“Well said, young Master.” Duncan laughed, a deep chuckle similar to Gurney’s. “Words are an effective weapon for the human to use. You just used them on me.”
“Effectively?”
He raised his sword in a salute to Paul. “You’re the young Master, and I shall never forget that, but in the world of the classroom, I am the master, and you will do as I say … for your own good.”
Their sparring was interrupted when Jessica appeared at the door of the training room. Duncan lowered his sword, giving Paul’s mother a deferential nod. Paul could sense that uneasiness hung around her like a shawl; she herself had taught him how to read the signs. “When you are finished with your session, Paul, I must speak with you.”
The young man wiped sweat from his forehead. “I think I have exhausted Duncan enough for one day.”
Jessica turned to the Swordmaster. Her tone was polite, but firm. “If you would be so kind as to grant us privacy?”
“Of course, my Lady.” Duncan returned his broadsword to the rack and left the chamber while toweling himself off.
Though his trainer had shown the proper deference to the Duke’s concubine, Paul had seen a hardness in his eyes when he looked at Jessica. He didn’t understand why his mother and Duncan were often at odds. Paul wanted to use every technique, along with the ones Gurney and Thufir showed him, to become as skilled as possible. They all wanted him to be the best Duke, and he appreciated that.
Jessica’s expression seemed both warm and sad at the same time. “There is something you must know … plans your father is making.” Paul returned his broadsword to the rack, and he and his mother took seats on a hard bench. She framed her words carefully. “Leto is the moral foundation on which House Atreides stands. He is my anchor and my love. After looking at many marriage possibilities, he has reached a decision, an important one for our future—in consultation with Thufir Hawat and me.”
Paul read into what she said, the nuances of her voice, her flicker of expressions. He dreaded what she would say next.
Jessica handed him an image plate bearing the face of a beautiful young blond-haired woman. “Who is this?” he asked, suddenly wary.
“Her name is Junu Verdun, the daughter of Duke Fausto Verdun, an influential Landsraad noble. Joining their House to ours in a marriage alliance would significantly strengthen House Atreides. Your father has sent a proposal to Duke Verdun, suggesting negotiations for a possible betrothal.”
Paul’s anger flared toward his father, as well as a deep hurt for his mother. Duke Leto had promised he would not marry. “She looks my age! And my father intends to marry her?” He felt dizzy.
Surprised, Jessica let out a quick laugh, which perplexed him. “Oh, Paul! No, your father is suggesting Junu Verdun as your future wife.”
Now Paul reeled in sudden confusion, even astonishment. Searching for words, he finally said, “I’m only fourteen! When does he expect me to marry?”
Jessica’s eyes bored into his, and she reached out to touch his hand. “When I look at you, I often forget how young you are, even though you have wisdom and fighting skills beyond your years.”
He took pride in that, but felt disoriented. “A betrothal … for me? When does he propose that the wedding happen?” In his mind, he was shouting, wanting to know how much time he had to be a young man, instead of a future Duke.
“We are exploring options, and this is merely a suggestion of a proposal, for now, an exploratory idea that will nevertheless set the Landsraad buzzing. If accepted, however, it could become a legally binding pact between our two Houses.” She drew a breath. “We can draw out the negotiations, if need be. And I will insist that you meet her yourself. The timing is still up for discussion.” Her voice took on a lighter tone. “Several of the other candidates Thufir suggested were far less compatible. I will make sure those are never again considered.”
Though his thoughts were spinning, he smiled in gratitude. Suddenly, his entire world was uncertain.
She handed him the image plate so he could look at Junu more closely. “You don’t know the girl, of course, but you can review the information we have compiled about her. If we receive a positive response from Duke Verdun, we will arrange for the two of you to be introduced.”
He looked down at her features, found her pretty. He rolled the name over in his mind. Junu Verdun. Paul would be expected to take her as his formal, legal wife for political reasons. One day, she could be the Duchess of Caladan.
Jessica regarded him for a long while, and he worked hard to control his breathing, his pulse, exactly as she had taught him. She did not guide him in the technique but let him work through the exercise on his own. Finally, his heartbeat calmed, his breathing slowed, and he gathered a sense of stillness about him.
He opened his eyes again and stared sadly at the image of Junu Verdun. “But this isn’t right. She is not the girl I see in my dreams.”
The comment drew Jessica’s interest. “Your dreams? You see a girl?”
“Often the same dream again and again. I’m sure it will come true—sometimes I can tell.” He explained about the young woman in the cave and the vast desert, her all-blue eyes, dark red hair, and elfin features. He set the image plate aside on the bench, then picked up a drawing pad there among the records and training logs. “I’ve dreamed of her enough that I know her features. And it is not the daughter of Duke Verdun.” To the best of his ability, he sketched an image of the dream girl. “I think this is the person who will be my wife and my love.”
“Those two are not always the same thing.” Jessica’s voice had a quick undertone of bitterness from her own situation. “And dreams do not always come true.”
“Maybe we need to listen to dreams, though,” Paul said. “Remember the dream I had not long ago, one that terrified me in my sleep? I dreamed my father was in danger.” He paused. “I consulted the Ixian chronometer in his study and confirmed what I already suspected. My dream occurred at the same time as the Otorio attack.”
Jessica was alarmed. “That is strange indeed. Prescient dreams are of great interest to the Sisterhood.” She had always known there was something special about Paul, and now she felt more certain than ever that her son had an important future. But she worried about him.
* * *
THE MESSAGE CYLINDER came from Lord Atikk. From their brief conversation on Otorio, Leto remembered the loud and blustery man. Now when he unsealed the cylinder and read the words, Atikk’s sheer venom and fury struck him like a physical blow.
“The Landsraad has heard of Atreides honor, Duke Leto, but now I know it is a lie to cover your hateful corruption. Have you no inkling of the harm and suffering you caused? Damn you and your drug operations.”
Leto felt as if he had been impaled by an icicle. The unexpected condemnation from this stranger did not even seem real.
“Your Caladan drug killed my son! At first, the drug seemed less harmful than some of Raolin’s other vices, but you know the truth, don’t you? You lured him with a peaceful release, but it was like a hidden bomb. Now he is dead because of you. Dead! I held him in my arms as his life drained away in horrible convulsions from the vile drug you sell on the black market.
“I should declare a War of Assassins against House Atreides, here and now, but you saved my life on Otorio. That places me under an obligation to my own honor. I managed to escape on one of the only ships, along with Archduke Ecaz. Therefore, you have me under an unwilling life debt. But the Landsraad will know what you are, Duke of Caladan.”
A coldness seeped and spread within Leto, and he couldn’t fathom what he was reading. He did recall Atikk’s odd mention of “the Caladan drug” during the Imperial reception, but Jaxson Aru’s attack had swept the detail from his mind.
The message concluded. “You are forever the enemy of House Atikk, Leto Atreides. It will not be forgotten.”
That was all the letter said. No further explanation.
“Thufir!” he shouted. “Thufir Hawa
t!”
Leto rose from his desk and read the damning letter again, but it still made no sense. His immediate instinct was to pour out a message of sympathy, to somehow offer reparations for the loss of Raolin Atikk, but he did not dare. So much vengeful outrage dripped from the letter!
What was this Caladan drug, and how could Leto not know about it? Caladan was his planet, and he ruled it under the mantle of morality and reliability, and now his own reputation had been undermined. Clearly, he needed to get to the bottom of whatever this illicit activity was. The son of a Landsraad noble was dead. How many others had been harmed?
The Caladan drug?
The warrior Mentat strode into Leto’s study, flushed. He’d come running when he heard the summons. “Yes, my Lord Duke?”
Leto handed him Atikk’s vitriolic message. Hawat’s brow furrowed deeply as he read. The Duke stepped away. “Find out what is going on, Thufir. Identify this Caladan drug—who is manufacturing it, who is distributing it? How does it get offworld? Why did we not know about this … and how am I to blame?”
Hawat straightened, handed the letter back. “I will begin an investigation immediately.”
Suspicions have a way of becoming “facts,” even if they have no basis in truth.
—PRINCESS IRULAN, The Book of Muad’Dib
After he returned to Arrakis, Count Hasimir Fenring traveled to Carthag in the early evening. After the sun set, the air was cooler, the desert not so menacing, although the central Harkonnen city was still an ugly place. Fenring had spent enough years on this harsh planet to know when best to leave his lovely Arrakeen Residency. His mission to the Baron Harkonnen would be difficult enough.
Fenring stepped out of the overland flyer that had brought him from the spaceport wearing a pro forma stillsuit, but he refused to wear a face mask or inconvenient nose plugs. He inhaled a dusty breath, smelling the unpleasant fumes that the Harkonnen troops and equipment seemed to exude.
Fenring already missed Kaitain, but Shaddam had sent him back to his duties as Imperial Spice Observer, and he understood the importance of the task the Emperor had set for him. Though he liked to care for his lovely wife, Hasimir Fenring was not a man who needed to be pampered.
Moving quickly, he stepped into a waiting groundcar on the edge of the landing field and breathed a sigh of relief when the door sealed behind him. Since the Baron had dispatched the vehicle for him, Fenring did not need to give the driver instructions. Without a word, the man rolled the groundcar across the paved area and into the city.
Fenring hated the megalopolis where Baron Harkonnen maintained his headquarters. This crowded city, with its roadways and blocky buildings, was a magnet for heat and grime, making the place seem even more unpleasant. The air reeked of oil, sweat, and industrial odors, of filthy smoke mixed with dust. After the Richesian governors had left eighty years ago, the Harkonnens had brought their brute-force sensibility and manufacturing methods from Giedi Prime, leaving a stain that would last for centuries.
Fenring much preferred the older, more stately city of Arrakeen, where he had made an acceptable home for himself and his dear Margot, but he reminded himself this was not a pleasure trip. He had to deliver the Imperial decree about the new spice surtax, and the Baron would not be pleased.
In the downtown core of Carthag, the taller buildings rose above the hazy smoke of fabrication and repair yards for spice-harvesting machinery. The governor’s mansion was not as tall as the central Guild Bank structure, but stockier and more fortified.
As the escort car pulled up in front of the mansion’s guarded gates, Fenring saw two desiccated heads on spikes. Their darkening skin had blistered in the heat, and now in the gathering darkness, glowglobes spotlighted the gruesome trophies.
After being ushered past guard stations and inside the main structure, Fenring strolled into the fortified mansion with his Imperial credentials, in case anyone needed a reminder of his importance.
Baron Vladimir Harkonnen greeted him from the suspensor chair behind an ellipsoid desk in his spacious private office. The desk was made of jade-pink elaccawood, a replica of the original in his Giedi Prime office. He also kept a relief globe of the desert world here. Scrolls and filmbooks lined the walls.
Fenring sauntered forward, taking a seat without being invited. As he settled into the guest chair, though, he noted that the Baron had staged the furniture so he would be a head taller than any visitor. Fenring did not like to be in a subordinate position to this unpleasant man.
Baron Harkonnen was intimidating in his girth, with uneven discolorations on his face from a persistent, incurable malady. He wore a bandage on his forehead and a medcast on his left wrist and hand. Fenring immediately noted the details, confirming what he knew.
Shaddam was deeply suspicious of the Baron’s failure to attend the grand gala. After Jaxson Aru’s screed about breaking up the Imperium, the Emperor had begun to see signs of treachery everywhere, secret members of the Noble Commonwealth, sympathizers with the rebellion. Were the Harkonnens part of the brewing rebellion?
House Harkonnen had governed Arrakis with its lucrative spice industry for eighty-odd years. The Baron’s father, Dmitri Harkonnen, had ruled for years until his death, followed by the disastrous tenure of the Baron’s half brother Abulurd, before Vladimir Harkonnen himself took over the operations. By long tradition, a noble family was assigned to the desert planet for a century, although the Emperor could remove them at any time. But the profits—both on the books and under the table—were so extensive that few families willingly relinquished their siridar-governorship.
Seeing Fenring’s scrutiny, the big man lifted his med-wrapped arm. “I have not been feeling well. A minor accident left me with this injury. That is the reason I could not attend the Emperor’s gala on Otorio.”
“And such a fortunate coincidence, hmmm? How convenient you were away from Otorio when the attack happened.” Fenring leaned forward. “Exactly how were you injured?”
The Baron sniffed, then waved his wrapped hand dismissively. “Oh, just a little household accident. My suspensor belt failed me at a most inopportune time, and I fell on the stone stairway. Alas, for a person of my size, gravity is not my friend.” The fat man’s gaze drifted off, as if he were pulling a fanciful story out of the ether. “You can reassure the Emperor, though, that I am feeling better every day, and my work here has not suffered one bit.”
Fenring knew he was lying; he had his own sources of information. “Interesting. Hmmm-ahh … a household accident, indeed.”
The Baron squirmed, but gave no additional details.
Fenring had done his own investigating and compiled a thorough intelligence report. The real reason had not been difficult to determine at all, nor did it appear to have anything to do with Jaxson Aru or the attack, but it was certainly no clumsy household accident. As planetary governor, Vladimir Harkonnen did not want to admit unrest or violence on Arrakis. The assassination attempt made him look weak.
Fenring would not let him believe his clumsy deception had succeeded. “Did you really think the Emperor would not know about the malcontents who attacked your shuttle? The assassination attempt on your person?” His voice had a razor edge. “You did not consider it relevant that desert rabble nearly killed the designated governor of one of the most important planets in the Imperium?”
The fat man began sweating profusely. “It was … an internal matter, and it has been dealt with.”
“Yes, ahhhh, I saw the heads outside the gate.”
“House Harkonnen takes our spice operations seriously, and we will defend them against outside interference or internal unrest.” Now the Baron looked smug. “I ordered my nephew Rabban to increase security, and I brought in additional troops from Giedi Prime. I assure you that melange production is secure.” He visibly swallowed. “We are even rooting out nests of highly organized smugglers in the desert, which will further cut down our losses. Emperor Shaddam will be pleased.”
The Count t
apped his fingers together. This is a man of lies, he thought. But Fenring understood him. He had gotten the answers he needed, and would report to Shaddam that Baron Vladimir Harkonnen did not appear to be involved with the rebels or the attack on Otorio. Clearly, the Baron had intended to go to Otorio, so he’d possessed no knowledge of the planned massacre.
But that was only one reason the Emperor had dispatched Fenring here. He stared at the Baron in silence, waiting to deliver his decree, making the other man uncomfortable.
Finally, the Baron cleared his throat with a rumble. “And what is it you want of me? You said the Emperor had an important message? I have a busy schedule tonight.”
“Yes, mmmm, I will be brief. In light of the costly devastation from the recent terrorist attack, the Emperor is forced to seek an unorthodox remedy. In order to pay for that damage, as well as the costs of significantly increased security and enhanced military forces in key positions, the Padishah Emperor commands that you impose a surtax on all spice production and distribution. This surtax will be painful but necessary, and you will make sure that it is implemented.”
Spluttering, the Baron raised himself up on his suspensor belt. “A surtax on top of our costs? But that would cause serious harm to the market! Our profit margins are already narrow, with the amount of equipment that gets damaged and lost in this hellish place! The customers will balk at paying more—”
“And yet they will pay, hmmm?”
The Baron fumed. “Yes. Some of them will pay, but others will buy less.” He struck his desk with his wrapped hand and winced in pain. “Tell the Emperor this is unacceptable! We already endure extreme Imperial taxes on melange, and this will take us beyond the breaking point.”
“With all due respect, my dear Baron, if you have a response for Emperor Shaddam, you will have to tell him yourself. I am not your messenger. I am his.” Fenring smiled thinly, rather like he smiled at people when he slipped a knife between their ribs.
Dune: The Duke of Caladan Page 13