Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  Leto was not pleased with the summons, and felt especially troubled by a situation he could not control or understand. “Do they expect me to abandon all my duties here and just move to Kaitain with you? I am very busy.”

  “I… believe the invitation is intended for me alone, my Duke.”

  Startled, he looked at her. His gray eyes flashed. “But you can’t just leave me. What about our child?”

  “I cannot refuse this invitation, my Duke. Not only is she the Emperor’s wife, but Lady Anirul is also a powerful Bene Gesserit.” And she is of Hidden Rank.

  “You Bene Gesserit always have your own reasons.” The Sisters had helped Leto in the past, but he had never been able to fathom why. With a scowl, he stared at the unreadable scroll that Jessica held in her slender hands. “Is this summons from the Bene Gesserit, or is it some scheme of Shaddam’s? Could this have something to do with my attack on Beakkal?”

  Jessica took his hand. “I have no answers for your questions, my Duke. I only know that I will miss you terribly.”

  The Duke’s throat tightened. Unable to speak, his only response was to pull Jessica into his arms and hold her tightly.

  The fact that any family in the Imperium could deploy its atomics to destroy the planetary bases of fifty or more Great Houses need not concern us overmuch. It is a situation we can hold in check. If we remain strong enough.

  — EMPEROR FONDIL III

  In light of the importance of the day’s announcement, Shaddam IV had commanded that the Golden Lion Throne be moved back into the opulent Imperial Audience Chamber. Wearing a carmine robe, he sat on the heavy block of carved crystal, looking and feeling truly regal as he anticipated the reaction of the Landsraad.

  After this, the unruly Houses will know they ignore me at their peril.

  From behind the closed doors that led into the vast room, he could hear the murmur of impatient representatives who had been summoned here. He couldn’t wait to see their faces when they learned what he had done to Zanovar.

  Shaddam’s pomaded red hair glistened beneath the glowglobes. He took a long drink of spice coffee from a delicate china cup, studied the fine patterns hand-painted on its surface. The precious cup would be destroyed, like everything on Zanovar. He formed his powdered face into a terrible, paternal frown. He would not smile today, no matter how pleased he felt.

  Emerging from one of the secret corridors, Lady Anirul entered the Audience Chamber, her chin held high. She walked directly toward the throne, undaunted by the magisterial decor. Shaddam muttered under his breath, cursing his lack of foresight for not closing off all entrances to the room. He would have to discuss the matter with Chamberlain Ridondo.

  “My husband and Emperor.” She approached the base of the dais and gazed up at the legendary throne. “Before you begin, there is a matter I must discuss with you.” Anirul’s bronze-brown hair was freshly coiffed and secured by a golden clasp. “Do you know the significance of this year?”

  Shaddam wondered what schemes the Bene Gesserit had developed behind his back. “Why, it is 10,175. If you cannot consult an Imperial Calendar for yourself, one of my courtiers could easily have informed you of the date. Now be about your business, as I have an important announcement to make.”

  Anirul stood unruffled. “It is a centenary, marking the death of your father’s second wife, Yvette Hagal-Corrino.”

  The Emperor’s eyebrows shifted as he tried to follow her line of thought. Damn her! What has this to do with my overwhelming success on Zanovar? “If that is true, we have all year to celebrate this anniversary. Today I have a decree to announce to the Landsraad.”

  His meddling wife would not be swayed. “What do you know of Yvette?”

  Why do women persist in matters of little import at the moment of greatest inconvenience? “I have no time for a family history quiz.”

  But under her steady, doe-eyed stare, he pondered for a moment, while glancing at the ornate Ixian chrono on the wall. The representatives would never expect him to begin on time anyway. “Yvette died years before I was born. Since she was not my mother, I never bothered much with her. There must be filmbooks in the Imperial Library, if you would like to learn—”

  “During his long reign your father had four wives, and he permitted only Yvette to sit beside him on a throne of her own. It is said that she was the only noblewoman he ever truly loved.”

  Love? What does that have to do with Imperial marriages? “Apparently, my father also had a deep affection for one of his concubines, but he didn’t realize it until she decided to marry Dominic Vernius.” He scowled. “Are you trying to draw comparisons? Do you want me to profess my affection for you? What sort of question are you asking?”

  “It is a wife’s question. It is also a husband’s question.” Anirul waited at the base of the dais, still looking up at him. “I want my own throne in here, beside yours, Shaddam— as your father had for his favorite wife.”

  The Emperor slurped half of his spice coffee to calm himself. Another throne in here? Though he’d assigned his Sardaukar spies to watch Anirul, they had not found anything incriminating yet, and probably never would. The veils of Bene Gesserit secrecy were not easily penetrated.

  He weighed possibilities and options. Reminding the Landsraad that a Bene Gesserit sat by his side might be to his advantage after all, especially as he stepped up his aggressions against spice hoarders. “I shall consider it.”

  Anirul snapped her fingers and motioned toward an arched doorway, where two Sisters appeared from the hall shadows directing four stout male pages as they carried a throne into the audience chamber. Obviously of substantial weight, the chair was smaller than the Emperor’s, but constructed of the same translucent blue-green Hagal quartz.

  “Now?” The Emperor spilled spice coffee on his carmine robe as he lurched to his feet. “Anirul, I am about to conduct important business!”

  “Yes— and I should be at your side. This will take only a moment.” She pointed to two more pages who walked behind the throne.

  Frustrated, he examined the dark stain seeping into his robe and tossed the china cup behind him, where it tinkled into shards on the checkerboard floor. Perhaps this would be the best time after all, since his announcement was sure to cause an uproar. Still, he hated to let Anirul win….

  Panting, the pages set the second throne on the polished stone floor with a thump, then lifted it again to carry it up the wide steps. “Not on the top platform,” Shaddam said, in a voice that allowed no compromise. “Place my wife’s seat on the level below mine, to the left.” Anirul wouldn’t get everything she wanted, no matter how she tried to manipulate him.

  She gave him a small smile, which somehow made him feel petty. “Of course, my husband.” She stepped back to scrutinize the arrangement and nodded in satisfaction. “Yvette was a Hagal, you know, and had her seat made to match Elrood’s.”

  “We can catch up on family history later.” Shaddam shouted for an attendant to bring him a fresh robe. A servant cleaned up the broken china cup, making only minimal sounds.

  Gathering her skirts, Anirul sat on her new throne like an Imperial peahen settling into a nest. “I believe we are ready to entertain your visitors now.” She smiled at Shaddam, but he maintained a stern countenance as he shrugged into a fresh robe, a deep blue one this time.

  Shaddam nodded to Ridondo. “Let the proceedings begin.”

  The Chamberlain called for the frieze-plated gold doors to be swung open, on hinges that could have been used for Heighliner cargo hatches. Shaddam did his best to ignore Anirul.

  Men in cloaks, robes, and formal suits streamed through the archway into the audience chamber. These invited observers represented the most powerful families in the Imperium, as well as a few lesser Houses known to hold enormous illegal melange stockpiles. As they took their positions against purple-velvet half walls, many seemed intrigued by Anirul’s unexpected presence on the dais.

  Shaddam spoke without rising. “Watch, and l
earn.”

  He raised a ring-bedecked hand, and the narrow armor-plaz windows around the upper ceiling became opaque. The glowglobes dimmed, and holo-images appeared in the cleared space in front of the massive crystal throne. Even Anirul had not seen the images before.

  “This is all that remains of the cities of Zanovar,” he said in an ominous tone.

  A blackened wasteland appeared, recorded by automated Sardaukar surveillance cameras that cruised over the bubbling slag. The horrified audience gasped at images of melted structures, lumps that might have been trees, vehicles, or fused-together bodies… and craters that could have once been lakes. Steam rose everywhere, and fires smoldered. Twisted skeletons of buildings thrust upward like broken fingernails into a soot-smeared sky.

  Shaddam had specifically asked Zum Garon to take images of the charred estate of Tyros Reffa. Seeing the devastation, he no longer had any concerns about Elrood’s secret bastard son.

  “Acting in accordance with long-established Imperial law, we have confiscated a large illegal melange stockpile. House Taligari is guilty of crimes against the Imperium, so their fief-holding of Zanovar has paid the ultimate price.” Shaddam let the audience absorb this shocking information. He smelled the terror of the noblemen and ambassadors.

  The obscure Imperial edict against stockpiling dated back thousands of years. Initially, it had applied only to the holder of the Arrakis fief, to prevent that House from embezzling spice and avoiding Imperial taxes. Later, the reasons for the edict were broadened as some noblemen became fabulously wealthy from manipulation of their hoards, starting wars or using spice to take economic and political action against other Houses. After centuries of strife surrounding this issue, all Great and Minor Houses were finally required to work cooperatively through the universal conglomerate CHOAM. Specific language was drafted into the Imperial Code, detailing the amount of spice that any person or organization could possess.

  While the images continued to play, a single bright glowglobe flickered on at the base of the Golden Lion Throne. In the pool of light an Imperial Crier read a prepared statement, so that Shaddam did not need to speak the words himself.

  “Know all, that Padishah Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV will no longer tolerate illegal spice stockpiling and will enforce the Code of Imperial Law. Every House, Great and Minor, will be audited by CHOAM, in cooperation with the Spacing Guild. All outlawed spice hoards not voluntarily surrendered will be rooted out, wherever they are, and the perpetrators punished severely. Witness Zanovar. Let all be warned.”

  In the low illumination, Shaddam maintained his stony expression. He watched the panicked expressions on the faces of the representatives. Within hours they would race back to their homeworlds to comply, fearing his next reprisal.

  Let them tremble.

  As the parade of horrific images continued in the air, Anirul studied her husband. She had a closer vantage now, with no need to stand in the shadows. The Emperor had been extraordinarily tense lately, preoccupied with something more significant than his usual games of intrigue and court politics. Recently, something important had changed.

  For years, Anirul had waited and observed in the patient manner of a Bene Gesserit, gathering and interpreting tidbits of information. Long ago, she had heard of Project Amal, but hadn’t known what it meant— just a fragment picked up when she’d walked in on a conversation between Shaddam and Count Fenring. Upon seeing her, the men had fallen silent, and the stricken looks on their faces revealed much. She had held her silence and kept her ears open.

  Finally, the remaining glowglobes brightened, and the ion torches were lit on either side of the dais, diluting the still-playing images of blasted Zanovar. For comparison, lush and green promotional images of the planet’s former beauty were projected beside the horrible devastation. Shaddam had never been a man for subtlety or restraint.

  Before the audience could erupt into an uproar, two squads of Sardaukar marched forward. They stood at attention around the perimeter of the room, a chilling punctuation mark to the Emperor’s startling ultimatum.

  Now, he gazed dispassionately out on the assemblage, assessing the guilt or innocence he perceived in their faces. With his advisors he would study recorded images later, to see what could be learned from the reactions of these representatives.

  From this moment forward, the Landsraad would fear him. No doubt he had also thrown Anirul’s own plan into confusion, whatever it was. At least he hoped so. But it didn’t really matter.

  Even without the support of the Bene Gesserit, Shaddam would soon have his amal. Then he would need no one else.

  Blood is thicker than water, but politics is even thicker than blood.

  — ELROOD IX, MEMOIRS OF IMPERIAL RULE

  Fabled Artisia, the capital of House Taligari, became a center of anguish, outrage, and demands for answers. The beloved Docent Glax Othn, who normally spoke for Taligari in matters of state, had been murdered in the blatant attack against the fief world of Zanovar. Tyros Reffa knew it— he had seen the horrific images.

  Now House Taligari reeled in shock. Governmental functionaries stumbled over each other in an attempt to formulate a unified response to the outrage. Five major Zanovar cities had been obliterated, plus several surrounding estates. The open-air Senate Coliseum was a cacophony of wails, shouted questions, and declarations of vengeance.

  Reffa stood unnoticed on a high tier, dressed in the same rumpled clothes he had worn for three days now, ever since learning the terrible news. His old teacher had been correct in his fears and suspicions, though Reffa had not taken them seriously. Nothing remained for him on Zanovar. While he had a few accounts and investments on Taligari, his estate, his gardens, and staff had been obliterated in a puff of steam. Just like the Docent…

  Alarmed Taligari emissaries had gathered inside the Senate Coliseum from the eight remaining Taligari planets. Near panic filled the air, an unruly and outraged crowd of citizens who felt helplessness and despair at the slaughter.

  All eyes focused on the lead senator as he stepped to the imaging and loudspeaker podium, flanked by a pair of dour-looking representatives from other major Taligari worlds.

  Because of his secret heritage, Tyros Reffa had studiously avoided any participation in politics. Still, he knew nothing would be accomplished here today. The politicians would bluster and deflect questions. In the end, formal complaints would amount to nothing. Shaddam Corrino did not care.

  A tall man of commanding presence, the lead senator had a moonlike face and an expressive mouth. “Zanovar is lost,” he began in the most somber of tones, his tenor voice carrying over the speaker system. He moved his hands in a variety of gestures that expanded upon his words. “Every person here has lost friends or family members in this heinous attack.”

  Among the Taligari people, it was traditional for gathered delegates and even common citizens to make public queries of their senators and to receive immediate answers. The people shouted, producing an overlapping drone of demands and questions.

  Would the Taligarian military respond? How could they possibly hope to fight the Sardaukar, who had the power to lay waste to an entire world? Were other Taligari planets in danger?

  “But why did this happen?” a man called out. “How could our Emperor commit such an atrocity?”

  Reffa stood cold and speechless. Because of me. They came because of me. The Emperor wanted to kill me, but he tried to cover it up with this monstrous excess.

  The senator lifted a message cube in the air. “Emperor Shaddam IV charges us with crimes against the Imperium and claims responsibility— claims credit in fact— for Zanovar. He has acted as our judge, jury, and executioner. He claims to have meted out appropriate punishment because we kept a private stockpile of melange.”

  Grumbles of anger, howls of disbelief. All Houses of the Landsraad maintained reservoirs of spice, just as most families retained their own stockpiles of atomics, which were forbidden to use, though not technically illegal to keep.<
br />
  Another senator stepped forward. “I believe Shaddam is using us as an example for the rest of the Imperium.”

  “Why did my children have to die?” a tall woman shouted. “They had nothing to do with spice stockpiling.”

  Your children died because Shaddam does not like the fact that I was born, Reffa thought. I got in his way, and he thought nothing of slaying millions just to kill one man. And even so, he missed the target.

  The lead senator’s voice broke with emotion, then grew strong with anger. “Centuries ago the Emperor’s forefather, Hyek Corrino II, granted House Taligari a holding of nine planets, including Zanovar. We have records showing that Emperor Elrood IX even visited the amusement park and joked about the smell of spice near the sandworm. It was no secret!”

  Questions continued to pour in, and the senators made a gallant effort to field them. Why, after all these years, was this happening? Why had there been no warning? What could be done about the injustice now?

  In the upper tier, silent during the flurry of demands, Reffa simply listened. He had come to Artisia just for the suspensor opera, had been away from Zanovar thanks to a glimmer of the old Docent’s foresight. Now, having heard the tissue-thin excuses the Emperor used, he didn’t believe them for a moment.

  His revered teacher had always told him, “If stated reasons don’t sit well with your conscience or stand the test of logic, look for deeper motivations.”

  He had seen scans taken by unmanned probes flying over the crisped landscape, knew that his own estate had been one of the first targets in the devastation of the planet. Had loyal old Charence even seen the flame front coming his way? Reffa’s stomach burned as if he had swallowed a hot coal.

  No one noticed him, just another man in the crowd. He recalled the blackened scar that remained of his home. Shaddam probably believes he has succeeded, too. He thinks I am dead.

  Reffa stood wearing an enraged expression on his handsome, chiselfeatured face. Only once did he move, to wipe a tear from his cheek. Before the interminable public briefing reached its conclusion, he slipped out a side doorway, climbed down the sloping marble staircase, and melted into the anonymity of the city.