Paul looked at Duncan, recalling the encounter with Beast Rabban here on Grumman. At long last, Duke Leto actually gave a weary smile. No member of House Atreides would be disappointed if the Baron was found culpable in these heinous acts. Not only would House Moritani fall, but House Harkonnen could also be stripped. With luck, Baron Harkonnen would find himself in a cell next to Viscount Moritani.
The Emperor nodded in satisfaction. “My work here is done.” He gestured dismissively toward the furious Viscount, clapped his hands, and announced a feast to celebrate the end of the War of Assassins and the prevention of a much larger, interplanetary war.
10
Men who are fundamentally weak look upon threats as the ultimate expressions of power. Men who are truly powerful, however, view threats as yet another vulnerability.
—BARON VLADIMIR HARKONNEN, Advice for Assassins
The Baron was furious and went out of his way to let Rabban see it. He also felt strangely unsettled, but he carefully hid any sign of that from his blundering nephew.
Only two days earlier, he had received a terse, cryptic note signed by Duke Leto Atreides. “We trust your nephew Rabban is recovering from his sword wound. A pity we could not spend more time with him on Grumman.”
The message offered no further explanation, and the Baron felt an ominous heaviness in his chest. So, Rabban had been identified. The Atreides Duke knew the Harkonnens were somehow involved in the conflict… though apparently he possessed no proof: otherwise the message would have been accompanied by a summons to the Landsraad Court. So, Leto simply wanted House Harkonnen to know that he knew.
Infuriating, yes, but no harm done. Let the Atreides stew over their inability to take action. If they dared declare kanly on such flimsy innuendo, then the Baron would play the wronged party.
This afternoon the Beast had finally made his way back to Giedi Prime, pushed past the household guards and presented himself to his uncle without delay. For all his considerable flaws, the man did have some good points. As one example, Rabban realized how much trouble he was in, and that his fate rested solely in the Baron’s hands. That demonstrated at least minimal intelligence. Apparently, the rest of the disguised Harkonnen troops had been killed.
Looking breathless and disheveled, Rabban stood in the Baron’s study. A bloodstained healing pad was secured to the side of his head, where a medic had also shaved some of his reddish hair short to treat the injury; it gave him a battered, off-balance appearance. A wound on his arm was tightly bound with healing tape. The sword cut Leto had alluded to?
“I tremble with anticipation to learn of your adventures.” The Baron’s basso voice dripped sarcasm as he sat at his dark, richly carved desk. Feyd sauntered in, eager to hear of his older brother’s escapades as well. The rangy young man glanced disdainfully at his muscular, thickheaded brother, who shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot. Feyd lounged on a divan where he could watch.
In abrupt sentences with occasional contradictions, Rabban explained that he had been stranded with murderous Grumman soldiers, all of whom wanted his head due to their own military failures, and how the entire division of disguised Harkonnen soldiers had either fallen into the battlefield pits or been slain by vengeful Moritani barbarians. He told how he had been chased by Atreides soldiers but escaped with only a minor wound. Then, after the Vernius ships had arrived followed by the Imperial delegation, how he’d hidden in a warehouse and barely eluded capture.
His nephew wasn’t entirely without resources or imagination. Nonetheless, the Baron’s face darkened. “You were seen by Atreides soldiers. They recognized you.”
“How do you —”
The Baron slammed a beefy fist on his desk, then showed him the message from Duke Leto. “Do you understand that if you had been caught, or if you left behind any evidence of Harkonnen involvement, we would find ourselves mired in an impossible crisis?”
Rabban stood his ground. “I left no evidence, Uncle. If the Atreides Duke had any proof, he would have sent more than that message.”
The Baron smiled slightly, surprised at his nephew’s perceptive response. Feyd let out a rude noise, but made no other comment.
Rabban continued, “Fortunately, the Emperor brought such an army of retainers and servants with him that I was able to kill one and take his uniform and identification. In the confusion of his crackdown in the Ritka fortress, I slipped in among them, flew back with the Imperial entourage, then got passage back here.”
Feyd said in his most annoying tone, “So, you can be clever after all!”
The quaver had left Rabban’s voice and was replaced by confidence. “I thought I did rather well.”
“You did well getting away. You did not do well at the task I assigned you. Have you heard the Emperor’s recent announcement?”
“I heard that House Moritani has been stripped of its title and planet.”
“That isn’t the important part,” Feyd said, looking a little too knowledgeable. “Viscount Moritani was placed on a prison frigate bound for Kaitain so that he could be charged before a Landsraad Court. He vowed to testify and expose all his little secrets.”
Rabban flushed red. “You mean he’ll reveal his involvement with us?”
“Oh no, of course not,” the Baron said with treacly sarcasm. “Once he lost everything, his life on the line, and in total disgrace, we should expect the Viscount to keep our secrets because, after all, we’re such good friends.” He glowered at his nephew, and Rabban looked away.
Rabban was a first-order thinker: To him, actions were concrete, standing by themselves. If he threw a rock into a pond, he didn’t expect to see ripples. Rabban had his strengths, though the Baron rarely complimented him for them. He had various advantageous qualities. There were times when brute force was necessary, and Rabban had few peers in that arena. More important, he truly did not have any lofty ambitions. He wasn’t devious enough to seize more responsibility. The Baron didn’t have to fear a dagger in the back or poison in his drink from that nephew.
Feyd, on the other hand, had a sharp and nimble mind. It often darted from topic to topic, yet like a careful juggler, he never lost his grip on any one concept. Devious? Yes, perhaps. And for all his youth, he was already showing signs of impatience to be named the successor to House Harkonnen. The Baron didn’t need to announce his decision yet, but Feyd… lovely Feyd was the future of House Harkonnen. The Baron could see that by watching the earnest expression on the young man’s face, the shrewd eyes, the obvious eagerness to learn.
But could the young man be trusted?
“Moritani has no incentive to protect us,” Feyd pointed out. “In fact, there is every reason for him to exaggerate our participation.”
Looking at Rabban, the Baron let his older nephew stew for a few moments, then eased the man’s mind. “Fortunately, this is not a problem so great that it cannot be repaired. In fact, while you were taking your leisurely path back home, I set an alternative solution in motion.”
Rabban looked almost childishly relieved that his uncle had a plan. He didn’t even need to hear the Baron’s explanation of what he had done, only the simple comment that things would be all right.
The Baron withdrew a document from his private desk, a slender filmpaper scroll. “This came from an official news courier, telling of a tragic and mysterious incident. The prison frigate transporting Viscount Moritani was in transit aboard a Guild Heighliner, berthed alongside other passenger ships — even some leftover Imperial vessels withdrawing from Grumman. As you know, Heighliners do not pressurize their cargo holds. Alas, a freak accident depressurized several airlocks in the prison frigate and the Viscount was exposed to vacuum. I’m afraid he didn’t survive long, and his body was found bloated and frozen. The expression on his face must have been quite hideous.”
“And you arranged for this, Uncle?” Rabban said enthusiastically.
The Baron scowled at him.
Feyd snickered. “It was an accident.”
“You admire me, Feyd, I can tell,” the Baron nodded. “Someday — though not anytime soon — you will be just like me.”
Feyd’s retort was quick and surprising. “But not so fat, I trust.”
11
The greatest personality change in a young man’s maturity occurs when he discovers that his own father is mortal, human, and fallible.
— The Life of Muad’Dib, Volume 2, by the PRINCESS IRULAN
Over the nightside of Caladan, the Heighliner disgorged troop carriers and fighter craft, followed by the Atreides family frigate. Ever respectful of those who had fought so valiantly for him in the War of Assassins, Duke Leto insisted on sending all of his soldiers home first.
With Paul sitting beside him near a wide observation window, Leto mused, “I look forward to seeing your mother again, especially after what we have just been through. She… she can make me feel alive again. Right now, I am too numb.” Restless, the Duke stood, motioned for his son to follow, and strode down a corridor on the starboard side of the craft as the frigate descended into the atmosphere. They passed a bank of portholes that showed the running lights of the Duke’s escort ships disappearing below.
“I understand how you feel, Father. I learned a great deal from what I experienced. Most of all, I hope I never have to see battle again.”
“You may hope for that, but I fear it isn’t likely. You are the son of a Duke. Even if you don’t seek out conflict, it will find you.”
The Atreides frigate broke through the last layers of cloud cover, enabling Paul to see the twinkling lights of coastal villages below and the bright target of the Cala City Spaceport. A capricious wind buffeted the descending ship, and Leto braced himself against the unexpected movement. The frigate bounced down through the edge of the storm. Peering through wind-driven rain, Paul caught glimpses of Castle Caladan and the first group of ships already landing at the spaceport, taking indicated positions like pieces on a large game board.
A large monitor screen on the bulkhead showed a tally of ships, and each time one of the vessels set down safely, an amber blip turned green. The Duke fired instructions to his officers over the comline and received reports back from them. He was satisfied and relieved to see them all come safely home.
Their family frigate circled over the spaceport, then swooped toward the main landing field. Through a starboard window Paul saw the windblown sea crashing against the cliffs. Before sunset, the fishing fleet had come back to harbor ahead of the storm, and even though the boats were lashed to their docks, they rocked heavily against the pilings. Paul knew the good people of Caladan could easily survive storms. There would always be rough weather, but that did not diminish their love for their planet.
The frigate made a bumpy landing and taxied into a large hangar, where other landed ships had already taken shelter. As Paul and his father disembarked and stepped onto a floor wet from rain running off the smooth hull, they found Lady Jessica already there waiting for them. Damp streaks in her bronze hair and speckles of water on her cloak showed that she had been caught in the downpour on her way to the hangar.
Eschewing formality, Leto pulled her close and kissed her gently. “I’m sorry you were caught in the storm.”
“Just a little rain. Not so bad.” They held each other, speaking little although Paul knew they had much to say to each other. During Leto’s betrothal to Ilesa Ecaz, Jessica had been like a rudderless boat on the open sea. The wedding-day massacre and the War of Assassins had swept over their relationship like a rogue wave. Now, they both had decisions to make and damage to repair. Neither of them was the same as before.
Wrestling with his thoughts, Leto stared at her with his steely-gray eyes, while Jessica simply waited. Paul watched his parents until finally his father said, “There is no better time to say this, Jessica, and our son should hear it, too. I am weary of politics and feuds, and I will no longer entertain further proposals of marriage alliances from other noble Houses.” He took her hands in his. “You are my one and only lady, my one and only love for all time. Though I cannot marry you, I will never agree to marry anyone else.”
She seemed flustered. “You can’t give me such a promise, Leto. You have to keep the other nobles guessing. You must at least keep the option available, for I am only a bound concubine.”
“My love, you are much more than that to me.” Reaching over to Paul, he gathered the boy into his embrace. “And you are the mother of our son, the next Duke.”
PART VII
Emperor Muad’Dib
10,198 AG
1
Is there anything more deadly than innocence, anything more disarming?
— The Stilgar Commentaries
Leaving the scarred Celestial Audience Chamber empty, Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib sat on the great Hagal quartz chair and held court in his original throne room. Every day, he heard the clear, heart-wrenching misery expressed by so many faithful people, but he could not allow himself to be swayed. Yes, some of them had been crushed under the wheels of Paul’s own government, but he could not allow himself to care for all of them, to feel the million little cuts of their individual pain. In a sense, their suffering was essential to humanity’s continued existence. Paul’s prescience had forced him to look at the larger picture, and hold a steady course. It was the greater, terrible purpose within him, the only way he could lead humankind to the end result. He had to be Muad’Dib, even if that meant he must appear harsh and cold.
Duke Leto Atreides, and before him Old Duke Paulus, had loved to meet the people face to face. They considered direct interaction with their subjects a vital aspect of remaining in touch, ruler to ruled. After Bludd’s shocking actions, though, and the subsequent discoveries of one embryonic conspiracy after another, Paul found the process of holding court to be exhausting, frustrating, and dangerous. The previous Caladan dukes had managed a single group of people, a single planet — but Paul had to shoulder the burden of so many planets that he could not name them all without calling upon his Mentat training.
Henceforth, he decided that he would delegate more of these responsibilities to Alia. She seemed to have a different relationship with her conscience, a way to compartmentalize what must be done. His sister, with all her past lives and remembered experiences, could govern with a firm, stern hand. And because the people were frightened of the girl’s strangeness, they would see her more as a priestess than a ruler. Alia could use that to her advantage.
One morning, before the first group of supplicants was allowed into the heavily guarded chamber, Princess Irulan appeared before Paul, asking permission to speak with him. Beside the throne, Stilgar and Alia looked at Irulan with their usual suspicions, but Paul understood her motives better and trusted her to behave according to established patterns.
She wore a look of concern and puzzlement on her face. “My Husband, I have received a message from a Guild courier. It was addressed to me, asking for my intercession.” Frowning, she extended the cylinder to Paul.
Intrigued, he took the document, noted the intricate seals that Irulan had already broken open. As Paul read, Irulan explained to Stilgar and Alia, “Lady Margot Fenring requests a favor.”
“Lady Margot?” Alia asked, drawing upon her mother’s memories as well as her own. “We have heard nothing from her in years.”
The Count and his Lady, after initially joining Shaddam IV in exile on Salusa Secundus following the Battle of Arrakeen, had remained only a brief time before embarking on their own and disappearing from view — apparently with no love lost between them and the fallen Emperor. Paul knew the Count was quite a dangerous character, a schemer to rival the most Machiavellian of the Bene Gesserits or the Harkonnens.
Paul read the message, feeling a flicker of warning in his prescient senses, though nothing distinct. Much about Hasimir Fenring — another failed Bene Gesserit attempt to breed a Kwisatz Haderach — had always been murky to him. “It is odd that they took sanctuary among the Tleilaxu,” he said. �
��I did not foresee this request. I had forgotten that Lady Margot has a daughter.”
“And what does this woman want from you, Usul?” Stilgar asked.
After nearly drowning on Jericha, the faithful naib had returned to Arrakis and now chose to serve directly at the side of Muad’Dib, as Minister of State. Stilgar had decided his true worth was in leadership, rather than fighting on distant planets, and Paul had to agree.
The Emperor set the message cylinder aside. “She asks permission to send her daughter Marie here, wants her to be raised and trained in our Imperial court.”
Irulan was clearly unsettled by the idea. “I do not understand why.”
“A better question is, why would you be suspicious of her, rather than advocating it?” Alia countered. “Count Fenring was a close friend of your father’s, while Lady Margot is a prominent Bene Gesserit. Wasn’t Margot a boon companion to your own mother, Lady Anirul?”
“And to your mother as well,” the Princess replied. “But I am always troubled by things I do not understand.”
“Is Count Fenring the natural father of the child?” Paul asked.
“Lady Margot does not suggest otherwise. I cannot tell either way.”
“And if Count Fenring is no longer with Shaddam, was there truly a falling-out between them, or is this part of an overall scheme?” Alia added. “Our spies have suggested that the Count has a great deal of antipathy toward Shaddam. Is the rift real, or merely an act?”
Paul remembered the dire insult and the obvious coolness that Fenring had exhibited toward the Emperor in the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Arrakeen, while Paul himself had felt an odd sort of kinship with Fenring. Though they were entirely dissimilar men, he and the Count had certain exceptional qualities in common.
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