“Even if she does, she is too ugly. He won’t keep her long.” The Baron was beginning to enjoy his candid conversation with this gruff man. “And yet we all come here to smile and celebrate. I, for one, find these dinners and parties to be quite tedious, with very little benefit. Doesn’t anyone realize we are busy men?”
“Our attendance offers us an excuse to conduct other business, Vladimir.” Then, visibly brightening, Viscount Moritani looked toward the main entrance doors, through which Hiih Resser escorted a sickly looking boy into the dining hall. Wolfram was around ten or eleven, with facial features that closely resembled those of his father. The boy appeared disoriented, drugged.
“You say he is ill? Not contagious, I hope?” The Baron had his own diseases to deal with.
“The boy is afflicted with a rare disorder that causes him to waste away. His mother suffered from it, too. Dear sweet Cilia. She lasted a year after Wolfram’s birth, but the effort of delivering him took its physical toll.” A wave of sorrow crossed Hundro Moritani’s face; his emotions seemed as mercurial as the weather patterns on Arrakis. Resser led the groggy boy to the table and positioned him in a seat beside the Viscount. Moritani warmly patted his son’s pale hand before turning back to the Baron.
“Wolfram finds solace in semuta. Only the deep trance and the music give him relief from the terrible pain. It’s all I can do to help him. There is a cure, of course — esoit-poay, the Ecazis call it.” His voice took on a razor sharpness. “In the embargo signed by the Archduke, he explicitly forbids any drop of that drug to leave Ecaz, although very few people in the whole Imperium require it.” His fist clenched hard enough to bend silverware. “He does it only to gain vengeance on me.”
Well, you did carpet bomb his government center and kill his oldest daughter and his brother, if I remember correctly. But instead of voicing his thought, the Baron said, “An unfortunate situation. Can you not purchase the drug on the black market?”
“Not a microgram. Even semuta has been restricted so that I must pay exorbitant prices. The Archduke knows what I need and attempts to thwart me at every turn! Out of sheer spite!” A wave of anger reddened his features again, but the man’s volatile emotions quickly shifted to an expression of loving calm. “I’m left with no choice. Damn them, I have to give my son whatever he needs to ease the terrible pain.”
The Baron sensed that the Grumman leader wanted to suggest some sort of bargain with House Harkonnen. Smelling a chance to make a profit if he was careful, the Baron said, “I have certain channels of my own to obtain black-market drugs, Viscount, but House Ecaz is no friend of mine, either. The Archduke is closely allied with House Atreides.”
As Moritani helped his dazed son eat one of the small appetizers, his eyes shone brighter, as if a fire had been lit behind the pupils. “Have you noticed that neither Duke Leto Atreides nor Archduke Armand Ecaz are in attendance here? My spies tell me that Leto has gone to Ecaz for a secret meeting. They are undoubtedly plotting against both of us.”
“Many nobles are not in attendance,” the Baron pointed out. “I am not the only one weary of all the weddings. One Imperial nuptial is much like another.”
“But this one, Baron, gives me the opportunity to invite you to Grumman as my honored guest. We have much in common. Perhaps we can help each other achieve our aims.”
Wary but curious, the Baron studied the other man. “There may well be opportunities to explore. Yes, a visit to Grumman might be interesting and mutually beneficial. My people will make the arrangements.”
House Moritani of Grumman was censured after the disgraceful attack on the Ginaz Swordmaster school. As the aggressor, Viscount Moritani paid substantial reparations, but in the way of backroom politics, Emperor Shaddam dismissed the matter as a minor event. Nonetheless, the damage was done. Although structures could be rebuilt, new instructors recruited, and training centers reopened, one thing was irreparable: The Swordmasters, those feared warriors, had been beaten. Such a thing could never be erased.
—CHOAM economic analysis, The Fall of House Ginaz
Once the Atreides frigate was released from the Guildship’s hold, Duncan Idaho piloted it toward mottled Ecaz. The sky was full of clouds, the major landmasses a riot of different shades of green. Paul could see numerous oceans below, but none so vast as the seas of Caladan.
Ever since Duke Leto had explained their destination, Paul had detected an inexplicable chill between his parents. Duncan had offered no insights either. “It is not my business, young Master. And if it were yours, your father would tell you.”
So, the boy had occupied himself during the brief journey by studying the frigate’s limited library of filmbooks, eager to learn about Ecaz — a lush and fertile world filled with jungles, rainforests, and well-watered agricultural plains. The primary exports were hardwoods and exotic forest products, as well as unusual unguents, rare drugs, deadly poisons.
“Will we visit the fogtree forests?” Paul asked. He had seen spectacular images, and also read that a blight had wiped out most of the delicate and expensive fogtrees on the continent of Elacca, which was governed by Duke Prad Vidal.
“No,” Leto answered. “Archduke Ecaz is waiting for us. Our business is with him alone.”
“Does he know that I accompany you?” Paul heard the faint bitterness in Jessica’s words.
“You are my bound concubine, the mother of my son. You must go with me.”
In his reading, Paul had taken particular note of his father’s connection to Archduke Armand and the vicious feud between House Moritani and House Ecaz. He was most surprised to learn that his father had been betrothed to the Archduke’s eldest daughter, Sanyá — until she and her uncle had been murdered by Moritani soldiers.
Duncan guided the Atreides frigate toward a small, ornate city whose centerpiece was a large structure composed of graceful loops and arches, walkways that connected towers, and thick old trees that grew up beside the walls. The palace was a fairy tale synthesis of branches, vines, and ferns intertwined with pearlescent white stone. Paul doubted even Kaitain could have been more impressive than this.
Before they could land, however, two heavily armed warships raced into the air, circled the Ecazi Palace, and crossed in front of the Atreides frigate in a clear show of force. Incensed, Duncan activated the communication controls. “This is Swordmaster Duncan Idaho of House Atreides. We are here at the invitation of Archduke Ecaz. Explain your actions.”
The two military ships peeled away, spun and darted playfully in the air, then streaked beneath the frigate. Paul was reminded of frolicking dolphins in the Caladan oceans. A booming voice came over the comline speakers. “You use that title with great pride, Swordmaster Idaho — you must have had excellent instructors.”
A thin, nasal voice joined the communication. “Are we allowed to strip him of the title if he doesn’t impress us enough, Rivvy?”
Duncan recognized the voices. “Swordmaster Whitmore Bludd? And Rivvy Dinari?”
The two men chuckled over the speaker. “We came to escort you. We weren’t sure if your pilot was proficient enough to land in the proper place.”
Paul knew the names; Duncan had often talked about his instructors from Ginaz. Duncan’s face showed great pleasure as he explained to Paul, “They must have become ronin since the Ginaz School disbanded. I wouldn’t have guessed that Archduke Ecaz needed both of them.”
“House Moritani has made no recent aggressive moves,” Leto said, “but that could change on a moment’s notice. I do not believe the conflict was ever resolved to the satisfaction of either party.”
“Feuds usually aren’t, my Lord,” Duncan said.
When the three ships had landed in an oval, paved clearing surrounded by tall, feathery trees, the two Swordmasters emerged to greet them. Whitmore Bludd had long wavy hair that was a mixture of silver and gold, a thin face, and rosebud lips that seemed to be pouting. Rivvy Dinari was an enormous globe of a man, who nevertheless seemed light on his feet
; his skin was florid in the jungle heat.
Duncan bounded down the frigate’s ramp to greet them, but kept his guard up, as though expecting the two teachers to hurl themselves upon him in a playful yet deadly practice session.
“Duke Leto is here on formal business,” Dinari commented to Bludd in a deep voice which sounded like a kettledrum. “There will be time for swordplay later.”
Bludd sniffed. “There is no play with swords. We will conduct a practice session. A proving session.”
“And if I beat the two of you, how will you ever endure your shame?” Duncan teased.
“We’ll manage,” Dinari replied. “If it happens.”
Leto emerged alone from the landed frigate, wearing a black doublet that sported the red Atreides hawk crest. Paul followed, still trying to understand what was going on.
The air smelled of flowers, wood resins, and sweet sap that leaked from the cracked bark of the enormous trees that towered over the palace. Ferns as tall as his head stood like curled sentries along the flagstone paths.
Leto put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Come with me, we need to make our entrance.”
“What about Mother?” Paul glanced back at Jessica, who showed no emotion whatsoever as she followed them at some distance.
“She will make her own entrance. Pay close attention. There are many subtleties here. In the next few days you will learn important lessons about being a Duke… and some of them may be hard.”
There seemed to be as much lush foliage inside the Archduke’s palace as out in the courtyards and gardens. Narrow aqueducts spilled silvery water down channels in the walls, filling the corridors and chambers with the peaceful sound of flowing streams. It wasn’t quite as soothing as the majestic rush of the ocean on Caladan, but Paul found it comforting nevertheless.
When they entered the main audience room, Archduke Armand Ecaz was seated in a massive chair made of burlwood, at a long table polished to an incredible sheen. It was the largest piece of Elaccan bloodwood Paul had ever seen; colors and patterns flowed through the grain. The Archduke was a tall, thin man who did not appear old despite his silver hair. His face was narrow, his chin pointed.
As Leto came forward, the Archduke stood to greet him, and they clasped each other’s forearms. “We are optimists, you and I, Armand,” Leto said. “We will try this again. If we don’t keep trying, then what is the point of life?”
“This is your natural son Paul?” The Archduke extended a hand. It was small and thin, but his grip was firm. Paul shook it.
“Also, allow me to present his mother, the Lady Jessica,” Leto said, nodding in her direction. She bowed formally, but remained at the side of the room, marginalized.
“I have an introduction to make as well, Leto. You probably don’t remember her.” Armand gave a shout toward a doorway, and a willowy young woman entered. She seemed well-mannered, with large brown eyes and dark hair bound in a looping braid. She wore a thin gold chain around her neck, suspended from which was a perfectly clear yet irregularly shaped soostone. “Duke Leto Atreides, this is my daughter Ilesa.”
She executed a polite curtsy, though she seemed shy. “I am very pleased to meet you.”
Paul’s father responded with a deep, formal bow. “I saw her once, long ago. You did not exaggerate her beauty, Armand.” Now Duke Leto turned to Paul and his mother. “The arrangements have already been made. Ilesa will be my wife.”
Duncan Idaho was not the only Swordmaster in the life of Paul Atreides. He is just the only one who will be long remembered.
—The Life of Muad’Dib, Volume 2, by the PRINCESS IRULAN
After they had been shown to separate quarters in the Ecazi Palace, Paul visited his mother in her room. Jessica was quiet, absorbed in her thoughts; she herself had taught him how to read subtle nuances, and he could see how troubled she was. Obviously, his father had not discussed the betrothal announcement with her beforehand.
Logically, and politically, the arrangement had its advantages. Marriage was a tool of statecraft in the Imperium, a weapon as powerful as any lasgun in the Atreides military arsenal. But apparently Duke Leto kept secrets and political realities even from his beloved concubine.
“It will be all right, Paul,” Jessica said, and she did sound sincere. “I will stay in this room and continue my Bene Gesserit exercises, but you, Paul — no matter what else is happening, seize this as a learning opportunity. When it is time for us all to leave Ecaz, I want you to have a greater breadth of understanding. File away all these details and organize your thoughts using the techniques I have taught you.”
The very strangeness of Ecaz proved an irresistible distraction to Paul. He studied sunlit rooms whose walls reflected a trapezoidal architecture, without the perfection of perpendicular intersections. The palace grounds held an amazing topiary garden of lush plant sculptures — men, animals, and monsters — that moved with gentle grace, turning and weaving as the sun crossed the sky. A mesh-enclosed arena filled with large jewel-toned butterflies offered quite a spectacle during the twice-daily feeding-frenzy when workers entered the arena carrying dishes of syrupy nectar.
When he went to find his father, Duke Leto was locked in a conference room with Armand Ecaz. Guards and, worse, bureaucratic functionaries clustered at the doorway, and prevented him from entering. At midmorning, though, when servants delivered refreshments for the meeting, Paul finally slipped into the conference room and caught his father’s eye. Duke Leto appeared tired, but he smiled when he saw the boy. “Paul, I am sorry we’ve ignored you. These negotiations are very complex.”
Armand Ecaz lounged back in his chair. “Come now, Leto, they aren’t as difficult as all that.”
“Go find Duncan, Paul. He’ll keep you occupied — and safe.”
At a signal from Duke Leto, the stuffy Ecazi guard captain took the young man by the sleeve and led him out of the room, apologizing profusely to the Archduke for the interruption. Paul knew he would never have gotten past Thufir Hawat’s security back in Castle Caladan.
He located Duncan, Rivvy Dinari, and Whitmore Bludd out on the training field embroiled in a melee. The three were shirtless and armed with blunt-ended pulse swords that could deliver potent, stinging shocks; all three men had angry-looking red welts on their arms, chests, and shoulders. As he watched, Paul couldn’t quite tell who was fighting whom: Duncan threw himself upon Bludd, Dinari attacked Duncan, and then Bludd and Duncan ganged up on the fat Swordmaster. Finally, the three lowered their weapons, exhausted, dripping with perspiration and wearing foolish grins.
“He hasn’t forgotten much,” Dinari admitted to the thin and foppish Bludd. “He must practice occasionally.”
Finished and weary, the three switched off their shields and stood leaning on the pulse-swords on the trampled practice ground. Bludd tipped an imaginary hat in Paul’s direction. “We gave the young man a magnificent demonstration.”
“At least an entertaining one,” Rivvy Dinari said. “You were clumsy as an ox today.”
Bludd sniffed. “I scored five nasty welts on you. Then again, your body does have a great deal more surface area than the average opponent.”
Duncan toweled himself off with a fluffy rectangle woven from Elaccan eiderdown. Paul had read in filmbooks how the substance was spun from the burst seedpods of a tall, purple-leafed tree.
Paul stepped up to him. “My mother told me to learn what I can about Ecaz, and my father told me that you would keep me occupied.”
“Certainly, young Master, but no sword training right now. After my workout with these two, even you might be able to beat me.”
“I have already bested you three times.”
“Twice. I refused to concede one of them.”
“Your refusal doesn’t change the facts.” Dinari and Bludd seemed to find the conversation amusing. Duncan led him inside for a round of tame filmbook studies.
Which is more honorable — to follow a monster to whom you have sworn loyalty, or to break your oat
h and leave his service?
—JOOL-NORET, the first Swordmaster
During the trip home to Grumman after the Imperial wedding, Viscount Moritani spent much of the time with his sickly son and a medical entourage in the main stateroom of his family frigate.
Reporting to his master, Resser paused at the open doorway of the stateroom. Inside, the Viscount sat as limp as a discarded garment in a gilded armchair, from which he stared at a paunchy Suk doctor and a male nurse as they tended Wolfram. The pungent smell of semuta and the eerie, trancelike music that accompanied its use had calmed the boy. Even so, he whimpered in constant pain.
The heavyset Dr. Vando Terbali bore a diamond tattoo on his forehead, and his long golden hair was bound in a Suk school ring. “Though this disease is not incurable, my Lord Viscount, treatment is long overdue. Wolfram’s deteriorating condition is not the fault of the Suk brotherhood.”
“If I blamed you, Doctor, you would already be dead,” Moritani said wearily.
The male nurse stiffened in alarm, and the Suk doctor’s gaze sharpened. “Threatening me will not improve the quality of my service.”
The Viscount frowned. “And how can your treatment of my son be any worse? He is dying. Your ministrations have not prolonged his life nor significantly eased his pain.”
“You need esoit-poay, my Lord, and the Ecazis refuse to give it to you. Ergo, we cannot help your son.”
The Viscount’s shoulders bunched. “Duke Prad Vidal was somewhat sympathetic, for a price, but even he could not make the Archduke change his mind. Vidal’s personal entreaty on Wolfram’s behalf was rejected out of hand, because of the Archduke’s enmity toward me.” He rose from his chair, a man-shaped pressure vessel filled with violence, and suddenly noticed that Resser was standing just outside the door. The Viscount’s expression changed, and he spoke abruptly to Dr. Terbali. “Please, if you cannot treat his symptoms then just… ease his pain as much as you can.”
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