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Transformation 2

TWISTS AND TURNS

Dusk Peterson

If one were to believe the popular ballads sung about the High Seeker, he spent the first thirty-six years of his life dealing death and destruction at every hand, reached the peak of his infamy by entering into madness (at which time, according to some of the more bizarre ballads, he proceeded to slaughter all the prisoners under his care in the Eternal Dungeon), and then, overnight, turned into a sane and happy man, spending the remainder of his life in unbroken peace.

Of course, the truth is far more complex. For all of his recorded life, Layle Smith struggled with mental illness, and just nine months after he emerged from a brief spell of utter madness, he once again found that the future of his sanity was in question.

We have more information about this second brush with madness than we do about the first. We know that its direct cause was the arrival of the first female Seeker at the Eternal Dungeon, an arrival that apparently broke the High Seeker's painfully regained mental strength and plunged him back into danger of losing his mind.

The true tale of the Eternal Dungeon, unlike the ballads written about that place, is full of unexpected twists and turns. For it was at this juncture in the history of Yclau's dungeon that a fateful meeting occurred which would change the future of the queendom of Yclau. . . .

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

CHAPTER ONE

The office had a waterfall. That was what most visitors found striking about the Codifier's office: it had a natural waterfall that ran down the far side of the room, collected in a pool that reflected the stalactites hanging from the ceiling like dragons' teeth, and then disappeared down some hidden hole in its depths. If you looked carefully, you could see tiny, transparent creatures swimming in the water – creatures that had lived in the underground cave for so long that they had lost all color. How they were able to see to know where to swim, no one who visited the Codifier's office had been able to figure out, for their eyes, if any, were hidden. "Hooded Seekers" they had been tagged long ago.

So most visitors were struck by the waterfall. Weldon Chapman was not. He was struck by the presence of the door.

He tried not to stare too hard at it. Most visitors to this room never guessed what it was: it looked like the door to a great bank vault, and it operated much like one, opening by means of mechanics. It was virtually the only piece of machinery, other than the racks, that was housed in the damp Eternal Dungeon, and it was a miracle that it had not rusted long ago. Yet it continued to work, and Weldon, despite himself, found his eyes drifting over to the ceiling-high water-clock in the corner of the room, which marked the hours between dawn and dusk.

Then he forced his gaze away from this as well. The doorways that led to this room were nearly as heavily guarded as the main exit from the dungeon; Weldon had passed through two sets of guards to reach here. Even so, at this time of day the office would usually be deserted but for its owner and his trusted secretary in the adjoining room. That three other men were permitted to sit here now was a measure of the Codifier's trust in them.

The presence of the eldest man was perhaps not a sign of trust but simply an acknowledgment that he, unlike the other two guests in the room, was permitted to walk through that door. His hair was grey, and he had mutton-chop whiskers, the traditional appearance of a healer. At the moment, he was frowning.

"'When will he be well?'" he repeated in a loud voice. "Bloody blades, man, shouldn't you be asking me whether he will be well?"

Weldon glanced at the Codifier. Had he received this response from any other member of the dungeon, however exalted in title, the Codifier would have promptly melted that person with a fierceness as heated as the dragon he was rumored to have once been. It seemed, however, that he accepted a healer's right to be eccentric. The Codifier's hands remained folded calmly on his desk as he said in a voice so mild that it was almost hid by the harsh whisper of the waterfall, "Will he get well, then?"

"Ask the fates!" shot back Mr. Bergsen, the dungeon's healer. "They have a better idea than I do. In all my lifetime, I've never dealt with a case this bad."

Weldon threw a worried look at the youngest guest in the room, who was staring at the water rushing its way down the wall. It was a sign of great trust that the Codifier would permit this young man to sit in this room at this time of day. Weldon doubted, though, that Elsdon Taylor had given any thought to the honor, and that in itself explained why the junior Seeker was permitted here. His mind and his heart were so manifestly bound to one person in the Eternal Dungeon that there was no chance he was even contemplating the possibilities inherent in that door.

Elsdon appeared not to have heard the healer's words. He continued to stare blankly at the waterfall.

"It would help," the Codifier suggested with just the barest hint of a dragon biting down on its meal, "if you could provide more details on the illness. Is it the same as last time?"

Mr. Bergsen shook his head. He looked angry, as any healer might be who was faced with an illness he could not cure. "The dreamings are different this time. They are all of women. We know the reason for that." He turned his face toward Weldon, his brows drawn low over his eyes.

Weldon forced himself to relax. Unlike the furious whispers he had heard amongst other dungeon inhabitants during the past six weeks, the healer's words were not an accusation; they were simply the recital of a fact known by everyone in this office. Weldon found himself thankful, though, that the dungeon's newest Seeker-in-Training had not been invited to this meeting.

"All of women," Mr. Bergsen went on. "Women being raped, or mutilated, or screaming from hooks in the ceiling – do you really want me to detail the various ways that the High Seeker has contemplated destroying women in his dreamings?"

"That will not be necessary." The Codifier's voice was brisk and businesslike, though Weldon had seen Elsdon grow tense. Perhaps he was listening after all. Or perhaps he was simply contemplating the situation.

"And his dreamings are taking over his mind, as they did last year?" the Codifier persisted.

Mr. Bergsen shook his head. "No, the High Seeker has managed to keep them at bay this time. During the daytime, at least; no man can control what his mind does at night."

The Codifier raised one thin, sand-colored eyebrow. "Then I fail to see the problem."

Mr. Bergsen looked as though he were a coal-gas balloon that had inflated too much and was in danger of bursting. "The problem? The problem? The problem, Mr. Daniels, is that it is taking every last ounce of the High Seeker's strength to push back the dreamings. He has no energy left to do the simplest tasks, whether that task be to pick up a chamber-pot or to walk across the room. He would starve to death if he didn't have others to feed him!"

The Codifier accepted this news without change of expression. He switched his gaze to the third guest in the office: the man in charge of the inner dungeon's day shift, a Seeker whose seniority was second only to the High Seeker's. "You have been helping care for the High Seeker, Mr. Chapman," he said. "Is this your assessment of the situation as well?"

"It is hard for me to tell, sir," Weldon replied. "Mr. Smith has not been able to make himself understood to anyone other than Mr. Taylor for a fortnight now. He has stopped even trying to speak to the rest of us during the past two days."

The office was silent, and Weldon wondered whether the others were thinking what he was: that the last time the High Seeker had ceased to speak, it had been a sign that he was about to be pulled into utter madness.

"Has the High Seeker said anything that it would be useful for me to know, Mr. Taylor? . . . Mr. Taylor?"

The dragon's teeth bit, with a change in the Codifier's tone. It was clear enough a warning to bring Elsdon back into awareness, but the junior Seeker barely seemed to see the Codifier as he turned his head. "Sir, please," he said. "I ought not to be here – the High Seeker may need me . . ."

He was already halfway out of his seat. Weldon stared at him, his jaw slack. It was like watching a mouse scurry over the whiskers of a carnivore. The Codifier opened his mouth, and fire emerged. "Mr. Taylor! You will seat yourself!"

Even the healer winced. Elsdon, singed, sank slowly back into his seat, but there was a stubborn look in his eyes that did not bode well for his future. Weldon remembered the rumors he had heard, during his year as a dungeon guard, that some men entered the Codifier's office and were never seen again. It was popularly thought that the Hooded Seeker Fish ate what remained of their corpses.

The Codifier waited a moment to see whether Elsdon would make any further protest. Then he said in his usual composed voice, "Mr. Chapman, I trust that the High Seeker is being cared for at this moment?"

"His senior night guard is watching over him," Weldon replied. "Mr. Sobel has helped to care for Mr. Smith on occasion in the past, when both Mr. Taylor and I were busy."

"But never when the High Seeker was so ill! Please, sir . . ."

Elsdon's body had the tension of a prisoner who has taken one look at the rack and is desperately seeking the swiftest escape. The Codifier said imperturbably, "If the Eternal Dungeon is to continue to function – and continue to assist its prisoners – then I must have the information that will allow me to make the right decisions about Mr. Smith's future in this dungeon. Kindly remember your oath, Mr. Taylor."

This silenced the junior Seeker, as nothing else could have done. He settled fully back into the chair, his hands gripping the arm-rests so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Even with the cloth of his hood covering his face, it could be seen that his expression was one of misery.

After a minute in which the Codifier gave him a pointed look, Elsdon seemed to remember that he had been asked a question, for he said wearily, "No, he . . . he is concerned about the dungeon, of course. That is what he speaks of most of all – his concern that he has once again abandoned his duties. It's no use trying to make him think about his own health; he won't center his thoughts on himself. So instead I've been trying to make him think about . . . us. Him and me."

"You're perfectly right," said Mr. Bergsen gruffly. "Make him remember his love-bond with you, and that will keep him from losing touch with this world."

The Codifier picked up a pen, rolled it between his fingers for a moment, and said, with the finality of a magistrate about to pass judgment, "Do you have anything else you wish to add, Mr. Taylor?"

Elsdon looked as though he would have liked to speak, but he said nothing. Weldon felt pity enter himself as he watched the High Seeker's love-mate. It must be like waiting to see whether your loved one would be hanged. If the Codifier ruled that the High Seeker's renewed illness and long absence from searching prisoners was grounds to remove him from his work as a Seeker . . . Every man in this room knew that it would be a sentence of death to take that from Layle Smith. Yet, as always, the best interests of the prisoners came first. And the Codifier was the man who, in the end, must decide what was in their interests. He was the prisoners' advocate.

Weldon looked over at Mr. Bergsen. A word or two from the healer that Layle showed signs of reaching the end of his illness would be all the Codifier needed to delay making a decision. But the healer glared at the fish in the pool at his feet.

The room was silent but for the rushing of water in the fall. Even the soft, steady drops of the water clock could not be heard over the fall's plunging progress.

Then Weldon heard a clank, followed by a rapid series of clicks and a groan of metal. He turned his head, his breath pressing against the back of his throat. The locking mechanism of the door, having sensed the arrival of dusk, had acted accordingly, and the mighty door was swinging open to the lighted world.

He could not tear his eyes from the scene that opened to him, though the approaching night cast grey shadows over the small portion of the world that could be seen from his seat. The mouth of the cave opened out to woodland at the foot of the cavernous mount on which the Queen's palace was housed. Though the fenced park ended not far from here, giving way to crowded city streets, he thought he could catch sight of a few brown leaves on the ground that betokened autumn. Weldon had forgotten that it was autumn. He marked his reports each day with the date, but he had forgotten that autumn meant falling leaves. He wondered what else he had forgotten about the lighted world.

Despite the magnetic pull of the outdoors scene, he found himself glancing at the others in the office. Mr. Bergsen, who lived in the Eternal Dungeon but visited the lighted world periodically, seemed unmoved by the display before him. He had taken out his notes on Layle Smith's case and was thumbing through them, as though he might find the path to Layle's sanity there. What was more surprising was that Elsdon was not looking at the view. True, he had been confined within the Eternal Dungeon for only two years, but he was twenty, at an age when such confinement cut most keenly. Yet he seemed indifferent to the spectacle before him; he had returned to contemplating the waterfall.

The Codifier put down his pen and stood up. He walked to the cave mouth. He placed his hand on the great, yard-thick door, which was so beautifully balanced on its hinges that it swung in either direction at a man's touch. Weldon held his breath, waiting to see what words the Codifier would speak before he stepped through that doorway and returned home for his night's rest.

But Mr. Daniels simply pushed the door shut. Long ago, Weldon knew, this had been the only entrance to and from the Eternal Dungeon. Though two other entrances had been cut to the cave since then, Weldon felt as though he were witnessing the end of his final chance to re-enter the lighted world.

Except that he had never planned to walk through that door. That was why he was trusted enough to sit here. That was why any Seeker might be permitted to sit here at this time of day, though no other prisoner could be trusted that far.

The Codifier did not close the door completely; he left it ajar and returned to his seat. If he was aware that the sight of the cracked door behind him was maddeningly enticing, he gave no sign of it as he looked over at Weldon. "Mr. Chapman," he said, "do you have anything to add?"

"I have a message from my Seeker-in-Training, sir," Weldon replied. "Mistress Birdesmond asked me to let you know that she is willing to take leave from her training and live in the outer dungeon for a space of time if that would be of help to the High Seeker."

Mr. Bergsen growled in his throat, though whether with approval or disapproval was not clear. Elsdon showed slight signs of being aware of his surroundings again.

"Yes," said the Codifier, pulling a piece of paper in front of him. "I have received a letter concerning that subject from Mistress Birdesmond. She assures me that she accepts the healer's assessment that she is in no danger from Mr. Smith. However, in light of the importance of the High Seeker's health to this dungeon, she has offered to abort her training as a Seeker and return to the lighted world."

Elsdon's head snapped round; Mr. Bergsen leaned forward in his seat. Weldon, feeling as though a prisoner had just brought the heavy stone of a sleeping bench down upon his head, started to speak, and then bit his lip.

It was Elsdon who broke the silence, saying, "Mr. Daniels, I do not believe that would assist the High Seeker. He is already crushed by guilt at the trouble his illness has brought to the Eternal Dungeon. If he learned that a new Seeker had left before taking her oath, simply because of his illness, then that news might be the lash that destroyed his mind."

The Codifier nodded. "In any case, I believe that it would set a poor precedent to allow the health of one Seeker to determine whether another Seeker was permitted to finish her training. Mr. Chapman, the training is proceeding well?"

"I am not the most unbiased observer, sir," Weldon said slowly, "but Mr. Smith, before this latest phase of the illness took hold of him, seemed pleased by Mistress Birdesmond's progress. He said he saw no reason why she should not complete her training."

"And leaving aside the situation with Mr. Smith's illness, Mistress Birdesmond still wishes to make her oath of eternal confinement at the end of her training period?"

"She is fully committed, sir," Weldon replied firmly.

"Hmm." The Codifier tapped his pen upon the side of his inkwell for a minute, staring down at the papers in front of him. Elsdon stirred in his seat and looked toward the door – not the yard-thick door, still tantalizingly ajar, but the door leading back to the inner dungeon and to the High Seeker's cell.

"Mr. Chapman," said the Codifier with such abruptness that everyone in the room could be heard catching their breaths. "At the time that Mistress Birdesmond began her training, she and you requested my ruling on whether Seekers might be permitted to marry one another."

Weldon had the amusement, then, of seeing Elsdon's body jerk with shock, in such a manner as Weldon had not seen the young man react since his earliest months in the dungeon. The healer looked unsurprised. Weldon and Birdesmond had already consulted him concerning certain matters to which he alone could provide the answers.

Weldon cleared his throat, which had suddenly become clogged. "Yes, sir. You said that you would need to consult with the Queen and with the High Seeker to determine whether such an action was acceptable under the Code of Seeking."

Still tapping his pen, the Codifier nodded. "I have since spoken with the Queen, and while I did not have the opportunity to speak to Mr. Smith about this before his present illness, on the day before he took leave from his supervisory duties he sent me the research notes he had prepared back in the days when he revised the Code of Seeking, giving his reasons for permitting Seekers to form love-bonds with one another. I doubt that was a coincidence." The Codifier's voice turned dry.

Weldon could see from the look in Elsdon's eyes that the junior Seeker was smiling under his hood. It was well known that the only person in the Eternal Dungeon who was more keen-eyed than the Codifier was the High Seeker. Weldon, now feeling as though the entire dungeon had walked in on him while he was kissing Birdesmond, cleared his throat again and asked, "Have you made your decision, sir?"

"The Queen and I are in firm agreement that it would be inappropriate for Mistress Birdesmond to become your love-mate." The Codifier's voice was flat. "We have always discouraged love-bonds between male and female workers in the outer dungeon, believing that such informal agreements do not provide a firm enough framework for a family, should children be conceived. However," he added as Weldon opened his mouth, "we see no such objections to a marriage. We have certain concerns that will need to be addressed, but the Queen agrees with me that the principles of the Code permit Seekers to marry one another."

Weldon felt as weak as a newborn lamb. Before he could gather his wits to thank the Codifier, Mr. Daniels asked, "And if you should have children?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Weldon saw that Mr. Bergsen was now rummaging through his work-bag, inspecting the instruments there. This was wise; the healer's face always revealed too much. Grateful that his hood hid his own naked expression, Weldon replied, "Only the fates can say whether we will have a family, sir."

"I am aware of that fact, Mr. Chapman." Suddenly the dragon's teeth were there again, shown in warning. "What I wish to know is what steps Mistress Birdesmond plans to take if she should find herself with child. Will she give suck to the infant while she is searching her prisoners?"

Elsdon did not smile this time; Weldon was grateful for that. He himself was slow to anger, a characteristic that aided him in his work with sarcastic prisoners, but he could feel the low burn of his temper. He and Birdesmond had known that she, as the first female Seeker, would bear the brunt of the ridicule that would inevitably be directed toward the first married Seekers. He had hoped, however, that this ridicule would not come from those who were in a position of authority over her.

"No, sir," replied Weldon curtly. "Mistress Birdesmond recognizes that her oath as a Seeker will require her to place the best interests of the prisoners first. She does not believe that it would be in the best interests of the prisoners for her to search them while she is with child, or before the child is weaned. Therefore, she will request healing leave during that period."

There was a deathlike silence. Weldon added, somewhat desperately, "I realize that such extended leave has little precedent—"

The Codifier seemed to have lost interest in what he was saying. He switched his gaze away and said, "Mr. Taylor?"

Turning his head, Weldon saw, with a certain ruefulness, that the junior Seeker already knew what question was on the Codifier's mind, and was musing upon it.

His consideration was brief. "Yes, sir. Since Mistress Birdesmond would have taken this step in any case, I'm sure that the High Seeker would have no objections."

"Good." The Codifier carefully laid his pen down onto the table. "Mr. Chapman, you may tell Mistress Birdesmond that I approve her earlier request for leave from her training. I will ask the Record-keeper to reassign her to a cell in the outer dungeon. Once that is done, and the appropriate rites have taken place, you are welcome to move into that cell."

Weldon realized he was gaping like one of the Hooded Seeker Fish, and he shut his mouth. Elsdon's eyes were smiling again, while the healer was openly grinning. Finally Weldon said weakly, "But sir, she has not yet made her oath."

The Codifier nodded. He was now straightening the pile of papers on his desk that required no straightening. "Under ordinary circumstances, I would require that Mistress Birdesmond have already completed her training and given her oath, but the circumstances are unusual. In all other respects, however, regulations will be abided by. Because of your seniority, you may receive three months' leave to honor your wedding, and I will grant your new wife the same amount of leave. And I would like to suggest, Mr. Chapman," the Codifier said, leaning over his desk, "that it would be extremely convenient for this dungeon if, by the end of that time, Mistress Birdesmond should find herself with child."

In the silence that followed, Weldon could hear the low whistle of wind through the open doorway. He cleared his throat before saying, "Mistress Birdesmond and I will do our best, sir."

The healer looked quickly away again, but there was a flicker in Elsdon's eyes, and Weldon realized, with a clenching of his heart, that the junior Seeker had guessed certain facts that Weldon and Birdesmond had agreed they ought not to share with the world.

Then he reminded himself that any secrets of his that Elsdon Taylor held were as tightly locked behind the junior Seeker's lips as the Eternal Dungeon's prisoners were in their cells. Weldon took a deep breath to settle himself as the Codifier opened a drawer to place his pen inside.

"Very well," Mr. Daniels said. "I will inform the Queen that a delay should be made on deciding Mr. Smith's future until it can be determined whether this change has a positive effect on his health."

Elsdon's sigh was audible. Weldon looked over at the healer, but his heart grew heavy as he saw the continued gravity on the healer's face. No guarantee of recovery, then, not even with Birdesmond gone from the inner dungeon.

The Codifier seemed to share Mr. Bergsen's assessment, for as he rose from his desk he said, "I must tell all of you that I take very seriously the fact that Mr. Smith has now been absent from his regular duties for a full year and shows no signs of ever being able to return to searching prisoners. This would be a serious enough matter if Mr. Smith were an ordinary Seeker, but this dungeon cannot continue to function without a High Seeker. I therefore regret to inform you that, if Mr. Smith does not show signs of improvement during the next few weeks, or at least signs that his condition has stabilized, I will have no choice but to advise the Queen that the High Seeker be relieved of his title and placed in retirement due to incurable illness."

Weldon could not bear to look at Elsdon to see what the junior Seeker's eyes held. Instead he rose to his feet, saying, "I'm sure your patience will be rewarded, sir."

"Hmm." The Codifier reached for the necktie hanging over a stalagmite nearby. Like the Seekers, he wore only a shirt and trousers while working – the Eternal Dungeon had developed its own distinctive uniform over the years, based upon the small amount of clothing that prisoners throughout the queendom of Yclau were permitted to wear. But unlike the Seekers, half of Mr. Daniels's time was spent in the lighted world, and now he proceeded to don the necktie, vest, coat, hat, and gloves that ordinary high-born men were burdened with.

Elsdon was already beginning to edge toward the door leading to the inner dungeon. The Codifier, confirming to himself that his vest-pocket watch had survived another day in the damp dungeon, said without looking up, "You may remain here for the present, Mr. Taylor. I will need to speak to Mr. Smith for the next half of an hour, to tell him of my decisions."

Elsdon, his hand already on the latch, said quickly, "I should be present, sir. You may not be able to understand Mr. Smith without my assistance."

"Our discussion must be private," the Codifier said, unmoved. "Mr. Smith and I have always found ways to make ourselves understood to one another."

He walked without hurry to the door, courteously holding it open so that Mr. Bergsen could pass through. The healer left, looking as unhappy as he had been when he arrived. The Codifier followed him out, but as he passed Elsdon, he slipped something out of his pocket and placed it in Elsdon's hand, accompanying it with a murmur. Elsdon made no reply to what had been said. Once more he had gone rigid, like a pup straining on its leash.

In the last minute before Mr. Daniels closed the door, he paused to look back. "Oh, Mr. Chapman," he said. "I will be leaving today by way of the entrance to the palace, since I must speak with the Queen about this matter. I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to shut my doors when you leave."

He swept through the doorway. The guards outside, standing stiffly at alert with their whips in readiness against any skilled prisoner who managed to escape this far, did not so much as glance at the two prisoners left in the Codifier's office as they slammed the door shut.

Weldon's gaze moved, as though wrenched unwillingly, to the great door at the back of the room. Presently he discovered that he was standing beside it. He touched the door, intending to push it shut, but instead he found himself pulling it open.

A soft breeze touched him, for the first time in thirteen years. The wind was cool, but no cooler than the cave, which maintained an autumnal temperature year-round. With the breeze came the smell of smoke from city chimneys, and the smell of earth, and the smell of leaves. He barely noticed any of this.

He had grown used to the blacks and greys and whites of the Eternal Dungeon, with the occasional somber olive or russet striking his eye like a bright banner. There were richer shades of color in the outer dungeon, where the workers from the lighted world lived, but it had been several years since Weldon had visited there; all of his friends lived in the inner dungeon. Even the Seekers' common room, though separated from most of the inner dungeon, was connected to the rest of the inner dungeon by a corridor that did not cross with any outer dungeon corridor.

Blacks and greys and whites. And before him was fire in the air, a song of brilliant golds and reds. The leaf-colors were undimmed by the dusk, for the door faced west, and the setting sun was sending its light straight through the trees of the royal park. The leaves flickered in the wind, like flames upon a log. His eyes were blind with color.

"Where's the frost?"

Weldon looked over at Elsdon, who had come to stand beside him. The junior Seeker's eyes were searching the leaf-strewn ground, as though seeking something that had been lost.

It took Weldon a moment to remember. It was not merely that his memory must go further back in time than Elsdon's; this scene stunned Weldon because he had never before seen it. Unlike the high-born young man beside him, Weldon had not grown up in a district with tree-lined avenues and cross-street parks. His memories were of cobblestone roads hugging houses made of dull slate, all of them grimy from the smoke of nearby manufactories.

There had been one year in his early childhood, though, when his mother had worked as a maid in the Parkside district, and he had accompanied her to work. "Not in the evening," he said finally. "The frost only comes in the morning, after the night has been cold."

"Oh." The disappointment was deep in Elsdon's voice. Weldon wondered what happy memories the junior Seeker connected with autumn frost. Schoolday memories, no doubt.

Weldon spent a minute more staring silently upon the picture of fire and song. Then he looked over at Elsdon, who gazed back silently. Without need for words, the two of them reached forward together and pushed the door shut.

The impact of the door's closure sent a boom through the room that caused the pool to shake and the sleeping fish to scatter. Within seconds, a series of metallic clicks could be heard – the bolts of the door, sliding into place until the internal timer should signal that the morning had begun. Weldon, staring at the door where the park had been, wondered whether he would ever see the lighted world again. He thought it unlikely. There had been talk, earlier in the year, of removing this anachronistic door and replacing it with a solid wall. The plans for construction had only been halted by the High Seeker's renewed illness.

Weldon turned away from the door. Elsdon was already staring at the other door, his fingers working against each other in a nervous fashion that he had not shown even during the most painful days of his training. Weldon glanced at the water-clock in the corner, but little time had passed since the Codifier had left.

Seeking to distract Elsdon from his worries, Weldon asked, "What is it that Mr. Daniels gave you? Or is it private?"

Elsdon gave himself a slight shake, and then forced his eyes away from the door to the inner dungeon. "A letter from the lighted world. Mr. Daniels told me that, if I should want to discuss the contents of it with him, he would be available to speak to me before he left this evening."

Weldon looked down at the letter. The envelope was hidden in the shadow of Elsdon's body; all that Weldon could see was that it was carefully bound with the twine still used by some of the older inhabitants of Yclau, who had not yet learned to trust such innovations as free-post deliverers.

"How the bloody blades did he know to say that?" asked Weldon. "He hasn't opened the letter."

Elsdon gave a slight laugh. "What difference would that make, to someone like the Codifier?" He glanced down at the letter, his face showing no interest. As he brought the envelope up into the lamplight, the address became clear: it was written in spotty ink, all in capitals, with a shaky hand. "Master Elsdon Taylor," it said. "The Eternal Dunjun."

"Do you know who that's from?" Weldon asked, his curiosity perked by the boyhood title on the envelope.

Elsdon had a faint smile in his eyes as he stared down at the twined letter. "My father's carriage-driver."

Weldon raised his eyebrows. Then, remembering that Elsdon could not easily see his expression, he raised the face-cloth of his hood. "Your father's carriage-driver writes to you here?"

Elsdon nodded as he pulled up the face-cloth of his own hood, first glancing at the door to the inner dungeon to ascertain that it was still closed. "When he heard that I'd been handed over to the Eternal Dungeon, he wrote a letter to the High Seeker, threatening to lash him with his carriage-whip if any Seeker so much as touched me."

Weldon chuckled. "It must have come as a shock to him to learn that you were unharmed."

Elsdon nodded. "I couldn't tell him the full story of what had happened, of course, but I was able to assure him that I wasn't being tortured and that I was well cared for. That was enough to satisfy him. We've exchanged a few letters since then. Not many; neither of us is skilled at letter-writing. . . . It's good to know that I still have a connection with the lighted world. However small." His gaze switched back to the letter.

Weldon said nothing. He had been present on the day that Elsdon, with a mercy that amazed the older Seeker, had remained sleepless through the entire night in order to write a letter to his father with the aim of mending matters between them.

Weldon had also been present the following afternoon when the reply arrived: it consisted of nothing but an envelope filled with the tattered remains of Elsdon's letter. From the look of the fragments, it appeared that Elsdon's father had not even tried to open his son's correspondence before tearing it to pieces.

Elsdon had not spoken of his father since that time. Weldon, whose only family ties had been severed in an equally painful manner – through the violent death of his parents – felt strong empathy for Elsdon. He was not sure which was worse: losing one's family before entering the Eternal Dungeon, or remaining connected with one's family but knowing that you could never visit their home again.

Evidently seeking to escape these memories, Elsdon said, "You've been keeping secrets from me."

Weldon forced himself to smile. "Birdesmond and I thought it best not to discuss this with anyone until we had received the Codifier's ruling. So you thought I was happily reconciled to an unbonded life?"

"Well, no," said Elsdon frankly. "I knew that you loved Birdesmond, and she you. But that you should seek to change your single bed for a double bed . . . I didn't think you would do that."

Weldon, who had been responsible for part of Elsdon's training as a Seeker, knew that the young man was capable of stunning prisoners into confessions by his simple acts of candor. He thought to himself that it was unusually tactful of Elsdon not to have said, "I didn't think you could do that."

Weldon stared at the clear-bodied fish in the pool, who were continuing to swim restlessly in the water that had been disturbed by the closure of the cave door. The fall of water nearby sent endless waves rippling through the pool, distorting the fish's images and making them seem even stranger than they really were.

Beside him, Elsdon said, "I wouldn't worry, you know." As Weldon raised his eyes to see the junior Seeker's smile, Elsdon added, "I don't think there was much of that between my parents either, but they managed to have me."

Two years before, when Weldon was awaiting an appointment in the High Seeker's office, he had been nearly scared into rebirth when the High Seeker had announced his entrance by way of slamming the door shut behind him, then throwing his document-board onto his desk with such force that the solid oak table almost crumpled to pieces. Convinced that a major disaster had befallen the Eternal Dungeon – perhaps an imminent attack by the Vovimians, perhaps a decision by the Queen to abolish the Code of Seeking – Weldon had asked Layle Smith what was wrong.

In a tight voice, the High Seeker had replied, "I am searching a prisoner who is as blunt as I am subtle."

Weldon reflected that little had changed since that time. Feeling his face burn as hot as a Flame of Rebirth, Weldon turned his attention again to the cascade of water surging down the office wall. Under the lamplight, a faint rainbow could be seen in its spray, the most color he had ever witnessed in the inner dungeon. Though perhaps he had simply not noticed other signs of color here. Birdesmond had a gift for showing him things about the Eternal Dungeon he had never seen before; perhaps he should ask her about this.

Trying to bring the conversation back to its normal state, he said, "In one respect, I regret the Codifier's decision: if I marry Birdesmond now, I will have difficulty in assisting you to care for the High Seeker. You ought not to have to carry that full burden."

"Don't worry about that." The junior Seeker's voice was quiet, but his eye had drifted toward the door. Weldon glanced at the water-clock. One-sixth of an hour remained.

Weldon said slowly, "I've been of little help to you during the past few days in any case. I wish that I could be of more use."

He felt the familiar pain that accompanied this thought, and turned aside from it at once. He had come to accept, since Birdesmond's arrival, that some deficiencies in his life could never be mended. This was only one more loss he must accept.

After a moment, he saw that Elsdon was watching him steadily. "I'm sorry, Weldon," the junior Seeker said softly. "I spoke to him again about this a few weeks ago, urging him to mend his friendship with you. But then . . . Well, then the illness grew worse."

"Don't bother him with such matters," Weldon said, his voice suddenly made gruff by emotion. "As the High Seeker would say, the past is past. All of that occurred over a decade ago; it's not worth thinking about any more."

He wondered whether the time would ever come when he believed these words. He could tell from Elsdon's expression that he had not sounded convincing, so he added, "I have other matters to worry about now, such as an impending wedding." Then, seeing Elsdon's right eyebrow shoot up, he realized belatedly that his phrasing was not the proper one for a man looking forward to his wedding night. He felt his face grow flush again. He added defensively, "We have spent these weeks in much eagerness to begin sharing our lives together. Mind you," he added in concession to that raised eyebrow, "it will be an unusual marriage."

Elsdon laughed. "I've no doubt of that. You two are unusual people. Sara always said that the people who were different from the rest of the world deserved to find each other and share friendship."

Then a pained expression entered the junior Seeker's face, as it always did when he mentioned that name. Seeing that he had turned the conversation onto the wrong road again, Weldon said hastily, "You had better open that letter now, in case it really is something you need to discuss with the Codifier. He'll be gone from the dungeon in a few minutes."

Cheered by this reminder that he would be able to return soon to his love-mate, Elsdon smiled and began the painful work of undoing the twine without knife or other blade with which to assist him. Weldon was beginning to wonder whether he ought to borrow a dagger from one of the guards outside when Elsdon managed to wrench open the end of the envelope and slide out the letter within. He unfolded it and held it up to the light.

His smile faded. A moment later his face faded, the blood draining away as though he were a man who had been pulled asunder on the rack.

"Sweet blood, no," he whispered. "Not now. Please, any time but now."
 

CHAPTER TWO

The death room was bright with chatter and laughter. In one corner of the room, next to the door leading to the entrance hall, a chamber orchestra played a sprightly dance tune. A drunken couple clasped one another tightly about their waists, swaying in time to the music in a manner that elicited raised eyebrows from the older members of the room, who remembered a time when such touching was never permitted on the dance floor. Nobody interfered, though. Everyone was too busy talking and eating pastries that were being served by smartly dressed servants.

One of the servants, a young woman with her face flushed from the effort of carrying the heavy tray, paused at the window and looked out. Music was drifting into the house, but it was not the stately music of a chamber orchestra: it was ragged and raucous, the sound of untrained voices singing in the street. The young woman looked as though she would have liked to have joined the singing. But then a nearby guest called out to her, and she hurried over to offer him sweetmeats.

Yeslin, who was standing near a second doorway through which servants disappeared periodically, sympathized with the young woman. With his father's encouragement, he had spent much of the summer preparing a ballad to sing at the Autumn Commoners' Festival, when the servants of the Parkside district were released from their chores to celebrate the arrival of frost. Unlike the other commoners of this household, Yeslin had not been forbidden from attending the festival. All that kept him in this house was the thought of a man who probably did not even know he was here.

Yeslin turned his head to look. The southern half of the room, the portion facing the main entrance of the house, was crowded with elite guests, but the back half was empty but for a night-table, and a bed, and a man lying motionless on the bed. As Yeslin watched, another man detached himself from a group of guests that was laughing and made his way to the bedside. He leaned over the man, appearing to inspect him for signs of life.

Yeslin felt his stomach clench, and he forced himself to look away. The dancing couple had just come perilously close to upsetting a footman holding a tray full of champagne glasses. A few of the guests, who had shown no concern earlier at the unseemly dancing, now came forward to persuade the dancers not to destroy their refreshments. Biting his lip, Yeslin searched the crowd for a sign that at least a few of the guests were treating this occasion with sobriety. Finally he found a small group of guests – two men and three women – talking with earnest expressions on their faces. No laughter came from their part of the room. Yeslin edged forward as unobtrusively as possible.

The orchestra paused; during the interval, the words of the song outside could be clearly heard. It was The Ballad of the Dying Prisoner, which was one of Yeslin's favorites, but before he could judge whether the ballad was well rendered by its singer, the violins had started up another sprightly tune. Under the renewed cover of their notes, Yeslin walked closer to the earnest-looking guests. He could hear now what they were saying.

". . . no heirs to leave his house and business to. There was only the one son, and he's gone."

"And the daughter too."

"The son killed the daughter, did you know that?" One of the women, in a bright red gown, announced this piece of tired gossip as though unveiling a new fashion. "I saw the body after it happened – the sight was simply shocking. I had nightmares for days afterwards."

"I told you that you shouldn't have looked, sweet one," said the man beside her.

"Oh, but I had to see what had happened, didn't I? I mean, it happened right next door to us. And her father was with us when the screams started. You should have seen the look on his face!"

"I heard that, when they arrested the son, his face was as cold and remorseless as though he'd killed a dozen girls – is that so?"

"Utterly remorseless." The woman in the red gown nodded. "I saw it myself."

"I'd have described his expression as stunned," said the man beside her.

The second man gave a sharp laugh. "Stunned at his success? I'd imagine so. Not many murderers can accomplish so bloody a killing without any weapons."

"The poor man." Another of the women, wearing a gown of sparkling beads, cast a glance at the figure lying motionless on the bed. "To lose his daughter in such a way, and for the murderer to be his own son . . ."

"That's not what I heard," said the third woman abruptly. She had been busy inspecting her face with a palm-sized mirror, which she now slipped into her purse. "I heard that the girl's true murderer was her father."

Several members of the group looked instinctively around to see whether anyone was close enough to hear. All that they saw was a commoner youth kneeling down to wipe up a drink that had spilled. Reassured, they leaned in closer to listen.

In a satisfied tone, the woman with the mirror said, "I heard all about it from De Vere – he works at Parkside Prison, you know, and he attended the son's trial. The son testified that, when he was quite young, his father murdered his mother—"

"No!"

"Oh, yes. And the son said that his father used to tie him to his bed and beat him till he was bloody. And that drove the son out of his mind, and that's why he killed his sister."

"He couldn't have been as crazy as all that if he was giving testimony," the second man objected with a snort.

"Still, you never know. The kindest looking men may hold dark secrets in their lives. . . ."

Everyone turned to look at the figure lying motionless on the bed. After a moment, the woman in the red gown said, "You know, now that I think of it, the son's expression really was stunned."

"Stunned with remorse, no doubt," her husband supplied.

"Or stunned with craziness," suggested the woman with the bright beads. "Completely driven out of his mind by his father's cold-hearted abuse."

"Or the son could have lied about it all," persisted the second man, evidently relishing the role of expressing the minority viewpoint. "He could have made it all up to save his own life."

"Well, he didn't succeed, did he?" remarked the first man.

"He succeeded well enough to save himself from the hangman."

"But the magistrate gave him over to the Seekers. How long do you think prisoners survive in the Eternal Dungeon?"

The woman in the beaded gown gave a dramatic shiver. "Oh, please, let's not talk of such things."

"De Vere told me that, when the son wasn't sentenced to a hanging, his father was furious," said the woman with the mirror. "And he was only satisfied when he learned that the son would be handed over to the hooded Seekers to be tortured for the remainder of his life."

"Let's hope his life was short, then," said the woman in the red gown, who was now dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief. "Poor boy. That he should have been driven to such a terrible deed by so cruel a father . . ." She glared in the direction of the man on the bed.

"Really, you know," said the second man, "I'm not at all sure we should have come here today. He doesn't deserve our presence." He turned to take another glass of champagne from one of the passing servants.

Yeslin, putting aside the champagne glass he had picked up from the floor, took a step toward the speakers, and then felt his body yanked back with a painful jerk. Twisting his body to look, he saw that he had been hauled back by Harden Pevsner.

Mr. Pevsner was proof against the saying that face reveals character. He had bland blue eyes, and hair the color of wheat in sunlight. In this respect, he looked very much like his brother.

His hand was tight upon Yeslin's arm, though, as he hissed, "If you cannot keep from glaring at the guests, you ought not to be here."

"But they're telling lies about him!" Yeslin whispered back. "And they're dancing and laughing. . . ."

Mr. Pevsner's grip bit down yet harder as he gave a thin smile at the red-gowned woman, who was now staring with curiosity at the nearby scene. Pulling Yeslin away from the crowd, toward the western window, he waited until they were beyond hearing of the men and women before saying in a soft voice, "The death vigil is intended to give a dying person the opportunity to see his friends and neighbors for a final time – not in mourning, which would be inappropriate for a man facing his rebirth, but visiting in joy in order to remind him of the transformation he will soon undergo. I know that this is hard for you to understand, since you do not have such customs where you come from."

The words, which would have been a gentle reproof if spoken by Mr. Pevsner's brother, were voiced like a falling lash. Yeslin felt himself grow cold. He had forgotten how important it was – so very important – not to act in any way that reminded Mr. Pevsner that he did not belong in this room, but instead should be outside on the streets, where the singing continued.

Mr. Pevsner, having failed to receive a reply, opened his mouth to remonstrate further, and then jerked his gaze away toward the window. "What the bloody blazes is that man doing?" he asked.

Mr. Pevsner never swore; that was one of the more irritating aspects of him. He did not swear, but neither did he refrain from words that might convey impurity. Instead, he took a middle road, inventing words which sounded like oaths but which could not be held against him if anyone accused him of blasphemy. Thus he had the pleasure of breaking the rules without having to accept the consequences for it.

Yeslin craned his neck to look out the window. Beyond the gardens – carefully tended since Yeslin's arrival at the house the previous spring – was a white picket fence, and beyond that the sidewalk and street. The side of the street nearest the house was lined with carriages; most of the neighbors had at least taken the minimal effort to come in their less gaily painted conveyances. The carriage-drivers looked bored as they sat obediently in their seats, awaiting the return of their masters and mistresses.

One carriage-driver, though, was standing on the street beside his horse, which was not hitched to any vehicle. Unlike the other carriage-drivers, he was wearing stable-clothes, patched and muddy. He held in his hand a bucket. As Yeslin watched, the man upended the bucket, splashing water onto both his own horse and the horse of the nearest carriage. The driver of that carriage looked amused rather than angry; Yeslin heard him call out a cheery remark to the driver on the street.

"Blundering imbecile," muttered Mr. Pevsner. "He's making a spectacle of himself, and of this household. Here, go tell him to take that horse back inside."

"But—" Yeslin cast a look at the man on the bed. He could barely see the uneven rise and fall of the man's chest under the blankets.

"Go," repeated Mr. Pevsner through teeth tight around a smile he was aiming at one of the guests. He gave Yeslin a shove in the direction of the servants' door.

Yeslin felt his throat close inward, but he dared not disobey. Giving one last lingering look at the man on the bed, he left the room filled with bright chatter.

The sound of the orchestra faded as he closed the door behind him. At one time this door had led directly to the eastern portion of the yard, which had an exterior staircase leading down to the servants' basement. But soon after arriving at this house, Yeslin had noticed the difficulty that the servants experienced in carrying their loads up the front staircase in the entrance hall, for its steps were so highly polished that the servants ran a continual risk of slipping and falling to their deaths. He had explained this to his father, who had turned so pale at this information that Yeslin, for the first time, followed the impulse to reach out and take his father's hand. His father had smiled, and had then begun making plans. The outer staircase had been enclosed with walls so that it would be warm in the wintertime, and a second flight of stairs had been built to the top storey of the house. At Yeslin's suggestion, his father had also had workers install a small pump and washbasin in the stairwell, so that the servants would not need to carry up buckets from the kitchen below.

The combined sink-room and stairwell was bright with light. It had windows facing south; the wall that held the windows was slightly deeper-set than the line of the room he had just left. Yeslin found that his eye was lingering upon the near corner of the room, at a door to an enclosed area that jutted out from what had once been the outside wall of the house. It had been a shed – once filled with gardening tools, now used as a place to store mops. In the old days it had been kept locked all of the time, for the flower gardens had been much neglected since the death of the daughter who had insisted that she be their caretaker. These days, it was left open to any servant who wished to make use of it. It was opened dozens of times a day, and Yeslin himself, during his first week at the house, had made a thorough inspection of it, in the manner of a boy curious about his new home. His father, discovering him removing the shelving one day to see what lay at the back of the closet, had turned fire-red, and for a breathless moment, Yeslin had braced himself for the inevitable. Then, amazingly, his father had laughed and had encouraged him to explore the house's attic too.

That seemed a very long time ago. Yeslin turned away from both the closet and the bright windows and made his way to the far end of the stairwell, where the washbasin lay, and where a small door to the outside had been constructed.

Autumn chill crackled through the air outdoors. Yeslin – who had spent the previous winter on the streets, dressed in nothing but a thin shirt and trousers – took no notice of the cool air. His gaze had automatically risen toward the room above the stairwell. The autumn plants in the pots hanging from its windows had not yet faded from the frost; they were still cheery shades of orange and red, like a Flame of Rebirth. The eastern sun sparkled its reflection upon the window panes.

His father had let him choose his own room. "That was my son's," his father had said, his chin quivering, "and that was my daughter's." Yeslin had chosen the daughter's room, which was filled to the brim with plants that had been neglected since her death. Only later would he learn, from the servants' gossip, that he had chosen the room where the fourteen-year-old girl was murdered. Inspecting the floor closely, he had found the bloodstains where her battered body had lain motionless after the assault. Thereafter, he watered all of her plants regularly, muttering curses against the son as he did so.

Now he turned his attention back to his task, walking forward and pausing only when he reached the cornerpost of the house. Most of the guests had left their carriages here, in the ring of private pavement in front of the house. Yeslin spent a moment scrutinizing the carriage-drivers while pretending to stare at the foundation-stone of the house. The stone depicted a young servant kneeling to his master, or an obedient son kneeling to his father – Yeslin had never been sure which.

None of the carriage-drivers were familiar to him. Even before the murder, Yeslin had heard, his father had entertained few guests, preferring to reserve his time for his business and his family. Now, through the months of grieving, his father had lost all interest in the business, which was handed over to his brother for supervision. All of the housemaster's thoughts, all his hopes, all his love had gone to the one remaining member of his close family, whom he had not known existed before the previous spring.

Yeslin raised his face to gaze beyond the carriage-drivers to the great stone building lying at a distance upon a high stone mount, as though it were nothing more than an outcrop. Within the natural stone foundation upholding the palace, it was said, lay the infamous Eternal Dungeon. Prisoners were sucked into its cave mouth and eaten, never to return to the lighted world.

The palace was different. Its grounds were always alive with richly dressed men, women, and children. One dark evening during the previous winter, when the air had been so cold that Yeslin was sure that he would die before the night was through, he had stood at the back gates of the palace, pressing his face against the icy bars and trying to imagine what it was like to live among wealth. In the moonlight, he could see the ornamented windows of the palace, while in the rocky area directly behind the palace, a thin stream of smoke arose, seemingly from the rocks themselves.

The guards had chased him away then, but he had returned many times, and whenever he visited, whether during the day or during the night, he had seen the same grey smoke coming out of the ground. He could see it now, a faint blurry line against the palace.

"It's a Flame of Rebirth, no doubt," his father had said when he asked. "Even the greatest men and women of this world must die." He had smiled at Yeslin, and then his smile had turned into a hacking cough that left him breathless.

Slowly Yeslin walked round the front of the house. A few of the carriage-drivers glanced his way with curiosity, and then returned to their stare of boredom. He paused as he reached the front door and was tempted to stand on tiptoe to look through the colored glass at the serene, beautifully decorated entrance hall that his father had always allowed him to travel through, provided that he did not enter the front parlor, which was reserved for the guests that never came. Now the entrance hall was barred to him as well, by order of Mr. Pevsner, who seemed convinced that Yeslin would wreak havoc in any room he entered. Yeslin found himself wondering at what point Mr. Pevsner would feel confident enough of his power to turn the commoner boy out of the house.

He was suddenly tempted to simply open the front door. A doorbell would ring clearly through the house, the butler would come and see him, and Mr. Pevsner, learning of his disobedience, would act accordingly. Everything would be over, and he would no longer have to sleep at night with nightmares of what was to come.

But then the man on the bed would be alone. Resolutely, Yeslin turned away and made his path round to the western side of the house.

He could hear more clearly now the commoners' singing, and he began humming his own ballad – not too loudly, for Mr. Pevsner had banned all singing from the house, despite the fact that his father liked to hear music when he was ill. Yeslin had worked carefully on his song, using as its base The Ballad of the Dying Prisoner. It had always bothered him that the ballad should end with the death of the lonely prisoner. In his own version of the tale, he had engineered a rescue of the prisoner from the Eternal Dungeon, with the help of a sympathetic guard. He had struggled over the question of whether anyone would believe that a guard in the Eternal Dungeon could be sympathetic and had also spent much time trying to decide whether the prisoner and the guard should be friends, or merely love-mates. In the end, he had made them twins who had been separated at birth, one going to live with a commoner family and the other going to live with a high-born family. Not content with this innovation, he had added a second twist: rather than have the ballad be an ordinary tale about the bond of love between the prisoner and his rescuer, he had arranged for the other prisoners to rise up in revolt against their oppressors. At the end of the ballad, having slain the Seekers and regained their freedom, the prisoners and the one sympathetic guard joined together, arm and arm, to bring their mighty power to the streets of Yclau's capital, where they might free other men and women who had been treated unjustly.

It was a vision that pleased Yeslin, though he knew that it was likely to elicit laughter from many of his listeners. He smiled now as the tune thrummed in his throat, so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not notice where he was until Rab hailed him.

"Did that old gas-pipe throw you out?" the carriage-driver asked, pausing to wipe sweat from his brow with an arm that was already covered with water.

Yeslin gave a worried look back at the house. The window was still open, though he could not see whether Mr. Pevsner was near. Lowering his voice in the hopes that Rab would take the hint, he said, "Mr. Pevsner sent me to ask you to take the horse back into the stable, please."

Rab looked aghast. "The stable? How the bloody blades am I supposed to wash him there? The dirt floor will turn into a puddle of mud!"

"That's what he told me to say," replied Yeslin with a shrug. He looked round to see whether the other carriage-drivers were listening to this conversation, and found that they were.

Rab noticed this as well and scowled at the nearest carriage-driver, who grinned back. "Better learn to hold your tongue, man," the other carriage-driver said cheerfully. "I've heard tale that your new master has already turned seven servants out onto the streets."

"Six," growled Rab. "And he isn't my master."

"Seven," said Yeslin softly. "He turned out little Gillie this morning."

Rab looked as though he would roar at this news, but instead he glared at the other carriage-driver, picked up his bucket, and pulled at his horse's rein. "Come on," he told Yeslin, who began winding the nearby hose back onto its wheeled reel, pushing the reel as he went.

He left the hose reel beside the outside pipe that his father had installed the previous summer, at his suggestion, and hurried to catch up with Rab. The old man had already turned the corner into the spacious back lawn that held the vegetable gardens and the chicken coops and the stable for the carriage horses. Servants were bending over the coops, fetching eggs and occasionally glancing, as the servant-girl had, toward the Autumn Commoners' Festival, their expression wistful.

Yeslin, pausing against a vine-pole to catch his breath, looked over toward the celebration. The morning was still young, and the sun had just begun to rise over the roofs; the frost sculpture looked as fresh as it had on the previous night, when it was made. It was in the traditional shape: a circle to symbolize the turning cycle of rebirth for the old year and for the human souls who had died during the past year. Children were clustered around the ring, looking as though they would like to have touched it, but none of them dared mar the sacred symbol.

A woman broke away from the crowd of adults that was drinking and was listening to a man sing a song. She reeled her way up to the ring, gouged out a bit of the ice, and plopped it into a mug. She promptly handed the mug to the small girl she was dragging alongside her, and said something sharply to the girl. The girl looked up, but apparently she did not respond quickly enough for the woman's satisfaction. The woman, gripping the ring to keep herself from falling over, hit the girl on the head with her fist. The girl fell onto her bottom and burst into tears.

Yeslin felt his hands curl into balls. He stood motionless, willing one of the other commoners at the festival to notice and come rescue the girl, but the adults were absorbed in the singing, and the children seemed disinclined to interfere with the heavy-handed woman. The girl picked herself up and stumbled over to a nearby barrel, where she carefully filled the cup with the traditional hard cider before bringing it back to the woman. The woman gulped down the contents swiftly.

Yeslin, recollecting himself, turned away before his birth-mother should sight him. He had not expected to see her here, so far from home, but that was careless of him. His birth-mother never passed up a chance for a free drink. The only wonder was that his birth-father was not here as well.

By the time Yeslin caught up with Rab, the carriage-driver had already wiped down the horse and returned it to its stall. He was sitting now in the hayloft, chewing on the end of a bit of hay. Yeslin climbed up the ladder to join him.

As he flopped down onto his stomach beside the carriage-driver, he said, "Someone should do something."

He was not entirely sure which event he was speaking of, but Rab drew his own conclusions. "Who could?" he replied simply. "Who'd risk being turned out?"

"Manfred," Yeslin suggested.

"Oh, aye. He's mid-class; the Menservants' Guild would care for him if he lost his position without cause. But the rest of us . . . One word from any of us, and we'd be out the door, with no letter of recommendation to find us a new position." He glanced at Yeslin, half buried in the hay. "It's mighty cold on the streets in winter."

Yeslin nodded without speaking. They were both silent for a while, looking down upon the horses' stalls and watching the warm steam from the horses' mouths rise into the air. Finally Yeslin said, "He's ruining everything. The household was fine till he came along and took over."

"Mm." Rab chewed on his hay a minute before saying, "Well, it's been fine since your arrival. Before that . . . The master was mighty down before that. Needed someone like you to pull him up from his bad spirits."

Yeslin cradled his face in his arms to keep it from being scratched by the hay. "Do you think he's dead?" He did not bother to say the name. He never said the hated name.

"No," replied Rab decisively.

Yeslin raised his head to look at him. "You seem very sure."

"I know— Well, never mind what I know. I know he's not dead."

It was hardly the first time Rab had teased Yeslin with mysterious hints, and once again Yeslin had to force himself to keep from asking the questions he was sure Rab wanted him to ask. His father hated gossip.

He thought again of the murderous son. If the son was not dead, he was imprisoned, being tortured to death. And lying, perhaps? He had lied at his trial, trying to shift the blame for his murder onto his father. Would he lie to the Seekers? And if he did, would the Seekers believe him?

Suddenly restless, Yeslin half-climbed, half-slid down the ladder. Sighing, Rab followed slowly. As he did so, Yeslin said, "There ought to be a way to stop such things from happening. It happens in other households too. Servants being sent away without cause."

Rab snorted as he reached the ground. "Boy, has it taken you this long to figure that out? It happens all over the city. Dockyard workers, manufactory workers . . . any man or woman without a guild to fight for him gets turned out, and none of us can do a thing about it. It's the way things are."

"It's wrong!" cried Yeslin.

"Aye. Well, there's lots of wrongs in this world that can't be righted. Do you think we can bring back the master's daughter from death? Or the master's son from those torturers that have hold of him now?"

"He deserves to be tortured," Yeslin replied.

Rab sighed again as he leaned against the half-doors that led to the outside. "Aye, well, you can say that, but I'll tell you one thing: If the two of them were here again, the master wouldn't be dying. It's grief as much as illness has brought him to this state. I thought, when you came . . . But he wants to die. He wants to travel on to a new life, where he won't remember what happened and feel the pain of it."

Yeslin folded his arms and looked out upon the yard, and upon the street beyond, empty but for passing carriages. In a tight voice, he said, "I've tried."

He felt Rab's arm fall across his shoulders. "You've tried," the carriage-driver agreed. "And no one could have done a better job than you have. The master's not dying for want of love, that's for sure. But she was his daughter, and he . . he was the master's first-born. His heir."

Rab's voice had taken on a different note now, a more hushed sound, with a catch at the end of his sentence. Yeslin was beginning to look over at him to see what his face held when a carriage caught his eye. It had been moving swiftly, but it parked itself on the side of the street just as quickly, on the corner of their lot. The carriage had four horses rather than two, and on its top sat both a driver and a man in a soldier's uniform. Yeslin could not see who sat inside the carriage, for the window shade was drawn, but he could see the gold seal upon the carriage's black body.

"That's the royal seal!" he cried, leaning over the half-doors to see better. "I saw that seal on the gates of the palace!"

"Aye?" Rab sounded singularly unimpressed. "That'll be the prince, then. He and the master shared the same tutor when they were young; the master sometimes got invited to the palace, back in those days. The master has never forgotten the prince, after all these years." He sounded as though he thought the prince was receiving an honor by visiting here.

Yeslin was now practically falling over the doors, trying to see the inhabitant of the carriage. Rab spat out his hay to say, "You'd best go back indoors. If the prince is there, you should be by the master's side. So the prince will remember you were there, in case anything should happen after."

Yeslin stared at Rab, impressed with his quick wit. "I wouldn't dare," he said. "He's the prince."

"Last I heard, princes were mortals, like all the rest of us," said Rab in a matter-of-fact manner. "This one's an old man. Probably would appreciate seeing that your father's being cared for by a bright-eyed boy like you. Go on, make sure that barrel of wind inside doesn't take your rightful place. Let the prince know that your father values you."

Yeslin was still trying to think up arguments against Rab's absurd plan, but the carriage-driver had opened the doors and pushed him forward with as much determination as he used with his horses. Yeslin, unable to resist the idea of being in the same room as royalty, ran toward the house, past the squawking chickens and the startled servants.

Only as he reached the corner leading to the east side of the house did he look back. A man had emerged from the carriage, clothed from head to foot in royal black, but his back was to Yeslin. He was talking to the soldier, and his head was hidden by the hood of his cloak.

Reassured by this sign of the prince's generous condescension toward his inferiors, Yeslin turned and began to race back to the death room.

He slid into the room unnoticed. All was as it had been when he left: the sprightly tunes continued, the chatter remained high, and his father lay motionless on the bed. Mr. Pevsner was leaning over his father again. His mouth dry, both from the run and from the anticipation of what was to come, Yeslin began to edge his way toward the water pitcher on the nearby sideboard. But his way was suddenly blocked by a man two heads higher than himself.

"May I fetch you something, sir?" His father's butler and valet, Manfred, spoke coldly.

Yeslin, feeling his throat tighten, shook his head quickly and backed away. He had gotten along well with all of the servants since his arrival here, for he had never tried to act as though he were anything other than what he was, a commoner boy who had received the charitable hospitality of a high-born gentleman. But Mr. Pevsner, upon his arrival, had seemed determined to ensure that a wall was built between the servants and the high-born members of the household. His father had still been continuously aware of his surroundings at that time, so Yeslin had found himself on the side of the wall belonging to the household's gentlemen. Since that time, the servants' animosity toward him had risen.

More than once, Yeslin had wished he could cross back over to the side of the wall where he belonged, but his father was on this side. He looked again at his father, who was breathing deeply and taking no notice of what was happening in the room. His face seemed sunken, like that of a corpse; his hands did not move upon the bed-cloth.

The sound of a door closing snatched Yeslin's thoughts away. He turned his head and saw that Manfred, who must have left the room during the interval, had returned from the entrance hall. He walked swiftly over to Mr. Pevsner, who was still staring intently at the man on the bed, and leaned forward to speak softly in his ear.

Mr. Pevsner's face changed. He looked sharply at Manfred, who nodded to confirm whatever he had said, and then Mr. Pevsner hurried toward the door to the entrance hall, taking no further notice of Yeslin's father. The butler, without need for instructions, came forward to the crowd and began announcing the early end of the death vigil.

Yeslin ignored his speech. What he saw was more important: Mr. Pevsner was gone from the room. Moving as unobtrusively as possible, so as not to attract the attention of Manfred, Yeslin went over to his father's side. Tentatively, he reached out and touched his father's hand.

His father's eyelids flickered, then rose. The sick man stared unseeing at the ceiling for a moment, and then turned his head toward Yeslin. He smiled.

Yeslin felt a smile rise unbidden to his face. He squeezed his father's hand, all his thoughts of royalty swept away. His father continued to smile weakly at him; then he appeared to notice that some commotion was taking place elsewhere in the room.

He opened his mouth, and Yeslin leaned forward. In a rasping voice that was nearly drowned by the clatter of the departing musicians moving their instruments, his father asked, "Is he here?"

Yeslin did not have to enquire as to whom he meant; his father had asked this question many times before. "No, sir," he replied. "He hasn't come, sir."

"'Father,'" the man in the bed corrected quickly, raising his head slightly. "I told you, you're to call me 'Father.'"

Yeslin smiled again. "Father," he whispered.

His father sighed and let his head fall back onto the pillow. "He must come," he said in a faint voice as the last of the guests was ushered out. "I know he'll come. I sent a message to him."

Yeslin hesitated before asking, "Who sent the message for you, Father?"

"Why, Harden, of course. He handles all my correspondence now."

Yeslin was silent. If Mr. Pevsner had been told to send a message to the Eternal Dungeon, Yeslin was quite sure that such a message had never been delivered. It was obvious enough why it would not be in Mr. Pevsner's best interests to send the message. And Mr. Pevsner's best interests determined what events took place in this household.

Finally Yeslin said, "But he's still imprisoned, Father. He can't come here, and perhaps he can't send a message."

"Oh, he'll come." His father's voice, for all its faintness, was firm. "He's such a clever boy. He has always found ways to do things. Of course I've never told him how clever he is. That would make him prideful. But he's quite the cleverest boy you can imagine. He'll find a way to come."

Yeslin tried to think of how to respond to this, but already his father's eyelids were drifting shut. As Yeslin gently pulled his hand away, he looked up and realized that the room was empty.

He had assumed that Manfred would sweep him away when the servants were sent out, but apparently Manfred had decided that he dare not go that far without orders from Mr. Pevsner. No doubt he had gone to request such orders. Yeslin could hear Mr. Pevsner's voice now, approaching the room. Yeslin got up, backed away from the bed, and tried to figure out where he could hide himself so that he would not be removed from the room.

It was too late. The door opened, and a figure entered. It was not Mr. Pevsner; nor was it the butler. It was the figure in black, cloakless now. His head was turned toward the man on the bed, though whether his eyes were focussed on the man was difficult to tell. Yeslin could not see his eyes.

The figure in black was a hooded Seeker.
 

CHAPTER THREE

For a moment, the torturer did nothing but look down upon the man in the bed. His uniform was very plain: just black trousers and a black shirt and the black hood that covered his head. From where he stood frozen, Yeslin could see that the front part of the hood was unmarred but for two eye-holes. What lay behind these – whether anything lay behind these – Yeslin could not tell, for the Seeker stood in the shadows.

Then the Seeker walked forward with measured steps, like a guard before a funeral pyre. He reached the bed and leaned over, saying something so softly that Yeslin, just a few feet away, could not hear him.

His father's eyes flew open. He stared up at the Seeker, his face turning pale, and the torturer spoke again softly. His father's breath rushed in, and he began to choke on whatever reply he had been about to make. His hands were now clutching the bed-cloth. The Seeker waited, stooping dark over the dying man.

Suddenly, without knowing he had moved, Yeslin was beside his father. He pushed the Seeker back with a shove, shouting, "Go away! Leave my father alone!"

The Seeker took two involuntary steps back, then stopped and straightened. Close as he was, Yeslin still could not tell whether the torturer had eyes. The Seeker's eyeless gaze remained weighted upon him, crushing all breath from Yeslin's chest.

Then he felt his arms pinioned painfully behind his back, and he gave a cry. From behind him, Mr. Pevsner said breathlessly, "I'm sorry, sir. I'll see that you aren't disturbed again." He pushed Yeslin forward, so quickly that Yeslin could not see whether the Seeker turned his head to watch them go, or whether his attention had returned to the man on the bed.

Within seconds, they had reached the entrance to the stairwell. Mr. Pevsner released him, thrusting Yeslin forward as he said, "Go downstairs. Stay there."

"But—"

The door slammed closed before he could finish speaking. Yeslin heard the key turn in its lock. He stood motionless, trying to hear what was taking place beyond the door, but the room was as silent as death.

He looked behind him. The door leading to the steps to the servants' quarters was shut, and Yeslin could hear no sound from abovestairs. Evidently Manfred had been given instructions to keep everyone below until the Seeker was gone. Yeslin put his hand on the knob to the belowstairs door. Then, abruptly, he turned away and made his way over to the door of the closet.

He worked quickly, but as quietly as possible, pulling off the shelves and piling them to the side of the closet. When he was through, he carefully closed the closet door; then, groping in the dark, he pulled away the panel at the back of the old garden shed.

He often wondered whether anyone besides himself knew about the panel. Surely his father did not, or he would have spoken of it when he found Yeslin exploring the closet. Had the dead daughter known of it, perhaps? It seemed like the sort of secret that generations of this household's children would know of, and it pleased Yeslin to think of the girl using this secret entrance to sneak in and out of the house, as her fancy wished.

The hidden entrance did not lead to the death room, which until a few weeks before had been the house's dining room. Instead, the entrance led to the deserted front parlor. Yeslin, ducking his way through the panel, paused to kneel on the floor and wipe his hands free of the dirt he had acquired while removing the shelves. His way was blocked by a straight-backed piano, which stood catercorner from the rest of the furniture in the room, hiding the corner of the front parlor and the panelled entrance to the old garden shed. The dust in this corner was an inch thick; Yeslin guessed that no one had tried to move the heavy piano for years, perhaps decades. He was not sure that he could move it himself; nor had he tried to do so on the one previous occasion when he had visited this room, before his father had forbidden him to come into the front parlor. But if he could not move the piano, he could climb over it, and he was sure his father would understand why he had disobeyed orders. After all, his father's life lay in peril.

He was thinking of this, still kneeling upon the dirt and trying to formulate a plan to save his father, when he heard voices in the entrance hall. His breath halted. He looked round quickly, seeking a spy-hole from his position, but he could see none; the piano, straight-backed, rose like a wall before him.

Then he heard a door squeak, and he knew he was trapped.

Mr. Pevsner's voice said, as he entered the room, "You can see for yourself, sir, how ill my brother is. We have placed him downstairs so that he can be within easy reach of visitors, but we dare not move him again. The healer fears that my brother will die if he leaves his bed. He could in no way survive a journey to the Eternal Dungeon."

"Sir," replied the Seeker in a soft voice, "you seem to be under a misapprehension. I do not possess the power to arrest men; my duties are confined to searching prisoners who have been sent to the dungeon by the Queen or by the lesser prisons. I am not here to arrest your brother."

"I see." Mr. Pevsner's voice was closer now. Yeslin, crouching in the dust, tried to crane his neck to look up, but he could see nothing other than the ceiling, and the chandelier hanging from it, and a bit of the wall holding the hearth.

There was a clink, and then a gurgle, and Yeslin knew that Mr. Pevsner must be pouring a drink. "In that case, sir, would it be too bold of me to enquire as to your intentions here?"

"I am here on behalf of your brother's son. —No, thank you, I do not drink on duty."

There was a silence, and then Mr. Pevsner said, "He is alive, then."

"Most certainly." The Seeker sounded matter-of-fact, as though the possibility of his prisoner dying had not occurred to him. "He is eternally confined. Hearing, however, of his father's imminent death—"

"How did he hear of that?" Mr. Pevsner asked swiftly. There was a clink, as he evidently set down the glass.

A small pause followed, and then the Seeker said, "I believe he received word from a member of this household."

"Which member?" asked Mr. Pevsner sharply.

"I regret, sir, that I am not at liberty to say." The Seeker's voice was mild in comparison to Mr. Pevsner's. He did not sound in the least like a torturer.

"Never mind," said Mr. Pevsner slowly. "I think I know who it was. He has hinted more than once . . . But no matter. You were speaking of your prisoner, sir; forgive my interruption."

"The prisoner," continued the Seeker, "hearing of his father's imminent death, wished to send a message to him. Since it was not clear whether your brother would be well enough to read a letter, I agreed to convey the message to him myself."

"That is generous of you, sir." Mr. Pevsner had taken on a more genial tone, no doubt as a result of the Seeker's mildness. "As it happens, it is unlikely my brother will die any time soon. We have held the death vigil now because the healer says that death is certain, but we are unsure as to whether it will take weeks or months for my brother to die. It seemed best to hold the vigil now, when my brother was still in a state where he could appreciate his neighbors' signs of respect. So there was no need for you to trouble yourself to carry an urgent message – still, I will ensure that your visit is not wasted. If you give me the message, I will be glad to convey it to my brother."

"I fear that is not possible," the Seeker replied softly. "The message is for your brother's ears alone. However, if you wish to assist me, you could answer some questions."

There was a silence, followed by footsteps. Yeslin had just managed to slip himself into a seated position, but now he froze, terrified to move. Mr. Pevsner had come into view. He leaned against the mantelpiece, his arm brushing a pedestalled vase that sat above the hearth. "I am at your service, sir, as much as I can be," he replied in a light voice. "You understand that, being my brother's lawyer, I am honor-bound by my oath to my guild not to divulge private information from my clients."

The Seeker ignored this statement of reservation. "Well, then, Mr. . . ."

"Pevsner," the lawyer supplied.

"But you are his brother?"

"His step-brother, sir. My father was remarried after my mother's death, to a widow whose husband had died at war and had left no provision for his wife and son. My brother Auburn was still a baby at the time."

"So you are the eldest son?"

"By a few years."

"Yet your father left his house and business to your younger brother?"

Mr. Pevsner's fingers, which had been drumming upon the base of the pedestal, stopped abruptly. He said in a frigid voice, "I am sorry, sir; I do not follow your train of thought."

"I was wondering how well acquainted you were with the events that took place in this household two years ago."

"Ah." Mr. Pevsner's hand relaxed, and he resumed his drumming. "Not very well acquainted, to my sorrow, sir. I moved away from the capital when my brother's children were still young and had not visited this house for many years at the time that my nephew committed his murder."

"You were not in touch with any of your family members?"

"Only by letter." Mr. Pevsner made it sound as though he still lived in the days when letters took months to reach their recipients.

"So you were not aware of what your brother was doing to his son."

Yeslin had to place his hand rapidly over his mouth to stifle a cry. Fortunately, Mr. Pevsner did not sight the movement; he was staring with narrowed eyes at the Seeker. He said carefully, "I am not aware that anything of an unlawful nature took place between my brother and his son."

The Seeker said nothing. The silence stretched, and then stretched further, like thread upon a distaff. Finally Mr. Pevsner added, "Of course I was aware that there was tension between my brother and my nephew. I very much regret that I was not present to assist my family during those many years. As soon as I received word of the tragedy, I hurried home to be of as much help as I could."

"And that is when you took over your brother's affairs." The Seeker's voice was so neutral that he might have been discussing the weather, but Yeslin saw Mr. Pevsner stiffen again.

"At my brother's request, I took on some of his burdens," he said. "I am his lawyer, after all."

"Then you will know of his will."

"His will?" Mr. Pevsner's hand tightened with a clutch upon the pedestal of the closed vase, and for a moment it looked as though he would tip it over.

"Your brother's will. When he dies, who will inherit the house and business?"

"I regret, sir, that my oath as a lawyer does not permit me to divulge such information." Mr. Pevsner's voice was cool.

"Then you will inherit the house and business?"

"Sir!" Mr. Pevsner drew himself up to his full height. "I do not know what your intentions are in asking such a question, but I assure you that I have engaged in no actions contrary to the ethics of the Lawyers' Guild. I do not permit myself to serve as lawyer to my brother in any matter which would benefit myself."

"I see." The Seeker's voice was reflective. "Well, if that is the case, then your oath cannot prevent you from speaking of your brother's will. If you benefit from it, then it must have been drawn up by another lawyer. Unless I am wrong, and you are not the recipient of your brother's fortune?"

Mr. Pevsner's mouth opened, and remained open. Yeslin, crouching as low as he could behind the piano, could see the dilemma as clearly as the lawyer. If Mr. Pevsner refused to speak, then the Seeker would take this as an admission that Mr. Pevsner was his brother's heir and had engaged in crookery with his brother's will. But if Mr. Pevsner spoke . . .

It came to Yeslin suddenly that he was witnessing a Seeker at his work. It had not occurred to him until now that Seekers might have ways to tear the truth from their prisoners, other than through torture. He resisted the impulse to raise his head high enough to see whether the Seeker's eyes were as deceptively mild as his voice.

Mr. Pevsner, defeated, said in a wooden manner, "My brother's heir is my nephew."

"Oh?" There was a faint skepticism to the Seeker's voice; Yeslin could not tell whether it was play-acted. "But your nephew is eternally confined."

Mr. Pevsner sighed heavily; the sigh sounded genuine. "I have advised my brother to change his will to reflect the reality of the situation. He will not do so. My brother is . . . very tender-hearted. He is reluctant to acknowledge that his son is lost to him forever."

"And so, since the will has not been changed, the house and business will go to his next nearest kin – would that be you?"

Mr. Pevsner stiffened once more. After a moment he said, in an equally stiff voice, "That is for the magistrates to decide."

"And his other son?"

"What?" Mr. Pevsner seemed momentarily disconcerted. He stared with furrowed brow at the Seeker.

"The boy I met just now. He referred to your brother as his father."

"Oh, him." Mr. Pevsner relaxed. "He is nothing. An urchin whom my brother brought home from the streets. My brother is very tender-hearted." This time there was the faintest note of disapproval in the words.

"He is an orphan, then?"

"Yeslin? Sweet buds, no – his parents are alive and well."

"But you say that he was living on the streets."

Mr. Pevsner shrugged. "He chose to live there. His parents are drunkards and beat him. Or so he says." The skepticism in his voice was less well masked than the Seeker's had been.

"And so your brother has adopted him?"

Mr. Pevsner gave a short laugh. "Adopted him? Adopted a commoner boy?"

"Yet he calls your brother 'father.'"

Mr. Pevsner sniffed. "It pleases him to do so. My brother indulges him."

"I see." Nothing could be read in the Seeker's voice. Yeslin wished again that he could see the man's eyes. "Then, if the will has not been changed, your brother has made no provision for the boy after his death?"

Mr. Pevsner merely shrugged his reply.

"What will happen to him after your brother dies?" the Seeker persisted.

"I suppose he will return home," Mr. Pevsner said indifferently.

"To his parents who beat him?" The Seeker's voice remained mild.

"Or he will find work. He is only two years short of his majority; he could easily pass himself off as an eighteen-year-old – or simply seek one of the many jobs available to boys."

There was silence. Yeslin was beginning to see how the Seeker used silence as his weapon, drawing men's confessions through it. He wondered whether Mr. Pevsner recognized this.

The lawyer's hand tightened once again on the vase. He said sharply, "I fail to understand your interest in this matter, sir."

"I was just remembering," the Seeker said softly, "what you said before, about your regret at not being present to help your family."

"I am sorry, but I do not understand what relevance that remark has to this discussion."

"No," the Seeker said, yet more softly, "you would not."

Mr. Pevsner, who was beginning to turn red in the face, opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the Seeker said in a changed tone, "Thank you for your assistance, sir. If it is not of trouble to you, I would like time alone for a while, in order to recover from my journey and to prepare myself for my meeting with your brother."

"Ah." Relief at the end of the questioning was clear in Mr. Pevsner's face. "Yes, of course. You understand, sir, that, as my brother's lawyer, I must be present at any meeting between himself and a man of governmental authority."

To Yeslin's surprise, the Seeker simply replied, "I understand. If you will allow me time to prepare myself . . ."

Mr. Pevsner's eyes narrowed, as though he suspected the Seeker of wishing to attempt some betrayal, but the Seeker did not speak further, so the lawyer said, "Of course, sir. You may remain here; no one will disturb you unless you pull the bell-rope, in which case my brother's butler will come to serve you. I will leave you for . . . half of an hour? Or perhaps an hour?" He apparently received a nod to the latter question, for he added, "I have work of my own to do in any case. I need to speak with one of the house's servants."

His voice had turned grim, and Yeslin felt his stomach flip. He remained motionless, though, as Mr. Pevsner moved away, out of sight of him. "I will return, then, at the end of an hour," the lawyer said. "It would be best, sir, for you not to disturb my brother until then. The shock of a stranger's entrance could irreparably damage his remaining health."

"Of course," said the Seeker in his mild voice. "I assure you, I will not disturb your household by entering the entrance hall. I agree that it would be wrong to inflict a stranger's presence on your brother during his illness."

"Then if you will excuse me, sir . . ."

The door of the front parlor opened and closed. Yeslin waited to hear the front door of the house open, but the sound of Mr. Pevsner's footsteps walked in the opposite direction, and Yeslin realized that the lawyer did not wish to use the front door. The sound of its bell could be heard as far as the servants' quarters and would bring Manfred up to investigate.

Another door opened; Yeslin knew that it must belong to his father's bedroom. He heard the very faint sound of metal scraping as Mr. Pevsner locked the door from the inside. A minute later the door to the stairwell creaked.

Yeslin jumped in place and looked behind him, but the closet door, though slightly ajar, was still safely closed. He heard Mr. Pevsner pass through the stairwell; then the door to the side yard opened and closed. And then there was silence.

Yeslin tried to remember whether he had heard the lawyer lock the servants' door to his father's bedroom. If Mr. Pevsner had not . . . He sat for a moment, trying to figure out whether he could depart from this room without being heard. Then he looked up and caught a glimpse of black.

The Seeker was walking toward his corner. Toward the piano.

Yeslin had no time in which to decide whether it would be safer to remain motionless. He was too busy scrambling backwards through the open panel, back into the safety of the closet.

He had forgotten the shelves leaning against the side of the closet. He tripped over them, falling backwards against the closet door, which thunked with the sound of his head hitting it, and then sprang open with a bang. Another loud thunk followed as he fell onto his back, sprawled across the floor.

He raised his head, which was ringing from the blow. He was just in time to see a pair of black-trousered legs descend swiftly from the air onto the floor between the piano and the panel. Yeslin realized that the Seeker must have used his hands to vault over the piano, but he had no time to think about the oddness of this, for he was too busy trying to scramble backwards with his hands and feet and bottom, in a desperate effort to escape the black-hooded carnivore.

His pain-filled head thunked against a solid barrier once more; he had reached the washbasin and was trapped against it. He saw the Seeker double over to make his passage through the panel. Then, within a few steps, the Seeker was in the stairwell, looming over him.

Despite the brightness of the light streaming through the windows, the Seeker's eye-holes were still blank. He seemed as tall as the palace walls from where Yeslin sat, pressed against the washbasin. The Seeker had no weapons on his belt, but Yeslin had already witnessed how weapons could be superfluous for the torturer. He felt his heart hammering in his chest, and he could not seem to breathe. But he heard himself say in a trembling voice, "You can have the house and business. I don't want them."

For a moment there was silence. Then the Seeker raised his hand, and Yeslin shrank into himself in preparation for the blow.

The blow did not fall. Instead, the Seeker put his fingers to the hood and peeled it back over his head – not the entire hood, but the front part, which was apparently made of a separate cloth from the rest of the hood. The Seeker's face came into view.

The right corner of the Seeker's mouth was lifted slightly, in the suggestion of a smile. "You're quicker of wit than Uncle Harden," said the Seeker.

Yeslin did not reply; he was too busy staring. What struck him first of all was how young the figure before him was. He had imagined that the Seeker would be in the prime of his manhood, perhaps thirty years of age. Yet the young man standing before him could not be more than four or five years older than Yeslin. He was also quite the best-looking youth that Yeslin had ever seen, with flawless white skin and deep blue eyes and brown hair touched with gold.

For so many months now Yeslin had imagined what this house's murderer looked like. In all his imaginings, it had not occurred to Yeslin that Elsdon Taylor would look like his father.

Then he reminded himself that Mr. Pevsner also looked like his father. Tension entered into Yeslin's muscles; the Seeker must have sensed the slight movement, for the faint smile disappeared from his lips. He looked down at Yeslin, still looming over him like a black bird of prey. Finally he said, "I'm not here for my inheritance. I—"

A door behind him banged, and the Seeker quickly pulled down the face-cloth of his hood. A voice behind him said, "Son?"

Yeslin craned his neck to look, but his father was not gazing at him. The focus of his attention was the Seeker, who had turned swiftly to face the man clutching the doorpost. Yeslin's father was in his thin nightgown and was standing in bare feet; the nightcap was slipping off his head. He said in a quavering voice, "You're here . . ."

"Sir—" said the Seeker, but he had no chance to speak. Yeslin's father stumbled forward, and the Seeker, apparently in an effort to keep the man from falling to the floor, came forward and put out his hand.

But Yeslin's father seemed to gain strength as he came forward. He bore the Seeker backwards, as though on a wave, saying, "You're here! I knew that you would come. And it's all here – everything that's yours. Your room. The house. The business. I've kept it all for you. It's all yours now."

"Sir . . ." The Seeker was now standing against the outside wall of the closet, but his father took no notice, crowding closer to the Seeker, as though he might escape.

"You'll stay, won't you?" his father said in a pleading voice. "You won't go away again? You can have anything you want. It will be like it was in the old days, son. . . ."

He was chest-to-chest with the Seeker now, yet the Seeker was making no attempt to push him back. His hood was still down, and he had flattened himself against the wall; he was as motionless as a butterfly pinned to a card. But from where Yeslin sat on the floor, he could see that the Seeker's hands had formed into fists.

Yeslin was trying to figure out how he could rescue his father from those fists when the door beside him opened, and he heard Rab say, "Why, sir, what are you doing out of bed? You ought not to be on your feet, sir – no, not at all."

"I—" His father seemed suddenly flustered and took a step back. "I – I must talk with him—"

"But you can do that from your bed, sir," Rab stated firmly, walking forward. "Here, let me help you, sir. You ought not to be on your feet, sir, not when you're unwell."

His father made inarticulate sounds of protest, but Rab took him decisively by the elbow and steered him away from the Seeker, who made no attempt to interfere. Yeslin came to his senses and scrambled up from the floor. He hesitated, but the Seeker remained where he was, against the wall to the closet, so Yeslin hurried past him into his father's bedroom.

When he got there, he found that Rab had already laid his father out upon the bed and pulled the covers over him. His father's eyes were closed again. Rab, sighting Yeslin, came forward and met him in the middle of the room.

"What's that Seeker doing here?" he hissed.

Yeslin hesitated, looking past Rab toward his father. "He's here to talk," he said finally.

"Well, get rid of him! He's disturbing the master."

Yeslin wondered how Rab envisioned him expelling a hooded Seeker from the house. Then he remembered something more important. "Rab," he whispered, "Mr. Pevsner is looking for you. He knows that you've been corresponding with . . . with Elsdon Taylor."

"Aye?" There was no surprise in Rab's voice as he spoke, but his shoulders sagged. After a moment more he said, in a dull voice, "Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later." He looked over at Yeslin and gave him half a smile. "Now, don't you worry. I'm a skilled driver, and trained drivers are in demand. I'll be able to find a new position in no time."

Yeslin sucked at his lower lip. Handsome young trained drivers were in demand, he had no doubt, but not carriage-drivers the age of Rab. And without any guild to care for him. . . . It's mighty cold on the streets in winter, Rab's voice whispered within him.

"It's not fair!" Yeslin said passionately, though he remembered to keep his voice low. "You've worked here all your life, since you were a boy! Mr. Pevsner has no right to turn you out!"

"Who'd stop him?" Rab said simply. He gripped Yeslin's shoulder, as though steadying him, but his next words were nothing except, "I'd best go pack my things before he finds me. I don't want to be here to listen to his farewell lecture."

Yeslin, who had seen Gillie reduced to tears that morning during Mr. Pevsner's speech of dismissal, did not reply. Rab squeezed his shoulder again and said, "I'll come say goodbye before I leave. But till then, you get rid of that Seeker. You've got to be the one to take care of the master now." He stepped past Yeslin, moving as slowly as he had when climbing down the ladder.

Yeslin watched until Rab had disappeared into the stairwell; then he walked over to the bed. His father was breathing unevenly, but no more so than he had earlier that morning. Yeslin watched him carefully for a minute. Then, reassured by the signs of continued life, he made his way back to the stairwell.

The stairwell had now reached the high brightness of mid-morning, with light slipping in through the small windowed door leading to the outside and pelting in with full force through the southern windows. The room was empty but for the Seeker, who had his back to Yeslin. He was standing before the washbasin, scooping water up to his face. His hands froze as the door squeaked behind him. Yeslin said, "It's me."

The Seeker moved again, reaching for a towel. He carefully wiped his face dry before turning round to Yeslin. With the morning light falling full upon it, his skin seemed whiter than before; his eyes were as deep as river-water. They indeed looked mild.

"Thank you," he said in his deceptively quiet voice. "I couldn't speak to Rab. I'm not permitted to let anyone except my family know what I've become."

Keeping a careful distance from the Seeker, Yeslin asked, "If you're not here for the money, then why are you here?"

He tried to make his voice as belligerent as Rab's would be in such circumstances, but failed. He found himself wondering whether he would be better off cultivating a mild tone, as the Seeker did.

The Seeker did not respond at once. His gaze drifted toward the southern windows, lingering there. Finally he said, without moving his eyes back to Yeslin, "Among other things, to see Sara."

Yeslin, whose hands were behind his back, gripped the doorknob tightly. He stared gaping a moment, wondering how he should interpret this odd turn of events. Then he felt a blade of chill enter him. While on the streets last winter, he had heard a rumor that one of the Seekers had gone mad. Was it this Seeker? Had he left the dungeon only because his insanity had driven him forth to wreak destruction elsewhere?

But in the same moment, the Seeker added softly, "Do you know where she's buried?" He still did not move his gaze from the windows.

Yeslin let out his breath slowly. "She's in the front parlor," he replied.

The Seeker's gaze snapped toward him, and Yeslin realized belatedly that his reply must sound as mad as the Seeker's previous enquiry. He said quickly, "In an urn. On the mantelpiece."

The Seeker did not seem reassured by this additional information. "In the front parlor?" he said. "Sweet blood, what is she doing there? Why hasn't Father buried her?"

"He plans to!" Yeslin replied, swift as always to his father's defense. "He has talked about it. It's just . . . I think he doesn't want to think about it. Sir," he added belatedly. The word stuck in his throat, as it did when he applied the title to Mr. Pevsner, but he dared not anger the Seeker. Not with his father lying vulnerable in the next room.

The Seeker's gaze drifted away again, southwards. "In the front parlor," he said softly. "No one ever goes there. She'd have hated that."

Yeslin said nothing. He took a few steps forward to see what the Seeker was gazing at in the yard, but no one was standing within the fence, and the carriages had disappeared from the drive at the front of the house. All that could be seen was what could always be seen: a distant bit of the street, the well-made houses beyond it, and, rising above all else, the Queen's palace, marred only by a thin line of smoke, barely visible.

So softly that he might have been speaking to himself, the Seeker said, "We used to go to the Parkside crematorium together, to visit our mother's tomb. Sara always liked it there. She said it must be comforting to be surrounded by the ashes of other people who had entered into their rebirth. Once she heard that commoners are sometimes buried in a communal ash pit, and she thought that was even better. . . . We have a crematorium in the Eternal Dungeon. It has, not one Flame of Rebirth, but hundreds of them: hundreds of candles kept lit by the Seekers and guards in memory of the prisoners who have been buried there within recent memory. I have thirteen candles there. That's how many of my prisoners have died."

The cold blade that had touched Yeslin before plunged into his gut. He had almost forgotten, amidst the Seeker's softness, what this man was. But now it all made sense. Of course Elsdon Taylor had become a Seeker. What other work was appropriate for a murderer? Yeslin supposed that the Seekers must pick carefully among their prisoners, selecting the ones who would be most talented at destroying other prisoners.

He looked again at the thin line of smoke, rising out of the rocks below the palace, never-ending. He felt as though he were choking on it.

Then the Seeker added softly, "I'll be buried there one day. All the Seekers are, because we've all taken oaths to remain eternally confined within the dungeon. There have been two Seekers and three guards buried there since I arrived. They were all killed by prisoners, or died of injuries they received from prisoners long ago. Another Seeker is close to death now."

Yeslin did not know what to reply. Finally he said, "Guards are buried there too?"

The Seeker nodded without removing his gaze from the smoke of the Flames of Rebirth. "Anyone who has worked at the Eternal Dungeon at any time can be buried there. We have an enormous pit for the ashes – centuries will pass before it is filled. We've even honored requests for burial from people who had visited our crematorium at some time in their lives and were so impressed by it that they wished to end their lives there. There's nearly someone in the crematorium, Seeker or guard, singing prayers for the dead. The High Seeker sometimes has to come to the crematorium to drag away whichever Seekers and guards are lingering there, because they're on duty. Once you get there, you can't forget the souls of those who have died because of you. . . ."

His hands were suddenly fists once more; he leaned toward the windows, like a man yearning for his love-mate. Yeslin stood uncertainly in the center of the stairwell. He wondered what his father would do in this situation, and then he knew.

"Sir," he said, his voice an imitation of his father's, "would it please you to sit down?"

The Seeker turned his head slowly toward Yeslin. His face was drawn into tight lines now, and his skin seemed even paler than before. He gazed at Yeslin for a long moment, and then nodded.

Yeslin looked round, but of course there was no chair in this place. He wondered whether he should invite the Seeker to vault over the piano again so that he could seat himself in the front parlor. Finally, in desperation, Yeslin gestured toward the flight of stairs leading upward. There were chairs in his own room, though it made his skin creep to think of this man re-entering the place of his murder. Perhaps he should take the Seeker into his father's old bedroom, which was presently inhabited by Mr. Pevsner's belongings. Yeslin guessed that Mr. Pevsner would be hunting Rab for a long time.

The Seeker followed his gesture, moving toward the staircase. He had placed his hand upon the stair-rail when he froze, looking upward. Yeslin hurried over to his side and tilted his head to see who was standing upstairs.

No one was there. Manfred must have pulled the servants hastily from their cleaning chores upstairs, for the door to one of the rooms was still open – not Yeslin's room, but the room opposite it. From where he stood, Yeslin could glimpse the furniture he had seen on rare occasions, when the servants came into the room to dust: a bed, a chair, a desk, and, sitting on the desk, a neat pile of schoolbooks.

He looked over at the Seeker, who remained motionless. The Seeker's chest was rising and falling rapidly, and Yeslin could hear the heaviness of his breath. Yeslin stared at him, uncomprehending. The murder had taken place in Sara Taylor's bedroom; why should the sight of his own bedroom affect Elsdon Taylor like this?

The Seeker gripped the stair-rail hard, his knuckles white against pale skin. His face was growing whiter by the moment, and his breath seemed to have stopped. Suddenly Yeslin realized that the Seeker was about to pass out.

He grabbed hold of Elsdon Taylor's arm, felt the man's body sag against him, and managed to turn him round in time that the man sunk onto one of the steps. Unbidden, he pushed Elsdon Taylor's head down between his knees, and he heard his father's son begin to gasp, sucking in breaths of air. Yeslin, with his hand still on Elsdon Taylor's back, turned his head to look up the stairs. A chair, a desk, some books – and just at the edge of the doorway, barely visible, a bed.

A bed. Something important had been said about that bed earlier in the day; Yeslin strove to remember. Beside him, the gasping continued. Elsdon Taylor's hands tightened and released on his legs over and over, like a man trying to grasp a slippery life-rope.

Yeslin stared up at the bed. It looked much like his own, made of solid wood with finely carved legs. He scrutinized the bed-leg he could barely glimpse, as though it might bring him a clue. It was all brown – all but for a grey line that striped it. He followed the line of grey: it snaked its way up onto the corner of the bed, disappearing under the bedcovers. He supposed that the maid who swept this room had not noticed it, or she would have removed whatever it was that was tied to the bed.

Tied. Then Yeslin remembered.

He suddenly felt weak himself. He sank down onto the step beside Elsdon Taylor. There was barely enough room between the wall and his father's son for him to sit. He could feel clearly now the tremors that ran through Elsdon Taylor's body, wave after wave of shuddering. The young man had raised his head high enough to bury it in his hands.

Yeslin put his hand lightly onto Elsdon Taylor's back. He was barely aware of the man beneath his touch; he was seeing again in his eye the grey rope tied to the bed-leg, snaking its way under the covers. Surely there must be another reason for that rope. Perhaps Elsdon Taylor had placed it there himself, intending to tie his sister to his bed before murdering her. And Elsdon Taylor was only reacting this way because he was remembering the murder.

Yeslin thought this; but he heard his voice say, "So it's true."

Elsdon Taylor's fingers parted; he peered at Yeslin sidelong, his eyes shimmering. Then he closed his eyes again. He nodded wordlessly.

Yeslin did not speak again. He could hear faintly below them the voices of servants and the clash of dishes from the death vigil as they were cleaned. The yard was silent, and the clattering of passing carriages on the street was steady. Elsdon Taylor seemed unwilling, or unable, to emerge from the burial ground of his hands. Finally Yeslin nudged him.

The fingers opened again; the eyes stared blindly at the clean handkerchief that Yeslin proffered. Slowly, Elsdon Taylor straightened up. He took the handkerchief, wiped his face dry, blew his nose, and returned the handkerchief to Yeslin with a wordless nod of thanks.

Yeslin, licking his dry lips, pocketed the handkerchief and waited. Elsdon Taylor's gaze had turned away from him. He was staring past the stair balusters toward the thin line of smoke rising from the rocks.

Yeslin said in a voice that was tight, "Your mother . . ."

Elsdon Taylor said softly, his gaze on the smoke, "I think my father pushed her during an argument, and she fell down the front stairs to her death. I've never been entirely sure, though. I was just four at the time, and I only saw her body afterwards."

Yeslin had once happened across his youngest sister lying unconscious on the floor after his mother had beaten her in a drunken rage; he could imagine all too vividly what Elsdon Taylor had seen.

His heart was beating hard now. After a minute's silence, the young Seeker turned his gaze toward Yeslin and asked quietly, "Has he harmed you?"

"No!" responded Yeslin with automatic swiftness. Then, more slowly, "No. No. I . . . I think he wanted to hit me a few times. But he stopped himself from doing so."

"I'm glad," Elsdon Taylor said, his voice still quiet. "I was afraid, when I saw you here. You look so much like I was at your age: eager to defend others, unable to defend yourself. . . ."

Yeslin felt warmth enter into his face, accompanied by a strong feeling of shame. He was not what Elsdon Taylor thought he was. Yeslin had defended his father without thought, and on no other occasion had he ever tried to defend anyone. It had not occurred to him to do so.

Elsdon Taylor's gaze had drifted away again, as though pulled by an invisible string. Yeslin asked in a low voice, "Have you come to arrest him?"

Elsdon Taylor shook his head but did not remove his gaze from the smoke. Finally Yeslin asked, "Why do you keep looking back toward the Eternal Dungeon?"

Elsdon Taylor removed his gaze from the horizon. From the look in his eyes, it appeared that it had cost him something to do so. "A friend of mine is ill there."

Yeslin was silent, tracing patterns in their conversation. Then he said, "The Seeker who's dying?"

Elsdon Taylor flicked a glance at him, but after a moment he nodded. "It's not certain whether he will die. I was the one caring for him. Without me there— I'm worried about him."

Yeslin said slowly, "Why are you here, then?"

"I received word that Father was dying."

"But . . ." Involuntarily, Yeslin looked up the stairs again. From where he sat, most of the bed was hidden from view, but he could see that the desk chair was pushed back, as though its inhabitant had recently risen. "But . . . he beat you. And – and killed your mother. And . . . he wanted you to be tortured to death." Yeslin stumbled over the words; he still could not believe them. But Elsdon Taylor believed this had happened; that was clear from the way his face tightened at the final words. The young man looked away abruptly, and for a moment his breath was heavy again. Then he steadied himself and looked back.

"Do you believe in rebirth?" he asked softly.

Yeslin stared blankly at him. "Of course."

"Then when a man dies, without acknowledging to himself that he has committed terrible wrongdoings against others . . . Do you believe that he will be reborn?"

Fear clutched at Yeslin suddenly, like a drunken man. He swallowed, and swallowed again, and said finally, "That's why you're here? To help Father turn to rebirth?"

Elsdon Taylor nodded.

"But . . ." This time Yeslin rose from his seat to look at the bed. The rope there was pulled so tight that it looked as though it were at the breaking point. He tore his gaze away finally and stared with wordless bewilderment at Elsdon Taylor.

"It's my duty," Elsdon Taylor replied softly to his silent enquiry. "My duty not only as his son, but as a Seeker. That's our primary duty as Seekers: to help guilty prisoners prepare themselves for their rebirth. To lift from them any self-deception they may hold about what they have done, and to allow them the opportunity to express their regret so that, if the magistrate sentences them to execution, their rebirth will be swift."

"But he beat you. . . ." This time, the words seemed less strange. Yeslin swallowed and tried again. "You said you weren't here to arrest him. He's not a prisoner."

"No," Elsdon Taylor said quietly. "He's not. And that's my fault."

Yeslin furrowed his brow in puzzlement, and Elsdon Taylor responded by rising from the step. Without looking back at the scene above, he swung himself round the last of the balusters, as a boy might, and took the few steps necessary to bring himself back to the southern windows. Yeslin followed him to the windows, noticing for the first time that the Seeker was no taller than himself. They stared together at the line of smoke marking the location of the Eternal Dungeon.

After a while, Elsdon Taylor said, "The Eternal Dungeon is the best place in Yclau for criminals to receive an opportunity to confess their crimes, but it's not the only place. If my father had been arrested for my mother's death, or for what he did to me, he might have had the chance to acknowledge to himself what he had done. But I was misguided as a boy; I thought it was my duty to remain silent to everyone about what he was doing. And then I killed Sara, and in doing so, I stripped my father of the opportunity to be searched for his crimes. I was the only witness to what he had done, and no magistrate would believe the word of a murderer. So my father is free – free in the way that the lighted world sees it, but still imprisoned by his crimes. And unless I can find a way to help him acknowledge his fault, he'll remain imprisoned after death, unable to be transformed and reborn into a new life."

Elsdon Taylor laid his hands flat upon the window panes, as though seeking to break through a barrier. His voice remained soft as he said, "The Codifier understands. He's the only man in the Eternal Dungeon who has the power to give me permission to leave there. Ordinarily I'd be bound to remain in the dungeon, both by my sentence and by the oath I took as a Seeker. But I told the Codifier that I believed it was my duty as a Seeker to try to turn my father to rebirth, because it was my fault he hadn't been arrested for his crimes. So the Codifier gave me permission to visit my father for a brief while. In case I could be of help to him, as to my other prisoners."

Yeslin's mind had wandered back to the image of the tight rope bound to the bed. Had his father also thought that he was helping his son to rebirth by beating him? Yeslin strongly suspected that Elsdon Taylor had done nothing more than become what his father was, torturing his prisoners as his father had once tortured him. The only difference was that the Seeker's torture received the approval of the Queen and of all high-born members of Yclau society. Yeslin felt again the terrible helplessness he had often felt upon contemplating all the evil forces that pervaded his world.

Then he looked at Elsdon Taylor, noting again the taut expression. There was another difference between the Seeker and his father; Yeslin was sure of it. It came through in every word that Elsdon Taylor spoke and in every movement of his body. Perhaps it was only that the Seeker, lighting candles for his dead prisoners, was willing to acknowledge what he had done.

And meanwhile, in this house an ash-urn lay on the mantelpiece, pushed back in memory.

"I thought I'd have the strength to do this." Elsdon Taylor's voice was no more than a whisper now. "It has been two years; I've had time to heal. But now that I'm here—"

"Wait!" Yeslin said spontaneously. His mouth raced ahead of his thoughts; he had to think a moment as the Seeker turned puzzled eyes toward him. Then Yeslin said, "Wait here. Don't go anywhere. Just – just wait." He paused the mote of time it took Elsdon Taylor to nod; then he sped off.

He slowed at the door, opening it cautiously. The room seemed very large with the vigil guests gone. Yeslin could remember it as he had first seen it, on the morning after his father had brought him home: a vast room, filled with odd bits of furniture and mysterious eating implements. Now, stripped by Mr. Pevsner of its original furnishings, the room looked stark.

His father was awake. He had managed to pull himself into a sitting position and was struggling to swing his legs over the bed. Closing the door behind him, Yeslin hurried forward. His father, seeing him, looked relieved. "He's still here, isn't he? He hasn't gone?"

"He's still here," Yeslin assured him. "He'll be in to talk with you in a minute. . . ." As he spoke, he tucked the bedcovers over his father, settling him back against the headboard. His father, flushed in the face from the effort to rise, twitched nervously.

"Oh, but I must speak to him now!" he cried. "I must make him understand! I was so angry at him, you see," he explained to Yeslin, who had sat down on the bed beside him. "I was so very angry after what he did. It was only later that I realized it was my fault. I raised him the wrong way. I beat him too much. . . . Or I didn't beat him enough. . . . I've never been quite sure which it was." He looked over at Yeslin, who was now frozen in place, unable to move. "I thought, with you, I'd try not beating you. It worked, didn't it?"

His voice, pleading like a child's, broke Yeslin's paralysis. "Yes, sir," he whispered. "It worked."

He expected his father to correct his use of the formal title, but his father merely reached over and squeezed his hand. "You understand," he said. "I knew that you would. And you see, don't you, why I have to give him back his place? It's because I wronged him. I must give him back what he had before. You don't mind, do you? That I'm giving him what I gave to you?"

He peered with worried enquiry at Yeslin, as though sensing that he was demanding a great deal. Yeslin felt as though the full weight of the Queen's palace was crushing his chest, and he could feel the sobs rising in him, seeking to escape. But he kept his hand clasped around the sick man's and said, as gently as Elsdon Taylor had when speaking of his father, "I understand, sir. But, sir, if you're sorry for how you treated your son, couldn't you tell him that? I think he would want to know."

"Yes!" The sick man embraced this suggestion. "Yes, that's what I must do. I'll tell him I'm sorry I beat him too much. Or that I didn't beat him enough—"

"No!"

Auburn Taylor gaped at him, and Yeslin realized that this was the first time he had ever contradicted the housemaster. He made his voice gentle again as he said, "Sir, if you say that to him, you'll only confuse matters. Don't you think it would be better simply to tell him that you're sorry?"

"Yes," said Auburn Taylor slowly. "Yes, you're right. He's a clever boy, but he has always been a bit slow to understand certain things. I need to keep things simple, so he'll understand."

A soft knock sounded at the door. The door opened minutely, and Elsdon Taylor looked in. He had not pulled down his hood; his naked face was still pale. Yeslin rose to his feet, gesturing the Seeker in. Then he looked back at Auburn Taylor.

Auburn Taylor seemed to be struggling for breath. He waited until his son was standing at the foot of his bed before he said, "Son, I want you to know that I'm sorry. For . . . for the way things were when I raised you. And for being angry at you afterwards. That was wrong of me."

For a moment Elsdon Taylor remained looking down at his father, and Yeslin felt the same uneasiness that had touched him when the Seeker was at his work with Mr. Pevsner. He wondered how much Elsdon Taylor was seeing.

But what the Seeker saw was apparently enough, for he stepped forward and, without hesitation, bent onto one knee beside the bed.

"Sir," he said softly, "I forgave you long ago for what happened, and I hope that you will also forgive me for the wrongs I did to you and to my sister."

Auburn Taylor's face flinched at the word "sister," but he reached out and took his son's hand. Yeslin, watching carefully, saw Elsdon Taylor tense as his father touched him. But not until he was standing on his feet again did the Seeker carefully remove his hand and say, "Your apology means much to me, sir, but I have learned in the Eternal Dungeon that expressions of regret are not enough. It is necessary for the guilty person to seek to make reparation for what he has done."

Yeslin, suddenly worried, looked at Auburn Taylor to see how he would respond to this. The housemaster licked his lips, glanced at Yeslin, and then said, "How . . . What sort of reparation do you want me to make?"

Elsdon Taylor was silent a minute. Then he said softly, "I murdered my sister."

This time Auburn Taylor's pain was clear. He turned his face, like a man who has received a blow. Elsdon Taylor, as though he had not witnessed this sign of distress, continued, "I cannot bring Sara back to life. But family means more to me now than it ever did when I was a boy, for I will never again be able to live in the lighted world, and my family is my strongest tie here. Sir, if you love me and wish to make reparation for what you did, then adopt Yeslin and give to him what you would have given me, so that I may still have family after you have gone."

Auburn Taylor's expression cleared of its pain. He stared with wonder at his son, then at Yeslin. "Yes . . ." he said slowly. "Yes, this is right. It's right that you should have a brother to make up for—" His voice ended on a choke, and for a minute there was silence, but for the heaviness of Auburn Taylor's breath. Yeslin hurried over to his side and felt Auburn Taylor take his hand. His father peered up at him; the tears were clear in his eyes.

Yeslin looked at Elsdon Taylor. The Seeker seemed to have drawn into himself; his gaze was blank, seeing something beyond this room. Yeslin could guess what it was. With a sudden impulse – such impulses seemed to be taking over Yeslin's life now – he leaned forward and whispered in his father's ear.

His father's eyes widened as he spoke. When Yeslin had finished, his father looked up at him, seeking confirmation of what he had spoken, and Yeslin nodded. He squeezed his father's hand, hoping that he would not have to instruct him once more.

He did not have to. His father, clearing his throat, said, "Son . . . Elsdon, your brother tells me that you have come here despite the fact that you have an ill friend in the Eternal Dungeon who requires your care."

"You mustn't worry about that, sir." Elsdon Taylor's voice was quiet.

"Nonsense!" Suddenly his father seemed to gain vigor. He sat upright in his bed, glaring at the Seeker. "How many times have I told you, Elsdon, that your highest duty is to care for your family and friends? I understand that you came here because you did not know I had anyone to care for me. But now that you know I am cared for" – he patted Yeslin's arm – "you must return to your friend, who has greater need of you than I do."

Elsdon Taylor did not reply immediately. His gaze drifted over to Yeslin, standing beside his father. Then he said in a quiet manner, "Thank you, sir. I very much appreciate your understanding. It is true that I would not have been able to stay with you for long in any case; my leave is only for three days. Since it seems you will be well for some remaining time . . ."

"You go back to your home." His father waved a hand airily, as though dismissing a boy who was neglecting his duty. "I'll be fine now."

"Yes," said the Seeker softly. "I can see that you will be."

Yeslin looked at his father. His father's hand was trembling in Yeslin's grasp; Yeslin did not think that the return of his eldest son had made any difference to Auburn Taylor's physical health. But there was a strength in his eyes that had not been there during all the time Yeslin knew him. A faint smile played on the housemaster's lips. He looked at this moment very much like his son.

Yeslin turned back toward the Seeker, only to find that he was gone; the door to the entrance hall was just closing. His breath caught, and he looked at his father. "Father, may I . . .?"

"Yes, of course." His father gave another airy wave of his hand. "You run along. I'll simply . . ." He looked around for an excuse to dismiss Yeslin. "I'll read. Yes, that's what I'll do, I'll read. Where is Harden, by the way?"

"He'll be back soon," Yeslin replied, his mind crowding with too many thoughts at once. "He's searching for Rab."

"Oh?" His father lost interest. "Well, run along, do. Don't idle your time, son." And with that, he pulled a book from his bed-stand and buried himself in its pages.

Yeslin nearly did himself injury in his haste to run back through the closet and climb over the piano. He managed to overcome the barrier without harming himself or the instrument, and then he grabbed the object he wanted and ran. He reached the door to the entrance hall just as Elsdon Taylor pulled his cloak from the hook in the hallway. It was without hood, Yeslin saw; the hood he had noticed before was that of the Seeker's uniform. The Seeker raised his hand to pull down his face-cloth, and then noticed Yeslin standing at the open doorway to the front parlor, cradling the urn.

"Here," said Yeslin, holding out the closed vase to Elsdon Taylor. "You take it. He'll never notice it's gone, and if he does, he'll be glad you've taken it. You can bury her in your crematorium and light a candle for her there."

Elsdon Taylor took the urn from him slowly, his gaze fixed upon the small object. Finally he lifted his eyes to look at Yeslin. He said quietly, "I can't leave the dungeon, but I can receive letters, as well as visits from my family. If you would like to write me, and perhaps visit some time . . ."

Yeslin felt a smile spread across his face. He nodded and then added, "Don't worry about Father. I'll make sure he doesn't hurt anyone."

The Seeker smiled. It was the first time he had given a full smile, and Yeslin's breath escaped him at sight of the serene beauty of that smile. Elsdon Taylor leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. The kiss was feather-light, like the touch of a petal.

Then the face-cloth of the hood came down and his brother left, bearing the urn of their murdered sister.

The bell from the front door chimed loudly. Yeslin heard a stirring from below, and he knew that Manfred would be there soon to investigate who had passed through the door. He knew that he should hurry back into the stairwell before he was found where he should not be. But his brother had left the door ajar, and faintly through the doorway Yeslin could hear Mr. Pevsner's voice speaking sharply, accompanied by another person's soft gasps: the sound of a man trying not to cry.

He heard footsteps coming up the stairs, then the sound of his father greeting Manfred cheerfully, then the sound of the door from his father's bedroom opening as Manfred entered the entrance hall. And then he made up his mind.

Without looking Manfred's way, Yeslin walked into the entrance hall and through the front door, slamming it closed behind him. The bell chimed, high and loud. Yeslin smiled grimly. His father could wait; an injustice was taking place, and Yeslin was the only one who could stop it.

As he walked forward, he raised his voice in The Ballad of the Liberated Prisoner.

. . . For it was at this juncture in the history of Yclau's dungeon that a fateful meeting occurred which would change the future of the queendom of Yclau. I refer, of course, to the meeting of sixteen-year-old Yeslin Bainbridge with a Seeker.

We do not know which Seeker young Bainbridge met, nor what words were exchanged during that meeting. Indeed, some historians have expressed doubt that such a meeting actually occurred, given that Seekers were almost never allowed to leave the Eternal Dungeon. The most likely explanation is that Bainbridge met the Seeker in the small stretch of palace corridor where Seekers were permitted to travel in order to give evidence about prisoners in the courtrooms. In any case, it is impossible to deny that Bainbridge, who until that time had lived a quiet and unassuming life, underwent a startling transformation.

Of that meeting, Bainbridge would later write: "As I spoke with the Seeker, he granted me a vision of a different world than the one in which I had been living – a world in which evil was not endured passively but was fought against, regardless of the consequences for oneself."

Every schoolchild knows the result of this meeting: of Bainbridge's decision to establish the queendom's first guild for commoners. The Commoners' Guild, the most important trade union in our queendom's history, would battle passionately against the higher classes' complacent oppression of the working class and eventually create an Yclau where, if class divisions were not erased, they were at least questioned.

But all of that lay in the future in the autumn of 357. Around the time that Bainbridge was meeting his destiny, an equally serious crisis was taking place in the Eternal Dungeon, where the High Seeker was struggling to retain his sanity. At this point it seems best to switch to the narrative of Weldon Chapman.
 

Although I had helped to care for the High Seeker in his illness, the greatest responsibility lay with Mr. Elsdon Taylor, a young Seeker of outstanding gifts in both his professional life and his private life. I have already said that the High Seeker found it exceedingly difficult to establish close relations with others around him. Because of this, Mr. Taylor was the High Seeker's only intimate friend, and this intimacy played a central role in preventing the High Seeker's condition from worsening.

In the ninth month of 357, at a time when we all feared that the High Seeker was returning to madness, Mr. Taylor received news that required him to take a leave of absence from his work as companion to the High Seeker. Only the highest dictates of duty could have persuaded Mr. Taylor to leave, for he and I both feared that the temporary loss of his presence would cause the High Seeker to break down altogether.

Since the news Mr. Taylor received was so urgent that he was forced to leave immediately to make arrangements for his new work, I was delegated with the duty of informing the High Seeker of Mr. Taylor's departure. After I had told the High Seeker in his private quarters, he was motionless for a long time – so long that I began to fear that the worst had happened. Then, for the first time in many days, he began to speak to me, in halting sentences and garbled words that I could barely understand. Gradually I realized that the High Seeker was sharing such confidences as he had never before granted to me, nor, I believe, to any person other than Mr. Taylor. I realized then that the High Seeker, knowing that he could not survive this crisis without the assistance of a friend, had chosen to take the only course of action left open to him and was establishing the bonds of friendship with me.

I have no doubt that the High Seeker undertook this difficult step, not for his own sake, but for the sake of Mr. Taylor, for he must have known the grief and guilt Mr. Taylor would have felt if he had returned to find that the High Seeker had entered into madness due to his absence. It was one of many occasions on which I witnessed the High Seeker sacrifice his personal comfort for the sake of others.

Whatever Layle Smith's initial motives may have been, this was the start of what would become the most famous friendship in the history of the Eternal Dungeon – a friendship that would, as much as Bainbridge's meeting with a Seeker, change the future of Yclau. For it was Weldon Chapman who would write the only contemporary biography of Layle Smith and who would also preserve many of Layle Smith's letters and sayings. This information, in turn, would be used by future generations in Yclau as a foundation for the new science of psychology.

Thus a seemingly unconnected series of events – the arrival of the first woman Seeker, the temporary absence of a junior Seeker, and Weldon Chapman's willingness to help the High Seeker in any way possible – would lead to the preservation of invaluable knowledge that might otherwise have been lost. It was far from the first unexpected twist in the history of the Eternal Dungeon, and it would most certainly not be the last turning point in Layle Smith's slow return from madness.

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

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