Dune: The Duke of Caladan

by Brian Herbert

  When the plates were full, the servants backed away, exiting quietly through doorways and leaving the Baron to his macabre feast. Rabban and de Vries looked amused, while Feyd-Rautha seemed annoyed, impatient with the spectacle. He made no secret that he would rather be back home in Harko City.

  The Baron admired the huge platter before him, a roast wolfbeast haunch and a whole guinsey fowl, although he didn’t tear into the meal with his usual enthusiasm. Instead, he lifted his broken hand, frowned at the medcast wrapped around it. But for the attempt on his life, he would have been feasting with all the other nobles in the grand Corrino museum complex on Otorio.

  Not waiting for his uncle, Rabban began to eat messily with his hands and a large knife. Feyd and de Vries were more meticulous.

  The Baron let his gaze move from severed head to severed head. The dead female’s eyes seemed to look directly at him, as if she still possessed a spark of defiance. He would make sure that a full account of this private, vengeful spectacle was distributed throughout Carthag, and maybe it would quiet the simmering unrest among the desert people. His soldiers and security needed to do more.

  While recovering from his injuries, the Baron could not allow anyone to see him as weak. He would not report the assassination attempt to Emperor Shaddam or his lapdog Count Fenring, but rather would concoct some other excuse for not attending the gala. He also refused to return to Giedi Prime, because that would look like he was fleeing Arrakis after the attempt on his life.

  He finally began to eat, ripping a leg off the roasted fowl, but he had time to savor only one bite before he was interrupted. A uniformed Imperial messenger strode into the banquet hall without introduction. The man carried a sealed, ornate cylinder marked with the Corrino lion. “My lord Baron, I bear news directly from the Imperial Palace.”

  Wary that the Emperor would rebuke his absence from the gala, the Baron accepted the message cylinder with a greasy hand and unsealed the security ring. He removed the sheet of durable instroy paper and read the message as the courier quickly withdrew. The Baron turned pale.

  Feyd-Rautha stared at him, intent and curious. “What is it, Uncle? You look upset.”

  He read with disbelief, viewing the summary of the disaster on Otorio—complete destruction of the Emperor’s new museum complex. “A truly spectacular assassination attempt!” He described the report, and the others seemed both horrified and fascinated.

  Piter de Vries sprang out of his chair and hurried to read the message for himself. “Did Shaddam survive?”

  The Baron let his Mentat take the paper. “It seems he was evacuated in time, but many members of the Landsraad were killed. They are still counting numbers. Someone from the Noble Commonwealth claimed responsibility.”

  Rabban stopped chewing. “We were supposed to be there, Uncle. You would have been killed.”

  The Baron felt a sudden, sharp chill. “Yes! I was ready to depart—” He looked at the gory heads distributed around the banquet table, spoke to them. “Ah, it appears your little attack may have saved my life.”

  The slack face of the nearest dead man showed no appreciation for the news.

  A sudden, unexpected death leaves deep scarring in the hearts of those left behind. The harm caused by unexpected survival, however, is less visible.

  —Suk School Investigative Report, Psychological Division

  Caladan welcomed Leto home with expansive oceans, rich, moist air, wild and fertile lands, and warmhearted people.

  During the frantic evacuation from Otorio on that terrible night, Leto had been forced to leave everything behind except for his life. Most of those who had come to celebrate the Corrino memorial had lost even that. Now, after long delay, he traveled on a commercial transport from Kaitain with Imperial passage and papers. He could not get back home fast enough. The court chamberlain, tall and funereal Beely Ridondo, urged Leto to wait for more luxurious diplomatic-class tickets, but the Duke insisted on boarding the first ship heading out with Caladan on its route.

  Leto still felt disconnected, swept up in the tragedy and the ever-growing repercussions. His mind was filled with the panicked evacuation, all those doomed people left behind while the Sardaukar hustled him aboard the escape lighter. The fiery impact of the three gigantic projectiles, the smear of incandescent devastation as he had watched from high above.…

  Upon reaching Otorio orbit, Shaddam had commandeered the waiting Heighliner and ordered its immediate departure for Kaitain. The Guild Navigator delayed only long enough for a small flurry of escape ships to limp up out of the atmosphere. Leto’s heart had ached when he saw how few vessels made it away. Sadly, his Atreides yacht and its small crew had not managed to evacuate. They had been wiped out with so many others in the blast.

  In the reckoning of casualties, he was glad to learn that his old friend Archduke Ecaz had escaped along with a small crowd of nobles. In all, barely a hundred had gotten to safety—most of them because of Leto’s urgent warning across the site-wide communication network. He tried to take heart from that, to grant himself a small measure of peace. Those souls were alive because of him. And he, Duke Leto Atreides, was alive.

  But all those others …

  Reports of Jaxson Aru’s attack spread like shock waves throughout the Imperium, but many details were confused and uncertain. At first approximation, and surely inaccurate, 84 important Landsraad nobles had been obliterated, as well as 241 additional high-ranking family members, and uncounted locals, support staff, guards, service workers, numbering as many as ten thousand.

  Once back on the capital world, with the Imperium in chaos and crisis, Leto was easily lost in the shuffle. Empress Aricatha wrote him a personal note, applauding his alertness, which had saved them. Chamberlain Ridondo provided everything he needed—clothes, money, supplies—but seemed in no hurry to help Leto arrange passage back home.

  While Leto had waited, seeking travel alternatives, Reverend Mother Mohiam approached him in a side hallway of the Imperial Palace, once more offering to provide suggestions of suitable mates for Paul, many of whom had Bene Gesserit training. He found the old woman’s statement intrusive and inappropriate, especially in such turbulent times. Paul’s eventual bride was far from his greatest concern right now. He brushed her aside and made arrangements to leave Kaitain, glad to be gone within the hour.…

  When the Guild ship arrived at his beautiful ocean world, Leto was in range and could finally use direct communication systems to speak with Jessica. It was the first uplifting moment he had experienced in days. On the screen, he saw the expression of joy and relief on her lovely face. Until that point, she had not even been sure he was alive, having heard only fragmented rumors of the disaster.

  As the passenger shuttle left the Heighliner and landed at the Cala City Spaceport, Leto felt as if a great weight had lifted from him. The hatch opened and the ramp extended, but the other passengers and merchants held back, deferring to the Duke. He stepped forward, feeling intensely alive. He drew in a quick breath of the fresh salt air. Scudding clouds overhead presaged afternoon storms.

  A crowd stood beyond the demarcation zone, wearing familiar Caladan garments—fishermen, boatwrights, innkeepers, craftsmen, wealthy merchants, and quiet servants. They let out a resounding cheer. The response buoyed him up, and tears stung his eyes, but he did not let them show.

  Jessica and Paul stood at the front of the crowd, flanked by his Mentat Thufir Hawat and Gurney Halleck, with Duncan Idaho just behind them. Leto’s heart swelled as Jessica locked her gaze with his, and Paul ran forward, a fourteen-year-old full of energy with coal-black hair so similar to Leto’s.

  Leto bounded down the shuttle ramp to meet his son, and Paul crashed into him. The young man cried out, “I had a dream you were in terrible danger!” His raw emotion unsettled Leto, who was not a man to show boundless public affection. Even with Lady Jessica, he opened his heart to her only in the privacy of their chambers.

  He grasped the boy’s shoulders in a hug, then
held him at arm’s length to look at him. “I am safe, Paul, but my injuries are here.” He pressed a hand to his heart. The memories would haunt him for a long time.

  Jessica glided forward with perfect grace, and Leto saw that she was using Bene Gesserit control to keep from throwing herself into his arms, as Paul had done. “My Duke,” she said, her eyes sparkling like Hagal emeralds.

  “My Lady.” He could not remain frozen any longer, and he wrapped his arms around her in an embrace that provoked another round of cheers from the welcoming crowd.

  Thufir, Duncan, and Gurney gave him a few moments with Jessica and Paul, then greeted their Duke. The broad smile on Gurney’s face made the inkvine scar wriggle like a bloodworm.

  As if a dam had broken, other people pressed forward. It seemed as if everyone wanted to clap him on the back, but Thufir, Gurney, and Duncan took up protective positions, giving the Duke his space.

  A bearded man in heavy brown robes parted the crowd with majestic grace. The man wore a square cap embroidered with a simple fern frond. He had heavy eyebrows, bright eyes, and a smile that broke through the thick nest of his beard.

  “I came to see you in person, Duke Leto Atreides, my Duke. I do not often come to such a crowded place.” He looked around at the spaceport and the city, discomfited. “These … mountains of buildings make me uncomfortable.”

  “You honor me, Archvicar,” Leto said.

  Archvicar Torono led the ancient Muadh sect on Caladan, and he was popular and well respected in the northern agricultural reaches. Countless pundi rice farmers belonged to the introspective, untroublesome religion. The Muadh revered the land, preached peace, and concerned themselves with the bounty of the harvest, as symbolized by their colors of brown for the soil and green for the thriving rice plants.

  Torono gave another bow. “When we learned what happened at the Emperor’s festival, I had to bring word from my followers. We prayed for you, Duke Leto, our Duke. I came in person so that you would know. The Muadh rejoice that you have returned to us safely. The Duke of Caladan is Caladan, who walks among us.” He spread his fingers and bent to touch the ground, then rose up as if pulling invisible lines from the world itself. He spread his hands again, dispensing the bounty. “I bring you our blessing.”

  When the solemn moment was broken, the people cheered again. Leto looked at his son, at his beloved concubine, and replied to the religious leader, “Thank you, Archvicar. I am truly blessed.”

  * * *

  AT THE EVENING meal in the dining hall of Castle Caladan, Duke Leto wore his own clothes again, glad to be out of the garments provided by the Imperial chamberlain. He took comfort in sitting with his family in his ancestral home.

  Caladan was in his blood, and sea breezes were entwined in every strand of his genes. After so many generations, so many fallen ancestors whose remains lay buried on the land or distributed out to sea, how could it not be so?

  He gazed across the room at the painting of his father, the Old Duke, dressed in a matador costume. The portrait showed the characteristic overconfident lilt in his smile, the superior air he flaunted because his people loved and expected it. At the opposite end of the table, Leto sat beneath the mounted head of the Salusan bull that had killed Paulus. A transparent fixative had preserved the bloodstains on the beast’s sharp horns.

  Lady Jessica sat at his side in a formal banquet gown, looking at Leto instead of the mounted trophy. Paul wore the uniform of a young Duke, the presumed heir. At Leto’s request, the kitchens served a feast of traditional Caladan fare—honey-glazed moonfish, seasoned pundi rice, and slices of sweet paradan melon. Leto basked in the sensations of home.

  Duncan Idaho joined them at dinner, as did Hawat, Halleck, and a number of advisers, ministers, and trade representatives, all celebrating the return of their Duke, though Leto did not have his mind on business, not now. Even so, the business of Caladan still needed to be done, and Leto could not let his surrogates do it alone.

  Hawat ate his meal mechanically, his mind always turning with Mentat processing. His lips were stained deep red from the sapho juice he consumed to increase his mental acuity. As the first-course plates were taken away, the old veteran spoke up. “Caladan is secure, my Duke. While you were away, your staff and ministers handled everyday details. Let me take this opportunity to brief you on certain matters so you are fully aware of the state of your holdings.”

  The Mentat glanced down at his hands, as if reading imaginary reports there. “Pundi rice remains Caladan’s most lucrative export, both in volume of shipment and solaris earned. Crop output has been stable for generations. As a longer-term strategy, we may wish to consider upgrading agricultural operations to increase yields from the terraced paddies.”

  “The pundi rice farmers are traditionalists,” Jessica said. “They have done things the same way for generation after generation. They may take offense if we try to … improve things.”

  Thinking of the loyalty the Archvicar and his followers had demonstrated, Leto agreed with her. “I am content with our pundi rice operations as they stand. We don’t always have to increase what we have. The Harkonnens may try to squeeze more and more out of their people and planets, but that is not the way of House Atreides.”

  Hawat conceded the point and changed subjects. “In other exports, moonfish shows the most significant uptick in outside demand.” He produced reports, which Leto had no intention of reading at the moment. “The northern fisheries have expanded so we can deliver more tonnage of fillets and less-expensive by-products. Demand throughout the Imperium increases as our customer base grows. Many Landsraad nobles have acquired a taste for moonfish.”

  Leto muttered, “Let us hope they weren’t all killed on Otorio.” His comment brought a moment of awkward silence.

  Hawat glanced at a man dressed in formal business attire two seats down the banquet table. “Commerce Minister Wellan has more insight into the moonfish market. He recently visited the fisheries himself—”

  “Then let the man speak, Thufir,” Leto said with an edge of impatience, “and let him be done with his report so I can eat in peace.”

  The minister seemed agitated, nervous at being put on the spot. His eyes were bright, as if a thin film of cracked glass had been laid over the irises. “Yes, our fishery operations have expanded. They are privately owned but regulated by the ducal norms imposed by your father, my Lord. The facilities are extensive—rustic but effective. The fragile nature of moonfish breeding and the unique spawning grounds present serious challenges for large-scale production, but with sonic panels providing the proper soothing harmonics, the moonfish breed as much as we could want.” He brought forth a thick stack of papers, set it on the table next to his plate. His hands had a faint tremor. “Everything is detailed here.”

  Leto looked at his half-finished meal, closed his eyes for a second—as long as he dared to withdraw—then opened them again. “I will review it later. For now, I would like time with my Lady and my son.” Realizing his words sounded like a rebuke, he gathered his calm and pulled the invisible mantle of leadership around him. “I apologize, Minister. I find the business of Caladan reassuring, and on the morrow, I will study your findings thoroughly.”

  Gurney Halleck reached down beside his seat and raised his baliset, balancing it on his lap and striking a brief musical chord. “Perhaps a tune is what you need, my Lord.”

  “Indeed, Gurney. I’ve been too long without music.”

  Jessica touched Duke Leto’s forearm, letting him know her heart and thoughts were with him. He smiled softly, looked from face to face around the table. “After the spectacle on Otorio and the flashy glory of Kaitain, Caladan is much more to my liking.”

  A news report is based on fact, fiction, or a combination of the two, and is presented from a certain angle. Truth belongs to those who control that perspective.

  —COUNT HASIMIR FENRING

  All the Imperial glory around Count Fenring could not distract from the shock waves and t
urmoil after the attack on Otorio. Emperor Shaddam considered himself at war against the violent rebels.

  Fenring swept into the Imperial audience chamber accompanied by a small, thin man with an oversized head. Unfortunately, it was not the most impressive of entrances. The other man had a distracted way of walking, sometimes veering away and then catching himself. Fenring grabbed one of the man’s spindly arms and led him toward the throne.

  The Padishah Emperor sat on a massive blue-green throne cut from Hagal quartz. Empress Aricatha occupied her own smaller throne beside him, her eyes intent and interested, and nearby lurked an aged woman in dark Bene Gesserit robes, the Truthsayer Mohiam, who had also barely escaped from Otorio.

  Though Shaddam brooded on his throne, he brightened to see Fenring. “Ah, Hasimir! We have many important plans to discuss.” His brow wrinkled with impatient concern. “I see you brought your failed Mentat with you. Is he … functional enough?”

  Fenring motioned for his tottering companion to remain off to one side, while he approached the dais and made a perfunctory bow. “The peculiarities of Grix Dardik are something I must tolerate in order to obtain the full benefit of his genius.” He smiled. “For the sake of the Imperium, we need his insights. After all, he is the one who found records of Otorio lost in the dusty archives.” He glanced at the strange little man, who seemed preoccupied with his shoe. “And if he can discover a whole missing planet for you, Sire, what else might he find? The Noble Commonwealth is hiding somewhere, and we must root them out…”

  From his throne, the Emperor regarded Fenring’s peculiar companion. Shaddam’s new wife leaned closer and spoke in low tones, so that Fenring could not make out all the words, something to do with an Imperial assignment she wanted. Fenring knew Aricatha was constantly pressing her husband for more responsibility and meaningful things to do. Other Empresses had rarely been allowed to sit with him in the throne room at all.