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The Balance 2

BARBARIANS

Dusk Peterson

As a result of this current cult, historians often forget that Vovim never possessed a monotheistic religion. Its religion was polytheistic – or, to be more precise, duotheistic, with a host of lesser gods. Hell certainly played a central role in Vovim's religion in the fourth century, but so did Mercy.

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 . . .

—Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon.
 

CHAPTER ONE

The King of Vovim sat on his throne, his cloak flowing onto the floor in a regal manner. He did not deign to look at his guest, but stared upward at the gilded dome of his throne room, shining bright in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the high windows.

"Twenty-four years ago," he said, "one of the master torturers at my dungeon took an apprentice. The boy was nothing before he came to the dungeon – nameless, having accomplished no deed in his life that would attract others' attention. But the man who apprenticed him thought he had potential to serve the King. The boy certainly appeared to have some small capacity in the art of searching prisoners. Then, at the end of three years, before he had finished his apprenticehood, the boy ran away. Broke his oath to serve the King and fled to the land of Yclau, our enemy in war!"

The guards, standing at stiff attention on both sides of the King and on the perimeter of the vast room, winced at the sound of the King's roar. A couple of them shuffled uneasily, as though they were accustomed to seeing unpleasant sights follow from such a roar. The King, though, followed his scream by flopping back into his throne and saying, "Milly, I want more of those tomatoes. The sweet ones."

"Of course, sire!" The man lounging at the feet of the King put down his glass and reached with eager hand to the platter resting on the floor beside him. Crouching on his knees like a dog begging for food, he carefully placed the tiny tomatoes, one by one, into the King's open mouth, pausing only as the King swallowed.

The King waved away the last of the tomatoes, and the man returned to the ground, raising his glass and letting the liquid in it swirl about in a playful manner. Taking no further notice of him, the King said, "This traitor – Layle Smith was his name – proceeded to tell poisonous lies to the world, claiming that Yclau's Eternal Dungeon was better than any other dungeon in the world. Not surprisingly, his flattery worked. In due time, he was appointed High Master of that dungeon – 'High Seeker,' as he styled himself. He let people call him the greatest torturer in the world, though any gifts he might have possessed he had stolen from my dungeon. Then, three years ago, he made a mistake. It was a very great mistake, wasn't it, Milly?"

"Oh, the High Seeker excels at mistakes, sire!"

"Be quiet, Milly – I didn't ask your views on the High Seeker."

The man kissed the knee of the King in an apparent attempt to placate him. The King ruffled his hair, causing the man to give a simpering smile. "Where was I?" asked the King.

"You were speaking of that horrible traitor before I rudely interrupted you," the man said, picking at the food on the platter, his mind now apparently absorbed in a decision over which of the delicacies to choose.

"Oh, yes. Well, the traitor, Layle Smith, made the mistake of persuading the Queen of Yclau to send one of the Eternal Dungeon's junior Seekers to Vovim, to deliver her message to me concerning peace talks. The Seeker in question, a man by the name of Taylor, was actually Layle Smith's love-mate – can you believe that? He risked his own love-mate! Naturally, I had the junior Seeker arrested—"

Several of the guards shuffled in their place, exchanging glances. The man at the King's feet quickly looked up and said, "Forgive me for my audacity in interrupting, sire. I believe you meant to say that a traitor torturer in your dungeon kidnapped the ambassador, unbeknownst to you."

"Of course." The King accepted this translation with ease, then reached out and hit the man hard in the head. The guard nearest the man gripped his rifle tight, as though fearing he would need to make use of it. But the man reacted neither with sign of pain nor with anger. He simply hung his head like a puppy who has received just punishment.

"That was your fault, High Master," the King told the man. "You should have known you had a traitor in your dungeon."

"You are too good to me, sire." The head torturer of Vovim's Hidden Dungeon did not raise his face. "The times you have forgiven me are far too great to count. I don't understand why I have so much difficulty controlling the torturers under my care. For some reason, my men don't seem to respect me."

There was an audible snigger from the guard nearest the High Master. Several guards shifted their hands over their mouths in an evident attempt to hide their smiles.

The King did not attempt to hide his. He laughed openly and ruffled the torturer's hair again. "Grow up to be a man, and maybe they'll respect you, Milly."

The High Master, who looked to be twenty years older than the King, reacted to this remark by kissing the King's knee again. The King gave another laugh and said, "Now, what was my tale? Oh, yes; Layle Smith's love-mate, Taylor, was kidnapped to the Hidden Dungeon. He was tortured, of course – and raped also, I believe?"

"Most certainly, sire." The High Master, whose face had been hidden by his long hair since the blow, looked up at the King, smiling. "Even a traitor torturer would not neglect to fulfill his duties to you."

"You train them well," the King said offhandedly, and the High Master beamed, as though he were a small child who had been praised. "At any rate," the King said, "Layle Smith's love-mate would have died there, except that I received word from the United Order of Prisons, which was meeting in Vovim at that time, that Taylor was being held in the Hidden Dungeon. The conference delegates asked permission to send a raiding party to the dungeon, led by the Yclau delegate." The King shrugged. "I gave them permission. In my mercy. Of course, any love-mate of that traitor apprentice deserved a lingering death, but I wanted the world to see that Layle Smith's claims were wrong. The Hidden Dungeon, not the Eternal Dungeon, is the most civilized dungeon in the world."

Several of the guards apparently decided it was safest at this point to burst into applause; they did this the Vovimian way, by jumping up and down. The King smiled at them indulgently.

Then, without warning, he was on his feet, kicking aside the platter and splattering wine onto the legs of his guest. The King took no notice of him.

"It was all a trick!" the royal personage screamed. "The Yclau delegate was Layle Smith himself, disguised as a guard, returning to Vovim in defiance of my death sentence upon him! He took his love-mate back to Yclau and claimed I was the one who ordered the man's torture! He made me look like a fool!"

The guards stared at the dome, at the floor, at the guest . . . anywhere but in the direction of their furious monarch. The High Master apparently did not consider such cautionary measures to be strong enough – he had fallen to his hands and knees and was kissing the King's feet. "Please, sire," he begged, "do not allow that ugly traitor to disturb you. He is not worth more than a wave of your hand to order his death."

The King considered this as the red in his face receded. Then he chuckled and reached down to pet his High Master. "I suppose so. Milly, I'd like some more of those tomatoes."

"I have been selfish and eaten the rest," the High Master said, his gaze flicking away from the tomato that the King had stomped underfoot. "I can give you some nice sweet-pastries, though."

"Oh, very well." The King flopped back onto his throne, pouting petulantly.

The High Master carefully gathered up one of the untrampled sweet-pastries and fed it into the mouth of the King, and then just as carefully wiped the King's mouth with his fingers. Afterwards, he transferred those fingers to his own mouth, which caused the King to smile.

Now thoroughly returned to good humor, the King turned his attention to his guest, who had been standing motionless throughout this recital. "How very nice it is," the King said with a dark smile, "to finally meet you, Taylor."

Elsdon Taylor did not reply. He felt chilled to his innermost flesh, and it was not merely because cold manacles bound his wrists behind him, nor that he stood naked in the King's throne room. The chill had grown upon him as he watched the King throw his tantrums.

Another onlooker, perhaps, might have thought that the King's behavior was nothing more than the spoiled antics of young royalty. But Elsdon, who had not yet reached the King's age, knew that it was more than that. A mad King, the High Seeker's voice whispered in Elsdon's memory, and the junior Seeker shivered.

The King had paused to allow the crouching High Master to feed him more pastries. Now he looked up and said to Elsdon, "So why did you try to creep across my border? Tell me that!"

"Sire," Elsdon said, in the even tone he used with prisoners who persisted in dreaming the world into the shape of their own fancy, "I apologize for correcting you on this point, but I did not creep over the border. I applied for entrance at the border, in a lawful fashion, and once I had been granted that entrance, your border soldiers arrested me—"

"I say you crept over my border!" The King threw a pastry hard upon the ground, narrowly missing his High Master. "You came here as a criminal, to assassinate me! Or to commit some other crime. Isn't that right, Milly?"

"Oh, he has certainly committed some crime, sire." The High Master paused from licking his fingers. "We will discover what that crime is when I question him."

The guard nearest the King turned his snigger into a cough this time. The High Master took no notice of him, but bent down and began licking at the crumbs upon the platter, as though he were a dog.

This sight put the King back into an amiable mood. He nudged the High Master with his foot, in the same manner that a man might stroke a beloved pet. "What crime have you committed?" he asked Elsdon, his voice quick with curiosity.

Elsdon had to pause to formulate his reply. He had thought it would be easy, communicating with the King – the fates knew that he had searched many difficult prisoners since becoming a Seeker. But with his prisoners he had always been the one in power, the person who could turn the conversation onto a new path if needed. This experience of being powerless, and of trying to transform a man who held his life dangling over a pit, brought back all the worst memories of his life. Of which the worst, no doubt, was the time he had spent in the Hidden Dungeon.

And would spend again, judging from the smirks that the High Master was sending his way at periodic intervals.

Elsdon tried to cleanse his mind by thinking of the beauty around him: the great dome above, with its golden pattern of stars and comets; the white marble pillars veined in deep red that the soldiers stood against, which were capped with carvings of men and women on theater stages. This was Vovim, as much as the mad King and the fool at his feet, who was now lapping with his tongue. If only Elsdon could reach the good that lay within his love-mate's native land, then his mission might be accomplished.

He tried again. "Sire, I have no wish to do you harm – on the contrary, I have come in the hope of providing you with assistance you need. We heard in the Eternal Dungeon that you have decided to withdraw from the promise you made to the United Order of Prisons three years ago, to reform Vovim's dungeon and prisons. I believe I can show you the advantages—"

"I broke no promises!" The King had risen his feet again. The guards around the room were wincing once more from his screams and casting dubious looks at Elsdon, as though they did not expect him to survive this exchange.

The picture of a royal figure making a humble prisoner cower was broken in the next moment as the King stamped his foot and said, "I never break my promises! The people who say that lie! Tell them, Milly!"

The High Master rose from the ground in a languorous movement, as though he were a slovenly woman rising from her bed. He was smiling. "Oh, sire, anyone who says that does not know you as I do. You have never broken your promise of favor to me, and you never will – I know that, and this man is a fool if he thinks otherwise."

"I want him punished!" The King was pouting again. "Do you hear me, Milly? I want him punished for what he said!"

The High Master came forward to stand in front of Elsdon. The smile did not leave his face as he reached forward and lightly touched one of Elsdon's nipples, which was hard in the cool air. Elsdon stood motionless, barely breathing as the High Master traced his finger down his prisoner's chest, and then lower.

"It will be my pleasure," the High Master purred, "to punish him for you, sire."

The King was leaning forward, trying to see what the High Master was doing. "You like the idea of punishing him?" he asked, and his voice held no eagerness, only suspicion.

The High Master's smile did not waver as he stepped back. "Of course, sire. Even the most disagreeable tasks I undertake with joy, knowing that I am serving you."

The King relaxed back into his throne; several of the guards emitted sighs of relief. The High Master returned to his place and began picking crumbs off the floor, one by one, as though he were an ant collecting grains of sand.

"Sire," Elsdon said in a more breathless voice than before, "I did not mean to condemn any motives you had for acting as you did. No doubt you had poor advisors." He could not forebear from shooting a glance at the High Master, who smiled sweetly back at him. Elsdon felt his heart continue to thump loud, as it had from the moment the High Master had touched him. He managed to rip his gaze away and add, "My only desire is to offer you whatever help you require in determining the future of Vovim's dungeon and prisons. I have brought with me a book that tells of Yclau's experience in such matters—"

"Oh, a book!" The High Master began to pat around his clothes, looking for something. It appeared that the search would take a lifetime, for the man was wearing a garment of loose fabric that looked vaguely like a shirt and trousers, but in the right light might have looked instead like a dress. He cast his hand within this fold and that crevice until, with a shrill cry of triumph such as a child might have produced, he pulled from one of the folds a book with a black cover and gold letters stamped upon it.

He held the volume high, so that the guards at the far end of the room craned their necks to see it. "Is this the book you mean, Seeker?" His voice purred again, soft and vicious.

"What is that?" the King demanded. "Let me see it!"

"Of course, sire!" The High Master tossed the book into the King's lap as though it were a toy to be played with. The King snatched the book up and opened it, but frowned.

"These aren't words!" he said. "They aren't like any of the words I was taught by my tutor!"

The guards flanking the King exchanged brief, anxious looks, as though concerned that their ruler had lost what little ability he had for his work. The High Master simply laughed, though, saying, "It's written in Yclau! Would you believe it, sire? He brought us a book written in his own language, expecting us to know his barbaric tongue!"

The King's laughter was enthusiastically taken up by all of the guards, who seemed to find this idea to be the height of amusement. The High Master, with another limp movement, pulled the book from the King's lap and began turning it this way and that, as though trying to figure out which direction the book should be placed in. His antics were not lost on the King, who nearly slid from his throne in hysteria as the High Master held the book from one corner, between thumb and index finger, licking his lips in apparent uncertainty as to what method he should take to tackle the mystery before him.

The guards' laughter, it was now clear, was aimed at the High Master. The High Master showed no sign that he was aware of this. He surrendered his battle with a sigh of exasperation and looked over at Elsdon with a pout that imitated the King's. "You know what it says!" he declared. "You tell us! What does it say here, on the first page?"

"The first words of the Code of Seeking," Elsdon said quietly, "are, 'A Seeker must be willing to suffer for the prisoners.'"

He could not have spoken further if he had wished; the King's laughter was so great this time that the Vovimian ruler was having to claw at the arms of his throne to keep upright. Several of the guards looked as though they were having to use their rifles as staffs to keep from falling over in their hilarity.

The High Master appeared to have a more serene sense of humor. Or perhaps it was simply that he was a torturer, and he hated to waste any opportunity. With a small smile, he carelessly tore from the book a page, crumpled it into a ball, and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing with an exaggerated movement of the jaw.

Elsdon was already suffused with heat from the laughter around him. Now he felt a flame of rage enter him which was so great that it took all his loyalty to the Seekers' Code to keep him from stepping forward and kicking the High Master in his face. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe in slowly. It was only the title page, he told himself. He is not destroying the Code. And even if he tried to destroy the book, he could not destroy the Code itself. The Code lies within the hearts of men; it is not dependent on ink and paper for its existence.

He heard the High Master say, "Sire, he's right! The Yclau do have something to teach us! They can send us lots of these books, and we can use them to solve our land's famine problem!"

"Or we could use them in our water closets," the King replied, entering into the spirit of the game. "We need some good paper with which to clean our toilets. And maybe we could persuade Yclau's High Seeker to come and clean the toilets for us—"

"Oh!" The High Master's squeal stilled the laughter around the room. "Sire, I almost forgot! I have the most wonderful news for you!"

Elsdon opened his eyes in time to see several of the guards give one another knowing looks. Whatever this news was, it appeared that the other members of the palace household already knew it, and they were simply waiting for the right person to present it to the King. Elsdon supposed that not many Vovimians cared to serve the King closely, given his changeable moods.

Besides, Elsdon thought, his chest tightening as the High Master sent another stinging smile his way, it appeared that it was the High Master's privilege to present this particular news.

"What? What? Tell me!" said the King eagerly.

"You needn't worry about extending an invitation to the High Seeker to clean toilets," the High Master said in his purring voice. "He won't be able to respond to the invitation. Sire, he has gone mad!"

There was a pause, and then the King said in a disappointed voice, "What, again?"

"Oh, but this is better than last time, sire." The High Master shot another glance at Elsdon, who was standing as frozen as a prisoner of hell, encased in ice. "You see, the Yclau hold to the odd custom of not forcing food and water upon the ill – they say that it is every person's right to decide when he should enter into his rebirth." The word was spoken with such contempt that the King chuckled and petted the High Master, as though soothing a yipping dog. The High Master smiled under the King's touch and added, "Last time Layle Smith went into madness, he was incapable of giving himself food or drink – he only survived because his love-mate was by his side and was able to pull him back from madness. This time . . ." He looked over at Elsdon, his grey eyes glittering like children's play-pebbles.

The King gave a sharp, delighted laugh. "You're certain of this?" he asked the High Master. "It isn't simply a rumor?"

The High Master shrugged. "If Layle Smith has died, the Eternal Dungeon wouldn't be likely to admit it. That is, if the High Seeker has left anyone alive in his dungeon by now." He gave Elsdon one of his claw-sharp smiles. "But certainly Layle Smith has gone mad again – the Queen has placed the Yclau palace in mourning, as she did last time. No less than a dozen of your loyal servants rushed to Vovim with this news, each not knowing of the others' coming. They began to arrive at the palace this morning, at dawn."

The King, grinning, looked over at Elsdon, still standing silent. "Well, Seeker?" he said. "Shall I send you back to the Eternal Dungeon so that you can bury your love-mate's ashes?"

"No, sire."

His voice felt hollow in his throat; his limbs were beginning to shake, and he feared that his knees would give way in the next moment. He tried not to think of this. He was a Seeker. Thoughts of his duty must come first.

The King's grin disappeared; his eyes narrowed. "No? You don't want to go back to Yclau after what has happened?"

"Sire . . ." It was a struggle to think, even to breathe. He gave up the effort to mold his words into courtly language and said simply, "I want more than anything to go back to the Eternal Dungeon, to find out— To help if I can. But my oath as a Seeker requires me to remain here, continuing my mission."

He did not see how the King reacted; his gaze was snagged by the High Master leaning forward. Elsdon had not taken full notice of the torturer's appearance upon their first meeting. Indeed, he had mistaken the man for a lowly courtier. Now, though, Elsdon found it hard to pull his eyes away. The High Master looked to be slightly older than the High Seeker, perhaps in his forties. His hair, in contradiction to Vovimian fashion for men, fell nearly to his waist; it was the color of rust. He had the high cheekbones common among some Vovimians, and pale skin.

And his grey eyes were, for a brief moment, as impenetrable as a rock.

Then the High Master shrugged, apparently turning aside from whatever thought had prompted this scrutiny of the junior Seeker. He moved his gaze to the King and cried, "Please don't let my prisoner go, sire – please! I'm planning such fun for him. He wants to show us how much worse Vovim's torturers are than Yclau's torturers – sorry, Yclau's Seekers." The sarcasm in his voice fairly flooded the room. "I can show him otherwise, sire. I can prove to him that Vovim's torturers are the best in the world."

The King reached over and ruffled the High Master's hair. "Of course you can, Milly," he said soothingly. "You're an excellent torturer – that's why I made you High Master. But perhaps you should turn the prisoner over to one of your torturers, hmm? We had trouble breaking this man last time, and I want to make sure that he undergoes the best treatment this time."

The High Master hung his head and thrust his lip out, then squealed again, slapping his palms upon the floor in excitement. "I know, sire! I know what will hurt him!"

As the King looked down with the amusement of a father watching his son at play, the High Master retrieved from the floor his abandoned wine glass. He swirled the red liquid in it for a moment, holding the glass up to catch the sun's rays, which were beginning to slant into dusk. Then he picked up the book still lying open on his lap, lifted it into the air, and held the glass above it. Directing another biting smile at Elsdon, he began slowly to tip the wine-filled glass.

From behind Elsdon came a cough. "High Master," said a voice that Elsdon recognized as belonging to one of the High Master's personal guards, who had escorted Elsdon to this room.

"I'm bu-u-usy," said the High Master in a sing-song voice, without lifting his eyes from the drama of the wine glass.

"Excuse me, High Master, but—"

The High Master sighed and looked up at the King. "He won't listen to me. None of them will listen to me. Why won't my men obey me?"

The King smiled but did not pet his High Master this time; he was watching, enthralled, as the wine neared the point of its fall. "What do you want?" he asked, without looking at the guard.

"Sire, Master Toler is waiting outside."

The wine glass crashed to the floor.

The wine did not touch the book as it fell. The High Master's hand had jerked at the last moment, causing the glass to smash at the King's feet, scattering shards and liquid all over the regal cloak. The King squeaked with disgust, raising his feet to avoid the liquid rolling about the ground.

The High Master took no notice. "Toler?" he said abruptly to the guard. "Toler Forge?"

"I don't know, High Master – he only gave his name of masterhood. He says that he is passing through these parts and will not be able to stay for long. He says that if you wish to give him any message before he leaves—"

"Milly!" cried the King, placing his booted heels on the throne in an attempt to avoid the mess. "Milly, it's all messy here! I want it cleaned!"

"Of course, sire." The High Master sprang to his feet in a movement quicker than he had shown until that time. "I'll check to see whether any cleaning servants are in the hallway."

He moved past Elsdon, who resisted the temptation to look backwards to check whether the newcomer could be seen through the doors. His greater concern was being left alone with the King.

"I have glass all over my cloak!" cried the King, looking at the guard nearest him. "Do something!"

With clear reluctance, the guard moved forward and tried to push the glass away with the tip of his bayonet. A moment later, there was a ripping sound as the tail of the cloak fell to the floor.

"Idiot!" cried the King, slapping him back. "Brains of an Yclau! You'll die between horses for this! Do you hear that?" he asked the other guard. "He's to die between horses."

"Yes, sire," said the second guard in a colorless voice. The first guard stepped back into his original place; his hands were white-knuckled around the rifle as he resumed his stiff stance.

The King looked around for further help. Unfortunately, the first person he saw was Elsdon.

"You!" he said. "Pick up those pieces of glass! Now!"

"Sire," Elsdon said, in a voice that had calmed many a hysterical prisoner, "I'd like to help, but as my hands are bound behind my back—"

"Don't you refuse me!" The King scrambled onto his feet, teetering atop the throne as though he were a small boy balancing himself on a log. "How dare you refuse me! You'll die between the horses too! Slowly! After you've been skinned alive!"

Elsdon felt his mouth dry in an instant. He knew that, in this land, such threats were not exaggerated imagery. "Sire—"

The word choked in his mouth as a blow across his back sent him to his knees.

Behind him a cold voice, speaking in a thick provincial accent, said, "When the King gives an order, you do not argue with him. Obey."

He could not breathe. The blow had nearly driven him flat onto the ground. After a moment he managed to choke out, "How—?"

A second blow sent his face to the ground, inches from the glass. The cold voice said, "With your mouth, swine. That's all your mouth is good for."

He managed to pick his head off the floor, though he was trembling so hard that he was sure he would lose consciousness in the next moment. With what little wits he had left, he searched the ground with his eyes until he found a large shard of glass within reach. Carefully, he bent down.

He managed to lift the pointed edge of it with his teeth; then he twisted his torso in order to place the glass equally carefully on the ground next to him. Beside him, he heard a loud sigh.

"This will take forever!" cried the High Master. "Sire, permit me." He flounced down onto the ground and, ignoring the glass, he began using the loose end of his shirt to wipe up the wine.

The King took no notice of him; he was staring over Elsdon's head. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Oh!" The High Master looked up from his task, his face brightening. "I forgot introductions! Sire, with your permission, I'd like to present Master Toler, who is the finest torturer ever to have passed through the Hidden Dungeon."

The King snorted. "I thought the High Seeker claimed that honor."

"Oh, he claims it . . ." The High Master smiled as he bent toward the floor again.

From behind Elsdon, the cold voice said, "It is an honor to meet you, sire – many is the day when I wished I had been able to enter your presence. I had not thought to receive such grace during my brief visit through this part of your kingdom."

"I don't know you," was the King's reply to this courteous speech. "Why don't I know him, Milly? If he's the best torturer in Vovim – which means he's the best torturer in the world – then he ought still to be working in my dungeon!"

The High Master, perhaps wisely, used this moment to rub his nose. The fact that the cloth he used was the wine-drenched shirt-tail appeared not to bother him. The cold voice said, "Your graciousness is as high as that of your father, sire. Some years ago, my father died; since I was my father's only son, your majestic father ordered me to return to my home, so that I could protect and support my mother and sisters. Since that time, I have worked in one of your provincial prisons. It is a smaller role than I had planned to take in my life, but I content myself with the knowledge that I am following the wishes of your father."

"Oh." The King appeared to be satisfied by this explanation. He was still standing atop the throne. Now, as his High Master finished wiping up the mess, the King sat down again, but he left his heels upon the chair, squeezing his legs tight to his chest as though he were six rather than twenty-six.

"I hope that you will forgive me for my boldness in correcting a prisoner before obtaining your leave, sire," the master torturer said. "I could not bear to hear a barbarian address you in such a fashion."

The King waved his hand in a careless manner. "You have my leave to punish him in whatever manner you wish. He has been difficult since he entered into my presence – isn't that right, Milly?"

"Most difficult, sire," said the High Master as he returned his attention to the abandoned platter, picking glass out of it. "He is much in need of the hand of an experienced torturer such as Master Toler."

"Thank you, High Master. You are most gracious, sire. . . . Up, swine."

The increased coldness of the master torturer's voice sent chills into Elsdon's stomach. He scrambled to his feet; then, fearing what he would see, he turned his head to look at the torturer standing beside him.

The man was dressed formally, in the manner of Vovimian torturers: boots tipped with steel, tight black trousers, and an equally tight black shirt whose sleeves were tied above the elbows. His left hip was empty of any weapon, but in his right hand – Elsdon noted without surprise – was a sleek whip. Flung back over his shoulders was an elegant cloak of dusk blue, while at his throat was the only informal touch, a torque with rustic carvings of sharp blades and, in the center, a bound, writhing prisoner.

He looked much like the torturers Elsdon had seen in the Hidden Dungeon three years before, except for two things: his gloves were made of leather rather than chain-mail, and his face was covered entirely with a veil of black gauze, hiding all but the dimmest impression of his features.

The King, catching up with the obvious, appeared to notice this at the same moment. He asked sharply, "Why do you wear the veil of the prophets?"

"I will gladly remove it if it offends you, sire," Master Toler replied. He had not looked in the direction of Elsdon since the junior Seeker rose to his feet; his face was turned toward the King. "Under ordinary circumstances I am not permitted to open my veil except in the moments before I perform executions. It is a long custom of the torturers in my province to garb ourselves like the prophets, as a sign that we serve the torture-god, whose earthly representative is yourself."

The King wriggled with pleasure at this statement, but he continued to frown, saying, "I'm not sure I like it. It looks too much like those hoods that Seekers wear."

"Of course it does, sire." Master Toler, without making his voice any warmer, somehow managed to convey a light tone. "How could it not, since they stole the idea from us?"

His statement caused a murmur to dance amidst the guards, who until this point had been eyeing the master torturer's whip suspiciously. Apparently they were not accustomed to permitting armed men into this room. Only the High Master seemed unsurprised by – or perhaps uninterested in – Master Toler's statement. He had returned to nibbling from the platter.

The King leaned forward enthusiastically, crossing his legs. "Have they stolen other things from us?"

"Sire, I needn't remind you who masters the Eternal Dungeon. How could a man like that – an oath-breaker to his King, a traitor to his kingdom – resist the temptation to steal? Yclau has always stolen from Vovim, but the High Seeker has increased this custom tenfold. As this prisoner" – he turned his face toward Elsdon at last – "no doubt knows."

"He's the High Seeker's love-mate," the King explained, as though avid to exchange gossip with the master torturer.

"Ah. Well, then, no doubt he has encouraged the High Seeker to commit his thefts. The arrogance of the Yclau knows no bounds."

The High Master looked up from the platter then, saying, "I'm not sure that the Yclau are the most arrogant persons in the world. I believe that honor goes to Layle Smith."

"He made me look a fool!" Without warning, the King was screaming again. Even the High Master winced this time at the sound of this siren.

Master Toler, though, appeared to take the change of mood in stride. "I have heard of that unhappy episode," he said. "Your patience with the Yclau after such wickedness is most remarkable."

"You talk about the Yclau again," complained the High Master. "But it is Layle Smith who affronted the King! The man's crimes are too countless to number: he offers his services to an enemy ruler, he speaks ill words against the Hidden Dungeon, he murders one of my torturers—"

"What?" The King's scream was higher-pitched this time; Elsdon saw the windows of the throne room vibrate. "When did this happen? Who was murdered?"

The High Master looked as though he would have liked to have gulped his words back. But showing more resolution than he had up till this time, he said, "It was the man who tortured Taylor three years ago. You had ordered his execution in any case, since he was thought to be responsible for the kidnapping, so I didn't think—"

"You didn't think!" The King was on his feet now, kicking the High Master. "You didn't think to tell me Layle Smith had murdered one of my torturers? Villain! Traitor!"

The King's foremost guard, clearly relieved that this episode was distracting the King from memories of a cut cloak, beckoned to a pair of guards standing by the wall; they stepped forward. At that moment, though, the High Master flung himself prostrate on the ground, wrapped his arms around the King's ankles, and began sobbing hysterically.

"Kill me, sire!" he begged. "Have my body torn apart by your royal horses! I have failed you, I have failed you, I deserve the worst and most painful death—"

Several of the guards snickered. The remainder stared down at the grovelling High Master with contempt clear in their expressions. The King, after trying several emotions upon his face, settled for condescension. He reached down and patted the High Master on the head.

"There, there," he said to the snivelling man. "I know that you meant well, Milly. I forgive you. Now, sit up straight – you want to make a good impression on Master Toler."

The High Master slowly pulled himself into a sitting position. The King, with a gesture meant to convey graciousness, indicated that he could have the privilege of laying his head upon the royal lap. The High Master did so, placing his arms around the King's legs, as though seeking continued support. He turned his head, and in his face was a blankness, as though he were indeed awaiting Master Toler's judgment.

Master Toler did not disappoint him. "The great have no need to go out of their way to adopt dignified poses, sire," he said. "Their dignity lies in the work that they do, and your High Master is a supreme example of that."

Several of the guards snickered at this backhanded compliment, but the faintest of smiles appeared on the High Master's face. When he spoke, though, his voice was peevish. "I should have killed him," he said. "I should have been there to protect the man Layle Smith murdered, and I should have killed the High Seeker. The man who was murdered had trained me, you see," he explained to the King, raising his head.

The King stroked the High Master's hair without commenting. It was Master Toler who said, "A worthy thought, High Master. Any man who would betray his master – as Layle Smith did by murdering your torturer – deserves death a thousand times over. If the High Seeker were in my hands, I would make him realize that."

"Would you?" asked the High Master in a soft voice, like a child begging a treat.

"I would. Of course, if the man had a conscience, there would be no need for action on my part – the flaying of guilt is greater than any flaying performed by a torturer. But since the man is cold of heart, it is unlikely that any words spoken by a Vovimian could reach him."

The High Master closed his eyes, as though contemplating this information. Or perhaps it was simply time for his afternoon nap. The King yawned, apparently of the same mind; then his eye strayed over to Elsdon, who had been trying his best to glimpse through the veil whether Master Toler's eyes were as cold as his voice.

"What about him?" the King asked. "He should be punished. For his arrogance. And for stealing something. He stole something, didn't he?" He prodded the head of the High Master, who looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

"Certainly the Yclau have stolen something," said Master Toler. "They have stolen something invaluable to you, sire, and have presented it to the world as their own. They have received praise for what you alone ought to receive praise for. They have stolen your fame and your honor."

"Have they really?" This news clearly delighted the King. "What have they stolen? Can we get it back?"

"In a sense, we have never truly lost what they took, though it is in my province that the treasure Layle Smith stole is best known. High Master, if I might have your permission . . ." He inclined his head toward the man curled around the feet of the King. The High Master nodded, looking somewhat more interested than before.

"What are you going to do?" asked the King, thumping the arms of his throne in his enthusiasm.

"What you most desire, sire. I am going to torture the prisoner. And thereby I will show what treasure the Yclau barbarians have stolen from us." He turned his face toward Elsdon, and Elsdon felt the chill enter his heart.
 

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 way? 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 all 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?"

Elsdon 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, moments 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.
 

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."

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 apprenticehood 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 no 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.

. . . 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 shallow 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.

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