Jessica didn’t contradict him, though she knew that Paul was not just a boy. Next she turned to her own difficult task, mentally composing a message to be given to the next Guild courier to depart from Ix.
She had to tell Duke Leto the bad news.
Prescience cannot be a random thing. It must be by design. The question is, whose design?
—comment, Intergalactic Commission on Spirituality
For several days, as the two boys settled into their new circumstances aboard the Guildship, the Wayku steward showed them around the service decks. Exclusive side passages allowed employees to move about without mingling with the passengers.
Paul and Bronso wore common work clothes, and Ennzyn assigned them to jobs that even the Wayku found unpleasant. Because the boys had no better option, they worked without complaint. The man showed a remarkable lack of curiosity, not even bothering to ask their full names. Wayku seemed to respect secrets and privacy.
Paul and Bronso stood with him on a wide landing surrounded by exposed pipes, power conduits, and harsh glowglobes. Ennzyn warned, “Beware of Guild officials or Heighliner inspectors. They are the greatest hazard on this ship: Don’t let them notice you. If anyone asks to see your employment documentation, send them to me. We Wayku have a certain amount of influence.”
Paul noted his odd attire. “Your people seem to be everywhere on Guildships, but where’s your home world? Where do the Wayku come from?”
“By Imperial decree, all of our planets were destroyed in the Third Coalsack War—ages ago. Our descendants have no home, and we are forbidden from ever setting foot on a planetary surface.”
Paul could not imagine the level of vindictiveness that would lead to the obliteration of entire planetary populations. “For what offense?”
“When a few militant commanders committed war crimes, my entire race was held accountable for the atrocities.” Ennzyn pushed his dark glasses up, clicked them into his headset, and regarded the boys with his blue eyes. “The Wayku backed the wrong side against a powerful emperor, and he sent his armies to annihilate us. But the Spacing Guild granted us sanctuary aboard their ships, where our people have worked for many generations.
“We are space gypsies and survive as best we can, without riches or a homeworld. So much time has passed that not many people remember. In fact, I could probably slip off a Guildship if I truly wanted to.” He clicked his glasses back into place over his eyes. “But why would I want to? The Guild pays us well, and we make our homes in their midst.”
He motioned both boys to step out of the way as they heard approaching voices. Moving briskly, a contingent of officials dressed in gray marched past them and up the metal stairs, speaking in an arcane tongue. The men passed through a hatch and onto the brightly lit main decks, wasting not so much as a glance on the steward or his young companions.
When they were gone, Ennzyn said, “The powerful are often blind to those they believe to be insignificant. We Wayku are invisible, unless we do something to call attention to ourselves.”
Two weeks later, inside the small interior cabin they shared aboard the Heighliner, Paul scowled at Bronso. The pair had just completed a food service shift in one of the passenger lounges, and Bronso combed his hair, wiped his hands on a towel. “Neither of us has ever seen a Navigator! This could be our only chance.”
The redheaded boy sometimes tested the limits and put both of them at risk, to the consternation of their mentor Ennzyn. “You’re trying to get us thrown off the ship,” Paul said. Then, he thought, at least they could go home. How much longer did Bronso want them to remain on the run? He knew many people must be terribly worried about them by now. Knowing he wouldn’t convince his friend, he suggested, “We should find a way to send a message to Ix or Caladan, just to let our parents know we’re all right.”
Bronso stiffened. “Parents? My mother is in a coma and being held by the Bene Gesserit, and I never met my real father.”
“You’re being unfair to Rhombur. He tried—”
“He should have been honest with me.”
“Still, there has to be a way for us to get back home. We’re both noble heirs, future leaders of our Great Houses. We shouldn’t have run away.”
“I ran away. You just came along to keep me safe.” He tossed the used towel onto the floor next to his discarded work clothes. “Are you going with me to see the Navigator, or not?” Using his projected schematics of the Ixian-built Heighliner, Bronso had already plotted a way for the two of them to sneak onto the navigation deck. “I want to find out for myself if they’re mutated monsters, or human just like us. Why else would the Guild keep them so secret?”
Paul frowned, but had to admit he was intrigued. One of the reasons his father had sent him from Caladan was to have new experiences. “When I’m Duke, I’ll have dealings with the Spacing Guild. I suppose the information might be useful.”
“I know I can get us inside.” Bronso searched among his belongings and withdrew two Ixian gadgets, bypass keys he could use on the Heighliner’s security systems. “You worry too much.” He sealed his pack and stood. “Ready?”
“I haven’t agreed to go.” Stalling, Paul stepped out of his soiled work coveralls, hung them in a small closet, and reached for a clean pair of trousers.
“If you’re afraid, just wait here. When I get back I’ll tell you about the experience.” Without another word, Bronso darted out into the corridor.
Torn between keeping himself out of trouble and watching out for his friend, Paul struggled into his clothes. By the time he ran after Bronso, the boy was nowhere in sight, but Paul knew where he must be headed. He ran up four flights of back-deck stairs and crossed a connecting walkway to a secure lift. An override security code took him to the restricted navigation levels.
Worried about his friend’s impulsive decision, Paul moved cautiously toward where they suspected the Navigator was located. Ahead, shouts came from the opposite side of a sealed hatch. Abruptly, the door burst open and two uniformed Guildsmen stumbled out, each rubbing their eyes and cursing. A yellowish mist hung in the air. As the blinded men careened past without seeing him, Paul smelled the gas, but it wasn’t the cinnamon odor of melange. A sulfurous burn irritated his nostrils, and he staggered back.
Two more Guild security men wrestled someone—Bronso—out of the chamber. “Let go of me!” The boy kicked one man in the shin and wrenched free, but the other seized him. Ixian devices clattered out of his pockets onto the deck. More guards rushed toward them, and Paul, rubbing his stinging eyes, saw no way to avoid them. He refused to abandon Bronso to his fate, but he didn’t see how he could help.
A sour-faced Guild administrator arrived in a huff, inspecting the scene with distaste. Through the open door and the swirling, yellowish gas, Paul caught a glimpse of a large, clearplaz chamber that enclosed thicker smoke of a rust-brown color, and a shadowy shape visible inside. The Navigator? Abruptly, the doors sealed shut again, cutting off the foul defensive gas.
“Remove these boys to a secure area!” The administrator picked up Bronso’s scattered devices from the floor, looked them over. “They are obviously spies or saboteurs.”
Paul’s captors held his arms behind his back, and he struggled, unable to break free. Remembering what the steward had said, he blurted, “We aren’t spies. We work for the Wayku. Ennzyn will verify it.”
He and Bronso stood behind the electronic containment barrier of a holding cell. Waiting. The Guild had already done full identification scans on them, and soon enough somebody would figure out who they really were.
From the other side of the pale yellow barrier, Ennzyn’s voice was the embodiment of a sigh. “You can give someone advice, but you cannot force them to listen.” At the Wayku’s command, a guard dropped the security barrier so that the boys could step out. Ennzyn barely even looked disturbed. “I knew it would only be a matter of time before I had to come here. Fortunately, you two were so predictable that I had the forethought to make a co
ntingency plan.”
The steward was accompanied by a tall, elderly man in a white suit with long tails and an eccentric, old-fashioned top hat; every item of clothing, even his shoes, sparkled with tiny ice diamonds. He carried himself with an air of success and elegance.
“Rheinvar the Magnificent has agreed to take you off my hands,” Ennzyn said. “You’ll disembark with his Jongleur troupe at the next planetary stop. I used all my influence just to prevent the Guildsmen from tossing you both into space. It just so happens that my good friend Rheinvar has offered to provide you with probationary positions to assist him. Besides, he owes me a favor.”
“We’re joining a Jongleur troupe?” Bronso sounded excited now. Paul had sensed that his companion was already growing bored with his menial duties aboard the Guildship.
Rheinvar the Magnificent doffed his stylish hat with a flourish. His blue eyes twinkled, and Bronso noticed happy creases on his face, seemingly from a lifetime of practiced smiling for audiences. “Welcome to the life of a Jongleur.”
“Thank you, Ennzyn,” Paul said. “Thank you for everything.”
Ennzyn was already walking away, accompanied by the two sour-looking guards. “I enjoyed the experience as well. And now, I leave you in Rheinvar’s capable hands. Learn something from him.”
The Bene Gesserit Sisterhood is a well-connected network, with eyes and ears in every level of government and responsibility. Someone in their organization will know the answer to almost any question that might be posed.
But do not expect this knowledge to be free of cost, or the Sisters to be altruistic.
—CHOAM Analysis of the Bene Gesserit, Report #7
While Duncan and Gurney searched Guild records and transportation manifests from the subsidiary Ixian spaceports, Rhombur sent repeated requests to the technocrats, since their commercial connections extended across the Imperium; he even made a direct plea to Bolig Avati, although the Council leader was less than sympathetic after all the accusations leveled against him.
So far, none of the investigations had borne any fruit.
Jessica, though, had a different set of resources, avenues that even a Landsraad nobleman did not possess. While Leto was on his way to Ix, she composed a message to her old teacher on Wallach IX, Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam. With all of the Sisterhood’s observers across the Imperium, someone must have seen Paul or Bronso.
Careful to expunge any hint of desperation from her message, Jessica outlined everything she knew about the boys’ disappearance. She pointed out the very real possibility that the two might be hostages, pawns in some dangerous political game played by the Harkonnens against House Atreides, the Tleilaxu or the technocrats against House Vernius, or as-yet-unknown enemies. Paul was missing; that was all Jessica needed to know.
A day later, Leto arrived on an express Guild transport generally reserved for cargo, but he had paid an exorbitant amount for swift passage. When he stalked into the Grand Palais, he was filled with a simmering energy to do something immediately. Jessica embraced him, drawing comfort and also showing her strength. “We’ve already begun the search, Leto. Earl Rhombur has rallied all the resources of Ix.”
Leto’s gray eyes held storm clouds. “Any ransom demand or threat?”
Gurney said, “There is a strong possibility that the boys fled voluntarily.”
Duncan and Gurney bowed formally before the Duke. Duncan spoke first, “We failed you, my Lord. We let the boys slip through our fingers.”
“I am the one who failed,” Rhombur said. He plodded forward until he stood facing the Duke. “You are my friend, Leto. You entrusted your son to me, and I let you down. I gave my word that I would keep Paul safe, and for my failure I am deeply sorry. In the end, I am responsible for the foolish things that Bronso does, if indeed he ran away because of the . . . unwelcome things I told him about his parentage. You cannot forgive me. Nevertheless, I’m truly sorry. I, uh, let myself be distracted with other tragedies.”
For a moment Leto glared at Rhombur, then he took a deep breath and looked at his friend with compassion. “Paul isn’t some weak-willed boy who can easily be talked into doing something foolish. No matter what Bronso may have done, my son makes his own decisions.”
“But my situation has put him into danger,” Rhombur said.
“Our situation. A long time ago, you and I found ourselves in the middle of the Ixian revolt that turned your family renegade. My father didn’t blame yours for what happened then. I can’t blame you now.” He reached out to clasp Rhombur’s prosthetic hand in the traditional half-handshake. “My God, Rhombur—your wife, your son . . . For all our sakes, we must not let this turn into a greater tragedy.”
The Ixian leader looked as though he might break down. “Leto, how do I deserve you as a friend?”
“By being the same kind of friend to me.”
Jessica scoured the manifests of each arriving Guildship, hoping that some visitor would arrive with a message from the Bene Gesserit, but she felt her hopes slipping as time passed. If Paul had indeed left voluntarily, she could not grasp why. Paul wasn’t a flighty, impulsive boy, and running off with Bronso Vernius didn’t make sense.
Finally, an officious but poorly dressed man arrived to see Lady Jessica, handing her a sealed message cylinder. “I was told to deliver this to you.” He shuffled his feet, tugged at his sleeves. “There was some discussion of a reward for service?” After she paid the man and sent him away, Jessica activated the opening mechanism. Hope began to build in her heart.
Mohiam had written a terse, impersonal message in one of the numerous Bene Gesserit codes. The answer was not an admission of failure, nor an expression of knowledge about the boys, or lack of it; instead, she attacked Jessica for her concerns. The blunt sentences oozed with a surprising bitterness.
“Why worry so much about this boy-child whom you never should have conceived in the first place? If he is gone, then he is gone. Now you can concentrate on your duty to the Sisterhood. This is your chance for redemption. Go back to your Duke and bear us the daughter we have always demanded of you. Your purpose is to serve the Sisterhood.”
As Jessica read and reread the message, she felt the sting of tears, then a burn of shame that she would allow the old woman’s curt response to affect her so. She had been taught better than this—by Mohiam herself. With great force of will, she blocked off her emotions.
“As for the condition of Tessia Vernius,” the Reverend Mother added as a postscript, “she has never been any concern of yours. Remember your place, for once. She is in safe hands in the Mother School.”
It was not just the logic, but the venom that made her reel. Yes, Jessica had been told to bear a daughter by Duke Leto, but after the death of little Victor in the skyclipper crash, Leto had been crippled by grief, paralyzed by the loss. Out of her sheer love for him, Jessica had let herself conceive a son instead of a daughter. The Bene Gesserits, and Mohiam in particular, were appalled by Jessica’s disobedience. Now they felt the need to punish her. They would always need to punish her.
And Paul would have to pay the price. She knew now that the Bene Gesserits, even with all of their resources and information, would never offer assistance in this matter.
Jessica tried to tear the message into pieces, but the instroy paper was too durable. Frustrated, she crumpled it up and fed it into an Ixian incinerator, watching her private hopes for a quick resolution vanish in the flames. Help would have to come from another quarter.
Seasoned Guildsmen avoided setting foot on solid ground, claiming that gravity unsettled them. When a Guild official presented himself to Rhombur Vernius in the Grand Palais, accompanied by two silent and unnaturally large companions, Jessica was both intrigued and wary.
All three men wore gray uniforms with the infinity symbol of the Guild on the lapels. The hairless lead representative seemed displeased by the riotous work in all the bustling factories filling the cavern floor, as if he preferred activities to be more controlled.
He took small shuffling steps, as though unfamiliar with the weight of his own body.
Rhombur strode forward. “You come with word of my son? And Paul?”
The man regarded him with oddly unfocused eyes. “The Spacing Guild is aware of your situation. We have located Paul Atreides and Bronso Vernius.”
Jessica felt sudden relief after so many days of uncertainty. “They’re alive and safe?”
“At last report.” The man’s aloof demeanor signaled either disdain for the two noblemen or simply a lack of social skills. “They stowed aboard a Heighliner and posed as workers amongst the Wayku. But they were careless, and we caught them.”
Jessica let out an audible sigh of relief, but Leto remained suspicious. “So, where are they? Are you returning them to us?”
The Guildsman blinked in confusion. His two burly companions remained silent, staring straight ahead. “We did not come here for that purpose. We came to collect the fee for their passage. Your sons traveled great distances without paying for transport. House Atreides and House Vernius owe the Spacing Guild a significant sum.”
In a tone of disgust, Leto muttered a curse. Jessica pressed, “Will you at least tell us where the boys are?”
“I do not have that knowledge.”
“Vermillion Hells, you already said you caught the boys!” Rhombur took an ominous step forward, but the two muscular companions did not flinch.
“The boys were put off-ship, according to Guild policy, at one of our stops.”
“Which stop?” Leto was growing more and more exasperated.
“We pride ourselves on confidentiality, and do not discuss the movements of our passengers.”
The Winds of Dune Page 13