The guards kept looking at him and shaking their heads. One asked him if he carried any weapons, or any money, both of which Duncan denied. As a steady stream of petitioners came and went, the guards chatted with each other. Duncan heard talk about a revolt that had occurred on Ix, and the Duke’s concerns over House Vernius, especially because of the Emperor’s acceptance of a bounty on Dominic and Shando Vernius. Apparently, the Duke’s son Leto had just returned from war-torn Ix to Caladan with two royal refugees. Everything in the Castle was in quite a turmoil.
Nevertheless, Duncan waited.
The sun passed overhead and slipped below the horizon of the great sea. The young man spent the night curled up in a corner of the courtyard, and with the next morning and a change of guards, he repeated his story and his request for an audience. This time, he mentioned that he had escaped from a Harkonnen world and wished to offer his services to House Atreides. The Harkonnen name seemed to catch their attention. Once again the guards checked him for weapons, but more thoroughly.
By early afternoon, after being frisked and probed— first by an electronic scanner to root out hidden lethal devices, then by a poison-snooper— Duncan was finally ushered inside the Castle. An ancient stone structure whose interior corridors and rooms were draped with rich tapestries, the place bore a patina of history and worn elegance. Wooden floors creaked underfoot.
At a wide stone archway, two Atreides guards passed him through even more elaborate scanning devices, which again found nothing suspicious. He was just a boy, with nothing to hide, but they wore their paranoia as if it were a strange and uncomfortable garment, as if new procedures had just been instituted. Satisfied, they waved Duncan into a large room with vaulted ceilings supported by heavy, dark beams.
At the center of the room the Old Duke sat back and surveyed his visitor. A strong, bearlike man with a full beard and bright green eyes, Paulus relaxed in a comfortable wooden chair, not an ostentatious throne. It was a place where he could be at ease for hours as he conducted the business of state. Atop the chairback, just above the old patriarch’s head, a hawk crest had been carved into the dark Elaccan wood.
Beside him sat his olive-skinned son Leto, thin and tired-looking, as if he hadn’t fully recovered from his ordeal. Duncan met Leto’s gray eyes, and sensed that both of them had much to tell, much to share.
“We have here a very persistent boy, Leto,” the Old Duke said, glancing at his son.
“From the looks of him, he wants something different from all the other petitioners we’ve heard today.” Leto raised his eyebrows. He was only five or six years older than Duncan— a large gulf at their ages— but it seemed they had both been thrust headlong into adulthood. “He doesn’t look greedy.”
Paulus’s expression softened as he leaned forward in his great chair. “How long have you been waiting out there, boy?”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter, m’Lord Duke,” Duncan answered, hoping he used the right words. “I’m here now.” Nervously, he scratched a mole on his chin.
The Old Duke flashed a quick scowl at the guard who had escorted him in. “Have you fed this young man?”
“They gave me plenty, sir. Thank you. And I also had a good night’s sleep in your comfortable courtyard.”
“In the courtyard?” Another scowl at the guard. “So why are you here, young man? Did you come from one of the fishing villages?”
“No, m’Lord— I am from Giedi Prime.”
The guards tensed hands around their weapons. The Old Duke and his son flashed a glance at each other, disbelief at first. “Then you’d better tell us what’s happened to you,” Paulus said. Their expressions changed to grim disgust as Duncan told his story, omitting no detail.
The Duke’s eyes widened. He saw the guileless expression on this young man’s face and looked at his son, thinking that this was no made-up tale. Leto nodded. No boy of nine years could have concocted such a story, however much he might have been coached.
“And so I came here, sir,” Duncan said, “to see you.”
“You landed in which city on Caladan?” the Duke asked again. “Describe it for us.”
Duncan couldn’t remember its name but recounted what he had seen, and the Old Duke agreed that he must have indeed made his way from across the world.
“I was told to come to you, m’Lord, and ask if you might have something for me to do. I hate the Harkonnens, sir, and I’d willingly pledge my loyalty forever to House Atreides if only I can stay here.”
“I think I believe him, Father,” Leto said quietly, studying the boy’s deep-set blue-green eyes. “Or is this a lesson you’re trying to teach me?”
Paulus sat back, hands folded on his lap, and his chest wrenched with spasms. After a moment Duncan realized that the big man was holding in great rumbles of laughter. When the Old Duke could no longer restrain himself, he burst out with a deep chuckle and slapped his knees. “Boy, I admire what you’ve done. Any young man with balls as big as yours is a man I must have as part of my household!”
“Thank you, sir,” Duncan said.
“I’m sure we can find some urgent work for him to do, Father,” Leto said with a tired smile. He found this brave and persistent boy to be a hopeful change from everything he had seen recently.
The Old Duke rose from the comfort of his chair and bellowed for retainers, insisting that they supply the boy with clothes and a bath and more food. “On second thought”— he held up a hand—“bring an entire banquet table. My son and I wish to share lunch with young Master Idaho.”
They entered an adjacent dining room, where workers scurried and clattered about, setting up everything their Duke had commanded. One servant brushed flat the boy’s dark and curly hair, and ran a static cleaner over his dusty clothes. At the head of the table, with Duncan seated on his right and gray-eyed Leto on the left, Paulus Atreides sank his chin into a large fist.
“I’ve got an idea, boy. Since you proved you could handle those monstrous Harkonnens, do you think a mere Salusan bull is beyond your capabilities?”
“No, sir,” Duncan said. He had heard about the Duke’s grand spectacles. “If you want me to fight them for you, I’ll be happy to do it.”
“Fight them?” Paulus laughed. “That isn’t exactly what I have in mind.” The Duke sat back with a huge grin, looking over at Leto.
Leto said, “I think we’ve discovered a position for you here at Castle Caladan, young man. You can work in the stables, under the guidance of Stablemaster Yresk. You’ll help tend my father’s bulls: feed them and, if you can get close enough, groom them, too. I’ve done it myself. I’ll introduce you to the stablemaster.” He looked over at his father. “Remember, Yresk used to let me pet the bulls when I was Duncan’s age?”
“Oh, this boy will do a lot more than pet the beasts,” the Old Duke said. Paulus cocked a gray eyebrow as platters and platters of magnificent food were brought to the table. He noted the enchanted look on Duncan’s face. “And if you do a good enough job in the stables,” he added, “maybe we can find some more glamorous tasks for you.”
History has seldom been good to those who must be punished. Bene Gesserit punishments cannot be forgotten.
—Bene Gesserit Dictum
A new Bene Gesserit delegation bearing Gaius Helen Mohiam arrived on Giedi Prime. Freshly delivered of her sickly Harkonnen daughter, Mohiam found herself in the Baron’s Keep for the second time in the space of a year.
She arrived in daylight this time, though the greasy cloud cover and pillars of smoke from unfiltered factories gave the sky a bruised appearance that strangled any hint of sunshine.
The Reverend Mother’s shuttle touched down at the same spaceport as before, with the same demand for “special services.” But this time Baron Harkonnen had secretly vowed to do things differently.
Stepping in perfect rhythm, a stony-faced regiment of the Baron’s household troops marched up to surround the Bene Gesserit shuttle— more than sufficient to intimidate the witches.<
br />
The Burseg Kryubi, formerly a pilot on Arrakis and now head of Harkonnen house security, stood in front of the shuttle-debarkation ramp, two steps ahead of his nearest troops. All were dressed in formal blue.
Mohiam appeared at the top of the ramp, engulfed in her Bene Gesserit robes and flanked by acolyte retainers, personal guards, and other Sisters. She frowned with disdain at the Burseg and his men. “What is the meaning of this reception? Where is the Baron?”
Burseg Kryubi looked up at her. “Do not attempt your manipulative Voice on me or there will be a . . . dangerous . . . reaction from the troops. My orders state that you alone are allowed to see the Baron. No guards, no retainers, no companions. He awaits you in the formal hall of the Keep.” He nodded toward the attendants behind her in the shuttle. “None of these others may enter.”
“Unthinkable,” Mohiam said. “I request formal diplomatic courtesy. All of my party must be received with the respect they are due.”
Kryubi did not flinch. “I know what the witch wants,” the Baron had said. “And if she thinks she can show up here to rut with me on a regular basis, she’s sadly mistaken!”— whatever that meant.
The Burseg stared her down, eye to eye. “Your request is denied.” He was far more frightened of the Baron’s punishments than of anything this woman could do to him. “You are free to leave if this does not meet with your approval.”
With a snort, Mohiam started down the ramp, flashing a glance at those who remained in the ship. “For all his perversions, the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen is somewhat prudish,” she said mockingly, more for the benefit of the Harkonnen troops than for her own people. “Especially when it comes to matters of sexuality.”
Kryubi, who had not been apprised of the situation, was intrigued by this reference. But he decided that certain things were best left unknown.
“Tell me, Burseg,” the witch said to him in an irritating tone, “how would you even know if I was using Voice on you?”
“A soldier never reveals his full arsenal of defenses.”
“I see.” Her tone was soothing, sensual. Kryubi didn’t feel threatened by it, but wondered if his bluff had worked.
Unknown to this foolish soldier, Mohiam was a Truthsayer capable of recognizing nuances of falsehood and deception. She allowed the pompous Burseg to lead her across an overpass on a walkway tunnel. Once inside Harkonnen Keep, the Reverend Mother put on her best air of aloof confidence, gliding along with feigned nonchalance.
But every one of her heightened senses was attuned to the slightest anomaly. The Baron made her extremely suspicious. She knew he was up to something.
• • •
Pacing restlessly in the Great Hall, Baron Harkonnen looked around, his black eyes flashing and intent. The room was large and cold, the harsh light too bright from unfiltered glowglobes clustered in the corners and along the ceiling. As he walked in pointed black boots, his footsteps echoed, making the entire hall sound hollow, empty— a good place for an ambush.
Though the residential portion of the Keep might appear vacant, the Baron had stationed guards and electronic spy-eyes in various alcoves. He knew he couldn’t fool the Bene Gesserit whore for long, but it didn’t matter. Even if she learned they were being watched, it might give her pause and prevent her from pulling her insidious tricks. The caution might at least gain him a few seconds.
Since he planned to be in control this time, the Baron wanted his people to watch. He’d give them a very good show, something they’d talk about in their barracks and troop ships for years to come. Best of all, it would put the witches in their place. Blackmail me, indeed!
Piter de Vries came up behind him, moving so swiftly and silently that he startled the Baron, who snapped, “Don’t do that, Piter!”
“I’ve brought what you asked, my Baron.” The twisted Mentat extended his hand, offering two small plugs, white-noise transmitters. “Insert these deeply into your ear canals. They’re designed to distort any Voice she might try to use. You can still hear normal conversation, but the plugs will scramble the unwanted, preventing it from reaching your ears.”
The Baron heaved a deep breath and flexed his muscles. The preparations had to be perfect.
“You just take care of your part, Piter. I know what I’m doing.” He went to a small alcove, snatched up the decanter of kirana brandy, and took a long deep swig directly from the bottle. Feeling the brandy burn in his chest, he wiped his mouth and the top of the bottle.
The Baron had already imbibed more alcohol than was usual for him, perhaps more than was wise considering the ordeal he was about to face. De Vries, who recognized the Baron’s anxiety, looked at his master as if laughing at him. With a scowl, the Baron took another deep swallow, just to spite the Mentat.
De Vries scuttled about, relishing their joint plan, eager to participate. “Perhaps, Baron, the witch is returning here because she enjoyed her first encounter with you so much.” He cackled. “Do you think she’s been lusting after you ever since?”
The Baron scowled at him again— this time sharply enough that the Mentat wondered if he had pushed too far. But de Vries always managed to talk his way out of reprisals.
“Is that the best prime projection my Mentat can offer? Think, damn you! Why would the Bene Gesserit want another child from me? Are they just trying to twist the knife deeper, to make me hate them even more than I already do?” He snorted, wondered if that could be possible.
Maybe they needed two daughters for some reason. Or maybe something was wrong with the first one. . . . The Baron’s generous lips curved upward in a slight smile. This child would certainly be the last.
No evidence remained for the Bene Gesserit to use as blackmail. Lankiveil now hid the largest treasure of Harkonnen melange right under Abulurd’s nose. The fool had no inkling of how he was being used to cover the Baron’s secret activities. But though softhearted and softheaded, Abulurd was still a Harkonnen. Even if he discovered the deception, he wouldn’t dare expose it for fear of destroying his own family holdings. Abulurd revered the memory of their father too much for that.
The Baron walked away from the kirana brandy, and the sweet burning taste turned sour in the back of his mouth. He wore a loose maroon-and-black pajama top tightly sashed across his flat stomach. The pale blue griffin crest of House Harkonnen emblazoned the left breast. He’d left his arms bare to show off his biceps. His reddish hair was cut short, tousled for a rakish look.
He looked hard at de Vries. The Mentat gulped from a small bottle of deep red sapho juice. “Are we ready, my Baron? She’s waiting outside.”
“Yes, Piter.” He lounged back in a chair. His silky pants were loose, and the prying eyes of the Reverend Mother would be able to detect no bulge of a weapon— no expected weapon. He smiled. “Go and send her in.”
• • •
When Mohiam passed into the main hall of the Keep, Burseg Kryubi and his troops closed the doors behind her, remaining outside. The locks sealed with a click. Immediately on her guard, she noted that the Baron had orchestrated every detail of this encounter.
The two of them seemed to be alone in the long room, which was austere and cold, awash in glaring light. The entire Keep conveyed the impression of square corners and unsoftened harshness the Harkonnens loved so well; this place was more an industrial conference room than a sumptuous palace hall.
“Greetings again, Baron Harkonnen,” Mohiam said with a smile that overlaid politeness on top of her scorn. “I see you’ve been anticipating our meeting. Perhaps you’re even eager?” She looked away, glancing at her fingertips. “It’s possible I shall allow you a bit more pleasure this time.”
“Maybe so,” the Baron said, affably.
She didn’t like the answer. What is his game? Mohiam looked around, sensing the air currents, peering into shadows, trying to hear the heartbeat of some other person lying in wait. Someone was there . . . but where? Did they plan to murder her? Would they dare? She monitored her pulse, prevented it f
rom accelerating.
The Baron definitely had more in mind than simple cooperation. She had never expected an easy victory over him, especially not this second time. The heads of some Minor Houses could be crushed or manipulated— the Bene Gesserit certainly knew how to do it— but this wouldn’t be the fate of House Harkonnen.
She looked at the Baron’s stygian eyes, straining with her Truthsayer abilities, but unable to see what he was thinking, unable to unravel his plans. Mohiam felt a twinge of fear deep inside, barely recognized. Just how much would the Harkonnens dare? This Baron couldn’t afford to refuse the Sisterhood’s demand, knowing what information the Bene Gesserit held against him. Or would he risk the possibility of heavy Imperial penalties?
Of equal import, would he risk a Bene Gesserit punishment? That, too, was no small matter.
At another time she might have enjoyed playing games with him, mental and physical sparring with a strong opponent. He was slippery and could bend and twist far more easily than he could break. But right now the Baron fell beneath her contempt, serving as a stud whose genes were required by the Sisterhood. She didn’t know why, or what importance this daughter might hold, but if Mohiam returned to Wallach IX with her mission unfulfilled, she would receive a severe reprimand from her superiors.
She decided not to waste any additional time. Summoning the full Voice talents the Bene Gesserit had taught her, word and tone manipulations that no untrained human could resist, she said curtly, “Cooperate with me.” It was a command she expected him to obey.
The Baron just smiled. He didn’t move, but his eyes flicked to one side. Mohiam was so startled at the ineffectiveness of Voice that she realized too late the Baron had set a different trap for her.
The Mentat Piter de Vries had already launched himself out of a hidden alcove. She turned, battle-ready, but the Mentat moved as swiftly as any Bene Gesserit could.
Dune: House Atreides Page 33