A booming voice startled him. “Everyone out!” He recognized the timbre of Dinari’s voice, but the big man’s tone conveyed something new, something ominous. Another surprise training exercise?
The students scrambled out of the tents into the downpour, some clad in shorts, some wearing nothing at all. Without hesitation, they lined up in their usual formations. By now they didn’t even feel the rain. Glowglobes bobbed in the wind, swaying at the ends of suspensor tethers.
Still dressed in khakis, an agitated Swordmaster Dinari paced in front of the class like a stalking animal. His footsteps were heavy and angry; he didn’t care that he splashed in the muddy puddles. Behind him, the engine of a landed ornithopter whined as its articulated wings thumped in the air.
A red strobelight on top of the aircraft illuminated the figure of the slender, bald woman Karsty Toper, who had met Duncan upon his first arrival on Ginaz. Wearing her usual black martial-arts pajama, now rain-soaked, she clutched a glistening diplomatic plaque that was impervious to moisture. Her expression looked hard and troubled, as if she were barely able to contain disgust or outrage.
“Four years ago, a Grumman ambassador murdered an Ecazi diplomat after being accused of sabotaging Ecazi fogwood trees, and then Grumman troops engaged in a criminal carpet-bombing of Ecaz. These heinous and illegal aggressions violated the Great Convention, and the Emperor stationed a legion of Sardaukar on Grumman to prevent further atrocities.” Toper paused, waiting for the implications to sink in.
“The forms must be obeyed!” Dinari said, sounding greatly offended.
Karsty Toper stepped forward, holding up her crystal document like a cudgel. Rain streamed down her scalp, her temples. “Before removing his Sardaukar from Grumman, the Emperor received promises from both sides agreeing to cease all aggressions against one another.”
Duncan looked around at the other students, seeking an answer. No one seemed to know what the woman was talking about or why the Swordmaster seemed so angry.
“Now, House Moritani has struck again. The Viscount reneged on the pact,” Toper said, “and Grumman—”
“They have broken their word!” Swordmaster Dinari interrupted.
“And Grumman agents have kidnapped the brother and eldest daughter of Archduke Armand Ecaz and publicly executed them.”
The gathered students muttered their dismay. Duncan could tell, though, that this was no mere lesson in inter-House politics for them to learn. He dreaded what was about to come.
On Duncan’s right, Hiih Resser shifted uneasily on his feet. He wore shorts, no shirt. Two rows back, Trin Kronos appeared to be smugly satisfied at what his House had done.
“Seven members of this class are from Grumman. Three are from Ecaz. Though these Houses are sworn enemies, you students have not permitted such enmity to affect the work of our school. This is to your credit.” Toper pocketed her diplomatic plaque.
The wind whipped the tails of Dinari’s bandanna around his head, but he stood as sturdy as an enormous oak tree. “Though we have not been part of this dispute, and we avoid Imperial politics altogether, the Ginaz School cannot tolerate such dishonor. It shames me even to spit the name of your House. All Grummans, step forward. Front and center!”
The seven students did as they were told. Two (including Trin Kronos) were nude, but stood at attention with their companions as if they were fully dressed. Resser looked alarmed and ashamed; Kronos actually raised his chin in indignation.
“You are faced with a decision,” Toper said. “Your House has violated Imperial law and dishonored itself. After your years here on Ginaz, you understand the appalling seriousness of this offense. No one has ever been kicked out of this school for purely political reasons. Therefore, you may either denounce the insane policies of Viscount Moritani, here and now— or be expelled immediately and permanently from the academy.” She pointed toward the waiting ornithopter.
Trin Kronos scowled. “So, after all your words about honor, you ask us to give up loyalty to our House, our families? Just like that?” He glared at the fat Swordmaster. “There can be no honor without loyalty. My eternal allegiance is to Grumman and to House Moritani.”
“Loyalty to an unjust cause is a perversion of honor.”
“Unjust cause?” Kronos stood flushed and indignant in his nakedness. “It is not my place to challenge the decisions of my Lord, sir—nor is it yours.”
Resser looked straight forward, did not glance at his fellows. “I choose to be a Swordmaster, sir. I will stay here.” The redhead fell back into line beside Duncan, while the other Grummans glared at him as if he were a traitor.
Prompted by Kronos, the remaining six refused to yield. The Moritani lordling growled, “You insult Grumman at your own peril. The Viscount will never forget your meddling.” His words were full of bluster, but neither Swordmaster Dinari nor Karsty Toper seemed impressed.
The Grummans stood proud and arrogant, though obviously disturbed to be put in such a position. Duncan sympathized with them, realizing that they, too, had selected a course of honor— a different form of honor— since they refused to abandon their House, regardless of the accusations. If he were thrust into a choice between the Ginaz School and loyalty to House Atreides, he would have chosen Duke Leto without hesitation. . . .
Given only minutes to dress and gather their possessions, the Grumman students boarded the ’thopter. The wings went to full extension, then began a powerful flapping rhythm as the craft flew through the rain over the dark water until its red strobe faded like a dying star.
The Universe is a place inaccessible, unintelligible, completely absurd . . . from which life— especially rational life— is estranged. There is no place of safety, or basic principle upon which the Universe depends. There are only transitory, masked relationships, confined within limited dimensions, and bound for inevitable change.
— Meditations from Bifrost Eyrie, Buddislamic Text
Rabban’s slaughter of the fur whales in Tula Fjord was only the first in a chain of disasters to strike Abulurd Harkonnen.
On a sunny day when the ice and snow had begun to thaw after a long, hard winter, a terrible avalanche buried Bifrost Eyrie, the greatest of the mountain retreats built by reclusive Buddislamic monks. It was also the ancestral home of House Rabban.
The snow came down like a white hammer, sweeping away everything in its path. It crushed buildings, buried thousands of religious devotees. Emmi’s father, Onir Rautha-Rabban, sent a plea for help directly to Abulurd’s main lodge.
With knotted stomachs, Abulurd and Emmi took an ornithopter, leading larger transports filled with local volunteers. He piloted with one hand, while clutching her fingers with his other. For a lingering moment, he studied the strong profile of his wife’s wide face, and her long black hair. Though she wasn’t beautiful in any classic sense, he never tired of looking at her, or of being with her.
They traveled along the folded coastline, then deep into the rugged mountain ranges. Many of the isolated retreats had no roads leading to the crags in which they nestled. All raw materials were extracted from the mountains; all supplies and people came via ’thopter.
Four generations ago, a weak House Rabban had surrendered planetary industrial and financial rights to the Harkonnens, on the condition that they be allowed to live in peace. The religious orders built monasteries and focused their energies on scriptures and sutras in an attempt to understand the subtlest nuances of theology. House Harkonnen couldn’t have cared less.
Bifrost Eyrie had been one of the first cities built like a dream of Shangri-La in the backbone ranges. Chiseled stone buildings were situated on cliffs so high that they remained above Lankiveil’s perpetual cloud level. Viewed from meditation balconies, the peaks floated like islands on a sea of white cumulus. The towers and minarets were covered with gold painstakingly extracted from distant mines; every flat wall surface was etched with friezes or intaglios depicting ancient sagas and metaphors for moral choices.
Ab
ulurd and Emmi had been to Bifrost Eyrie many times, to visit her father or just to go on retreats when they needed relaxation. Upon returning to Lankiveil after seven years on dusty Arrakis, he and his wife had required a month at Bifrost Eyrie just to cleanse their minds.
And now an avalanche had nearly destroyed that great monument. Abulurd didn’t know how he could bear to see it.
They sat together tensely as he flew the ornithopter high, holding the vehicle steady in bucking air currents. Since there were few landmarks and no roads, he relied on coordinates for the ’thopter’s navsystems. The craft came over one razorback range and into a glacier-filled bowl, then up a rugged black slope to where the city should have been. The sunlight was dazzling.
With her jasper-brown eyes Emmi looked ahead, counting peaks and orienting herself, before she pointed, still not releasing his hand from her tightening grip. Abulurd recognized a few glittering gold spires, the milky-white stones that held up the magnificent buildings. Fully a third of Bifrost Eyrie had been erased, as if a giant broom of snow had smoothed everything over, obliterating any obstruction, whether cliff or building or praying monk.
The ’thopter landed in what had been the town square, now cleared as a staging area for rescue and salvage parties. The surviving monks and visitors had swarmed out onto the snowfield: The robed figures used makeshift tools and even bare hands to rescue survivors, but mostly to recover frozen bodies.
Abulurd climbed out of the ’thopter and reached up to help his wife down; he was afraid her legs might be shaking as much as his were. Although cold gusts cast ice crystals like gritty sand in their faces, the tears that sprang to Abulurd’s pale eyes were not caused by the wind.
Seeing them arrive, the barrel-chested burgomaster, Onir Rautha-Rabban, came forward. His mouth opened and closed above a bearded chin, but he remained speechless. Finally he just threw his thick arms around his daughter and gave Emmi a long hug. Abulurd embraced his father-in-law.
Bifrost Eyrie had been famed for its architecture, for prismatic crystal windows that reflected rainbows back into the mountain. The people who dwelled there were artisans who crafted precious items sold off-world to affluent, discriminating customers. Most famed of all were the irreplaceable books of delicate calligraphy and illuminated manuscripts of the enormous Orange Catholic Bible. Only the wealthiest Great Houses in the Landsraad could afford a Bible hand-lettered and embellished by the monks of Lankiveil.
Of particular interest had been the singing crystal sculptures, harmonic quartz formations taken from cave grottoes, arranged carefully and tuned to proper wavelengths, so that the resonance of one crystal, when tapped, would set up a vibration in the next, and the next, in a harmonic wave, a music unlike any other in all the Imperium. . . .
“More work crews and transports are on their way,” Abulurd said to Onir Rautha-Rabban. “They’re bringing equipment and emergency supplies.”
“All we can see is grief and tragedy,” Emmi said. “I know it’s too soon for you to think clearly now, Father, but if there’s anything else we can do—”
The square-shouldered man with the gray beard nodded. “Yes, there is, my daughter.” Onir looked Abulurd straight in the eye. “Our tithe to House Harkonnen is due next month. We’d sold enough crystals, tapestries, and calligraphy, and we had the proper amount of solaris set aside. But now—” He gestured to the ruins from the avalanche. “It’s all buried in there somewhere, and what money we have we’ll need in order to pay for . . .”
In the original agreement between Houses Rabban and Harkonnen, all of the religious cities on Lankiveil agreed to pay a specified sum each year. As a result they were free of other obligations and left alone. Abulurd held up his hand. “Not to worry.”
Despite his family’s tradition of harshness, Abulurd had always done his best to live well, to treat others with the respect they deserved. But ever since his son’s whale hunt had ruined the breeding grounds in Tula Fjord, he found himself slipping into a dark, deep hole. Only the love he shared with Emmi maintained him, providing him with strength and optimism.
“You can have all the time you need. What’s important now is to find any survivors, and to help you rebuild.”
Onir Rautha-Rabban looked too devastated even to weep. He stared at the people working on the mountainside. The sun was bright overhead, and the sky a clear blue. The avalanche had painted his world a pristine white, covering the depth of misery it brought.
• • •
On Giedi Prime, in the private chamber where he often went to brood with his nephew and his Mentat, Baron Harkonnen reacted to the news with appropriate indignation. In the midst of clutter, he bounced in his suspensor mechanism, while the others sat in chairdogs. A new, mostly ornamental walking stick rested against the chair, close at hand in case he needed to snatch it up and strike someone. This stick featured a Harkonnen griffin on its head, unlike the sandworm head of the one he had thrown off the balcony.
Decorative pillars rose in each corner of the room, squared off in a jumbled architectural style. A dry fountain sat in one corner. There were no windows— the Baron rarely bothered looking at the view anyway— and the polished tile felt cold against his bare feet, which touched the floor like a whisper, thanks to his suspensors. In one corner of the room, a pole bearing the drooping banner of House Harkonnen lay tilted against the wall, tossed there casually and never righted.
The Baron glowered over at Glossu Rabban. “Your father’s showing his soft heart and his soft head again.”
Rabban flinched, afraid he might be sent back to talk sense into Abulurd. He wore a padded sleeveless jacket of maroon leather that left his muscular arms bare. His close-cropped reddish hair had been smashed into a cowlick from the helmet he often wore. “I wish you wouldn’t keep reminding me that he’s my father,” he said, trying to deflect the Baron’s anger.
“For four generations the income stream from Lankiveil’s monasteries has been unbroken. That was our agreement with House Rabban. They always pay. They know the terms. And now, because of a little”— the Baron snorted—“snowfall, they’re going to shirk their tithe? How can Abulurd blithely wave his hands and excuse his subjects from their tax obligations? He is the planetary governor, and he has responsibilities.”
“We can always make the other cities pay more,” Piter de Vries suggested. He twitched as additional possibilities occurred to him. He got up from the chairdog and moved across the chamber toward the Baron; the loose-fitting robe curled around him as he glided with the grace and silence of a vengeful ghost.
“I don’t agree with setting a precedent like this,” the Baron said. “I prefer our finances all neat and tidy— and Lankiveil has managed to remain clean until now.” He reached over to a side table and poured himself a snifter of kirana brandy. He sipped it, hoping the smoky-tasting liquid would burn the ache from his joints. Since being fitted with his belt-mechanism the Baron had gained even more weight from reduced activity. His physical body felt like a burden hanging on his bones.
The Baron’s skin bore an aroma of eucalyptus and cloves from the oils he added to his daily bath. The massage boys had rubbed ointments deep into his skin, but his deteriorating body still felt miserable.
“If we go easy on one city, it’ll lead to an epidemic of manufactured disasters and excuses.” He pursed his generous lips in a pout, and his spider-black eyes flicked over to Rabban.
“I can understand why you’re displeased, Uncle. My father’s a fool.”
De Vries raised a long, bony finger. “If I may make a point, my Baron. Lankiveil is lucrative because of its whale fur trade. Virtually all of our profit comes from that one industry. The few trinkets and souvenirs from these monasteries bring a nice price, yes . . . but overall, the income is insignificant. On general principle, we require them all to pay, but we don’t need them.” The Mentat paused.
“Your point being?”
He raised his bushy eyebrows. “The point being, my Baron, that in this parti
cular instance we can afford to . . . shall we say, make a point of the matter.”
Rabban began to laugh, a booming chuckle similar to his uncle’s. His exile on Lankiveil still rankled.
“House Harkonnen controls the fief of Rabban-Lankiveil,” the Baron said. “With fluctuations in the spice market, we need to ensure our absolute control in every moneymaking enterprise. Perhaps we’ve been lax in watching over my half-brother’s activities. He may feel he can be as lenient as he wishes, and that we’ll ignore him. This sort of thinking needs to stop.”
“What are you going to do, Uncle?” Rabban leaned forward, and his thick-lidded eyes narrowed.
“It’s what you are going to do. I need someone familiar with Lankiveil, and someone who understands the requirements of power.”
Rabban swallowed with anticipation, knowing what was coming.
“You’re going back there,” the Baron ordered. “But this time not in disgrace. This time you have a job to do.”
The Bene Gesserit tell no casual lies. Truth serves us better.
— BENE GESSERIT CODA
On an overcast morning, Duke Leto sat alone in the courtyard of Castle Caladan, staring at an untouched breakfast of smoked fish and eggs. A magnaboard containing metal-impregnated paper documents rested by his right hand. Kailea seemed to be attending to fewer of the daily business matters. So much to do, and none of it interesting.
Across the table lay the remains of Thufir Hawat’s meal; the Mentat had eaten hurriedly and departed to tend to the security details required for the day’s affair of state. Leto’s thoughts kept wandering to the Heighliner that had entered orbit and the shuttle that would soon come down to the surface.
What do the Bene Gesserit want of me? Why are they sending a delegation to Caladan? He’d had nothing further to do with the Sisterhood since Rhombur had taken Tessia as his bound-concubine. Their representative wanted to speak to him about an “extremely important matter,” yet refused to reveal anything further.
Dune: House Harkonnen Page 32