They opened expensive bottles of a rare vintage and passed around snifters of the potent amber liquid. “Imperial brandy, lad,” Gurney said, handing a glass to Liet, who had trouble swallowing the thick liqueur. “Shaddam’s private stock, worth ten times its weight in melange.” The scarred man gave him a conspiratorial wink. “We swapped a shipment from Kirana, took the Emperor’s personal goods for ourselves, and replaced them with bottles of skunk-vinegar. I expect we’ll hear about it soon.”
Dominic Vernius entered the hall, and all the smugglers greeted him. He had changed into a sleeveless jerkin made of maroon merh-silk lined with black whale fur. Floating like ghosts near him were several holo-images of his beloved wife, so that he could see her no matter which way he turned.
It was warm and comfortable inside the stronghold, but Liet hoped to spend time outside, exploring the Salusan landscape as his father had done. First, though, Liet had promised to use his Fremen skills to study the hidden base, to help disguise it and protect it from observers— though he agreed with Dominic that few people would bother to look for a hideout here.
No one willingly came to Salusa Secundus.
On the wall of his hideout mess hall, Dominic kept a centuries-old map, depicting the way this world had been in its glory days as the magnificent capital of an interstellar empire. Lines were drawn in gold metal, palaces and cities marked with jewels, ice caps made of tiger’s-breath opal, and inlaid seas of petrified Elaccan bluewood.
Dominic claimed (from his own imagination rather than any documentary evidence) that the map had belonged to Crown Prince Raphael Corrino, the legendary statesman and philosopher from thousands of years ago. Dominic expressed relief that Raphael—“the only good Corrino of the bunch,” as far as he was concerned— had never lived to see what had happened to his beloved capital. All of that fairy-tale magnificence, all the dreams and visions and good deeds, had been wiped away by nuclear fire.
Gurney Halleck strummed his new baliset and sang a mournful song. Liet listened to the words, finding them sensitive and haunting, evoking images of bygone people and places.
O for the days of times long past,
Touch sweet nectar to my lips once more.
Fond memories to taste and feel . . .
The smiles and kisses of delight
And innocence and hope.
But all I see are veils and tears
And the murky, drowning depths
Of pain and toil and hopelessness.
It’s wiser, my friend, to look another way,
Into the light, and not the dark.
Each man took his own meaning from the song, and Liet noticed tears at the edges of Dominic’s eyes, while his gaze was directed at the holo-portraits of Shando. Liet flinched at the naked emotion that was so rare among the Fremen.
Dominic’s distant gaze was only partly focused on the bejeweled map on the wall. “Somewhere in Imperial records, undoubtedly covered with dust, is the name of the renegade family that used forbidden atomics to devastate a continent here.”
Liet shuddered. “What were they thinking? Why would even a renegade do such a terrible thing?”
“They did what they had to do, Weichih,” Johdam snapped, rubbing the scar on his eyebrow. “We cannot know the price of their desperation.”
Dominic sagged deeper into his chair. “Some Corrinos— damn them and their descendants— were left alive. The surviving Emperor, Hassik III, moved his capital to Kaitain . . . and the Imperium goes on. The Corrinos go on. And they took an ironic pleasure in turning the hellhole of Salusa Secundus into their private prison world. Every member of that renegade family was hunted down and brought here to suffer horrible deaths.”
The bristly-haired veteran Asuyo nodded gravely. “It’s said that their ghosts still haunt this place, eh?”
Startled, Liet recognized that the exiled Earl Vernius saw reminders of himself in that desperate, long-forgotten family. Though Dominic seemed good-natured, Liet had learned the depths of pain this man had endured: his wife murdered, his subjects crushed under a Tleilaxu yoke, his son and daughter forced to live in exile on Caladan.
“Those renegades long ago . . .” Dominic said with a strange light in his eyes, “they weren’t as thorough as I’d have been with the killing.”
A Duke must always take control of his household, for if he does not rule those closest to him, he cannot hope to govern a planet.
— DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES
Shortly after the noonday meal, Leto sat on the carpeted floor of the playroom, bouncing his four-and-a-half-year-old son on his knee. Though he had grown big for the game, Victor still squealed with unbounded glee. Through armor-plaz windows the Duke could see the blue Caladan sky kissing the sea at the horizon, with white clouds scudding above.
Behind him, Kailea watched from the doorway. “He’s too old for that, Leto. Stop treating him like a baby.”
“Victor doesn’t seem to agree.” He bounced the dark-haired boy even higher, eliciting louder giggles.
Leto’s relationship with Kailea had improved in the six months since he’d installed the fabulously expensive blue obsidian walls. Now the dining hall and Kailea’s private tower chambers echoed the splendor of the Grand Palais. But her mood had darkened again in recent weeks, as she brooded (no doubt egged on by Chiara) over how much time he spent with Jessica.
Leto no longer paid any attention to her complaints; they ran off him like spring rain. In sharp contrast, Jessica demanded nothing from him. Her kindness and occasional suggestions energized him and allowed him to perform his duties as Duke with compassion and fairness.
For Kailea’s sake, and for Victor’s as well, Leto would not harm her reputation on Caladan. The people loved their Duke, and he let them maintain their illusions of fairy-tale happiness in his Castle— much the same way Paulus had feigned a pleasant marriage with Lady Helena. The Old Duke had called it “bedroom politics,” the bane of leaders all across the Imperium.
“Oh, why do I make the effort to talk with you at all, Leto?” Kailea said, still standing at the playroom doorway. “It’s like arguing with a stone!”
Leto stopped bouncing Victor and looked over at her, his gray eyes hard. He kept his voice carefully neutral. “I didn’t realize you were making much of an effort.”
Muttering an insult under her breath, Kailea whirled and stalked down the corridor. Leto pretended not to notice she had left.
Spying her blond-haired brother carrying a baliset over one shoulder, Kailea hurried to catch up with him. But upon seeing her, Rhombur just shook his head. He held up a wide hand to forestall what he knew would be a flood of complaints.
“What is it now, Kailea?” He touched one hand to the baliset strings. Thufir Hawat had continued teaching him how to play the nine-stringed instrument. “Have you found something new to be angry about, or is it a subject I’ve heard before?”
His tone took her aback. “Is that any way to greet your sister? You’ve been avoiding me for days.” Her emerald eyes flashed.
“Because all you do is complain. Leto won’t marry you . . . he plays too rough with Victor . . . uh, he spends too much time with Jessica . . . he should take you to Kaitain more often . . . he doesn’t use his napkin right. I’m tired of trying to mediate between you two.” He shook his head. “To top it all off, it seems to irritate you that I’m completely content with Tessia. Stop blaming everyone else, Kailea— your happiness is your own responsibility.”
“I’ve lost too much in my life to be happy.” She raised her chin.
Now Rhombur actually looked angry. “Are you really too self-centered to see that I’ve lost as much as you have? I just don’t let it eat at me every day.”
“But we didn’t have to lose it. You can still do more for House Vernius.” She was ashamed of his ineffectiveness. “I’m glad our parents aren’t here to see this. You’re a pitiful excuse for a Prince, brother.”
“Now that does sound a little like Tessia, though the way
she says it isn’t so grating.”
She fell silent as Jessica emerged from a passageway and turned toward the playroom. Kailea flashed the other concubine a dagger-glare, but Jessica smiled congenially. After entering the playroom to join Leto and Victor, she closed the door behind her.
Looking back at Rhombur, Kailea snapped, “My son Victor is the future and hope of a new House Atreides, but you can’t understand that simple fact.”
The Ixian Prince just shook his head, deeply saddened.
• • •
“I try to be pleasant to her, but it’s no use,” Jessica said, inside the playroom. “She hardly says a word to me, and the way she looks at—”
“Not again.” Leto heaved a perturbed sigh. “I know Kailea’s causing damage to my family, but I can’t find it in my heart to just send her away.” He sat on the floor, while his son played with toy groundcars and ornithopters. “If it weren’t for Victor—”
“Chiara is always whispering something to her. The results are obvious. Kailea is a powder keg, ready to explode.”
Holding a model ’thopter in his hands, Duke Leto looked up at Jessica helplessly. “Now you’re showing spite of your own, Jessica. I’m disappointed in you.” His face hardened. “Concubines do not rule this House.”
Because he knew Jessica had spent years in Bene Gesserit training, Leto was surprised to see all color drain from her face. “My Lord, I . . . didn’t mean it that way. I’m so sorry.” Bowing, she backed up and left the room.
Leto stared blankly at the toy, then at Victor. He felt completely lost.
A short while later, concealed like a shadow, Jessica observed Kailea in the Castle foyer, whispering to Swain Goire, the household guard who spent much of his time watching over Victor. Goire’s loyalty and dedication to the Duke had always been clear, and Jessica had seen how much he adored his young ward.
Goire seemed uneasy about receiving so much attention from the ducal concubine; seemingly by accident, Kailea brushed her breasts against his arm, but he pulled away.
Having been schooled in the intricate ways of human nature by the Bene Gesserit, Jessica was only surprised that Kailea had taken so long to attempt this petty revenge against Leto.
• • •
Two nights later, unnoticed even by Thufir Hawat, Kailea slipped quietly into Goire’s bedroom.
We create our own future by our own beliefs, which control our actions. A strong enough belief system, a sufficiently powerful conviction, can make anything happen. This is how we create our consensus reality, including our gods.
— REVEREND MOTHER RAMALLO,
Sayyadina of the Fremen
The swordmaster practice hall on the new Ginaz island was so opulent that it would not have been out of place in any Landsraad ruling seat or even in the Imperial Palace on Kaitain.
When Duncan Idaho stepped onto the gleaming hardwood floor, a veneer of light and dark strips laid down and polished by hand, he looked around in wonder. A dozen reflected images stared back at him from beveled floor-to-ceiling mirrors, bounded by intricately wrought gold frames. It had been seven years since he’d seen surroundings this fine, in Castle Caladan, where he’d trained under Thufir Hawat in the Atreides hall.
Wind-bowed cypress trees surrounded the magnificent training facility on three sides, with a stony beach on the fourth. The ostentatious building was startling in its stark contrast with the students’ primitive barracks. Run by Swordmaster Whitmore Bludd, a balding man with a purple birthmark on his forehead, the ornamentation of this practice hall would have made shaggy-haired Mord Cour laugh.
Though an accomplished duelist, foppish Bludd considered himself a noble and surrounded himself with fine things, even on his remote Ginaz island. Blessed with an inexhaustible family fortune, Bludd had spent his own money to make this fencing facility the most “civilized” place in the entire archipelago.
The Swordmaster was a direct descendant of Porce Bludd, who had fought valiantly in the Butlerian Jihad. Prior to the battle exploits that had bought him fame and cost him his life, Porce Bludd transported war-orphaned children to sanctuary planets, paying the tremendous costs out of his huge inheritance. On Ginaz, Whitmore Bludd never forgot his heritage— or allowed others to forget, either.
As Duncan stood with the others in the echoing hall— smelling lemon and carnauba oil, seeing splinters of light from chandeliers and mirrors— the finery seemed foreign to him. Paintings of dour-looking Bludd noblemen lined the walls; a massive fireplace befitting a royal hunting lodge reached to the ceiling. A fully stocked armory held racks of swords and fencing paraphernalia. The palatial decor implied an army of servants, but Duncan saw no other souls besides the trainees, the assistant instructors, and Whitmore Bludd himself.
After permitting the students to gape in astonishment and uncertainty, Swordmaster Bludd strutted in front of them. He wore billowy lavender pantaloons bound at the knees, and gray hose down to short black boots. The belt was wide, with a square buckle the size of his hand. His blouse shirt had a high, restrictive collar, long ballooning sleeves, tight cuffs, and lace trimmings.
“I will teach you fencing, Messieurs,” he said. “No brutish nonsense with body shields and kindjal daggers and power packs. No, most vehemently no!” He withdrew a whip-thin blade with a bell-shaped handguard and a triangular cross section. He swished it in the air. “Fencing is the sport— no, the art of swordsmanship with a blunted blade. It is a dance of mental reflexes, as well as of the body.”
He thrust the flexible épée into a scabbard at his side, then ordered all of the students to change into fancy fencing outfits: archaic musketeer costumes with studded buttons, lacy cuffs, ruffles, and cumbersome billows—“the better to display the beauty of fencing,” Bludd said.
By now, Duncan had learned never to hesitate in following instructions. He pulled on knee-high calfskin boots with cavalier spurs, and slipped into a blue-velvet shortcoat with a lace collar and voluminous white sleeves. He donned a rakish, broad-brimmed felt hat with the variegated pink plume of a Parella peacock tucked into its band.
Across the room, he and Hiih Resser made eyes and faces at each other, amused. The attire seemed better suited to a holiday masque than to fighting.
“You will learn to fight with finesse and grace, Messieurs.” Whitmore Bludd strutted back and forth, immensely pleased with all the finery around him. “You will see the artistry in a fine duel. You will turn every movement into an art form.” The foppish but powerfully built Swordmaster picked at a speck of lint on his ruffled shirt. “With only a year left in your training, one assumes you have the potential to rise above animal attacks and cloddish brawls? We will not lower ourselves to barbarism here.”
Morning sunlight passed through a high, narrow window and glinted off Duncan’s pewter buttons. Feeling foolish, he examined himself in the wall mirror, then found his usual place in formation.
When the remaining students lined up on the hardwood practice floor, Swordmaster Bludd inspected their uniforms with many sighs and disapproving noises. He smoothed wrinkles, while scolding the young men for incorrectly buttoned cuffs and criticizing their attire with surprising seriousness.
“Terran musketeer fencing is the fifteenth fighting discipline you will learn. But knowing the moves does not mean you understand the style. Today you will compete against one another, with all the grace and chivalry that fencing demands. Your épées will not be blunted, and you will wear no protective masks.”
He indicated racks of fencing swords between each bank of mirrors on the wall, and the students moved forward to arm themselves; all the blades were identical, ninety centimeters long, flexible, and sharp. The students toyed with them. Duncan wished he could use the Old Duke’s sword, but the fabulously tooled weapon was made for a different kind of fighting. Not fencing.
Bludd sniffed, then swished his thin épée in the air to recapture their attention. “You must fight to your fullest ability— but I insist that there be no injuries
or blood on either opponent. Not so much as a scratch— no, most vehemently no! And certainly no damage to the clothes. Learn the perfect attack, and the perfect defense. Lunge, parry, riposte. Practice supreme control. You are each responsible for your fellows.” He swept his ice-blue gaze across the trainees, and his birthmark darkened on his forehead. “Any man who fails me, anyone who causes a wound or allows himself to be injured, will be disqualified from the next sequence of competitions.”
Duncan drew deep, calming breaths, centering himself to face the challenge.
“This is a test of your artistry, Messieurs,” Bludd said, pacing the polished floor in his black boots. “This is the delicate dance of personal combat. The goal will be to score touchés upon your opponent’s person without cutting him.”
The spotlessly clean Swordmaster picked up his feathered hat and set it firmly on his head. He indicated marked combat rectangles inlaid into the beautiful parquet floor. “Prepare to fight.”
• • •
Duncan quickly defeated three comparatively easy opponents, but his fourth adversary, Iss Opru— a smooth stylist from Al-Dhanab— made himself a difficult target. Even so, the dark-skinned Opru had insufficient skill in offense to match his defense, and Duncan outscored him by a single point.
In a nearby combat box, a student buckled at the knees, and bled from a wound in his side. The assistant trainers rushed in and removed him on a litter. His opponent, a Terrazi with shoulder-length hair, scowled at his stained blade, awaiting his punishment. Whitmore Bludd snagged the Terrazi student’s sword and viciously flogged his backside with it, as if it were a metal whip. “Both of you are a disgrace to your training— him for allowing the wound, you for not exercising sufficient restraint.” Without protest, the Terrazi stumbled to the losers’ bench.
Now, two liveried servants— the first Duncan had seen— rushed in to clean up the blood and polish the parquet in preparation for the next match. The fighting continued.
Duncan Idaho, along with Resser and two other perspiring finalists, stood panting in the center of the practice hall, awaiting their final dueling assignments. Frustrated and uncomfortable, they had come to loathe their extravagant costumes, but so far none of the finalists had been scratched, none of the heavy fabric had been torn.
Dune: House Harkonnen Page 43