Rhombur bent to read the brass plaque. “It says that all written and pictorial records of this woman were lost long ago when invaders set fire to the library building and destroyed the original statue. Uh, how do you know what she looked like?”
With a wrinkled smile, Harishka said cryptically, “Why, because we are witches.” Without another word, the robed old woman led the way down a short stairway and through a humid greenhouse where Acolytes and Sisters tended exotic plants and herbs. Perhaps medicines, perhaps even poisons.
The Mother School was a place of legend and mythology seen by few men, and Leto had been astonished at the warm acceptance that his brash request had received. He had asked the Bene Gesserit to select a talented, intelligent mate for Rhombur, and his tousle-haired friend had agreed to go “shopping.”
At a brisk pace Harishka crossed a grassy field where women in short, lightweight robes performed impossible stretching exercises to a vocal cadence called out by a wrinkled, stooped old woman who matched them, move for move. Leto found their bodily control astonishing.
When they finally entered a large stucco building with dark timbered beams and highly polished wooden floors, Leto was glad to be out of the sharp wind. The building had a dusty chalkboard smell from old plaster walls. The foyer opened into a practice hall, where a dozen young women in white robes stood motionless in the center, as erect as soldiers waiting for inspection. Their hoods were thrown back over their shoulders.
Mother Superior stopped in front of the acolytes. The two Reverend Mothers accompanying her went to stand behind the young women. “Who here seeks a concubine?” Harishka inquired. It was a traditional question, part of the ritual.
Rhombur stepped forward. “I do— uh, Prince Rhombur, firstborn son and heir of House Vernius. Or perhaps I seek even a wife.” He glanced over at Leto and lowered his voice. “Since my House is renegade, I don’t have to play silly political games. Unlike some people I know.”
Leto flushed, remembering the lessons his father had taught him. Find love wherever you like, but never marry for love. Your title belongs to House Atreides— use it to strike the best possible bargain.
He had recently traveled to forested Ecaz to meet with Archduke Armand in his provisional capital after the Moritani carpet-bombing of his ancestral château. Under the Emperor’s crackdown, sending a legion of Sardaukar to Grumman to keep the fuming Viscount at bay, open hostilities between the two Houses had stopped, at least for the moment.
Archduke Armand Ecaz had requested an investigation team to study the alleged sabotage of the famous Ecazi fogtree forests and other crops, but Shaddam had refused. “Let sleeping dogs lie” had been his official Imperial response. And he expected the problem to end there.
Recognizing Leto’s diligent attempts to calm the still-uneasy tensions, the Archduke had informally mentioned that his eldest daughter, Sanyá, might be a marriageable prospect for House Atreides. Upon hearing the suggestion, Leto had considered the assets of House Ecaz, their commercial, political, and military power, and how they might complement the resources of Caladan. He had not even looked at the girl in question. Study the political advantages of a marriage alliance. His father would have been pleased. . . .
Now, Mother Superior said, “These young women are well trained in the myriad ways of pleasing nobility. All have been chosen according to your profile, Prince.”
Rhombur approached the line of women and looked closely at each of their faces. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, some with skin as pale as milk, some as sleek and dark as ebony. All were beautiful, all intelligent . . . and all studied him with poise and anticipation.
Knowing his friend as he did, Leto was not surprised to see Rhombur pause in front of a rather plain-looking girl with wide-set sepia eyes and mousy brown hair cut as short as a man’s. She met Rhombur’s appraisal without looking away, without feigning a demure reaction as some of the others had done. Leto noted the faintest smile curving her lips upward.
“Her name is Tessia,” the Mother Superior said. “A very intelligent, talented young woman. She can recite the ancient classics perfectly, and plays several musical instruments.”
Rhombur tilted her chin up, looked into her dark brown eyes. “But can you laugh at a joke? And tell an even better one in return?”
“Clever wordplay, my Lord?” Tessia answered. “Do you prefer a distressingly bad pun, or a joke so bawdy it’ll make your cheeks burn?”
Rhombur guffawed with delight. “This one!” As he touched Tessia’s arm, she stepped out of line and walked with him for the first time. Leto was pleased to see his friend so happy, but his heart was heavy as well, considering his own lack of a relationship. Rhombur often did things on impulse, but had the fortitude to make them turn out right.
“Come here, children,” Harishka said in a solemn tone. “Stand before me and bow your heads.” They did so, holding hands.
With a paternal frown, Leto stepped forward to straighten Rhombur’s collar and brushed an offending wrinkle from his shoulder pad. The Ixian Prince flushed, then mumbled his thanks.
Harishka continued, “May you both lead long, productive lives and enjoy each other’s honorable company. You are now bound. If, in years to come, you should choose to marry and seal the bond beyond concubinage, you have the blessings of the Bene Gesserit. If you are not satisfied with Tessia, she may return here to the Mother School.”
Leto was surprised to witness so many ceremonial trappings in what was, fundamentally, a business agreement. By Courier from Caladan, he had already agreed upon a range of prices. Still, Mother Superior’s words imbued the relationship with some structure and established a foundation for good things to come.
“Prince Rhombur, this is a special woman, trained in ways that may surprise you. Heed her advice, for Tessia is wise beyond her years.” Mother Superior stepped back.
Tessia leaned forward to whisper in Rhombur’s ear, and the exiled Prince laughed. Looking at his friend, he said, “Tessia has an interesting idea. Leto, why don’t you select a concubine for yourself? There’s plenty to choose from.” He gestured toward the other Acolytes. “That way you won’t have to keep making eyes at my sister!”
Leto blushed furiously. His long-standing attraction to Kailea must be obvious, though he had taken steps over the years to conceal it. He had refused to take her to his bed, torn as he was by the demands of ducal duty and the admonitions of his father.
“I’ve had other lovers, Rhombur. You know that. City and village girls find their Duke attractive enough. There’s no shame in it— and I can maintain my honor with your sister.”
Rhombur rolled his eyes. “So, some fisherman’s daughter from the docks is good enough for you, but my sister isn’t?”
“That’s not it at all. I do this out of respect for House Vernius, and for you.”
Harishka broke in, “I am afraid the women we have brought here are not suitable for Duke Atreides. These have been selected for compatibility with Prince Rhombur.” Her prunish lips smiled. “Nonetheless, other arrangements might be made. . . .” She glanced up at an interior balcony, as if someone were watching them in concealment from above.
“I am not here for a concubine,” Leto said gruffly.
“Uh, he’s the independent sort,” Rhombur said to Mother Superior, then raised his eyebrows at Tessia. “What are we to do with him?”
“He knows what he wants, but does not know to admit it to himself,” Tessia said with a clever smile. “A bad habit for a Duke.”
Rhombur patted Leto on the back. “See, she’s already giving good advice. Why don’t you just take Kailea as your concubine and be done with it, Leto? I’m growing tired of your schoolboy angst. It’s certainly within your rights and, uh, we, both know it’s the best she can aspire to be.”
With an uneasy laugh, Leto dismissed the idea, though he had considered it many times. He had been hesitant to approach Kailea with such a suggestion. What might her reaction be? Would she demand to be more than
a concubine? That was impossible.
Still, Rhombur’s sister understood political realities. Before the Ixian tragedy, the daughter of Earl Vernius would have been an acceptable match for a Duke (perhaps that’s what old Paulus had had in mind). But now, as head of House Atreides, Leto could never marry into a family that no longer held any Imperial title or fief.
What is this Love that so many speak of with such apparent familiarity? Do they truly comprehend how unattainable it is? Are there not as many definitions of Love as there are stars in the universe?
— The Bene Gesserit Question Book
From an interior balcony overlooking the waiting Acolytes, twelve-year-old Jessica watched the concubine-selection process with intent eyes and sharp curiosity. Standing beside the girl, Reverend Mother Mohiam had instructed her to observe, so Jessica drank in every detail with practiced Bene Gesserit scrutiny.
What does the teacher want me to see?
On the polished hardwood floor, Mother Superior stood talking with the young nobleman and his newly selected concubine, Tessia al-Reill. Jessica had not predicted that choice; several of the other Acolytes were more beautiful, more shapely, more glamorous . . . but Jessica did not know the Prince or his personality, was not familiar with his tastes.
Did beauty intimidate him, an indication of low selfesteem? Perchance the Acolyte Tessia reminded him of someone else he had known? Or maybe he was simply attracted to her for some difficult-to-define reason . . . her smile, her eyes, her laugh.
“Never try to understand love,” Mohiam cautioned in a directed-whisper, sensing the girl’s thoughts. “Simply work to understand its effects in lesser people.”
Below, one of the other Reverend Mothers brought a document on a writing board and handed it to the Prince for his signature. His companion, a black-haired, hawk-featured nobleman, peered over his shoulder to review the fine print. Jessica could not make out their spoken words, but she was familiar with the ancient Ritual of Duty.
The dark-haired Duke reached forward to fix his companion’s collar. She found the gesture oddly endearing, and she smiled.
“Will I be presented to a nobleman one day, Reverend Mother?” she whispered. No one had ever explained what Jessica’s purpose in the Bene Gesserit might be, and it was a constant source of curiosity to her— one that often irritated Mohiam.
The Reverend Mother formed a scowl on her plain, aging face, as Jessica had suspected she would. “When the time is right, you will know, child. Wisdom is understanding when to ask questions.”
Jessica had heard this admonition before. “Yes, Reverend Mother. Impatience is a weakness.”
The Bene Gesserit had many such sayings, all of which Jessica had committed to memory. She sighed in exasperation, then controlled the reaction, hoping her teacher had not seen. The Sisterhood obviously had some plan for her— why wouldn’t they reveal her future? Most other Acolytes had some idea of their predetermined paths, but Jessica saw only a blank wall ahead of her, with no writing on it.
I am being groomed for something. Prepared for an important assignment. Why had her teacher brought her to this balcony, at this precise moment? There was no accident in this, no coincidence; the Bene Gesserit planned everything, thought everything through with utmost care.
“There is hope for you yet, child,” Mohiam murmured. “I instructed you to observe— but you are intent on the wrong person. Not the man with Tessia. Watch the other one, watch them both, watch how they interact with each other. Tell me what you see.”
From her high vantage, Jessica studied the men. She breathed deeply, let her muscles relax. Her thoughts, like minerals suspended in a glass of water, clarified.
“Both men are nobles, but not blood kin, judging from differences in their dress, mannerisms, and expressions.” She did not take her eyes from them. “They have been close friends for many years. They depend on one another. The black-haired one is concerned for his friend’s welfare.”
“And?” Jessica heard excitement and anticipation in her teacher’s voice, though she could not imagine why. The Reverend Mother’s eyes were riveted on the second nobleman.
“I can tell by his bearing and interaction that the dark-haired one is a leader and takes his responsibilities seriously. He has power, but does not wallow in it. He is probably a better ruler than he gives himself credit for.” She watched his movement, the flush of his skin, the way he looked at the other Acolytes and then forced himself to turn away. “He is also lonely.”
“Excellent.” Mohiam beamed down at her pupil, but her eyes narrowed. “That man is Duke Leto Atreides— and you are destined for him, Jessica. One day you will be the mother of his children.”
Though Jessica knew she should take this news impassively, as a duty she must perform for the Sisterhood, she suddenly found a need to calm her hammering heart.
At that moment Duke Leto glanced up at Jessica, as if sensing her presence in the balcony shadows— and their gazes met. She saw a fire in his gray eyes, a strength and wisdom beyond his years, the result of bearing difficult burdens. She felt herself drawn to him.
But she resisted. Instincts . . . automatic reactions, responses . . . I am not an animal. She rejected other emotions, as Mohiam had taught her for years.
Jessica’s previous questions vanished, and for the moment she formed no new ones. A deep, calming breath brought her to a state of serenity. For whatever reasons, she liked the look of this Duke . . . but her duty was to the Sisterhood. She would wait to learn what lay in store for her, and she would do whatever was necessary.
Impatience is a weakness.
Inwardly, Mohiam smiled. Knowing the genetic threads she’d been ordered to weave, the Reverend Mother had staged this brief but distant encounter between Jessica and Duke Atreides. Jessica was the culmination of many generations of careful breeding to create the Kwisatz Haderach.
The mistress of the program, Kwisatz Mother Anirul, wife of Emperor Shaddam, claimed that the highest likelihood of success would occur if a Harkonnen daughter of the current generation produced an Atreides daughter. Jessica’s secret father was Baron Harkonnen . . . and when she was ready she would be joined with Duke Leto Atreides.
Mohiam found it supremely ironic that these mortal enemies— House Harkonnen and House Atreides— were destined to form such an incredibly important union, one that neither House would ever suspect . . . or condone.
She could hardly restrain her excitement at the prospect: Thanks to Jessica, the Sisterhood was only two generations away from its ultimate goal.
When you ask a question, do you truly want to know the answer, or are you merely flaunting your power?
— DMITRI HARKONNEN, Notes to My Sons
Baron Harkonnen had to pay for the Suk doctor twice.
He’d thought his massive payment to Richesian Premier Calimar would be sufficient to obtain the services of Dr. Wellington Yueh for as long as would be required to diagnose and treat his debilitating illness. Yueh, though, refused to cooperate.
The sallow Suk doctor was totally absorbed in himself and his technical research on the orbiting laboratory moon of Korona. He showed not the slightest respect or fear when the Baron’s name was mentioned. “I may work for the Richesians,” he said in a firm, humorless voice, “but I do not belong to them.”
Piter de Vries, sent to Richese to work out the confidential details for the Baron, studied the doctor’s aged, wooden features, the oblivious stubbornness. They stood together in a small laboratory office on the artificial research station, a grand satellite that shone in the Richesian sky. Despite the emphatic request of Premier Calimar, narrow-faced Yueh, with long drooping mustaches and a rope of black hair gathered into a silver Suk ring, declined to go to Giedi Prime. Self-confident arrogance, de Vries thought. That can be used against him.
“You, sir, are a Mentat, accustomed to selling your thoughts and intelligence to any patron.” Yueh drew his lips together and studied de Vries as if he were performing an autopsy . .
. or wanted to. “I, on the other hand, am a member of the Suk Inner Circle, graduate of full Imperial Conditioning.” He tapped the diamond tattoo on his wrinkled forehead. “I cannot be bought, sold, or rented out. You have no hold over me. Now, please allow me to return to my important work.” He gave a minimal bow before taking his leave to continue research in the Richesian laboratories.
That man has never been put in his place, never been hurt . . . never been broken. Piter de Vries considered it a challenge.
• • •
In the governmental buildings of Triad Center, Richesian Premier Calimar’s apologies and posturing meant nothing to de Vries. However, he could easily make use of the man’s authorization to pass through the security gates and guards, to return to the Korona satellite research station. With no choice in the matter, the Mentat went to Dr. Yueh’s sterile medical laboratory. Alone, this time.
Time to renegotiate for the Baron. He did not dare return to Giedi Prime without a fully cooperative Suk doctor.
He moved with mincing steps into a metal-walled room filled with machinery, cables, and preserved body parts in tanks— a mixture of the best Richesian electromechanical technology, Suk surgical equipment, and biological specimens from other animals. The smells of lubricants, rot, chemicals, burned flesh, and burning circuits hung heavy in the cold room, even as the station’s air-recyclers attempted to scrub the contaminants. Several tables contained sinks, metal and plaz piping, snaking cables, dispensing machines. Rising above the dissection areas, shimmering holo blueprints portrayed human limbs as organic machines.
As the Mentat gazed across the laboratory, Yueh’s head suddenly appeared on the other side of one of the counters— lean and grease-smeared, with facial bones so prominent they seemed to be made of metal.
Dune: House Harkonnen Page 11