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

by Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER THREE

  “What the bloody—?”

  Yeslin felt Elsdon’s hand grasp his arm, holding him as tightly as an arresting soldier might. Yeslin’s heart skipped a beat, but Elsdon released him almost immediately, reaching down to pick up the item in the outer-dungeon corridor that Yeslin had stumbled over.

  It was a stuffed bunny rabbit. A pink stuffed bunny rabbit.

  “Finlay’s,” said Elsdon, examining it with the same care that he might use in examining a murder weapon. “Or possibly Zenas’s. He still plays with toys, even though he’s nearly fourteen now.”

  Yeslin stared at Elsdon with horror. “You torture children?”

  Elsdon winced. “Not often; most of the underage prisoners are searched by other Seekers. Zenas is Weldon Chapman’s son. I’ll introduce you, if there’s time.”

  There was not time. They reached Mr. Chapman’s living quarters – accessible from both the outer dungeon and the inner dungeon – just as the older Seeker was about to leave for his day shift. He paused a few minutes, though, to speak with Elsdon’s “kinsman, who has taken employment here as a stoker.” This was the introduction that Elsdon and Yeslin had agreed upon, not wishing to provoke the Codifier with news that Elsdon’s brother had managed to find an alternative route into the dungeon. Every elite family had a bastard commoner or two, usually kept well hidden.

  Mr. Chapman greeted Elsdon’s commoner kinsman more civilly than Yeslin would have expected. The reason for this became clear within seconds.

  “—say hello to the fellows for me,” concluded Mr. Chapman. “I don’t think any of them worked alongside me – it’s been a while – but I like to think of them, now and then. . . . Elsdon, I’m sorry, but I must go. I’m busier than usual—”

  “Because of Layle’s absence. Yes, I know. Thank you, Weldon.” The two Seekers shook arms in farewell.

  Picking his way across the toy-strewn floor of Weldon Chapman’s quarters, Yeslin waited until they were in the empty corridor which led from the Seekers’ common room to the Lungs. Then he said softly, “Mr. Chapman lives only a few yards from where the stokers work. Yet he can’t greet them himself?”

  Elsdon was silent a minute before saying, “He doesn’t talk much about it, but I don’t think his time among the stokers was happy. There was some sort of friction . . . Perhaps it was merely because the other stokers sensed that he was destined for a better life.” He caught Yeslin’s look and laughed. “Oh, you know what I mean. I don’t wish to imply that a stoker is any less worthy than a Seeker.”

  Yeslin decided that it would be wisest not to comment upon this remark. Instead, he asked, “Does it happen often?”

  “For a commoner to become a Seeker? No, Weldon is the only one, and only because Layle recognized the greatness of Weldon’s soul, at the time that Weldon was working as a guard.”

  Yeslin thought about this as they walked down the corridor. This part of the inner dungeon was mainly made up of janitorial closets; maids and manservants rummaged in the closets, pulling out items in preparation for their work during the day shift. The smell of the furnaces came closer; the day-shift stokers were evidently already at work.

  “Are many guards . . . ?”

  Elsdon shook his head. “Mind you, it’s not unusual for guards – and even a handful of Seekers – to be mid-class. I know that Layle has been concerned that the Seekers and guards fail to fully represent the variety of ranks in the lighted world; he has made a deliberate effort to encourage applications from mid-class men. As for recruiting commoners . . .” Elsdon laid his hand on Yeslin’s shoulder; his smile, hidden under his hood, was clear in his voice as he said, “Maybe your new guild will be able to help us with that.”

  Still bonded in that manner, he and Elsdon turned the corner, their quiet conversation momentarily paused by the loud whoosh of the Lungs. Ahead of them, coal-smoke fogged the corridor, sucked upwards, as Elsdon had explained the previous day, into vents that carried them back to the Lungs. Even with the ventilation system working, it was difficult to breathe as they passed the sweating stokers. Yeslin wondered why it was that the stokers’ workplace lay so close to the Seekers’ living quarters. Was it only so that the Seekers could benefit from the furnace-warmth in the corridor? Or was it because the Seekers wished to keep a close ear to the conversations of the muscular men who labored for them? Certainly Yeslin dared not do anything but nod in a friendly fashion as they passed the day-shift stokers, whom he did not yet know.

  They reached a crossroads in the corridor. Directly ahead lay the dungeon healers’ office – Yeslin wondered whether anyone had considered the irony of a healer practicing his profession in a dungeon of torture – while the corridor to the right of them led to the outer dungeon, where most of the laborers lived and worked. To the left, though . . .

  “I’ll have to leave you here,” Elsdon said, releasing Yeslin from his grip. “I need to check something in one of the rack rooms.”

  Yeslin felt all the hairs on his body rise up. “I’ll come with you,” he suggested.

  Elsdon shook his head. “That’s not possible. The Code only permits the Codifier, Seekers, guards, and occasional family members to enter the prisoners’ breaking cells.”

  “But you’re visiting a rack room, you said.” Yeslin tilted his head, contemplating Elsdon, who had hesitated in his reply. “The Lungs in this dungeon are impressive. I’d like to see whether the racks are equally impressive.”

  As he’d guessed would happen, this appeal to Elsdon’s mechanical interests did its work. “All right,” said Elsdon with a light chuckle. “Just for a minute. If anyone notices you’re there, I’ll take the blame.”

  They passed a set of guards, who glanced at them with only mild curiosity; Yeslin had passed this way before, accompanying some of the stokers to an informal week’s-end prayer meeting in the dungeon’s crematorium – a ghastly place, where dozens of candles burned for executed prisoners. Now Elsdon turned toward the entrance to the crematorium, but almost immediately he stopped, slipping into a nearby room. Yeslin glanced automatically toward the other end of the corridor, where guards stood posted outside cells. Nobody was looking his way, though, so he followed Elsdon in and closed the door.

  He wished, immediately afterwards, that he had not done so. Elsdon, now naked-faced, was in the midst of lighting the sole lamp in the room, but even with the lamp lit, shadows crouched like wolves in the corners, dipping in and out of objects along the walls that Yeslin recognized as being instruments of torture. Evidently, more than just racking was done in this room. His gorge rose as he contemplated all that the Seekers did here.

  “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  Yeslin tore his gaze away from the objects on the wall that tore and crushed and gouged. Elsdon was standing next to a long table, headed by a wheel. Yeslin slowly approached it. He had to admit that, for an instrument of torture, it had a frightening elegant look about it: polished wood, gleaming copper, and the curlicue decoration that Yeslin associated with the first century. “This is remarkable,” he said, the most honest comment he could offer.

  Elsdon nodded without raising his eyes. “She looks like an antique, doesn’t she? She’s imported from Vovim. Layle told me that he can’t stand to work with Yclau racks – they lack soul.”

  “Ah.” The bed of the rack was made of metal. Yeslin scratched at a black bit on the bed and then examined it. Dried blood. “Why do you call it a she?”

  “Oh.” Elsdon looked embarrassed for the first time. “I got into the habit when I was racked in Vovim. The racks there are in the shape of women.”

  Yeslin looked sharply at his brother. He knew that Elsdon had been held in Vovim’s royal dungeon when his diplomatic mission for the Queen went badly awry, but the thought of Elsdon being embraced by a metal woman who tore at his bones and sinews . . . It did not bear thinking about. No wonder Elsdon considered Layle Smith to be a pleasant love-mate.

  Yeslin looked again at the blood. “Do many prisoners die her
e?”

  “Oh, no – not if we can prevent it.” Elsdon laughed at his puzzled look. “We’re not here to execute prisoners, Yeslin. That’s the hangman’s job. We’re here to obtain confessions. Look, I’ll explain how this works—”

  And he did, going underneath the rack at one point in order to show off its workings. Watching, Yeslin began to wonder when he would be requested to take off his clothes and serve as the rack’s demonstration victim.