Kynes gasped and didn’t know what to say. He was a father! He looked at Ommun and Stilgar and the members of his exploration team. The Fremen raised their hands and shouted congratulations to him. He had not let it penetrate through his consciousness until now, but he felt a flood of pride washing over his surprise.
Considering his personal blessing, Kynes looked at the palm trees, at the growing grasses and flowers, and then up at the narrow slice of blue sky framed by canyon walls. Frieth had given birth to a son!
“And now the Fremen number ten million and one,” he said.
Hatred is as dangerous an emotion as love. The capacity for either one is the capacity for its opposite.
—Cautionary Instructions for the Sisterhood,
Bene Gesserit Archives, Wallach IX
The two dim suns of the Kuentsing binary system shone through the murky skies of Bela Tegeuse. The blood-red nearer sun imparted a purplish cast to the afternoon sky, while the icy-white primary— too distant to add much heat or light— hovered like an illuminated hole in the twilit heavens. A scrubby-surfaced and unappealing planet, it was not on any of the main Guild transspace routes, and Heighliners didn’t often stop here.
In this dismal place, the Lady supervised her aboveground gardens and tried to remind herself that this was her temporary home. Even after the better part of a year, she felt herself a stranger here.
She stared into the cold gloom and across the agricultural fields at her hired local workers. Under a false name, she had used some of her remaining hoarded assets to buy a small estate, hoping to live here . . . and just survive until she could be reunited with the others. Since her desperate flight, she had not seen or heard from them, nor had she let her guard down for an instant. Elrood still lived, and the hunters were still out there.
Flat glowdisks spread full-spectrum light over the fields, pampering the rows of exotic vegetables and fruits that would be sold at a premium to wealthy functionaries.
Beyond the edges of the fields, the native vegetation of Bela Tegeuse was bristly and hardy, not welcoming at all. Kuentsing’s natural sunlight wasn’t bright enough to foster sufficient photosynthesis for the delicate plants in the Lady’s crops.
She felt the brisk cold against her face. Her sensitive skin, once caressed by an Emperor, was now chapped and raw from the harsh elements. But she had vowed to be strong, to adapt and endure. And it would have been so much easier to endure if only she could tell the people she cared about that she was alive and safe. She ached to see them, but didn’t dare make contact, because of the risk to herself and those who had fled with her.
Harvesting machinery clattered along the neat rows of crops, plucking ripe produce. The brilliant glowdisks cast extended shadows like stealthy creatures that prowled the fields. Some of the shaggy hired workers joined in a singsong chant as they moved about gathering crops too fragile for mechanical picking. Suspensor baskets ready for market waited at the pickup station.
Only a few of her most loyal household retainers had been allowed to accompany her here in this new life. She hadn’t wanted any loose ends, no one who could report to Imperial spies— neither had she wanted to put faithful companions in danger.
Only with extreme care did she dare talk with the few familiar people who lived near her on Bela Tegeuse. A handful of furtive conversations, quick glances, and smiles were the most she dared. Comeyes or operatives could be anywhere.
With a carefully laid trail of identity documents, the Lady had become a respectable woman named Lizett, a widow whose fictitious husband— a local merchant and minor official of CHOAM— had left her enough financial resources to run this modest estate.
Her entire existence had altered: no more pampered activities at court, no music, banquets, or receptions, no functions with the Landsraad— not even tedious Council meetings. She simply lived from day to day, remembering old times and longing for them while accepting the reality that this new life might be the best she could ever obtain.
Worst of all, she might never see her loved ones again.
Like an inspector surveying her troops, the Lady walked down the lanes of crops, assessing vermilion spiny fruits that dangled on suspended vines. She had worked hard to memorize the names of the exotic produce she grew. It was important to put up a convincing front, to be able to make idle conversation with anyone and avoid arousing suspicion.
Whenever she appeared outside her manor house, she wore a lovely necklace of Ixian manufacture, a disguised hologenerator. It shrouded her face with a field that distorted her fine features, softened her cheekbones, widened her delicate chin, altered the color of her eyes. She felt safe . . . enough.
Pausing to look up, she saw a glittering rain of shooting stars near the horizon. Across the dim landscape the lights of ranches and a distant village shimmered. But this was something else entirely. Artificial lights— transports or shuttles?
Bela Tegeuse was not a populous planet. Its fortunes and resources were small, its chief claim to history a dark and bloody one: Long ago, it had been the site of slave colonies, hardy but struggling villages from which slaves were harvested and subsequently planted on other worlds. She felt like a prisoner herself . . . but at least she had her life and knew her family was safe.
“No matter what, never let your guard down, my love,” her husband had warned as he parted company from her. “Never.”
In this constant state of alert, the Lady noticed the spotlights of three ornithopters as they approached from the distant spaceport. The flying craft cruised low across the flat, parched landscape. They had turned on their full nighttime search beacons, though this was the best daylight Bela Tegeuse could manage, at the height of the double afternoon.
She felt cold fingers wrap around her heart, but nonetheless stood tall and drew her dark blue cloak around her. Her House colors would have been preferable, but she no longer dared even keep such items in her wardrobe.
A voice called from the main house. “Madame Lizett! Someone is coming, and they refuse to answer our hails!”
Turning, she saw the narrow-shouldered figure of Omer, one of her primary assistants from the old days, a man who had accompanied her here, not sure what else to do. Certainly nothing else would be as important or fulfilling, Omer had assured her, and she was grateful for his devotion.
The Lady considered fleeing the approaching ’thopters, but dismissed the idea. If these intruders were whom she feared they might be, she had no chance of escape. And if her intuition was wrong, she wouldn’t need to run.
The clustered ornithopters arrived overhead, wings fluttering and engines roaring. They set down roughly, indiscriminately, upon her planted fields, knocking her full-spectrum glowdisks out of alignment and crushing crops.
When the doors of the three ships slid open and troops emerged, she knew she was doomed.
In a dreamlike vision, she thought back to a happier time, the arrival of quite different troops. It had been in her younger days at the Imperial Court, when the headiness of being a royal courtesan had begun to fade. The Emperor had spent much time with her for a while, but after his interest waned he had moved on to other concubines. It was to be expected. She hadn’t felt snubbed, since Elrood continued to provide for her.
But then one day, after the rebellion on Ecaz had been crushed, she had watched a victory parade of Imperial fighters marching down the streets of Kaitain. The banners were so bright they made her eyes ache, the uniforms perfect and clean, the men so brave. At the head of the column, she had caught her first glimpse of her future husband, a proud warrior with broad shoulders and a broad grin. Even from a distance, his very presence had dazzled her, and she had felt her passions awaken, seeing him as the greatest among all of the returning soldiers. . . .
These soldiers arriving today on Bela Tegeuse were different, though— much more frightening in the dress gray-and-black of Sardaukar uniforms.
A Burseg troop commander stepped forward, flashing his rank insignia. With an
upward chop of his hand, he signaled for his men to take up their positions.
Maintaining her pretense with only a shred of hope, the Lady strode forward to meet him, chin high. “I am Madame Lizett, the owner of this estate.” Her voice was hard as she scowled over at the destroyed crops. “Do you or your employers intend to make reparations for all the property damage your clumsiness just caused?”
“Shut your mouth!” one of the soldiers snapped, snatching up his lasgun.
Foolish, the Lady thought. I could have been wearing a shield. If so, and if he had fired, this section of Bela Tegeuse would have been obliterated in a pseudoatomic explosion.
The Burseg commander held up his hand to silence the soldier, and she recognized the planned gambit: a brash, uncontrolled soldier to intimidate her, a firm military leader showing the face of reason. Good soldier, bad soldier.
“We are here on Imperial orders,” said the Burseg. “We’re investigating the whereabouts of surviving traitors of a certain renegade House. Through the right of acquisition, we require your cooperation.”
“I am unfamiliar with the legalities,” the Lady said. “But I know nothing of renegades. I’m just a widow trying to run a modest farm here. Allow my attorneys to consult with you. I’ll be happy to cooperate in whatever manner I can, though I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”
“We won’t be disappointed,” the brash soldier growled.
Around them, her hired workers had ceased their activities, frozen in place. The Burseg stepped forward and stood directly in front of the Lady, who did not flinch. He studied her face, frowning. She knew her holo-masked appearance did not match what the man expected to see. She stared back at him, meeting his flat gaze.
Before she understood his intention, his hand snatched her Ixian necklace and yanked it away. She felt no different, but she knew her disguise had dissolved.
“That’s more like it,” said the Burseg. “You know nothing of renegades, eh?” He laughed scornfully.
She glared at him. Sardaukar troops continued to file out of the three ’thopters, taking up positions around her. Some of them burst into her manor house, while others searched the barn, sun-silo, and other outbuildings. Did they expect her to be harboring a major military force? Compared to her accustomed lifestyle, it seemed she could barely afford new clothes and hot food.
Another grim-faced Sardaukar grabbed her arm. She tried to pull away, but he pushed up the sleeve of her cloak and, in a flash, scratched her with a small curette. She gasped, thinking the soldier had poisoned her, but the Sardaukar stood back calmly to analyze the blood sample he had stolen.
“Identity confirmed, sir,” he said, looking over at his Burseg commander. “Lady Shando Vernius of Ix.”
The troops stepped back, but Shando did not move. She knew what was coming.
For over a year, the old Emperor had grown increasingly irrational, his mind failing, his body trembling. Elrood suffered under more delusions than usual, more hatred than one body should have contained. But he remained the Emperor, and his decrees were followed explicitly.
The only question in her mind was whether they would torture her first to acquire information she didn’t have about Dominic’s whereabouts. Or whether they would just finish the job.
Through a side door of the big house, Omer came running, shouting. His black hair was in disarray. He waved a crude hunting weapon he had found in a storage locker. Such a fool, she thought. Brave, dear, and loyal— but nonetheless a fool.
“My Lady!” Omer shouted. “Leave her alone!”
A few of the Sardaukar aimed at him and at the shaggy workers in the field, but most kept their weapons trained on her. She looked up to the sky and thought of her loving husband and children and hoped only that they wouldn’t meet similar ends. Even at this moment she had to admit that, given the choice, she would do it all again. She did not regret the loss in prestige or riches that leaving the royal Court had cost her. Shando had known a love that few members of the nobility had ever experienced.
Poor Roody, she thought with a flash of pity. You never understood that kind of love. As usual, Dominic had been right. In her mind, she saw him again as he was when she had first met the Earl of House Vernius: a handsome young soldier, returned victorious from battle.
Shando raised one hand to touch the vision of Dominic’s face one last time . . .
Then all the Sardaukar opened fire.
I must rule with eye and claw— as the hawk among lesser birds.
—DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES,
The Atreides Assertion
Duke Leto Atreides.
Ruler of the planet Caladan, member of the Landsraad, head of a Great House . . . These titles meant nothing to him. His father was dead.
Leto felt small. Defeated and confused, he was not ready for the burdens that had been thrust upon him so cruelly at the age of fifteen. As he sat in the uncomfortable, overlarge chair where the blustery Old Duke had so often held formal and informal court, Leto felt out of place, an imposter.
I am not ready to be Duke!
He had declared seven days of official mourning, during which he’d been able to sidestep most of the difficult business as head of House Atreides. Simply dealing with the condolences from other Great Houses proved almost too much for him . . . especially the formal letter from Emperor Elrood IX, written no doubt by his Chamberlain but signed with the old man’s palsied hand. “A great man of the people has fallen,” the Emperor’s note read. “You have my sincere condolences and prayers for your future.”
For some inexplicable reason, this had sounded to Leto like a threat— something sinister in the slant of the signature, perhaps, or in the selection of words. Leto had burned the message in the fireplace of his private quarters.
Most important of all to him, Leto received heartfelt gestures of grief from the people of Caladan: fresh flowers, baskets of fish, embroidered banners, poems and songs written by would-be bards, carvings, even drawings and paintings depicting the Old Duke in his glory, victorious in the bullring.
In private, where no one could see his weakness, Leto cried. He knew how much the people had loved Duke Paulus, and he remembered the feeling of power that had blanketed him the day he and his father had stood holding their bull’s-head trophy in the Plaza de Toros. At that time, he had longed to become Duke himself, had felt the love and loyalty wrapped around him. House Atreides!
Now he wished for any other fate in the universe.
Lady Helena had locked herself in her chambers and ignored the servants who tried to attend her. Leto had never observed much love or affection between his parents, and right now he couldn’t tell if his mother’s grief was sincere or merely an act. The only people she agreed to see were her personal priests and spiritual advisors. Helena clung to the subtle meanings she pried loose from verses of the Orange Catholic Bible.
Leto knew he needed to bring himself out of this morass— he had to reach deep for strength and turn to the business of running Caladan. Duke Paulus would have scorned Leto’s misery and chastised him for not immediately facing the priorities of his new life. “Grieve during your private time, lad,” he would have said, “but never reveal any sign of weakness on the part of House Atreides.”
Silently, Leto vowed to do his best. This would be the first of many sacrifices he would no doubt have to make in his new position.
Prince Rhombur came up beside Leto as he sat in the heavy ducal chair in the empty meeting hall. Leto brooded, his eyes fixed on a large portrait on the opposite wall that showed his father in full matador regalia. Rhombur put a hand on his companion’s shoulder and squeezed. “Leto, have you eaten? You’ve got to maintain your strength.”
Taking a deep breath, Leto turned to look at his comrade from Ix, whose broad face was filled with concern. “No, I haven’t. Would you care to join me for breakfast?” He rose stiffly from the uncomfortable chair. It was time to go about his duties.
Thufir Hawat accompanied them at a morning
meal that extended for hours as they laid out plans and strategies for the new regime. During a pause in the discussion, the warrior Mentat bowed his head and met young Leto’s gray-eyed gaze. “If I have not yet made it apparent, my Duke, I give you my utmost loyalty and renew my pledge to House Atreides. I will do everything I can to assist and advise you.” Then his expression hardened. “But you must understand that all decisions are yours and yours alone. My advice may contradict Prince Rhombur’s or your mother’s, or that of any other advisors you choose. You must decide in each case. You are the Duke. You are House Atreides.”
Leto trembled, feeling the responsibility hover over him like a Guild Heighliner ready to crash. “I’m aware of that, Thufir, and I’ll need all the assistance I can get.” He sat up straight and sipped sweet cream from a bowl of warm pundi rice pudding, prepared by one of the chefs who knew it had been his favorite as a boy. Now it didn’t taste the same, though; his taste buds seemed dulled.
“How goes the investigation into my father’s death? Was it truly an accident, as it appears? Or only made to look that way?”
The Mentat frowned, and a troubled expression clouded his leathery face. “I’m hesitant to say this, my Duke, but I fear it was murder. Evidence is mounting of a devious plan, indeed.”
“What?” Rhombur said, pounding his fist on the table. His face flushed. “Who did this to the Duke? How?” He felt affection not only for Leto, but for the Atreides patriarch who had granted sanctuary to him and his sister. A visceral, sinking feeling told Rhombur the motivation might have been to punish Paulus for showing kindness to the Ixian exiles.
“I am the Duke, Rhombur,” Leto said, resting a hand on his friend’s forearm. “I will have to handle this.”
Leto could almost hear the wheels humming inside the Mentat’s complex mind. Hawat said, “Chemical analysis of muscle tissue in the Salusan bull revealed faint traces of two drugs.”
“I thought the beasts were checked before every fight.” Leto narrowed his eyes, but for a moment he could not drive away the memory flashes of his younger days, when he had gone to look at the massive bulls in the stables and puffy-eyed Stablemaster Yresk had let him feed the beasts— to the horror of the stableboys. “Was our veterinarian in on a plot?”
Dune: House Atreides Page 45