Dune: House Harkonnen

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  “Idaho and Resser over here! Eddin and al-Kaba, there!” Swordmaster Bludd called out, designating combat rectangles on the floor.

  Obediently, the students moved into position. Resser eyed Duncan, sizing him up as a foe instead of as a friend. Duncan crouched, flexing his knees and balancing on the balls of his feet. Leaning forward with his arm slightly bent, he extended the épée toward Resser, then drew back in a brief salute. With a confident look, the redheaded Grumman did the same. Evenly matched, they had dueled one another many times in full protective gear, with other weapons. Duncan’s speed usually compensated for lanky Resser’s superior height and reach. But now they had to follow Bludd’s rules of fencing, inflict or receive no scratches, not even damage the expensive, anachronistic outfits.

  Bouncing on his feet to stay loose, Duncan said nothing. The flexible sword would do the talking for him. Perspiration prickled his black hair beneath the felt hat and the distracting peacock plume. He stared up at his freckled opponent.

  “En garde,” Bludd said. His blue eyes flashed as he raised his blade.

  At the signal to begin, Resser lunged forward. Duncan parried, deflecting his opponent’s blade with a sound like singing chimes, then took half a step to the right and delivered a precise riposte, skillfully diverted by the tall Grumman. Swords clattered together, steel skimming steel, as the two felt each other out.

  Both men were sweating, panting, their expressions fading into blank stares as they moved back and forth within the clear boundaries of dark wood on the parquet floor. So far Resser had done nothing unexpected, as usual. Duncan hoped he could use that trait to defeat his opponent.

  As if sensing the direction of his friend’s thoughts, the redhead began to fight with the fury of a warrior possessed, scoring one touché on Duncan and then two, careful not to damage his opponent but also relying on Duncan to mount a perfect defense.

  Duncan had never seen such energy in his friend, and he struggled to elude a series of vicious thrusts. He backed up, waiting for the flurry of activity to ebb. Sweat ran down his cheek.

  Still, Resser pressed on at a frantic pace, as if under the influence of a stimulant. Their swords clattered loudly. Duncan could spare no fraction of his attention to note the progress of the other match, but heard shouting and a final clang of blades that told him the two other contestants had finished.

  Swordmaster Bludd gave Duncan’s match the full weight of his scrutiny.

  The redhead’s point touched him on his padded shirt, then seconds later on the forehead. Resser was scoring points, leaving no scratches, following the rules. Four points now, and with five he would win the match. If this had been a fight to the death, I would be dead now.

  Like a carrion bird waiting for a feast, Bludd watched every move.

  Under Resser’s onslaught, Duncan’s muscles seemed to be slowing, holding him back and preventing him from applying his normal skills. He looked at the épée in his right hand and dredged up resources and strength within himself, drawing upon everything he had learned in seven years on Ginaz. I fight for House Atreides. I can win.

  Resser danced deftly around him with the épée, making him look foolish. Duncan’s breathing slowed, and his heart rate diminished. Maximize chi, he thought, visualizing the energy that flowed along precise paths in his body. I must become a complete Swordmaster to defend my Duke— not make a pretty performance to please these instructors.

  Resser ceased scoring as Duncan danced away. The chi within him mounted, building pressure, waiting for the right moment to be released. Duncan focused the energy, aiming it. . . .

  Now he was on the attack. He confused the lanky redhead with moves synthesized from various fighting disciplines. He whirled, kicked, used his free hand as a weapon. They both staggered outside the boundaries of the fencing area, then back into the rectangle. Duncan attacked again. A fist to the side of Resser’s head, knocking off the feathered cap, a kick to the stomach— all without drawing blood.

  Stunned, Resser thudded to the floor. Duncan knocked his rival’s sword away and leaped on top of him, placing the tip of his own blade at the Grumman’s throat. Victory!

  “Gods below! What are you doing?” Swordmaster Bludd shoved Duncan off Resser. “You clod!” He grabbed the flexible sword away, and slapped Duncan twice across the face. “This isn’t a street brawl, fool. We’re doing musketeer fencing today. Are you an animal?”

  Duncan rubbed his face where he’d been struck. In the heat of combat he had fought for survival, ignoring the frivolous restrictions imposed by the instructor.

  Bludd slapped Duncan several more times, harder each time, as if the student had personally insulted him. In the background, Resser kept saying, “It’s all right— I’m not hurt. He bested me, and I couldn’t defend myself.” Humiliated, Duncan backed away.

  Bludd’s rage did not subside. “You may think you’re the best student in the class, Idaho— but you’re a failure in my eyes.”

  Duncan felt like a small child being backed into a corner by an adult with a strap. He wanted to fight back, wanted to stand up to this ridiculous-looking man, but didn’t dare.

  He recalled the ill-tempered Trin Kronos using the same reasoning with fat Swordmaster Rivvy Dinari. If you are bound by nonsensical strictures, you’ll be beaten by any opponent willing to bend the rules. His primary purpose was to defend his Duke against any possible threat, not to play fencing games in costumes.

  “Think about why you’re a failure,” Whitmore Bludd thundered, “and then explain it to me.”

  Tell that to the dead soldiers on the losing side.

  Duncan thought hard. He did not want to echo the shameful thinking of the spoiled Kronos, though it made more sense than he had realized before. Rules could be interpreted differently, depending on the purpose they served. In some situations there was no absolute good or evil, simply points of view. In any event, he knew what his instructor wanted to hear.

  “I am a failure because my mind is imperfect.”

  His answer seemed to surprise the muscular man, but a bemused smile gradually formed on Bludd’s face. “Correct enough, Idaho,” he said. “Now get over there with the other losers.”

  Challenge: Time?

  Answer: A brilliant, many-faceted gem.

  Challenge: Time?

  Answer: A dark stone, reflecting no visible light.

  — Fremen wisdom, from The Riddle Game

  With his baliset slung by a leather strap over one shoulder, Rhombur Vernius hiked down the steep zigzag trail to the bottom of the black cliff. Castle Caladan loomed high over the rock face, stretching toward the billowing cumulus clouds and the cerulean sky. A strong early-afternoon breeze caressed his face.

  Behind him, in one of those soaring Castle towers, his sister spent too much time brooding. As he paused to look back, he saw Kailea up there now, standing on her balcony. With forced cheer, he waved to her, but she did not respond. For months they had hardly spoken to one another. This time he shook his head and decided not to let her usual rebuff bother him. His sister’s expectations outweighed her reality.

  It was a warm spring day, with gray gulls soaring on thermals over the whitecaps. Like one of the poor village fishermen, Rhombur wore a short-sleeved blue-and-white-striped shirt, fishing dungarees, and a blue cap jammed over his blond hair. Tessia sometimes walked along the shore with him, while other times she let him ponder by himself.

  With Kailea’s dark moods in mind, the Ixian Prince descended a wooden stairway that cantilevered out over the cliff. He took care on the rough, moss-covered section of trail. It was a treacherous route, even in good weather: A careless misstep and he could tumble to the rocks below. Hardy green shrubs clung to crevices on the sheer rock face, along with orange and yellow succulents. Duke Leto, like his father before him, preferred to leave the path essentially natural, with minimal maintenance. “The life of a leader should not be too soft,” the Atreides men liked to say.

  Rather than discussing his
concerns with Tessia, Rhombur decided to soothe his troubled spirits by spending time on a small boat, drifting alone and playing the baliset. Not confident of his musical abilities, he preferred to practice away from the Castle anyway, where no critical ears could hear him.

  After traversing a black-shingle downslope to the main dock, he took a steep wooden stairway down to a finger pier where a white motorboat bobbed gently in the waves. A purple-and-copper Ixian insignia marked the bow above letters that named the craft after his missing father: Dominic.

  Each time Rhombur saw the name, he dreamed that his father might still be alive, somewhere in the Imperium. The Earl of House Vernius had disappeared— and with the passage of time all hope of locating him had faded. Dominic had never sent word, made no contact at all. He must be dead.

  Rhombur unslung the baliset and laid the instrument on the dock. A cleat on the stern of the boat was missing one bolt, so he climbed aboard and opened a toolbox in the cockpit, where he found another bolt and a ratchet to tighten it down.

  He liked to maintain his own boat, and sometimes hours would pass as he worked on it, sanding, painting, lacquering, replacing hardware, installing new electronics and fishing accessories. It was all so different from the pampered life he’d led on Ix. Now, as he stepped back onto the dock and made the simple repair, Rhombur wished he could be the leader that his father had been.

  The chances of that seemed virtually nil.

  Though Rhombur had made efforts to help the mysterious rebels on Ix, he hadn’t heard from them in over a year, and some of the weapons and explosives he’d sent had come back undelivered, despite bribes paid to transport workers. Even the most highly paid smugglers had been unable to infiltrate the material into the cavernous underground city.

  No one knew what was going on there. C’tair Pilru, his primary contact with the freedom fighters, had fallen silent. Like Dominic himself, C’tair might be dead, the valiant struggle crushed with him. Rhombur had no way of knowing, no means of breaching the intense Tleilaxu security.

  Hearing footsteps on the dock, Rhombur was surprised to see his sister approaching. Kailea wore a showy dress of silver and gold; a ruby clasp secured her copper-dark hair. He noticed that both of her shins were red and bruised, and that the hem of her dress was soiled.

  “I tripped on the trail,” she admitted. She must have run after him, hurrying to catch up.

  “You don’t often come down to the docks.” He forced a smile. “Would you like to go out on the boat with me?”

  When Kailea shook her head, her curls bounced against her cheeks. “I’m here to apologize, Rhombur. I’m sorry I’ve been so mean to you, avoiding you, hardly saying anything at all.”

  “And glaring at me,” he added.

  Her emerald eyes flashed, before she caught herself and softened. “That, too.”

  “Apology accepted.” He finished tightening down the cleat, then climbed back into the cockpit of the Dominic to put the tools away.

  She remained on the dock after he stepped aboard. “Rhombur,” Kailea began in a plaintive tone that was only too familiar. It meant she wanted something, though her face was all innocence. “You and Tessia are so close— I just wish I had the same relationship with Leto.”

  “Relationships require maintenance,” he said. “Uh, like this boat. With some time and care, you could repair things between you two.”

  Her mouth twisted in a grimace of distaste. “But isn’t there anything more you can do about Leto? We can’t go on this way forever.”

  “Do about him? It sounds like you want to dispose of him.”

  His sister did not answer directly. “Victor should be his legal heir, not a bastard without name, title, or property. There must be something different you can say to Leto, something more you could try.”

  “Vermilion hells, Kailea! I’ve tried fifty different times and fifty different ways, and he always turns me down. It’s already driven a wedge between us. Because of you, I may have lost my best friend.”

  The glow of sunshine on her skin looked like distant firelight. “What does mere friendship matter, when we’re talking about the future of House Vernius— the Great House of our forefathers? Think about the important things, Rhombur.”

  His expression turned to stone. “You’ve turned this into a problem, when it never had to be. You alone, Kailea. If you couldn’t accept the limitations, why did you agree to become Leto’s concubine at all? You two seemed so happy at first. Why don’t you apologize to him? Why not simply accept reality? Why don’t you make an effort?” Rhombur shook his head, stared at the fire-jewel ring on his right hand. “I’m not going to question Leto’s decisions. I may not agree with his reasons, but I understand them. He is Duke Atreides, and we owe him the respect of following his wishes.”

  Kailea’s expression, which she had been keeping under control, changed to a disdainful sneer. “You’re not a Prince. Chiara says you’re not even a man.” She lifted one foot and stomped at the baliset, but in her rage lost her balance and dealt it only a glancing blow. The instrument skidded off the dock into the water, where it floated behind the boat.

  Swearing, Rhombur leaned out over the edge of the dock and retrieved the baliset, as Kailea whirled and left. While drying the instrument with a towel, he watched her climb the steep path back to the Castle, half-running and half-walking. She stumbled, got back up, and kept going, trying to maintain her dignity.

  No wonder Leto preferred the calm, intelligent Jessica. Kailea, once so sweet and kind, had become hard and cruel. He didn’t know her anymore. He sighed. I love her, but I don’t like her.

  It requires a desperate and lonely sort of courage to challenge the accepted wisdom upon which social peace of mind rests.

  — CROWN PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO,

  In Defense of Change in the Face of Tradition

  The towering government buildings of Corrinth, the capital city of Kaitain, rose around Abulurd Harkonnen like a drug-induced fantasy. In his wildest dreams he had never visualized so many soaring edifices, jeweled inlays, and polished slabs of precious stone.

  On Giedi Prime, where he’d grown up under the watchful eye of his father Dmitri, cities were crowded, with dirty settlements erected for function and industry rather than beauty. But here, it was quite different. Colorful chime kites were tethered to the tall buildings, writhing on breezes in the perpetually blue skies. Prismatic ribbons drifted across the sky and shed rainbows on the flagstones below. Kaitain was obviously more concerned with form than substance.

  Within an hour, the sunny dazzle of perfect skies made Abulurd dizzy, causing an ache in the back of his skull. He longed for the overcast skies of Lankiveil, the damp breezes that cut right to the bone, and the warm embrace of Emmi.

  But Abulurd had an important task to perform, an appointment at the daily Landsraad Council meeting. It seemed a mere formality, but he was determined to do it, for the sake of his family and his infant son, and it would change his life forever. Abulurd longed for the days to come.

  He strode along the promenade under banners of Great and Minor Houses that flapped precisely in the gentle winds. The imposing buildings seemed even more massive and powerful than the cliffs bounding the fjords of Lankiveil.

  He had taken care to wear his grandest whale fur cloak adorned with precious jewels and hand-worked scrimshaw amulets. Abulurd had come to Corrinth as a legal representative of House Harkonnen to reclaim his title as subdistrict governor of Rabban-Lankiveil. It had always been his right, but never before had it mattered to him.

  Because he walked without an escort or a retinue of sycophants, the clerks and functionaries dismissed Abulurd as not deserving of notice. They looked out the windows, sat on balconies, or bustled to and fro with important documents scribed on ridulian crystal sheets. To them, he was invisible.

  When seeing him off at the Lankiveil spaceport, Emmi had coached him, making him rehearse for her. According to the rules of the Landsraad, Abulurd had the authority to r
equest an audience and to file his documents. The other nobles would see his request as minor . . . trivial, even. But it meant so much to him, and he had put it off for too long.

  During the months of Emmi’s pregnancy, happy again, they had reopened the main lodge and tried to bring life and color back into their lives. Abulurd subsidized industries, even seeded the waters with fish so that boatmen could earn a livelihood until the Bjondax whales chose to return.

  Then, five months ago, Emmi had quietly given birth to a healthy baby boy. They named him Feyd-Rautha, partly in honor of his grandfather Onir Rautha-Rabban, the slain burgomaster of Bifrost Eyrie. When Abulurd held the baby in his arms, he saw quick, intelligent eyes and an insatiable curiosity, exquisite features, and a strong voice. In his heart this was now his only son.

  Together, he and Emmi had searched for the old Buddislamic monk who had been responsible for the pregnancy. They wanted to thank her and have her bless the healthy infant, but they could find no trace of the wizened woman in sky-blue robes and gold embroidery.

  Now, on Kaitain, Abulurd would do something to benefit his new son more than a simple monk’s blessing could ever accomplish. If it went well, little Feyd-Rautha would have a different future, untainted by the crimes in House Harkonnen’s extended history. He would grow up to be a good man.

  Standing tall, Abulurd entered the Landsraad Hall of Oratory, passing beneath a mottled coral archwork that rose over his head like a bridge across a mountain chasm. Upon arriving at the capital world, he had made an appointment with an Imperial scribe to add his name to the agenda. When Abulurd refused to bribe the functionary, though, the scheduling secretary was unable to find a slot open until the end of a long session, three days hence.