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

by Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He knew at once that something was wrong. Or rather, he knew that matters had worsened, for the dining hall had been growing steadily more subdued during the past month.

  Now, though, the dining hall reminded Barrett of how the Yclau army camp had looked on the day that news arrived of a great defeat of their troops by the Vovimian soldiers. People were talking in whispers, huddling in corners, or sitting in groups at tables over untouched food.

  Barrett did not want to know the news. In the absence of Mr. Taylor – whose healing leave would end soon – it was the privilege of the senior night guard to announce to a prisoner his upcoming punishment. Barrett had done so a short while ago, in the protective presence of Mr. Phelps.

  Mr. Holloway had fallen to his knees and wept. Barrett had wanted to assure him that he would live through the ordeal, but he could not bring himself to do so. Even if Mr. Holloway survived the rack, he would endure three full days of pain beyond which any civilian could reasonably expect to endure in his life. And the end of it all would be death in any case; the evidence was so strong against Mr. Holloway that his execution was certain. Everyone who knew of the case agreed about that. The pain of the rack would provide nothing to the prisoner except an agonizing end to his life.

  Transformation, reparation, rebirth – all these goals of the Code of Seeking now seemed stale hypocrisies to Barrett.

  “Just confess!” Barrett urged him and left the prisoner to his weeping.

  He had gone in search of Mr. Taylor, hoping that the junior Seeker could provide him with some insight on what approach to take in this matter, but Elsdon Taylor had not been where he should have been at mealtime, in his living cell. Since the Seekers’ common room was currently undergoing renovation, that meant Mr. Taylor must be taking his supper in the dining hall, a room that Barrett had avoided as much as possible in recent weeks, due to the intensity of the gloomy gossip there.

  And now matters had evidently grown worse in the dungeon. Searching for an oasis of peace amidst the latest horrors awaiting him, Barrett caught sight of young Finlay Sobel, sitting at an otherwise abandoned table and scribbling diligently at his pad. With a sigh of relief, Barrett walked over to him and said lightly, “A new drawing?”

  Finlay raised his head. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, and there were dark circles under his eyes, as though he had not slept recently. Silently he showed Barrett his drawing.

  It was of a bound man, his head covered with the eyeless hood of execution. He was dangling from a noose.

  Barrett’s breath stopped, as though a prisoner had punched him in the belly. He raised his eyes from the drawing in order to return his gaze to the four-year-old. Finlay said, in a voice that shook, “Did he die right away from a broken neck? Or was he strangled? I wasn’t sure. It makes a difference in how I draw the head.”

  “He died at once,” Barrett said, with more reassurance than he felt. There was talk in Yclau of replacing hangings with the death squad, because hangmen did not receive the same level of training they had in the past. Too many hangings went awry.

  Finlay nodded, apparently satisfied. Taking the drawing back, he began altering the angle of the head so that it was clear that the neck was broken. Barrett looked round the room. He told himself he was trying to catch sight of Mr. Sobel, who would assuredly want to know of this latest development in his son’s artistic career. In actuality, Barrett was trying to catch sight of another man who ought to be here at this time of day.

  Elsdon Taylor was nowhere in sight.

  Then he saw something that made him forget Mr. Sobel, Finlay, and the dead man recorded in smudged charcoal. He hurried forward, just in time to hear Mr. Crofford emit a sob.

  “Mr. Crofford, what is wrong?” he asked, keeping his voice low, though all of the people at the neighboring tables seemed wholly absorbed in the news.

  Mr. Crofford lifted his face from his palms. His eyelashes and cheeks were soaked with tears. “I didn’t know,” he said in a strangled voice. “I never would have reported him if I’d known.”

  Barrett’s limbs turned heavy as an iron foundry’s hearth. He sat down abruptly, turning his attention to Mr. Urman, who was standing beside the table, his hands formed into fists, as though he might have to fight someone at any moment. Barrett said, “Mr. Ferris?”

  “Of course,” Mr. Urman responded, bitterness like bile on his tongue. “Who else? The man who helped to train Layle Smith. The man who openly expressed his admiration for the High Seeker. A perfect victim for Layle Smith’s sadism.”

  “Sweet blood,” Barrett said softly. He thought an oath was forgivable under such circumstances, though he was struggling to hide his relief. Mr. Taylor had escaped the worst, but Mr. Urman was right: for Layle Smith to have executed the oldest Seeker in the dungeon was very bad news indeed.

  “I thought he would show Mr. Ferris mercy!” Mr. Crofford cried, laying his hands flat on the table as though he were a prisoner about to be cuffed. “It was only a matter of ten lashes’ difference between what the Code required and what he did. How could I have known that he would kill Mr. Ferris over so small a matter?”

  Heads were beginning to turn now, attracted by the hysteria in Mr. Crofford’s voice. Barrett doubted that anyone had been giving great consideration to Mr. Crofford’s role in this, but that might change if the young guard continued to berate himself in public.

  Acting on impulse, Barrett reached out and placed his palm over the back of Mr. Crofford’s right hand. It was clammy. As Mr. Crofford turned startled eyes toward him, Barrett said quietly and firmly, “It’s not your fault. You did what the Code required of you; it is the High Seeker’s judgment that is at fault, and no one will blame you for what has happened. Not in my hearing.”

  The last words tumbled off his tongue without thought; only when he saw Mr. Crofford’s face change did he realize what he had said, and realize the implications of his statement.

  He half expected Mr. Crofford to jerk back his hand. Instead, the younger guard searched his face, as though seeking something there.

  Barrett felt something stir within him then, in the same manner that it had stirred when he had imagined Finlay as a youth. He opened his mouth and found that he could not speak. Feeling Mr. Crofford’s hand move, he began to draw back, only to find his hand gripped by Mr. Crofford’s.

  The other guard had begun to blush, but as Barrett might have expected from what he knew of the man, Mr. Crofford did not look away. Shy Mr. Crofford might be, but he had never sought to escape from the consequences of decisions he made. Barrett felt another stirring, and this time it was on the exterior part of his body.

  He was not sure how long this lasted, their moment of joined hands and eyes, before Mr. Urman, predictably, commented in an irritated voice, “If you two are through doing eye-latch with each other like two long-lost love-mates . . .”

  Barrett half expected Mr. Crofford to blush harder; instead, Mr. Crofford bit his lip, as though suppressing a laugh. Giving him a quick smile, Barrett released his hand and said, without looking in Mr. Urman’s direction, “Or just-found love-mates. Mr. Crofford—” He hesitated.

  “Clifford,” the other guard offered, the shyness returned to his voice.

  “Clifford, how did this happen? Did Mr. Ferris try to hide his Code-breaking from you and his senior-most guard?”

  Clifford Crofford shook his head, using a napkin to blow away the results of his weeping. “I don’t suppose he thought he needed to,” the guard said in a low, level voice that caused the remaining eavesdroppers to turn away in disinterest. “It mustn’t have seemed to him a serious enough matter to be reported to the Codifier. He just thought the prisoner’s insolence was great enough to warrant ten extra lashes—”

  “Extra lashes?” Barrett said, struggling to keep his voice quiet. “You mean Mr. Ferris punished his prisoner more than the Code requires?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door to the nearby water closet open and Mr. S
obel emerged. The dungeon’s senior-most guard carefully closed the door behind him and then turned over the sign that said, “Under repairs.” The people waiting in a queue for use of the water closet responded with groans, but only lightly; everyone had more weighty matters in mind.

  “Oh, yes, that’s what everyone will say,” Mr. Urman replied, rage full in his voice. “‘Mr. Ferris abused a prisoner, so he deserved to die.’ Mr. Boyd, don’t you see that you and the others are snatching at the High Seeker’s lure? He’ll start with killing a Seeker who has given ten extra lashes. Then, when everyone has meekly accepted that injustice, he’ll go after the Seekers who give ten fewer lashes. Your Seeker will be next, Mr. Boyd, you mark my words.”

  “Well . . .” said Barrett, unable to think of a way to counter Mr. Urman’s prediction without revealing his own worries. With relief, he saw Mr. Smith’s senior night guard walk a few steps forward and join them. “What do you think, Mr. Sobel?” he asked. “Is this the beginning of the end for the Eternal Dungeon?”

  He regretted his remark the moment he saw the way in which the lines of worry deepened in Mr. Sobel’s face. No doubt many people had been badgering Mr. Sobel to produce a statement about what had happened. He deserved better from his friends.

  All that the other guard said, though, was, “I can’t judge that.” His gaze drifted back to the water closet.

  “Bloody blades, Mr. Sobel!” cried Mr. Urman in so loud a voice that heads turned throughout the dining hall. “You were the one who named Layle Smith as Hell!”

  Mr. Sobel said nothing. He seemed frozen in place, like an ancient monument. Following his gaze, Barrett saw the High Seeker, newly emerged from the water closet, looking at the guard who had apparently just betrayed him.

  The High Seeker was the one who broke eye contact first. He turned away, walking swiftly toward the dining-hall entrance while the dungeon dwellers silently parted to make way for him, as they might for a hangman. He was gone before Barrett had drawn his next breath.

  “Sweet blood,” said Mr. Sobel in a strangled voice, and then he was gone too, running to catch up with the High Seeker, who was now making his way alone from the field where he had lost the battle of opinion.

  “Well,” said Mr. Urman, his voice suddenly defensive, “he didn’t have to be so rude as to run right off like that.”

  Mr. Barrett would have ignored this remark on any other occasion. Suddenly, though, he felt sick at himself for all the ignoring he had done. By not acting against Mr. Urman before now, he had doubled the burden of the finest, most generous guard in the dungeon. Moreover, he had allowed a possible break to occur between Mr. Sobel and Layle Smith – who, whatever other punishments he deserved, did not deserve to be left with the false impression that his closest remaining supporter had become his enemy.

  Barrett rose slowly to his feet. “Sit,” he told Mr. Urman.

  “Why the bloody blades should I—?”

  “Sit,” he repeated, in a voice that snapped like a whip. Mr. Urman sat down, his face truculent. Barrett leaned over him. “Mr. Urman,” he said slowly, “you have a foul mouth, a foul mind, and a penchant for making trouble with both of the above. I can’t cleanse your mind, but if you ever again speak to a senior member of this dungeon in the manner that you just spoke to Mr. Sobel, I will personally take you to the guardroom and, with the High Seeker’s permission, I will give you the worst beating you have ever received in your life. Are you clear as to my intentions, Mr. Urman?”

  The truculence faded to wariness, accompanied by a sliver of fear. Mr. Urman nodded.

  Barrett turned away, his thoughts travelling beyond Mr. Urman and all that had occurred at this table. There were things that needed to be done in this dungeon, and he strongly suspected that he was the only guard left who could do them.

  As he stepped toward the door, he caught sight of Clifford Crofford rising to his feet, confusion on his face. Barrett remembered then, but he did not turn back.

  o—o—o

  The stillest hour in the Eternal Dungeon was at sunset during the summer. All but a few of the laborers had left for the day, most of the day shift had gone to bed, and the night shift was at its work.

  Barrett was at his work, but not in the usual way. Following time-honored dungeon tradition, the High Seeker was excused from duty until two night shifts after the execution of his prisoner. Elsdon Taylor, having successfully pled for an extension to his healing leave, was not scheduled to return to duty until the following month. Now, as the sun dimmed and the room grew dark, the two men sat at a table in the empty common room, talking in low voices.

  Barrett, leaning against a wall, was facing them. Mr. Sobel was not; he was facing the room’s single door. Barrett knew, without having to ask, that his own job was to keep an eye out for any unlikely danger that might approach the High Seeker from the other end of the room. He had figured out by now that Mr. Sobel was shadowing the High Seeker, and he could guess why. But for now, the greatest danger in the dungeon lay in the soft conversation between the two Seekers.

  Hearing a word or two of what was spoken between them, Barrett said quietly, “It sounds as though they are reaching a compromise.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” Mr. Sobel, his body turned in the direction of Barrett, kept his eye on the door rather than Barrett.

  “So no more fiery speeches from Mr. Taylor?” Barrett suggested.

  “They couldn’t continue the way they were going. The High Seeker would have had to take action against Mr. Taylor.”

  And Elsdon Taylor, it seemed, cared more for the High Seeker’s good opinion of him than for his own principles. Barrett shifted uneasily.

  “Not an easy choice,” reflected Mr. Sobel.

  “Choosing between Mr. Smith and the prisoners?” Barrett tried to keep his voice blank of all bitterness, but Mr. Sobel’s gaze flicked his way briefly before settling back on its watch, like a lighthouse keeper straining to see a ship that it expects to crash into the shoals.

  Mr. Sobel said, “I had heard that you urged Mr. Taylor to make his peace with the High Seeker.”

  After a moment’s reflection, Barrett sighed heavily. “Yes. I know that he’s making the best choice he can. But I had expected . . . I had hoped that other Seekers would step up to take his place in speaking out against Mr. Smith’s policy.”

  “No,” said Mr. Sobel. Then he added, “Three guards have turned in their resignations.”

  “Is that the only choice we have? To resign our jobs or to resign ourselves to the High Seeker’s policy?” Barrett strained to keep his voice low; he could still hear an occasional soft word between the Seekers. Layle Smith reached out and briefly, lightly touched Mr. Taylor’s hands before withdrawing again.

  Mr. Sobel’s gaze lingered longer on Barrett this time. “You’ve been considering resigning.”

  Barrett nodded slowly. “I’ve been considering it for the past month. I was just on the point of turning in my resignation when this happened. . . .” His voice trailed off. He could barely see the Seekers now; no sunlight came now through the translucent stone in the ceiling, only cold moonlight, and nobody in the room had moved to light the lamps.

  “I’d have thought Mr. Ferris’s hanging would have been the final sprinkling of the death-ashes for you,” Mr. Sobel remarked.

  “It would have been . . . if I hadn’t remembered that Mr. Taylor can’t leave here. Even if he resigned as a Seeker, he would still be eternally confined to the dungeon for life, because of his oath of eternal commitment.”

  “You’re a guard,” Mr. Sobel pointed out. “You have the right to leave here.”

  Barrett shook his head wordlessly.

  Mr. Sobel gave a small smile. “No, I didn’t think you were the type to leave a mess for other men to clean up. But what will you do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  There was a long silence, unbroken even by the Seekers’ voices; they had evidently travelled beyond need of words. The dungeon was still, li
ke an old man dying, or like an unborn child. The room was cobwebbed in darkness. Barrett turned, found the wall-lamp and matches by groping, and spent a minute lighting the oil.

  When he turned back, he found that Mr. Sobel was watching him. The High Seeker’s senior night guard began to speak; then he changed his mind, and they passed the rest of the time in silence.

  o—o—o

  o—o—o

  . . . The reason for this is that the dispute in the Eternal Dungeon in 360 was not over physical punishment at all: it was over whether a man could be forced against his will to hold opinions he believed false. In a word, the dispute was over whether the use of force as a means for psychological transformation stripped prisoners of their humanity.

  The first person to voice this opinion – in 356, four whole years before the crisis began in the Eternal Dungeon – was Elsdon Taylor. Ironically, the junior Seeker claimed to have arrived at this opinion as a result of speaking to a Vovimian torturer: the very man who had trained Layle Smith in the Hidden Dungeon.

  The seeds of this change in worldview had been planted by Layle Smith himself, in his fifth revision of the Code of Seeking, in which he had urged Seekers to use alternative means of persuasion before resorting to torture. Yet it took Elsdon Taylor a very long time to recruit any other members of the Eternal Dungeon to his belief that force is never a legitimate means by which to transform a man’s soul. So longstanding was the belief that force is a proper way by which to change men’s minds that four entire years passed before any other members of the dungeon began to tentatively entertain the idea that perhaps, if they wished to transform the prisoners’ souls, they should not place the prisoners on racks and threaten to stretch them unless they held the same viewpoints as the Seekers held.

  Elsdon Taylor’s senior-most guard at this time, Barrett Boyd, was the first senior guard in the dungeon to speak out publicly against torture in 360. Yet even he seemed reluctant to conclude that the use of force as a means of persuasion strips a man of his humanity.

  The irony of this fact was not lost on later observers.

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

  On Guard 8

  TESTING

  Seward Sobel

  The year 360, the tenth month. (The year 1881 Fallow by the Old Calendar.)

  Codifier’s office: Usually refers to the small cavern west of the entry hall. Sometimes refers also to the antechamber preceding it, which is the province of the Codifier’s secretary. The High Seeker’s powers traditionally end at the entrance to the Codifier’s rooms.

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