Kailea had found a fur cloak in storage, taken it as her own, and wrapped herself just to keep warm— but it also made her look stunning. Despite the radical changes in her life, how far she had fallen from her dreams of sparkling at the Imperial Court, the Vernius daughter was a survivor. Through sheer force of will Kailea seemed to bend the environment around herself, making the best of things.
Despite the political drawbacks of any romance with the renegade family, Duke Leto— now ruler of his Great House— found himself even more attracted to her. But he remembered his father’s primary admonition: Never marry for love, or it will bring our House down. Paulus Atreides had hammered that into his son as much as any other leadership training. Leto knew he could never shrug off the Old Duke’s command; it was too much a part of him.
Still, he was drawn to Kailea, though thus far he hadn’t found the courage to express his feelings to her. He thought she knew, even so; Kailea had a strong, logical mind. He saw it in her emerald eyes, in the curve of her catlike mouth, in the contemplative looks she gave him when she thought he wouldn’t notice.
With Leto’s permission, Rhombur searched curiously through some of the massive storage chests, looking for old wartime mementos of the friendship between Duke Paulus and Dominic Vernius. Reaching deep into one chest, he brought out an embroidered cape and unfolded it. “What’s this? I never saw your father wear it.”
Leto studied the design and knew instantly what it was— the hawk of House Atreides embracing the Richesian lamp of knowledge. “I believe that’s his wedding cloak, from when he and my mother were married.”
“Oh,” Rhombur said, his voice trailing off in embarrassment. “Sorry.” He folded the cape and stuffed it back into the box.
Shaking his head, Leto took a deep breath. He’d known they would encounter many such memory land mines, and he would just have to endure them. “My father didn’t choose to die and leave me in this position, Rhombur. My mother made her own choices. She could have been a valued advisor to me. Under other circumstances I would have welcomed her assistance and wise counsel. But instead . . .” He sighed and looked bitterly over at Kailea. “As I said, she made her own choices.”
Only Leto and the warrior Mentat knew the truth about Helena’s complicity in the murder, and it was a secret Leto vowed to carry with him to his grave. With the death of the stablemaster during interrogation, Duke Leto Atreides had fresh, bright blood on his hands— his first, but certainly not his last. Not even Rhombur or Kailea suspected the truth.
He had sent his mother out of Castle Caladan with two of her servants, chosen by him. For her “rest and well-being,” Lady Helena had been taken to the Eastern Continent where she would live under primitive conditions with the Sisters in Isolation, a retrogressive religious commune. Haughtily, but without bothering to demand explanations for her son’s behavior, Helena had accepted her banishment.
Though he put up a strong front, Leto privately mourned the loss of his mother, and was astounded to find himself without both parents in the space of a few months. But Helena had committed the most abhorrent act of betrayal against her own family, her own House, and he knew he could never forgive her, could never see her again. Killing her was out of the question; the thought had barely crossed his mind. She was, after all, his mother, and he was not like her. Besides, getting her out of his sight was a practical matter, for he’d been left with vast holdings to manage, and the welfare of the citizens of Caladan had priority. He needed to get down to the business of running House Atreides.
From a chest of items, Rhombur brought out a set of old-fashioned handmade playing cards and some of the Old Duke’s awards, including military badges of honor, a chipped knife, and a small bloodstained banner. Leto discovered seashells, a colored scarf, an unsigned love poem, a lock of auburn hair (not Helena’s color), then a lock of blonde hair, and enameled brass armbands designed for a woman, but he had no idea how to explain the items.
He knew his father had taken mistresses, though Paulus had brought none of them into the Castle as bound concubines. He’d merely enjoyed himself, and had no doubt showered the women with trinkets or fabrics or sweetmeats.
Leto ignored those items and closed the heavy lid of the box. Duke Paulus was entitled to his own memories, his past, and his secrets. None of these mementos had any bearing on the fortunes of House Atreides. He needed to concern himself with politics and business. Thufir Hawat, other Court advisors, and even Prince Rhombur were doing their best to guide him, but Leto felt like a newborn, having to learn everything from scratch.
As the rain continued outside, Kailea poured a mug of the mulled wine and handed it to Leto, then drew two more for herself and her brother. Thoughtfully the Duke sipped it, savoring the spicy flavor. Warmth seeped into his bones, and he smiled when he thanked her.
She looked down at the odd paraphernalia and adjusted one of the gold combs in her deep copper hair. Leto noticed that her lower lip was trembling. “What is it, Kailea?”
She took a deep breath and looked at her brother, then at Leto. “I’ll never have a chance to go through my mother’s things like this. Not from the Grand Palais, not even the few precious items she took with her when we fled.”
Rhombur came forward and held his sister, but she continued to look at Leto. “My mother had keepsakes from the Emperor himself, treasures he gave her when she left his service. She had so many memories, so many stories left to tell me. I didn’t spend enough time listening to her when she was alive.”
“It’ll be all right,” Rhombur said, trying to console her. “We’ll make our own memories.”
“And we’ll make them remember us,” Kailea said, her voice suddenly brittle.
Feeling sick inside, and deeply weary, Leto rubbed the ducal signet ring on his finger. It still felt strange and heavy there, but he knew he would never remove it until someday far in the future, when he would pass it to his own son to continue the traditions of House Atreides.
Outside, the storm flung more rain at the walls and windows of the ancient stone Castle, while the sea shushed a foamy lullaby against the cliffs far below. Caladan felt very large and overwhelming around him, and Leto seemed incredibly small. Though it was still an inhospitable night, when the young Duke exchanged smiles with Kailea and Rhombur, he felt warm and comfortable in his home.
• • •
Leto learned of the Emperor’s death as he and three attendants were struggling to hang the mounted Salusan bull’s-head in the dining hall. Workers used ropes and pulleys to haul the monstrous trophy onto a spot on the previously unadorned, highly polished walls.
A grim Thufir Hawat stood by, watching with hands clasped behind his back. Absently, the Mentat touched the long scar on his leg, a souvenir of the time when he had rescued a much younger Paulus from another rampaging bull. This time, however, he had not acted swiftly enough. . . .
Kailea shuddered as she looked up at the ugly creature. “It’s going to be hard to eat in this hall, with that thing staring down at us. I can still see the blood on its horns.”
Leto regarded the bull’s-head with an appraising eye. “I see it as a reminder that I must never let my guard down. Even a dumb animal— albeit with the interference of human conspirators— can conquer the leader of a Great House of the Landsraad.” He felt a shiver. “Think of that lesson, Kailea.”
“I’m afraid that’s not a very comforting thought,” she murmured, her green eyes bright with unshed tears. Blinking to clear her vision, she turned back to her own activities.
With a ridulian crystal report folder open before her on the table, she devoted her energies to studying the household accounts. Using what she had learned in the Orb Office on Ix, Kailea analyzed the income streams for Atreides holdings in order to determine how work and productivity were distributed on Caladan’s continents and seas. She and Leto had been discussing the matter in depth, despite their youth. The exiled Kailea Vernius had an excellent head for business, Leto was delighted to d
iscover.
“Being a good Duke is not all swordplay and bullfighting,” Thufir Hawat had told him once, long before all the latest troubles and challenges. “Management of little things is often a more difficult battle.” For some reason the statement had stuck in Leto’s mind, and now he was discovering the wisdom of the words. . . .
When the Imperial messenger marched into the dining hall, fresh off a Guild Heighliner, he stood tall, formally dressed in scarlet-and-gold Imperial colors. “I request an audience with Duke Leto Atreides.”
Leto, Rhombur, and Kailea all froze, remembering the horrible news they’d received the last time a crier had entered the great receiving room. Leto prayed that nothing had happened to the fugitive Dominic Vernius in his continued flight. But this official messenger wore House Corrino colors, and looked as if he had delivered his announcement a dozen times already.
“It is my duty to announce to all members of the Great and Minor Houses of the Landsraad that the Padishah Emperor Elrood Corrino IX has died, struck down by an extended illness in the one hundred thirty-eighth year of his reign. May history fondly remember his long rule, and may his soul find eternal peace.”
Leto stepped back, astounded. One of the workers almost let the mounted bull’s-head slip from its position on the wall, but Hawat shouted for the man to attend to his tasks.
The Emperor had been a fixture in the galaxy for two normal lifetimes. Elrood lived on Kaitain, surrounded by guards, protected from all threats, and heavily addicted to the geriatric spice. Leto had never considered that the old man might die someday, though in the past year or two he’d heard that Elrood had been growing increasingly frail.
Leto turned to the messenger, nodded formally. “Please give Crown Prince Shaddam my condolences. When is the funeral of state to be held? House Atreides will attend, of course.”
“Not necessary,” the Courier replied in a crisp voice. “At the request of the throne, there will only be a small private ceremony for the immediate family.”
“I see.”
“However, Shaddam Corrino, soon to be crowned Padishah Emperor of the Known Universe, Shaddam IV, graciously requests your appearance, and your oath of fealty, when he formally ascends to the Golden Lion Throne. Details of the coronation ceremony are being arranged.”
Leto glanced briefly at Thufir Hawat and replied, “It shall be done.”
With a curt nod, the messenger said, “When the protocol has been set and all schedules are made, proper word will be brought to Caladan.” He bowed, sweeping his scarlet-and-gold cape around his arms, and spun about with a neat click of his shoes. He marched back out of the hall, bound for a flitter that would take him back to the spaceport for his trip to the next Imperial planet, where he would deliver his report again.
“Well, uh . . . that was good news,” Rhombur said sourly. His face was pale but hard. He stood quietly in the doorway, absorbing the information. “If it hadn’t been for the Emperor’s petty jealousy and intervention, my family could have recovered from the crisis on Ix. The Landsraad would have sent help.”
“Elrood didn’t want us to recover,” Kailea said, glancing up from her accounting records. “I’m just sorry my mother couldn’t have lived to hear those tidings.”
Leto’s lips turned upward in a smile of guarded optimism. “Wait, this gives us an unexpected opportunity. Think about it. Elrood alone bore personal animosity against House Vernius. He and your mother had their painful past, which we know to be the true reason behind his refusal to erase the blood price on your family. It was personal.”
Standing under the bull’s-head, Hawat looked closely at Leto. He listened in silence, waiting to see what his new Duke would suggest.
“I’ve tried speaking to the Landsraad Council,” Leto said, “but they’re useless, noncommittal. They won’t do anything to help us. But my distaff cousin Shaddam . . .” He passed his tongue over the inside of his lower lip. “I’ve only met him three times, but my maternal grandmother was also a child of Elrood’s. I can claim blood ties. When Shaddam becomes the new Emperor, I will petition him to offer you amnesty as a gesture of forgiveness. When I swear the eternal loyalty of House Atreides, I will ask him to remember the great history of House Vernius.”
“Why would he assent to that?” Kailea wanted to know. “What’s the advantage for him?”
“It would be the right thing to do,” Rhombur said. “The fair thing.” His sister looked at him as if he had lost his mind.
“He’ll do it to establish the tenor of his reign,” Leto said. “Any new Emperor wants to create an identity, show how he’s different from his predecessor, not locked into old ways and old decisions. Shaddam just might be in a forgiving mood. Word has it that he was not on the best of terms with his father anyway, and he’ll certainly want to show his own colors after more than a century under Elrood.”
Kailea threw herself into Leto’s arms, and he hugged her awkwardly. “It would be so wonderful to have our freedom back, Leto— and our family holdings! Maybe there’s something we can salvage from Ix after all.”
“Let’s all keep our hopes up, Kailea,” Rhombur said with cautious optimism. “Try to envision it, and it just might happen.”
“We must not be afraid to ask,” Leto said.
“All right,” Rhombur said. “If anyone can accomplish this, it’s you, my friend.”
Fiery with determination and optimism, Leto began to develop plans for his formal procession to Kaitain. “We’ll do something they won’t expect,” he said. “Rhombur and I will show up for the coronation, together.”
He met the Mentat advisor’s alarmed gaze. “It is dangerous to bring the son of Vernius, m’Lord.”
“And precisely what they will not expect.”
What senses do we lack that we cannot see or hear another world all around us?
—The Orange Catholic Bible
Some considered the rocky wilderness of Forest Guard Station to be beautiful, a pristine and natural wonderland. But Baron Vladimir Harkonnen disliked being so far from enclosed buildings, sharp angles, metal, and plaz. The cold air smelled harsh and unpleasant without the familiar fumes of industry, lubricants, and machinery. Too raw, too hostile.
The Baron knew the importance of their destination, though, and entertained himself by watching the even greater discomfort exhibited by his twisted Mentat. With a dirty robe and mussed hair, Piter de Vries struggled to keep up. Though his mind operated like a powerful machine, his body was pampered, scrawny, and weak.
“Everything is so primitive out here, my Baron, so filthy and cold,” de Vries said, his eyes feral. “Are you certain we have to go this far? Have we no alternative, other than jaunting out into the forest?”
“Some people pay dearly to visit places like this,” the Baron said. “They call them resorts.”
“Piter, shut your mouth and keep up with us,” Rabban said. They trudged up a steep hillside toward an ice-glazed and cave-pocked wall of sandstone.
Scowling, the Mentat returned the jab with his own barbed words. “Isn’t this the place where that little boy bested you and all your hunting team, Rabban?”
The Baron’s nephew turned back, his thick-lidded eyes staring at de Vries, and growled, “I’ll hunt you next time if you don’t watch your tongue.”
“Your uncle’s priceless Mentat?” de Vries said in a carefree tone. “But how would he possibly replace me?”
“He has a point,” the Baron agreed, with a chuckle.
Rabban muttered something to himself.
Earlier, the Baron’s guards and hunting experts had combed the isolated hunting preserve, a security check so that the three men could walk alone, without their usual entourage. Carrying a maula pistol on his hip and a heat-scattering rifle slung over his shoulder, Rabban insisted that he could take care of any gaze hounds or other predators that might attack. The Baron didn’t share such complete confidence in his nephew, considering the fact that a small boy had indeed outwitted him— but at
least out here they could stay away from prying eyes.
At the top of a bluff the three of them rested on a ledge, then ascended another slope. Rabban led the way, clawing aside thick scrub brush until they reached more exposed sandstone. There, a low crack yielded a black space between crumbling stone and the ground.
“It’s down here,” Rabban said. “Come on.”
The Baron knelt and shined a ring-light into the opening of a cave. “Follow me, Piter.”
“I’m not a spelunker,” the Mentat replied. “Besides, I’m tired.”
“You’re just not physically fit enough,” the Baron countered as he took a deep breath to feel his own muscles. “You need more exercise. Keep yourself in shape.”
“But this isn’t what you purchased me for, my Baron.”
“I purchased you to do anything I tell you to do.” He bent and crawled through the opening; the tiny but powerful beam of light on his finger probed the darkness ahead.
Though the Baron tried to maintain his physique in a perfect condition, he had been plagued with body aches and unexpected weakness over the past year. No one had noticed— or perhaps no one had dared mention— the fact that he’d also begun to gain weight, through no change in his diet. His skin had a thicker, pastier appearance. He had considered discussing his problem with medical experts, maybe even a Suk doctor, no matter the incredible expense of consulting one. Life, it seemed, was an endless string of problems.
“It smells like bear piss in here,” de Vries complained as he squirmed through the hole.
“How would you know what bear piss smells like?” Rabban said, pushing the Mentat deeper inside to make room for himself.
“I’ve smelled you. A wild animal can’t be any more rank than that.”
The three men stood up inside, and the Baron illuminated a small glowglobe, which floated up to shine against the near wall in the back of the low cave. The place was rough and moss-covered, smudged with dust, showing no sign of human habitation.
Dune: House Atreides Page 49