His stomach knotted, and he hadn’t slept well the night before. The insanity of the Moritani-Ecazi conflict weighed constantly on his mind. While he had gained stature in the Landsraad for his determined diplomatic efforts, he was sickened by the recent kidnapping and execution of the Archduke’s family members. Leto had met Armand Ecaz’s daughter Sanyá, found her attractive, had even considered her a good marriage prospect. But Grumman thugs had killed Sanyá and her uncle.
He knew this would not be solved without further bloodshed.
Leto watched a bright orange-and-yellow butterfly flutter above a vase of flowers at the center of the table. For an instant the pretty insect made him forget his troubles, but the questions seeped back into his awareness.
Years ago, at his Trial by Forfeiture, the Bene Gesserit had offered him assistance, though he knew better than to expect unfettered generosity. Thufir Hawat had given Leto a warning he already knew too well: “The Bene Gesserit aren’t errand girls for anyone. They made this offer because they wanted to, because it benefits them somehow.”
Hawat was right, of course. The Sisterhood was adept at securing information, power, and position. A Bene Gesserit of Hidden Rank was married to the Emperor; Shaddam IV kept an ancient Truthsayer at his side at all times; another Sister had wed Shaddam’s Spice Minister, Count Hasimir Fenring.
Why have they always been so interested in me? he wondered.
The butterfly landed on the magnaboard beside his hand, showing off its beautiful patterned wings.
Even with advanced Mentat abilities, Hawat could provide no useful projections regarding the Sisterhood’s motives. Perhaps Leto should ask Tessia— Rhombur’s concubine usually gave straightforward answers. But even though Tessia was now part of the Atreides household, the young woman remained loyal to the Sisterhood. And no organization kept its secrets better than the Bene Gesserit.
With a flash of color, the butterfly danced in the air in front of his eyes. He extended a hand, palm up— and to his surprise the creature landed on it, perching so lightly that he barely felt a thing.
“Do you have the answers I’m looking for? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” The butterfly had placed its complete faith in him, trusting that Leto wouldn’t harm it. So it was, too, with the sacred trust the good people of Caladan placed in him. The butterfly darted off and dropped to the ground, seeking dew in the shade of the breakfast table.
Suddenly a house servant appeared, stepping into the courtyard. “My Duke, the delegation has arrived early. They are already at the spaceport!”
Leto stood abruptly, knocking the magnaboard off the table. It tumbled onto the cool flagstones. The servant hurried to pick it up, but Leto brushed him aside when he saw that the butterfly had been crushed beneath it. His own carelessness had killed the delicate creature. Disturbed, he knelt beside it for several seconds.
“Are you all right, my Lord?” the servant asked.
Leto straightened, brushed off the magnaboard, and assumed a stoic expression. “Inform the delegation that I will meet them in my study, instead of at the spaceport.”
As the servant hurried off, Leto lifted the dead butterfly and laid it between two magnaboard sheets. Though the insect’s body had been crushed, the exquisite wings remained intact. He would have the creature encased in clearplaz, so that he could always remember how easily beauty could be destroyed in a moment of carelessness. . . .
• • •
With his black uniform, green cape, and ducal badge of office in place, Leto rose from his elacca wood desk. He bowed as five black-robed Sisters entered, led by a severe-faced, gray-haired woman with hollow cheeks and bright eyes. His gaze shifted to a bronze-haired young beauty beside her, then focused back on the leader.
“I am Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam.” The woman’s face showed no hostility, nor did it ease into a smile. “Thank you for allowing us to speak with you, Duke Leto Atreides.”
“Normally I do not grant visits on such short notice,” he said with a cool nod. Hawat had advised him to keep the women off-balance, if possible. “However, since the Sisterhood does not often ask for my indulgence, I can make an exception.” A household servant closed the doors of the private study as Leto gestured to his warrior Mentat. “Reverend Mother, may I present Thufir Hawat, my Security Commander?”
“Ah, the famous Master of Assassins,” she said, meeting his gaze.
“An informal title only.” Rigid with suspicion, Hawat bowed slightly. Tension hung thick in the air, and Leto did not know how to cut it.
As the women took seats in deep-cushioned chairs, Leto found himself captivated by the young girl with bronze hair, who remained standing. Perhaps seventeen years old, her intelligent green eyes were widely set on an oval face that had a slightly upturned nose and generous lips. She carried herself with a regal bearing. Had he seen her before? He wasn’t certain.
When Mohiam looked at the young girl, who stood straight and rigid, they exchanged hard stares, as if some strain existed between them. “This is Sister Jessica, a very talented Acolyte, trained in many areas. We would like to present her to your household, with our compliments.”
“Present her to us?” Hawat said with a hard edge in his voice. “As a servant, or as your spy?”
The girl looked at him sharply, but quickly covered her indignation.
“As a consort, or just a sounding board for ideas. That is for the Duke to decide.” Mohiam calmly ignored the Mentat’s accusatory tone. “Bene Gesserit Sisters have proven their value as advisors to many Houses, including House Corrino.” She kept her attention firmly on Leto, though it was clear she remained aware of every movement Hawat made. “A Sister may observe, and draw her own conclusions . . . but that does not make her a spy. Many nobles find our women to be fine companions, beautiful, skilled in the arts of—”
Leto cut her off. “I already have a concubine, who is the mother of my son.” He glanced at Hawat, saw the Mentat analyzing the new data.
Mohiam gave him a knowing smile. “An important man such as yourself may have more than one woman, Duke Atreides. You have not yet chosen a wife.”
“Unlike the Emperor, I do not maintain a harem.”
The other Sisters looked impatient, and the Reverend Mother let out a long sigh. “The traditional meaning of the word ‘harem,’ Duke Atreides, included all the women for whom a man bore responsibility, including his sisters and mother as well as concubines and wives. There was no implied sexual connotation.”
“Word games,” Leto growled.
“Do you wish to play word games, Duke Leto, or strike a bargain?” The Reverend Mother glanced over at Hawat as if considering how much to say in front of the Mentat. “A matter involving House Atreides has come to our attention. It concerns a certain plot perpetrated against you years ago.”
With a barely perceptible jerk, Hawat focused his attention. Leto leaned forward. “What plot, Reverend Mother?”
“Before we reveal this vital information to you, we must arrive at an understanding.” Leto wasn’t the slightest bit surprised. “Is it so much we ask in return?” Because of the urgency of the situation, Mohiam thought it might be necessary to use Voice on him, but the Mentat would surely recognize it. Jessica remained standing to one side, on display. “Any other nobleman would be glad to have this lovely child as part of his retinue . . . in any capacity.”
Leto’s thoughts whirled. It’s clear they want to have someone here on Caladan. For what purpose? Just to exert influence? Why would they bother? Tessia is already here, if they need a spy so badly. House Atreides has respect and influence, but is not particularly powerful in the Landsraad.
Why have I come to their notice?
And why are they so insistent upon this particular girl?
Leto came around in front of the desk and gestured to Jessica, “Come here.” The young woman glided across the small study. A head shorter than the Duke, with unblemished and radiant skin, she gave him a long, importunate l
ook.
“I’ve heard that all Bene Gesserit are witches,” he said, as he ran a finger through the bronze silkiness of her hair.
She met his gaze and responded in a soft voice. “But we have hearts and bodies.” Her lips were softly sensual, inviting.
“Ah, but what have your heart and body been trained to do?”
She fended off his question in a tranquil tone. “Trained to be loyal, to offer the comforts of love . . . to have children.”
Leto glanced at Thufir Hawat. No longer in a Mentat trance, the leathery warrior nodded, indicating that he did not object to the bargain. In their private discussions, however, the two had planned an aggressive tack with the delegation, to see how the Bene Gesserit would respond under pressure, to keep them off-balance so the Mentat could observe. This appeared to be the opportunity they had discussed.
“I don’t believe the Bene Gesserit ever give without taking,” Leto snapped, in sudden fury.
“But, my Lord—” Jessica could not complete the sentence, because he snatched a jewel-handled knife from a sheath at his waist and held the blade to her throat, pulling her tightly against him in a hostage position.
Her Bene Gesserit companions did not move. They gazed at Leto with unnerving serenity, as if they thought Jessica could kill him herself if she so chose. Mohiam watched with impenetrable birdlike eyes.
Jessica tilted her head back, exposing more of her soft, smooth throat. It was the way of D-wolves, as she had been taught in the Mother School: Bare your throat in total submission, and the aggressor backs away.
The tip of Leto’s blade pressed into her skin ever so slightly, but not enough to draw blood. “I don’t trust what you offer.”
Jessica remembered the command Mohiam had whispered in her ear just before they stepped off the shuttle in the Cala Municipal Spaceport. “Let the chain be unbroken,” her stern mentor had said. “You must give us the female child we require.”
Jessica hadn’t been told where she fitted into the Sisterhood’s breeding programs, and it was not her position to ask. Many young girls were assigned as concubines for various Great Houses, and she had no reason to believe she was any different from the others. She respected her superiors and worked hard to show this, but sometimes Mohiam’s unbending ways chafed her. They’d had an argument on the way here, and the remnants of it still hung in the air.
Leto whispered in her ear: “I could kill you now.” But he could not hide from her, or any of the Sisters, that his anger was feigned. Years ago, as a test, she had studied this dark-haired man as she hid in balcony shadows on Wallach IX.
She pressed her neck against the blade. “You are not a casual killer, Leto Atreides.” He withdrew the edge, but kept his arm around her waist as she said, “You have nothing to fear from me.”
“Do we have a deal, Duke Leto?” Mohiam asked, unruffled by his behavior. “I assure you, our information is quite . . . revealing.”
Leto didn’t like being cornered, but he stepped away from Jessica. “You say a plot has been perpetrated against me?”
A smile worked at the wrinkled corners of the Reverend Mother’s mouth. “First you must agree to the contract. Jessica stays here and is to be treated with due respect.”
Leto and his warrior Mentat exchanged glances. “She can live in Castle Caladan,” he said finally, “but I do not agree to take her into my bed.”
Mohiam shrugged. “Use her as you wish. Jessica is a valuable and useful resource, but do not waste her talents.” Biology will take its course.
“Reverend Mother, what is your vital information?” Hawat demanded.
Clearing her throat, Mohiam replied, “I speak of an incident some years back, in which you were falsely accused of attacking two Tleilaxu ships. We have learned that Harkonnens were involved.”
Both Leto and Hawat stiffened. The Mentat’s brows furrowed in deep concentration as he awaited further data.
“You have proof of this?” Leto asked.
“They used an invisible warship to fire upon the Tleilaxu vessels, implicating you, in an attempt to start an Atreides-Tleilaxu war. We have the wreckage of the craft in our possession.”
“An invisible ship? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Nonetheless it exists. We have the prototype, the only one of its kind. Fortunately, the Harkonnens experienced technical problems, which contributed to its . . . crash . . . near our Mother School. We have also determined that the Harkonnens are unable to manufacture another such ship.”
The Mentat studied her. “Have you analyzed the technology?”
“The nature of what we discovered cannot be revealed. Such a fearsome weapon could wreak tremendous havoc in the Imperium.”
Leto barked a short laugh, elated that he finally had an answer to the question that had nagged him for fifteen years. “Thufir, we’ll take this information to the Landsraad, and clear my name once and for all. Reverend Mother, provide us with all of your evidence and documentation—”
Mohiam shook her head. “That is not part of our bargain. The tempest has abated, Duke Leto. Your Trial by Forfeiture is over, and you have been acquitted of the charges.”
“But not cleared. Some of the Great Houses still suspect I was involved. You could provide conclusive proof of my innocence.”
“Does that mean so much to you, Duke Leto?” Her eyebrows rose. “Perhaps you could find a more effective way to spend this coin. The Sisterhood will not support such an endeavor simply to bolster your pride or salve your conscience.”
Leto felt helpless and very young in the face of Mohiam’s intense stare. “How can you come to me with information like that and expect me not to act on it? If I have no proof of what you say, then your information is meaningless.”
Mohiam frowned, and her dark eyes glittered. “Come now, Duke Leto. Is House Atreides interested only in trappings and documents? I thought you valued the truth for itself. I have given you the truth.”
“So you say,” Hawat answered coldly.
“The wise leader understands patience.” Ready to depart, Mohiam signaled to her companions. “One day you will discover the best way to use the knowledge. But take heart. Simply understanding what truly occurred in that Heighliner should be worth a great price to you, Duke Leto Atreides.”
Hawat was about to object, but Leto held up his hand. “She’s right, Thufir. Those answers are quite valuable to me.” He looked over at the bronze-haired girl. “Jessica can stay here.”
The man who gives in to adrenaline addiction turns against all humanity. He turns against himself. He runs away from the workable issues of life and admits a defeat which his own violent actions help to create.
— CAMMAR PILRU, Ixian Ambassador in Exile
Treatise on the Downfall of Unjust Governments
The secret shipment of explosives arrived intact, passed by bribed off-world delivery crews, hidden among crates, delivered to a specific loading dock in the cave openings in the cliffs of the port-of-entry canyon.
Working with the loaders, C’tair spotted the subtle markings and diverted the innocuous-looking container, as he had done many times before. When he uncovered the cleverly packaged explosive wafers, though, he was astounded. There must be a thousand of them! Other than handling instructions for the charges, there was no message, coded or otherwise, and no source information, but C’tair knew the identity of the sender anyway. This was far more than Prince Rhombur had ever sent before. C’tair felt renewed hope, and the burden of tremendous responsibility.
Only a few other wary, independent rebels remained underground, and they kept to themselves, trusting no one. C’tair was that way himself. Other than Miral Alechem, he felt all alone in his fight, even though Rhombur— and the Tleilaxu— apparently thought there was a much larger, more organized resistance.
These explosives would make up for that.
During his youth, Prince Rhombur Vernius had been a pudgy boy; C’tair remembered him as something of a good-natured buffoo
n, who spent more time collecting geological specimens than learning statecraft or Ixian industrial processes. There had always seemed to be time.
But everything had changed when the Tleilaxu came. Everything.
Even in exile, Rhombur still had pass-codes and connections with the shipping administration by which raw materials came into the manufacturing city. He had been able to smuggle vital supplies underground, and now these explosive wafers. C’tair vowed to make each one count. Now, his primary concern was to hide the demolitions material before sluggish Ixian suboids discovered the package’s true contents.
Wearing the stolen uniform of an upper-level worker, he transported the shipment of explosives into the stalactite city on a suspensor cart with other everyday deliveries. He did not hurry toward his hiding place. At all times he kept his expression bland and passive, making no conversation, barely responding to comments or insults made by the Tleilaxu Masters.
When he finally reached the appropriate level and ducked through the camouflaged entrance into his sensor-shielded room, C’tair piled the black, rough-textured wafers, then lay back on his cot, breathing heavily.
This would be his first major strike in years.
He closed his eyes. Moments later he heard a click at the door, footsteps, and a rustling noise. He didn’t move or look because the sounds were familiar, a small bit of comfort for him in an uncomfortable world. He smelled her faint, sweet scent.
For months he had been living with Miral Alechem. They had clung to each other’s companionship after making love in a darkened tunnel, hushed and nervous, while hiding from a Sardaukar patrol. In his years as an Ixian patriot, C’tair had resisted the urge for any sort of a personal relationship, spurning close contact with other human beings. It was too dangerous, too distracting. But Miral had the same burning goals, the same needs. And she was so beautiful. . . .
Now he heard her set something down on the floor with a soft thump. She kissed his cheek. “I got a few things, some high-energy wire, a laser pack, a—” He heard her indrawn gasp of breath.
Dune: House Harkonnen Page 33