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Transformation 3

A PRISONER HAS NEED

Dusk Peterson

The mental illness of the Eternal Dungeon's first High Seeker has become the stuff of song and legend, with many a mother telling her child scare-tales about the "Mad Torturer." Yet the earliest songs, along with documents from the first High Seeker's time, treat with sympathy Layle Smith's lifelong battle with mental illness. Some contemporary witnesses even suggested that his talents as High Seeker derived directly from that struggle.

We are fortunate to possess Layle Smith's own account of the most serious phase of his illness, which occurred toward the end of his thirty-fourth year, and which is known to historians as the First Madness of 356. (The Second Madness occurred in the following year, 357, and did not reach the same heights of crisis.)

Layle Smith's account takes the form of a letter to the palace healer, who had evidently heard of the case and wished to know the details so that he could treat patients who were similarly afflicted. Because of the importance of this letter, I am quoting it in full. The second sentence of the letter contains the most complete description that we possess of the nature of Layle Smith's illness.

I do not know whether anything I tell you will be of assistance, since the circumstances of my breaking were unusual. I understand that you have been in touch with Mr. Bergsen [the Eternal Dungeon's healer], so you will know that the cause of my mind-breaking was certain dreamings that consisted of memories of deeds I committed during the unfortunate years of my youth, combined with my own imaginings. I have been in consultation with Mr. Bergsen concerning these dreamings since the time I first came to the Eternal Dungeon, but my concern was initially ethical rather than medical, for the dreamings did not become uncontrollable until the time of my breaking.

The change in my dreamings came about because of a regrettable coincidence of circumstances. Certain orders I had given as High Seeker, and the consequences of those orders, caused me to fear that I would act on my dreamings. Soon afterwards, at my foolish request, I was temporarily released from my regular duties, which had always provided the main alternative to my dreamings. The dreamings began to play more and more a central role in my life, both because they provided a pleasant way for me to retreat from the pain of my fear, and also because I mistakenly believed that it was best for me to retreat into my dreamings rather than run the risk of acting out my imaginings in real life.

Too late I came to realize that I had lost the ability to even partially control the dreamings – they came and went as they would. As time continued, I began to be sucked into the dreamings more and more. It was like being sucked into a strong current that threatens to drown one. Despite the best efforts of those who cared for me, I was not strong enough to be able to defy this current. I therefore placed a formal request with the Codifier [the official who had supervision over the dungeon workers in ethical matters] that I should be released from my oath to be a Seeker, since I believed that my mind had so far deteriorated that I was a danger to the dungeon inhabitants. He refused my request, instead binding me into the care of Mr. Taylor [Elsdon Taylor, a Seeker who was evidently sharing Layle Smith's living quarters at that time].

The crisis came when the dreamings took over me entirely. I am told that, for a period of two nights and a day, I neither ate nor slept nor responded to any word or touch but simply stared blankly, lost in the dreamworld I had created.

I must tell you that it is entirely due to the efforts and skill of Mr. Taylor that I was not lost altogether. Despite the fact that he was committed at that time to assisting a difficult prisoner who was reaching the end of his searching, Mr. Taylor cared for me tirelessly during my breaking, allowing himself virtually no sleep as the seriousness of my illness increased. During the period of the crisis, I remember finding myself lost in the sweetly nightmarish world of my imaginings, knowing that I was trapped but unable to make my way past the guards who barred the doors in my dreaming. Then I began to hear a voice say over and over to me, "A prisoner has need of you. A prisoner has need of you." My vision of the real world returned, and I saw that Mr. Taylor was the person speaking.

If he had tried to plead or argue with me at that point, I think that I would have slipped back forever into the dreaming. Instead he told me, in a quite matter-of-fact manner, that I must ready myself to go to a prisoner's trial. I did this, believing, in my madness, that the prisoner was my own and that I was duty-bound to provide witness at his trial.

I went to the trial, accompanied both by Mr. Taylor and by Mr. Chapman [Weldon Chapman, a Seeker], who had been present during much of my illness. Of course, the prisoner in question was Mr. Taylor's. I sat with Mr. Chapman in the back of the judging room, listening to Mr. Taylor do his best to rescue the prisoner from the death sentence. (Alas, he was unsuccessful.)

It is hard to describe what happened next. It is not that my mind began to reason; I was too far into the madness for that. Rather, it was as though I remembered things I had forgotten. It came to me as I listened to Mr. Taylor that he was carrying out a duty I was neglecting. I realized that prisoners like the one he was assisting required my help too, and that it made no difference how seductively beautiful my terrible dreamings were to me. My duty required me to be in the real world of the Eternal Dungeon.

After the trial, Mr. Taylor and I were able to meet privately. He told me that, with the end of his obligation to his previous prisoner, we could now work together on another prisoner as soon as I was ready to return to my duties. This news helped to bring me back to myself, and it was then that I first began to speak and to engage in other normal activities. But I believe that my return from madness occurred in the judging room, when I remembered that a Seeker must be willing to suffer for the prisoners.

Any student of psychology who is reading this book will recognize the final words of Layle Smith's letter, since they are the opening words (with appropriate changes in terminology) of the Code of Psychology. Like Layle Smith, every psychologist today knows that he must be willing to suffer for his patients.

Yet words that appear earlier in Layle Smith's letter are of equal significance: "A prisoner has need of you." These words, which gave Layle Smith the strength to begin to pull away from his madness, explain why he and the other Seekers went to such lengths to help the Eternal Dungeon's prisoners. It was this fundamental belief that the prisoners had need of the Seekers which led many Seekers to pass beyond professional duty in assisting prisoners, and to make their assistance personal in nature.

The Eternal Dungeon's documents record many examples of this personal assistance. . . .

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

CHAPTER ONE

Weldon Chapman stood in the midst of the tiny room, playing with the toy.

The "room" was nothing more than an alcove that had been separated from the main living area by means of a curtain. Within this tiny alcove, everything had been done to make the environment pleasant for a young child. There were stuffed animals, such as the lion cub that Weldon was fingering, cup-balls and rattles and a swinging horse and other such toys suitable for the cramped confines of the Eternal Dungeon. There were even books and board games appropriate for when the child grew older. Weldon stroked the battered fur of the lion cub and felt the pain within him grow.

It was annoying, therefore, to hear a knock at the door. Sighing, Weldon flipped down the face-cloth of the hood that marked him as a Seeker, then pulled open the curtain and took the few steps necessary to reach the main door of his small living cell.

"Well?" he said sharply to the man standing there.

The man, who was about twenty years in age, took an involuntary step backwards, as though he expected Weldon to order him to be lashed. He was wearing the grey-and-red uniform of a guard-in-training, and he was armed for duty, with a whip and dagger at his hips. He said quickly, "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir."

"Not at all, Mr. Crofford. I apologize for being brusque." His soothing tone came automatically, the product of years of experience with prisoners who could be broken more easily by gentle means than by harsh ones.

The guard licked his lips with a nervous twitch and held up a stack of papers pinned neatly to a board. "I brought you this, sir. We have a new prisoner, and I thought you'd want to read his records before your shift began."

"Thank you, Mr. Crofford." His voice was warmer this time. It was indeed an advantage to be able to have several hours to make sense of the frequently impenetrable prose of a prisoner's legal and medical records. "I appreciate your taking the time to bring me this. You're already on duty, I take it?"

"Yes, sir. I have so much to learn that I thought I would get a few hours' start on my studies today."

He was shuffling his feet like a schoolboy. Weldon found himself smiling even as the pain within him increased. He held open the door wide, saying, "Would you care to come in for a few minutes? I was just making myself some tea."

"Thank you, sir; I'd like that," Mr. Crofford replied with such promptness that Weldon gave the guard a long look as the man walked past him. The guard entered the apartment cautiously, his eyes flicking from wall to wall as though expecting to see chains holding dangling bodies. Then he caught sight of the alcove, with its curtain still pulled back. "Oh, I had a cub like that when I was a boy!" he cried. "May I see it?"

He was through the curtain before Weldon could say anything, his hand reaching toward the cub. At the last minute, though, the guard glanced over at the Seeker, and what he saw there made him turn pale and snatch his hand back as though he had been about to touch a hot oven.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said quickly. "I shouldn't be touching your belongings. This looks quite old and valuable."

"Old, yes, but valuable only to me." Weldon walked over and let his fingers glide over the bedraggled fur. "This belonged to me when I was a child. It was the only object I brought with me when I came to live in the Eternal Dungeon."

The guard was looking around the alcove now, gazing at the toys, the decorations, and the cradle. "This is very nice, sir. Did you put this together yourself, or was this created by Mistress Birdesmond?"

"We both worked on it." He was finding it increasingly hard to speak; his throat had tightened. He said, more gruffly than he would have liked, "Come, let's have our tea before it grows cold."

The tea was bubbling in a pot over the small stove that was one of his privileges as a married Seeker whose living quarters had originally been part of the outer dungeon, before a second door was cut through the wall to the inner dungeon. He and Birdesmond took their meals in the dungeon's dining hall only when they wanted company. He ladled out the tea for the guard, and then invited Mr. Crofford to seat himself in a nearby chair.

"Now, what's on your mind, Mr. Crofford?" he asked as he picked up his own cup of tea.

The guard's eyes widened; then the man smiled for the first time. "I suppose it's no good to keep thoughts secret from a Seeker."

"Certainly not when you come to his quarters with the express purpose of questioning him. Do you have questions about your duties?"

"Not my duties so much as my living arrangements. I asked Mr. Boyd, since he's supervising my training. He didn't know the answer and told me to go see Mr. Daniels. I suppose I should be asking him instead of bothering you, but . . ."

Weldon gave a chuckle as he waved his hand over his tea in an effort to cool it. "Personally, I send letters to Mr. Daniels. Or smoke signals. Anything to keep me from having to walk into the dragon's den."

Mr. Crofford laughed, his body relaxing. "I know I shouldn't be afraid of the Codifier, but . . . Well, it's easier to ask you questions. You remind me of my father."

After a moment, Mr. Crofford put his cup of tea down and said, "I'm sorry, sir; I didn't mean to offend you. Would you prefer that I leave?"

"Take no mind of me. I just had a hard time sleeping last night." Weldon did his best to smile at the guard. "What is your question?"

"It's about children, sir."

After another moment, the guard rose from his seat. "Sir, I can see I have caught you at a bad time. I should let you—"

"No, no, sit. What were you going to do, bother the High Seeker with your questions? You're working under me at the moment; it's your duty to come to me with any questions Mr. Boyd can't answer. Are you wondering whether, if you marry, you'll be permitted to raise children in the Dungeon?"

Mr. Crofford nodded. "Yes, sir. I'm engaged to be married; my fiancée works in the outer dungeon. I was wondering about children, and so was a friend of mine who already has a couple of daughters and is thinking of applying for a job in the outer dungeon. I'd assumed that we wouldn't be permitted to raise children here, but since my arrival, I've seen a number of children in the outer dungeon."

"I see." He did his best to keep his voice steady. The fates knew that he had enough experience at that in his work. "Well, Mr. Crofford, the answer is different, depending on whether we're talking about you or your friend. The Codifier occasionally allows dungeon residents to raise children born in the Eternal Dungeon, provided that the parents of the children have already committed themselves to remaining residents here for a number of years. In your case, I think the Codifier would want to wait some time for an indication that your work here was more than passing employment. In the case of your friend, I'm afraid that he would not be permitted to bring his daughters to the dungeon. We had a very hard struggle deciding whether any children at all should be exposed to the dark and bloody atmosphere of the Eternal Dungeon. The Codifier's final decision was that children born in the dungeon might be able to adjust to conditions here, but that it would be wrong to bring in children who had been raised in the lighted world."

"I see," said Mr. Crofford. "So it's possible that, with the Codifier's permission, my fiancée and I would be permitted to raise our children born here, but children couldn't come here from the outside. We couldn't adopt any children, for example."

"Precisely." He wondered that his voice sounded so calm. It was a tribute to the training he had received over the years. "If you have no other questions, Mr. Crofford . . ."

The guard hastily abandoned his tea cup again and rose, saying, "I appreciate your taking the time, sir. I understand the Codifier's conclusions in this matter – though I admit it makes me curious as to whether he knows about the new prisoner."

"The new prisoner?" Weldon frowned. "Why, is the prisoner a mother who is anxious at being separated from her children?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I forgot hat you hadn't seen the prisoner yet. Here . . ." He handed Weldon the board of papers, pointing to the first line of the first page.

Weldon knew the precise moment at which his self-control shattered. Mr. Crofford took on a look of alarm akin to that of a child who turns the corner and sees a dangerous dog in his path. "Sir, I – I should go—" he stammered breathlessly.

"Yes," said Weldon. And then, his years of training rescuing him once more: "Thank you, Mr. Crofford. I appreciate your assistance. It is important for me to know when the prisoner has special needs."

"Feel this," the High Seeker said sharply, handing the strap to the blacksmith and then pulling on the wheel until the notch in the wheel clicked into its next position.

"Hmm." The blacksmith held the strap for a moment before letting it go and saying, "It's perhaps a wee bit tighter than it should be. You have to expect a touch of variation from machine to machine, though. Making these is an art, not a science."

"We can't afford to have that much variation," the High Seeker said, his voice still sharp. "This is a life matter. We nearly had a prisoner die yesterday when the Seeker searching him took the wheel up to level five – up to what should have been level five – and the prisoner had an attack of the heart because his body wasn't prepared for the strain."

The blacksmith, who had gone down onto his hands and knees to examine the complex system of cogs and pulleys that led from the wheel to the strappings, stood up and dusted off his hands on his trousers, saying, "I'll do my best, sir. I can't make any promises, though."

"Ah." The High Seeker looked at the man for a moment. All that could be seen of his expression through the hood were dark green eyes, which had turned cool. Then he said, in a less heated manner, "Well, no matter. You can tell us whether we're close enough to the tension we need when we test it on you."

The blacksmith, who had been on the point of turning away, stiffened suddenly, as though he had been stabbed in the back. "Now, wait a minute," he said. "I just work to make these old machines run. Any testing you do will have to be on someone else."

"But you're an artist, you say. I know artists – you'll want to make sure for yourself that your work of art is at its highest perfection. Don't worry, sir." The High Seeker's voice took on a soothing tone. "The rack won't do you any harm if, as you say, it has only a 'touch of variation.'"

The blacksmith's breath was rapid now. He wiped his hands against his trousers again, and it could be seen that the hands were trembling. "Sir, there's no need for such tests. I'll bring my brother in to help – he works in a clock manufactory and has experience working with notched wheels like this. I'm sure that, between the two of us, we can get this one working right."

"We'll see," the High Seeker said in a noncommittal manner, and gave a gesture of dismissal. The blacksmith, retreating rapidly, nearly barrelled into Weldon, who had been standing in the doorway to the rack room during this exchange.

Weldon waited until the blacksmith was gone and the door had closed before pulling up his face-cloth to reveal his grin. "I can't believe you made him credit that. He must know that the Codifier would never allow it."

Layle Smith raised his own face-cloth; he too was smiling. "Oh, but the Mad Torturer is capable of anything. These days, prisoners begin babbling from the moment they hear my name spoken in the entry hall. I'm ready to recommend to the Codifier that all Seekers be required to undergo a spell of madness, so that all of you can have an equally daunting effect on your prisoners."

Weldon's grin had faded at the moment of the High Seeker's first words. He said quietly, "I'm glad you're able to joke about it now, Layle. It couldn't have been easy retaking your supervisory duties, knowing as you did that everyone here had witnessed your illness. Both phases of your illness."

"My reputation has always been dark." Layle knelt down to take a closer look at the wheel notches, saying, "Did I ever tell you about the aekae, Weldon?"

"Aekae? That's a Vovimian word, isn't it?"

Layle nodded as he fingered the notches. "Yes, from the old tongue, which is only spoken in southern Vovim now. The Common Speech has eliminated it everywhere else; I know scraps of the old tongue only because one of my fellow street-thieves was from southern Vovim. But bits of the old tongue survive within Vovim's ancient institutions. The aekae are quite ancient indeed. They're the holy men of Vovim: wandering prophets who denounce the rich and powerful for their evil deeds."

Weldon raised his eyebrows. "And how long do they survive to do this before they're handed over to Vovim's torturers?"

"That's the oddest part about it, Weldon. Amongst all the rebels and revolutionaries being racked in the dungeon of Vovim's King, the aekae alone are able to make their thunderous accusations with immunity to punishment. Mind you, they do live a hard life. They're men without property and live a threadbare experience, walking barefoot from town to town and eating food no better than pebbles. As you can imagine, only the poorest Vovimians take up such a life, those who are already accustomed to hardship. Yet the aekae hold greater power than anyone in the kingdom except the King himself, since they're the only men who can speak freely."

"And what do they speak about?"

"The gnawing of the torture-god's teeth, mainly." Layle straightened up. "Evil men being gnawed in punishment of their iniquities, men being beaten and branded and racked without cease, torture that is eternal in more than a figurative manner." He looked over at Weldon, who was struggling to control his expression, and said quietly, "Yes, the Vovimian religion is unpleasant in certain ways. The Vovimians have no such belief in rebirth as we do. They believe that a person gets only one chance to prove himself, and then he receives eternally his reward for that single life, in the form of unending joy or unending pain."

Weldon walked over to finger the straps of the rack. "I begin to see why you put such great effort into transforming prisoners' characters before they are executed."

Layle gave half a smile. "I suppose there's a bit of that childhood fear within me – a fear that any prisoner who goes to his death unreformed will lie on a rack like this forever. But that's not why I'm telling the tale. I wanted to point out how strange and wondrous it is that such good, holy men could arise out of so evil a vision of justice. It makes me believe that what we do here truly does transform evil into good."

"I see." Weldon pulled the wheel into the second notch, holding tight the strap as he did so. After a moment he let it fall, saying, "And so your madness was an evil that has brought about good."

Layle chuckled lightly. "Weldon, when I'm talking with you I cease to wonder why the Record-keeper gets headaches trying to keep you supplied with prisoners, since you break each one so quickly. Yes, that's the point of what I'm saying. My reputation matters little to me, but whether I am effective in my work matters a great deal. The darker my reputation, the more likely it is that hardened prisoners will take me seriously."

"It could not have been easy for you, though."

In the moment after Weldon spoke, he could have torn his tongue out. Been easy to undergo two spells of madness? He wondered whether, if he banged his head against the wall a few times, it would begin to function properly.

Layle simply gave a slight smile and said, "Far harder for Elsdon, I think. To be exposed to the worst of me . . . It still amazes me that he is willing to stay with me. The pain for him must have been intense."

"Well," said Weldon, groping for words of comfort and finding them in the Code of Seeking. "It's much as you said before about good coming from evil. Great pain, willingly undertaken, is necessary for rebirth."

"Yes," said Layle, running his hand over the wheel of the rack. "So I told the Record-keeper when he asked me whether he should assign our latest prisoner to someone besides you."

Weldon felt as though he had been examining a guard's dagger, and the blade had suddenly moved in his hand, turned round, and slid neatly into his heart. Bereft of words, he contented himself with glaring at the High Seeker.

Layle's expression was sympathetic as he turned to face the man he had been searching. "Weldon, if there were any other Seeker I could assign this prisoner to, I would. But you have better knowledge than any of the others of juvenile cases, and you speak good Vovimian. You're the best qualified Seeker to handle this prisoner."

"Not quite," Weldon replied crisply. "One Seeker in this dungeon is far more qualified than I am to handle Vovimian prisoners."

The High Seeker abruptly turned his attention back to the rack. Weldon refused to break the silence. After a minute, Layle said in a distant manner, "I'm on healing leave."

"By your own choice. The healer has granted you permission to return to work. Layle, I can understand your hesitation at returning to the heart of your old work, but it's been two years now since you searched any prisoners. You can't depend on the Codifier to wait forever."

"Yes," said Layle, still staring at the rack. "So Elsdon tells me. Every night, repeatedly. Do I need to hold this argument with you as well?"

Weldon watched Layle brush the rim of the wheel lightly, as though it were the skin of his beloved. It was a gesture that Weldon himself could never have made. He knew himself to be good at his job, and he received satisfaction from the times that he was able to help a prisoner to the rebirth of his soul. But if the Codifier were to come to him and say, "We do not wish you to work as a Seeker any more," Weldon knew, with all honesty, that his reaction would be relief. He had done good work in this dungeon, but he would not mind retiring from that work.

Most Seekers felt as he did; their work was a job, nothing more. But a few Seekers . . . Not long after Weldon arrived at the dungeon, a Seeker had been permanently injured by a prisoner and was forced to enter into retirement. The Seeker had taken his own life soon afterwards.

The event had been shocking partly because it was so rare: the Yclau religion taught that self-slayers endangered the chances for their rebirth into a new life. Weldon was grateful for that particular article of religion. If it had not existed, prisoner suicides would be far more common.

But the Vovimian religion, he gathered, had less to say against self-slaying. He stole another look at Layle. The High Seeker had not yet tried to take his life, not even in the worst of his madness. That knowledge ought to be enough to reassure Weldon. But if the Codifier decided that the dungeon could no longer afford to humor a Seeker who refused to search prisoners . . .

"There's no choice," said Layle suddenly. "The rack will have to be tested. Otherwise I won't be able to tell the blacksmith which portions of the wheel need to be fixed."

Weldon decided that Layle was right; it was high time the subject was changed. "I'll do it," he said.

Layle shook his head. He had already moved over to the bench at the back of the room and was sitting upon it, loosening his belt. "No, it needs to be me. Besides, the breakdown is undoubtedly my fault. Machines have a tendency to malfunction when I'm in the same room as them. It's as though they sense my origins." His voice had turned wry.

"Returning to that subject," Weldon said, "the prisoner's records say that both he and the victim are Vovimian. Why are we handling this case? Don't the Vovimians usually demand extradition of the accused in such cases?"

"Usually they do," Layle replied, reaching down to unlace his boots. "This time, the victim's next of kin requested that the Queen's magistrates judge the case. He claims he wishes to have the prisoner swiftly exonerated, should he be innocent, but it seems more likely to me that the kinsman is simply thirsty for immediate revenge upon the murderer."

"And the prisoner . . ." Weldon knelt down to pull off Layle's boots. "The papers said only that he was under age. I was left wondering whether he might be under age by Vovimian standards rather than Yclau. Nineteen, perhaps, or twenty . . . "

He hoped his voice did not sound too eager. Layle shook his head, though. "Twelve," the High Seeker replied.

Weldon swore briefly but pungently. "For love of the Code, I wish the Vovimians had kept this prisoner to themselves."

"You wouldn't speak such words if you'd worked in Vovim," Layle said softly, rising to his feet. "A boy that age would be lucky if his torturers merely racked and executed him. More likely he'd be passed around from torturer to torturer until he became too old to entertain them."

Weldon swore again as he stood up. "Layle, it's hard for me to understand how a land like that could have produced a civilized man like you."

Layle smiled as he undid the top buttons of his shirt. "That's kindly expressed. Most people who learn where I was born say, 'Ah, that explains it.'" He pushed up his sleeves.

Watching him, Weldon said, "Best keep those down, unless you want me to search out the wrist cushions."

"No, I mustn't have anything between me and the strappings. I need to feel the strain in as precise a manner as possible."

Weldon gave a sharp laugh as the High Seeker climbed onto the rack. "As though there were any danger that you wouldn't. Are you sure you don't want me to do this instead?"

"Quite sure." Layle lay down upon the wooden back of the rack and laid his hands high above his head.

Weldon reached forward and began to bind the strappings around Layle's wrists. "What can you tell me about Vovim that can help me in this matter?"

"Not a great deal. Both the prisoner and the victim were from southern Vovim, which is a world to itself. I told you that the old tongue is spoken there—" He stopped, his breath sucking in momentarily as Weldon pulled the straps taut around his wrists.

Weldon peered down at him. "Too tight?"

"Is that how tight you have your guards pull them for prisoners?"

"For someone of your body weight, yes."

"Then it's not too tight. As for southern Vovim . . . I told you they still speak the old tongue there. That's reflective of their culture as a whole. They're very backwards there, retaining customs long forgotten in the rest of Vovim. You know the image that outsiders hold of the Eternal Dungeon?"

"Torturers cackling with delight as they rack and rape the prisoners – the ones they don't turn into bed-slaves or put to work mining in dark pits." Weldon finished tightening the ankle straps. "I always thought that was a fair description of Vovim's dungeon and prisons."

"Not entirely, but it gives you the flavor for southern Vovim. Oh, I'm not saying that every custom there is bad. Certainly there are many good and conscientious people living in southern Vovim. But they hold onto customs that more civilized parts of the world have long since abandoned. The divide between elite and commoner is much stronger there, which is even reflected in the language. The southern Vovimians treat with greater seriousness any form of disloyalty."

"So is this a case of a commoner killing an elite, or the other way round?"

"Neither, it appears. It's a case of a son killing his father." The High Seeker's voice was more strained, for the main strap had just been tightened around his waist. "Take me up to level one and hold me there for a while," he told Weldon. "But wait – first let me tell you more about this case. . . ."

Since the prisoner's legal and medical records remained back in Vovim, most of the information on his background had been obtained from the victim's eldest son, Grove Hallam, who was thirty years of age and who had worked as a Vovimian liaison within the Yclau palace since he came of age at twenty-one. Though clearly shocked by his father's death, he had cooperated fully with the Queen's soldiers and had appeared to the soldiers to bear no grudge toward his younger brother. Indeed, he claimed that he knew of the prisoner only through his father's references to the boy in his letters.

The prisoner's birth-parents, it seemed, had worked for the elder Mr. Hallam for many years. Grove Hallam had met the prisoner's birth-father once and had received the impression that the man was strongly attached to his wife. Mr. Grove (as he was called by Vovimian custom, in order to distinguish him from his father) had not been aware at the time that the couple had a son.

From his father's letters, Mr. Grove had gathered the impression that the prisoner was, at the time of the murder, twelve years of age. Mr. Grove himself had taken up his present position at the Yclau palace when the boy was three, so he had never met the prisoner. Four years after Mr. Grove left his home, the boy's father – who had been widowed at the time of the prisoner's birth – had died in an estate accident. Mr. Hallam had taken the prisoner as his chau, a word that the palace translator, when consulted, said meant literally "dear one." A loose translation would be "adopted son."

Mr. Grove had gone on to say that his father was quite fond of the boy and often mentioned him in his letters. A few months before, Mr. Hallam had written Mr. Grove, saying that he planned to take his chau with him on this, his first ambassadorial mission to Yclau, and that he was sure Mr. Grove would understand why, once he had met the boy. Unhappily, though, Mr. Grove had been busy with work since his father's arrival at the palace and had not had a chance to meet with his father or the prisoner before Mr. Hallam's death.

That was all the evidence Mr. Grove could supply on the matter, except to say that the prisoner's name was Zenas. When asked whether he knew the prisoner's last name, Mr. Grove had simply stated that, since the boy was a member of his father's household, the prisoner naturally shared the same paternal name as Mr. Grove did.

The remainder of the evidence came from the residents of the palace who had seen the ambassador and his adopted son together. All of them confirmed that Mr. Hallam seemed quite fond of the boy. The boy in turn seemed fond of his father, often smiling at him and taking his hand. The two of them, when together, had spoken in the old tongue, and the prisoner had remained respectfully silent when his father was speaking to anyone else. He would watch his father, and at the slightest gesture would come forward and sit close to him, so that the ambassador could place his arm around him.

On the night of the killing, Mr. Hallam and the prisoner were seated in the dining hall of the palace when word was brought that Yclau's Queen must delay the beginnings of her negotiations with the Vovimian ambassador, since unexpected trouble had arisen in one of her provinces. Mr. Hallam did not seem upset at this news. Instead he said in Vovimian, "Ah, well, this gives me more time to spend with my chau." He smiled at his son, who smiled back, seemingly pleased by the news.

Another hour passed. The ambassador and his youngest son, who were seated at a table of their own, spoke quietly together, with the prisoner resting his hand with apparent affection upon his father's. At one point he laughed and raised his father's hand to kiss it. Both the man and the boy seemed in bright spirits, with no tension in their expressions. All of the witnesses were agreed to that.

The servers were just coming forward to clear the table when suddenly, without warning, the prisoner picked up his knife and lunged at the ambassador. Since the Queen's soldiers preferred not to supply palace guests with assassination weapons, the knife was of the dull sort, yet such was the force of the prisoner's thrust that he penetrated his father's throat with the knife. The ambassador fell to the ground, clutching at his throat as the blood poured out, but the prisoner simply knelt beside him and continued to stab, "coldly and methodically," as one witness put it. Another witness described the prisoner's expression as "icy." By the time the soldiers reached the table, the prisoner had stabbed his father a dozen times, and the ambassador was dead.

The prisoner had not resisted arrest, but he had ignored all questions put to him by the soldiers. Eventually the soldiers removed him from the scene. Upon the advice of the Queen, who had been among the witnesses to the murder, the soldiers had taken the prisoner to the Eternal Dungeon. There, it was popularly believed, no man, woman, or child could withstand the dark skills of the Seekers.

"Five," said Weldon.

No reply came; Weldon peered over the wheel he had just turned to look at the High Seeker. Layle was lying with his eyes closed, his chest moving shallowly but rapidly. His black shirt and trousers were soaked with sweat; the skin showing under the opened part of his shirt was drained of all blood.

Weldon leaned forward and placed his fingers for a moment over the big vein in Layle's neck. Satisfied with what he felt, he let the hand drop and asked, "Shall I take you down?"

"Two minutes." The High Seeker's whisper could barely be heard.

In the corner, the water dripped down within a water-clock. Weldon glanced at the clock and began to count the drops: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight . . . Before him he could hear the shallow gasp as Layle struggled to take in breath.

At the ninetieth drop – with a minute-and-a-half passed – Weldon took another look at the High Seeker. Without asking permission, he turned the wheel backwards. He did so slowly, letting the body adjust to each lower notch until the wheel had gone back past its original point and the straps were slack upon the rack.

Layle's chest was heaving now, but he neither moved nor opened his eyes. Weldon leaned over and asked quietly, "Shall I fetch Elsdon? Or Mr. Bergsen?"

"Elsdon is on night-leave. Don't disturb him." Layle was still speaking no higher than a whisper.

"The healer, then."

Layle made no reply; his lips moved in assent. Weldon placed his hand upon Layle's limp hand and said softly, "Don't try to move. I'll have a guard send word to him."

One hour later, Mr. Bergsen had grudgingly assented to allow Layle to be carried to the bench and propped up in the corner of the rack room. Holding up one of Layle's limp limbs, the healer growled, "Bloody fool. I told you after last time to stop using yourself as a testing ground for malfunctioning racks. You're lucky you didn't snap any sinews."

Layle said nothing. His eyes were still closed. Weldon, who was sitting beside him to keep him from sliding off the bench, asked, "How far off alignment was it?"

"Half a level on the first four notches," Layle said in a voice that was somewhat more than a whisper. "The last notch is completely broken. You must have taken me up to twelve."

Weldon swore under his breath. Releasing Layle, the healer said, "Complete bed-rest for the next month. I don't even want you out of bed to use the chamber pot. And since you'll ignore everything I've just said, at least try to stay seated in chairs for the next couple of weeks."

Layle opened his eyes and gave a weak smile. "A realistic healer is a blessing."

"Mr. Smith, if I were an idealist, I wouldn't be working in a place like this." Mr. Bergsen stood up, reaching for his work-bag. "I'll be submitting my report on your injuries to the Codifier. I know that you'll listen to him, at least."

Layle sighed. "I'll confine myself to documentwork for the next couple of weeks. Thank you for your care, Mr. Bergsen."

The healer grunted, grumbled something under his breath about Seekers who treat prisoners better than they treat themselves, and left the rack room. Weldon leaned forward and said, "Elsdon will put me on that rack and will chisel out the notches till I'm at twenty if I don't call him now."

"In a while," said Layle faintly. "We hadn't finished talking about your new prisoner."

Weldon forced himself to relax back against the rough stone wall behind the bench. From the corridor outside came the sound of chatter as several guards made their way toward the exit nearest the rack rooms. One of the guards at the exit challenged them, a peremptory sound. Then came deep silence. Even without the brief interruption of a guard who had come into the room to turn the water-clock, Weldon knew that this must be some time during the dawn shift. At dusk and dawn, all Seekers and most guards were released from their work, in order to allow the day and night shifts a chance to socialize briefly. The only men left on duty were a skeleton crew of guards to ensure that the prisoners did not get up to mischief in their cells. A prime time, one foreign torturer had sourly commented during his visit, for a prisoner breakout.

Except that few prisoners had ever sought to escape from the Eternal Dungeon. Perhaps this was because, at any given time, up to two-thirds of the prisoners were cooperating with their Seekers.

Weldon put aside such hopes. It seemed to be his curse to be assigned uncooperative prisoners. He waited until the guard was gone, and then asked, "Do you think that Mr. Grove will petition for extradition if he is dissatisfied with the magistrate's judgment?" he asked.

"Most likely," Layle replied. His voice was stronger now, and he had ceased to lean on Weldon so heavily. "If the prisoner is released by the magistrate, Mr. Grove will probably try to use international law to snatch the prisoner back to Vovim. If the prisoner receives a prison sentence, Mr. Grove may bide his time until the prisoner is released and then make his move. As a rule, Vovimians are willing to accept Yclau justice only so long as it coincides with their own view of justice. If that happens, the matter will be out of our hands – it will be for our Queen to negotiate with their King. There remains the question of the magistrate's sentence, though."

Weldon thought a moment before saying, "A judgment of innocence is unlikely?"

"In this case? I would think the odds were far against it. Since Mr. Hallam bore no weapon and showed no special interest in turning silverware into weapons, his son would be hard pressed to prove that an immediate threat existed against his life or the lives of others nearby."

"He might be able to prove that a long-term threat existed," suggested Weldon. "If so, the magistrate could find the prisoner guilty of defensive murder and sentence him to imprisonment."

Layle nodded. He and Weldon had held this type of conversation on many occasions. They could do little for prisoners who refused to repent of their crimes except to ensure that their trials and executions were swift. But part of the job of a Seeker – much to the dismay of the magistrates – was to find the best way to save their repentant prisoners from the worst punishment, given their prisoners' particular circumstances. Since the only prisoners sent to the Eternal Dungeon were those accused of death crimes, this required considerable skill on the part of the Seekers.

"If the prisoner is found guilty of defensive murder, then the lesser prisons will have to deal with him," said Layle. "Once again, the problem will be outside our province."

Weldon nodded. By tradition, the Eternal Dungeon never interfered if a prisoner was freed, transferred, or sentenced to imprisonment. In only one case would a prisoner's Seeker interfere with the process of justice.

"Death, then," said Weldon. "It's early to ask this, but if my prisoner is sentenced to execution, do you believe the dungeon should intervene?"

"That is—" The High Seeker stopped suddenly. Weldon strained to hear or see what Layle was hearing or seeing, but all he heard was a soft thump further down the dungeon, and all he saw was a very faint vibration upon the rack.

"Mr. Chapman," said Layle, "you are on duty."

"Yes, sir." He pulled his face-cloth down, purely out of symbolism; the Code did not require that two Seekers speaking in private hide their faces from one another. He was inwardly wondering how Layle invariably knew, without glancing at a clock, that a new shift had begun. It was as though Layle was the heart of the dungeon.

Which, in fact, he was, if not in a literal sense.

"That is something I wish to speak about to you, Mr. Chapman," Layle said, with only the change to formality indicating that there had been any pause in the conversation. "I had planned to send a note about this to all of the Seekers today, but I may be delayed a bit in doing so."

Weldon glanced down at Layle's limp hands and nodded. "Your note concerns something that pertains to my prisoner?" he asked.

"And pertains to many future prisoners, but yours is most likely to come to trial first. You know that the Eternal Dungeon's custom is to offer refuge to prisoners whom we believe have been unjustly sentenced to death."

Weldon gave a grim smile under his hood. "Since Elsdon Taylor was a fortunate recipient of such an offer, none of us is likely to forget. Why do you mention this?"

"Because," said Layle softly, "the magistrates have finally tired of this custom."

There was a pause. Then Weldon said, "Oh, dear."

"Yes. Matters have been heading this way for a number of years. More and more magistrates have been asking that the dungeon's claim of a particular prisoner be overruled by the Queen, and the Royal Secretary has complained that the Queen is overloaded with work at deciding such cases. Now the Magisterial Guild has entered a formal request that the Eternal Dungeon be barred from claiming prisoners who have been duly sentenced to execution."

Weldon leaned forward, forgetting that he was a prop for the High Seeker. Fortunately, Layle stayed in place. "Yclau law permits us to make such a claim," Weldon said.

"In certain narrow circumstances. But the dungeon, out of compassion for its newly reborn prisoners, has gone beyond the narrow confines of the law on numerous occasions. The Queen has ruled that, while she will continue to permit claims in cases where the law specifies such claims are allowed, she will overrule all claims that are outside the bounds of the law. She has also made clear to me that she does not wish to be bothered with such matters in the future. She has commanded me to order the Seekers to claim prisoners only in cases where the magistrates agree that the law permits it."

Weldon was silent a minute before leaning back to allow Layle his prop once more. "Will you abide by her command?" he asked softly.

"I will." Layle's reply was crisp. "The dungeon's custom of offering refuge is just that, a custom. The Code does not require it."

Weldon did not know whether to be disappointed or relieved. Layle's decision meant the unnecessary death of countless prisoners in the future: men and women who, having recognized the error of their ways, might have contributed more to Yclau society by their lives than by their deaths.

But for Layle to defy the Queen could have been just as serious a matter. It had happened before, with Layle's predecessors. Seven times in the Eternal Dungeon's history had the Queen of Yclau issued a command that went against the Code of Seeking. On all seven occasions the Seekers had united in defying the Queen. Since the Seekers were, in theory at least, the Queen's employees, defying the order of the Queen or her magistrates could have meant treason trials and death for every Seeker in the dungeon.

Fortunately, in each generation, the dungeon's Codifier had intervened and negotiated a peaceful solution. But the Eternal Dungeon continued to live in fear that the day would come when the Queen would outlaw the Code of Seeking, the book that every Seeker was vowed to uphold.

"You understand that this order applies to your present prisoner?" Layle said.

"Yes, sir. I will not claim him unless the magistrate permits me to do so." On reflection, Weldon decided that he was disappointed. Layle was known for creatively pressing the boundaries of his art; surely, Weldon thought, the High Seeker could have found a better way to handle this crisis.

As usual, he underestimated the High Seeker. Layle nodded, satisfied at Weldon's response, and said, "The magistrates have good reason to be angry. On the one hand, they have Vovimians and other foreigners overruling their judgments. On the other hand, they have the Eternal Dungeon overruling their sentences. It's little wonder that they should want back some of the power with which they are supposedly invested. If we permit the magistrates to have their way on this, I believe it may be possible to find a lawful solution that satisfies the magistrates' desire to see criminals punished for their ill deeds, as well as the Eternal Dungeon's desire to recognize that reborn prisoners have already passed through a death of their old souls, so that they need not also pass through a death of their bodies."

"Not to mention," said Weldon, "the cases where the magistrates are quite simply wrong in their judgment of the prisoners. Which reminds me; I'll fetch Elsdon for you now." He rose from his seat.

But Layle beckoned him back with a hand that Weldon could have sworn was unable to move. "Shortly," said the High Seeker, continuing to successfully hide whatever pain he was in. "I have one more matter to discuss with you before you attend to your prisoner. It concerns Mistress Birdesmond."

Weldon felt a shaft of pain enter him and strove to ignore it. "Sir," he acknowledged the order, still standing half-turned.

"You know that Mistress Birdesmond has been in discussion with Mr. Daniels and myself concerning the completion of her training. Specifically, we have been discussing whether she should enter the final trials."

"Yes, sir." Weldon forced himself to stand motionless, glad that his hood masked his face. If Layle could hide all the pain he was feeling, then surely Weldon could manage it as well. He kept his voice level as he said, "Mistress Birdesmond and I have been in disagreement over that."

Layle raised his eyebrows. "Because you do not wish to beat and rack your wife?"

Weldon wished that Layle would stop treating him as he did his prisoners. Weldon always ended up feeling bruised after such sessions. "No, sir," he said steadily. "Mistress Birdesmond is a Seeker-in-Training, and I am in charge of her training. I realize that places certain unpleasant duties upon both of us. My reason for objecting to her desire to undergo the standard trials of a Seeker is that she is a woman. The Code forbids the torture of women."

Layle nodded. "The Codifier and I are in agreement with you, you will be glad to hear. Since Mistress Birdesmond is assigned only to female prisoners, and since her prisoners will not be tortured, we believe it would be a shallow symbol for her to be tortured, as the Seekers who search male prisoners are at the end of their training. However, we believe that Mistress Birdesmond is correct in wanting to undergo a trial which will allow her to share the physical pain that some of her prisoners bear. We have therefore decided that, under supervision of the healer, she may undertake a fast as her trial, in order to share the suffering of prisoners who seek to starve themselves."

Weldon winced. Three of his past prisoners had successfully killed themselves through such means, this being the easiest way to commit suicide in any Yclau dungeon or prison, since both the Yclau religion and the Code of Seeking forbade the forcing of food or water on the ill. He made himself say, "That appears to be an appropriate trial, sir."

"Then I would appreciate it if you would convey our decision to Mistress Birdesmond the next time you and she exchange letters."

Weldon was tempted to simply nod and leave. But he was talking to the High Seeker, for whom any lie was as clear as the noonday sun. "I will write to her, sir. But I'm not sure whether she's receiving my letters."

"Oh?" Layle responded in the pale, vaguely interested voice he used when prisoners were delivering much-needed information.

Weldon resisted an impulse to kick him. "Sir," he said in a controlled voice, "if you wanted to know how matters stood between Mistress Birdesmond and me, why didn't you just ask?"

"It seemed impolite to do so," Layle replied mildly. "She has not written, then?"

"No."

"No doubt she has been busy with her family."

"No doubt," Weldon said heavily.

Time paused as Weldon waited to see whether Layle had any words of comfort to offer. The High Seeker usually knew the right thing to say. But after a moment, Layle's eyes closed, and Weldon realized why it was that Layle had nothing to say.

"Mr. Chapman," said the High Seeker in a slow voice, "I would very much appreciate it—"

"I'll get him right away, sir," Weldon said and hurried from the room to fetch Elsdon Taylor, with whom Layle need not hide his pain.
 

CHAPTER TWO

Mr. Crofford was standing outside the prisoner's cell when Weldon arrived there, along with Mr. Boyd, Weldon's senior day guard. Mr. Crofford's face was screwed up with such intensity as he looked at Weldon that the Seeker concluded that his senior day guard had been lecturing Mr. Crofford on his duties.

"The Codifier's watch-dogs" was what the junior guards were sometimes called, for one of their duties – their most important duty, the Codifier would have said – was to report to the Codifier any Code-breaking by the Seekers and the senior guards. Weldon had been a Seeker for three months when he was reported by his own junior day guard. What had followed from that reporting had left Weldon, perhaps unfairly, with an everlasting distrust of junior guards.

And now, he knew, he was about to enter the cell of a prisoner with whom he would be more than usually tempted to break the Code of Seeking. With his best effort, he managed to keep from glaring at his junior day guard. Rather, he addressed himself to Mr. Boyd. "How is the prisoner?"

"Quiet, sir." Like Weldon, Mr. Boyd kept his voice low so as not to be heard through the door, though they were both speaking in the Yclau language. "He refused to respond to us when we first introduced him to his cell."

Weldon nodded. The prisoner's refusal to cooperate might be due to simple fear, or it might be more. He would know once he had seen the prisoner's demeanor.

He resisted the impulse to look through the door's tiny watch-hole. Some Seekers were accustomed to watching the prisoner for as long as an hour before they entered the cell, but Weldon preferred to gain his first impression of prisoners from their reactions to his entrance. Instead, he cast a quick glance at Mr. Crofford. Mr. Boyd had good command of the Vovimian tongue, Weldon knew, but whether Mr. Crofford's schooldays training in Vovimian would pass muster remained to be seen. Clear communication between a guard and his prisoner was essential; Weldon would have to check at some point to be sure that this prisoner understood what Mr. Crofford was saying to him.

Weldon nodded to Mr. Boyd, who unlocked the door with such quietness that Weldon could barely hear the bolt withdraw. Mr. Crofford had his eyes narrowed, watching Weldon. As junior guard, he had the right to stand sentry at the watch-hole any time that a Seeker was alone with his prisoner, and Weldon gathered from his expression that Mr. Crofford planned to exercise this right. Feeling his back prick as though Mr. Crofford were poking him with his dagger, Weldon walked through the cell doorway.

The prisoner was sitting on the floor in the corner of the cell. This was not unusual; Weldon had lost count of the number of prisoners who had adopted pitiful positions in hopes of convincing their Seeker that they were harmless lambs. Those were usually the prisoners who physically attacked Weldon at some point. What complicated matters was that prisoners who truly were harmless lambs would also adopt this position. It took an experienced Seeker to know the difference between a prisoner who was being defensive out of a desire to destroy and a prisoner who was being defensive out of simple innocence.

As the door clicked shut behind Weldon, the prisoner lifted his head. Normally this was the point at which Weldon allowed himself to scrutinize the prisoner's appearance. Instead, Weldon found himself running through verb tables in his head, as though he needed their help in order to speak. Which was ridiculous. He had received a thorough training in Vovimian at school – had in fact been privileged with a teacher who had lived in Vovim and could give him much better training in the Vovimian language than commoner children usually received.

He forced himself to spare at least a quick glance at the prisoner. The boy was much darker than Layle; he looked like pictures of the Vovimian hell-god that Weldon had seen in his schoolbooks. He tried to remove this image from his mind. "Good morning, Mr. Hallam," he said, in the time-honored words of a Seeker greeting his prisoner. "I am your Seeker, Mr. Chapman."

The boy said nothing; nor did he stir from his place. His gaze had narrowed in a manner that reminded Weldon of Mr. Crofford. The prisoner's gaze slid over the Seeker, pausing at Weldon's hands, and finally returned to his face. Still he said nothing.

Weldon flirted with the notion that his accent was to blame, but this could not be the case. He had searched a number of Vovimian prisoners over the years, and even Vovimians with the thickest provincial accents could understand Weldon's accent, which was a bland, mid-class accent spoken throughout the Kingdom of Vovim. Layle, whose native accent was very thick indeed, had assured Weldon in the past that Weldon's Vovimian was clear and distinct.

Weldon sighed inwardly, taking care that his sigh should not be noticed by the prisoner. "Mr. Hallam, we have certain rules in the Eternal Dungeon. One is that prisoners must stand while in the presence of their Seeker."

Still the prisoner did not speak. He had moved, quite subtly, from a sitting position to a crouch. Weldon did not find this reassuring. Nor did he like the look on the prisoner's face: the eyes were squinting in a calculating fashion.

Weldon wondered, belatedly, whether he had addressed the prisoner in the wrong way. Vovimians could be touchy about such matters. He tried again. "Or perhaps you wish to be addressed as Mr. Zenas—"

The prisoner moved then, like a snake. Weldon had long years of experience in handling prisoners with calculating looks; he had been prepared for a movement, and a quick one at that. But he had assumed that the prisoner would rise to his feet before attacking, thus giving Weldon time to retreat and call for help. This prisoner did not. He slid forward on his knees, with such deftness that he might have been a wild beast who lived low to the ground. By the time Weldon realized what was happening, the prisoner had already reached out and grabbed him.

Weldon jerked back; then, belatedly, he jerked the rest of his body back as well. The prisoner froze. His gaze went past Weldon, and Weldon knew without looking that Mr. Crofford had seen what was happening and had alerted Mr. Boyd. Without turning his head toward his guards, Weldon waved his hand slightly behind his back. A moment later, the door clicked shut.

The prisoner's gaze moved back to Weldon. The surprise in his expression it was replaced once more by narrowed eyes. After a moment's careful consideration, the prisoner slid back to where he had been and then slowly rose to his feet.

Seen standing, the boy looked younger than twelve. If it had not been for the hardness of his slender muscles – which Weldon now guessed must be due to training in the arts of bodily defense – Weldon might have guessed him to be ten or eleven. His face was older, though. Whatever mask of innocence he had worn in public had slipped, showing the face of someone who was worldlywise.

Weldon shook himself inwardly. He was making assumptions ahead of the facts, which was dangerous. Even innocent prisoners were known to attack Seekers, since the Eternal Dungeon had no reputation for mercy. This boy might simply be desperate for freedom, terrified that he would be unjustly tortured.

If so, the worst possible thing that Weldon could do was to fulfill the prisoner's expectations. He hesitated.

And felt his back prickle. Mr. Crofford had witnessed three breakings of the Code so far: the prisoner had not obeyed his Seeker's order to stand, the prisoner had attacked his Seeker, and Weldon's body had come in contact with a prisoner's. The last was the most heinous crime, and the fact that the prisoner had initiated the touch could not save Weldon from the consequences of being reported to the Codifier if he failed to make clear to the prisoner that the touch was a punishable offense. Weldon's background would not permit such leniency.

"Mr. Zenas," he said and saw the prisoner's eyes flicker. Grateful to receive that much acknowledgment of his words, Weldon continued, "I should explain that you have certain rights and duties in this dungeon . . ."

He proceeded then with the standard speech about the Code, designed so that even the most ill-educated prisoner would understand that he had the right to report any abuse committed against him. Not that prisoners usually exercised that right. That was why the junior guards were there – to prevent the Seekers and the guards who had worked long with the Seekers from breaking the Code with prisoners. Weldon could almost hear the sound of Mr. Crofford drumming his fingers against the door, waiting to see whether Weldon would comply with the Code.

There was no help for it. And yet, as Weldon signalled with his hand toward the door at the end of his speech, he wondered whether he was doing this for the prisoner's sake or for his own.

The prisoner was now biting his lower lip, but he paid no attention to the two guards opening the door, even though one of them – Mr. Crofford – had taken his whip from his belt and was unwinding it.

"Mr. Zenas," Weldon said with proper solemnity, "kindly remove your shirt." Then he turned away. Ostensibly this was in order to direct his attention to the guards. In fact, it was in order to collect himself.

This was not the first time he had ordered the beating of a youth. On the rare occasions that underage prisoners were delivered to the Eternal Dungeon, they were almost invariably given into Weldon's care. Those prisoners usually emerged from their confinement unscathed. Weldon had a reputation among the other Seekers for having a special ability to avoid the types of confrontations that resulted in a prisoner being punished for breaking the Code.

On the few occasions when Weldon had been forced to take measures against young prisoners, he had been helped by the memories of his own schooldays beatings. He was giving to the youths nothing other than what his schoolmasters had given to him, and for a similar reason: in order to maintain the order necessary to educate the youths.

There was no reason, then, why sweat should have broken out on Weldon's skin at this moment. He glanced worriedly at Mr. Crofford to see whether the junior guard had noticed his hesitation, but Mr. Crofford was not watching him. He was staring at the prisoner, openmouthed.

The prisoner, having refused all previous orders, had chosen this moment to exceed orders. He was standing naked, his clothes neatly folded at his feet. His eye was on Weldon.

Weldon felt his heart jerk. He turned his head away, which was the most foolish thing he could have done; suddenly Mr. Crofford's gaze was upon him again, his eyes narrowed. Weldon swore inwardly.

"Mr. Chapman." His senior guard's voice was soft, but Weldon immediately looked over to where Mr. Boyd stood, at the far end of the cell. Weldon found that the prisoner had already turned and placed himself against that wall, reaching his hands up toward an inconspicuous iron ring on the frost-colored wall. The firepit beyond the glass wall danced with light, outlining the prisoner's body, and it was a moment before Weldon's eyes were able to adjust to see what Mr. Boyd had sighted. Then he walked forward slowly, his heart thrumming in his throat.

His first thought was that the boy's father had done this to him. That notion, he knew, was the result of evenings spent talking with Elsdon Taylor about Elsdon's childhood. But as Weldon drew closer, the absurdity of that idea became obvious. No father, not even a Vovimian father, would use a leaded whip on his son. Nor would any schoolmaster, not if he wanted to keep his position. In Yclau, only one authority was permitted use of the leaded whip. Weldon swore again, this time in a whisper.

He ran his eyes over the prisoner's back, trying to tell himself that he was misreading what he saw. The lines ran from the shoulder-blades down to the thighs, crisscrossing one another; the holes gouged in by the lead were clear. He tried to read from them how recent they were, but he had insufficient training in this. He had never before met a life prisoner, for the simple reason that such prisoners remained in their cells for life.

Unless, of course, they were Seekers. Weldon felt an odd moment of kinship with the prisoner – a realization of a bond he had not known he shared with the boy. That feeling quickly vanished as he realized the seriousness of the decision he faced.

He tried to concentrate his thoughts. How had a twelve-year-old boy ended up in a life prison, and how had he managed to leave it? Through his father's influence? It would fit with what Weldon had been told about the ambassador. A man exceedingly fond of his son, who had taken that son on a foreign trip for mysterious reasons. Perhaps Mr. Hallam had managed to bribe the prison guards to release his son, and then Mr. Hallam had quickly departed the country in an effort to ensure his son's future freedom.

You will understand why I am bringing Zenas when you meet him, he had told his eldest son. Perhaps the ambassador meant that he would explain about Zenas's recent imprisonment when he had a chance to speak privately with his son Grove, outside of the limited confines of diplomatic posts. Or perhaps Mr. Hallam thought that the signs of whatever had caused the boy to go to prison would be clear.

The prisoner was watching him; his eyes were slits. It was futile, but Weldon tried anyway. "Mr. Zenas, how did you come to be beaten?"

The prisoner said nothing; nor did he remove his gaze. Against the brightness of the fire-wall, the pupils of his eyes had turned enormous, like that of a cat hunting at night.

Weldon knew without looking that Mr. Crofford was watching him, weighing his every word. He felt as though a noose were tightening around his neck. He nodded briefly to Mr. Boyd, who reached forward and tied the prisoner's hands to the ring with a strip of leather he carried for such purposes. The ring was not designed for youths of Zenas's height; the prisoner ended up on his toes, straining to reach it. Weldon thought of delaying proceedings until a longer bond could be found. Then he thought that he ought to consult with the High Seeker to see whether he had gone astray in his deductions about Vovimian imprisonment. He felt Mr. Crofford's gaze prick him, like a warning.

He cleared his throat and stepped back. "Mr. Zenas, the rules of this dungeon require that prisoners be beaten in accordance with their offence and with their past experience in receiving punishment. Therefore you will receive . . . twenty medium lashes."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Crofford give him a look that was like a blade-slice along the skin. Weldon knew that his punishment was far too low. Anyone who had committed an offense in the past that merited punishment by the leaded whip should receive twenty hard lashes at the very least. But he could not bring himself to make the punishment that hard.

He knew why, of course. Bloody blades, why had that fool of a High Seeker assigned him this prisoner now, of all times?

He did not even bother to ask the prisoner to count off his own punishment, as was usual. He nodded again to Mr. Boyd, and the senior guard, in a colorless voice, began counting each stroke in the moment before Mr. Crofford delivered it.

This was Mr. Crofford's first occasion using his whip on anyone but Mr. Boyd; as Mr. Crofford's trainer, Mr. Boyd had received the dubious privilege of serving as the guard-in-training's lash-post. Weldon could not spare any attention for the junior guard, though. He would have to depend on his competent senior guard to halt proceedings if Mr. Crofford's technique proved less than adequate. Weldon's attention was where it always was, on the prisoner's face, and within a single lash he knew that something was wrong.

He had given beatings this hard to prisoners before, and even to young prisoners. As one example, there had been that boy transferred from Alleyway Prison, who had slit the throats of three old women simply in order to lift their purses. The boy had physically attacked, in successive order, his junior night guard, his senior night guard, and Weldon. And he had not flinched under the whip; he had merely bared his teeth like a wild animal.

This prisoner did not flinch either. He did not try to move his body out of the path of the lash or turn his gaze from his torturer. But within a moment of the crack of the first lash, the first tear had fallen, followed closely afterwards by others. The prisoner's worldweary expression did not change.

Weldon waited until the fourth lash. When he began to hear sobs emerge from the prisoner's throat, he knew that something was seriously wrong. No prisoner so hardened as to receive the leaded whip should be reacting this way to a small number of medium lashes. It could simply be play-acting, of course, an attempt to raise sympathy. But the prisoner was making no effort to screw up his face as a sign of pain; he was simply biting his lip, his chin trembling as he sought to hold back the sobs.

The pain within Weldon grew too great to bear. He held up his hand. The fifth lash landed anyway, earning Mr. Crofford a sharp rebuke from Mr. Boyd. At Weldon's gesture, the senior guard came forward quickly to free the prisoner.

The prisoner, released from his straining bond, collapsed to his knees with a thud upon the stone floor that made Mr. Crofford wince. Leaning his forearm against the warm wall, the boy proceeded to smother a series of sobs against it.

Weldon's uneasiness grew. He knew that he should keep his distance – one of the most common methods of attack by prisoners was to pretend to be crying in order to lure their Seekers near them. But Weldon found himself stepping forward to see the prisoner's face.

He was standing within arm's reach of the boy when the prisoner stopped sobbing suddenly and looked up. Weldon felt his muscles tense. Even so, once again he was not prepared for the boy's quickness. This time the boy managed to get one of Weldon's trouser knots undone before Weldon stumbled back.

"Bloody blades!" The Yclau words burst from him. Then, switching back to Vovimian, he shouted, "What in Hell's name are you doing?"

Without warning, the boy turned and flung himself prone upon the floor. His sobs had returned, and now they had a hysterical note to them. Mr. Crofford's gaze had finally shifted away from Weldon; he was staring at the prisoner. Mr. Boyd frowned, as though he too were trying to penetrate the mystery of what was occurring.

Weldon's heart had settled into a hard, sickly thump. He decided it was time he started paying attention to that heart. He crouched down next to the prisoner, ignoring Mr. Crofford's disapproving look. Once again, the prisoner sensed his presence and went still. The boy twisted his body and ended up leaning on one elbow, staring up at Weldon. His free hand started to reach out toward Weldon's groin, and then stopped, hovering in mid-air.

"Mr. Boyd," Weldon said without moving his gaze from the boy. "Please clap your hands."

Standing behind the prisoner, Mr. Boyd obeyed the order. Startled, the prisoner looked behind him. Then, apparently treating this as a signal, he scrambled to his feet.

Weldon rose to join him. "All right," he said slowly in Yclau, "you're not a deaf-mute." He added in Vovimian, "Mr. Boyd, at my signal you will plunge your blade into the prisoner's back. . . . Now!"

As he spoke the word, he gave the subtle hand signal indicating a negation of his order, but it was unnecessary. The senior guard had not even bothered to unsheathe his blade. The prisoner, standing with his back to the guard, stared up at Weldon, waiting.

"Sweet blood," Weldon said slowly in a reverent voice. "You can't understand me. You haven't understood a word I've said since I walked into this cell. . . . What an idiot I am!"

He turned away abruptly and smashed his fist against the light-filled wall. Ignoring the sharp pain this brought, he said, "You've been trying to follow my orders since I arrived. You've tried to guess what I've wanted and have tried to do it. And I beat you – I beat you—"

"Sir!" Mr. Boyd's voice was abnormally sharp, halting Weldon in the midst of thumping the wall a second time. In a quieter voice, the senior guard said, "Sir, you're frightening the prisoner."

Weldon turned. The boy was where his Seeker had left him, standing further along the wall, staring up at him. But now the boy was hugging himself with his arms, and his body was shivering.

They stared at one another for a moment, the boy and his torturer, and then Zenas seemed to make up his mind. Quickly he swirled round and pressed his body against the wall. Standing on tiptoe, he reached up toward the ring and waited.

That was the moment when Weldon felt sickness enter him. He stepped forward, and in a voice as soft as he would have used toward a baby, he said, "No. That's all over now. No more."

He shook his head, hoping this gesture meant the same in southern Vovim as it did in the rest of Vovim. Evidently it did, for the boy slowly lowered his arms and settled back onto his heels. He remained facing the wall, though, his eyes narrowed again as he sought to decipher his next order.

Weldon swallowed heavily. "Mr. Boyd," he said, keeping his voice soft and his eyes on Zenas, "please help Mr. Zenas return to his clothes. Mr. Crofford, be so kind as to fetch the healer and have him care for the prisoner." He turned away.

"Where are you going, sir?" The junior guard's voice was quick, and under it was a note of accusation.

Weldon turned to look at him. After a long moment, Mr. Crofford flushed. Weldon received no satisfaction from that fact. He said carefully, "I am going to see the Codifier. Unless you would prefer to speak to him first?"

Mr. Crofford gave a little shake of his head; his face was now thoroughly red. Weldon looked briefly at the prisoner, who was watching all of this with uneasiness beginning to travel into his expression. Then Weldon beckoned to his senior guard.

Treating his Seeker's commands in their proper order, Mr. Boyd handed Zenas his clothes and waited until the boy had dressed himself before making his way over to the Seeker. Speaking in a low voice, as though he might be understood by the prisoner, Weldon said, "I want a watch placed on him."

Mr. Boyd had worked in the dungeon too long to have to ask why. He nodded and asked, "Shall I fetch you if anything happens?"

"Please. And see that the night guards have the same orders."

He turned away and waited for Mr. Boyd to unlock the door. Then he stood for a moment, staring at the dim corridor. Sweat covered him once more, and this time he could not pretend that it was without cause. Taking a deep breath, he walked through the doorway and made his way down to the dragon's den.

"It's my fault," said Weldon, raising his voice to be heard over the clatter of metal nearby. "I've been a Seeker for fourteen years – I should know the difference between a prisoner who is calculating how to attack and a prisoner who is calculating how to survive."

He said nothing about Mr. Crofford's part in the matter. If a Seeker was such a fool as to let his twenty-year-old junior guard unnerve him into acting against his instincts, he deserved any punishment he received.

Layle slipped the straw of his cup under his hood and sipped a moment before replying, "The fault is mine. I knew quite well that some of the more backwards inhabitants of southern Vovim have never learned the Common Speech. If I had been thinking . . ."

He fell silent. Nearby, a jagged-toothed wheel fell with a thud onto a man's boot, eliciting an outraged yell. The other man laughed, and then belatedly made a solicitous enquiry as to the first man's health.

Weldon began to open his mouth to respond to the High Seeker. Then he changed his mind and relaxed back against the wall behind the bench, stretching out his legs. He was grateful to be off his feet. It was nearly midnight, and he had spent most of the day standing in the Codifier's office as his past was paraded before him.

It had not been a full-scale investigation, the type demanded when a Seeker was suspected of deliberately breaking the Code. But it had been bad enough. Weldon's records had been brought out, both the public ones kept by the Record-keeper and the private ones in the Codifier's possession. The records had been pored over, line by line, as the Codifier recollected all of Weldon's past transgressions, large and small. Then the Codifier had disappeared for several minutes to learn what he could from the prisoner's demeanor, and when he returned, grim-faced, he had summoned a stream of witnesses: Weldon's guards, the retired Seeker who had trained Weldon, and every Seeker and guard who had worked closely with Weldon for the past three years. All had been questioned carefully to determine whether Weldon's infraction was part of an ongoing pattern. Even the Queen's guards who had delivered the prisoner to the Eternal Dungeon had been summoned from the palace to give witness to what conversation had taken place between the High Seeker and the Record-keeper at the time that the prisoner was assigned to Weldon.

Weldon was not at all surprised. Only the most careless Seeker would have done what he did, for all Seekers were trained to be on the alert for any sign that their prisoner did not understand what was being said to him. Although the Eternal Dungeon had never before undergone the trauma of having a prisoner searched by a Seeker who did not know the prisoner's language, commoner prisoners often had difficulty understanding the more refined speech of their Seekers. Weldon, who had first entered this dungeon as a commoner prisoner, was the last man who should have ignored clear signals that a prisoner did not understand the orders he was being given.

From the direction of the Codifier's questions as the day lengthened, Weldon gathered that the Codifier placed the primary blame upon the High Seeker, for not giving over the prisoner to the Seeker most qualified to search him, namely the High Seeker himself. Weldon wished that his conscience could shift the blame that easily.

Layle was still watching the men working a few yards away. The High Seeker had not yet been summoned to see the Codifier, since he had spent the day having his injuries tenderly cared for by Elsdon Taylor. The moment Elsdon had returned to work, however, Layle had slipped out of bed. Weldon had discovered him half-fainting near the inner dungeon entrance that was closest to the rack rooms, and had helped the High Seeker to his destination, namely to supervise the repair of the malfunctioning rack.

Layle took another sip of the tea that Weldon had fetched him. Then he said, "Whoever is to blame, the question of Mr. Zenas's future remains. You say that the Codifier has not suspended you from searching the prisoner?"

Weldon shook his head. "He seemed to feel that, at this point, the prisoner was more likely to be frightened by the introduction of a new Seeker than by my continued presence. At least Mr. Zenas has seen me stop a beating. Do you agree with the Codifier's assessment, sir?" Like Layle, Weldon took care to speak formally in the presence of the blacksmith and his brother, and like Layle, Weldon had his hood covering his face. From this angle, Weldon could not see Layle's eyes, which were often impenetrable in any case.

Layle nodded; his head remained turned toward the rack. "If Mr. Zenas has heard anything about Vovimian prisons, then transferring him to another Seeker will only increase his fear that he is to be passed from torturer to torturer. I'll give Mr. Daniels my recommendation that you remain at your post. You will need a translator, though. I'll send a request to the Queen's Secretary for a good translator – not one of the palace translators, but a native Vovimian who knows the old tongue. In a city this size, it shouldn't be hard to find one."

"Mr. Smith, why the bloody blades would an ambassador deny his son knowledge of the language spoken by the great majority of Vovimians?"

Layle was slow to respond. He had leaned forward to watch the painstaking process of reassembling the rack. "The ambassador may have had his reasons," he said finally.

Weldon waited. After a minute, Layle added, "I have two pieces of advice for you, Mr. Chapman. One is that you consult tomorrow with Mr. Taylor about your prisoner. The second is that I think you should take great care henceforth as to what orders you give Mr. Zenas. I believe it's likely that your prisoner will obey any order you give him, even if he believes that the order will cause him harm."

Weldon continued to wait, but no further advice was forthcoming. Finally Weldon said, "Sir, you know some of the old tongue. And you evidently have surmised more about this prisoner than I have. Wouldn't it be better if you—?"

"No." The High Seeker's voice was flat. "Under the circumstances, I believe I would be the worst possible person to search the prisoner."

Weldon drew in a breath, and then let it out again as the blacksmith approached. The man held up a small ball with spikes jutting out of it, like an iron chestnut. "Sorry to disturb you, sir. But neither my brother nor I can make anything of this. We found it in the workings within the bed."

Layle took the ball delicately between thumb and forefinger, held it up toward the oil lamp bracketed to the wall, and said, "Someone in the manufactory placed this in the rack by mistake. This is used only in Vovimian racks, in order to— Well, never mind. You can safely leave it out."

The blacksmith murmured his thanks and retreated to where his brother was struggling to return the wheel dial to its proper position. Layle, rolling the sharp-needled ball in his palm, said, "You had something to add, Mr. Chapman?"

Weldon opened his mouth, and then shut it again. His eye was on the ball, which Layle was playing with as though it were the toy of a child. A familiar toy.

A boy that age would be lucky if his torturers merely racked and executed him. Sweet blood, he had failed to understand what the High Seeker was telling him. This seemed to be Weldon's day for ignoring clear signals.

He told himself that Layle had been only fifteen when he became one of the King's Torturers. He told himself that, by Vovimian standards, Layle had still been a boy when he left Vovim's dungeon. It made no difference. Weldon still felt sick as he thought of what Layle might have done – of what he had undoubtedly done to at least one young prisoner placed in his hands.

Little wonder that Layle wanted to stay as far away from this prisoner as possible. The High Seeker had abused prisoners of all ages during his time in Vovim, and Weldon had good reason to know that Layle's greatest temptations to abuse lay with women, not boys. But a prisoner like this – young, vulnerable – must be a special temptation.

Weldon thought to himself that he ought to say, "You did not abuse Elsdon when he was your young, vulnerable prisoner." Like Elsdon, Weldon had complete faith in Layle's ability to control himself in the presence of prisoners. But Weldon did not have the High Seeker's dark past. Who was he to tell Layle that the High Seeker should return to work before he felt ready? All that Weldon could do was remain patient and hope that Layle would soon recognize that neither Mr. Zenas nor any other prisoner need fear unnecessary harm at the hands of the High Seeker.

Weldon could only hope that the Codifier would be equally patient.
 

CHAPTER THREE

He slept in his uniform that night, but even so, it took three shakes for his senior night guard to wake him.

Once awake, Weldon shot up to a sitting position. "The prisoner has tried to kill himself?"

"No, sir, but he is having trouble sleeping." His senior night guard had brought a lit candle into Weldon's bedroom, but his eyes were quite properly turned away as Weldon fumbled around his night-stand for his hood. "He keeps having dreams that cause him to wake up screaming, and then he'll sob for a while and finally fall asleep and reawaken a short time later, screaming again. It has happened three times now. I thought you would want to know."

"I do. Thank you." His hood now hiding his face, he swung his legs out of bed and began to grope the dark floor for his boots. "I would appreciate it if you would fetch Mr. Bergsen—"

But his senior night guard was holding under his nose a piece of stiff card, folded and bound. "This arrived from the Codifier's office a short while ago, sir. I was to give it to you when you came on duty."

Weldon took the card, borrowed his guard's dagger momentarily to break the string, and unfolded the message under the candlelight.

After a moment, he said, "Thank you. You may fetch the healer now."

He waited until his guard was gone before he let out his breath in relief. He recognized the hand of the High Seeker in this matter, but this message was needed proof that Mr. Daniels continued to consider him a trustworthy member of the inner dungeon.

When Weldon arrived at the door to Zenas's cell a few minutes later, he was not particularly surprised to find Mr. Crofford there, uniformed and holding quiet conversation with Weldon's junior night guard, who remained at the watch-hole. Weldon could easily remember his own early days as a guard-in-training, and how every drama in the dungeon seemed too exciting to miss.

"You understand what this is?" He handed the note to Mr. Crofford, who read aloud the contents to the other guard.

"Yes, sir." It was his junior night guard who replied. "It's a note from the Codifier, granting you exemption from the Code's rule against Seekers touching prisoners, should you consider it in this prisoner's best interests."

"Make sure the other guards see this." He waited until Mr. Crofford had nodded agreement, and then gave the order for the door to be opened. He was startled to realize that he was as tense as he had been during his earliest days in the inner dungeon.

The junior night guard was not as practiced as Mr. Boyd in opening a door quietly. By the time Weldon slipped inside the cell and heard the door close behind him, Zenas had raised his tear-drenched face and was staring up at him. The boy had positioned himself, not at the warm end of the cell where the fire continued to dance as gaily as it had in the daytime, but at the near end, in the dimmest light. He made a movement as though to rise.

Weldon shook his head and motioned him to stay where he was. Zenas watched with wide eyes as Weldon came over and sat on the floor beside him. The boy did not resist as the Seeker placed his arm around him, but he kept his gaze fixed on Weldon. Weldon wondered suddenly what the boy saw, staring at the black-hooded figure. Weldon could well imagine; he had seen himself in the mirror when he was in uniform.

He hesitated. It was one of the oldest tenets of the Code, and though it had been broken numerous times over the decades, Weldon knew that the High Seeker had especially strong feelings about this portion of the Code. Weldon had heard Layle explain at length why it was in the prisoners' best interests for the Seekers to remain hooded.

But this was a twelve-year-old boy, who had not heard the High Seeker deliver his speech about the benefits of formality in a Seeker. Sighing, Weldon repositioned himself so that his back was to the cell door. He raised the face-cloth of his hood.

The boy looked startled, and then thoughtful. For a moment, he scrutinized Weldon's face. Then his hand slowly reached out toward Weldon's lap. It hovered in the air.

"Just relax," said Weldon in a soft voice, placing his arm round Zenas and pressing the boy's head gently onto his shoulder. He took the boy's hovering hand into his own and laid it upon Zenas's lap. "Just try to relax."

Once again, the boy did not resist his actions; he lay limp within Weldon's arm, like a prisoner newly removed from the rack. Weldon could feel the stiff bandage under the back of the boy's shirt, where the healer had dressed his wounds.

Weldon took care to remain still. He badly wanted to kiss the boy, but even without the presence of the junior night guard at the watch-hole, that would be a bad idea.

He had gone over in his mind a dozen times the events of his earlier searching, and certain parts of it bothered him a great deal. If he had been functioning with even a small part of his usual acuity, those parts of the searching would have caused him to immediately halt the proceedings and leave to consult with the High Seeker. It was not as though this problem was new; it was especially common among female prisoners. It was one of the reasons why the Code forbade Seekers from touching prisoners. Even with the Codifier's implicit permission for him to hold Zenas like this, Weldon was uneasy, wondering whether he was making a grave matter yet worse.

The boy had begun to cry onto the Seeker's shirt. Weldon prayed that the cause was the boy's dreams rather than himself. He fished out his handkerchief and handed it to Zenas, who appeared not to know what do with it. Weldon carefully wiped the tears off Zenas's face, and then demonstrated to the boy how to use the cloth on one's nose. This fascinated the boy so much that no further tears were forthcoming. After a while, Zenas relaxed back against Weldon once more.

Weldon was feeling, as he so often did, the tremendous burden of a Seeker whose prisoner has demonstrated trust in him. Struggling to find words to evoke his thoughts, he said, "You look like my son."

Those were not the words he had intended to say. Zenas lifted his head from where it lay in the crook of Weldon's arm; he seemed more curious than alarmed at the sound of Weldon's voice. Weldon forced himself to smile at the boy.

"Well, not entirely like him," he clarified. "You're a bit older. He was only born a month ago. . . . He died."

He felt his throat close in upon the words. Zenas continued to stare at him, his brow folded in concentration at the words.

Weldon heard himself say, "It happened only a few days after he was born. He struggled for life from the beginning. Afterwards, our healer here sought out my parents' medical records. He discovered that it was my fault the boy died. There is a disease, transferred down from father to son . . . All of my brothers died in infancy; I nearly did as well. When the healer saw that my father's and grandfather's brothers had died as babies, he knew I must have inherited the disease. He has advised me not to beget any more children."

Zenas continued to look up at him, as though he were following every word of this tale. His hand still lay enfolded within Weldon's. Weldon cleared his throat and said, "My wife . . . She is a Seeker as well, but she's in training. She hasn't yet taken her oath of eternal confinement. She was estranged from her family when she first came here, but when her parents learned of their grandchild's death, they begged her to come home so that she could bury the child's ashes in the family crematorium. It seemed a good opportunity to make her peace with her family, so she obtained leave from the Codifier to go. . . . I'm not sure whether she's coming back."

The words he had never spoken before, even to himself, seemed to ring throughout the cell. Zenas's hand slipped from his. The boy raised his hand until it hovered a few inches from Weldon's face. It was then that Weldon became aware that he was crying.

Embarrassed at this unprofessional conduct, he hastily wiped his face dry on the sleeve of his uniform. Zenas's hand dropped, and the boy looked at Weldon uncertainly.

The cell door opened and slammed shut again.

Weldon only had time enough to pull his hood hastily down; then he looked to the side in order to see who the intruder was. Mr. Bergsen stood near the door, bag in hand, staring down at the two of them. "Well, well," he said softly. "What do we have here?"

Suddenly it was fourteen years before, and Weldon's junior day guard had walked into the cell to discover his Seeker holding a prisoner who had begun to cry. Weldon felt the old panic pummel him once more. "I have the Codifier's permission to touch this prisoner," he said quickly.

"Tush, man, do you think I care about those Seekerly rules of yours?" The healer knelt down and began rummaging through his bag. "I want to know your prisoner's health, not those fiddling regulations you Seekers worry about. I understand the boy is having trouble sleeping?"

He was still keeping his voice soft, Weldon noticed. The quietness was effective. Though Zenas had gone rigid upon the healer's entrance, now he was relaxed again within Weldon's arm, staring at the Seeker in apparent hopes that Weldon would find a way to convey the meaning of this visit.

Thus it was that Zenas missed the moment when Mr. Bergsen raised something briefly out of his bag, gave a grunt of satisfaction, and then returned it to the bag and began rummaging again.

Weldon stared at the healer in horror. "By all that is sacred, Mr. Bergsen, what is that? An instrument of torture?"

The healer chuckled, unoffended. "It looks like one, doesn't it? No, it's a new invention – it comes out of Vovim, actually. Your prisoner will most likely have seen it before. It's an underskin needle, used to insert drugs deep into the body so that they will work quickly. It works much faster than a sleeping drug taken by the mouth. Now, then, get the boy up onto his bench, please. He's likely to be fast asleep within a couple of minutes of the time I give him this."

Zenas was continuing to watch Weldon rather than the healer. Weldon pocketed his handkerchief, carefully helped the boy to his feet, and led him over to the sleeping bench. Weldon had always intensely disliked the cell benches. He had been told by prisoners who knew such things that the benches were far more comfortable to sleep upon than the floors provided at most of the lesser prisons, but Weldon looked with distaste at the stone slab with only the thinnest of mattresses.

Zenas scrambled onto the bench as though it were a comfortable armchair. He flicked a glance at the healer who was walking toward them, and then suddenly he was clutching at Weldon's arm, babbling in a high-pitched voice.

Weldon, caught off-balance, stumbled and ended up sitting next to Zenas on the bench. The boy was dragging at his shirt now, as though Weldon were a log that kept him afloat in drowning waters. His voice had gone even higher; his words tumbled over one another. Weldon knew that the old tongue must have some relation to Vovim's Common Speech, but he could not recognize a single word of what the boy said. He suspected that even a native speaker of the old tongue would have been able to make little sense of the hysterical babble.

"Odd." Pausing to test the needle's output of liquid, the healer raised his voice to be heard over Zenas. "I'd have thought the boy would have seen a needle before. Hold him still, please. I don't have much practice with this."

Warning alarms were going off in Weldon's mind, but he had no time in which to decipher their meaning. Zenas was now clutching at his collar, in a manner likely to strangle him. Weldon firmly broke the boy's grasp; during his years in the lighted world, he had learned certain maneuvers that occasionally came in handy with dangerous prisoners. "It's all right," he said in a voice that was gentler than his grip. "It's all right. This will help you to sleep."

The boy went suddenly still. Encouraged, Weldon said softly, "It's all right. There's nothing to fear." He reached out and brushed the boy's hair lightly.

Mr. Bergsen leaned over the bench. "This will take but a second," he said cheerfully. He turned over Zenas's arm, now gone limp. Zenas made a small sound and looked again at Weldon. Weldon smiled at him and put his arm round the boy's back. He could feel the boy shaking.

"Done," said the healer triumphantly. Looking down, Weldon saw a small spot of blood near the crook of the arm, where the needle had gone in. Zenas stared down at the blood. He raised his arm and held it out for Weldon's inspection, as though with pride.

Then his expression crumpled. Weldon pulled Zenas's head to his shoulder as the boy began to sob convulsively.

"Children," said the healer with a sigh. "Always fearing the worst, and then recovering from their tears without a sign of what came before. I wish I still had that ability. Stay with him, please, till he has fallen asleep – it won't be long. I've given him only a small dose, as I gather from what your guard said that you intend to search the boy tomorrow." His voice turned dry.

"Thank you, Mr. Bergsen," Weldon replied as he pulled Zenas back from his shoulder and coaxed him to lie down on the bench.

"Not at all. I wish I could help you further with this case, but without any of the boy's medical records, there's not much I can say. Except that somebody has been treating him very ill – but you'll have noticed that when you beat him."

The healer's voice had turned from dry to dark. Weldon met his gaze steadily; he knew he deserved the rebuke. After a minute during which the healer's lips pressed hard against one another, Mr. Bergsen gave an abrupt nod of farewell and left the cell, whistling a popular ditty about the Eternal Dungeon's heartless torturers.

Zenas was still sobbing, but his crying had become more breathy and subdued. Weldon, who was now kneeling beside the bench, put his hand in Zenas's and murmured incoherent assurances, as he had to his son during the five days that the baby had screamed from the pain of its life. He felt Zenas tug at his hand, and he let the boy draw his hand closer. Zenas's lips had no sooner touched the back of his hand than the boy's eyes closed, and the cell became silent.

In an automatic manner prompted by too many years of finding motionless prisoners in their cells, Weldon checked to make sure that the boy was still breathing. Then he brought out his handkerchief again and did his best to clean the boy's face. When he was finished, he sat a while, contemplating what lay before him. It was a sight, he thought, that he ought to have recognized before.

He knew well enough that the main reason he was assigned underage prisoners was that he was the only man in the inner dungeon whom the High Seeker could be absolutely sure was not attracted to children. It had been a century since this dungeon adopted the Code of Seeking and put an end to the old abuses, but certain aspects of the dungeon's old reputation continued to linger in the public mind. The High Seeker could not afford the possibility of another child-rape.

Weldon was not erotically attracted to children – nor to adults, for that matter – but he knew beauty when he saw it. His eye travelled slowly over the sleeping boy, gathering in what lay there: the slender, delicate figure; the smooth skin the color of sweet maple syrup; the tight black curls framing the face; the full, violet-brown lips; the dusky lids, with their long lashes, hiding the enormous eyes. It had all been there before him, from the first moment, and if he had allowed himself to look at the boy with the scrutiny that a Seeker should give to his prisoner, he would have known that this was a boy whose appearance could raise men's desires.

But he had not looked properly at Zenas. He could not blame Mr. Crofford for that fact. Weldon knew that he had failed to give Zenas his full attention because he had feared that he would develop affection for the boy and end up feeling once more the pain of his son's death.

And now the anticipation of death had returned, despite all his best efforts. "I have been a fool," he murmured to Zenas, "but if I can, I will find a way to save you."

He leaned forward and kissed the sleeping boy on his cheek. He knew that his junior night guard must be watching, and that the guard would report his act to Mr. Daniels. He found that he did not care.

The Vovimian translator was unimpressed by Weldon. That was what Weldon noticed most. He had become used to immediate awe or fear from any new person he met, including the Eternal Dungeon's guards. Mr. Draper, however, had spent a year in the Vovimian army, serving as a translator for Yclau prisoners who were questioned.

"You have no idea," said Mr. Draper, "how difficult it is to translate the words of men who are having their toes cut off."

"Indeed?" Weldon attempted to sound professionally detached as he glanced over at the small man beside him, who wore wire-rimmed glasses and looked very much like what he was, namely an employee of one of the city's international banks.

"Yes, they had usually screamed their throats raw by the time they gave their information. My job was particularly difficult if boiling oil had been poured into their mouths. Thank the gods that the Yclau usually know how to write."

Weldon tried to think of a reply to this and failed. They were walking down the somber corridor leading to Zenas's cell, accompanied on all sides by glares from the guards who overheard the translator's words. In theory, Vovim and Yclau were in everlasting peace with one another. In reality, only three years had passed since the latest truce had begun, and even the youngest guard here would have seen mutilated ex-soldiers on the streets, begging their living as a result of their time of imprisonment with the Vovimians.

Weldon did his best to steer the conversation in another direction. "So you are familiar with the old tongue."

"Oh, certainly," replied Mr. Draper, who appeared to be taking no notice of the hostile looks around him. "I spent my youth in southern Vovim, attending school there. My parents thought I should learn what Vovim was like at its purest, at its stainless foundation, untainted by foreign influences—"

"And you learned the old tongue there?" Weldon discreetly put up a finger in warning to a guard they were passing, who was stroking his dagger hilt as he listened to the Vovimian.

"It would have been as much as my life was worth not to. The southern Vovimians, you understand, are greatly insulted if you do not make at least an effort to learn their language." He winced, as though at some memory, then added, "It is next to impossible for an Yclau to learn the old tongue, but it is not so hard for a Vovimian. Your High Seeker, for example—"

"Here we are," said Weldon, though in fact they were several yards short of their destination: the door where his day guards stood.

"How is the prisoner?" Weldon asked when they had reached the door. He spoke in Vovimian out of courtesy to their guest, though Mr. Draper had been speaking fluently in Yclau.

"He woke an hour ago, sir, when Mr. Crofford brought him his lunch," Mr. Boyd replied in the same tongue. "He seemed surprised to see Mr. Crofford. After Mr. Crofford left, he explored the entire cell, as though he was not sure he was in the same place." Mr. Boyd glanced at Mr. Crofford for confirmation of this wording, but the junior guard did not notice him; his eye was firmly fixed upon the watch-hole. Mr. Boyd concluded, "He sat down in the corner finally and has remained quietly there ever since."

"No tears?" asked Weldon.

"No, sir. He appears simply to be waiting. Do you wish me to accompany you into the cell today?" His gaze slid briefly over the Vovimian.

"Yes," replied Weldon. "The prisoner may give us a confession today."

Mr. Boyd was already pulling from the inside of his jacket the pencil and memorandum book that was kept there for such an occasion. Weldon gave his attention over to the younger guard. He could see Mr. Crofford's hand resting upon the door latch, and it was shaking. The guard had risen before dawn the previous day, Weldon remembered, and had been up late giving his witness to the Codifier, and then had risen early this morning.

"Mr. Crofford."

"Sir?" The junior guard did not move from his post.

"I was very much impressed by the witness you gave to the Codifier yesterday. It showed the proper objectivity of a dungeon guard, making no attempt to bend the evidence in one direction or the other."

Mr. Crofford's neck had turned pink. "Thank you, sir."

Weldon put his hand briefly on the junior guard's shoulder. "You may take a break for the next three hours, Mr. Crofford. Mr. Boyd will be inside the cell to help if any problems occur, and Mr. Draper will be a witness to our behavior."

"Yes, sir." The guard's reply was so prompt that Weldon guessed the young man was ready to drop from exhaustion. Weldon waited until Mr. Crofford was headed toward the exit that would take him back to his living quarters in the outer dungeon; then Weldon nodded to Mr. Boyd.

Mr. Boyd's opening of the door was as quiet as usual, but somehow Zenas heard him anyway. By the time Weldon stepped through the door, Zenas was on his feet, running. Mr. Boyd quickly closed the door behind them, but Zenas made no attempt to go near it. He skidded to a halt in front of Weldon and said something quickly in the old tongue, his face eager.

"Mr. Draper?" Weldon turned his head toward the translator as Mr. Boyd locked the door.

The translator shrugged. "A simple greeting, with the proper degree of deference."

Weldon nodded, glanced over to make sure that Mr. Boyd was ready with pencil and paper, and told Mr. Draper, "Please introduce yourself to Mr. Zenas and explain that you will serve as translator for this conversation."

Mr. Draper did so, in words that Weldon would have sworn could not be spoken by any human tongue. Mr. Boyd, carefully writing the prisoner's name at the top of a page, winced, as he might have done had a playful young guard drawn his fingernails across the Record-keeper's slateboard.

The boy's face grew yet more eager; there was almost the suggestion of a smile on his face now. He jabbered something back quickly, and then waited, his eye on Weldon. He had taken no notice of Mr. Boyd, standing nearby with his pencil poised.

"Your prisoner once again greets you, this time with a yet greater degree of deference," Mr. Draper reported. "He says that it gives him great joy to finally have the opportunity to speak with his new master."

Mr. Boyd's pencil-point, scribbling all this down, suddenly broke. With a muttered apology, the guard fished in his pocket for a replacement. Weldon stared from Mr. Draper to the young prisoner watching him with anticipation.

"Does he believe I'm his workmaster?" Weldon asked slowly. "Or his schoolmaster?"

The translator snorted with amusement at these suggestions.

"But . . ." Weldon stared again at Zenas, confusion clawing at him. "But Mr. Hallam's eldest son, Mr. Grove, said that this boy was his father's adopted son, his – his chau."

Zenas had begun to turn his eyes toward Mr. Draper, awaiting the translation, but his gaze suddenly snapped back to Weldon, as though something of great importance had been said. The hint of a smile disappeared from his face.

Mr. Draper snorted again. "Who did the translation for you, one of the palace translators? . . . I thought so. The Yclau will never understand the subtleties of Vovimian languages." He spoke without hostility, as though reciting a simple fact. "Chau is the old tongue's word for 'beloved'; whatever other meanings it acquires are determined by the context. In this particular context, Mr. Grove could only have been saying that this boy was—"

"His father's bed-slave," Weldon concluded in a low voice. He turned his gaze back to Zenas, feeling as though he had just been gifted with spectacles that allowed him to see through the murky darkness surrounding his prisoner. All was clear now.

The High Seeker had known, of course. Having owned a sexual slave himself, he had recognized from Weldon's description what the boy was. No wonder he had been determined to stay as far away from Zenas as possible; this boy must evoke some of Layle's darkest memories of his time in Vovim's dungeon.

Except that it seemed such practices were not confined to the Hidden Dungeon.

Zenas, having heard Weldon speak the word denoting his duties to his former master, remained still, watching Weldon's face and awaiting his instructions. Weldon felt a sickness enter him as he remembered Layle's advice concerning this prisoner. He tried to settle his mind in order. He had been wrong; Zenas had not been sexually molested by a man who served as his father. Weldon suspected, though, that the tale he was about to hear would prove just as foul as the one he had anticipated.

He was wrong again. The tale was worse.

Zenas's earliest memories were happy ones. As a very young child, his duties as a slave were light, and though he missed the mother he had never known, he enjoyed tagging at the heels of his father as his father attended to his duties. A strong affection grew between Zenas and his father, one that kept Zenas from worrying about the hard life he knew he would take on as he grew older.

At the age of seven, all that changed, because Zenas, in a moment of carelessness, decided to join some of the younger boys in bathing at one of the estate water-holes.

As he had done when he was younger, he pulled off all of his clothes in order to swim. Unhappily, at that moment his master chanced to walk by. Something about the way that Mr. Hallam looked at Zenas made the boy quickly reclothe himself and hurry to where his father was helping to uproot a tree that their master had decided was no longer of interest to him. Zenas had no sooner finished stammering out his tale when one of the house-slaves came up to them with the news that Mr. Hallam wished to speak with Zenas.

Zenas's father dropped his spade and stared hard at the house-slave who, for some reason, appeared embarrassed. Zenas started to move forward, but his father grabbed him. "Stay here," Zenas's father said. "I will speak to the master."

That was the last time Zenas saw his father. He believed his master when Mr. Hallam informed him gravely that he had not meant to strike Zenas's father so hard; Mr. Hallam had simply been furious that one of his slaves would defy his orders. It might well have been true. Mr. Hallam was known for his temper, but he was not ordinarily one to permanently injure his slaves, much less kill them.

Zenas, grieving for the sudden loss of his father, accepted Mr. Hallam's comfort and his promise of protection. Even when he learned what form that protection would take, he considered himself lucky. He knew that Mr. Hallam kept bed-slaves – what slave on the estate did not know this? He also knew that bed-slaves were given light duties during the daytime. Unlike his father, Zenas would not be condemned to spend his days doing back-breaking work in the fields.

Remembering the lesson of his father's death, Zenas always took great pains to try to please his master and to show that he properly appreciated his master's care of him. This grew more difficult when, in the year Zenas turned ten, Mr. Hallam grew bored with his old bedtime entertainments and decided to try something new.

It was an ordinary whip at first. Zenas, sobbing into his pillow after each encounter, told himself that he was still lucky. Mr. Hallam had a dozen bed-slaves and was often away on business. Sometimes Mr. Hallam even slept with his wife. The master rarely called for Zenas's services more than once or twice a month, giving Zenas full time to recover for his next trial. So matters continued for the next two years.

Five months before Zenas's arrival the Eternal Dungeon, Mr. Hallam announced that he would be serving as an ambassador in Yclau during the coming year. Zenas was delighted, and strangely enough his delight did not diminish when he learned that he was to accompany Mr. Hallam on this trip. As a slave, Zenas ordinarily would not have been permitted to leave the borders of the estate during his lifetime. He welcomed this opportunity to see more of Vovim and to visit a foreign country. It seemed worth a little pain.

What he had not realized was that Mr. Hallam would be taking only him. The master's wife and the other bed-slaves were left behind. The implications of this decision took some time to arrive.

The first part of the journey, made through Vovim, was by carriage over bad roads. This section of the journey was boring for Mr. Hallam and exhausting for both of them. On the few occasions that they slept in inns, Mr. Hallam made no attempt to touch Zenas. Once they reached the border, however, they switched to a train. Zenas, excited at being permitted to travel in an iron cage that whizzed through the countryside, did not immediately notice that his master's boredom had reached a dangerous peak. His only warning came on the first night of their travel, when Mr. Hallam entered his cabin, holding a long box.

"I have something new for us," Mr. Hallam announced, and with a gleam in his eye he proceeded to unwrap the leaded whip.

Zenas could not have said what the Yclau countryside looked like. The trip should have taken no more than a week or two, but the Yclau, fiends of cleverness at inventing machinery, had not yet learned how to control the weather. Spring floods washed out several sections of the railroad track, and the trip extended to two months, then three. Zenas spent that time moaning in his bed, visited only by his master, who appeared to take no interest in any sight other than that of Zenas's body. Zenas began to wonder whether he would survive to reach the capital.

He wished the other slaves had come on this trip so that he could ask them what to do. But there was nobody he could consult; no one entered the cabin, and everyone who passed by the cabin spoke in Yclau. Zenas could not even figure out which of the passers-by were slaves.

Mr. Hallam must have begun to be concerned himself. Six weeks before they reached their destination, he put away the whip and turned his attention to nursing Zenas back to health, murmuring explanations similar to those he had given upon the death of Zenas's father. Zenas was too numb to do anything except accept his master's ministrations, and he could see that this displeased his master. Fearing the consequences of such displeasure, Zenas made a greater effort to return to his old self, smiling at his master and reaching out to take his hand.

By the time they arrived at the capital, Zenas was well enough to walk again. His master had made clear that he would have no time for Zenas once they reached the palace, and he had even given Zenas permission to explore his new surroundings, provided he did not leave the palace grounds. Zenas looked forward to that time, as a boy dying of thirst looks forward to water.

They were kept waiting for the first two weeks by various bureaucratic procedures that appeared designed to drive palace guests to impatience. Seeing his master's lips thin after each trial, Zenas desperately strove to keep Mr. Hallam happy. Mr. Hallam called for his services each night, but he used neither the leaded whip nor any other implement on his slave. Zenas began to hope that matters had returned to normal.

They supped one night in the Queen's own dining hall. Zenas was awed at this opportunity to accompany his master into a place of great richness and refinement. He knew that only the most favored bed-slaves were allowed such gifts. At one point, an Yclau man came up and spoke briefly to Mr. Hallam in the language that estate visitors from the King's capital sometimes used. In his reply, Mr. Hallam said the word chau and smiled at Zenas. Zenas smiled back, pleased at having his service openly acknowledged.

He grew uneasy, though, as the dinner continued. Something was wrong. His master made no attempt to sit with other diners, as he had on previous nights, and he kept shooting dark looks at the Queen of Yclau. Fearing the worst, Zenas put all of his best efforts into pleasing his master, and he felt relief when his master finally turned to him with a smile. Mr. Hallam placed his hand over Zenas's.

"I have learned that the Queen will not be able to meet with me for another fortnight," he told his slave, stroking Zenas's hand. "No matter. It will give us time to be together." A familiar gleam entered his eye.

Zenas was not sure afterwards how it happened. It was as though his soul had been taken from his body and hovered above, watching his body move with independence. It watched as he picked up the knife; it watched as he plunged the knife into Mr. Hallam's throat; it watched as he stabbed over and over and over. It did not return to the body until the very end, when guards dragged Zenas up from the floor and began jabbering questions at him in the Yclau tongue. It was then that Zenas realized, with coldness spreading through his body, that he had committed the crime for which there could be no forgiveness.

"I understand that I have done the most terrible of deeds," the boy said in a choked voice. "I know that hell awaits my body and that I shall dwell in Hell's cell forever."

He did not move his eyes from Weldon as he spoke. He had been told by now that Weldon was not his new master but simply a man appointed by the Queen to learn why Zenas had killed Mr. Hallam. Nonetheless, Zenas kept his gaze fixed on the Seeker, as though awaiting orders.

Weldon's thoughts were on linguistics. He had finally recognized a word that was the same in both the old tongue and the Common Speech of Vovim: hell. He was remembering the moment in this cell when he had invoked that terrible word in a careless manner, though he had known that no Vovimian spoke the word hell except with great seriousness. It was the name of the Vovimian place of afterdeath, where criminals were punished. But when said with a certain accent, it was also the name of the Vovimian torture-god, never spoken except in the presence of the damned. It was hardly surprising that, upon hearing that name spoken, Zenas had gone into hysterics.

"I know I deserve a most terrible death," Zenas repeated in a low voice. "I was surprised this morning that you did not complete the death. I understand now, though, that you needed to learn first all that I had done."

Weldon snapped his gaze over to Mr. Draper, who was continuing to supply the translation. "'Complete the death'? What does he mean by that?"

An exchange followed between the two Vovimians. Finally, Mr. Draper raised his eyebrows and turned to Weldon. "Did you give this boy the needle last night?" he asked, his voice accusatory.

"Yes, certainly," Weldon replied. "Our healer injected him with a sleeping drug. I'm told that such a procedure is common in Vovim."

Mr. Draper raised his eyes toward the ceiling, as though praying to his gods for patience in dealing with the Yclau. "Mr. Chapman," he said carefully, as if educating a small child, "your healers may, in their whimsy, decide to put sleeping potions in their needles. But in Vovim, the needle is used for only one purpose: to execute slaves. It is used to inject marblak, a powerful poison that takes many hours to work and causes great agony in the victim during those hours."

Zenas continued to stand motionless during the discussion of his execution. Weldon thought to himself, with a sinking heart, that he would have to make another trip to the Codifier's office.

It was not as though he had received no warning. I think you should take great care henceforth as to what orders you give Mr. Zenas. Sweet blood, he might as well hand in his hood after today's searching. He had evidently lost whatever powers he had once possessed as a Seeker.

"Tell him—" Weldon stopped. Mr. Boyd had raised his eyes from the paper he was still scribbling upon; the motion alerted Weldon to the fact that his voice was quavering. He tried again. "Tell Mr. Zenas that the poison you speak of is never used in Yclau. Tell him that no one will try to kill him in such a manner or give him any other sort of prolonged death."

The boy's breath went out of his body at this news. He too raised his eyes to the ceiling. Then he murmured something, which Mr. Draper translated. "He says that he blames himself for not recognizing that a man of such powerful mercy as yourself would give him only a quick death. With shame filling him, he pleads your pardon for misjudging you."

Weldon opened his mouth, and then bit his tongue to keep himself from speaking. Very early in his career as a Seeker, he had learned the stupidity of raising false hopes in his prisoners by telling them that they would not be executed. He could not make such promises; he did not have final say over the prisoners' fates, and many a prisoner whom he believed should live he had watched dangle from the hangman's noose.

Zenas murmured something more. For the first time, his eyes were cast down. Mr. Draper reported, "He begs to be forgiven for being so bold as to make a request of you, knowing as he does that he deserves the worst treatment. But you have shown him great kindness so far: when he misunderstood your orders, you gave him only a short beating, and you comforted him when he dreamt of his death, and you even held his hand after giving him the needle. And so, with deep trepidation, he asks to know whether it is possible for you to stay with him when the time comes for his execution, and whether it is possible for you to hold his hand then, for he is very much afraid of dying."

Mr. Boyd had stopped writing, though he was taking care to keep his eyes fixed upon the paper, as though his attention was focussed purely on secretarial matters. Mr. Draper maintained no such fiction; he was staring openly at Weldon, awaiting his answer. Weldon scarcely saw either of them. His gaze was reserved for the youth before him, who was peeking up at him through shy lashes.

"Tell him," said Weldon, in a voice now gone firm, "that I will stay with him. Tell him that, no matter what happens, I will stay with him and I will hold him."

Even before Mr. Draper finished his translation, the boy had begun to move. He knelt down, his face now tilted up to look at Weldon, and he took Weldon's hand. He kissed the Seeker's hand but did not speak.

Weldon's heart was drumming so loud that he feared the boy could hear it. He gently drew the boy back onto his feet, and then said in as brisk a manner as he could manage, "Mr. Draper, now that the prisoner has given his statement, it is likely that his trial will be scheduled for tomorrow morning. Is it possible for you to be present in the appointed judging room at that time, in order to provide a translation?"

Mr. Draper had taken his pocket-watch out of his waistcoat and was peering down at it, as though it might provide him with the answer. "If the trial does not take too long," he replied. "The Queen is scheduled to give a speech on business law at noontime, and I am to provide the translation for the Vovimian delegates from my bank."

"Thank you," Weldon said. "Mr. Boyd, you are ready?" He looked over at his senior guard, who had been quickly flipping through his notes, checking what was written there. Mr. Boyd nodded, and Weldon added, "Then I will just ask you to stay a few more minutes today, Mr. Draper, in order to translate as my guard reads aloud the prisoner's statement, so that Mr. Zenas can confirm whether Mr. Boyd has correctly rendered his words."

When Weldon reached the door of the cell, he turned. Mr. Boyd was repeating the tale of the water-hole, and Mr. Draper was translating. Zenas was nodding his acknowledgment, but he did not look at either of the men. His gaze remained on Weldon.

Layle's reply was mercifully brief. "Yes, of course. I'll need to speak with the Codifier about this, but I'm sure his answer will be the same as mine. Who is the magistrate assigned to this case?"

"Mr. Jones," said Weldon. He kept his voice low, so as not to disturb Elsdon Taylor, who was in the next room, sitting at his desk as he frowned over documentwork. "He's in semi-retirement, I've heard, so I've not worked with him before. Do you know him?"

Layle did not stir from where he sat in his bed, propped up by pillows and surrounded by books, food, and similar gifts from Elsdon. "Quite well," the High Seeker replied quietly. "He's the man who sentenced Elsdon to be hanged after Elsdon testified that his father had abused him."

Weldon took in a deep breath and held it. For a moment, he and Layle looked at one another. Then they both looked away.
 

CHAPTER FOUR

Mr. Jones had the appearance of being a great deal more than half retired: his face was that of a prune, and his fingers were as fleshless as the pen he tapped upon his table. He had a sharp gaze, though, and seemed to delight in directing that gaze toward the prisoner, standing rigid next to his translator.

Weldon gave a worried look at Zenas, and then turned his attention to the only other man near the magistrate's table. This man was sitting; he was dressed neatly in a well-cut suit that was rich without being ostentatious. The man's hand was resting lightly upon the head of his walking stick, which did not have a skull at its top, despite the rumors of how the Vovimian elite were supposed to dress themselves. Eyeing the man, Weldon concluded that, if Mr. Grove was as much a monster as his father had been, he did as good a job as the ambassador at hiding the fact.

The magisterial recorder reached the end of reciting the witness that Zenas had provided to Weldon. Weldon did not look round to see how the numerous guards in this room were reacting to Zenas's chilling tale, even though Weldon knew that his own guards were among them. By tradition, the Eternal Dungeon's guards departed from the judging room the moment they had delivered their prisoner, in order to symbolically indicate that the prisoner's fate now lay in the hands of the Queen's officials. Both Mr. Crofford and Mr. Boyd, though, had seemed disposed to linger on this occasion, so Weldon had quickly motioned them into a corner where they would be inconspicuous. He knew that Zenas's tale, being a matter of public record, had spread quickly throughout the dungeon, and he wondered how many of the dungeon inhabitants were waiting anxiously to know the results of this trial.

The magistrate made a few notes to himself in a leisurely manner, and then raised his head to look at Mr. Grove. "Do you wish to respond to Mr. Zenas's witness, sir?" he asked.

Mr. Grove raised one eyebrow. "Is there reason I should wish to do so?" he asked in good Yclau.

"You might want to counter any slanders placed against your father," the magistrate suggested dryly.

Scrutinizing Mr. Grove carefully, Weldon tried to pretend to a professional indifference to the man's presence, but it was not easy. Yclau magistrates were inclined to place heavy emphasis upon the witnesses of kin to possible murder victims. Indeed, Layle had once told Weldon that he believed it was the accusatory witness of Elsdon's father that had caused the magistrate to sentence Elsdon Taylor to death.

This was a different case than that one had been, Weldon reminded himself. Elsdon had attacked, not his father, but his sister, and he had been unable to prove at his trial that there was a direct connection between his murder and his father's abuse of him. In this case, it was clear that Zenas had killed Mr. Hallam in an attempt to save his own life.

At least, that fact was clear to Weldon. He could only hope that it was clear to the magistrate now nudging Mr. Grove to provide witness against Zenas.

Mr. Grove raised a second eyebrow. "I heard no slander," he replied. "I heard a slave confess that he killed his master in cold blood."

Restless shifting could be heard throughout the room. From the corner of his eye, Weldon saw that the Queen's guards were exchanging looks with one another at this evidence of Vovimian barbarity. The magistrate's expression did not change.

"Very well," he said, "if you have no further witness to give, then we may proceed to the sentencing. Mr. Chapman, will I be saving your breath if I assume that your High Seeker wishes to keep this prisoner eternally confined?" His voice had turned dry again.

Weldon felt the words like a blow to the stomach. They were clear indication of how the magistrate planned to sentence Zenas. No doubt the magistrate had decided to give Zenas the highest sentence possible as a way to bypass Mr. Grove's attempts to overrule the magistrate's decision through a request for extradition.

"Yes, sir." Weldon did his best to keep his voice professionally calm. "The High Seeker believes that would be the best course in this case."

The magistrate tapped his pen to free the ink at its nib before writing something down. Without looking up, he said, "It is the Eternal Dungeon's privilege to make such a claim on the prisoner, of course. However, I should inform you that, if the Eternal Dungeon claims this prisoner for eternal confinement, I will ask the Queen to overrule the decision. By law, eternal confinement can only be offered to prisoners in cases where the Eternal Dungeon believes that the prisoner should be searched for evidence of further crimes. No evidence has been offered at this trial that the prisoner has committed any other crime than the one of which he is accused. Do you wish to proffer such evidence, Mr. Chapman, or, alternatively, do you wish to spare the Queen the trouble of deciding between your claim upon the prisoner and mine?" He raised his head and gave Weldon a sharp stare.

"Sir, the Eternal Dungeon withdraws its claim upon the prisoner."

He heard his own words as from a distance. They came automatically to him, the product of years of training himself to obey his superiors in the Eternal Dungeon. The High Seeker had ordered him to release the prisoner in a case like this, and so he would.

Yet even as he spoke, he knew that this was not the end of the matter. He knew, like a man meeting his fate, that when the time came for the Queen's guards to take the prisoner to be hanged, he would break his oath as a Seeker and fight to save Zenas's life. He knew that his battle would fail and that he would be tried for treason. He knew that he would die.

All this came to him in an instant, and was accepted by him in an instant. He felt an easiness fall over him as all the deep unhappiness he had felt since his son's death dropped away.

He looked at Zenas, feeling pity swell in him. Sweet blood, if there were only some way to save the boy. But in a room filled with the Queen's guards, there was no chance of that. The only thing he could do was show Zenas that someone besides his father cared enough to fight for him, and to die for him. He must hope that would be enough to bring about the transformation that the boy deserved to undergo before his death.

The magistrate coughed, and Weldon realized that he had allowed his attention to stray. He looked back at Mr. Jones and discovered that the magistrate had a small, tight smile on his lips.

For a moment, Weldon felt only incredulity that one of the Queen's magistrates would allow himself to depart so much from his duty as to smile at the death of a prisoner. Then, in one of those lightning-quick moments of insight that allowed Weldon to work as a Seeker, he realized that Zenas was not the one on trial here at all. Weldon was on trial, and he had just passed his test.

The magistrate allowed the smile to fade as he turned toward Mr. Grove. "Sir," he said, "I intend to sentence Mr. Zenas to be confined to the Eternal Dungeon until he is eighteen. At that time, by Yclau law, he will be an adult and will have the opportunity, should he wish, to fight any attempts made to extradite him to his own country. Do you wish to protest this decision?"

Mr Grove stared at the magistrate. Leaning forward, onto his walking stick, he said with raised voice, "This is justice? A slave stabs to death his master, and you call this justice?"

"It is justice in accordance with Yclau law." The magistrate's voice was once more dry.

Mr. Grove continued to stare, and Weldon noticed that one of the Queen's guards had stepped closer, his hand on his sword hilt, in case trouble should arise. Then Mr. Grove shrugged.

"Well," he said, rising to his feet, "I will return home and tell my mother of your decision. She knows the reputation of the Eternal Dungeon. Perhaps this will satisfy her."

"Good," said the magistrate briskly. He glanced at the clock in the corner of the room, grimaced at what he read from its dial, and slammed his papers into a stack in a manner that cut short Mr. Draper's whisper of translation and caused the prisoner to jump. "Zenas Hallam," the magistrate said, barely glancing at his prisoner, "I find you guilty of defensive murder, and I sentence you to six years' imprisonment in the Eternal Dungeon. I think we have enough time before the Queen's speech to catch a quick lunch, don't you?" He glanced at his recorder, who nodded, and the two of them exited through the back door of the room. The Queen's guard melted away.

Weldon was glad that the hood hid his face. His jaw hung slack in a most unprofessional manner as he watched Mr. Grove quietly gather together his gloves and hat. Then another lightning-quick insight reached Weldon.

Mr. Grove had left home the moment he reached the Vovimian age of adulthood. He had not only left home, he had left his native land and had lived in Yclau ever since then. And when Mr. Hallam had arrived at the Queen's palace, after nine years of being apart from his son, Mr. Grove had been unable to find the time to visit him.

What had taken place between Mr. Grove and his father to cause Mr. Grove to flee so far? Whatever had occurred, Mr. Grove apparently possessed enough sense of duty toward his mother to make a token attempt to bring her husband's killer to justice.

But no more than a token attempt. Seeing the relaxed manner in which Mr. Grove collected his belongings, Weldon guessed that, in six years' time, Mr. Grove would make no attempt to force Zenas back to Yclau. Provided that Zenas stayed in Yclau, he would be safe from Vovim's unforgiving system of judgment.

Mr. Grove caught Weldon's eye on him and gave him a curt nod. "I thank you, sir, for your willingness to take upon yourself the troublesome burden of a disobedient slave. Zenas, you will follow whatever orders you are given by your torturer." He added something in the old tongue, presumably the same words as he had just spoken.

Zenas, who had just finished listening to Mr. Draper translate the final moments of the proceedings, went rigid at Mr. Grove's words. He looked over at Weldon and made a soft inquiry.

"He wishes to know whether he might be permitted to speak with his master's son," the translator explained.

Weldon hesitated, and then beckoned to his guards, who were still waiting in the corner of the room. Weldon guessed they were there simply out of curiosity to see the end of this drama, for any prisoner who was offered confinement within the Eternal Dungeon did not require guards thereafter. No prisoner would be offered eternal confinement if he required guards.

Mr. Boyd and Mr. Crofford stepped forward to stand by Mr. Grove. Weldon was pleased to see that their eyes were on the ambassador's son rather than on Zenas as the boy approached. Zenas kept his gaze on Mr. Grove's face until he reached the Vovimian man. Then he knelt down and said something quietly, his head bowed. The ambassador's son replied, without any note of anger in his tone. Zenas nodded to what was said and retreated on his knees. When Zenas finally rose and turned, Weldon saw that tears stained his face.

"What did you say to him?" he asked Mr. Grove sharply.

Mr. Grove shrugged. "He asked my forgiveness for murdering his father. I told him the truth, that he would be racked by Hell eternally for what he had done." He gave a bow to Weldon, saying, "I do not believe that the boy will be of any further trouble to you. Good day to you, sir."

Weldon was hard pressed in the next few seconds to keep to his Seekerly training rather than revert to the older customs whereby, as a youth, he would have treated such remarks. He contented himself with silently watching Mr. Grove leave the judging room. He suspected that even a Vovimian would find it disconcerting to have his exit scrutinized by a mute, hoodless man.

Once the Vovimian was gone, Weldon let out his breath, beckoned to the translator, and began to make his way toward the door.

He heard a sound behind him, like the light mew of a forgotten kitten. He turned. Zenas remained where he had been before, near the guards; he was making no effort to follow. In a voice so soft that Weldon could barely hear him, he said something.

Weldon looked over at the translator. Mr. Draper said, "He begs your pardon for his importunate enquiry, but he wishes to know whether it is possible that you will be able to stay with him during the execution, as you had indicated you might – or so he had thought, but he begs your forgiveness if he misunderstood what you said earlier."

Weldon stared at Mr. Draper. "Didn't you translate to him the magistrate's sentence?"

Mr. Draper simply shrugged, as though suggesting the difficulties of translating Yclau into so complex a language as the old tongue.

Weldon returned his gaze to Zenas. The boy had his arms crossed and pressed hard against his chest, as though he were standing naked in deep snow and endeavoring to keep warm. His breath was rapid. But he made no further plea; he merely waited for Weldon's decision.

Weldon walked forward slowly, accompanied by the translator. When they reached Zenas, Weldon caught Mr. Boyd's eye. The senior guard promptly pulled Mr. Crofford out of the room, muttering something to the other guard about an opportunity to attend the Queen's speech. Zenas watched them go, his brow puckering with puzzlement.

"Mr. Draper," said Weldon, "please tell Mr. Zenas that he will not die. The magistrate has decided that he should live in the Eternal Dungeon until he is an adult. Explain that to him. If you can," he added, giving the translator the hard stare he reserved for guards who had neglected their duty.

The Vovimian translator seemed amused by the reproof. With a quirk of a smile, he spoke in the old tongue to Zenas.

Weldon saw the news reach the boy like a blow. Zenas sucked in his breath, held it, and then quickly made an enquiry. The translator considered this question a moment, and then evidently decided that further attempts at translation would go to naught, for he nodded his reply.

Zenas sank to his knees. Taking Weldon's hand, he said something soft, his gaze fixed upon Weldon. Mr. Draper reported, "He knew from the moment he met you that you were a messenger from Mercy herself. He swears to you that he will serve you with loyalty, body and soul, and that you need never fear that he will bring shame to your household as he did to his old one. He will do all that you require of him and never protest."

Weldon felt as though he had taken a blow as well. He opened his mouth, and then realized that any words he spoke now would be with shaken breath. He waited until his heart had calmed somewhat before saying, "Tell him— No, it will be easier to show him. Tell him only that he need not kneel to me. That is not the custom here."

The translator reported this to the boy, who quickly scrambled to his feet, murmuring an acknowledgment of the order. Weldon did not await a translation but instead turned to the translator. "Mr. Draper, do you have time enough to return to the Eternal Dungeon?"

Scorning so much as a glance at the great Yclau clock hanging on the wall, Mr. Draper brought out his pocket-watch and peered at it. "If it does not take long," he responded. "I am due to begin my translation of the Queen's speech presently."

"I have only brief need of your services," Weldon assured him. "Come." This time he took care to beckon Zenas.

Dungeon custom required that prisoners who had been offered confinement to the Eternal Dungeon be permitted to walk back unescorted, leading their own path to their new home. Weldon attempted to do this, but every time he allowed his pace to lag behind Zenas's, the boy would slow down until he was walking a pace behind Weldon. Finally Weldon surrendered and placed his arm round Zenas's shoulder so that they walked together. Mr. Draper glanced at them with curiosity, but made no comment.

Fortunately, they met no one on their way; this part of the palace, being an annex of the dungeon, was reserved for use by the inner dungeon inhabitants and the Queen's guards. Weldon dropped his arm from Zenas before they reached within sight of the guards at the gates to the Eternal Dungeon, so as not to give the guards heart attacks. The great gates – barred, not solid, in order to permit the maximum amount of air into the dungeon – swung open as the guards sighted Zenas. Belatedly, the guards noticed Weldon and nodded their greeting to him.

The steps down to the dungeon's entry hall were dark and silent; the light from the palace corridor did not travel far, and nothing could be heard from below. Zenas's step had slowed. Weldon knew that he must be remembering his terrifying entry into this dungeon: the dim entry hall, the guards emerging from the darkness and placing an eyeless hood over his head, the light-mute march to his cell where unknown horrors awaited him. Weldon looked over at Zenas and saw that the boy was breathing rapidly, like a small animal trying to keep itself from bolting.

Suddenly there was the sound of scraping metal, and a small light flared in the darkness. One of the guards hidden in the shadows below had recognized Zenas and had realized that this was not a new prisoner approaching, but an old one. Within seconds, all of the shutters on the lamps had been lifted, and though the light did not reach the high ceiling above where the bats slept at this time of day, the floor below was cheery with brightness. Weldon heard an approving murmur from the guards in the entry hall as Zenas made his way cautiously down the steps, staring at the guards.

Weldon smiled as he guided Zenas up to the desk of the Record-keeper, who was pretending that he had no interest in anything other than the ledger-book he was jotting in. As they reached his desk, the Record-keeper looked up and put his hand enquiringly on the thin stack of forms nearby, bearing Zenas's name.

Weldon shook his head. "He has been sentenced to six years' imprisonment here," he said, raising his voice so that the guards could hear.

Another approving murmur filled the entry hall. The Eternal Dungeon was full of men and women who had received eternal confinement as a form of penance for their crimes, as well as Seekers like Weldon who had voluntarily chosen eternal confinement in order to become Seekers. For such men and women, eternal confinement was a comfort, or a duty willingly taken. But to the average guard, who came and went as he pleased between the dungeon and the lighted world, eternal confinement was a fate only one step less than death. In six years, Zenas would be free again to re-enter the lighted world; Weldon could almost hear the collective sigh of relief.

The Record-keeper lifted his eyebrows at the news of this unorthodox sentence. He pulled away the papers containing the oath of eternal confinement and pushed forward a bound volume. "In that case," he said, "he need only sign the book." He opened the guest book to the appropriate page.

Weldon picked up the pen and looked over at Mr. Draper. "Can he write?"

Mr. Draper's snort of amusement shot through the entry hall, causing the sleepy bats above to flutter their wings. Startled, Zenas looked up toward the darkness as Weldon leaned forward, dipped the pen in the Record-keeper's inkwell, and wrote the date and Zenas's first name. Then he signed Zenas's name a second time, this time in the Vovimian alphabet. Mr. Draper gave a second snort, but this one did not sound as though it held any contempt.

Weldon attracted Zenas's attention back from the bats and indicated, through gesture, that he wished Zenas to mark the book with an X. Zenas did this without so much as blotting the ink. As he put down the pen, he looked at Weldon, evidently seeking a sign that he had done his duty correctly. Weldon nodded, wishing that his hood did not hide his smile. With a gesture, he escorted Zenas and Mr. Draper to a small, inconspicuous door on the right wall of the entry hall.

They entered a dimly lit corridor running left to right. The left end of the corridor led to most of the Seekers' cells, but Weldon turned right. Leaving behind the roar of furnaces belching out smoke into the corridor, they soon reached the more subtle sound of sliding metal. To their right, immediately adjacent to the entry hall, came a large doorway, shut with glass as though it were a department store's picture window. Weldon was not surprised when Zenas stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the room beyond the glass. Weldon had done the same, the first time he had seen the Lungs of the Eternal Dungeon.

At first glance, they looked like nothing other than an ordinary engine, but a longer look revealed that the accordion-like apparatus within the great room was releasing no steam. Its power came from steam engines high up in the palace, beyond the reaches of the Eternal Dungeon. Here could be seen only the root-tips of the vast machinery that kept the dungeon alive: the collapsing accordion here existed, not to create power, but to give life.

With one, powerful expansion, the right-hand Lung sucked in air from the lighted world. Then the Lung collapsed, sending the air to the interior sections of the dungeon, through a complex system of ducts. At the same moment, the left-hand Lung pulled in bad air from the dungeon and exhaled it into the lighted world. Smoothly the two Lungs worked, never tiring, never ceasing to gift the dungeon with the air it needed to survive.

Weldon had been a resident of the outer dungeon one very bad day in his thirty-second year when the Lungs broke down and the dungeon had to be hastily evacuated, prisoners and all. He had been left with an acute consciousness of how much the dungeon's warren of rooms and lights and other benefits of modern civilization depended upon the raw power of Yclau's industrial revolution.

Zenas, coming from a land where such a revolution did not yet exist, stared wide-eyed at this evidence of the sophistication of his new home. Weldon was disposed to let the boy watch as long as he wished, but he could see the translator checking his watch, so he carefully guided Zenas away. Zenas came without struggle, refraining even from looking back at the wonder behind him.

They turned left soon after that, making their way down another dim corridor, less smoky than the previous one. Ahead of them, light chatter emerged from the Seekers' common room. Weldon could hear Elsdon's voice among those of the other Seekers who took night duty and were therefore enjoying their leisure hours now, in the daytime. He found himself remembering the conversation he had held with Elsdon the previous day.

"I thought my father could do no wrong," the junior Seeker had told Weldon. "And then, for a while, I thought the High Seeker could do no wrong. If Layle had not possessed the courage and generosity to reveal his frailties to me, my slavish devotion to him would have become just as dangerous as my slavish devotion to my father. Layle saved me from that."

They were halfway down the corridor now. Weldon stopped at a door, unlocked it, and pushed it open.

His living quarters were dark, and it took him a moment to find the matches and to light the oil lamp. In the lighted world, some households were beginning to use gas lamps, but such lamps would have been far too dangerous within the confined spaces of the dungeon. Even oil lamps had their dangers; Weldon paused a moment to do his twice daily check that the vents to the ducts remained unblocked. He had never found the vents obscured, but he always checked, having known one of the outer dungeon dwellers who died from bad fumes when a careless maid moved a trunk in front of the dwellers' vent.

He found himself looking critically at the room when he finished. This being a home with no windows, the oil lamps' soot lay twice as thick upon the walls as it would have in a home in the lighted world. He had become resigned long ago to the fact that no amount of energetic scrubbing by the outer dungeon's maids could keep his cell as clean as his parents' home had been. He could only hope that his cell did not look too dingy to a child. He switched his gaze to Zenas to check whether the boy Seemed disappointed.

Zenas was not looking at the dirt, nor at anything else in the living area. His gaze was fixed upon the curtain to the alcove, which was open just wide enough to reveal the stuffed lion cub.

Weldon carefully drew the curtain back and waved Zenas in. Zenas approached the room cautiously, looking round at the other toys, but his eye returned to the cub. He came up close to it, and for a moment it appeared that he would touch it. Then he hastily stepped back and directed a question at Weldon.

"He wishes to know whether this room belongs to your son, and whether it is your son that you wish him to serve," explained Mr. Draper.

Weldon had to take a moment to swallow before answering. "Tell him that this room belonged to my son when he was alive. Tell him that my son died a month ago."

He could tell the moment at which the news was conveyed to Zenas, from the manner in which the boy's face grew grave. In a somber voice, Zenas said something. Mr. Draper translated, "He is grieved to hear of your great loss and wishes to know whether he might do anything for you to ease your sorrow."

Already, Weldon noticed, the boy was picking at the clasps of his shirt, but tentatively, awaiting the appropriate order. Weldon took a deep breath.

"Tell him," he said, "that I have no need for a slave, no need for a beloved in that sense." He saw Zenas's fingers flick open the first clasp as the boy heard the word chau, but Zenas halted again as Weldon continued, "Tell him that I have no need of a slave, but I have very great need of a son. Tell him that I have brought him here so that he can be my beloved son."

Mr. Draper translated rapidly. Zenas looked from Weldon to Mr. Draper, and then shook his head. He said something briefly.

The translator shrugged. "He does not believe me," he reported to Weldon. "He thinks I have misunderstood you."

Weldon sighed. "How do I tell him myself?"

It took five minutes of whispers between the two of them for Weldon to reach the point where he could produce something that vaguely resembled the old tongue. By the time he was through, he held greater respect than he had before for the translator's linguistic abilities. Coming forward to where Zenas awaited him, his fingers still resting upon his shirt clasps, Weldon said, "Zenas, I am your father. Papa tos suum, Zenas."

The hand on Zenas's clasps went suddenly still. For a minute more nothing happened, until Weldon was ready to turn to Mr. Draper and ask him what an appalling mess he had made in his attempt to speak the boy's language. Then he noticed that Zenas was biting his lip, and his chin was quivering.

Weldon reached over and took the cub, then carefully placed it in the boy's arms. Kneeling down, he said softly, "Zenas, papa tos suum."

His back was to the translator; as he spoke, he raised his hood so that Zenas could see the tears underneath. He made no attempt to hide them. This was his gift to the boy: a gift he had begun to give in the youth's cell and would give every day of his life, for as long as Zenas needed him. Whatever other follies he had committed, Weldon was determined that Zenas should know that he was a fallible man, with frailties as great as Zenas's.

The boy's breath caught. With the hand not clutching the cub, he reached out and touched one of the tears on Weldon's face. Then, in a choked voice, he said, "Ador te suum, Papa." He flung himself into Weldon's arms.

Behind them, the translator reported, "He says he loves you."

"I know," Weldon said in a low voice as he embraced Zenas. "Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Draper. I think that my son and I will be able to communicate from this time forth. I hope," he added out of customary politeness, "that I have not made you miss the Queen's speech."

"Mr. Chapman," replied the translator in a voice holding neither amusement nor contempt, "I would have missed a dozen speeches by both your Queen and my King for the opportunity to have witnessed this. This will give me something appropriate to say when I return home this summer and must listen to my family drone on about the barbarities of the Yclau."

Weldon waited until the door had shut behind the translator; then he turned his head so that he could kiss Zenas on the cheek. The boy was quiet in his arms now, and there was a smile on his face.

They were still sitting together on the floor an hour later when the door opened again, and a familiar voice said, "Weldon, you're here, aren't you? I met with the High Seeker; he spoke to me at length about your latest prisoner and said that you would be here afterwards, because he had granted you day-leave to rest after the boy's trial. I trust that you were able to save the poor child? —By all that's sacred, you must be here somewhere." Birdesmond's voice lowered to a murmur as she moved to another part of the house, searching. "I hope you're home, because I had a brawling fight with Mother this morning when I discovered she hadn't been posting my letters to you, and then I spent three hours tangled in traffic in a dusty tram. All I want to do now is take a long, cool bath and then go to bed with y— Why, what is this?"

As she spoke, Birdesmond reached the entrance to the alcove and saw Weldon and Zenas on the floor. Her hand went rapidly up to lower the face-cloth of her hood, and then just as rapidly dropped. Custom demanded that Seekers cover their faces even in the presence of a strange child, but Weldon's wife had never been one to follow custom when it went against her instincts.

Zenas twisted in Weldon's arms to look at him. "Mama?" he asked.

"Yes." Weldon nodded. "This is your mama, your mother. Go and greet her."

He gently pushed the boy onto his feet. Birdesmond, always the quicker-witted of the two of them, was already down on one knee, her skirt swept back and her arms reaching out.

Zenas walked forward cautiously, as he had when re-entering the dungeon. His gaze was fixed upon Birdesmond's face. Then he appeared to reach a decision, for he rushed into Birdesmond's arms, cub and all.

Weldon rose to his feet. When Birdesmond raised her face from Zenas's shoulders, her eyelashes sparkled with moisture. "You've been busy while I've been gone," she said softly to her husband.

"I'm afraid so." Weldon smiled back at her. "A prisoner had need of us."

. . . The Eternal Dungeon's documents record many examples of this personal assistance. As a single example, I may cite the case of the man known to history simply as Zenas.

In the many biographies written about Zenas, it is generally noted in passing that Zenas spent his early youth in the Eternal Dungeon. This is treated as a subject of little interest. Instead, the authors imply that the most important years of his life came during his childhood, when he endured great brutality as a Vovimian slave, and during his manhood, when he returned to Vovim and took on the veil of the aekae. Thus garbed, he began his mighty work as one of the prophets of Vovim, denouncing the rich and powerful. His words were said to be all the more effective because they came from a man clearly possessed with the qualities of modesty, humility, and gentleness. These qualities, accompanied by a fierce desire to bring an end to the suffering of the oppressed, proved to be a pivotal factor in the eventual downfall of the old Vovimian monarchy and the rise of the new Vovimian government, which abolished slavery and other atrocities in that land.

It is usually implied by Zenas's biographers that the prophet acquired these characteristics during his childhood, and that his time spent in the Eternal Dungeon was merely a detour on his road to greatness. Yet we may note that, while Zenas never returned to Yclau, he remained in correspondence with his adopted parents until the ends of their lives, and that he spoke often of the Eternal Dungeon as the place where "the gods taught me my future." Whether the Seekers had a part to play in the gods' teachings, Zenas did not say, but any historian of the Eternal Dungeon cannot help but be struck by the similarities between the transformation that the Eternal Dungeon sought to bring to its prisoners and the transformation that Zenas successfully brought to his native land.

Readers of this volume may wonder at this point why I have taken so wide a detour of my primary subject. The title of this volumes is "Transformation," yet most of the transformations I have described took place outside the boundaries of the Eternal Dungeon, and any connections between the Seekers and the men and women who wrought such change were important but brief.

The reason I have spent so much time dwelling on these incidents is that we must place the Seekers' work in its proper perspective. The Eternal Dungeon did not invent the concept of transformation, nor was a single man in the Eternal Dungeon responsible for the adaptation of that idea to the use of transforming the hearts and minds of prisoners. Indeed, many books have been written about the history of the term "transformation" in Yclau's native religion, a religion that long preceded the arrival of the Eternal Dungeon. To suggest that one person in the Eternal Dungeon was the sole creator of transformation is to give him more credit than he deserves.

That said, there is no doubt that a particular technique of transformation was born in the Eternal Dungeon. Unlike the other transformations I have mentioned, this technique went unnoted by the chroniclers of its time. No newspaper mentioned it; even Weldon Chapman, the contemporary historian of the Golden Age of the Eternal Dungeon, left out all mention of it in his writings.

Yet this technique of transformation would, in the long run, have as great an effect on the world as the uprisings and revolutions I have mentioned. Thanks to the documents that Weldon Chapman collected for posterity, we know the origins of this technique, and we therefore know that it was invented by a single man.

Thus it is that we must return to the tale of Layle Smith.

In the third month of 359, eight months after Zenas's arrival at the Eternal Dungeon, eighteen months after Layle Smith began to emerge from his Second Madness, and nearly three years after Layle Smith's mental instability first made itself apparent, the Codifier wrote the following words in a page of his record book: "Due to Mr. Smith's continued refusal to return to his duties in searching prisoners, I have advised the Queen that Mr. Smith should be relieved of his title as High Seeker and be required to enter into retirement."

The rest of the page is blank, like a breath being held.

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

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