And now he was about to be married— another important change.
Standing before him, the mysterious Sayyadina uttered a series of words in Chakobsa, a language Kynes did not understand, but he gave the appropriate responses he had memorized. The sietch elders had taken extreme care to prepare him. Perhaps one day, with more research, he would understand the rituals surrounding him, the ancient language, the mysterious traditions. But for now he could only make reasoned guesses.
During the ceremony he remained preoccupied, devising various tests he could run in sandy and rocky areas of the planet, dreaming of new experimental stations he would erect, considering which test gardens to plant. He had vast plans to implement and, at last, all the manpower he could possibly desire. It would take an incredible amount of work to reawaken this world— but now that the Fremen shared his dream, Pardot Kynes knew it could be done.
It could be done!
He smiled, and Frieth gazed up at him, smiling in her own right, though almost certainly her thoughts diverged widely from his. Nearly oblivious to the activities around him and paying little mind to their import, Kynes found himself married in the Fremen way, almost before he realized it.
The haughty do but build castle walls behind which they seek to hide their doubts and fears.
—Bene Gesserit Axiom
The dawn mists carried an iodine tang from the sea, rising from the wet black cliffs that supported the spires of Castle Caladan. Normally, Paulus Atreides found it peaceful and refreshing, but today it made him uneasy.
The Old Duke stood out on one of the tower balconies, drawing a deep breath of fresh air. He loved his planet, especially the early mornings; the fresh, pure kind of silence gave him more energy than a good night’s sleep ever could.
Even in troubled times such as these.
To ward off the chill he wrapped himself in a thick robe trimmed with green Canidar wool. His wife paused behind him in the bedchamber, hanging on every breath as she always did after they had been fighting. It was a matter of form. When Paulus didn’t object, she came closer to stand next to him to gaze out upon their world. Her eyes were tired, and she looked hurt, but unconvinced; he would hold her, and she would warm to him, and then she would try to press the issue again. She still insisted that House Atreides was in grave danger because of what he had done.
From below, shouts and muted laughter and the sounds of exercise drifted upward. The Duke looked down to the sheltered courtyard, pleased to see his son Leto already out doing his training routines with the exiled Prince of Ix. Both wore body-shields that hummed and flickered in the orange early-morning light. The young men carried blunted stun-daggers in their left hands and training swords in their right.
In the weeks they had lived on Caladan, Rhombur had recovered quickly and completely from the concussion he’d received during their escape from Ix. The exercise and fresh air had improved his health, his muscle tone, his complexion. But the stocky young man’s heart and his mood would take much longer to heal. He seemed all at sea yet from what had happened to him.
The two circled and parried, slashing down, trying to judge just how fast they could move their blades without having them deflected by the protective fields. They challenged and pounced, striking with a flurry of attacks that had no hope of penetrating the other’s defenses. Blades sang and ricocheted from the shimmering shields.
“The boys have so much energy for such an hour,” Helena said, rubbing her red-rimmed eyes. A safe comment, not likely to raise any objections. She took half a step closer. “Rhombur’s even lost weight.”
The Old Duke looked over at her, noting the age-sharpened porcelain of her features, a few strands of gray in her dark hair. “This is the best time for training. Gets the blood flowing for the entire day. I taught Leto that when he was just a boy.”
From far out at sea he heard the clang of a reef-marking buoy and the putter of a fishing coracle, one of the local wickerwood boats with waterproofed hulls. He saw the hazy fog lights of a trawler farther out, cutting through the low-lying banks of sea mist as it harvested melon-kelp.
“Yes . . . the boys are exercising,” Helena said, “but have you noticed Kailea sitting there? Why do you think she’s up so early?” The lilt at the end of her question made him think twice.
The Duke looked down, for the first time marking the lovely daughter of House Vernius. Kailea lounged on a polished-coral bench in the sunshine, daintily eating from a plate of assorted fruits. She had her padded copy of the Orange Catholic Bible beside her on the bench— Helena’s gift— but she wasn’t reading it.
Puzzled, Paulus scratched his beard. “Does the girl always get up this early? I suspect she’s not adjusted to our Caladan days yet.”
Helena watched as Leto pressed with fury against Rhombur’s shield and slipped his stun-dagger in, jolting the Ixian Prince with an electric shock. Rhombur howled, then chuckled as he backed off. Leto raised his training sword as if scoring a point. He flashed a gray-eyed glance at Kailea, touching the tip of his sword to his forehead in a salute.
“Have you never seen the way your son looks at her, Paulus?” Helena’s voice was stern and disapproving.
“No, I hadn’t much noticed.” The Old Duke looked from Leto to the young woman again. In his mind Kailea, daughter of Dominic Vernius, was just a child. He had last seen her in infancy. Perhaps his sluggish old mind hadn’t seen her adulthood coming so fast. Nor Leto’s.
Considering this, he said, “That boy’s hormones are reaching their peak. Let me speak to Thufir. We’ll find some appropriate wenches for him.”
“Mistresses like yours?” Helena turned away from her husband, looking hurt.
“Nothing wrong with it.” He prayed with all his heart she wouldn’t pursue that subject again. “As long as it never becomes anything serious.”
Like any Lord in the Imperium, Paulus had his dalliances. His marriage to Helena, one of the daughters of House Richese, had been arranged for strictly political reasons after much consideration and bargaining. He’d done his best, had even loved her for a time— which had come as a genuine surprise to him. But then Helena had drifted away, becoming absorbed in religion and lost dreams instead of current realities.
Discreetly, quietly, Paulus had eventually gone back to his mistresses, treating them well, enjoying himself, and careful not to produce any bastards from them. He never spoke of it, but Helena knew. She always knew.
And she had to live with the fact.
“Never becomes serious?” Helena leaned over the balcony to see Kailea better. “I’m afraid Leto feels something for this girl, that he’s falling in love with her. I told you not to send him to Ix.”
“It isn’t love,” Paulus said, pretending to pay attention to the movements of the sword-and-shield duel below. The boys had more energy than skill; they needed to work on finesse. The clumsiest of Harkonnen guards would be able to wade in and dispatch both of them in an eyeblink.
“You’re sure about that?” Helena asked in a worried tone. “A great deal is at stake here. Leto is the heir to House Atreides, the son of a Duke. He has to take care and choose his romantic assignations with forethought. Consult with us, negotiate for terms, get the most he can—”
“I know that,” Paulus muttered.
“You know it all too well.” His wife’s voice became cold and brittle. “Maybe one of your wenches isn’t such a bad idea after all. At least it’ll keep him away from Kailea.”
Down below, the young woman nibbled on fruit, eyed Leto with coy admiration, and laughed at a particularly outrageous maneuver he had pulled off. Rhombur countered him, their shields clashing and sparking against each other. When Leto turned to smile back at her, Kailea looked at her breakfast plate with feigned aloofness.
Helena recognized the movements of the courtship dance, as intricate as any swordplay. “See how they look at each other?”
The Old Duke shook his head sadly. “At one time the daughter of House Vernius might h
ave been an excellent match for Leto.”
It saddened him to know how his friend Dominic Vernius was being hunted down by Imperial decree. Emperor Elrood, seemingly irrational, had branded Vernius not only a renegade and an exile, but also a traitor. Neither Earl Dominic nor Lady Shando had sent any word to Caladan, but Paulus hoped they remained alive; both were fair game for ambitious fortune seekers.
House Atreides had risked a great deal by accepting the two children into sanctuary on Caladan. Dominic Vernius had called in all his remaining favors among the Houses of the Landsraad, which had confirmed the young exiles in their protected status, so long as they did not aspire to regain the former title of their House.
“I’d never agree to a marriage between our son and . . . her,” Helena said. “While you’ve strutted around with bullfights and parades, I’ve had my ear to the ground. House Vernius has been falling into disfavor for years now. I’ve told you that, but you never listen.”
Paulus said in a mild voice, “Ah, Helena, your Richesian bias keeps you from seeing Ix fairly. Vernius has always been your family’s rival, and they roundly defeated you in the trade wars.” Despite their disagreements, he tried to accord her the respect due a Lady of a Great House, even when nobody was listening.
“Clearly, the wrath of God has fallen upon Ix,” she pointed out. “You can’t deny that. You should get rid of Rhombur and Kailea. Send them away, or even kill them— it would be a kindness.”
Duke Paulus smoldered. He’d known she’d get back around to the subject before long. “Helena! Watch your words.” He looked at her in disbelief. “That’s an outrageous suggestion, even from you.”
“Why? Their House brought about its own destruction by scorning the strictures of the Great Revolt. House Vernius taunted God with their hubris. Anyone could see it. I warned you myself before Leto went to Ix.” She held the edge of his robe, trembling with her passion as she tried to make a reasoned plea. “Hasn’t humanity learned its lesson well enough? Think of the horrors we went through, the enslavement, the near extermination. We must never stray from the correct path again. Ix was trying to bring back thinking machines. ‘Thou shalt not make a machine in the—’ ”
“No need to quote verses to me,” he said, cutting her off. When Helena dropped into her rigid and zealous mind-set, no rebuttal could penetrate her blinders.
“But if you would just listen and read,” Helena pleaded. “I can show you the passages in the Book—”
“Dominic Vernius was my friend, Helena,” Paulus said. “And House Atreides stands by its friends. Rhombur and Kailea are my guests here at Castle Caladan, and I will hear no more of this talk from you.”
Though Helena turned and vanished back into the bedchamber, he knew she would try to convince him again, at some other time. He sighed.
Gripping the balcony railing, Paulus looked back down to where the boys continued their exercises. It was more like a brawl, with Leto and Rhombur battering at each other, laughing and running around and wasting energy.
Despite her self-righteousness, Helena had made some valid points. This was the kind of opening their age-old enemies, the Harkonnens, would use to try and destroy House Atreides. Enemy legal minds were probably already working on it. If House Vernius had in fact violated Butlerian precepts, then House Atreides might be considered guilty by association.
But the die was cast, and Paulus was up to the challenge. Still, he had to make sure nothing terrible happened to his own son.
Below the boys fought on, still playful, though the Old Duke knew Rhombur ached to strike back at the myriad faceless foes who had driven his family from their ancestral home. To do that, however, both young men needed training—not only the required brutal instruction in the use of personal weaponry, but in the skills required to lead men, and the abstractions of large-scale government.
Smiling grimly, the Duke knew what he had to do. Rhombur and Kailea had been placed in his care. He had sworn to keep them safe, had given his blood oath to Dominic Vernius. He must give them the best chance they could possibly have.
He would send Rhombur and Leto to his Master of Assassins, Thufir Hawat.
• • •
The warrior Mentat stood like an iron pillar, glaring at his two new students. They stood atop a barren sea cliff kilometers north of Castle Caladan. The wind smashed against the slick rocks and blasted upward, rustling clumps of pampas grass. Gray gulls wheeled overhead, shrieking to each other, scanning for edible flotsam on the rocky beach. Stunted cypress trees huddled like hunchbacks, bowed against the constant ocean breeze.
Leto had no idea how old Thufir Hawat was. The sinewy Mentat had trained Duke Paulus when he was much younger, and now the Master of Assassins fended off any appearance of age through brute force. His skin was leathery, having been exposed to harsh environments on many worlds during previous Atreides campaigns, from blistering heat to numbing cold, whipping storms and the hard rigors of open space.
Thufir Hawat stared at the young men in silence. He crossed his arms over his scuffed leather chestplate. His eyes were like weapons, his silence a goad. His unsmiling lips were stained the deep cranberry of sapho juice.
Leto stood next to his friend, fidgeting. His fingers were chilled enough that he wished he had brought gloves. When are we going to begin training? He and Rhombur glanced at each other, impatient, waiting.
“Look at me, I said!” Hawat snapped. “I could have leaped forward and gutted both of you in the instant you exchanged those cute little glances.” He took a menacing step toward them.
Leto and Rhombur wore fine clothes, comfortable yet regal-looking. Their capes snapped about in the breeze. Leto’s was brilliant emerald merh-silk trimmed in black, while the Prince of Ix proudly sported the purple and copper of House Vernius. But Rhombur looked decidedly uneasy to be out under the towering sky. “It’s all so . . . wide-open,” he whispered.
After interminable silence, Hawat raised his chin, ready to begin. “First of all, remove those ridiculous capes.”
Leto reached up to the clasp at his throat, but Rhombur hesitated just a moment. Within the space of a heartbeat, Hawat had ripped out his short sword and slashed the tiny cord mere millimeters from the Prince’s jugular vein. The wind grasped the purple-on-copper cape and carried it like a lost banner over the cliff. The cloth flew like a kite until it drifted to the churning water below.
“Hey!” Rhombur said. “Why did you—”
Hawat sidestepped the indignant outcry. “You came here to learn weapons training. So why did you dress for a Landsraad ball or an Imperial banquet?” The Mentat snorted, then spat with the wind. “Fighting is dirty work, and unless you intend to conceal weapons in those capes, wearing them is foolish. It’s like carrying your own burial shroud on your shoulders.”
Leto still held his green cape in his hands. Hawat reached forward, grabbed the end of the fabric, snapped it, twirled it around— and in a flash had captured Leto’s right hand, his fighting hand. Hawat yanked hard and thrust out with his foot to catch the young man’s ankle. Leto sprawled on the rocky ground.
Static spun in front of his eyes, and he gasped to catch his breath. Rhombur laughed at his friend, then managed to restrain himself.
Hawat yanked the cape free and tossed it up in the air, where it blew out on the ocean winds to join Rhombur’s. “Anything can be a weapon,” he said. “You’re carrying your swords, and I see daggers at your sides. You have shields, all of which are obvious weapons.
“However, you should also conceal an assortment of other niceties: needles, stun-fields, poison tips. While your enemy can see the obvious weapons”— Hawat took a long training sword and slashed it in the air—“you can use them as a decoy to attack with something even deadlier.”
Leto stood up straight, brushing dirt and debris from himself. “But, sir, it’s not sporting to use hidden weapons. Doesn’t that go against the strictures of—”
Hawat snapped his fingers like a gunshot in front of
Leto’s face. “Don’t talk to me about pretty points of assassination.” The Mentat’s rough skin turned more ruddy, as if he barely kept his anger in check. “Is your intention to show off for the ladies, or to eliminate your opponent? This is not a game.”
The grizzled man focused on Rhombur, staring so intently that the young man backed up half a step. “Word has it there’s an Imperial bounty on your head, Prince, if you ever leave the sanctuary of Caladan. You are the exiled son of House Vernius. Your life is not that of a commoner. You never know when the death blow will fall, so you must be prepared at all times. Court intrigues and politics have their own rules, but oft’times the rules are not known to all players.”
Rhombur swallowed hard.
Turning to Leto, Hawat said, “Lad, your life is in danger, too, as heir to House Atreides. All Great Houses must constantly be on the alert against assassination.”
Leto straightened, fixing his gaze on the instructor. “I understand, Thufir, and I want to learn.” He looked over at Rhombur. “We want to learn.”
Hawat’s red-stained lips smiled. “That’s a start,” he said. “There may be clumsy clods working for other families in the Landsraad— but you, my boys, must become shining examples. Not only will you learn shield-and-knife fighting and the subtle arts of killing, you must also learn the weaponry of politics and government. You must know how to defend yourselves through culture and rhetoric, as well as with physical blows.” The warrior Mentat squared his shoulders and stood firm. “From me you will learn all these things.”
He switched on his body-shield. Behind the shimmering field he held a dagger in one hand, a long sword in the other.
Instinctively, Leto switched on his own shield belt, and the flickering Holtzman field glimmered in front of him. Rhombur fumbled to do the same just as the Mentat feigned an attack, pulling back at the last possible second before drawing blood.
Hawat tossed the weapons from hand to hand— left, right, and left again— proving he could use either for a killing strike. “Watch carefully. Your lives may someday depend on it.”
Dune: House Atreides Page 35