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Rebirth 2

LOVE AND BETRAYAL

Dusk Peterson

The year 355, the seventh month.

Much valuable information concerning the Eternal Dungeon has been lost over the centuries. To provide a telling example of this loss, the most important figure in the history of the Eternal Dungeon was its first High Seeker, Layle Smith; yet we know nothing about his appearance, his hobbies, or his loves.

The information about him that does exist confirms his importance in the history of psychology. He is without question the author of the fifth revision of the Eternal Dungeon's Code of Seeking, which contained the rules by which the dungeon's Seekers questioned criminals placed in their custody. Any casual reader of the fifth revision will recognize entire passages from the book, for this volume provided the basis for the later Code of Psychology, which to this day remains the most important work in its field.

All of this suggests that Layle Smith was a man of formidable skill. Frustratingly, however, we have lost most of the examples of his techniques of "searching." What examples we possess are just as often records of his failures . . .

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

CHAPTER ONE

"He was a sadist," said Elsdon Taylor. "That's the only word I can use to describe him."

Layle Smith made no immediate reply to the words of the young man sitting before him. The two men were in an apartment, spacious by the standards of the Eternal Dungeon, which meant that the living quarters were smaller than many of the dungeon's breaking cells. Crammed into this tiny area was a kitchen and sitting room, the latter with bookcases on all three of its walls. The only gap in the reading matter came at the point where three doors led to the outer dungeon, inner dungeon, and bedroom.

Reaching over for a pitcher on the table he was standing beside, the High Seeker asked, "Do you use the word 'sadist' in its restricted sense?"

"You mean, do I think my father derived sexual pleasure from beating me?" Elsdon, curled up within a soft-cushioned chair, gave a weary shrug. "I couldn't say. I suppose it wouldn't surprise me if he had. He was that sort of man – cruel beyond words, and always convincing himself that his cruelty was a form of love."

Layle paused to wipe up a spill. Without looking Elsdon's way, he said, "If your father had found someone with whom he could direct his violent impulses in a manner that brought happiness to the other person, would that have made a difference to you?"

Elsdon gave a sharp laugh as he reached out to take the cup Layle offered him. "Do you mean, would I think more kindly toward him if he'd only beaten masochists? No, to tell the truth, I'd have despised him more if he'd corrupted anyone into enjoying his sickening pleasure. . . . Ow! Are you trying to torture me?"

Layle smiled then, saying, "I'm off duty. It helps if you don't try to poke that in your eye."

"It helps if you give me a cup I can actually drink out of." Elsdon eyed with suspicion the hollow reed attached to the inside of the cup. "What's the purpose of this, Layle? Aside from blinding your guests, I mean."

"Try closing your hood, and you'll see."

Elsdon reached up and fumbled for a moment with the hood on his head. It had taken him some time to grow used to the feel of the black cloth and to be able to locate with ease the edge of the flap that must cover the face when a Seeker was in public. Now he found the flap that lay atop his head and pulled it down, feeling the tingle of half suffocation that always occurred when the hood hung over his nose and mouth. Only his eyes were free of the cloth: he looked over to see that Layle was smiling again. "Now try to drink," the High Seeker suggested.

Elsdon lifted the cup . . . and immediately lowered it. "Oh," he said, scrutinizing the cup thoughtfully. He carefully turned the cup so that the reed was next to his face and slipped the reed under his hood. It took him a second to adjust to the feel of the reed in his mouth; then he tentatively sucked at the liquid.

"Very clever," he said finally, pulling up his face-cloth. "I trust I won't have to drink this way too often?"

Layle chuckled. "It's helpful when you're in public parts of the outer dungeon, but when you're at home or visiting friends . . . No, it's possible to relax then." He handed Elsdon a second cup, this one without the reed.

Elsdon raised the cup to his lips . . . and sighed as a knock sounded upon the door leading to the inner dungeon. Layle chuckled again, reaching up to lower his face-cloth. "Excuse me," he said.

Following the High Seeker's example, Elsdon flipped down the front of his hood before standing to wander over to the bookcase. He examined the titles there: Racks, A Manual for Woodworkers; Pain and Punishment in Our Queendom's Prisons; Spikes and Their Usage; One Hundred Techniques for Breaking a Prisoner; Man's Cruelty to Man . . . After a while Elsdon winced. Pulling down the volume on cruelty, he began to leaf through it.

Behind him, a voice said without preliminary, "Mr. Chapman wants a reply to this message."

There was a short pause, and then the High Seeker replied, "Tell him to proceed for now. I'll discuss the matter with him tomorrow evening. . . . Was there anything else you wanted?"

Elsdon turned in time to see the messenger – who was a guard about Elsdon's own age – shift from one foot to the other. "Well, Mr. Smith, it's about my schedule of duties."

"Yes?" Layle's voice gave no encouragement to the speaker.

"I'm scheduled to work the day shift, but every other day, it seems, I'm being asked to work evenings! It's just not fair – my private life is suffering because of it."

Layle said, with no emotion to his voice, "If you believe that your rights as a guard have been violated in any manner, you should take your concern to the Codifier."

"It's not a question of rights, Mr. Smith, it's a matter of justice. You see, I have a friend in the outer dungeon, and I'm always having to break off arrangements I've made to meet—"

"Mr. Gerson." Layle's voice was now cold. "If this is not a matter of Code-breaking, then I suggest that we discuss it when I am on duty. In the meantime, you might consider whether you have joined the right profession. People in our work will always be called upon to sacrifice portions of their private life for the sake of their duty."

There was a silence; the guard's face appeared set in stone. After a moment Mr. Gerson said stiffly, "I'll speak with you later about this, then. Oh, hello, Taylor!" For the first time, the guard took note of the second inhabitant of the room.

"Mr. Gerson." Layle's voice had turned as glacial as popular rumor held the Eternal Dungeon to be. "If a Seeker indicates to you that he is willing to be addressed informally by you during your leisure hours, that is a private matter. But whilst you are on duty, you will treat all of the inner dungeon inhabitants – Seekers, guards, and prisoners – with the formality that your work demands."

Mr. Gerson's face returned to stone. "Yes, sir. Good night."

"Good night." Layle turned, letting the door swing shut behind him. Before the door closed, Elsdon received the privilege of seeing a guard thumb his nose at the High Seeker. Mr. Gerson grinned at him, and Elsdon bit his lip to keep from laughing. Then the door shut with a soft thump.

"A typical quiet evening," remarked Layle, pulling up his hood flap as he returned to Elsdon's side.

"You're never off duty, are you?" Elsdon said as he raised his own face-cloth.

"Only in my dreamings. What's that you're looking at?"

Holding up the book so that Layle could see the title, Elsdon read aloud, "'In those cruel days of yesteryear, the men who ran the dungeon of our land were so filled with sadistic brutality that it is said that no female prisoner emerged from the dungeon with her virtue intact, and no youth remained unmolested. . . .' How can you bear to read such depressing books?"

"Among other things, they provide cautionary tales." Layle's gaze was running across the bookshelves. "I learn from these books what tragedies can be committed by Seekers if they do not show proper restraint. After all, we all enjoy our work in some fashion, or we would not choose to become Seekers." His gaze rested upon Elsdon.

Elsdon shut the book and returned it to the shelf before saying, "You mean I'm like my father."

"We established at the time of your imprisonment that you were not. I would not have allowed you to take the hood of a Seeker-in-Training if I thought you would again use your impulses toward violence for evil."

Elsdon shook his head. "That's not all that distinguishes me from my father. My father enjoyed my pain – whether or not he received a sexual thrill from it, he certainly obtained some kind of pleasure from it. I don't enjoy seeing prisoners in pain. Yes, I have a desire for violence, but the actual act of hurting another person sickens me. Murdering Sara . . . I still haven't been able to stop myself from vomiting when I think of what I did. I agreed to become a Seeker because I believe you're right that if I find an acceptable outlet for my violent desires –ordering punishments only when it would be in the best interests of the prisoner to receive pain – that will stop me from losing control of myself again. But I'll never enjoy other people's sufferings. You mustn't think I'm a monster like that."

After the silence had lengthened to the point of snapping like a racked man's sinews, Elsdon said, "Don't you believe me?"

"Of course I do." Layle's voice was matter-of-fact. "And I'm grateful to you for sharing your views on this matter. . . . We've spoken enough on this topic, I think. Have a seat."

Elsdon obeyed his gesture. Layle leaned back against the bookcase, letting his arm rest along one of the shelves holding the darkly titled volumes. "Now, then, you've met most of the guards and Seekers by now. It's not often that you'll work alongside another Seeker, except during your training period, so it's most important that you maintain good relations with the guards. I've found that formal relations work best."

Elsdon frowned as he picked at a stray thread in the chair. "Are you criticizing my friendship with Garrett?"

"Not at all; I'm delighted that Mr. Gerson has found a steady-minded companion. I just feel I ought to remind you about the Code's ruling on the matter of Seekers taking love-mates."

Elsdon's frown deepened; he pushed himself forward to the edge of the seat. "Look," he said, "there's nothing like that between Garrett and me – in fact, he already has a love-mate. But if there were . . . I can understand the rule forbidding Seekers from marrying, since their children would need to be raised in the Dungeon, but I don't understand the rule forbidding love-bonds, especially between Seekers and guards."

"There's a simple reason for that rule: Seekers take a lifelong oath to remain in the dungeon. Guards do not. Our experience over the decades has taught us that allowing love-bonds between oath-yoked men and non-oath-yoked men or women creates too great a strain in the dungeon. Too many guards and outer dungeon inhabitants have chosen to remain in the Eternal Dungeon long after they should have left, and too many Seekers have sought to be released from their oaths. I trust you do remember," Layle added lightly, "that the Code permits Seekers to become love-mates to each other."

For a moment, Elsdon could not speak. His heart was pounding so hard that he was convinced that he must be blushing from hairtip to toenail. Finally he said, "Yes, I remember. Are there any rules governing that?"

He tried to keep his voice cool and professional. He could not tell from Layle's expression whether he succeeded. The High Seeker said only, "You will be expected to notify the Codifier if you enter into a love-bond with another Seeker, however brief; the Codifier needs to be aware of such facts when judging disciplinary matters. Other than that, there are no regulations that affect you presently. Some of the senior Seekers, who have supervisory duties over junior Seekers and Seekers-in-Training, prefer not to enter into bonds with Seekers who work under them. This custom has not yet been Codified, but it is one that I recommend."

Elsdon stared at him. "But that means that you—"

He stopped himself at the edge of the cliff and drew back hastily, saying, "I mean, what about the Codifier? He supervises all of the Seekers in the dungeon. Does that mean he's not permitted to take a love-mate here?"

Layle ran a finger across the edge of the bookshelf, inspected the dust upon his fingertip, and said, "As it happens, the Codifier was married and widowed before coming to the Eternal Dungeon. He wishes to remain unmated, out of honor to his dead wife."

"Oh, I see. And do you—?"

The remaining words died within Elsdon's mouth as he caught sight of Layle's face. The High Seeker gestured to Elsdon to stand, saying, "We've spoken enough tonight, I think. We can continue our discussion next time."

"But I wanted to ask you—"

"Next time will be the best time for questions." Layle's voice was cool. He turned his back upon Elsdon and began shifting the books upon the shelf.

Elsdon stared at him, but the High Seeker did not turn. After a moment, Elsdon said awkwardly, "Well . . . I'll come again tomorrow . . . That is, if I may, sir."

The High Seeker said nothing, and Elsdon, feeling himself grow chill, reached up and pulled down the flap that hid his face on formal occasions. He turned toward the door.

His hand was upon the latch when he felt a touch on the sleeve; he looked to see Layle standing behind him, naked-faced. In his outstretched palm lay a key.

"For you," the High Seeker said. "In case I should be away from my cell when you call next. Feel free to await me here."

He placed the key into Elsdon's hand and then, without another word, returned to the bookshelf and began browsing through the volumes there.

"He's like that," said Elsdon Taylor. "One moment he'll be treating me as though he hates me, and the next he'll be giving me the key to his quarters. He's as changeable as a winter wind. I suppose that's what makes him so good with the prisoners – they can't predict how he'll act. I'm looking forward to seeing him at work—"

"You're in love with him, aren't you?" Garrett Gerson said.

He had the satisfaction of seeing the Seeker-in-Training blush bright red. Rarely could he catch Taylor out like this; on most occasions, the young man seemed as imperturbable as an ancient magistrate. Garrett, three years older than Elsdon Taylor, considered him a challenge.

Taylor swallowed heavily and said in a soft voice, "Is it so obvious?"

"'Mr. Smith thinks that racks are overrated as instruments of breaking.' 'Mr. Smith thinks that every Seeker should hold the Code in memory.' 'Mr. Smith thinks that I should part my hair on the right.' Yes, it's obvious."

Taylor smiled at Garrett's mocking rendition of his voice, but he furrowed his brow as he said, "I hope that the High Seeker hasn't guessed."

Garrett gave the other young man the expression he reserved for when Taylor was being particularly obtuse. Taylor sighed and added, "Oh, I suppose he must have. It's hideously embarrassing. 'High Seeker rescues young man from certain death, and the young man promptly falls in love with the High Seeker' – it must have happened to him a million times. He's being very polite in not mentioning it."

Garrett took a longer look at the Seeker-in-Training before him. The other youth was not far away – he could not be, in the cramped quarters that were allotted to guards. Garrett had been to Taylor's "cell," as the Seekers' private quarters were called because all Seekers took an oath to remain eternally confined within the dungeon. Taylor's so-named cell was twice the size of Garrett's quarters, even though Taylor was newly arrived and Garrett had worked at the dungeon for two years. It was yet another example of the lack of fairness he faced in his daily life.

Such injustices usually caused him to pick his words carefully when around Seekers, but now genuine curiosity caused him to ask, "What do you see in the man?"

"In the High Seeker?" Taylor stared at him with the same astonishment that a dog might show if asked to explain why he brought bones to his master. Garrett was hard pressed not to laugh, but he remained bland in expression, and after a moment Taylor said, "Sweet blood, Garrett, what's not to admire in Layle Smith?"

It irritated Garrett how Taylor insisted upon using his first name, as though they were still boys in school. It annoyed him almost as much as the High Seeker's obsession with having everyone address one another by formal titles. "I'm not sure he's so pure as all that," Garrett said, trying to figure out a gentle way to bring sense into Taylor's naive worldview. "I've heard stories about Smith from some of the other guards—"

"Mr. Smith doesn't approve of listening to gossip," Taylor said stiffly.

Garrett could guess the reasons why Layle Smith would disapprove of gossip, but he cursed himself inwardly. It was so hard keeping within the good graces of Taylor, and sometimes he asked himself why he made the effort. It wasn't as though Taylor cared about Garrett's misfortunes.

Well, Garrett thought, let the boy learn the truth through hard trial. He backtracked rapidly, saying, "I suppose you're right. So what do you admire most about the High Seeker?"

"The Code, of course," Taylor answered promptly.

Garrett, who had spent many a night contemplating how he could destroy every copy of the Eternal Dungeon's Code of Seeking, struggled to keep from grimacing. "He didn't invent the Code, you know," he pointed out. "It's as old as the Eternal Dungeon."

"Yes, but he wrote the present revision of it. Even the parts that aren't directly his are his in the sense that he decided to keep them from the previous versions. At the beginning of the Code, for example . . . Where's your copy?"

Garrett sighed, stood up, and went over to the end of his quarters that served as a bedroom, though a curtain was the only indicator of where the bedroom began and the sitting room ended. After rummaging for several minutes, he found the slim black volume underneath a pile of unwashed clothes.

He could tell from the tightness of Taylor's lips that the other youth did not approve of Garrett's handling of the Code of Seeking. But the Seeker-in-Training simply took the volume into his hand and opened it to the first page of text.

"'A Seeker must be willing to suffer for the prisoners,'" he read aloud. "That's from the first version of the Code – it's also in the oath Seekers take. But the next sentence is Mr. Smith's . . ."

He rambled on. Garrett paid no attention to what he said, focussing his thoughts on Taylor's finely curved cheekbones, his rich white skin, and the glossy hair peeking out from his hood. Boys and men had never appealed to Garrett in that way, but he found it amusing that Taylor was utterly unaware of how much power he held over most of the men and women around him, simply by virtue of his looks.

Which led Garrett's thoughts back to the High Seeker. Taylor was saying, "I counted them once. There are two hundred and seventeen of them – two hundred and seventeen rules preventing Seekers from misusing their power over prisoners. Most of the rules didn't appear in the previous versions of the Code – they were Layle Smith's contribution. How could I not admire a man like that?"

"So why don't you let him bed you?" Garrett asked mildly.

He had the deep pleasure of watching Taylor blush for the second time that evening. "Don't mock me," the Seeker-in-Training muttered.

"Mock you?" Garrett tried to make himself sound as though such an idea would never occur to him. He was brought back to the ground by the sharp look that Taylor gave him. It was easy to forget, amidst all of Taylor's innocence, that Taylor was a Seeker-in-Training and had obtained that title for good reason. Though Taylor was still new to his role, he was not a simpleton; he could not be fooled in all respects.

Garrett shrugged and said, in the voice he used when he needed to placate his own Seeker, "I didn't think you'd take my words as mockery. Why shouldn't you go to bed with the High Seeker?"

"Oh, bloody blades, Garrett." Taylor's voice held an uncommon note of exasperation. "We're talking about the High Seeker."

"You don't like being bedded by men?" Garrett was finding this art of teasing Taylor through innocent questions to be the most diverting game he had ever played.

Taylor stared at him blankly.

"Vovimian men don't let themselves be bedded by other men." Garrett enjoyed the rare occasions on which he was able to teach Taylor something he didn't already know. "A Vovimian man would only bed another man if he was raping him."

"Vovimians also beat their children."

Anger roughening Taylor's voice caused Garrett to stiffen, as he might have done if a stick in his hand had suddenly turned into a poisonous snake. Taylor caught the movement and gave a half-smile. "Sorry," he said. "I just meant that I don't take barbarians as my standard of behavior. No, of course I don't mind the idea of going to bed with another man. But we're talking about Layle Smith. The High Seeker. The man who is a legend among prison workers. And I'm just a Seeker-in-Training, with no experience at anything but murder."

His voice was matter-of-fact as he spoke. Garrett felt the temptation he often did, to begin probing Taylor about his kin-murder so that he could see what blood and guts spilled out of the Seeker-in-Training. But he suppressed the desire, saying, "Perhaps that's what he wants."

Taylor stared at him blankly again.

Garrett sighed and leaned forward, gracing Taylor with his worldly-wise expression. "Some men like that," he explained carefully. "They like going to bed with someone less experienced than themselves, someone who's younger. They go cock-high at the idea of bedding a virgin."

To his disappointment, Taylor didn't blush again. Garrett considered whether to explain to Taylor how he had come by this information, but decided that it was no business of Taylor's. Besides, for all Garrett knew, the Queen's Secretary might have recommended him for work at the Eternal Dungeon in any case.

He could see Taylor musing upon this new thought, and he pressed his advantage, saying, "I'll wager that, if you asked him to go to bed with you, he would."

"Wager?" Taylor asked absentmindedly, obviously trying to put his tongue around an unfamiliar word.

In an instant, all of the advantage Garrett had gained during this meeting was swept away. A single word could do that.

He cursed himself inwardly, by all the curses he knew that Taylor had never heard. Bad enough that Garrett should have the disadvantage of his background, but why did his speech have to betray his origins at the worst possible moments? He tried to imagine this soft-bred Seeker-in-Training standing in a common-folks' betting room, watching his father wager away all his earnings, leaving his son to struggle his way out of poverty . . .

No, Taylor would never understand what ordinary folk went through. Let him worry his head over trivialities such as whether the High Seeker would be interested in him. Garrett could have told him the answer in an instant, but he wasn't about to impart information to a Seeker.

Not without payment.
 

CHAPTER TWO

"Now," said the High Seeker, "you had a question for me at the end of our last meeting."

They were standing in Layle's sitting room. Elsdon had awaited Layle for a half hour outside his cell, not yet having the courage to try his key. Though the doors leading to the inner and outer dungeon were closed now, the High Seeker had not raised his hood, and his head was turned away.

Upon their first meeting, Elsdon had thought this a manner in which Seekers distanced themselves from their prisoners. He had since come to realize that the head-turning was a gesture of withdrawal that Layle was prone to use at intervals, like a man stepping back from danger.

"Yes," said Elsdon. "You told me the Codifier must be notified if I took a love-mate. I was wondering whether you needed to be notified as well."

For a moment, the High Seeker did not speak or move; then he turned his head and threw back his face-cloth. A faint smile touched his lips.

"What is it?" Elsdon asked uneasily.

"Nothing," Layle replied, gesturing him into a seat. "That simply wasn't the question I expected you to ask. The answer is no, there is no need for you to inform me." His voice turned dry. "Once you have learned how efficient the gossip circuit is in this dungeon, you'll understand how unlikely it is that you'll need to inform anyone of your love-bonds. . . . Well, then, we were discussing the inhabitants of the inner dungeon."

He paused to allow Elsdon time to slip into his usual seat. The chair fit the shape of Elsdon's body precisely; no one had sat upon the cushions since his last arrival. He curled up in a relaxed manner, marvelling again at the efficient engineering that allowed a wet underground cavern to be transformed into a dry warren of homey rooms. It was hard sometimes for Elsdon to remember that this was his prison.

Layle waited till he was well settled before saying, "You'll be spending a fair amount of time with the Record-keeper. Aside from assigning Seekers to prisoners, Mr. Aaron's unenviable job is to archive the records of every inhabitant of the Eternal Dungeon. Those documents date back from the time the dungeon began keeping records five generations ago. All of the records Mr. Aaron keeps are open, though certain sealed documents are maintained by the Codifier. I'd encourage you to browse through the open records of the inner dungeon's permanent residents when you have leisure. We've found that allowing inner dungeon inhabitants to know one another's pasts cuts down on the amount of unpleasant gossip that takes place."

Elsdon nodded. "And the sealed records?"

"May only be viewed at the discretion of the Codifier or with written permission from the person whose record it is. You may occasionally find the need to examine sealed portions of past prisoners' records. Don't feel afraid to apply to the Codifier in such cases."

Elsdon gave a half-hearted laugh. "If I can get up the courage to enter his domain."

Layle smiled as he reached over to pick up a cup of water that had been awaiting him. "Mr. Daniels is somewhat formidable in his formality, I'll agree. However, keep in mind that he holds the most important title in this dungeon – far more important than my own. If you ever have a question as to whether the Code has been broken, whether by yourself or by any other person, you must take your concern directly to him. He has the authority to overrule the commands of everyone in this dungeon, including myself, and he has similar power to discipline anyone."

"A dangerous power," observed Elsdon quietly.

"He must answer to the Queen and the magistrates for his actions, but he provides a welcome oversight on the Seekers. He, more than any other man, protects the rights of the prisoners."

"The prisoners." Elsdon voice grew hushed as he settled further back in his seat. "You haven't mentioned them yet."

"That's because it will be some time before you're permitted contact with them."

"Because I might identify with them?" With his fingers gripping the armchair tighter, Elsdon tried to smile.

"Partly." Layle set down his cup carefully. "Not many prisoners survive the Eternal Dungeon, Elsdon, and those who do survive it require time for their healing. You know how close you came to joining the other prisoners in being placed under execution; that wound is still fresh for you. This is a delicate period for you – far more delicate than I think you realize. But even if that were not the case, you would need time to be trained before being allowed to stand in the same room as a prisoner. You will need to be taught the rules of conduct toward prisoners, the methods of searching, the techniques of inducing pain where necessary—"

"The experiencing of that pain." Elsdon's voice remained low.

Layle lifted his eyebrows. "So you've heard about that."

"You told me yourself, when you had me whip you to test my response. You said that all Seekers are required to undergo whatever the prisoners undergo."

Layle nodded. "The punishment you underwent as a prisoner will count toward that experience, you will be glad to hear. As for the rest . . . I don't want to discount how difficult it will be, but it will not be as hard as you imagine. The worst that a prisoner must undergo is fear, a fear we deliberately cultivate in many cases, since it permits us to keep the physical pain at as low a level as possible. A prisoner receiving, say, sixty hard lashes will not know, as you will, that he will emerge from the experience alive and in a condition capable of being healed."

"And the rack?" Elsdon's voice was tight.

"Will be most difficult of all. But you will not need to spend more than an hour there."

Elsdon lowered his brow in puzzlement. "Why? You told me that most prisoners spend three to five days on the rack – some up to seven days."

"Because," Layle said, his voice turning light once more, "if you were a prisoner, and any Seeker placed you on the rack, it would take them less than an hour to break you."

The room was still; with the door closed, only the faintest sound could be heard of people walking through the corridors of the outer dungeon. It was daytime, and the laborers who kept the Eternal Dungeon alive were busy at their work.

Elsdon said, "It must be frightening to have the power to know something like that."

Layle's lips bent in a smile, though his eyes remained sober. "As you'll realize, when you reach that level of skill. Which brings me to the most important inhabitant of the Eternal Dungeon."

With a flick of his wrist, he pulled a book from the shelf and tossed it to Elsdon. Elsdon caught it with the quick reflexes that, he had already realized, helped to qualify him for his work; then he stared down at the black cover. "The Code," he breathed.

Layle nodded. "I know that you read the Code of Seeking before you were hooded. But now you will eat with it, sleep with it, and above all, work with it. It must become as familiar to you as the refrain of a nursery lullaby. You should never have to ask yourself, 'What shall I do in a situation like this?' The answer should be obvious to you, from your knowledge of the Code."

Elsdon opened the book at random. The words spun before his eyes: "'. . . A guard may touch the prisoner only under the circumstances outlined above. A Seeker may never touch the prisoner, unless to save a life that is in immediate danger, or unless he has received prior written permission from the Codifier. Penalties for violation of this rule . . .'"

He looked up from the book. "I wondered when I was a prisoner why you never touched me, not even when I was crying. I thought you didn't care about my pain."

"We must sometimes appear cold to the prisoner," Layle said, still standing against the bookcase. "We have found that violation of this particular rule leads to the worst abuses – perhaps especially when the Seeker has feelings of warmth toward the prisoner. . . . Which reminds me. I trust that you have read the section of the Code concerning rape?"

Startled at the change of topic, Elsdon stumbled through his reply. "Well, I've skimmed it. I didn't think it necessary to read it word by word. I mean, I'm not likely to pin a prisoner to the wall and begin pounding myself into him—"

"Read it." The High Seeker's voice was never stern; when he was disappointed with Elsdon, his voice instead grew so chill as to cause shivers to ripple across Elsdon's skin. "You need to understand that the Code regards rape—"

A soft knock came upon the door leading to the outer dungeon. Layle's face twisted with annoyance, an expression quickly hidden as the High Seeker flipped down the flap of his hood.

Elsdon was still fumbling with his face-cloth as the door opened; he turned his back quickly. Behind him, a familiar voice said, "I hope you'll forgive me for interrupting, sir. Mr. Chapman asked that this message be delivered."

"Thank you." Paper rustled, and Elsdon turned to see that the High Seeker was examining a note in his hands. Layle said, without looking up, "How comes it that you are delivering notes for other guards' Seekers during your off-duty hours, Mr. Sobel?"

The High Seeker's senior night guard gave a quick smile. "I was passing this way. Another guard was going off duty, and he asked me to deliver the note, because he was in a hurry."

"That other guard would be Mr. Gerson." Layle's voice was flat, requiring no answer, and Mr. Sobel gave him none. After a moment, Layle looked up from the note and said, "I'll speak to Mr. Chapman about this myself, when I see him next. . . . I understand that you've asked the Codifier for a leave of duties."

"Only for a day, sir," Mr. Sobel replied. "My day off is coming at the end of this fortnight, and I was wondering whether it could be doubled. If you aren't busy with a difficult prisoner, that is."

"Hmm." Layle seemed to consider this as he turned aside to rummage amongst some papers lying upon a table next to the door. The muscles in Mr. Sobel's neck suddenly stood out, but he said nothing.

Layle found the piece of paper he was looking for and handed it to Mr. Sobel, who glanced at it, then turned startled eyes toward the High Seeker.

"A gift from the Codifier and myself," said Layle in a matter-of-fact manner. "You've worked in the Eternal Dungeon for twenty-two years; we decided it was time that you had a month off. May I express the selfish hope that you'll be continuing your work at this dungeon?"

Mr. Sobel gave a long sigh and slipped the paper into the inner pocket of his jacket. "Yes, Mr. Smith. My fiancée has already applied for work in the outer dungeon, and I believe that she has a good chance of being accepted. Sir, it is most gracious of you—"

"I'll speak to the Codifier about your rooming situation." Layle spoke as though he had not heard his guard's final words. "And if you should have the wish to raise children within the dungeon, speak to me about that; I think that we would be able to accommodate you. We can't afford to lose you." His voice was cool, as though he were discussing shift changes.

"I'll do that, sir." Mr. Sobel made no effort to renew his thanks. Elsdon guessed, from having witnessed exchanges like this before, that the guard knew how unlikely it was that the High Seeker would allow the emotional level of the conversation to rise high enough to permit such warmth. Instead, the guard looked over at Elsdon and said, "Good evening, Mr. Taylor. I trust you are well?"

Elsdon smiled, then remembered that the guard could not see his smile, and offered his greetings and congratulations.

When the door had closed again and both Seekers' face-cloths were raised, Elsdon said, "I didn't know that Mr. Sobel was to be wed – how did you learn of this?"

Layle raised an eyebrow. "With the gossip circuit in this dungeon as lively as it is? My surprise is that you didn't know already. I was under the impression that you and Mr. Sobel were on the way to establishing a friendship at the time of your imprisonment."

"Oh." Elsdon stared a moment at his boots, which he carefully polished each morning to present a professional appearance, though few dungeon residents had seen him as yet. "Yes, I suppose I should get to know Mr. Sobel better. It's just that I've been spending a lot of time with Garrett . . ."

Layle was wearing an expression that even a fellow Seeker could not read. "I do not want to interfere in your privacy, Elsdon," he said in a colorless voice, "but I do believe that confining oneself to a single friend is not wise—"

"Did you reach this conclusion after befriending me?"

For a moment, Layle was still. Then he gave a deep chuckle, which for him was the equivalent of a shout of laughter. Elsdon grinned at him.

"You're right," Layle said in an easy voice. "I'm not the proper person to be delivering lectures about restricted social lives. What lecture was I giving before we were interrupted?"

"I can't remember."

Layle sighed. "Let's flee this cell," he said. "If we remain here, we're likely to be interrupted again, and perhaps the walk to our destination will refresh my mind." He gave a small frown, as though trying to ascertain something important, and then his hood hid his face.

Thousands of black-winged beasts dove toward Elsdon. He stood motionless as they curved their path around him, like water around a stream-rock. Above him, atop the passage leading to the lighted world, someone shouted, and Elsdon heard a creak as the great gates above were opened to allow the beasts their nightly exit. It was a tradition, he knew, that was far older than the Eternal Dungeon – as old as the dungeon that had preceded the Eternal Dungeon, that primitive, barbaric place where prisoners had found no friends or allies, only endless, unjust pain.

Those days were over, but the bat ritual remained. Elsdon watched with awe as the creatures who lived in the heights of the cavern housing the Eternal Dungeon streaked out into the lighted world. For a moment Elsdon caught a glimpse of the palace corridor that led, eventually, to the world he had forever left behind, and he felt a hard pain in his chest. Then he turned deliberately away, in time to see that the High Seeker was also watching the bats.

He remembered then that, while his own imprisonment had been but three months long, the High Seeker had taken his oath of eternal commitment while still in his youth. This remembrance provided Elsdon with the measure of proportion he needed. His momentary twinge of self-pity was replaced by compassion for the man whose choices in life had been far greater than Elsdon's, and who had picked the narrow path.

And with that compassion came the other emotion he strove so hard to hide. He tried to school his face, knowing how much the High Seeker could read from Elsdon's eyes alone. In private, such a disclosure would have been horrendous enough, but here in public it was unthinkable.

Indeed, the High Seeker was now holding himself in the formal pose he reserved for his on-duty moments. The bats, not the dungeon water-clocks, were the signal for the arrival of the night shift, and though Layle's prisoner would have to wait a few hours more for the High Seeker's arrival in his breaking cell, the High Seeker was now as much on duty as though he were standing in that cell.

Elsdon looked around at the entry hall, whose main inhabitants, the guards, sat at tables on the edges of the room, chatting and doing documentwork. He was surprised that the High Seeker had brought him here; this was his first visit to the inner dungeon since the day he had been offered the opportunity to train as a Seeker. Since that time, all of his excursions had been to the outer dungeon or to the corridor where the Seekers' cells lay, and then only when in the company of Layle or Garrett, for he still felt shy appearing before others in the uniform that, not so long ago, he had looked upon with terror. When he rounded a corner in the outer dungeon one day and ran into a small girl who screamed and rushed behind the skirt of her mother, he had realized, with a descent of the heart, what his donning of a Seeker's hood would mean for his life.

But not so long ago he had thought to spend his life confined within a cell, or lying in cold ashes within a burial pit. This transition could not be as hard a sacrifice for him as it must have been for Layle. He looked again at the High Seeker, but Layle's gaze travelled past him toward a black-hooded figure approaching them.

"Mr. Chapman," Layle said with cool formality. "You allowed your junior day guard early release. I trust this means you will not be working overduty once more."

The other Seeker raised his fingers to the eye-holes of his hood and rubbed his eyelids. "I wish that were the case. Alas, no, I need to do more research into my prisoner's case."

"And Mr. Gerson?" The High Seeker's voice remained uninformative.

"Had me stretched on the rack with his complaints about working late." The Seeker sounded wry, if somewhat weary. "Today, I told him that he could go off-duty early, once he'd delivered my message to you."

"He gave Mr. Sobel your message."

Mr. Chapman released his breath slowly, as though his lungs were a pair of bellows blowing at a faint spark. "I'll speak to him of it tomorrow. If I have the time and energy." He rubbed his eyelids again.

"I understand from your note that your prisoner has been of trouble to you." The High Seeker's voice remained formal.

Mr. Chapman gave a slight shrug. "Less so than your prisoner. I'm sorry yours has been causing you such grief."

Elsdon was surprised by the warmth in the Seeker's voice, less so by the coolness of Layle's response. "He has reason to hold out, if my surmises are correct. Mr. Chapman, I don't believe you've yet met our new Seeker-in-Training. Mr. Taylor, Mr. Chapman is the senior Seeker who has charge over this dungeon during the day shift."

Elsdon stiffened, as he might have done if his schoolmaster were presenting him to a distinguished visitor. Something made him relax again as Mr. Chapman turned to look at him.

"Ah, yes," Mr. Chapman said. "Some of our prisoners aren't satisfied with holding out on us; some of them demand room and board and a chance to dress up like us. Mr. Taylor, the weary figure you behold before you is what the High Seeker looked like when he was searching you. If you could frustrate Mr. Smith so thoroughly, I've no doubt you'll have the skills needed to search prisoners. Would you mind taking mine?"

Elsdon grinned, forgetting that the Seeker could not see his face. Layle said, "We should speak of your case. Mr. Taylor, if you will excuse me a minute . . ."

Elsdon heard the official dismissal in the High Seeker's voice and withdrew hastily, making his way toward the front of the dungeon's entry hall. His footsteps echoed above him, nearly lost in the chatter of the guards. The entry hall, unlike the remainder of the Eternal Dungeon, had no ceiling and only one man-made wall; the remainder of the hall was open to the natural curve of the cavern walls, creating an eerie reverberation of sounds. The guards' voices were tossed into the air and bounced about as though they were balls being thrown back and forth by small children. Amidst all the light conversation, Elsdon's progress went unnoticed.

The edges of the entry hall shone with lamplight. He looked for a shadowy place where he could hide himself and found it by a door along the broad wall behind the Record-keeper's desk. He stood in front of the closed door, gazing at the bright tables around the hall and listening to the equally bright chatter, as he wondered why this place – the first portion of the dungeon he had seen three months before – looked so unfamiliar.

"Excuse me, sir."

He recognized the firm voice of the Record-keeper and looked about to see which Seeker Mr. Aaron was addressing. Then he remembered, and he turned round.

The Record-keeper was standing in the doorway, his arms filled with ledger books. Beyond him, through the open doorway, Elsdon could see row upon row of books and document boxes. He withdrew hastily, with a low-voiced apology. The Record-keeper said, "Not at all, sir," in his brisk manner and moved over to his desk, where he placed the books with as much gentleness as his voice lacked.

Elsdon took a few steps back from the doorway, searching for another hiding place, but his attention was arrested by the tablet on the wall behind him. Nestled between the door he had been standing in front of and another door further down the wall, the tablet soared to the ceiling, as though it were the school-slateboard of a giant's child. Chalked upon the tablet were hundreds of names.

They were neatly divided into columns, each column headed with the number of a breaking cell. Elsdon knew by now that only one of the names in each column, the name at the top, represented a prisoner presently being searched. The rest of the names were of past prisoners, and most of the names were crossed out.

He felt a heaviness, staring at all of the names lined out, and his heaviness increased in the next moment as the Record-keeper, walking over to the tablet, casually erased a name in one of the columns.

He bit his lip, watching as the Record-keeper climbed a ladder and transferred a name from the top of the column to the empty space, then placed a line through that name. After a while, Elsdon became aware that someone was standing beside him.

He turned his head. Layle was watching, not the tablet, but Elsdon; he said nothing. Elsdon swallowed around the hardness in his throat and said, "I hate seeing that. Names crossed out, and then erased. It's as though we've forgotten they existed."

Layle made no protest at this bit of sentimentality. Instead he said, in a low voice that did not carry to any of the guards around them, "We keep the names there as long as possible – in many cases, prisoners who are executed have no friends or family mourning them, so we try to do our part in remembering them. And even after their names are erased, their records are kept eternally within this dungeon." He pointed at the tablet and said, "I trust that you have noticed that name."

Elsdon had to bend his body to see. Toward the bottom of the column marked 4 was a name, remarkable only because it was one of the few that was circled rather than lined out. It read, "E. Taylor."

He straightened his back, smiling, and then his smile faded as he felt the chillness of the entry hall touch his blood again. "I'm not sure that's any better," he said. "We call ourselves prisoners, because we took an oath of eternal commitment, but we're better off than most of the prisoners who pass through here – not only are we allowed to live, but we're free to walk about the dungeon. We aren't confined to our cells, like the prisoners who are searched. We're more privileged than they are."

The High Seeker made no reply, but turned and beckoned toward a guard who was just entering the entry hall from the door leading to the Seekers' cells and the outer dungeon. Layle put out his hand, and the guard, seemingly needing no further instruction, unfastened his coiled whip from his belt and handed it to the High Seeker.

"Thank you, Mr. Urman," Layle murmured. He began to uncurl the whip, saying to Elsdon, "Look at the top of the tablet."

Elsdon raised his eyes. There, above the column numbers, were the names of all the Seekers, familiar to him through study, if not always through acquaintance. Layle's name was there in his own handwriting, as was Mr. Chapman's in a different handwriting, but Elsdon could not see his own name.

Then he noticed what lay beside the names, and his breath whistled in. He looked over at Layle, who nodded. The High Seeker said, "If I should ever break the rules of the Code of Seeking in so serious a fashion as to warrant my arrest, I will be placed in this breaking cell—"

With a suddenness that made Elsdon jump, Layle moved the whip in his hand, apparently without effort, and the line flew upward, its tip striking the number 1 beside Layle's name.

Layle said, in the same calm voice as before, "And if I should compound my error by breaking the Code while I am being searched, and if my Seeker should deem such a measure necessary, I will then be placed in this room—"

Again the whip leapt, like a lithe stallion raising its forefeet and striking, this time touching the letter A beside Layle's name.

In the next moment, Layle had coiled the whip and was handing it back to the guard, who appeared unsurprised by this display; he moved over to join the other guards. The guards' conversation had stilled momentarily. Elsdon could see several of the senior guards watching Layle with envy.

It was in Elsdon's mind to ask Layle where he had learned to use a whip like that. Elsdon knew that Seekers were given only minimal training with a whip, since they were forbidden from touching prisoners with hand or weapon unless the prisoners made a murderous attack on a prison worker. But Elsdon's mind turned back to what Layle had shown him; he found that he was staring at the tiny number and letter beside the High Seeker's name.

"We are privileged, as you said," the High Seeker told him in a low voice. "But our privileges exist only as long as we adhere to the Code of this dungeon. If we fail to behave in a manner worthy of the honors that have been bestowed upon us, we are treated no differently from any other prisoner." He turned toward the Record-keeper's desk, scooped up a piece of chalk lying there, and silently offered it to Elsdon.

Elsdon took it without speaking. He sucked in a deep breath and then, amidst the renewed chatter of the guards, walked forward to climb the ladder beside the tablet.

He had just finished writing under Layle's name, "E. Taylor – 4, A," when a groaning creak behind him alerted him to a new arrival. And with the arrival came an immediate transformation.

All around the entry hall, the guards fell silent. Those who were closest to the lamps reached forward and pulled down the shutters around the lights, causing the edges of the room to turn black, hiding the tables and guards. The Record-keeper, who had been heading toward his documents library, quickly turned and seated himself behind his desk, folded his hands, and waited.

Above, in the passage leading down from the gates, walked three figures. The figure in the middle was bound.

Elsdon made his way down the stepladder as quickly and quietly as he could. Already Layle was beckoning him, and as he reached the ground, the High Seeker put his hand against the area of Elsdon's back between his shoulder-blades and propelled him into the room to the right of the tablet. Elsdon could guess why – he knew that he was not yet authorized to be in the same room as a prisoner – but he still had to catch his breath a moment from this sudden abduction.

The door closed behind him, shutting out light and sound. He heard Layle stepping nearby and had a moment to reflect that one thing had not changed in three months' time: Elsdon still feared being alone in the dark with the High Seeker. Then a match scratched, and a second later an oil lamp flickered dim light about the room.

Layle moved about silently, lighting all the lamps, which gave Elsdon time to take in his surroundings. There was little to see: the room was no larger than a breaking cell, and it was furnished with nothing except a desk, two chairs, and a shelf holding documents boxes and books. Elsdon bent down to look at the titles, expecting more of the gory subject matter with which Layle dutifully filled his private quarters, but to his surprise the books here were of the ordinary sort: language dictionaries, atlases, and even an occasional light novel like the ones that the boys at Elsdon's school had been fond of.

"This is odd," Elsdon said, straightening his back. "It's as though your leisure activities have become part of your duties, while your work has become your leisure."

"You're not the first to remark that."

Elsdon looked over at the High Seeker, who had seated himself behind his desk, his face still hood-dark. "Who else said that?" Elsdon asked.

A pause ensued before Layle replied, "Mr. Zinner, who trained as a Seeker a number of years ago. Please have a seat, Mr. Taylor."

Elsdon accepted the hint, not only from Layle's words, but also from the fact that the High Seeker had not raised his face-cloth. Perching himself on the edge of the chair opposite Layle's desk, Elsdon tried to hold himself in the formal pose he had used on the days when, as a schoolboy, he was called into the head schoolmaster's office.

Layle pulled from his inner shirt-pocket a cloth, extracted from it a chain whose keys had been wrapped so as to avoid clanging against one another, and placed one of the keys in the lock of his desk drawer. Presently he drew forth a loosely bound ledger and laid it open upon the table.

"'Elsdon Auburn Taylor,'" he read aloud. "'Born the 1st month of 337. 355 (fourth month): Arrested for murder. Transferred from Parkside Prison—'" He stopped, looked up at Elsdon, and said in a voice that sounded amused, "Your records start like mine."

"Only you came here as a prison worker rather than as a prisoner." Elsdon tried to keep his voice light, though his fists were beginning to clench.

Layle looked down at the records again. "'Request for transfer to Park Lane Youth Prison denied—'"

Startled, Elsdon leaned forward. "I didn't know of that."

"I requested the transfer upon your arrival here," Layle said without looking up. "It would have saved you from facing a death sentence. You were only three months over your birthday of adulthood, so the youth prison was willing to take you. However, your father's permission was needed for the transfer, and he denied it."

Elsdon felt the tension return to his body. Layle read aloud, "'Assigned to Breaking Cell 4, under the searching of the High Seeker. Given three light lashes upon the first day, as the result of the High Seeker's mistaken belief that the prisoner had violated the Code.'" Layle glanced briefly at Elsdon before looking back down at the paper. "'Confessed on the fifth day to murdering his sister, Sara Eleanor Taylor. Sentenced to be hanged by the magistrates' court. Offered eternal confinement within the Eternal Dungeon by recommendation of the High Seeker. Voluntarily took the oath of eternal commitment—'"

"What would have happened if I had refused to take the oath?" Elsdon asked.

"You would have remained eternally confined," Layle said, his gaze still fixed to the records, "but you would not have been offered the opportunity to train as a Seeker. 'Recommended for training as a Seeker by the High Seeker. Recommendation accepted by the Codifier, the Magisterial Guild, and the Queen. Training delayed in order to permit Mr. Taylor to heal from his searching.'"

Layle pushed back the records, contemplated for a moment the silver inkwell on his desk, and then looked steadily at Elsdon. Through the closed door of the office, Elsdon could hear the dim sound of a voice speaking stiffly – one of the visiting prison guards, he guessed, giving the Record-keeper the information needed for the transfer of the prisoner. All else was quiet; the High Seeker's office contained no water-clock.

"You understand," said Layle, "that even with your oath given, being a Seeker is a privilege, one that can be withdrawn at any time. We wield great power over the men and women we search, and unless we demonstrate ourselves to be worthy of that power, we are not permitted to remain hooded."

Elsdon nodded. "So if I broke the Queen's laws again . . ."

"You are no longer governed by the Queen's laws but by the Code. However, we treat the Code as seriously as the magistrates treat the Queen's laws. If, for example, you were to permit an unauthorized person access to a prisoner's records or a Seeker's writings, you would find yourself in much the same position a murderer or rapist faces in the magistrates' court—"

He stopped abruptly, and Elsdon saw the skin around his eyes tighten, as though a thought had come to him. Elsdon did not wait for the voicing of that thought, though. He said in a strained tone, "Is that why you won't let me train? Because you believe I'll break the Code?"

The High Seeker leaned back in his chair, the closest he had come to informality since he entered his office. "What makes you think I won't let you train?"

"I've been here for three months." Elsdon found that he was having a hard time speaking; it took little effort to keep his voice quiet, so that the prisoner outside would not hear this conversation. "I've long since healed from my imprisonment. I thought – I thought perhaps you've been waiting to see whether I could be trusted to keep the Code."

Layle remained in the same position, leaning back in the chair. "No," he said, "I have no doubt that you have as much ability to keep the Code as any of the rest of us. The question is whether beginning your training now would bring harm, given your continued anger toward your father."

Elsdon stared at Layle, his eyes wide in the dim light of the office. Several of the lamps, low in oil, were beginning to sputter, casting up dark clouds of smoke which travelled up toward the room's ventilated ceiling. Layle's black figure seemed dimmer than before.

"I don't understand," said Elsdon. "You encouraged me to realize the truth about my father. When I first arrived here, I hated myself – I blamed myself for all that had occurred between my father and me. You released me from that."

Amidst the dusky smoke, Layle said, "If I have released you from one hate, only to imprison you in another, the matter is not improved. Mr. Taylor, your father is a criminal – unimprisoned because we lack sufficient evidence to arrest him. But he is as much a criminal as the men and women you will search as a Seeker. If your anger continues against him, it is likely that you will eventually transfer that anger onto one of the prisoners in this dungeon."

Elsdon said, "You mean the way I did to Sara."

He forgot to keep his voice low; Layle jerked his head in a warning manner toward the door. Elsdon tried to relax, but it was of no use. He found himself rising from his chair, so that he was looking down upon the High Seeker.

"Sir," he said in a tight voice, "my father was a sadist – a cold, brutal man who had a twisted notion of love. So vicious was he that he taught me to blame myself for his cruelty. I blamed myself for everything, including Sara's murder."

The High Seeker said quietly, "I am glad that you have come to realize that you are not entirely to blame for what happened."

"I'm not to blame at all!"

The High Seeker leaned forward then, placing his arms upon the table. "I thought that you had not yet regained your memory of what happened."

"I remember enough to know that my hand killed Sara." Elsdon felt the familiar ache begin in his throat. "It was my hand, but it was my father's doing. I'm sure of that now. I was merely the instrument he used to abuse Sara, as he abused me. How can I forgive a man like that, High Seeker? Forgiving him for what he did to me would be hard enough, but to forgive him for killing my sweet sister, who never harmed anyone in her life . . ."

Tears were travelling hot down his face now; he struggled to bar their escape from his eyes. Layle opened his mouth, but at that moment there came a bang from the back of the room.

Elsdon turned to see that Garrett had flung the door open. Several yards behind him, staring into the High Seeker's office, was the newly arrived prisoner.

He was about Layle's age, in his mid-thirties, and he had a scar across his cheek that would have made him look dangerous under ordinary circumstances. Now, though, with his arms pinioned behind his back by leather straps, he looked as defenseless as a small child. His eyes were wide as he stared at the hooded Seeker next to the door. Elsdon saw the prisoner's throat move as he swallowed.

Elsdon felt as though someone had flung open a door while he was undressing. Then he remembered that, thanks to Layle's foresight, his tear-stained face was covered with a Seeker's hood. The prisoner could not see the angry, hurt child that had spoken moments before. All he saw was the man who might be his torturer.

Feeling a dizziness overcome him, Elsdon was only dimly aware of Garrett moving toward Layle. The guard slapped a paper onto the table before the High Seeker, saying, "The Codifier told me I need your signature on this request for an extra day off each month."

Layle did not move from where he sat, his hands folded upon Elsdon's records, which he had closed some time during the past few seconds. "Tell me, Mr. Gerson," he said in a conversational manner, "where you come from, are people in the habit of knocking upon doors?"

Garrett's face drained of color within the next breath, and Elsdon had a moment to reflect that the High Seeker never lacked skill at pinpointing a person's most vulnerable aspect. Then Garrett said stiffly, "Yes, sir."

"And did your childhood training extend as far as closing doors through which you have walked?"

Garrett's lips thinned. Without a word he spun and strode over to the door, which he slammed shut, cutting off sight of the bound prisoner, who had been watching Elsdon all this while.

Layle made no further remark. He picked up the paper Garrett had placed before him and began to read it, as carefully as though it were the Code of Seeking. Garrett moved over to his side and pointed to the bottom of the paper, saying, "I just need your signature there."

Layle nodded silently, continuing to read. Garrett moved a few steps behind him, looked over at Elsdon, and suddenly grinned. His hand moved to his dagger.

Elsdon, who knew Garrett well enough to guess what would come next, bit his lip to keep quiet, which caused Garrett's grin to broaden. He eased the dagger out soundlessly while Layle pulled the inkwell toward him, tipping it as he dipped his pen into the ink. As the High Seeker began to write at the bottom of the paper, Garrett raised his blade-clutching hand and pretended to stab the High Seeker several times.

Elsdon nearly laughed. In a dungeon where everyone walked in tiptoes around the much-feared High Seeker, Elsdon found Garrett's irreverent attitude to be remarkably refreshing. It was the main reason he endured Garrett's perennial grumbles and cynicism; Elsdon could always count on the guard to pinpoint the humorous aspects of Layle's dark reputation. Even so, Elsdon cast a worried glance at Layle.

The High Seeker did not pause in his writing; his eyes remained fixed on the page as he said, "Mr. Gerson."

"Yes, Mr. Smith?" Garrett stabbed the air above Layle several more times, his eyes dancing as he looked over at Elsdon.

Layle still did not look up. "Do you wish for me to demonstrate to you one of the methods by which Seekers are trained to disable prisoners who threaten their lives?"

Garrett stood frozen, his arm raised in mid-stab. "No, sir," he said after a moment.

"Then I suggest that you sheathe your blade." Layle pushed aside the paper, adding, "Request denied. You may tell the Codifier that I have changed your schedule. Until you are notified by me, you will work from the beginning of the day shift until two hours after the beginning of the night shift."

"What?" Garrett's voice was sharp as he sheathed his dagger. He rushed over to the front of the table to confront the High Seeker. "You can't do that! It's summertime! I already work a fifteen-hour day at this time of year. I'm not going to give up all my leisure time for—"

"Mr. Gerson." The High Seeker's voice remained conversational. "Will you hand me your whip, please?"

Silence followed. Outside the office, the dungeon guards were chatting again; Elsdon guessed that the prisoner had been taken to his breaking cell, and that the entry hall was once more lit and cheerful. Garrett, his face expressionless, placed his whip upon the table.

Layle took the black coil into his hands, then leaned back in his chair, drawing the leather lash through his fingers as though it were the sleek stem of a flower. "Mr. Taylor," he said, turning his head toward Elsdon, "you may occasionally encounter the problem of impertinent and disrespectful prisoners. You will not want the matter to proceed so far that you must invoke the Code's penalties against such discourtesy, so it is best to impress upon the prisoner what power you hold over him. Different Seekers have different methods of doing this—"

In an instant, without turning his head toward Garrett or moving from his lazy position of leaning back in the chair, Layle struck the whip in the air twice. Elsdon caught only a blur of the movement as the lash cracked on both sides of Garrett's face. A sound escaped the guard's throat, but he stood as immobile as Elsdon had been when the bats dove at him.

"I find that symbolic imagery usually serves best to impress the truth upon the prisoner." Layle curled the whip into a circle and tossed it lightly onto the desk. "Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Gerson. You may go now."

Garrett leaned forward slowly to take both the whip and the paper he had given the High Seeker. From where Elsdon stood, he could see Garrett's face clearly: it was white and covered with sweat, but the whip had not marked him. The guard left the office without a word, closing the door softly behind him.

Elsdon looked over at Layle, who had leaned forward and slipped his hands underneath his hood, so as to cover his face. Elsdon asked, "Is that the darkness?"

Layle's hands retreated as he looked up at Elsdon questioningly.

"Mr. Sobel told me once that I hadn't seen the darkest part of you," Elsdon explained. "He said that it emerged only when you were with the worst prisoners."

Layle gave a humorless chuckle. "Mr. Gerson is hardly on the same level as the worst prisoners we deal with. —Thank you." This as Elsdon came forward and handed Layle the pen that he was groping for.

"How did you know what he was doing behind you?" Elsdon asked as Layle put the pen aside. "Does that hood of yours hide a second pair of eyes?"

"Come behind me and see."

Hesitantly, Elsdon did so; his heart was racing by the time he reached the spot where Garrett had stood. Layle reached forward to the inkwell. As the High Seeker tilted it, Elsdon could see his own reflection upon its silver face.

"You'll learn tricks like that during your training," Layle said as Elsdon returned to the front of the table. "The safest course, though, is never to turn your back on a prisoner. Never trust a prisoner – for that matter, be wary of offering your trust to any person in this dungeon, whether they be an outer dungeon laborer or a guard or even a fellow Seeker. You're in a position of power now, and you're surrounded by people who will take advantage of that power if they can."

Elsdon frowned. "Trust no one? Sir, that can't be right. I thought that Seekers were supposed to establish trust between themselves and the prisoners."

Layle stood, his posture returned to stiff formality. "Establish trust, yes, but not give it unearned. We have a saying about that in the dungeon, but I doubt that you'll understand it till the first time you trust someone and they take advantage of your trust." He picked up Elsdon's records, slipped them into the drawer, and locked the drawer. "It seems that even here we cannot converse without interruption. It is of no matter. I know where we can go where we will not be disturbed."

Elsdon did not speak as Layle extinguished the lamps. It had come to him, like the crack of a lash, that all the words Layle had spoken during the past few minutes were words of training, and that Elsdon had finally been granted the privilege to see the High Seeker at his work. He felt excitement build within him. As Layle reached the door and opened it, Elsdon said, "Sir! What is the dungeon's saying about trust? I'm sure I could understand it now."

Layle looked back at Elsdon. Under the dim light, his eyes hid within the holes of the hood. He said softly, "The saying goes: To be a Seeker is to know betrayal."
 

CHAPTER THREE

The corridor was cold. It was always cold. Elsdon had been startled when he first learned that the prisoners being searched were the only dungeon inhabitants granted the luxury of a furnace. He had grown accustomed since then to the dungeon's autumn chill, which remained the same year-round.

Much like its master. He stole a look at the High Seeker as they walked side by side down the corridor between the prisoners' cells, passing an occasional pair of guards flanking the door to a cell that was in use.

"You must never lie to a prisoner," the High Seeker said. "The Code is quite strict about that, and equally strict in its penalties for violation of this rule. You must never lie, though you may often be called upon to mislead."

"What is the difference?" Elsdon asked, his mind only half fastened upon what the High Seeker was saying. His thoughts were instead upon the stiffness of Layle's posture, which he remembered from the day they first met. Layle had only relaxed that stiffness once during Elsdon's imprisonment, when Elsdon was being beaten; it had given Elsdon a mistaken impression of the High Seeker's character. Since that time, Elsdon had seen the High Seeker relaxed and informal many times – but only when he was alone with Elsdon, in the privacy of Layle's cell.

"I misled you when you were my prisoner," the High Seeker replied. "I led you to believe that I was searching you for the truth about the crime you were accused of committing, when in fact I was setting up the conditions by which you would break yourself and admit your wrongdoing. Were you resentful of my misleading when you learned of it?"

Elsdon did not have to think back that far. He shook his head at once. "I knew that you had done it for my sake."

"But if I had lied to you – if I had told you that my questions to you were aimed at my breaking you – would that have made a difference in how you regarded me?"

Elsdon nodded slowly. They had passed into darkness: no lamps lit this end of the corridor, and no guards stood in front of the doors here. The High Seeker paused before one of the doors and pulled his ring of keys from his inner pocket. He slipped off one of the keys and handed it to Elsdon.

"This is a master key," he said in a low tone. "It will open any cell where prisoners are searched. Under ordinary circumstances you will not need to use it – the guards will let you in and out of any cell where a prisoner is present – but you may need it in an emergency. Keep the key under your pillow when you sleep and within your inner pocket when you're awake, and never allow a prisoner to guess that you hold it. Some prisoners would kill you to possess that key."

His voice was matter-of-fact. Elsdon carefully threaded the key onto his own key-ring, which so far carried only the keys to his cell and Layle's. He was slipping the ring back into his inner pocket when Layle gestured toward the door they stood before.

Elsdon leaned forward and fumbled with the lock in the dark corridor. He did not succeed in turning the key until Layle, stepping further down the corridor, retrieved a lamp from where it hung on the wall and brought it over to illuminate the door. Elsdon had just time enough to see what was written above the door before he stepped inside and Layle's light caught the contents of the interior. Then Elsdon forgot to breathe.

The room was slightly larger than a breaking cell, but colder; the cell did not end against a furnace-warmed wall, as a breaking cell would, but instead against the same cold stone that lined the other walls. Upon this stone hung black objects of varying sizes. They were too far hidden into the shadows for Elsdon to catch more than a glimpse of them: something narrow and pointed, something else long and sharp, something else blunt and hard . . .

His mind was not upon the wall decorations. All of his attention was focussed upon the great table in the midst of the room, and the straps at its head and foot.

He felt Layle's hand upon his shoulder, and he jerked away from the touch automatically. Then he forced himself to remember that he was a Seeker. This was his workplace; he ought not to be reacting as though he were a prisoner being brought here. He sucked in several breaths of chill air, then walked forward and inspected the rack more closely.

From the books Layle had instructed him to read, Elsdon knew that racks came in many shapes. This one was of a simple design. The foot of it held a fixed bar with straps on it for the ankles; the head of the rack held a moveable bar with straps for the wrists. The most impressive feature of the rack was not the bars or straps but the giant wheel which controlled the moveable bar. It was placed flat against the head of the rack and was nearly as high as a man. Approaching it, Elsdon found that his chin barely rose over it, and his arms must be spread nearly to full width to span the circle. The wheel led to a mechanism that was unintelligible to Elsdon, but he could see that the movement of the wheel was divided into exact intervals by a series of notches hidden from the view of any prisoner who lay upon the rack. Indeed, only the guard controlling the rack would be able to see the notches, Elsdon decided, peering down at the hidden control. The levels inscribed upon the control went from zero to ten, and four notches quartered each level.

His gaze wandered back to the moveable bar, and from there to the straps. He swallowed.

"How much does this stretch the prisoner?" he heard himself ask in a hollow voice.

"Hold onto a strap and see," the High Seeker suggested.

Moving cautiously round to the side of the rack, Elsdon picked up one of the straps; it was made of calfskin and was soft to the touch. He took firm hold of the strap, then braced himself.

The High Seeker, standing now at the wheel, turned it minutely. There was a click, and the strap tugged slightly in Elsdon's hand, as a child might tug at the hand of a parent.

Elsdon looked over at the High Seeker, startled. "That didn't hurt!"

"It's more impressive when accompanied by the lecture of a Seeker, explaining the terrible effects of the machine," Layle said dryly. "But no, the rack's primary purpose is not to hurt the prisoner – it is to drive fear into the prisoner. We use it only on the worst prisoners, the ones who have broken the Code repeatedly and without remorse. Such prisoners are unlikely to break through pain alone; fear is the best weapon we can use against them."

Elsdon let the strap drop and went over to Layle's side. The wheel had turned over to the first notch, one quarter of the way from zero to one. "But is the rack dangerous to the prisoner?"

"Not at the lower levels. At the higher levels . . . In theory, a healthy man should not receive permanent damage if he is placed at level ten. But we cannot always know the full state of health of our prisoners, despite the dungeon healer's careful examination of their medical records. We have had prisoners suffer heart death while on the rack."

Again, his voice was matter-of-fact. Elsdon gave him a sharp look. After a moment, Layle added, "All rackings must be approved by me, and I rarely permit Seekers to take their prisoners beyond level three. The primary point of this room, as I say, is not to cause pain, but to cause fear. Hence the decorations." He waved his hand toward the walls.

The lamp, which Layle had laid upon the groin-high bed of the rack, did not quite shed its light upon the walls. Elsdon had to go over to the wall and touch one of the objects before he could be sure of what hung there. Then he looked back at Layle and said, in a voice that he hoped was steady, "These are from the old dungeon?"

"The royal dungeon that existed in Yclau before the Eternal Dungeon was formed? No, those were destroyed at the time that the Code of Seeking was first issued. These belong to me."

Elsdon stared at him, his hand dropping from the black iron. "You collect instruments of torture?"

"Antique ones." Layle's voice was bland. "Some of the dealers who sell the books I own also sell objects such as these. Hung here, they make a great impression upon prisoners entering this cell. We've had prisoners break the moment they saw these instruments—"

"—thus saving you from having to rack the prisoners. Yes, I see." Elsdon ran his hand over the iron, which was thin at one end, but gradually grew into a globular shape. At the other end of the instrument, a pair of long handles regulated by a notched bar allowed the instrument to be slowly opened. "What is this?" Elsdon asked.

The High Seeker stepped forward and slid his palm lightly over the surface of the cold metal, as a man might slide his hand along a cheek. "This," he said, "is the Swelling Globe. It is no longer in use in most countries of the world, though it continues to be used in Vovim – this is a Vovimian model."

"The books you had me read say that the Vovimian torturers are the most barbaric men of that barbarian culture," commented Elsdon.

The High Seeker's gaze did not stray from the object he was stroking. "The books are right. If you want to know what Yclau's dungeon was like in the years before the Code was compiled, you need only look to Vovim's Hidden Dungeon. The Vovimians continue to practice methods of breaking that all civilized countries have abandoned."

"How is the Swelling Globe used?"

For the first time, Layle looked over at Elsdon. His hand dropped from the metal. "It was used in the prisoners' orifices," he said coolly. "I will lend you a book that describes the exact nature of its use. Do you have any other questions while we are here?"

"Yes," said Elsdon. "I'm wondering whether the question you were afraid I'd ask earlier was whether you ever take love-mates."

His school days were not long over; he could still remember vividly the varied expressions on his schoolmasters' faces when he would unexpectedly ask questions that would turn a class discussion upon its head. Some of his schoolmasters had been angry; others, for reasons he had not fully understood at the time, had been pleased. He now knew, as he had not known in those days, that this gift for being able to take other people by surprise was one of his qualifications for being a Seeker. Yet it was still startling to see Layle suddenly jerk his head away, and to know that he had succeeded in catching the High Seeker off-guard.

After a moment, the High Seeker said in a detached voice, "As I stated earlier, I do not consider it wise for a senior Seeker to enter into bonds with a Seeker he supervises."

"But you supervise all of the Seekers – does that mean you never take a love-mate? Surely the Code doesn't require the High Seeker to be celibate. If it did, then it would spell out so important a rule more clearly."

He waited breathlessly for the next few moments, trying to read what he could from Layle's rigid posture – the High Seeker's face was still turned away. Then the High Seeker moved.

Not toward him; away from him, rounding the head of the rack so that he stood half-hidden by the opposite side of the table. When this was done, he turned his face back. His eyes were now as cool as they ever were, dark under the dim lamplight.

"It was a personal decision," the High Seeker said impassively, "and as such is not a proper subject for conversation during my on-duty hours. Do you have any other questions? If not, then I must start my preparations for searching my prisoner tonight."

His tone was dismissive. Elsdon felt desperation well within him, coalescing into a hardness inside his throat.

"Please," he said, keeping his voice soft, "you must know why I'm asking this. Even if you don't want— If you want me to go away, I will, but I need to know whether it bothers you. That I feel this way. If you think it's wrong for me to feel this – if it's a violation of my duty as a Seeker or as your friend – I could try to stop myself—"

He broke off. As he was speaking, he had taken a step toward the High Seeker, following Layle's path over to the side of the rack. Now the High Seeker moved again, turning to round the corner at the foot of the rack, so that he remained half-hidden from Elsdon.

Elsdon possessed several qualities which qualified him to be a Seeker, but the most important was this: he could read words and gestures to understand what lay beneath them. He had not used that skill on all occasions in his life. His strong desire to please his father had blinded him, making him incapable of recognizing the truth about his father's abusive nature. And there had been times – more times than Elsdon liked to think of – when his wild anger against a bully-boy blinded him to the boy's better nature. But discernment was a skill that had served him well more than once in the schoolyard, and now, without warning, it came into play once more.

Few other men, had they been standing in that room, would have understood Layle's withdrawal to be anything other than an indication that the High Seeker wished to remain distant. But Elsdon – his mind adding up the dim light, the height of the rack, and the height of the High Seeker – recognized what those other men would have missed.

His breath whistled in. The High Seeker stiffened yet further. Speaking softly, as though uttering sacred words, Elsdon said, "You want me."

Layle did not reply. Elsdon moved toward him slowly, as though toward a frightened animal. As he rounded the corner of the rack, he was careful to keep his eyes fixed upon Layle's hooded eyes rather than look lower. The High Seeker did not withdraw this time, nor turn his gaze away, but his hand tightened upon the fixed bar of the rack.

"It's all right," said Elsdon, keeping his voice soft as he halted, an arm's length from Layle. "Even if you only want a night with me—"

"No!" Layle's voice held horror, like that of man who, being presented with a twelve-course meal, is told that he will only be granted a quarter of an hour in which to consume it.

"Well, then . . ." Elsdon's voice trailed off; he was struggling to hold back the impulse to grab the High Seeker and kiss him with passionate joy. Every part of his body was throbbing hard now.

The High Seeker closed his eyes and let out his breath slowly. "Mr. Taylor," he said, his tone still formal, "I did not make lightly my decision not to enter into bonds with other Seekers."

"You said that you won't bond with Seekers you supervise. Is that the real reason you won't bond with me? If there's something about me that bothers you . . ."

Layle's fingernails dug into the wood of the fixed bar. He had turned his head away again. Elsdon waited, his Seekerly sense warning him not to press the matter, though his body continued to throb.

After a moment, the High Seeker made a sound in his throat, and with a sudden jerk of movement he took from his trouser pocket two items: a pencil and one of the stiff cards that Seekers carried at all times. Bending over, he wrote down a few words, then handed the card to Elsdon, who stared at the three names written there. "What is this?" Elsdon asked.

"My prior love-mates," Layle replied. "You will not be able to contact Mr. Partridge or Mr. Zinner, but I suggest that you consult their records. In the case of Mr. Chapman, you can supplement his records by speaking with him—"

"Layle!" Elsdon stared with wide eyes at the High Seeker. "Are you giving me references?"

"I'm on duty," the High Seeker reminded him in a chill voice.

"I'm sorry, sir," Elsdon replied quickly. He looked down at the list again, then crumpled it and let it fall to the floor.

Layle said nothing; he simply scooped up the card, smoothed it out, turned it over to its blank side, and wrote something there. As he finished, he said quietly, "This gives you permission to consult my sealed records. —No," he added, cutting off Elsdon's protests. "This is not a matter I will discuss further with you until you know more about me. If, after you have made your investigations, you wish to talk about what you have learned, you may come to my cell two hours before the night shift begins tomorrow. If you would prefer not to discuss it, then come to my office at the beginning of the night shift, and we will discuss how to begin your training."

As he spoke, he slipped the card into Elsdon's trouser pocket. Doing so required him to step close to Elsdon, and for a moment afterwards Layle was still, his hand in Elsdon's pocket, his hooded face close to Elsdon's.

The sound of a door banging open startled both of them into leaping apart. Turning his head, Elsdon saw a young woman standing at the door with bucket and mop in hand.

"Oh!" said the serving-woman. "I'm sorry, sirs. I didn't realize this cell was in use." She gave a lingering look at Elsdon, then a narrower look at the High Seeker, and then closed the door.

The High Seeker sighed, turning to inspect one of the straps on the rack. "Another lesson I failed to mention is that you should always lock the door to any room in which you plan to hold private conversations with other Seekers. Otherwise you will learn – as you are about to learn – how well oiled the gossip circuit is in this dungeon."

"Sir, I didn't mean to—"

"Tomorrow," the High Seeker said firmly. "We'll discuss this tomorrow, after your research, should you still wish to do so. Or we'll discuss your training at my office. In either case, I have work to do."

Elsdon dared not ignore the tone of dismissal in Layle's voice. He walked rapidly back to the door and stepped into the corridor. But when he turned to close the door behind him, he saw that the High Seeker was looking, not at the strap he was testing in his hand, but at Elsdon.

Then the High Seeker turned his head away, as though his interest had been caught by the mysterious object called the Swelling Globe, and Elsdon softly closed the door.

"I must have been mad!" cried Elsdon Taylor. "What made me do it?"

Garrett, who was dividing his soiled clothes into piles – he didn't possess a Seeker's privilege of being cared for by a serving-woman – paused to look up at the young Seeker holding his head in his hands as he stared upward for an answer.

"Do you know that some spiders will wait for days in order to lure their selected prey into their webs?" Garrett asked conversationally. "Their patience is legendary in the animal queendom."

"You have spiders in your room?" Taylor said in a distracted manner, obviously having no interest in Garrett's words.

Garrett sighed. Sometimes he wondered what sort of qualifications Seekers needed, other than high birth. He tried again. "Maybe it's what he wanted."

"Wanted?" Taylor looked at Garrett with the expression of a small boy who has wandered into a wagering room and is stunned by what he sees there. "You told me the High Seeker wanted someone inexperienced – how could he want me to be so bold as to press him into love?"

It was impossible to resist. Garrett threw aside his original words and said, "Some men like that, you know. They like juniors who are bold to them. Smith respects me all the more because I don't grovel to him, like some of the other guards do."

Taylor said nothing. He had an irritating habit of remaining silent whenever he disagreed with Garrett, which made it difficult to argue with him. Annoyed, Garrett threw the last of his soiled clothes into one of the piles and said, "You got what you wanted, didn't you? You've got your chance to go to bed with Smith."

"After I do research on him, he says. Research! What kind of cold-blooded request is that? Next he'll be asking me to write up a report on him, citing my sources."

"Perhaps that's his problem." Garrett seated himself, wrapping his legs around the back of a chair. "Perhaps his previous love-bonds ended because he was too cold. Perhaps he doesn't know the proper way to court someone he loves."

Garrett wondered, as he spoke, whether there was any truth to what he said. It puzzled him, why he was taking so much trouble to lead Taylor down this path. It wasn't as though he disliked the boy – the truth was, Garrett was closer to Taylor than anyone else in the dungeon. Taylor knew, as no one else here did, what it was like to have your childhood stripped from you by your father. If circumstances had been different, Garrett would have poured out all the secrets of his soul to Taylor.

But he had learned under his father's roof the folly of making himself vulnerable to another person. It was as he had told Taylor: people respected you more if you were tough, if you showed that you couldn't be pushed around. That was a secret the High Seeker had learned well.

Garrett pressed Taylor harder. "Smith may think that he wants you to follow his orders, but inwardly I'd guess that he's hoping you'll defy him. He needs you to show him the true nature of courting – that he should spurn all that documentwork."

"He does like it when I speak boldly to him," Taylor said in a subdued voice. "It puzzled me at first."

"Well, there you are. Go to him tonight and give him what he wants: a partner to match him in boldness and strength."

Taylor contemplated this a while as Garrett nudged the clothes piles with his foot, thinking about all the chores that awaited him before his shift began: delivering his clothes to the communal laundry room, going onto his hands and knees to scrub the floor of his apartment, then taking the long walk down to the communal dining hall, where the food was only half as good as the Seekers' privately delivered food was rumored to be. He wondered whether Taylor had ever done any housework in his life, or whether his concept of labor extended no further than schoolroom sums.

Finally Taylor said, "I'll look up the public records. I would have done that in any case, because Mr. Smith advised me to look at everyone's public records. But beyond that— I think you're right, Garrett. If the High Seeker had given me an official order, that would be different, but if we disagree on personal matters— I think it's part of my friendship to him to tell him when I disagree."

"Of course it is." It wasn't often Taylor acknowledged that Garrett was right. Garrett was feeling amiable enough to add, "While you're visiting the Record-keeper, you should make a copy of your own records."

"Why's that?" Taylor asked in a distant manner, his mind obviously still fixated upon the High Seeker.

"In case they alter your records, of course."

He managed to startle the Seeker out of his thoughts. Taylor stared as he said, "Surely not."

"Taylor." Garrett sought to keep the condescension out of his voice, though it was a struggle. "Think about it. Suppose that you made a mistake in your work, and one of your superiors – a senior Seeker, say – wanted to have you punished. And suppose that your records wouldn't support such a punishment, because you'd been so good at your work. Don't you think the senior Seeker would be tempted to alter your records to make your past seem worst than it was? And it would be so easy to do. That bloody Record-keeper lets everyone see your records, both your friends and your enemies."

"So you made a copy of your records?" Taylor seemed genuinely interested in this tale.

"Of course – and I had the Record-keeper sign each page as proof that it was an official copy. See?"

As he spoke, he rose and took the three strides necessary to reach his bed. He pulled the records from under the mattress and held them out toward the Seeker.

As Taylor reached for them, though, Garrett pulled his hand back. "I can't show them to you, Taylor. You're not trained yet."

Taylor's expression was laughable. The Seeker was quiet a moment before saying, "I think that I'm only forbidden from looking at private communications. I'm permitted to see public records."

"Yes, of course; I'd forgotten." Garrett spoke lightly as he handed over the records.

Taylor took them in his hands but did not open the binder holding them. Instead he said, "Is it safe keeping them here? If the Record-keeper knows you have them, couldn't someone search for them in your quarters?"

It was at times like this that Garrett was proud to claim acquaintance with Taylor. The boy was not the halfwit he sometimes seemed to be; he had a natural mind for conspiracies, though it was untrained. "I've worried about that," Garrett admitted frankly. "I thought of hiding them elsewhere in the dungeon, but I wasn't sure where safety lay." Cocking his head sideways as he looked at Taylor, he said, "How about your quarters? No one is likely to search a Seeker's cell."

"All right," Taylor said agreeably. "If you really think it's necessary."

"It is," Garrett replied firmly. "You have to take precautions like that, Taylor. People will take advantage of you otherwise."

"The High Seeker said something like that."

Garrett could have laughed. Of course the High Seeker would say that, and of course Taylor would miss the true significance of Smith's remark. Garrett could guess why the High Seeker was playing can't-catch-me with Taylor, and what he hoped to gain by it. Taylor must seem like an easy prize to Smith.

And how wrong the High Seeker was. Garrett, who had come to know Taylor well during the past three months, recognized that the young Seeker was not the easy prize he appeared to be. He was naive, yes, but under that naiveté was a toughness that had drawn Garrett into friendship with him. When the High Seeker discovered the core of what Taylor was, he would be faced with an unpleasant surprise.

And then, Garrett thought with delight, Garrett could have his revenge upon Smith for shaming him in front of Taylor. It made him go hot to think about it – of how Smith had taken Garrett off-guard in his office and made him seem to be a coward before Taylor.

Smith would pay highly for that. As for Taylor – well, it would be a shock for him as well. But it would be the right sort of shock. It was time that the boy grew up and learned how the world really worked.

He was fortunate to have Garrett as his mate.
 

CHAPTER FOUR

Elsdon sat at a broad table usually covered with stacks of documents that needed to be copied or filed by guards who were assisting the Record-keeper as they awaited the arrival of new prisoners. The documents had been shoved aside in favor of a loosely bound record-book, which Elsdon was leaning over to peruse.

Layle Smith

Legal Records: None prior to 338 (see below). Mr. Smith reports his birthdate as being the 2nd month of 320. Records from 338 onwards found within this folder (see summary below).

Medical Records: None prior to 338 (see below). Records from 338 onwards held in the office of the Eternal Dungeon's Healer.

338 (10th month): Transferred from duties at Blackstone Prison, by recommendation of the Queen's Secretary. No transfer records from Blackstone Prison. Mr. Smith's prior legal records and medical records retained by Blackstone Prison. Mr. Smith awarded title of Torturer-in-Training; training to be supervised by the High Torturer.

339 (1st month): Promoted to title of Torturer.

340 (1st month): Status reviewed by the Codifier, at request of the Queen's Secretary. Satisfactory performance of duties noted.

341 (6th month): Commendation by the High Torturer for performance of duties in the case of Mr. Schrier (see Prisoners' Records).

341 (12th month): Commendation by the High Torturer for performance of duties in the case of Mr. Bidwick (see Prisoners' Records).

342 (3rd month): Eternal Dungeon placed in the custody of Mr. Smith during the High Torturer's illness.

342 (5th month): Commendation by the High Torturer for performance of duties during the High Torturer's illness.

343 (9th month): Selected by the High Torturer to prepare the fifth revision of the Code of Seeking. Placed on half-time to regular duties during preparation.

344 (4th month): Commendation by the Queen for performance of duties during the revision of the Code of Seeking.

344 (8th month): Commendation by the United Order of Prisons for work done on the fifth revision of the Code of Seeking.

345 (2nd month): Commendation by the Bi-National Council of the Queendom of Yclau and the Kingdom of Vovim for work done on the fifth revision of the Code of Seeking.

345 (7th month): Recommended by the Codifier to receive the title held by the late Mr. Jenson. Recommendation echoed by the Magisterial Guild. Recommendations accepted by the Queen; Mr. Smith promoted to High Torturer.

345 (9th month): Commendation by the Queen for the decision of the High Seeker (formerly the High Torturer) to change the title held by the torturers of the Eternal Dungeon.

346 (4th month): Commendation by the United Order of Prisons for the High Seeker's assistance in revising the recommended prisoner transfer procedure.

347 (7th month): Commendation by the Queen's Secretary for the High Seeker's assistance in revising the Eternal Dungeon's method of record-keeping.

347 (11th month): Commendation by the Queen for the High Seeker's work in improving relations between the Eternal Dungeon and the Magisterial Guild.

348 (3rd month): Suspended from duties for three months. Records of suspension sealed; apply to the Codifier for permission to view. Recommendation by the Queen's Secretary that the High Seeker be permitted to return to his duties in three months' time, following standard review. Recommendation by the Queen that the High Seeker retain his title. Recommendations accepted by the Codifier, after consultation with the Magisterial Guild.

348 (6th month): Returned to duties by the Codifier.

349 (6th month): Status reviewed by the Codifier. Satisfactory performance of duties noted. Report sent to the Magisterial Guild and to the Queen.

349 (13th month): Commendation by the United Order of Prisons for assistance in reviewing recommended procedures to the order's member prisons.

The rest of the entries were of the same sort: an unbroken line of commendations for the High Seeker. Frowning with puzzlement, Elsdon flipped through the remaining pages of Layle's records. Amidst the lengthy and effusive praises of Layle Smith, Elsdon found a letter from the Queen's Secretary that referred to Layle's brief period of disgrace, but the letter did no more than to list Layle's past achievements as reason for permitting him to retain his title.

A hand brushed his elbow as the Record-keeper leaned over the table, placing down three more volumes. "Here are the other records you requested, sir," he said in a brisk voice, then turned to berate a guard who was not paying sufficient attention to the document he was copying.

Elsdon looked up quickly, but none of the guards around him were paying any attention to the black-hooded man in their midst; Seekers consulting records were apparently common enough to excite no interest. Indeed, none of the guards had even given him the wide space he knew he would have been granted if he had been consulting the records of a newly arrived prisoner, which were closed to all guards except those who served the Seeker doing the searching. The High Seeker's records, Elsdon guessed, had been well-perused by the guards and the Seekers; the worn pages of the volume attested to that.

He pushed aside Layle's records and set to work examining the next volume in the queue. This did not take him long, for the records were brief and uninformative, but for a single piece of information that piqued his interest. He opened the second volume, read it quickly, and then opened the third volume cautiously. Though he had half-suspected what he would see there, his breath caught in his throat as he saw the unmistakable black-bordered paper used by the lesser prisons of the queendom of Yclau.

From behind him, a voice said, "Becoming acquainted with my colorful past?"

He jerked round with such swiftness that the guards nearest to him stared with curiosity before returning to their conversation and their work. Mr. Chapman was standing above him, holding a prisoner's records. Though Elsdon could not see his face, there was amusement in the older Seeker's voice as he said, "I've read yours as well."

He reached past Elsdon, glanced at a few of the pages in the volume, then gave a soft snort – apparently still of amusement – and seated himself in the chair next to Elsdon. "My past is less colorful than yours," he told Elsdon. "'Defensive slaying' was the judgment of the magistrate, thanks to the evidence Mr. Smith gave on my behalf. I was released without further imprisonment."

"But you came back to the Eternal Dungeon." Elsdon kept his voice soft, though Mr. Chapman had made no effort to lower his. A few of the younger guards were showing interest in the conversation, but the older guards were apparently well fed on this particular gossip.

Mr. Chapman nodded. "I was working at a tanners' factory at the time; it was labor that brought home money to keep me alive, but it contributed nothing more to the world than that. When I came to this place – where a man's life could be transformed within the space of a few days – I knew that this was where I wanted to work. I applied for a position here as a furnace-stoker, thinking that helping to keep the prisoners alive and comfortable would be heights enough for me, but . . . Well, it was hard to keep from offering to do new services once I was here. So eventually I was hooded."

His voice still held some of the accent of his younger days. Unlike Garrett – who had never acknowledged his background to Elsdon, though Elsdon had easily guessed it – Mr. Chapman apparently felt no shame about his lower origins. Elsdon said impulsively, "It must be helpful to you in your work."

"To have come from the same class as many of our prisoners, do you mean?" The skin next to Mr. Chapman's eyes crinkled into a smile. "Or perhaps you are referring to my glorious career as a prisoner? I think you'll find that will indeed be helpful to you in your work."

"I hope so." Elsdon glanced at the volumes set aside on the table. "Do many prisoners become Seekers?"

"Not many. You and I are the only ones at present."

"And we were both searched by Mr. Smith."

"Yes." Mr. Chapman's voice grew softer, nearly obscured by the murmur of the guards' voices.

"So were Mr. Partridge and Mr. Zinner."

Guards spoke quietly to one another. The nibs of pens scratched upon the paper. Paper rustled as a guard bound documents into a record-book. The Record-keeper spoke sharply to a guard who was twirling a pencil in a playful manner.

Mr. Chapman finally said, "Yes."

Elsdon waited, but no further information was forthcoming, so he asked, "Did you know them?"

"Not well. Mr. Partridge died of old age several years ago, and Mr. Zinner was only here for five months. He decided to discontinue his training after that. He had not yet taken his oath of eternal commitment, and the Codifier believed that he would not reveal any secrets he had learned during his time here, so he was granted permission to be released into the lighted world. I have heard that he is well on his way now to becoming a magistrate."

"Do you know why he abandoned his training as a Seeker?" Elsdon spoke in barely more than a whisper, though even the younger guards had apparently lost interest in straining their ears to overhear the conversation.

Another lengthy pause ensued before Mr. Chapman said in a flat voice, "His request for release stated that he had personal differences with the High Seeker which would not permit him to work under Mr. Smith. The Codifier would be able to tell you further details . . . if he believed that your interest warranted release of such information."

Elsdon felt his face grow flush under his hood. Ducking his head, he murmured an acknowledgment and pretended that all his concentration was now centered upon arranging the Seekers' records in an orderly stack.

He looked up as a shadow fell over him. Mr. Chapman was standing once more; he said quietly, "I ought not to have disturbed you while you were at your research. I stopped by because I received this note from the High Seeker, and I was wondering whether he had discussed this matter with you."

He handed Elsdon a piece of paper, which was folded in the distinctive triangular manner that Elsdon had been struggling to learn. Elsdon opened the paper, and in the next moment all of his hot embarrassment was washed away in a flood of icy shock. He stared up at Mr. Chapman wordlessly, who took the note back from him. Nodding his farewell, Mr. Chapman turned in time to meet the Record-keeper, who wished to inform him with polite agitation that he was holding the prisoner's records in such a manner that they were likely to slip to the floor and be trampled upon.

The High Seeker was not in his sitting room when Elsdon let himself into the cell with his key. He found Layle seated upon his bed, looking down at a book in his lap, which was titled upwards. So absorbed was the High Seeker in his reading that a minute passed before he noticed Elsdon. Then his startled look was accompanied by a fumbling motion in his hidden lap.

Elsdon had arrived hot with anger, but now, envisioning what he had interrupted, he grinned. "What's that?" he asked, pointing toward the book and speaking in an overly innocent manner. "A book of love poems?"

"Something like that." Layle's voice was as cool as though he were on duty, but he leaned over and pushed the book rapidly under the bed, before Elsdon could see its title. "My apologies for not awaiting you. I'd decided you weren't coming." He swung his legs over the side of the bed and prepared to rise.

Elsdon, who had come forward in the meantime, dropped Garrett's records to the ground and sat down beside Layle. Layle's breath hissed inward in apparent protest; then his eyes narrowed. "What are you holding behind your back?" he asked.

Elsdon showed him, and the High Seeker's face softened. He reached out to touch the satiny object in Elsdon's hand. "Sweet blood," he said quietly. "I haven't seen one of these since – well, since I arrived at this dungeon seventeen years ago. Where did you get it?"

"From Garrett's love-mate, Chloris," Elsdon said, passing the delicate object into Layle's hand. "It turned up in a shipment of herbs that was delivered to the dungeon kitchens, where she works. She gave it to Garrett and— Well, he's not much of a man for flowers. He gave it to me to do with as I wished."

Layle drew back his hand from the flower. Where he had been stroking the cream-colored petal, there was now a blue mark. "Thank you," he said. "It's lovely." Taking the flower, he leaned over and placed it upon the table next to the bed.

Watching him, Elsdon said, "You ought to put the flower in water at once, or it will die."

"We have a different way of caring for cut flowers where I come from."

Layle began to rise from the bed again, but was arrested as Elsdon abruptly asked, "What's this nonsense about you wanting to transfer my training to Mr. Chapman?"

Despite the firmness of his wording, Elsdon kept his voice quiet and tentative – it was an instinct for him by now, a survival technique he had learned long ago when faced with danger. He wondered, with sudden curiosity, how Layle would react if he acted toward the High Seeker as he had toward the bullies at his school.

Layle was silent a moment, then said, in the same cool voice as before, "It seems appropriate, under the circumstances. I am in danger of losing my reason when around you, as our last meeting showed, and that could easily lead to me violating the Code when I am in your presence. Mr. Chapman is a well-trained Seeker and has been in the Eternal Dungeon nearly as long as I—"

"No!" cried Elsdon. "Layle, you're the best person in our profession in the world – everyone says that. I don't want to be taught by anyone of lesser skill. I want you as my trainer, and I want you as my love-mate."

Layle went utterly still; his fingers, where they had touched the flower, were wet from its juice. Then he absentmindedly rubbed the juice between his fingers as he said stiffly, "Did you consult Mr. Chapman and read the records I directed you to?"

"I read enough to know that you're the right person for me."

Layle let out his breath heavily. "Then you didn't read enough. Elsdon, we should continue this conversation in the next room—"

"I'm tired of talking," Elsdon said, and reached for Layle's lap.

His hand did not reach its goal. Less than a single drop fell from the water-clock in the corner of the room before Elsdon gasped from the grip of Layle's hand upon his wrist. The High Seeker released his wrist quickly. Layle's eyes had grown as dark as though his face were covered with his hood.

Elsdon's memory of the grasp sent waves of pain through him. He said breathlessly, "When you look like that, I remember you're the High Seeker."

The darkness in Layle's eyes disappeared. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, "but you very nearly made me lose control of myself. You don't want to do that."

"Yes." Elsdon looked down at his wrist. It was bruised blue now, like the flower, and he felt a wave of sickness go through him. Then he thrust those inappropriate memories away and looked up, saying, "I'm sorry, Layle. But the way you're acting— I know I'm more ignorant than you in matters of love, but even I know that the sort of thing you're asking me to do – consult references and records – just isn't normal. That's not how people act who have fallen in love; they don't try to do research on each other's backgrounds, as though they were Seekers checking the records of prisoners. They go into the love-bond on the understanding that they both have much to learn about each other, and the bond is the way in which they learn more."

He said nothing about his conversation with Mr. Chapman. He had begun to wonder, since that talk, whether Layle was actually testing him – whether the High Seeker wished to determine if Elsdon was part of the gossip circuit that Layle regarded with such contempt. It did not really matter. For either that reason or the reason Elsdon had stated aloud, consulting Layle's private records was the worst action Elsdon could undertake. It would show a lack of trust in the man who had saved his life.

Despite his background – perhaps because of his background – Elsdon was determined to show that he was as capable of trusting Layle as any other man.

Layle stared at the dull grey wall opposite, saying nothing. Remembering his thoughts from earlier, Elsdon said, "I know I have things to learn about you – well, you have things to learn about me as well. You don't know all of me, and I'm damned to the Vovimian hell if I'll give you references and records so that you can research me!"

Layle emitted a touch of a smile then, saying, "Yclau folk don't end up at Vovim's hell."

"Then I won't have to spend an eternity with barbarians – that's a relief. Layle, please . . ."

The High Seeker's smile disappeared. He returned to contemplating the wall, and Elsdon took the opportunity to slip his hand, very slowly this time, into Layle's lap. Layle removed his hand once more, but gently this time, and Elsdon knew without looking at his face that the battle lines were drawn in his mind.

Layle said after a while, "I'm on duty this evening."

"That gives you an entire hour," Elsdon replied in a coaxing manner.

Finally Layle turned his face. It was set so hard that Elsdon could not read the emotions there. The High Seeker said, as though issuing orders, "We kiss. Nothing more than that."

Elsdon let out the breath he had been holding. "Kissing is good," he said agreeably. "I like kissing."

He was sitting very close to Layle, but he waited for the High Seeker to move first. Layle took another look at the wall, which held no object other than the sputtering oil lamp; then he twisted his torso and took Elsdon into his arms.

He did so in a practiced manner, as though lovemaking were as familiar a task to him as torturing, but Elsdon could feel the tension in Layle's arms. Elsdon was tense himself, but for a different reason. He could barely contain his impatience as Layle slowly brought his lips forward.

Being kissed by Layle was a shock as great as the first lash of a beating. Elsdon had not expected that. He was familiar enough with kissing – if not with what followed – and in his dreamings of Layle he had imagined the kisses as a brief and unsatisfying preliminary to what followed. But all of his weeks of dreamings seemed to explode into that single touch of flesh; Elsdon felt as though his bones had disappeared, leaving him as limp as a rag doll. He leaned in toward Layle. The High Seeker took a firmer grip upon him, but the other man's hands were still light – he had not forgotten Elsdon's fear of captivity.

His kiss was gentle too, as soft as the flower petals. Elsdon had thought that a man's kiss would be harder, but he had known girls at school who kissed with greater firmness than Layle was doing. Elsdon opened his eyes, curious to see what Layle's face held.

What he saw was a second whiplash through his body. He pulled himself back abruptly, staring. "What are you doing?" he cried.

Layle did not respond. The blood at his throat beat in a steady manner, and there was no sign upon him that Elsdon's kiss had touched him in any way. His gaze was as cool and detached as though he were searching a prisoner.

"You didn't enjoy that," Elsdon said, as though accusing him of a crime.

Layle was silent a moment before saying in a quiet voice, "I assure you, Elsdon, I enjoyed your kiss very much indeed."

"But not the way I enjoyed yours! You're holding yourself back, like a Seeker holds himself back from a prisoner – you're not letting yourself feel the kiss."

Layle's gaze wandered to the wall, which was entering into shadow as the lamp ate the last of its oil. "I receive enjoyment from your pleasure."

"Layle." It took all of Elsdon's effort to keep his voice soft. Never, outside of the schoolyard, had he come so close to losing his temper for good reason. "I know that you enjoy my pleasure. You're a Seeker – it's in your nature to desire others to receive good. But you've forgotten that I'm a Seeker too. I won't be contented with my own pleasure alone, any more than you would be. I want you to receive pleasure from this as well, or none of this will mean anything to me."

From where he sat, he could see the big blood-vessel travelling up into Layle's neck, and he saw the moment at which it leapt. After a while, Layle said, in a voice barely loud enough to be heard, "I don't think that what you're suggesting would be wise."

"It's what I want." Elsdon allowed firmness to enter his voice. "I want to be your love-mate, Layle. You can't hold yourself back from me forever."

He held his breath for a moment after speaking, wondering whether he was being overly bold. But his firmness was successful: after a minute, Layle nodded to the wall, as though receiving an instruction. Then he turned and took Elsdon into his arms again.

The kiss was different this time. Layle's grip upon him was tighter than before, and his lips pressed hard upon Elsdon's. After a brief interval, his tongue darted between Elsdon's lips, which startled Elsdon – he had never done this to any of the girls he'd kissed, and the girls had either not known enough or not been forward enough to do it to him. For a moment he felt the panic of a virgin being unexpectedly violated. Then he remembered who he was kissing and made himself to relax, enjoying the forcefulness of Layle's tongue as it plunged still deeper into his mouth, probing.

Layle's grip was tightening now, and once more Elsdon fought down alarm. He reminded himself that Layle did not know his ways yet, any more than the girls had the first time he kissed them. He drew back, planning to make clear to Layle his limitations.

In the moment that he did so, Layle turned his head away. It was the old, familiar gesture, but so odd was it in this context that Elsdon, after a moment's hesitation, reached out and turned Layle's face toward his.

He saw blankness.

It was not the coolness of before; it was more opaque than that. Layle's eyes gazed at him unwavering, staring not straight at him, but a little aside, as though he were drawn so deep into himself that a glaze had been plastered over his eyes, cutting out all light. He did not blink.

"Layle?" Elsdon said tentatively.

For a moment more, the High Seeker stared blankly, blindly. Then his eyelids flickered rapidly, as though he were clearing them of some obstruction. His gaze turned after a moment toward Elsdon's eyes.

"Where were you?" Elsdon asked in a hushed voice.

For a few drops of the water-clock, the High Seeker remained silent, like a statue recently woken into life. Finally he said, in a tone that revealed nothing, "Nowhere. Just dreaming."

"Oh, is that all?" Elsdon's voice was light with relief. "I've done that too, when I kissed someone – imagined myself far away, in some exotic location, like a shoal or a dark forest. What were you dreaming of?"

Again Layle was slow to reply. "I was remembering the first day we met."

"Oh." Elsdon's voice went soft as he smiled. "Yes, that was a wonderful day, wasn't it? My heart pounded so much when I first saw you that I felt as though my body would burst. I thought at the time it was from fear, but now I think—"

"Elsdon," the High Seeker cut in. "I have only an hour before my shift. I'd rather not waste it."

Elsdon's smile deepened. "All right. No words, just kisses." And he leaned forward.

But when he drew back a while later, Layle's eyes were once more covered with the glaze, and for the first time, Elsdon felt the grazing touch of uneasiness.

"But I'm off duty!" cried Garrett.

Weldon Chapman's face was harder than the metal door he leaned upon. "You're on duty until I go off duty," he replied. "Now, deliver the message."

The message had the High Seeker's name scribed upon it. Garrett knew what that meant, and knew that his shift would not end once the message was delivered. "But Chloris is waiting for me," he said, trying to make the Seeker see reason. "I missed my last two meetings with her, and she told me that if I missed another—"

"Mr. Gerson." Chapman rivalled the High Seeker in coldness of voice, but he had a less courteous manner of dealing with guards than Smith did. "I am deeply saddened to learn that the needs of my prisoner have interfered with your love-bond plans. Obviously I have been working you too hard, and it is time you took a break from your duties. I suggest that you go to the Record-keeper and tell him that you wish to be suspended from your work for a month."

A suspension meant no pay, and a black mark upon his record. Not caring whether his hard-hearted Seeker heard, Garrett uttered a curse against the whole Eternal Dungeon and swung on the ball of his foot, heading in the direction of the lettered rooms.

Once out of sight of Chapman, though, he slowed. The end of the corridor he was travelling through led, not only to the lettered rooms, but to the back entrance to the corridor between the inner and outer dungeon. That entrance was used only by Seekers or by guards undertaking urgent business on behalf of Seekers. He knew the guards on duty at the entrance; he should have no trouble getting past them, and from there it was not far to his apartment. He could meet Chloris and—

Tell her what? That he had to break his promise to her again, because a work-happy Seeker had told him to do so? What kind of man would she consider him then? He frowned, contemplating the problem.

And then a thought came to him, straying into his mind like a gift of good fortune. Of course – it would be so simple. Satisfied, Garrett moved toward the entrance door, congratulating himself on his foresight. He had known that the day would come when all the pains he took to befriend a Seeker paid off.
 

CHAPTER FIVE

"Why are you doing this?" Elsdon whispered.

There was no reply. He felt the hand touch his legs, then brush his ankles. The rope around his ankles burned into his flesh as it tightened. Elsdon, his face turned toward the bedroom ceiling, tried to concentrate his thoughts on each rising breath. It was hard, though; even his chest was constricted, now that his wrists and ankles had been bound to opposite ends of the bedstead. He tried flexing his hands – which were bound together – and found that his fingers were already numb.

"Too tight?" said the gentle voice.

"Yes," he whispered.

He heard rather than saw the figure in the dark room as it moved to the head of the bed. A finger slipped between Elsdon's wrists and the bond. Apparently judging that Elsdon's assessment was correct, his captor slackened the knot somewhat.

The adjustment left Elsdon little better off than he was before. "Why?" he asked again, his voice raw with unspoken sobs. "Just tell me what I've done wrong, and I won't do it again."

His captor made no reply except to brush Elsdon's hair back from his eyes, very softly. "Do you want the gag?" he asked in a quiet voice.

For a moment, Elsdon did not speak; he was trying to judge what lay within his raw throat. Then he jerked his head once in a nod.

A moment later, his captor had placed a knotted handkerchief into his mouth. The taste of the cloth was bitter and dry. As he raised Elsdon's head to tie the handkerchief in the back, his captor said, "It's good that you cooperate. That's good. You know I'm doing this in your best interests. If you cooperate, it will be easier for you."

Elsdon could not have replied now if he wished; nor could he call out to the footsteps he heard outside the door. He tried to swallow, but the gag was absorbing all the liquid in his mouth.

The hand brushed his hair once more. "I'll check on you in the middle of the night," the quiet voice said, "and at dawn I'll come back again. And then . . . Well, we'll see. Perhaps the binding will be enough to help you." He pulled up the covers to the top of Elsdon's chest, then leaned forward and kissed his forehead lightly. "Good night, son."

When he had left, Elsdon tried to turn his thoughts to sleep, but he knew that it was of no use. He could never sleep, not on the nights when his father bound him like this. Just the very slight pain in his ankles and wrists was enough to wake him with a jerk whenever he started to drop off.

He could feel his midriff begin to itch, but he could do nothing about it. Eight hours until he could scratch it – maybe four hours if his father was willing to scratch it for him. He would do that sometimes. Elsdon knew that his father did not wish him to be any more uncomfortable than was necessary for his punishment. If only he knew what the punishment was for – if only he could change whatever it was that his father, in his loving manner, was trying to change.

Another servant passed the room, but thanks to his father's gift of the gag, the servant would not discover him – would not learn of his shame.

His left shoulder-blade, drawn upward by the position of his arms, was digging into a lump in the mattress. He tried to squirm away from the lump, but it was no use. His shoulder-blade would continue to be pressed that way for the next eight hours.

Eight hours. He could hear the water-clock in the corner of the room, dripping one slow drop at a time: one . . . two . . . three . . . He began to count backwards the time remaining: twenty-eight thousand eight hundred, twenty-eight thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine, twenty-eight thousand seven hundred and ninety-eight . . . The scream was building in his throat. Twenty-eight thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven—

A crash jolted him into wakefulness. For a moment, all he could hear was the water dripping in the corner, one drop at a time. Then the crash came again.

He scrambled out of the bed. He had just enough wakefulness to remember to pull on his trousers and place his hood over his head as he stumbled forward. Then he was fumbling for the latch in the dim light of the single lamp that still lit the sitting room of the cell.

Garrett stood in the doorway. He was dressed in his grey uniform, but his hair was all awry, as though he had been running; a trickle of sweat made its way down his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, then looked down at Elsdon's bare chest. His mouth twitched into a grin. "Well, well, well," he said. "So the High Seeker knows how to use his dagger."

The sickness left over from Elsdon's nightmare was replaced in an instant by the coldness of embarrassment. He said, "The High Seeker is at work right now. He said I could sleep here while he was gone."

"And I'm sure he lets all his Seekers sleep in his bed." Garrett stepped into the cell and closed the door to the inner dungeon; then, in that careless manner of his, he flipped Elsdon's face-cloth up. "Say, do you know where he's working tonight? I have a message for him."

Elsdon noticed for the first time the paper in Garrett's hand that was folded into a triangle, then folded again so that its tip could be tucked into its base. "He didn't mention which cell he's working in," Elsdon replied. "Couldn't you ask the Record-keeper?"

Garrett sniffed. "I could if I thought he'd answer. Aaron hasn't spoken to me all week, not since I blotted a line in one of my reports, or some other such death-sentence crime."

"He has to answer questions that pertain to your duty. You should report him to the Codifier."

Garrett sniffed again. "Since when did higher-ups here follow the Code if it didn't suit them? Taylor, you have much to learn."

His voice held a mixture of amusement and condescension that made Elsdon's back tingle. But all that Elsdon said was, "The Record-keeper's tablet should tell where the High Seeker is tonight—"

"Listen, I don't have time for this," Garrett said swiftly. "Chapman wants me back right away – he's at a vital point in the searching. You give this to the High Seeker when you see him next." He flipped the message into Elsdon's hands.

Elsdon stared down at the paper. "But he might need to see this right away. Besides—"

"Then go find him and give it to him; I'll come back in an hour and see whether there's a reply. See you, Seeker!" And before Elsdon could say a word, Garrett had pulled open the door to the outer dungeon and was running down the corridor.

By the time that Elsdon was able to pull down the flap of his hood and step into the corridor, Garrett was out of sight. Elsdon sighed, looking down again at the message. He had been about to remind his friend that, being in training, he was not authorized to carry Seekers' messages. For a moment, he was tempted to leave the message under the door leading to the inner dungeon and pretend he knew nothing about it.

But the message might be urgent, and a prisoner's welfare might depend on the answer. He closed the door to the outer dungeon, reflecting to himself that Garrett had been in such a frenzy that he had not noticed he was running in the wrong direction.

A few minutes later, fully clothed in black uniform and boots, he made his way into the entry hall. He was not noticed. A newly arrived prisoner had decided that this was his last chance to escape the dungeon alive; he was desperately trying to break away toward the passage leading to the lighted world, and six guards were in the midst of trying to subdue him. Nearby, the Record-keeper sat, calmly sorting the prisoner's records.

Elsdon looked at the scuffle for a moment, hesitating, but nobody in the entry hall noticed him amidst the emergency. So, after a moment, he slipped behind Mr. Aaron and looked at the great tablet there. His eye lingered momentarily on the High Seeker's name at the top of the tablet – "Layle Smith – 1, A" – and then travelled down to the names below. For a minute, he scanned the columns, trying to remember the name of Layle's present prisoner. Then his eye caught sight of four lines at the bottom of the tablet, separate from the rest. The first of these lines read, "Layle Smith – A."

His breath caught in his throat until he remembered that the lettered rooms, unlike the breaking cells, were labelled with the names of the Seekers making use of them. His gaze lingered upon the words before him; then he turned to look at the guards hidden at the dusky edges of the entry hall. Any of them were authorized to carry messages—

—but if he asked any of them to carry a message to the High Seeker, they would want to know who had given him the message. Sighing again, he slipped through the doorway to the inner dungeon.

The shouts of the new prisoner faded away, leaving silence. Elsdon's boots tapped against the flagstoned floor, and his body cast a shadow that grew long and then shrank and then grew long again as he passed the oil lamps on the walls. The corridor was thick with the smell of smoke, though the ventilation shafts above carried most of the smoke away to the lighted world, far above. It was a familiar smell; the corridor always reminded him of his school. Even the doors he passed might have been doors into classrooms. Only a few of them were guarded, and the guards took no notice of him as he passed.

He reached a point where the corridor narrowed. He paused, straining his ear for new sounds, but none could be heard. The corridor grew dimmer, too, for no lamps lit this area; the only light came from further back. Four doors lay here, all in a row, and at the first door stood a guard.

With a feeling of descending heart, Elsdon realized that the guard was not the High Seeker's senior night guard, Mr. Sobel. Layle's junior night guard had never forgiven Elsdon for their initial encounter, which had earned Mr. Urman a reprimand from the High Seeker.

Trying to pull forth all of his dignity as a Seeker, Elsdon went up to the guard and said, "I have a message for you to deliver to the High Seeker."

His attempt at authority failed. Mr. Urman glanced at the paper and said, "I'm in training, sir; I'm not authorized to carry messages."

He did not say, though his face did, that Elsdon was not authorized either. Elsdon looked at the door. It was black in the shadows, and no sound came through it.

"Well . . ." He decided abruptly that what was needed here was not authority but supplication. Changing his voice to that which he had once used with his father, he said, "I really don't know how to do this. What's the proper procedure?"

For a moment, Mr. Urman remained stiff at his post. Then a melting took place in his body, and his expression softened.

"It's not hard," he said, in the sort of voice he might have used to another guard who had less training. "You just need to remain quiet when you enter. The prisoner won't be able to see you, so you mustn't cough or do anything else that would make him aware of your presence. Wait until the High Seeker has a moment to spare you, and then give him the message and wait to see whether he gives you a reply. I'll be watching and will let you out then, without need for you to knock."

Elsdon nodded, and Mr. Urman turned, peered briefly through the pinprick of the watch-hole, and said softly, "It's all right to enter now. Be sure not to make any noise."

He opened the door, and the sounds of torture emerged.

They were faint, as far as matters in a dungeon were likely to go: the slight creaking of a machine as it moved, accompanied by gasps and groans. Nor was the scene in the room as bad as any of the scare-tales that Elsdon had heard about the Eternal Dungeon when he was a boy. As Mr. Urman closed the door noiselessly behind him, Elsdon took a swift look at the room and ascertained that little had changed since he had been there last.

The most prominent figure in the room was Mr. Sobel, who stood like a captain at the helm, manning the great wheel that controlled the rack. His head was bowed to look downward at the rack. Elsdon could not see the man there: he was entirely hidden by Mr. Sobel's body and the wheel. But he could see the black-hooded Seeker in the room; like Mr. Sobel, his head was bowed to look down, though his eyes were in view to Elsdon. They were cool, as they had been upon his first meeting with Elsdon.

He was standing halfway down the room, leaning upon the wall in a relaxed manner as his hand lightly brushed the Swelling Globe. "You know that this is in your best interests, Mr. Parris," he said. "Things would go considerably easier for you if you were to cooperate."

The hidden prisoner gave a muffled curse, followed by a sharp gasp. Elsdon flinched, but there was no change in the High Seeker's expression as he said, "Mr. Parris, I don't think you understand the dangerousness of your position. The scale on this rack runs from zero to ten – once the prisoner has reached eight on the scale, I can no longer guarantee that he will have future use of his body. Are you really sure that you wish me to order Mr. Sobel to take you to nine?" He leaned forward and added with intensity, "It need not be this way between us. Truth is always the best path in life."

"Truth!" The man sounded as though he spoke with a heavy weight on his chest. "Truth means nothing to you. You say—" He gave another gasp and concluded rapidly, "You say this is for me, but it's for you. I can see that you're enjoying this."

For a long moment, the High Seeker continued to look down upon the prisoner in a detached manner. He still had not looked up to where Elsdon stood by the door, nor even at the guard standing motionless at the head of the rack. Then a change came to his expression: the skin next to his eyes wrinkled.

Elsdon felt the coldness of the room enter his depths.

When the High Seeker finally spoke, the smile was in his voice as well. "You speak as though you were making a great revelation, Mr. Parris." His voice was light with mockery. "Have you never heard the tales about me?"

From the prisoner's swift response, it was clear that he had. "Don't – don't you touch me!" he said in a strangled voice. "I'll tell your Codifier!"

"Mr. Sobel." The High Seeker kept his gaze fixed upon the prisoner. "Mr. Parris wishes to speak with the Codifier. Will you make the arrangements, please?"

"Yes, sir." The guard's voice was colorless.

The High Seeker leaned forward yet further; his hand was now on the rack. The smile had not left his eyes. Through the renewed moans of the prisoner, he said softly, "You are welcome to discuss this matter with the Codifier, Mr. Parris, but do you truly believe that you will be telling him anything he doesn't already know? I have worked in this dungeon for seventeen years; I've never made any secret of my predilections. The Eternal Dungeon finds it . . . useful to have someone of my sort breaking the prisoners."

The prisoner emitted a sound from the back of his throat that soared, like the whine of a cornered beast. The smile deepened in the High Seeker's voice as he said, "I work here on condition that I keep the Code, Mr. Parris. You are in no danger from me." Even as he spoke, his hand slid further forward, belying his words. "The issue you face is simply whether you will truthfully answer the question I have asked you – or whether you would prefer to increase my pleasure. I admit," he said lightly, "that I have mixed emotions over what sort of response I wish you to give."

The prisoner made no reply, though the whine in his throat continued. Mr. Sobel was as immobile at his post as though he had turned into a corpse. The High Seeker leaned so far forward that he was now nearly spread upon the rack, and upon the man who lay there. He said, quite softly, "Where were you on the night of the murder?"

"With my brother until—"

"Take him up." For the first time, the High Seeker flicked a glance at the guard.

"No!" The prisoner's voice transformed to a scream as the guard pushed the wheel, clicking forward to the next notch. The High Seeker had straightened to watch; the smile in his eyes had turned to joy. As the prisoner's scream broke into a racking cough, the High Seeker said, in the voice of a man deeply satisfied, "Thank you, Mr. Parris. I appreciate your consideration of my welfare."

The prisoner's coughs rose into another scream. The High Seeker took no notice, moving past the rack and past the guard, walking in the direction of the door. And it was then that Elsdon, standing with sweat chilling his body, knew that the High Seeker had been aware of his presence all along.

Elsdon remained as immobile as the guard, unable to move any muscle as the High Seeker came forward. He could not even lift his eyes above the High Seeker's waist. He was seeing what the prisoner had seen: the evidence that Layle Smith's words had not been an artfully crafted lie. Elsdon closed his eyes.

The High Seeker stopped before him, and he felt the message being removed from his hand. When he opened his eyes a minute later, Elsdon saw that Layle Smith was turned toward the wall, using a pencil to scribble something upon the message. Then he refolded the paper and turned, handing it to Elsdon.

There was no smile in his eyes now, only the same chill darkness that Elsdon had known when he was the High Seeker's prisoner. For a moment, the High Seeker kept Elsdon's gaze captive. Then he turned and walked back toward the rack, saying, "Now, Mr. Parris, will you begin to tell me the truth, or will you give me the opportunity to increase my pleasure yet further?"

He reached the rack, and his hand went out toward the prisoner.

Elsdon's skin prickled as he felt a hand tug at his sleeve. He turned to see that Mr. Urman was holding the door open for him. Elsdon stumbled into the darkness of the corridor, and then, as the guard turned to close the door, he hurried down the corridor, in the direction of the breaking cells.

His hand fumbled as he brought out the master key from his hidden pocket and used it to open the first door he reached. The cell was black; apparently, the cell being in disuse at the moment, the furnace had not been lit this far down in the dungeon. Leaving the door open behind him, he half-ran, half-stumbled his way to the corner of the cell. He was just in time to reach the chamber-pot there before he fell to his knees and began to vomit.

Behind him, the abandoned door pivoted on its hinges and slammed shut, leaving him in darkness.

When the door opened again finally, he was awash with sweat and was shaking from sobs and muffled screams.

He did not hear the new arrival until a hand touched him. He flinched and felt his body racked with trembling again. The hand touched the back of his head, the fingers gently curling into his hair. Then the blindfold fell off, and he could see his father.

Auburn Taylor was standing beside the bed, holding his belt in his hand. "Why?" Elsdon tried to say. "Please tell me why!" But the gag was still within his mouth.

"This is for your own good, son," his father said softly. "You must believe me." His face held the look it always did, of a man driven to a hard duty by necessity. He pulled down the covers, went to the bottom of the bed, and released Elsdon's ankles from the bedpost. Then he carefully pushed Elsdon onto his stomach and pulled his trousers down.

Elsdon's body already ached from the hours of thrashing and tugging at his bonds; he thought nothing worse could hurt. But as always, he was wrong: as the belt hit his naked backside, the leather seemed to dig down to his bones, and he desperately burrowed his face into the mattress, knowing that his shrieks were so loud that they were penetrating the barrier of his gag. Sweet blood, no, he thought. Don't let them hear. Don't let the servants know of my disgrace . . .

"Mr. Taylor?" The voice spoke from the doorway, and Elsdon's scream ended in a choke. Sweat turn cold upon him as he tried to gain the courage to look back to see which servant had witnessed his ignominy.

"Mr. Taylor?" The voice came again, and this time Elsdon realized that his father was not the one being addressed.

He opened his eyes slowly. Mr. Urman stood in the corridor, his hand upon the latch as he held the cell door open a crack. "Are you all right, sir?" he asked.

Elsdon scrambled to his knees. His body was slick with sweat. He moved to the door and then through the doorway in an automatic manner. Only once he was in the corridor did he look down the emptiness of the darkness ahead and realize that the young guard had abandoned his post for Elsdon's sake.

Quickly Elsdon moved back to stand beside the door to Rack Room A, trying to ignore the tugging at his heels to flee. "I—" He stopped, not knowing what to say.

"It's hard the first time." All of Mr. Urman's former disdain had left. "Or so I hear – I haven't witnessed Mr. Smith close-hand at work yet. But Mr. Sobel says that being in the rack room is the worst part of his work."

He did not want to think about Mr. Sobel yet. "What do I do now?" he asked, expecting no answer.

But Mr. Urman misunderstood him and said, "If there's a reply, sir, you take it back to the Seeker who sent the message. Do you know who that is?"

"Yes, I—" He looked down at the folded paper and remembered the guards' penchant for carrying one another's messages. He could not be certain that Garrett was the initial messenger. "No," he told Mr. Urman. "I'm not sure."

Mr. Urman chewed on his lip a moment before saying, "Well, then, you'll have to check the message to see. Open it up— No, don't show it to me, sir. Just read the name there and tell me what it is."

He looked down at the page.
 

My prisoner has broken the Code once more. Request use of the rack, in accordance with our conversation yesterday. —W. Chapman

Permission granted, provided that you do not take him above level three. I'll discuss the matter with you before your next shift. —L.S.

He looked up to where Mr. Urman was watching him. The guard's hand was resting upon his dagger, as though he were in the presence of danger. "It's from Mr. Chapman," Elsdon said.

Mr. Urman nodded. "He's in Breaking Cell 4. It's near the entry hall—"

"I remember where it is."

He saw Mr. Urman's face change as the guard recalled how Elsdon had gained this knowledge. "Yes," said Mr. Urman. "Well. You don't have to go into the cell. Mr. Chapman's guards are fully trained, so just hand the message to them."

The tapping of Elsdon's bootsteps was hollow against the corridor walls as he made his way back. He felt like a snail pulled from its shell, shrivelling in the harsh exterior world. As he reached the door of the cell he remembered so well, his feet had begun to drag.

He could hear the faint sound of Mr. Chapman's voice from within the cell, but no one was guarding the door. He knew what that meant. He stood for a moment, indecisive, the letter crumpled within his tightening fist. Then he pulled from his shirt the master key.

No one noticed him as he entered. Mr. Chapman's eyes were intent upon the prisoner, the prisoner's face was pressed against the wall, and Mr. Chapman's senior-most guard, Mr. Boyd, was in the process of bringing his whip down upon the prisoner's naked back.

The prisoner gave a sharp cry and pressed himself harder against the wall, pulling himself toward the bound hands above his head, as though he might thereby escape the next blow. His head was turned toward Mr. Chapman, but his eyes were closed, and already tears were beginning to trail down his face. Upon his back lay a series of red, angry welts.

In the next moment, Mr. Chapman saw him. The Seeker held up his hand to the guard, who was drawing back his arm in preparation for the next lash. Mr. Chapman murmured something to the prisoner and turned away, walking toward the cell door.

He took Elsdon by the arm. His grip was so tight that, under ordinary circumstances, Elsdon would have screamed, but now he felt emptied of all energy and warmth; his body was so cold that he was beginning to shake. He let the other Seeker steer him out of the cell and into the dim quietness of the corridor.

The corridor was cooler than the cell had been. He pressed his body against the chill plaster, sucking in great gulps of air, as the older Seeker watched him.

When it became clear that he would not sink to the floor, Mr. Chapman said in a hard voice, "What is the meaning for your entrance, Mr. Taylor? You are not yet authorized to enter a breaking cell while it is in use."

Wordlessly, Elsdon held out the note. Mr. Chapman took the letter, glanced at the name written on its exterior, and narrowed his eyes. "Did Mr. Gerson give that to you?"

Elsdon was concentrating all his efforts on combatting the waves of dizziness that shuddered through him, like wavering heat from a flame. He had barely enough thought left in him to nod. Mr. Chapman gazed at the note for a long moment before opening it. Then his body grew still.

He looked up and said quietly, "You delivered this directly to the High Seeker?"

Elsdon nodded again. He was wishing that the corridor would stay still rather than rock beneath his feet. He clutched at the wall harder, closing his eyes.

"Mr. Boyd." Mr. Chapman's sharp voice caused Elsdon to jerk his eyelids open. He turned his head to see that Mr. Boyd was in the process of locking the cell door. The Seeker said to his guard, "Go to Mr. Bergsen and tell him that Mr. Taylor has immediate need of his services."

The guard, without waiting, plunged down the corridor in the direction of the rack rooms. Mr. Chapman took Elsdon lightly by the elbow. After glancing around for a moment, he led Elsdon to the cell opposite, opening it with his key.

This cell, though empty, was furnace-lit; flames leapt behind the wall of glass blocks at the far end. Instinctively Elsdon, seeking warmth, went to that end. But it made no difference; his body was cold through and through, and he could not stop the shaking. He tried rubbing his hands together. As he did so, he felt a sharp pain upon his wrist. He looked down and saw the blue bruise there.

"You'd best sit down," Mr. Chapman advised.

Elsdon had been trying to determine whether to fall to his knees and be sick. Mr. Chapman's voice caused him to lift his head. He stared at the hooded Seeker blankly before saying, "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't anyone tell me?"

For a moment Mr. Chapman was silent. Then, for the first time in Elsdon's presence, he lifted the face-cloth of his hood. The face behind the mask was gentler than the voice, and he had lines of age criss-crossing his face. It was the face of a middle-aged laborer, careful in his duties, but worn down by his work. He let out his breath slowly as he said, "There is too much gossip in this dungeon. No doubt I and others here went to the other extreme."

Elsdon fumbled with his own hood, knowing that he should match the Seeker's gracious gesture. He stopped suddenly and felt the chillness in his body once more. "Your prisoner," he said. "You left your prisoner alone."

"We had only just begun the punishment. He will keep for a few minutes more."

"But he's unguarded! If you leave him alone, the High Seeker could find him, and if he does—"

His voice hit a choke and fell, stunned. Behind Mr. Chapman, the door to the cell had opened, and the High Seeker stood there.

He looked as neat and unruffled as he had when he had left his bedroom earlier that night. His clothes were not mussed, and his voice was even as he said, "Mr. Chapman, your prisoner is untended."

The other Seeker pulled down his hood swiftly and turned to face the High Seeker, saying, "I realize that, sir. I'm afraid that I'm short of a guard at the moment." For the first time, bitterness appeared in his voice. Then he said in a more formal manner, "Mr. Taylor is ill. I have sent for the healer—"

"So Mr. Boyd told me when I met him." The coolness in Layle Smith's voice was like a winter wind. "I will stay with Mr. Taylor until the healer arrives. Please return to your prisoner."

Mr. Chapman glanced at Elsdon, standing cold-skinned at the end of the cell; then the Seeker nodded and slipped past the High Seeker. Not until the door was closed again did Elsdon open his mouth to call him back. He was cut off by the High Seeker's swift remark, "You need not speak, Mr. Taylor. The healer will be here soon."

The levelness of his voice brought a new emotion to Elsdon. The floor ceased to sway, and he felt the blood building up its beat within him. "You enjoyed it," he said in an incredulous voice.

The High Seeker made no reply. Elsdon repeated, "You enjoyed it! You enjoyed racking your prisoner!"

For a moment more, the High Seeker was silent, as though Elsdon's words had not touched him. Then he said softly, "We all enjoy our work in some fashion, or we would not choose to become Seekers."

The wild beating of Elsdon's blood resolved itself into a hard war-drum. With a thick voice, Elsdon said, "Are you telling me that every Seeker goes cock-high when he racks a prisoner?"

Another pause, and then: "No," said the High Seeker in his chill darkness.

The silence stretched between them. The High Seeker remained next to the door, blocking Elsdon's exit. His pose was stiff and formal, and he had not raised his hood. After a while he said, still quiet, "I did advise you to consult my records—"

"No! Don't send me to records or to other people to give me answers – tell me yourself. Why were you suspended from your duties?"

When the High Seeker spoke again, his voice was colder than Elsdon's body had been. "I raped a bound prisoner."

The flames behind Elsdon leapt. A single drop of sweat chased its way down his spine, tickling him in a place between his shoulder-blades that was difficult to scratch. He did not move.

The High Seeker said, in a voice so quiet that it barely reached Elsdon, "I will arrange for you to be transferred into Mr. Chapman's care."

"You do that." Elsdon's voice shook. He walked forward, heedless now of the consequences, but the High Seeker made no move to stop him; he stepped away, allowing Elsdon to fling open the cell door.

Elsdon was on the point of stepping through the doorway when he whirled around and said to the hooded man, "Tell me one thing more. When you kissed me a few hours ago, what were you dreaming of?"

When he finally spoke, the High Seeker's voice was frost upon the skin. "I was dreaming of the day we met. I was remembering you stripped half-naked, being beaten upon my orders."

It took Elsdon a moment to pull enough air into his lungs to speak. When he spoke, it was in a voice that was half a sob. "If you come near me again, I'll kill you."

The High Seeker did not reply. Elsdon took hold of the cell door, and in a movement that sent reverberations down the corridor and caused the guards there to jerk round and stare, he slammed the cell door shut upon his captor.
 

CHAPTER SIX

"I should have known!" cried the Seeker-in-Training. "From the moment I saw the public records, I should have known!"

He paced up and down the narrow cell, his body backlit by the glass blocks that reflected the flames of the furnace beyond. His eyes were unseeing, focussed upon something beyond the cell.

"It was all there in the records, plain to my sight. The High Seeker had had three love-mates; all three men had been his prisoner. And I – I can just imagine what he would have done to me if I'd let it continue." He stood still a moment, breathing heavily as though he had been running from danger, then resumed his frenzied pacing. "I won't let him do that to me. Not again. I won't let him hurt me, nor will I let him hurt the other prisoners. I oughtn't to have left him in the racking room – I ought to have protected the prisoner against him. I took an oath to help the prisoners, and I broke it by running away. I won't do that again. It's the prisoners who matter most."

"I'm glad to hear you say that," Garrett commented dryly. "I was beginning to wonder whether you'd remembered."

It was small satisfaction to see the young Seeker turn with pale guilt toward him. Garrett had seated himself on the bench of his breaking cell; he knew well the long hours of standing that awaited him, and he had no desire to expend energy before then. Certainly not for this man.

Taylor said in a soft voice, "I'm sorry, Garrett. It was wrong of me to tell Mr. Chapman what you had done. I was just— Well, I was close to losing my mind after what I saw."

It was a temptation – oh, so sweet a temptation – to break Taylor with a full reminder of all he had done, to point out to him that, if he had only heeded Garrett's warnings, he would not have been such a fool as to strip himself of what little power protected him against the Eternal Dungeon's dark High Seeker. In the wake of Taylor's betrayal of him, Garrett relished a vision of Taylor agonizing from the awareness of what idiocy he had committed with the High Seeker.

But Garrett could not afford to indulge himself that way. None of his so-named friends had visited him since his arrest; Taylor was his only contact with the world outside this cell. He needed Taylor, for a while longer at least.

So he said, "I can understand what a shock it must have been for you to learn the truth. And of course you're right that it's your duty to help the prisoners. I could aid you with that if I were free."

He thought it was clever of himself to put it that way – not to appeal to Taylor's charitable instincts by begging for help, but rather to suggest that they were partners in a joint enterprise. He had a momentary vision of Taylor marching up to the Codifier and demanding his release.

It appeared, though, that Taylor's visions were not as grand as Garrett's. He said nothing, but simply looked unhappy.

Garrett sighed and scaled down his plans to fit Taylor's narrow view of life. "You've already been of help," he said, continuing to try to keep the Seeker sweet. "Thanks to you, my records are safe. I've no doubt that the High Seeker's bully-boys searched my quarters for my copy of the records after they arrested me."

Taylor turned away from the fiery wall. Even with the shadows deep upon his face, his look of misery was stark.

"Oh, no," said Garrett slowly. "Bloody blades, no. Tell me you didn't do it, Taylor. Tell me you didn't give Smith my copy of the records."

"I didn't give it to him," Taylor replied, his voice drowned in wretchedness. "I left it on the floor of his bedroom."

So grave was this calamity that, for once, Garrett could not think of the proper biting response. He simply looked at Taylor, and waited for him to wither into ashes.

"I'll get it back," Taylor said hastily. "Maybe Mr. Sobel can retrieve it for me—"

"Sobel!" Garrett's remaining calm blew, like a poorly tended furnace fire. "You ditch-born son of a mare! What sort of fucking brains did your dad leave you with after he beat you? Enough to figure out the earnings from a wager? What makes your dung-filled mind think that you can trust Sobel?"

By the time Garrett had finished with this bit of street invective, Taylor had turned as white as a newly lashed welt, and Garrett wondered whether the Seeker would simply walk out of the cell. But it seemed that Taylor's mind was on higher matters than Garrett's low talk. After a moment he said in a husky voice, "He was there. In the rack room. He heard the High Seeker threaten to rape the prisoner, and he did nothing. He even raised the rack to nine – to nine! The High Seeker told me that prisoners are rarely taken above three, yet Mr. Smith was prepared to tear a prisoner's body apart for his own pleasure. And Mr. Sobel stood by and did nothing."

It occurred to Garrett, belatedly, that Taylor had not yet been trained for the rack room, and that he had therefore received a distorted picture of what had taken place. Well, it was all to Garrett's advantage. He pressed further, saying, "It's not just Sobel. They all know about the High Seeker, from the junior guards on up to the Codifier."

"The Codifier?" Taylor was now as pale as a prisoner facing the rack.

"Of course! You said that the Codifier gave Smith only three months' suspension for his infraction. And now you know that Smith raped a prisoner—"

"—which is a death-sentence crime. Oh, sweet blood." Taylor's voice sounded as if a hangman were wringing his neck. He pressed his fists against his lips, as though trying to keep back bile. He whispered, "Everyone here is like my father. Everyone. And they fooled me into thinking they cared about the prisoners."

Garrett started to speak, but decided to let Taylor have time to adjust his eyes to the darkness he had entered. Garrett could not remember the day he himself had realized the world was nothing more than a prison of pain and injustice – his own awakening was too far back. But he had resented Taylor's innocence, and it was a pleasure to see it broken. In a world where men gambled away their sons' inheritances, why should a Seeker-in-Training remain oblivious to the truth? Really, Garrett decided, he was giving Taylor the greatest gift the Seeker would ever receive.

He had just opened his mouth to point this out when Taylor said, with surprising firmness, "The Code isn't corrupt. The High Seeker uses it as a tool to cover his evil deeds, but the tool is sharper than he has guessed – the Code of Seeking is a work of purity, unlike its maker. It could protect the prisoners, if the right men were using it. Perhaps I can persuade some of the junior Seekers and guards to join me in making this dungeon the place it ought to be."

"You'll never succeed in that," Garrett said hastily. "You'd be better off leaving this place, before the High Seeker finds a way to destroy you."

"I'm oath-bound to remain here," Taylor said; he was beginning to pace again. "Besides, I won't hide from what's happening. Not again. This time I'll fight back."

Garrett sighed. His newest plan had been a simple one: persuade Taylor to escape the dungeon and cross the queendom's borders, taking Garrett with him. But of course the boy would needlessly complicate matters with his high ideals. He was still living in his pretty world where evil torture-gods could be defeated and gambling fathers could be persuaded to come home to their families.

"I must go," Taylor said unexpectedly. "I must think of ways to fight the High Seeker."

"He won't fight you back directly," Garrett warned him. "He'll do the same to you as he plans to do to me: he'll tarnish your reputation."

Taylor took no notice of this clear hint about the missing records. "I'll visit you tomorrow," the Seeker-in-Training said with absent mind. "At least, I'll try to. It depends on whether I'll be busy working against the High Seeker."

Before Garrett could think of anything to say, the young Seeker strode to the door of the cell, gave an authoritative rap there, and was allowed exit by the guards.

Garrett sighed and pulled the blankets of his bed-shelf around his shoulders. He ought to have known that Taylor would be of no use to him when crisis came. That was the way people were: when you needed them most, they failed you.

The day guards let Elsdon out of the breaking cell. He had taken care that his visit should occur at daytime; he had no desire to speak yet with Mr. Sobel. Besides, come eventide, the High Seeker would be stalking his prey.

He shivered in the coolness of the corridor and turned his eyes away from the darkness at the far end. Layle Smith's day guards were still watching him, curiosity evident in their expressions as they secured the door. Elsdon opened his mouth to offer some reassuring, Seekerly remark. And then his heart descended. Walking down the corridor, flanked by his night guards, was the High Seeker.

Elsdon stood his ground, though his heart was louder than the steady thud of the High Seeker's bootsteps on the floor. To Elsdon's relief, Layle Smith stopped outside of reach. He said, in his usual formal manner, "Mr. Taylor, I am sorry that you were not informed, as you ought to have been. Mr. Gerson is not permitted personal visits."

"Yes," said Elsdon, "I'm sure that's what you want."

The dungeon was still, but for the faint sound of a prisoner sobbing nearby. Guards stood at duty outside many of the cell doors; several had their heads turned to look toward the High Seeker. Elsdon guessed that Mr. Urman had spread the tale of how Elsdon had reacted after witnessing the High Seeker at work in the rack room.

The High Seeker was motionless, like a spider waiting at the center of his web.

"Look," said Elsdon, his voice suddenly rough with anger. "I know what you're doing – I know that everything you do depends on secrecy. You'll convince the prisoners that this is for their own good, or if not, you'll find a way to keep them from spreading the news of what you do. Well, it won't work in this case. If you don't permit Mr. Gerson to see visitors, then I'll complain to the Codifier; and if the Codifier won't listen to me, I'll alert the magistrates; and if the magistrates won't heed my warnings, then I'll petition the Queen; and if the Queen refuses my petition . . ." His voice shook, and he had to pause before finishing. "If no one in authority will stop you, then I'll spread word of what you are to the people of our queendom, so that you can be stripped of your power, and the prisoners can be saved from you."

His voice had risen by the end. Even the guards furthest down the corridor were now frankly craning their necks to watch the proceedings, while Mr. Urman's eyes had gone as wide as a small boy's. Elsdon did not turn his gaze to see what Mr. Sobel's expression held. He kept his eyes fixed upon the High Seeker, as he had upon the schoolyard bullies who made the mistake of trying to beat weaker boys in his presence.

If the High Seeker sensed a fraying of his carefully spun web, he showed no sign of it. In a voice as quiet as before, he said, "There is no need to go that far. Mr. Sobel, Mr. Taylor wishes to become better acquainted with the supervisory duties of the Codifier. He is to have access to my prisoners at all times, including when I am searching the prisoners."

"Yes, sir." Mr. Sobel's voice was a soft murmur; Elsdon caught a glimpse of his closed expression.

Layle Smith turned his eyes back to the younger Seeker. "I will speak with Mr. Chapman and have this arrangement formalized with the Codifier. You may want to request access to all of the prisoners in the dungeon, so that you can have the opportunity to compare my techniques with those of the other Seekers."

For a moment more, the High Seeker's gaze remained fixed upon Elsdon's. Then, as though the exchange had been of no importance, he turned to the day guards and relieved them of their duty for that shift. As Elsdon spun on the ball of his foot, he heard the High Seeker giving orders for the night guards to admit him to the cell. His voice was as level as it had been all along.

Not until he had reached the corridor where the Seekers' cells lay did Elsdon permit himself to pound his fist against the wall and swear under his breath. Garrett had been right. That much was clear now: the High Seeker would seek to continue his reign of terror, not by defending himself, but by defiling Elsdon's reputation. He would make the Seeker-in-Training appear to be a childish, hysterical young boy whose word could not be trusted in important matters.

It was a technique that Elsdon was well acquainted with.

He fumbled with the key in the lock, feeling the touch of one of the antique torture devices along his back, even though he knew that Layle Smith was now ensconced with his prisoner. Elsdon would need to return quickly to Garrett's cell, before Layle Smith wreaked any more damage. For now, though, a more vital task lay before him.

Lighting the oil lamp, he searched swiftly and found Garrett's records where he had dropped them, on the floor next to the High Seeker's bed. He knelt down and carefully leafed through them, trying to judge whether they had already been tampered with. He suspected they had: the records were one long string of rebukes against Garrett, making it appear that Garrett, too, could not be trusted if he made complaint against the High Seeker. Elsdon's jaw begin to ache from the gritting of his teeth. He read on.

Gradually he became aware that his right calf was touching a hard object. He turned his eyes and saw, in the darkness of the shadows under the bed, a book that had been hastily shoved there. He picked it up slowly, as he might have lifted a poisonous asp. Under the lamplight, the book's title shone clear: Man's Cruelty to Man.

The book had been so hastily closed that one of the pages was folded over. Elsdon opened the volume and began to read.
 

. . . many accounts of the cruel lusts of the torturers in the early years of Yclau's royal dungeon. We hear, for example, of the tragic fate of a young man delivered for searching to the dungeon. This tale comes from a guard who later wrote a book denouncing the torturer's actions.

"The prisoner was bound to the rack and stretched until his cries became piteous to the extreme, and he swore that he would confess to any crime his torturer wished. That dark man, however, was not satisfied with what he had accomplished already. Borrowing a dagger from me, he tore open the prisoner's clothes, exposing the prisoner's young flesh and ripping blood from the helpless victim's chest and belly. The prisoner's renewed cries inflamed the lasciviousness of the torturer. Taking into his hands the Swelling Globe, he reached for the prisoner's groin . . ."
 

"Love poems," muttered Elsdon, and with a flash of energy he hurled the book against the wall, where it landed with a crash, split, and fell to pieces upon the floor.

Something lighter than the book fluttered through the air and landed face up upon the tattered ruins of the volume. Elsdon, who had risen to his feet with Garrett's records in hand, found himself walking, not toward the door, but toward the ruined book. He knelt down beside it and picked up the piece of card that had landed there.

Upon the card, squeezed flat, was the flower he had given Layle Smith. It was bound to the card by a thread, which carefully wove its way around the stem like spider's silk. At the bottom of the card, in the High Seeker's neat handwriting, was a single word: "Elsdon."

The card with the imprisoned flower slipped from Elsdon's hands. He buried his face in his palms and began to weep hard.

"Mr. Gerson," said the High Seeker softly, "I think you have failed to understand the gravity of what you have done, and the seriousness of your present position. You gave Mr. Chapman's note to a man whom you knew to be unauthorized to carry private communications between Seekers. That he is a Seeker himself is irrelevant, as you well know – he has not finished or even begun his training. To make matters worse, this man was recently a prisoner of the Eternal Dungeon. If you learned anything during your training, it is that former prisoners of this dungeon often require many weeks of healing after their imprisonment. They certainly do not need to have such healing interrupted by a visit to a rack room while it is in use. To make matters doubly worse, the man in question has undergone abuse at his father's hands over many years – abuse all too similar in appearance to the techniques used by Seekers in the rack room. This you know also, not only because you are the most active member of this dungeon's gossip circuit, but also because you have claimed this man as your mate."

The High Seeker's use of the street word "mate" – rather than the more refined word "friend" – was like a whiplash across Garrett's face. He felt himself flinch. He had thought that he knew what Seekers were like, from having witnessed Chapman with prisoners, but he was rapidly learning the difference between a workman and a master.

The High Seeker, who had been leaning forward, now placed his hand upon the wall against which Garrett stood, leaning in yet further. Almost the first words Smith had spoken when he came into the cell was to remind Garrett of the Code's rule against Seekers and prisoners touching each other. The reason for this nursery lesson had not become clear to Garrett until he realized, as the hours passed, that the High Seeker was edging himself closer and closer to Garrett. He was sly in the manner he did so; nobody could have accused him of violating the rule against touching. But the end result of this maneuvering was that Garrett was flattened against the wall, not daring to move lest he touch the High Seeker, be accused of breaking the Code, and end up on the receiving end of Urman's whip.

He could ask Smith to move, of course. But that would be an easy way to concede him a victory in this war of wills.

"To reveal the private writings of a Seeker is terrible enough," the High Seeker said, still speaking softly, "but you may well have deprived the Eternal Dungeon of a new Seeker, and the enormity of that crime ought to be clear to you. The Eternal Dungeon is hard pressed to find men who are qualified for such work, and this particular man would suffer much if he were to strip himself of his hood, for he is eternally confined within the dungeon, whether or not he remains a Seeker. I had intended to introduce him slowly to the principles of breaking, in a manner consonant with his sensitive background. Thanks to your intervention, it is doubtful now whether he will be willing to proceed with his training—"

"Give it up, Seeker," Garrett said. "All this fancy talk of duty to the dungeon is just a screen. You're miffed that your love-boy saw you for what you truly are: a bloody barbarian, as bad as the Vovimians."

The look on Urman's face as Garrett spoke in his native street language almost made Garrett laugh. He wasn't sure what had motivated Smith to bring in the guards that were usually left outside the cell during a searching. Probably he was trying to cover his tracks, to keep from being falsely accused of abusing his prisoner.

That had left Garrett with one less plan to work with. Now, eight hours later, with his body stiff with weariness, Garrett was inclined to forget all his subtle plotting and to undertake the riskiest of plans: he would goad the High Seeker into showing his true self.

Smith seemed unperturbed. He had arranged matters such that Garrett's back was against the furnace wall, which was causing sweat to tickle Garrett's body. Smith was full in the light, but his hood hid all of his face except for his green eyes, asparkle under the firelight.

It occurred to Garrett that Smith must be all too familiar with Garrett's mode of attack. Hundreds of prisoners must have insulted him; long ago he would have acquired barriers of defense to hold them off. Desperately, Garrett searched back upon Smith's words, as a Seeker might, to see where Smith's weakness lay.

And discovered it. Smith had not yet used Taylor's name. That told Garrett a great deal.

He hesitated. He could be discarding his best weapon if he took this path. But Taylor was the reason he was here, and that bloody boy hadn't even pretended he'd try to get Garrett released. No, Taylor was of no further use, except insofar as he represented the weak spot in the High Seeker's defenses.

Garrett smiled at the High Seeker, and had the satisfaction of seeing Smith step back from him. Pressing his advantage, he took a step forward; Smith took two steps back. Now serene in his vision of the future, Garrett said softly, "Oh, but you two deserve each other, don't you? You're two of a kind. I'll wager that what bothered Taylor in the rack room was that he couldn't get his hands on the prisoner himself. You can see it from the way he talks about his dad. He's just aching to do the same sort of stuff himself, so he has to keep saying, 'I'm not like him, he's disgusting,' and all the other lies you molesters tell yourselves. You'll provide him with a new way to lie to himself, won't you? You'll give him the chance he wants, to beat prisoners as long and hard as he can. That bloody kin-murderer—"

The cavern collapsed, and its weight fell upon Garrett.

It was a moment before he realized that the High Seeker had him pinned to the wall. He could no longer see the High Seeker's eyes – they had turned unexpectedly black under the furnace-light – but he could feel the man's hands pushing him back against the hot wall: hands steady and hard and very powerful. Far more powerful than Garrett had anticipated. Garrett looked at the black gaze pressing at him through the hood, and the thought came to him that he was about to die.

Then a hand took hold of the High Seeker's arm, and Sobel's quiet voice said, "Sir . . ."

"Yes." In the next moment, the mountain of pressure upon Garrett was released. He gasped at the lifting. The High Seeker stepped back, not moving his eyes, which were still dark. His breath was loud and heavy. After a moment, he said, "Mr. Urman. You and Mr. Sobel go off-duty in a short while."

"Yes, sir, after you relieve—" Urman stopped, then said carefully, "After we are relieved by the day guards, sir."

Urman had his hand on his dagger, and his gaze lay upon Sobel, who was in turn watching the High Seeker carefully. Both guards were within reach of the High Seeker, and Sobel had placed himself so that he could, if need be, stand between the High Seeker and the prisoner. It was all in accordance with standard procedure, Garrett knew. He too had been trained on how to behave if the Code must be upheld against a Seeker.

The High Seeker looked at neither of the guards beside him. He said, "When you go off-duty, Mr. Urman, I would appreciate it if you would ask the Record-keeper to assign a new Seeker to Mr. Gerson." He took a step backwards and added, "Thank you, Mr. Sobel. Mr. Gerson, I apologize. Rest assured that you will be in safe hands with your new Seeker."

He had turned and was opening the cell door with his master key before Garrett was able to recover his senses. Then he shouted, "Don't think you won't pay for this, Smith! I'll see that your hood is removed for this! And when Taylor finds out what you've done—"

His voice was cut off by the sound of the cell door closing sharply behind the High Seeker. Garrett stood motionless a moment, struggling with the mixture of emotions Smith had left him with. On the one hand, he was annoyed at himself for giving in to fear; he ought to have known that the High Seeker would not get away with any dark dealings here, not with two guards present. But that made the fact that Smith had tried to do so all the more satisfactory. If the High Seeker had knelt and laid down his whip at Garrett's feet, the outcome could not have been better.

Smiling, Garrett turned his gaze toward the guards, only to discover, with shock, that both of them were regarding him with reproachful expressions. Bloody blades, what was the matter with them? He was the one who had been assaulted. He was the one who deserved sympathy.

It just went to show what he had known all along: that the Eternal Dungeon would not give him the justice he deserved.
 

CHAPTER SEVEN

As the Eternal Dungeon's gates slammed shut behind the exiting bats, a Seeker stormed into the entry hall. "Do you know what that rapist has done now?" the Seeker shouted over the voices of guards chatting with one another.

In the sudden pause of conversation, a second Seeker looked up from where he had been talking with the Record-keeper. In one swift movement he strode forward, grabbed the Seeker who had spoken, and shoved him into the documents library.

He slammed the door shut and lifted his face-cloth. "Mr. Taylor," he said in the tone he reserved for prisoners facing the rack, "let me remind you that certain topics are sealed by the Codifier and may not be spoken of in the presence of those who are unaware of the sealed records' contents. Anyone violating the seal will face discipline from the Codifier."

"But he assaulted Garrett!" cried Elsdon, flinging up the flap of his own hood.

"I'm aware of that," Mr. Chapman said dryly. "The entire dungeon is aware of it. However, if it would give you pleasure to scream the fact at the top of your lungs, feel free to do so."

Elsdon, who had been pacing up and down the narrow confines of the book-lined room, halted and looked back at Mr. Chapman. "The guards reported his assault?"

"He reported it himself. The Codifier has sentenced him to six months' suspension."

"Six months!" shouted Elsdon. "He deserves to be executed! How many more prisoners will he attack before somebody stops him? He—"

His voice was suddenly muffled by Mr. Chapman's hand descending hard upon his mouth; the other hand gripped his arm. "Mr. Taylor," Mr. Chapman said low in his ear, "given your background, I do not want to resort to having you arrested, but I will do so if you do not return to conducting yourself in a professional manner."

Elsdon stood motionless. After a moment, Mr. Chapman released him and asked quietly, "Are you all right?"

Elsdon folded his arms against his chest, trying to stop the shaking. "Don't," he whispered. "You don't have to do that. Even if the High Seeker ordered you to arrest me—"

"Ordered me to arrest you? Mr. Taylor, what are you speaking of?"

The surprise in the older Seeker's voice seemed genuine. Elsdon stared at him, saying, "I thought . . . Aren't you helping Mr. Smith to . . . ?" His words died away as a crease of puzzlement furrowed Mr. Chapman's brow.

"Helping him to do what?"

"Nothing," Elsdon said slowly. "I was wrong about that. I forgot that you were his prisoner too." His chest rose as he swallowed a breath. He said, in a more formal manner, "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have been shouting. But what the High Seeker did to Garrett—"

"How did you learn of the assault?"

"Through Garrett, of course. He told me everything that happened."

"And what did he tell you?"

"That he was answering the High Seeker's questions when suddenly Mr. Smith went mad and began battering him. Mr. Chapman, how can the Codifier even consider letting Mr. Smith keep his post?"

Mr. Chapman sighed and went over to turn up the light in the lamp that dimly shimmered in the documents library. Leaning against a stack of prisoner records, he said, "Mr. Taylor, if a prisoner told you that he had been battered by a Seeker, what would be the first thing you would do?"

There was a pause before Esldon said, "Have the healer examine him for signs of the battering. Mr. Chapman, if you're trying to imply that a battering didn't take place, you're wrong. The High Seeker lied to you if he told you otherwise."

"The High Seeker," Mr. Chapman said carefully, "has spoken to no one but the Codifier. All the information I have comes from the guards who were witness to the assault – including Mr. Sobel, whose testimony I believe you value. They say that Mr. Smith shoved Mr. Gerson against the wall and held him there for no more than five drops of the water-clock. Mr. Gerson received a slight bump to the head but nothing more. Incidentally, the guards report that Mr. Smith committed this assault after Mr. Gerson insulted you."

Elsdon stared at the other Seeker. "What?" he whispered.

The lamp-wick had burned low by the time that Mr. Chapman was finished speaking. Outside the door of the documents library came the low rumble of the Record-keeper's voice as he spoke to some visiting guards who were delivering a prisoner. Elsdon sat on a pile of crates containing records from the Eternal Dungeon's earliest years; his arms were wrapped around his legs, and his chin rested upon his knees.

After a long silence he looked up and said, "If this is true, then I was wrong about Mr. Gerson. I mean, I've always known that he is . . . changeable in his moods, but I thought he was steadfast in matters of friendship. If he truly spoke like that about me, he isn't what I thought he was. But whether or not Garrett acted like that, I was right about Mr. Smith. He's a sadist."

"You need hardly tell me that," Mr. Chapman said, his voice turning dry once more.

Elsdon shook his head slowly, trying to sort his thoughts into recognizable patterns. "I don't understand how you could have been his love-mate. I mean, I just can't envision you— I'm sorry, I know it's no business of mine—" He looked over at Mr. Chapman and frowned. "Why are you smiling?"

"That was ill-timed; I apologize. I was just amused at Mr. Smith's old-fashioned vocabulary." Seeing Elsdon's blank look, he added, "His reference to me as his love-mate."

Elsdon blinked several times as he stared. "But weren't you his love-mate?"

"In the traditional sense of the word, yes. We loved each other. I've never been in his bedroom, though, nor he in mine."

"But—" Elsdon rose to his feet, nearly toppling the crates in his haste. "Mr. Partridge . . . and Mr. Zinner . . ."

Mr. Chapman sighed. "Mr. Taylor, if you're trying to determine whether Mr. Smith has shared his bed with anyone during his time in the Eternal Dungeon, the answer is no. He may have had love-mates before his arrival here, but for the past seventeen years he has slept alone."

Elsdon whirled to face the lamp, failed to find the answer he was seeking there, and whirled to face Mr. Chapman again. "But surely . . . Why did your bond with him end?"

"For the same reason that yours did, I assume. I'm afraid that his type of love was not the sort I felt comfortable with."

"But there must be someone in the dungeon who wouldn't mind going to bed with him!"

Mr. Chapman shrugged as he reached his fingers under the back of his hood to scratch at an itch. "Very likely. How many masochists, though, do you think apply to become Seekers? I've always thought that being a Seeker who's a sadist is like being a Seeker who's only attracted to women. The chances that you'll ever be able to have a love-mate are not worth calculating."

Elsdon stood still a moment, chewing his knuckles. Mr. Chapman glanced at the water-clock in the corner and flipped down his face-cloth, saying, "The Codifier has placed me in charge of the dungeon during the High Seeker's suspension. I must warn you, Mr. Taylor: I come down hard on guards who spread gossip about inner dungeon residents, and I'll do the same to you if you do not show discretion regarding Mr. Smith's disciplinary troubles. If you have any concerns about the discipline he has been given, you should speak to the Codifier."

"Yes," said Elsdon slowly. "I'll do that." He flipped down his hood and followed Mr. Chapman into the entry hall.

Two of the dungeon guards were leading a bound prisoner, with an eyeless hood over his head, through the door to the corridor lined with breaking cells. Mr. Aaron was standing by the tablet; he erased one of the names that had been on the tablet and wrote in the name of the new prisoner. As Mr. Chapman went over to speak with his senior-most guard, Elsdon hesitated, his eye travelling over the names that had been lined out. He said spontaneously, "Mr. Aaron!"

"Yes, sir?" The bald-headed Record-keeper peered at him over his owlish spectacles.

"The prisoner who was previously in Rack Room A – what happened to him?"

The Record-keeper gave an impatient look, as he always did when another dungeon dweller failed to know the exact details of the fate of any of the tens of thousands of prisoners who had dwelt in this place. "Mr. Parris confessed that he had been taking the blame for a murder committed by his brother. His trial was held yesterday; Mr. Parris's Seeker succeeded in obtaining his release on the grounds of his innocence."

Elsdon was silent a moment, then said, "How high a level of the rack was the prisoner at when the confession was given?"

The Record-keeper sighed deeply. "Would that I knew. I have only received the High Seeker's report on the searching. —Mr. Sobel!" he said as a guard entered the entry hall from the entrance to the outer dungeon. "Mr. Taylor has requested to know the level at which Mr. Parris offered his confession. I do not have that information because you have not submitted your report yet."

Mr. Sobel gave an apologetic smile in response to this grave accusation. "I'm about to prepare it now, Mr. Aaron. The prisoner broke at level one," he added to Elsdon.

Elsdon shook his head. "He couldn't have – not unless you slackened the straps. He was at level nine when I left him."

"Mr. Taylor, I had control of the wheel," the guard said quietly. "The prisoner was taken no higher than level one, in accordance with Mr. Smith's prior orders."

Elsdon glanced around at the nearby guards and at the Record-keeper, who was continuing to scribble upon the tablet. Taking hold of Mr. Sobel's arm, he pulled him aside. "Look," he said in a low, tense voice, "don't try to cover up for Mr. Smith – about this or anything else. I was there; I heard the High Seeker order you to take the prisoner up to level nine."

"Did he say that?" Mr. Sobel asked.

"Yes, of course he did! You heard him—"

Elsdon broke off, the echo of Layle Smith's words reverberating in his head. After a moment, Mr. Sobel touched him softly and said, "I have to go on duty, but we should talk later."

Elsdon nodded wordlessly. He turned and was about to pass the Record-keeper and the great tablet when something caused his eye to travel up toward the ceiling of the cavern. He took root in the ground.

At the very top of the tablet, someone had erased the High Seeker's name.

Mr. Daniels was a small, round-cheeked man with warm blue eyes and tidy hair that he kept clipped short. His desk was equally tidy, appearing like a housewife's dream of the perfectly ordered home. He spoke in a rich, quiet baritone and made no abrupt gestures.

He was popularly believed to have been a dragon in his previous life. As Elsdon stepped into the Codifier's office, Mr. Daniels, sitting at his desk, looked up at Elsdon with his usual fiery gaze and said nothing.

Elsdon cleared his throat, having suddenly found it clogged. "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir. It concerns the High Seeker's discipline."

"Yes." The baritone was as rich as a blazing fire.

Elsdon swallowed and said, "I was wondering how you reached the decision to sentence Mr. Smith to six months' suspension."

The Codifier folded his hands upon each other in the slow, careful movement of a dragon who is contemplating his next meal. "Decisions on disciplinary matters are made in consultation with the Magisterial Guild, the Queen, the High Seeker, and the person under discipline. In cases where the parties disagree on the discipline, it is my duty to make a decision on the proper sentence. Usually this involves finding a compromise between the shortest sentence proposed and the longest sentence proposed."

"And Mr. Smith proposed that he receive less than six months' suspension?"

The hands remained motionless; the fiery eyes continued to burn. "All matters related to the discipline of inner dungeon residents are sealed. Did you have any other questions, Mr. Taylor?"

Elsdon chewed on his lip for a moment. He slowly pulled the crumpled card out of his pocket and handed it to the Codifier.

Mr. Daniels looked at the card, raised his eyebrows, and said, "Kindly bar the door, Mr. Taylor."

Several minutes later, Elsdon looked up from the record-book he was reading, his eyes wide. "I don't understand," he said. "Mr. Smith told me that he had raped a prisoner."

"Rape is regarded by the Code of Seeking as a sexual assault upon an unwilling or incapacitated prisoner," the Codifier replied, his hands as motionless as before. "Mr. Smith kissed a prisoner while she was bound. That was a severe violation of his duty as a Seeker."

"But to sentence him to three months' suspension for a single kiss . . . How did you decide to give him this sentence?"

The Codifier's eyes were as unblinking as a reptile's. "Decisions on disciplinary matters are made in consultation with the Magisterial Guild, the Queen, the High Seeker, and the person under discipline. In cases where the parties disagree on the discipline, it is my duty to make a decision on the proper sentence. Usually this involves finding a compromise between the shortest sentence proposed and the longest sentence proposed."

Elsdon looked down at the guards' witness he was reading, then carefully closed the volume and looked back at the Codifier. "Mr. Smith asked for the longer sentence, didn't he?" he said quietly. "He asked you to dismiss him as a Seeker, both last time and this time."

"The exact manner in which sentences are decided upon is not a matter that can be released. Do you have any other questions, Mr. Taylor?"

"Yes," said Elsdon, standing up. "But they aren't questions for you."

"I think you should leave here," she said.

Elsdon looked over from where he sat, his legs wrapped around the back of his chair, his chin resting atop the chair back. "Leave?" he said, startled. "How can I leave?"

She looked at him with that expression of innocent surprise that came over her face so often. In the bright spring light of Elsdon's bedroom, her hair glowed like embers; her skin was as golden as honey. "You pack up your belongings," she said. "You walk out the door . . ."

"Sara." He tried to keep his voice level, knowing that, if he shouted, she would flinch like a kicked kitten. "Father is paying me to care for his household. Even if he weren't my father, he's my workmaster – I can't simply walk away from him. And where would I go if I did? No one would hire me—"

"Yes, they will!" she said eagerly. "Anyone would hire you! I'll give you a letter that tells them what a good worker you are!"

He sighed. She was only four years younger than him, but sometimes he felt as though his sister was still the tiny baby he had been playing with on the day his mother died. She was too innocent to know that workmasters required stronger references than that of a sister; she was innocent enough to still think he had abilities beyond the small ones needed to run his father's household.

He got up and walked over to where she stood as she stroked a feather that had blown in through the open window. "Sara," he said softly, taking her by the shoulders, "I can't leave him, not unless he wants me to."

She looked up; her eyes were brighter than usual from the liquid forming in them. "You can't stay here. You can't keep letting him tie you up. You—"

She stopped suddenly as he put his hand swiftly over her mouth. He kept it there until the passing servants were well down the hallway of the house. Then he let his hands drop, saying, "He punishes me for a reason. I think— I think it's because I'm like Mother. I have her temper. I— You know I threw a vase at him once."

"You missed."

"I almost hit him. That's why he punishes me. If I can only find a way to make myself less like Mother and more like him—"

"Elsdon, that's stupid!" His sister curled her fingers carefully around the feather. "He wouldn't tie you up all night and hit you with his belt because you once threw a vase at him! There must be another reason. Maybe he'll explain if you go away."

"I can't—"

"Yes, you can! Elsdon, I'm not going to spend another sleepless night hearing you cry in the next room. If you won't go away, I'll – I'll tell Uncle Harden."

"No!" He took hold of her shoulders again, more firmly. "Sara, you swore you wouldn't tell anyone! No one must know—"

"I'll tell him, I promise I will!" Sara voice was rising. "I'll tell everyone about you and Father!"

"Keep your voice down!"

He could hear the faint murmur of servants downstairs, doing their daily chores. He put his hand toward Sara's mouth, but she pulled away, saying, "I'll tell everyone if you don't leave!"

"Stop it!" The servants were still murmuring. They were used enough to sibling fights in this household, which never came to anything but abject apologies on both sides. But at any moment now, a servant might pass and hear. . . .

He grabbed Sara's arm and tried to pull her to him so that he could stifle her mouth. "Stop it!" she said. "That hurts!" And then, when he kept pulling her, she slapped him across the face.

For a moment all was still. The servants, unconcerned, continued to work belowstairs. The open window brought in the sound of birds, laughing children on the street, and, very faintly, the voice of Auburn Taylor, visiting a neighbor.

Elsdon stared at Sara with horror. She had always been the quiet one, the one who was gentle and loving, like his father. Now, suddenly, he saw her resemblance to his mother: she had the same reddish hair, and her eyes blazed with the same fierceness.

"No!" he said, more to the fates than to Sara. It mustn't happen. She mustn't become like him. If she did . . .

Sara had begun struggling in his arms again. She was becoming hysterical. He remembered his mother as he had last seen her, fighting with his father before she stormed away and fell down the stairs to her death. Sweet blood, Sara was just like her mother. He had to stop her; he had to keep her pure.

He slapped her.

The force of his blow drove her to the floor. She stared up at him, mouth agape, then said in a quavering voice, "You beast! I'll tell everyone now. I don't care about your stupid secret—"

It was all he needed. He launched himself at her, his fists flying like cannonballs, with all of his surface thoughts focussed on what he must do to keep her from becoming corrupt like himself. Only he could save her; only he loved her that much.

It was not until the end, when she lay limp and broken on the floor like the feather in her hand, that a deeper thought worked its way to the surface of Elsdon's mind.

Good, the deeper part of him whispered. Now she'll never be able to hurt you as he does.

The Seeker-in-Training sat in the corner of the breaking cell, his upraised legs tight against his chest and his head buried in his arms.

He made no sound.

The High Seeker, when Elsdon found him, was in the corner of his bedroom. Sitting in the corner, with his legs drawn up against his chest, and his arms cradling his knees. His face was hidden within his arms. Nearby, untouched, lay the shattered book of torture, and next to it on the floor, spread open, was the Code of Seeking.

Elsdon saw all this for only a moment. Then the High Seeker stood, flipping down the flap of his hood before Elsdon could catch sight of his face. Elsdon said, before the other man could speak, "I still have your key."

"Thank you for returning it to me." Layle Smith's voice was flat. He remained where he was, like a Seeker keeping a careful distance from his prisoner.

Elsdon fingered the key in his pocket. As he did so, he said, "I've been in a breaking cell for the past three hours, thinking. About my father, mainly."

The High Seeker made no reply. His posture was upright, his hands stiff, as they were when he was at his work.

Elsdon said, "My father . . . I've reached the conclusion that he was afraid. I don't know what he was afraid of; I don't suppose I will ever know. But rather than face his fear and deal with it, he took the coward's way. He found someone more vulnerable than himself, someone who could be easily hurt, and he treated that person as the object of his fear. He sought out some error I'd made – it didn't matter how small an error, any wrongdoing would have been enough for his purposes – and he used it as an excuse to destroy me."

"You have a keen understanding of the nature of evil men." The High Seeker's voice was quiet. "It will serve you well in your work. Do you also understand that a criminal – no matter how great the evil he has committed, no matter how great a punishment he deserves – may regret what he has done?"

"Yes," said Elsdon, raising his face-cloth. "I do regret it."

There was a moment's pause. It was after midnight now; the noises of the outer dungeon had slowed, and only the faint sound of screams came from the direction of the inner dungeon. The room was bright with lamplight, delineating the High Seeker in an uncompromising fashion, but for his face, which remained hidden.

The High Seeker said, "I don't understand what you mean."

Elsdon stepped forward then, closing the gap between the High Seeker and himself. "You're a sadist," he said.

The High Seeker remained unmoved where he was. He did not reply.

"You receive pleasure from other people's pain," Elsdon persisted.

"Mr. Taylor—" The voice wavered slightly, and Elsdon came to a halt, an arm's breadth from the High Seeker. The latter said in a low, rapid voice, "Mr. Taylor, please believe that I regret exceedingly what occurred between us. I should not have allowed matters to take the course they did. After what happened with Mr. Zinner, I ought to have known . . ." His voice trailed off.

"It wouldn't have made any difference, would it?" Elsdon said. "I was your prisoner, and you fell in love with me. The two facts are tied together for you: when you see me and are drawn to me, you can't help but think of me in pain. You can't help but enjoy that."

He was close enough now to see the High Seeker's eyes; thus he saw the moment when Layle Smith closed his eyes against what Elsdon was saying. The eyes reopened almost immediately, though the High Seeker's hands were now curled into fists.

"Mr. Taylor." The High Seeker's voice was even less steady than before. "I cannot ask you to forgive me for what I have done. Some wrongdoings are of too great a magnitude to be forgiven. All I can ask is that you not allow the evil I've committed to destroy the career you have before you. If you continue with your work, you will be a strong Seeker, and I assure you that all of my interactions with you henceforth will be on the professional level."

"As they are with Mr. Chapman?"

"Yes," said the High Seeker. "Exactly that way."

Elsdon shook his head slowly. "High Seeker," he said, "do you even know what you are?"

"Yes." Layle Smith's voice was stiff. "I am a sadist."

"You're a sadist," Elsdon agreed. He bent down and picked up the book lying face open upon the ground. He glanced down at it and read, "'A Seeker must not allow himself to be swayed by any feeling he experiences in the presence of a prisoner, whether those feelings be of pity or passion or pleasure. At all times he must put aside his own feelings and needs for the sake of the prisoner. . . .'" He looked up toward the motionless man standing before him. "Why didn't I recognize this before? These are bindings upon a sadist. They are two hundred and seventeen ways to keep yourself from harming the prisoners."

"I am still a sadist." The High Seeker's voice was rigid. "I still receive pleasure from other people's pain."

"Yes," said Elsdon. He stepped forward and placed the Code in the High Seeker's hands, then reached up and lifted the face-cloth.

Layle's face was as he had known it would be: etched with a pain as deep as that of a man who has reached his limits upon the rack. Elsdon touched the High Seeker's face.

"How terrible that must be for you," he said quietly. "If it would ease your burden to dream of torturing me or raping me or even binding me . . . I give you my permission to do so."

The vulnerability and deep agony remained in the High Seeker's face, as it always did, though normally hidden by the formality he used to hood himself from the world. Layle whispered, in a tone like a plea, "Elsdon . . ."

Elsdon reached forward and pulled Layle into his arms. Even before the first touch, Layle had begun to shake.

"It's all right, love," Elsdon said softly to his love-mate as Layle buried his face upon Elsdon's shoulder. "It's all right. I'm here now, and I won't leave."

. . . What examples we possess are just as often records of his failures, yet we should not underestimate the influence that even his failures had.

An example of this can be found in the case of Garrett Gerson, one of the few prisoners of the Eternal Dungeon whose life can be easily traced through surviving documents.

At age nineteen, Gerson was granted the much-coveted post of guard in the Eternal Dungeon, but only two years later he was arrested for permitting an unauthorized person access to a Seeker's writings. Since the Eternal Dungeon was directly under the control of the Queen, this was the equivalent of a treason charge, and Gerson faced the possibility of a death sentence. Upon learning, however, that Gerson had impregnated his girlfriend, Layle Smith recommended to the Codifier that Gerson be punished only with dismissal from the Eternal Dungeon. The High Seeker's concern over Gerson is all the more remarkable because he himself was undergoing disciplinary troubles at this time that seem to have been an outgrowth of his handling of the Gerson case. (See the end of the chapter for more on scholarly speculations concerning the Second Suspension, as historians term it.) Indeed, there appear to be some indications that Layle Smith went so far as to arrange for Gerson and his girlfriend to be given a grant of money in order to begin their married life.

Gerson next appears in history's records four years later, when his wife sued for divorce on the grounds of adultery. Shortly thereafter, Gerson's name begins to appear in the arrest records of Yclau's "lesser" prisons with frightening frequency, first for petty thefts, then for more serious crimes for which he received short prison sentences.

That the lesser prisons finally tired of him is shown by the fact that, seventeen years after his dismissal from the Eternal Dungeon, Gerson was arrested on the uncommon charge of raping and battering a prostitute. He was transferred to the Eternal Dungeon, where – apparently holding the unreasonable belief that he would be immediately tortured – he confessed to the assault on his first day, giving no other explanation than that the victim "had it out for me, like everyone else."

Such a confession would have been sufficient evidence for the lesser prisons. Yet the Eternal Dungeon's records show that Gerson spent the next six months under the care of no less than three Seekers, all of them trying to extract evidence from him of repentance, so that he would receive a lesser sentence.

In the end, Gerson was transferred to the magistrates' court, where he was sentenced to be hanged. The Eternal Dungeon's Record-keeper's final entry on this prisoner reads, "Gerson's sentence commuted to life imprisonment, due to the intervention of the Queen's Secretary." This is one of the few cases where an official of the Eternal Dungeon failed to grant a prisoner his honorific.

In a note written after Gerson's dismissal, Layle Smith blamed himself for the truncation of guard's career. Yet a brief look at Gerson's records prior to his arrival at the Eternal Dungeon shows clearly that Gerson was headed toward a bad end from an early age, and that his two years under the High Seeker's watchful eye were the only period during which his life was relatively orderly and disciplined. This demonstrates that what the first High Seeker regarded as failure, other people might regard as success.

Historians may wish to take account of this fact when examining what is undoubtedly the most controversial aspect of Layle Smith's life: his early career as a Vovimian torturer.

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

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