But things were much different now. . . .
He could not afford to become entangled with a young woman from a renegade House, a person who— in theory— carried a death sentence if she ever tried to become involved in Imperial politics. As a noble daughter, Kailea could never become just a casual lover, like a girl from the village below Castle Caladan.
But he couldn’t deny his feelings.
And wasn’t a Duke entitled to take a concubine if he wished? There was no shame in it for Kailea, either, especially with her lack of prospects.
“Well, Leto— what are you waiting for?” She stepped close to him, so that one of her breasts grazed his arm. Her perfume made him dizzy with pheromones. “You are the Duke. You can have anything you desire.” Kailea drew out the last word.
“And what makes you think there’s anything I . . . desire?” To his own ears, his voice sounded strangely hollow.
Raising her eyebrows, she gave him a coy smile. “Surely you are accustomed to making difficult decisions by now?”
He hesitated, frozen. Indeed, he thought, what am I waiting for?
They both moved at the same time, and he took her warmly into his arms with a long-held sigh of relief and growing passion.
• • •
From the time Leto was young, he remembered watching his father spend sunny days in the courtyard of Castle Caladan, where he would listen to the petitions, concerns, and well-wishes of the people. Old Paulus’s bearish, bearded father had called it “going about the business of being a Duke.” Leto carried on the tradition.
A line of people trudged up the steep path to the open gates, to participate in an archaic system in which the Duke settled disputes. Though efficient legal systems existed in all the large cities, Leto did this for the opportunity to maintain contact with his people. He liked to respond personally to their complaints and suggestions. He found it better than any number of surveys, opinion polls, and reports from supposed experts.
As he sat under the warm morning sun, he listened to one person after another as the line shuffled forward. An old woman, whose husband had gone to sea in a storm and never returned, asked that he be declared dead, and went on to request Leto’s blessing and dispensation to marry her husband’s brother. The young Duke told her to wait a month on both accounts, after which he would approve her petition.
A ten-year-old boy wanted to show Leto a sea hawk he had raised from the time it was a chick. The large red-crested bird clutched the boy’s leather-cuffed wrist, then flew up into the open air of the courtyard, circled (much to the terror of the sparrows nesting in the eaves), and came back to the boy when he whistled. . . .
Leto loved to focus his attentions on personal details here at home, where he could actually see how his decisions mattered to the lives of his people. The immense Imperium, supposedly spanning “a million worlds,” seemed too abstract, too vast to matter much here. Still, the bloody conflicts on other worlds— such as between Ecaz and Grumman, or the ages-old animosity between House Atreides and House Harkonnen— affected their own populations in as personal a way as anything he saw here.
Leto had long been eligible for marriage— very eligible, in fact— and other Landsraad members wanted to enter into an alliance with House Atreides and mingle bloodlines. Would it be one of the daughters of Armand Ecaz, or would some other family make him a better offer? He had to play the dynastic game his father had taught him.
For years now he’d longed for Kailea Vernius, but her family had fallen, her House gone renegade. A Duke of House Atreides could never marry such a woman. It would be political suicide. Still, that did not make Kailea any less beautiful, or desirable.
Rhombur, happy with Tessia, had suggested that Leto take Kailea as his ducal concubine. For Kailea there would certainly be no shame in becoming the chosen lover of a Duke. In fact, it would secure her precarious position here on Caladan, where she lived under a provisional amnesty, with no guarantees. . . .
Next, a balding man with squinting eyes opened a smelly basket. A pair of House Guards closed in on him, but moved back when he lifted out a warm, reeking fish that must have been dead for days. Flies buzzed around it. When Leto frowned, wondering what insult this could be, the fisherman blanched, suddenly realizing the impression he had made. “Oh no, no, m’Lord Duke! This ain’t an offerin’. No— look, ye. This fish has sores. All my catch in the southern sea had sores.” Indeed, the belly of the fish was rough and leprous. “The seakelp rafts out there are dyin’ and they stink to the heavens. Somethin’s wrong, and I thought ye should know ’bout it.”
Leto looked over at Thufir Hawat, calling on the old warrior to use his Mentat skills. “A plankton bloom, Thufir?”
Hawat scowled, his mind racing, and then he nodded. “Likely killed off the seaweed, which is now rotting. Spreading disease among the fish.”
Leto looked at the fisherman, who hurriedly covered his basket and held it behind his back to keep the smell far away from the Duke’s chair. “Thank you, sir, for bringing this to our attention. We’ll have to burn the dead kelp islands, maybe add some nutrients to the water to restore a proper plankton-and-algae balance.”
“Sorry about the stink, m’Lord Duke.” The fisherman fidgeted. One of Leto’s guards took the basket and, holding it at arm’s length, carried it outside the gates, where the sea breezes would absorb the odor.
“Without you, I might not have learned about the problem for weeks. You have our gratitude.” Despite Caladan’s excellent satellites and weather stations, Leto often learned information— more accurately and swiftly— through the people rather than these mechanisms.
The next woman wanted to give him her prize chicken. Then two men were disputing the boundaries of pundi rice fields and dickering over the value of an orchard lost by flood when a crumbling dike spilled water into the lowlands. An old lady presented Leto with a thick sweater she had knitted herself. Next, a proud father wanted Leto to touch the forehead of his newborn daughter. . . .
The business of being a Duke.
• • •
Tessia eavesdropped outside the sitting area of the Castle apartment she shared with Rhombur, while Leto and the Prince discussed Imperial politics: the embarrassing vandalism of Corrino monuments, the declining health of Baron Harkonnen, the escalating and unpleasant conflict between Moritani and Ecaz (even with Sardaukar peacekeeping troops in place on Grumman), and the continued efforts of Leto’s diplomatic corps to interject a note of reason to the situation.
The conversation eventually turned to the tragedies that had befallen House Vernius, how long it had been since the overthrow of Ix. Expressing resentment for this had become routine for Rhombur, though he never found the courage to take the next step toward reclaiming his birthright. Safe and content on Caladan, he had given up hoping for revenge . . . or at least had put it off for another, undetermined day.
By now, Tessia had had enough.
While still at the Mother School, she’d read thick files on House Vernius. Her knowledge of the history and politics of technology was a common interest with Rhombur. Even knowing all the Sisterhood’s plans within plans, she felt as if she’d been made for him— and therefore obligated to nudge him into action. She hated to see him . . . stuck.
Wearing a floor-length black-and-yellow caliccee dress, Tessia placed a silver tray with flagons of dark beer on the table between the men. She spoke up, surprising them with her interruption. “I’ve already promised you my help, Rhombur. Unless you intend to do something about the injustice to your House, don’t complain about it for another decade.” Raising her chin arrogantly, Tessia spun about. “I, for one, don’t want to hear it.”
Leto saw the flash in her intense, wide-set eyes. In astonishment, he watched her leave the room with only a faint rustle of her dress. “Well, Rhombur, I expected a Bene Gesserit to be more . . . circumspect. Is she always so blunt?”
Rhombur looked stunned. He picked up his beer and swallowed a gulp. “How, i
n only a few weeks, did Tessia figure out exactly what I needed to hear?” A fire burned in his eyes, as if the concubine had merely provided the spark for the tinder that had been piling up inside him for so long. “Maybe you’ve been too kind all these years, Leto. Making me overly comfortable while my father stays in hiding, while my people remain enslaved.” He blinked. “It’s not going to turn out for the best all by itself, is it?”
Leto stared at him for a long moment. “No, my friend. No, it isn’t.”
Rhombur could not ask Leto to send massive forces on his behalf, because that would invite open warfare between House Atreides and the Bene Tleilax. Leto had already risked everything to prevent that from happening. Right now, he was just a piece of flotsam, without a purpose.
The Prince’s face darkened with determination. “Maybe I ought to make a grand gesture, return to my homeworld, take a formal diplomatic frigate with a full escort— uh, I could rent one, I suppose— and land in the port-of-entry canyon on Ix. I’d publicly reclaim my name, demand that the Tleilaxu renounce their illegal seizure of our planet.” He huffed. “What do you think they’d say to that?”
“Don’t be foolish, Rhombur.” Leto shook his head, wondering if his friend was serious or not. “They’d take you prisoner and perform medical experiments on your body. You’d end up in a dozen pieces and a dozen different axlotl tanks.”
“Vermilion hells, Leto— what else am I going to do?” Distracted and disturbed, the Prince stood up. “If you will excuse me? I need to think.” He trudged up a low riser to his private bedchamber and shut the door. Leto stared after his friend for a long moment, sipping his drink, before returning to his private study and the piled inventory documents awaiting his inspection and signature. . . .
Watching from an upstairs balcony, Tessia flitted down the winding stairs and slid open the bedroom door. Inside, she found Rhombur on the bed, staring at a picture of his parents on the wall. Kailea had painted it herself, longing for the days in the Grand Palais. In the picture, Dominic and Shando Vernius were dressed in full regalia, the bald Earl in a white uniform with purple-and-copper Ixian helixes adorning the collar, and she in a billowing lavender merh-silk gown.
Tessia massaged his shoulders. “It was wrong of me to embarrass you in front of the Duke. I’m sorry.”
He saw the tenderness and compassion in her sepia gaze. “Why apologize? You’re right, Tessia, though it’s difficult for me to admit it. Maybe I’m ashamed. I should have done something to avenge my parents.”
“To avenge all of your people— and to free them.” She heaved an exasperated sigh. “Rhombur, my true Prince, do you want to be passive, defeated, and complacent . . . or triumphant? I’m trying to help you.”
Rhombur felt her surprisingly strong hands working expertly at his knotted muscles, loosening them, warming them. Her touch was like a soothing drug, and he was tempted to sleep so that he could forget his troubles.
He shook his head. “I gave up without a fight, didn’t I?”
The concubine’s fingers worked down his spine to the small of his back, arousing him. “That doesn’t mean you can’t fight again.”
• • •
With a deeply puzzled expression, Kailea Vernius brought a shiny black packet to her brother. “It has our family crest on it, Rhombur. Just came from a Courier in Cala City.”
His sister had green eyes and copper-dark hair held back by glazed-shell combs. Her face had grown into the lush beauty of womanhood with the soft edges of youth; she reminded Rhombur of their mother Shando, who had once been a concubine of Emperor Elrood’s.
Perplexed, the Prince gazed at the helix on the package, but saw no other markings. Dressed in common, comfortable clothes, Tessia came up behind Rhombur while he used a small fishing knife to cut open the parcel. His brow wrinkled as he brought out a sheet of ridulian paper with lines, triangles, and dots on it. Then he caught his breath.
“It looks like a sub rosa message, an Ixian battle code written in a geometrical cipher.”
Kailea pursed her lips. “Father taught me the complexities of business, but little of military matters. I didn’t think I needed them.”
“Can you decode it, my Prince?” Tessia asked in a voice that made Rhombur wonder if his Bene Gesserit concubine also had special translation skills.
He scratched his tousled blond hair, then reached for a notepad. “Uh, let me see. My tutor used to beat the codes into my head, but it’s been years since I’ve thought about them.” Rhombur sat cross-legged on the floor, then began scribbling the Galach alphabet in a scrambled order he’d memorized. He scratched out lines and recopied the pattern more carefully. With old memories coming back to him, he stared at the paper and his pulse quickened. Someone with inside knowledge had undoubtedly prepared this. But who?
Next Rhombur took a ruler and, measuring carefully, made a new sheet into a grid. Across the top, he wrote the scrambled alphabet, one letter inside each square, then added a pattern of coding dots. Placing the mysterious message next to his decryption sheet, he lined up dots with letters, then transcribed one word at a time. “Vermilion hells!”
Prince Rhombur Vernius, Rightful Earl of Ix: The Tleilaxu usurpers torture or execute our people for perceived infractions, then use the corpses for horrible experiments. Our young women are stolen in the darkness. Our industries remain overrun by invaders.
There is no justice for Ix— only memories, hopes, and slavery. We long for the day when House Vernius can crush the invaders and once again free us. With all due respect, we request your assistance. Please help us.
The note was signed by C’tair Pilru of the Freedom Fighters of Ix.
Rhombur leaped to his feet and hugged his sister. “It’s the Ambassador’s son— Kailea, do you remember?”
Eyes lit with half-forgotten happiness, she remembered how the dark-haired twins had flirted with her. “Nice-looking young man. His brother became a Guild Navigator, didn’t he?”
Rhombur grew silent. For years he’d known such things were happening on his world, but he’d avoided thinking about it, hoping the problems would go away. How could he contact the rebels on Ix? As an exiled Prince without a House, how could he address the tragedy? He hadn’t been willing to consider all the possibilities.
“Mark my words,” Rhombur vowed. “I’m going to do something about this. My people have waited too long.”
He pulled back from his sister, and his gaze moved around to Tessia, who stood watching him. “I’d like to help,” she said. “You know that.”
Rhombur drew his concubine and his sister to him in a great bear hug. Finally, he had a sense of purpose.
To learn about this universe, one must embark on a course of discovery where real dangers exist. Education cannot impart this discovery; it is not a thing to be taught and used or put away. It has no goals. In our universe, we consider goals to be end products, and they are deadly if one becomes fixated on them.
— FRIEDRE GINAZ,
Philosophy of the Swordmaster
Transport ornithopters carried the Ginaz students in groups, descending as they flew along the edge of a forbidding new island, beside black-lava cliffs worn slick over the centuries by cascading waterfalls. The mound of sharp rock rose out of the water like a rotten tooth, without jungles, without greenery, without apparent habitation. Surrounded by deep, treacherous water, the mountainous island— nameless, except for its military designation— lay at the eastern end of the archipelago.
“Ah look, another tropical paradise,” Hiih Resser said, in a dry tone. Peering through one of the small portholes, crowded beside his classmates, Duncan Idaho knew this place would only hold new ordeals for all of them.
But he was ready.
The ’thopter gained altitude and flew up the windward side to the curving mouth of a steep crater. Smoke and ash still coughed out of vents, adding a heavy, hot pall to the humid air. The pilot circled around so they all could identify a single shining ’thopter landed on the crat
er rim; the small craft would be used in some part of their training, no doubt. Duncan could not guess what might be in store for them.
The ’thopter cruised to the base of the volcano, where jutting elbows of cracked reefs and steaming fumaroles formed their camp. Colorful self-erecting tents dotted flat surfaces of the lava rock, encircling a larger compound. No amenities whatsoever. When they landed, many of the students rushed out to choose their tents, but Duncan could not see how any one was preferable to another.
The tall Swordmaster waiting for them had leathery skin, a mane of thick gray hair that hung to the middle of his back, and haunting eyes set deeply into bony sockets. With a twinge of awe, Duncan recognized the legendary warrior, Mord Cour. As a child on Hagal, Cour had been the sole survivor of his massacred mining village; he’d lived as a feral boy in the forested cliffs, taught himself to fight, then infiltrated the bandit gang that had destroyed his village. After gaining their trust, he single-handedly slew the leader and all the bandits, then marched off to join the Emperor’s Sardaukar. He had served as Elrood’s personal Swordmaster for years before retiring to the academy on Ginaz.
After making them recite the Swordmaster’s Pledge in unison, the legendary warrior said, “I have killed more people than any of you pups have ever met. Pray that you do not become one of them. If you learn from me, then I will have no excuse to slay you.”
“I don’t need any incentive to learn from him,” Resser said to Duncan out of the corner of his mouth. The old man heard the muttered words and snapped his glance over to the redheaded student. In the back of the group, Trin Kronos, one of the other Grumman trainees (though much less friendly), snickered, then silenced himself.
As Mord Cour held Resser with his piercing gaze, waiting, Duncan cleared his throat and took one step forward. “Swordmaster Cour, he said that none of us needs an incentive to learn from a great man like you, sir.” He gripped the hilt of the Old Duke’s sword.
Dune: House Harkonnen Page 20