride. It may be that, in the lonely and anxious scribblings of a Vovimian struggling to come to terms with his gender and sexuality, we have seen that era at its best.
—Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon.
The Balance 4
DEATH WATCH
The year 360, the sixth month. (The year 1881 Fallow by the Old Calendar.)
One of the most common errors made by historians writing about the Eternal Dungeon is to assume that the dungeon’s first High Seeker, Layle Smith, was alone among the Seekers in his penchant for violence.
Dungeons of torture attract brutal men – that can be treated as a given. Indeed, the Eternal Dungeon was unusual precisely because it attracted a high proportion of workers who had no inherent gift for brutality but were drawn to the place by the high ideals expressed in its Code of Seeking – ideals that, in theory anyway, placed the welfare of the prisoners before all other considerations. Such contemporaries of Layle Smith as Weldon Chapman and Seward Sobel must have seemed striking in their time, not for the brutal acts that they were required to commit, but for their lack of desire to commit such acts.
All nations go through the same four stages in their attitude toward torture. In the beginning, torture is not questioned, either as a means or as an end in itself. It is simply practiced. At a later stage, humans develop the need to justify their cruel treatment of prisoners, and so they evolve the theory that harsh punishments and ordeals are necessary in order to maintain social order. In the past, this justification was most commonly associated with the notorious Hidden Dungeon in the Kingdom of Vovim, where it was believed that, without the practice of torture, the King’s peace would be destroyed.
At a yet later stage, nations come to realize that social order alone cannot justify the wrenching of limbs or the scarring of bodies. At this point, a deeper thinking takes place, and the men and women who practice torture satisfy their consciences by arguing that torture is necessary in order to reform criminals and to allow them the opportunity to confess their crimes.
This ideal was initially developed by the Eternal Dungeon in the Queendom of Yclau, from which it spread to many nations. The ideal flourished for the first century and a half of the dungeon’s history. Though we have now moved beyond that ideal to a yet higher one – a realization that nothing at all can justify the evils brought about by the mutilation of bodies – it would be a mistake for us to think that we have moved beyond the Eternal Dungeon’s early years in all respects. Heated debates in our present-day society over methods of criminal “reform” such as forced therapy in prisons show that this ideal has not disappeared from our society, but merely mutated into a more insidious form.
That there was a grain of truth to this ideal is clear from the documents found within the Eternal Dungeon. Some prisoners did indeed undergo a marvellous transformation of heart as a result of the torture they endured. But as many commentators have noted, idealization of torture brings certain dangers not present in older beliefs about torture. Cruelty may be sated and a desire for punishment satisfied, but a determination to transform a prisoner’s mind will not rest content with anything less than a complete breaking of heart and soul. In that respect, Layle Smith was far more dangerous than his counterpart in the Hidden Dungeon.
Yet Layle Smith was not alone in either his longing to hurt prisoners or his idealization of torture that provided him with justification for what he did. Many torturers in his time struggled with similar problems . . .
—Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon.