“You are of age now, Leto,” Paulus began, removing an ornate wooden pipe from a compartment in the arm of his chair. He did not waste time with chitchat. “And you must learn more than your own backyard. So I’m sending you to Ix to study.” He examined the black-haired youth who looked so similar to his mother, but with lighter, more olive-toned skin than hers. He had a narrow face with sharp angles and deep gray eyes.
Ix! Leto’s pulse accelerated. The machine planet. A strange and alien place. Everyone in the Imperium knew of that mysterious world’s incredible technology and innovations, but few outsiders had ever been there. Leto felt disoriented, as if on the deck of a boat in a storm. His father loved to pull surprises like this, to see how well Leto could react to a changed situation.
Ixians maintained a strict veil of secrecy around their industrial operations. They were rumored to skirt the fringes of legality, manufacturing devices that came close to violating Jihad prohibitions against thinking machines. Why then is my father sending me to such a place, and how has it been arranged? Why hasn’t anyone asked me?
A robo-table emerged from the floor beside Leto and produced a cold glass of cidrit juice. The young man’s tastes were known, just as it was known that the Old Duke would want nothing but the pipe. Leto took a sip of the tart drink, puckering his lips.
“You’ll study there for a year,” Paulus said, “according to the tradition of the allied Great Houses. Living on Ix will be quite a contrast with our bucolic planet. Learn from it.” He stared at the pipe in his hand. Carved from Elaccan jacaranda wood, it was deep brown, with swirls that glinted in the light cast by the glowglobes.
“You’ve been there, sir?” Leto smiled as he remembered. “To see your comrade Dominic Vernius, right?”
Paulus touched the combustion pad on the side of his pipe, lighting the tobacco, which was actually a golden seaweed rich in nicotine. He took a long drag and exhaled smoke. “On many occasions. The Ixians are an insular society and don’t trust outsiders. So you’ll have to go through plenty of security precautions, interrogations, and scans. They know that dropping their guard for the briefest instant can be fatal. Great and Minor Houses alike covet what Ix has and would like to take it for themselves.”
“Richese for one,” Leto said.
“Don’t say that to your mother. Richese is now only a shadow of what it was because Ix trounced them in all-out economic warfare.” He leaned forward and took a puff from his pipe. “The Ixians are masters of industrial sabotage and patent appropriation. Nowadays Richesians are only good for making cheap copies, without any innovations.”
Leto considered these comments, which were new to him. The Old Duke blew smoke, puffing his cheeks and making his beard bristle.
“In deference to your mother, lad, we’ve filtered the information you’ve learned. House Richese was a most tragic loss. Your grandfather, Count Ilban Richese, had a large family and spent more time with his offspring than watching his business interests. Not surprisingly, his children grew up pampered, and his fortunes fizzled away.”
Leto nodded, attentive as always to his father’s talk. But he already knew more than Paulus imagined; he’d listened privately to holorecords and filmbooks inadvertently left accessible to him by his proctors. It occurred to him now, however, that perhaps all of that was by design, part of a plan to open his mother’s family history to him like a flower, one petal at a time.
In conjunction with his familial interest in Richese, Leto had always found Ix to be equally intriguing. Once an industrial competitor of Richese, House Vernius of Ix had survived as a technological powerhouse. The royal family of Ix was one of the wealthiest in the Imperium— and he was going to study there.
His father’s words broke through his thoughts. “Your training partner will be Prince Rhombur, heir to the noble title of Vernius. I hope you two get along. You’re about the same age.”
The Prince of Ix. Leto’s thoughts soured, hoping the young man wasn’t spoiled, like so many other children of powerful Landsraad families. Why couldn’t it at least have been a princess, one with a face and figure like the Guild banker’s daughter he had met last month at the Tidal Solstice Ball?
“So . . . what is this Prince Rhombur like?” Leto asked.
Paulus laughed, a blustery offering that suggested a lifetime of revelry and bawdy stories. “Why, I don’t think I know. It’s been a long time since I visited Dominic at home with his wife Shando.” He smiled with an inner joke. “Ah, Shando— she was an Imperial concubine once, but Dominic stole her right out from under old Elrood’s nose.” He gave a loud, impertinent chuckle. “Now they have a son . . . and a daughter, too. Her name is Kailea.”
Smiling enigmatically, the Old Duke continued, “There is much for you to learn, my boy. A year hence, both of you will come to study on Caladan, an exchange of teaching services. You and Rhombur will be taken to pundi rice farms in the lowland marshes on the southern continent, to live in shacks and work the paddies. You’ll travel beneath the sea in a Nells chamber, and you’ll dive for coral gems.” He smiled and clapped his son on the shoulder. “Some things can’t be taught with filmbooks or in classrooms.”
“Yes, sir.” He smelled the iodine-sweetness of the seaweed tobacco. He frowned, hoping the smoke covered his expression. This drastic and unexpected change in his life wasn’t to his liking, but he respected his father; Leto had learned through many hard lessons that the Old Duke knew exactly what he was talking about, and that Paulus had only the greatest desire to ensure that his son would follow in his footsteps.
The Duke lounged back in his suspensor chair, bobbing in the air. “Lad, I can tell you’re not entirely pleased, but this will be a vital experience for you and for Dominic’s son. Here on Caladan you’ll both learn our greatest secret— how we foster the intense loyalty of our subjects, why we trust our people implicitly in a way the Ixians do not trust theirs.”
Paulus became most serious now, without the slightest glint of humor in his eyes. “My son, this is more essential than anything you will learn on an industrial world: People are more important than machines.”
It was an adage Leto had heard often; the phrase was part of him, almost as important to him as breathing. “That’s why our soldiers fight so well.”
Paulus leaned forward into the curling smoke from his last puff. “One day you will be Duke, lad, patriarch of House Atreides and a respected representative in the Landsraad. Your voice there will be equal to that of any other ruler among the Great Houses. That’s a great responsibility.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“I’m sure you will, Leto . . . but let yourself relax a bit. The people can tell when you’re not happy— and when their Duke is not happy, the population is not happy. Let pressure pass over and through you; that way you can’t be harmed by it.” He extended a scolding finger. “Have more fun.”
Fun. Leto thought again of the Guild banker’s daughter, envisioning the fullness of her breasts and hips, the moist pout of her mouth, the way she had looked at him so enticingly.
Maybe he wasn’t as serious as his father thought he was. . . .
He took another drink of cidrit juice; the tart coolness dissipated in his throat. “Sir, with your proven loyalty, with the known faithfulness of the Atreides to its allies, why do the Ixians still put us through their interrogation procedures? Do you think an Atreides, even with all that has been instilled in him, could ever become a traitor? Could we ever become like . . . like the Harkonnens?”
The Old Duke scowled. “Once, we were not so different from them, but those are not stories you’re ready to hear yet. Remember the play we just watched.” He held up a finger. “Things change in the Imperium. Alliances form and dissolve on whims.”
“Not our alliances.”
Paulus met the boy’s gray-eyed stare, then looked away, into a corner where the smoke from his pipe swirled in thick curtains.
Leto sighed. There was so much he wanted to know, and quickly. Bu
t it was being fed to him in little morsels, like petit fours at one of his mother’s fancy parties.
Outside, they heard people moving about, clearing the theatre for the next performance of Agamemnon. The actors would be resting, changing costumes, preparing for another audience.
Sitting in this private room with his father, Leto felt more like a man than ever before. Maybe next time he would light a pipe of his own. Maybe he would drink something stronger than cidrit juice. Paulus looked at him with a proud glow in his eyes.
Leto smiled back and tried to imagine what it would be like to be Duke Atreides— then felt a sudden rush of guilt as he realized his father would have to die first in order for him to slip the ducal signet ring onto his finger. He didn’t want that, and was thankful that it would be a long time yet. Too far in the future to think about.
Spacing Guild: one leg of the political tripod maintaining the Great Convention. The Guild was the second mental-physical training school (see Bene Gesserit) after the Butlerian Jihad. The Guild monopoly on space travel and transport and upon international banking is taken as the beginning point of the Imperial Calendar.
—Terminology of the Imperium
From his perch on the Golden Lion Throne, Emperor Elrood IX scowled down at the broad-shouldered and too-confident man who stood at the base of the royal dais, with one of his boots, still dirty probably, on the lowest step. As polished-bald as a marble banister knob, Earl Dominic Vernius still carried himself like a popular and decorated war hero, though those days were long over. Elrood doubted anyone still remembered the man’s reckless glory days.
The Imperial Chamberlain, Aken Hesban, moved swiftly to the visitor’s side, and in a brusque tone ordered Dominic to remove the offending foot. Hesban’s face was sallow, his mouth framed with long and drooping mustaches. The last rays of Kaitain’s afternoon sunlight cast streaks high on a wall, shining golden rivers through the narrow prismatic windows.
Earl Vernius of Ix removed his foot as he was instructed, but continued to stare cordially at Elrood. The Ixian crest, a purple-and-copper helix, adorned the collar of Dominic’s tunic. Though House Corrino was vastly more powerful than the ruling family of Ix, Dominic had the maddening habit of treating the Emperor as an equal, as if their past history— good and bad— allowed him to dispense with formalities. Chamberlain Hesban did not at all approve.
Decades ago Dominic had led legions of Imperial troops during the rough civil wars, and he had not truly respected his Emperor since. Elrood had gotten himself into political trouble late in his impulsive marriage to his fourth wife Habla, and several Landsraad leaders had been forced to use their House military might to enforce stability again. House Vernius of Ix had been among these allies, as had the Atreides.
Now Dominic smiled beneath an extravagant mustache, and looked on Elrood with a jaded eye. The old vulture had not earned his throne through great deeds or compassion. Dominic’s great-uncle Gaylord had once said, “If you are born to power, you must prove you deserve it through good works— or give it up. To do any less is to act without conscience.”
Standing impatiently on the checkerboard floor of polished stone squares— purportedly samples from all the worlds in the Imperium— Dominic waited for Elrood to speak. A million worlds? There couldn’t possibly be that many stones here, though I don’t want to be the one to count them.
The Chamberlain stared down at him as if his diet consisted entirely of soured milk. But Earl Vernius could play the game himself and refused to fidget, refused to inquire into the nature of his summons. He just stood still, smiling at the old man. Dominic’s expression and bright eyes implied knowledge of many more embarrassing personal secrets about the old man than Shando had actually confessed to him— but the suspicion galled Elrood, like an Elaccan bitterthorn in his side.
Something moved on the right, and in the shadows of an arched doorway Dominic saw a black-robed woman, one of those Bene Gesserit witches. He couldn’t make out her face, partially concealed as it was by an overhanging cowl. Notorious hoarders of secrets, the Bene Gesserit were always close to the centers of power, constantly watching . . . constantly manipulating.
“I won’t ask you if it’s true, Vernius,” the Emperor finally said. “My sources are unerring, and I know you have committed this terrible act. Ixian technology! Pah!” He made as if to spit from his withered lips. Dominic did not roll his eyes upward; Elrood always overestimated the effectiveness of his melodramatic gestures.
Dominic continued to smile, showing plenty of teeth. “I am unaware of committing any ‘terrible act,’ Sire. Ask your Truthsayer, if you don’t believe me.” He flicked a glance at the dark-robed Bene Gesserit woman.
“Mere semantics— don’t play dumb, Dominic.”
Still, he simply waited, forcing the Emperor to state his charge explicitly.
Elrood huffed, and the Chamberlain huffed with him. “Damn it, your new Heighliner design will allow the Guild, with their damnable monopoly on space transport, to carry sixteen percent more in each load!”
Dominic bowed, still smiling mildly. “Actually, m’Lord, we have been able to boost the increase to eighteen percent. That’s a substantial improvement over the previous design, involving not only a new hull but a shield technology that weighs less and takes up less room. Therefore, boosted efficiency. This is the very heart of Ixian innovation, which has made House Vernius great over the centuries.”
“Your alteration reduces the number of flights the Guild must make to haul the same amount of cargo.”
“Why, naturally, Sire.” Dominic looked at the old man as if he were incredibly dense. “If you increase the capacity of each Heighliner, you decrease the number of flights required to haul the same amount of material. Simple mathematics.”
“Your redesign causes great hardship for the Imperial House, Earl Vernius,” said Aken Hesban, clutching his chain of office as if it were a handkerchief. His long mustaches looked like the tusks of a walrus.
“Well, I suppose I can understand the shortsighted reason for your concern, Sire,” Dominic said, not deigning to look at the stuffed-shirt Chamberlain. Imperial tax was based on the number of flights rather than on the amount of cargo, and the Heighliner redesign therefore resulted in a substantial reduction in income for House Corrino.
Dominic spread his broad scarred hands, looking eminently reasonable. “But how can you request that we blatantly hold back progress? Ix has in no way countermanded the strictures of the Great Revolt. We have the full support of the Spacing Guild and the Landsraad.”
“You did this knowing it would incur my wrath?” Elrood leaned forward on the massive throne, looking even more the vulture.
“Come now, Sire!” Dominic laughed, belittling the Emperor’s concerns. “Personal feelings can have no place in the march of progress.”
Elrood raised himself off the chair, standing in his billowy robes of state that hung like awnings over his skeletal body. “I can’t renegotiate with the Guild for a tax based on metric tonnage, Vernius. You know that!”
“And I can’t change the simple laws of economics and commerce.” He shook his gleaming head, then shrugged. “It’s just business, Elrood.”
The Court functionaries stopped with a gasp, listening to the candor and familiarity Dominic Vernius used with the Emperor. “Watch yourself,” the Chamberlain warned.
But Dominic ignored him and continued. “This design modification affects many people, most of them positively. We are only concerned about progress, and about doing the best possible job for our client, the Spacing Guild. The cost of one new Heighliner is more than most planetary systems make in a Standard Year.”
Elrood stared him down. “Perhaps it is time for my administrators and licensors to inspect your manufacturing facilities.” His voice carried a threatening tone. “I have reports that Ixian scientists may be developing secret, illegal thinking machines in violation of the Jihad. Yes, I have also heard complaints of repression against your suboid work
ing class. Haven’t we, Aken?”
The Chamberlain nodded dourly. “Yes, Highness.”
“There have been no such rumors.” Dominic chuckled, though a bit uncertainly. “No evidence whatsoever.”
“Alas, they were anonymous reports and therefore no records have been kept.” The Emperor tapped his long-nailed fingertips together as a real smile crossed his face. “Yes, I believe the best thing would be an unannounced inspection of Ix— before you can send a warning and arrange for anything to be hidden.”
“The inner workings of Ix are off-limits to you, according to a long-established Imperium–Landsraad pact.” Dominic was riled now, but he tried to maintain his composure.
“I made no such agreement.” Elrood looked down at his fingernails. “And I’ve been Emperor for a long, long time.”
“Your ancestor did, and you’re bound by it.”
“I have the power to make and break agreements. You don’t seem to realize that I am the Padishah Emperor, and I can do as I please.”
“The Landsraad will have something to say about that, Roody.” Instantly Dominic regretted using the nickname and wished he could take it back. But it was too late.
Flushing with rage, the Emperor leaped to his feet and pointed an accusing, shaking finger at Dominic. “How dare you!” The Sardaukar guards snapped to attention, shifting their weapons.
“If you insist on an Imperial inspection,” Dominic said with a contemptuous, dismissive gesture, “I will resist it and file a formal complaint in Landsraad court. You have no case, and you know it.” He bowed and backed away. “I’m extremely busy, Sire. If you will excuse me, I must take my leave.”
Dune: House Atreides Page 4