CHAPTER NINE
Mr. Sobel sat silently for a long time after Barrett spoke, tapping a pencil quietly on the table between them. It was the only sound in the senior guard’s living quarters. His wife and children, who followed his schedule of sleeping between the dawn and dusk shifts, were in bed now, for it was late afternoon, Mr. Sobel’s equivalent of staying up long past midnight. Mr. Sobel’s neighbors were similarly scheduled for the night shift and were asleep now. Barrett – who had been awake since the searching the previous evening – should have been asleep too.
When Mr. Sobel did not respond, Barrett pressed him. “What do you think he meant?”
Mr. Sobel shrugged with a vague look in his eyes, as though his mind had been far away from the conversation. “I’m not the High Seeker, able to read Mr. Taylor’s mind. I can only think of one thing that Mr. Chapman and Mr. Urman hold in common.”
“They both have commoner accents?” Barrett said slowly. When Mr. Sobel nodded, Barrett leaned back in his chair – one of the plain, functional chairs that appeared in the living quarters of all the dungeon dwellers. He found that he was tapping on the table too, with his dagger hilt, and he forcibly stopped himself. “I’d been wondering about that: why he attacked me rather than Mr. Phelps. It was Mr. Phelps who bound him to the whipping ring, and he thought it was Mr. Phelps who beat him. So why should he choose to attack me, when I’d done nothing except smile at him?”
“Many of our commoner prisoners resent the elite, often with good reason,” responded Mr. Sobel. “It wouldn’t be the first time that a prisoner attacked a guard who had the wrong accent. Usually, though, such prisoners don’t try to deny knowledge afterwards of what they have done.”
“I hit him on the head. That can cause momentary confusion.”
“And did somebody hit the Earl of Hartgrove’s attacker on the head?”
“I don’t know,” said Barrett slowly, thinking of the prisoner’s old scar. He stared down at the dagger, using its blade to crease down the folds of the paper in front of him.
Mr. Sobel caught himself in mid-yawn in order to say, “Documentwork?”
“Requests for release of information.” Barrett unfolded the document for Mr. Sobel to see. Mr. Sobel glanced at the document Barrett and nodded. Barrett added, “Mr. Taylor wants me to go through the prisoner’s health journal, to see whether it reveals any patterns. He’s particularly worried because Mr. Holloway hinted that he had a headache just before he attacked me. Also, Mr. Taylor placed a petition to have the prisoner’s financial records released.”
“The prisoner’s bank will likely fight that petition.” Mr. Sobel reached for Barrett’s glass to refill it with water – except in the Seekers’ common room, water and tea were the only drinks that were permitted to adult dungeon dwellers, since those were the only drinks permitted to prisoners. “The city banks pride themselves on protecting their clients’ privacy.”
“Mr. Taylor only wants names, not money figures. He says that, if he knows who the prisoner’s patrons are, he may be able to persuade them to yield up their correspondence with Mr. Holloway, which could shed light on his thoughts and activities. Mr. Taylor has received first-level authorization from the High Seeker for his petition.”
Mr. Sobel raised his eyebrows. “The prisoner’s bank won’t be able to fight that. What about his patrons?”
“Mostly elite men, Mr. Taylor thinks, judging from the affidavits that have been submitted on the prisoner’s behalf.”
Mr. Sobel shook his head as he took up his pencil again. “Dukes and marquesses and earls will look down their noses at first-level authorization petitions. You’ll have to get the help of the Queen.”
“Her Secretary has submitted an affidavit in favor of the prisoner.”
Mr. Sobel winced. “You won’t get the Queen’s ear on this matter, I fear, unless the High Seeker intervenes, and he’s busy with other matters at the moment. How old did you say this prisoner was?”
“Seventy-three.”
“Some of his original patrons must have died, then, since they would be older than him.”
“Most of them have, I suspect. Mr. Holloway said that his income has diminished in recent years.”
Mr. Sobel nodded. “Rather than send a petition for the correspondence, you might want to suggest to Mr. Taylor that he write directly to the families of the former patrons. You know that Elsdon Taylor is descended from the Queen’s great-great-grandmother?”
Barrett nodded. “He holds no title, though. He can’t claim to be of the highest elite.”
“Which is why he’d be unlikely to make any headway with Mr. Holloway’s surviving patrons, but widows can often be impressed by mentions of lineage.” Mr. Sobel dropped the pencil on the table; it rolled off, being of a modern, cylindrical design. “If Mr. Taylor decides to take this course, tell him I can assign Mr. Urman to draft the letter. Mr. Taylor’s usual modesty would get in the way of him mentioning his high-born status, but Mr. Urman has no such scruples. I’ve heard him give the full run-down on Elsdon Taylor’s accomplishments.”
Mr. Barrett frowned. “Mr. Taylor can’t be too exact in his claims. Other than the Guild of Magistrates and the Queen’s councillors, nobody outside this dungeon except his brother knows that the E. Taylor who works as a Seeker is the Elsdon Taylor whose late father ran this city’s tannery – the largest in our queendom. I didn’t even know his family lineage till he told me.”
Mr. Sobel shrugged again, retrieving his pencil. “He is hooded; the widows will expect reticence from him concerning his life in the lighted world. I don’t suppose there’s a single Seeker in this dungeon, save Mr. Smith, whose past has been publicized. But Mr. Taylor has the right to use the seal of the Queen’s extended family; that should impress the widows, if nothing else does.” He glanced at the paper Barrett had handed him before. “Are those the only petitions he’s making?”
“They’re the only ones he could think of. He said I could add more. Do you have any suggestions?”
Mr. Sobel’s pencil went tap-tap-tap on the table a dozen times before the High Seeker’s guard reached forward and scribbled something onto the next blank line of the petition.
Barrett glanced at what he had written and then looked up enquiringly.
Mr. Sobel gave a small smile. “Layle Smith has often said that one of the worst mistakes a Seeker can make is to assume that a murderer has only committed one murder.” He pushed the paper over to Barrett’s side of the table, and then winced, as though the very effort had hurt him.
Barrett said, “You should retire to bed.”
“I should have retired to bed three days ago. That’s what my wife says.”
“You’ve been awake for three days?” Barrett raised his eyebrows, but let that be his strongest reaction. Unlike Mr. Urman – who was gifted in ignoring obvious signs of suffering on the part of his fellow guards – Barrett knew that Mr. Sobel’s working hours often matched those of the High Seeker.
“Rack room duties, which meant preparations extending into the dusk shift, so I had to be awake for duty in the early afternoon. The healer kept me busy the following day, quizzing me about conditions in the rack room. Then we had medical trouble on the second night, which spared the High Seeker the formality of a death watch, but it meant I had to fill out all the usual long reports, explaining why matters had gone awry. Then I had to send telegrams to the family. Then it turned out that the prisoner was related to a pressman, so I had the happy duty of explaining to the pressman why he would have to request all information on the death through the Guild of Magistrates. He threatened to write an exposé on the Eternal Dungeon’s abuse of its prisoners. I showed him a few of the news articles that had already been written on the Eternal Dungeon, and he admitted that he couldn’t surpass his colleagues in their fine invectives. He threatened, though, to petition for a murder charge against the High Seeker.”
Barrett shook his head. “Seekers and guards are immune from murder charges, unless such charges are p
laced by the High Seeker or the Codifier. The pressman should know that.”
“Yes, but the High Seeker will no doubt hear of the petition, which won’t help his state of mind. You know how he is whenever he loses a prisoner.”
Barrett did not, in fact, know how the High Seeker was when he lost a prisoner, since Barrett had received the supreme good fortune of having served only once under the High Seeker, during the searching of a single prisoner. But seeing the dark circles under Mr. Sobel’s eyes, he bit back all comments about what he had witnessed then. Before he could think of a way to gently persuade Mr. Sobel to go to bed, the other guard said, “I was tempted, though, to have the pressman give a lecture to the junior guards about the danger that Mr. Smith poses to the world.”
Barrett frowned as he reached again for his cup. “Why on earth do you say that, Mr. Sobel? The High Seeker’s reputation in this dungeon is already as black as the ash-pit when its lid is closed.”
Mr. Sobel’s gaze touched his. “You haven’t been following the latest gossip.”
“No.” He did not add that he had assiduously avoided listening to dungeon rumors since he had realized the extent of Mr. Taylor’s disapproval of gossip.
“I had Mr. Urman transferred back under me partly so that I could keep easy track of such matters, since he’s the hub of all gossip in our dungeon. The tale that’s being told among the junior guards now is that Layle Smith is all bark, no bite.”
It took Barrett a minute to respond. It was like hearing a rumor that the sun rose at midnight. Finally he said, “You’re mocking me.”
“I only wish I were.”
“We’re talking about Layle Smith. There are entire ballads written about his bloodthirsty deeds!”
Mr. Sobel shook his head wearily. “Mr. Smith’s usual lecture to the dungeon dwellers about how they shouldn’t believe gossip has made its mark on the junior guards, at least thus far. They don’t believe the ballads, nor the tales about Mr. Smith’s acts in the Hidden Dungeon.”
“For love of the Queen, Mr. Sobel, they don’t need to believe tales of past deeds when they have a sadist in their midst!” Barrett was having a hard time remembering to keep his voice low, even though Finlay Sobel’s latest sketches – of various men and women frowning at each other – were scattered on the floor nearby, a visible reminder that the boy and his younger sisters slept nearby. “Mr. Newton—”
“Has been making light of his injuries. Many of the junior guards are fool enough to take him at his word.”
“But Layle Smith’s prisoners . . .”
Mr. Sobel sighed. “Mr. Boyd, many of the junior guards have been hired since 356.”
Barrett reflected upon this fact before saying, “Oh.”
“Yes. Their image of the High Seeker is of a lunatic who raved that he would destroy the dungeon, and never did a speck of harm to anyone. They see him as a harmless eccentric – at worst, a harmless madman. And since the time he returned to searching-duty last year, he has been keeping his activities in the breaking cells and rack rooms quiet – far too quiet. There are guards in this dungeon who have no idea what the High Seeker is like when he sets out to break someone. So they’ve been mocking him.”
The full horror of Mr. Sobel’s tale was only now beginning to descend upon Barrett, like a nightmare seizing him. “They’ve been mocking him,” he said, as though repeating the words would cause them to vanish.
“They’ve been saying he’s all show, with no blade to back his threats. And Elsdon Taylor tells me that things are almost as bad with the recently hired junior Seekers. He said he could make a fortune if he were given a pound for every time he has heard the word ‘bluster’ spoken in reference to the High Seeker.”
Barrett stared at Mr. Sobel, his heart pounding. “They’ve said this to Mr. Smith’s face?”
“Not to his face, no. The High Seeker’s lessons in civility have had a certain effect on the dungeon dwellers. But he’s Layle Smith – he knows what’s being said about him.”
Barrett stumbled to his feet, barely aware of the chair crashing to the floor behind him. “Mr. Sobel, this is like small children goading a bear, thinking that it won’t maul. Has the High Seeker said anything to you about this?”
“Only one remark. He says that he finds the latest tales about him amusing.”
Barrett blinked in the dim light of the living quarters, trying to make sense of this. “Amusing?”
Mr. Sobel stared down at Barrett’s dagger, abandoned on the table. He said quietly, “He told me once that, when he was young, he found it amusing to allow prisoners to think he was harmless, right up to the moment he destroyed them.”
Barrett’s legs began to shake; he barely managed to pull the chair upright and sit down in it before his strength failed him. “Sweet blood,” he whispered. “Sweet, sweet blood.”
Mr. Sobel shook his head, not looking up. “I oughtn’t to have told you that last part.”
“I won’t pass it on,” Barrett promised. “But Mr. Sobel, if the High Seeker sets out to prove these rumor-mongers wrong—” He could hear his voice rising in panic, and he strove to keep control of himself. “The Codifier wouldn’t permit him to destroy the Eternal Dungeon.”
“The Codifier wouldn’t, if he knew what the High Seeker was doing. Do you remember what Mr. Smith was like when he broke Thatcher Owen?”
Mr. Boyd shut his eyes, remembering vividly the moment at which he had witnessed the prisoner go white with shock as he realized that he had walked blithely into Layle Smith’s trap. “He’s subtle.”
“Far too subtle. He could utterly destroy the Code of Seeking, and nobody would realize it until it was too late. Right now, we are relatively safe from him, because he is showing us the blade of his power. It’s when he stops showing his blade that the real danger will begin.”
“And some junior guards and Seekers are fools enough to think he has no blade.” Barrett thumped the table with frustration as he opened his eyes. The neighboring quarters were beginning to reverberate with sound as its inhabitants rose with the approach of the dusk shift, but the sound came faintly to Barrett’s ears, like the surge of a wave beginning to gather strength. “Mr. Sobel, why did we ever allow a man like that to become our High Seeker?”
“Because he is a genius.” Mr. Sobel’s response was soft. “He is a genius, and a high visionary. When Mr. Smith wrote the fifth revision of the Code of Seeking, it had to be approved by the Guild of Magistrates. I was present at the reading; I saw a group of hardened, phlegmatic men reduced to tears as they heard the words he had written about rebirth. And he has lived out those words in his work with the prisoners here. At his best, no one can surpass him as a model for humane treatment of prisoners. He is like an incarnation of the goddess Mercy.”
“And at his worst, he is Hell.” Barrett ran his fingers through his hair, trying to think straight. “What can we do?”
Mr. Sobel pushed the dagger over to Barrett. “Aside from praying? Look to his mind’s health.”
Barrett, who had been about to sheathe his dagger, flicked his gaze up to the other guard. “You think he is in danger of going mad again?” he said softly.
“At the moment, no. But that doesn’t mean his mind is healthy. Mr. Boyd, whatever Mr. Bergsen may say publicly about the High Seeker being cured of his madness, he knows as well as the Codifier and the Record-keeper and anyone else who has worked closely with the High Seeker that Layle Smith is never entirely right in his mind. He is a man who is perpetually unbalanced, but who has learned to control himself so well that he can do his work, and do it in a remarkable fashion. Yet he is always dancing on a knife’s edge.”
“Elsdon Taylor’s love is what keeps him from falling off,” Barrett suggested.
“Yes, to a large degree. Which is why the best thing you can do for Layle Smith – and by extension, this dungeon – is try to keep those two at peace with each other. This present tension between the two of them is what is worsening Mr. Smith’s health, more
than any mockery he endures.”
Barrett folded up the petitions before replying. “Mr. Sobel, I think you have a more exalted view of my role in this matter than the circumstances warrant.”
Mr. Sobel’s smile was wry as he rose to escort Barrett to the door. “Mr. Boyd,” he said, “if there is one thing I have learned in the twenty-seven years of my career here, it is never to underestimate the role that guards can play in the life of the Eternal Dungeon.”
o—o—o
o—o—o
. . . All that was needed, it seems, was for a handful of prison workers to begin to doubt the foundational principles of their work; once that had happened, a revolution was set in motion. Or so it is often said by historians who take a superficial view of the origins of the conflict.
We may say, if we like, that it was obvious who was in the right. But we must remember again that the traditions of the Eternal Dungeon were military traditions. A soldier might decide, out of tender conscience, that it is wrong to kill in warfare, but if he has signed up for the army, he is expected to carry out orders. If he does not, he may reasonably expect to be shot.
What created tension in the Eternal Dungeon in 360 was therefore not the fact that some Seekers and guards began to question whether torture was the best means by which to question prisoners. We know that this had happened in past decades, and that the past questioning had no effect on how the dungeon was run. What created tension was the conflict Layle Smith found himself in – a conflict of his own making.
For it was Layle Smith who had encouraged the junior members of the dungeon to speak freely. It was Layle Smith who had permitted their greater participation in the decision-making. And it was Layle Smith who would now find that his high principles had been turned into a weapon against him as a new generation refused to accept his orders in the fashion of obedient soldiers.
—Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon.
On Guard 4
APPOINTMENT
Seward Sobel
The year 360, the eighth month. (The year 1881 Fallow by the Old Calendar.)
Firearms: Usually forbidden in the Eternal Dungeon because, unless the gun is wielded by a highly skilled gunman, the close confines of the dungeon make likely the accidental shooting of innocent bystanders. The fifth revision of the Code of Seeking also notes that guns are the lazy man’s method of restraint. See Sacrifice.
—Glossary to Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon.
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