Dune: House Corrino

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  As he spoke, searching for common ground, feeling the spark of passion within his heart, he could sense Faroula somewhere in the cool shadows nearby, listening to every word, giving him strength.

  The wreckage of man’s repeated attempts to control the universe is strewn along the sordid beaches of history.

  — Theatre graffiti in Ichan City, Jongleur

  The bright and overly decorated passenger lounge of the Wayku mass-transit ship reminded him of the surreal stage of a play, with sets that were too gaudy and colors too bright. An anonymous passenger in mid-class seating, Tyros Reffa sat alone, knowing that his life would never be the same again. The worn furniture, garish signs, and pungent refreshment drinks comforted him in an odd way, a blurring wind of distraction and white noise.

  He had traveled far from Zanovar and House Taligari, far from his past.

  No one noticed Reffa’s name, no one cared about his destination. From the way his estate had been precisely targeted, from the Imperial spies who had scouted for him, even murderous Shaddam Corrino must believe his bastard half brother had been incinerated on Zanovar.

  Why couldn’t he have left me alone?

  Reffa tried to block the noise of the ever-present vendors, persistent and sometimes sarcastic people in dark glasses who sold everything from spice candy to curry-fried slig. He could still hear the thrumming, atonal music that overflowed from their earclamp headsets. He ignored them utterly, and after being rebuffed for several hours, the Wayku vendors finally left him alone.

  Reffa’s hands were raw and chapped. He had scrubbed them repeatedly with the harshest of soaps, but still he could not get rid of the smells of death and smoke that clung to them, the gritty feel of gruesome soot beneath his fingernails.

  He should never have tried to go back home….

  Red-eyed and weeping, he had flown his private skimmer over the blistered scar of his estate. He had broken through the restricted recovery zones, bribing officials, outrunning exhausted sentries.

  Nothing remained of his beautiful, well-tended home and gardens. Nothing at all.

  A few lumps of drooping stone columns, the overturned bowl of a broken fountain, but no sign of his stately manor house or beautiful fern gardens. Faithful Charence had been cremated to powder, leaving only a scarecrowish shadow on the ground, the mark of what once had been a significant human being.

  Reffa had landed, stepped out onto the vile-smelling ground and been engulfed in a strangled silence. Charred stones and black glass had crunched under his boots. He bent to scoop up powder with his fingers, as if hoping he might find some hidden message in the ashes. He dug deeper, but found no living blade of grass, not even the smallest insect. Around him the world was achingly quiet, devoid of breeze and birdsong.

  Tyros Reffa had never bothered anyone, content with his own pursuits, living a good life. And yet his half brother had tried to assassinate him to eliminate a perceived threat to the throne. Fourteen million people slaughtered in a bungled attempt to kill one man. It seemed impossible, even for such a monster, yet Reffa knew it was true. The Golden Lion Throne was stained with the blood of injustice, reminding Reffa of the grand soliloquy-tragedies he had once performed on Jongleur. The Imperial Palace echoed with the screams of Zanovar.

  Standing under the sooty sleet on his ruined land, Reffa howled the Emperor’s name, but his voice dissipated like distant thunder….

  And so he booked passage on the next Heighliner from Taligari to Jongleur, where in his youth he had spent happy years. He longed to be back among the student actors, the creative and passionate performers in whose company he had enjoyed peace.

  Traveling unobtrusively, using false documents the Docent had long ago arranged for him in case of emergency, Reffa rode the mass-transit ship in silence. Pondering everything he had lost, he heard the ebb and flow of passenger conversations: a soostone gemologist and his wife argued about fracture patterns; four boisterous young men disagreed loudly about a recent watercourse race they had seen on Perrin XIV; a trader laughed with his rival about the humilation someone named Duke Leto Atreides had dealt to Beakkal.

  Reffa wished they would all just let him contemplate what he must do. Though he had never been aggressive or violent, the scorched ruin of Zanovar had changed him. He was not experienced at seeking justice. Inside, he was in turmoil with loathing for Shaddam, and felt more than a modicum of self-hatred. I am a Corrino, too. It is in my blood. Heaving a deep sigh, he slumped deeper into his seat, then got up to wash his hands again….

  Before the brutal attack, Reffa had researched his family history, going back centuries to when the Corrinos were the model of ethics for the Imperium, to the enlightened reign of Crown Prince Raphael Corrino, as portrayed in the dramatic masterpiece, My Father’s Shadow. Glax Othn had made Reffa into the man he was. Now, though, he had no choice, no past, no identity.

  “Law is the ultimate science.” This great concept of justice, first uttered long ago, echoed bitterly in his mind. It was said to be inscribed over the door to the Emperor’s study on Kaitain, but he wondered if Shaddam had ever read it.

  In the hands of the throne’s current occupant, Imperial law shifted like quicksand. Reffa knew of mysterious deaths in his family. Shaddam’s older brother Fafnir, Elrood IX himself, and even Reffa’s own mother Shando, who’d been hunted down like an animal on Bela Tegeuse. He could never forget the faces of Charence, either, or the Docent, or the innocent victims of Zanovar.

  He intended to rejoin his old acting troupe, under the tutelage of the brilliant taskmaster Holden Wong. But if the Emperor discovered Reffa was still alive, would all of Jongleur be at risk, too? He dared not reveal his secret.

  A slight change in the Holtzmann hum told Reffa that the Heighliner had emerged from foldspace. Before long, a female Wayku voice announced their arrival and reminded passengers to purchase souvenirs.

  From five overhead storage compartments, Reffa removed all of his remaining possessions. Everything. He’d had to pay dearly for the extra space, but he didn’t trust direct shipment of the special items he had purchased before leaving Taligari.

  Followed by a bobbing train of suspensor cases, he made his way toward the exit. Even as passengers waited in line for the descent shuttle, Wayku vendors kept trying to sell them trinkets, though without much success.

  When Reffa stepped into the spaceport terminal on Jongleur, his dark mood lifted. The large facility was crowded with people full of good cheer and smiles. The atmosphere was refreshing.

  He prayed he had not put another precious world at risk.

  Looking around at families and friends greeting the passengers, he saw no sign of Master Holden Wong, who had promised to meet him here. Reffa’s old troupe must have had a performance scheduled for that evening, and Wong always insisted on supervising everything himself. Living entirely in his world of acting, the master paid little attention to current events, probably didn’t even know about the attack on Zanovar. He seemed to have forgotten to meet his guest at the dock.

  No matter, Reffa knew his own way around the city. A dock adjoined the spaceport, from which a sampan water taxi carried passengers into Ichan City across a broad river dappled with a carpet of lavender algae. As the boat puttered across the slow current, Reffa stood on the deck, filling his lungs with refreshing, moist air. So different from the sour smoke and char of Zanovar.

  Ahead, seen through a thin river fog, Ichan City was a jumble of ramshackle buildings and modern high-rises, crowded with rickshaws and pedestrians. From the cabin below, he heard laughter and the music of a string quartet— baliset, rebec, violin, and rebaba.

  The water taxi slowed, and reversed its engines as it docked. Reffa followed other passengers onto the old city pier, a sturdy wooden structure whose planked surface was scattered with fish scales, crushed shells, and strawlike crustacean legs. Amidst seafood stands and pastry shops, merry troupes of storytellers worked alongside musicians and jugglers, providing samples of their talents an
d passing out invitations to evening performances.

  Reffa watched a mime playing the part of a bearded god rising from the sea. Catching his eye, the mime moved closer, making oddly contorted expressions with his pasty white face. His painted grin spread even wider. “Hello, Tyros. I came to greet you after all.”

  Reffa recovered and said, “Holden Wong, when a mime speaks, does he impart wisdom— or reveal his folly?”

  “Well said, my good friend.” Wong had attained the rank of Supreme Thespian, highest of all Master Jongleurs. With protruberant cheekbones, slitted eyes, and a wispy beard, he was over eighty years old, but moved like a much younger man. He had no inkling of Reffa’s parentage, or of the sudden and spiteful price placed on his head by Shaddam.

  The old troupe leader put an arm around Reffa’s shoulder, leaving white greasepaint marks on his clothing. “Will you attend our performance this evening? Catch up on what you have been missing all these years?”

  “That, and I hope to find a place in your troupe again, Master.”

  Wong’s deep brown eyes danced. “Ah, to have a talented actor again! For comedy? Romance?”

  “I, for one, would prefer tragedy and drama. My heart is too heavy for comedy or romance.”

  “Ah, I am certain we shall find something for you.” Wong patted Reffa on the head, this time jokingly leaving white greasepaint in his dyed black hair. “I am pleased to have you back among the Jongleurs, Tyros.”

  Reffa grew more serious. “I have heard you are planning a new production of My Father’s Shadow.”

  “Quite so! I am just now scheduling the rehearsals for an important performance. We have not completed the casting yet, though we leave for Kaitain in a few weeks to entertain the Emperor himself!” The mime seemed delighted with his good fortune.

  Reffa’s eyes became intense. “I would give my soul to play the part of Raphael Corrino.”

  The Master Jongleur studied the younger man and detected deep fire in him. “Another actor has been selected— though he doesn’t have the spark the role requires. Yes, you just might be better.”

  “I feel I was… born to play him.” Reffa drew a deep breath, but he covered the smoldering expression with the skill of a master actor. “Shaddam IV has provided me with all the inspiration I need.”

  What can I say about Jessica? Given the opportunity, she would attempt Voice on God.

  — REVEREND MOTHER GAIUS HELEN MOHIAM

  It hardly seemed appropriate for a well-respected Duke and his concubine to make love in a cluttered storeroom, but time was short and Leto knew he would miss her desperately. Jessica was due to leave for Kaitain in the Heighliner that circled Caladan. She would be gone by the next morning.

  Only a few steps down the corridor, cooks attended to their duties in the kitchen, banging pans, cracking mussels, chopping herbs. One of them could pop in at any moment to look for dried spices or a bag of salt. But after he and Jessica had slipped inside the cluttered room, each carrying a glass of dry claret taken during an earlier tryst in the wine cellar, Leto had blocked the door with several crates of imported bitterberry tins. He had also managed to bring the bottle with him, which he rested on a box in the corner.

  Two weeks ago, after Rhombur’s wedding, these unlikely liaisons had begun as a whim, an idea inspired by her imminent departure for Kaitain. Eventually, Leto wanted to make love to her in every room in the Castle, closets not included. Though pregnant, Jessica was up to the challenge, and seemed both amused and delighted.

  The stately young woman set her wineglass on a shelf, her green eyes sparkling. “Do you meet serving wenches in here, too, Leto?”

  “I hardly have enough energy for you. Why would I exhaust myself further?” He moved three dusty jars of preserved lemons from the top of a large crate. “I’ll need a few months alone just to regain my strength.”

  “I should hope so, but this must be our last time today.” Jessica’s tone was gentle, almost scolding. “I haven’t finished packing.”

  “And the Emperor’s wife won’t be able to provide clothing for her new lady-in-waiting?”

  She kissed his cheek and removed the black Atreides jacket he wore. Folding the garment carefully, she laid it down with the hawk crest showing. She then peeled his shirt off, sliding it down his shoulders to expose his chest.

  “Allow me to prepare a suitable bed, my Lady.” Opening the crate, Leto removed a sheet of bubbleplaz used for packing fragile items. He spread it on the floor.

  “You offer all the comfort I need.” Moving their wineglasses out of harm’s way, she showed him that she could make do even in a small storeroom, with nothing but bubbleplaz beneath them….

  As she held him afterward, Leto said, “Things would be different if I weren’t a Duke. Sometimes I wish you and I could just…” His words trailed off.

  Gazing into his gray eyes, Jessica saw his unspoken love for her, a chink in the armor of this proud, frequently aloof man. She handed him his glass of claret, took a sip of her own. “I make no demands upon you.” She remembered the resentment that had gnawed at his first concubine Kailea, who had never seemed to appreciate anything he did for her.

  Leto began to dress himself awkwardly. “I want to say so many things to you, Jessica. I… I am sorry I held a knife to your throat at our first meeting. It was only to show the Sisterhood that I could not be manipulated. I never would have used it against you.”

  “I know that.” She kissed him on the lips. Even with the sharp edge pressed against her jugular, all those years ago, she had never felt any real threat from Leto Atreides. “Your apology is worth more than any trinket or jewel you could have given me.”

  Leto ran his fingers through her long bronze hair. Studying the perfection of her small nose, generous mouth, and elegant figure, he could hardly believe she was not of noble blood.

  He sighed, knowing he could never marry this woman. His father had made that only too clear. Never marry for love, boy. Think first of your House and of its position in the Imperium. Think of your people. They will rise, or fall, with you.

  Still, Jessica carried his baby, and he had promised himself that their child would bear the Atreides name and inheritance, regardless of other dynastic considerations. Another son, he hoped.

  As if attuned to his thoughts, Jessica placed a finger over his lips. She understood that, with all of his pain and concerns, Leto was not ready for commitment. But it buoyed her spirit to see him struggling with his emotions— just as she did. A Bene Gesserit axiom intruded on her thoughts: Passion clouds reason.

  She hated the constraints of such admonitions. Her teacher Mohiam, faithful and stern, had raised her under the strict guidance of the Sisterhood, sometimes doing hurtful things and inflicting harsh lessons. But for all that, Jessica still felt a pull of love for the old woman, and respect for what the Reverend Mother had achieved in her. More than anything else, Jessica did not want to disappoint Mohiam… but she had to be true to herself as well. She had done things for her own love, for Leto.

  He stroked the soft skin of her abdomen, still flat, not yet showing the curve of pregnancy. He smiled, letting his barriers down, loving her. He allowed his hopes to show. “Before you go, Jessica, tell me… is it a son?”

  She toyed with his dark hair but turned her face away, wanting to be close to him but afraid she might reveal too much. “I have not allowed Dr. Yueh to perform any tests, my Duke. The Sisterhood frowns on such interference.”

  Leto’s smoke-gray eyes were intent, and he chided her. “Come, you are a Bene Gesserit. You let yourself get pregnant after the death of Victor, and I appreciate that more than I can ever tell you.” His face softened with obvious love for her, an emotion he rarely showed in front of others. She took a hesitant step toward him, wanting Leto to fold her in his arms, but he pressed for answers. “So, is it a son? You know, don’t you?”

  Her legs went weak, and she sat back on the crate. She flinched from his hard gaze, but she wouldn’t lie to him. “
I… cannot tell you, my Duke.”

  He was taken aback, the lighthearted mood gone now. “You can’t tell me because you don’t know the answer— or you won’t tell me for a secret reason of your own?”

  Refusing to allow herself to become distraught, Jessica gazed at him with clear green eyes. “I cannot tell you, my Duke, so please do not ask.” Finding the open bottle of wine again, she poured him another glass, which he declined.

  Leto turned from her, his stance rigid. “Well, I’ve been thinking. If it is a son, I have decided to name him Paul in honor of my father.”

  Primly, Jessica took a sip of her own wine. Despite the embarrassment, she hoped that a servant would interrupt them by barging into the pantry. Why does he have to raise such matters now? “That is your decision, my Duke. I never met Paulus Atreides, and I know him only through what you have said about him.”

  “My father was a great man. The people of Caladan loved him.”

  “I have no doubt of that.” She looked away, gathering her clothes and dressing. “But he was… coarse. I disagree with many things your father taught you. Personally, I would prefer… another name.”

  Leto raised his aquiline nose, his pride and pain outweighing any desire for concession with her. Regardless of what he wanted, he had mastered the art of erecting fortress walls around his heart. “You forget your place.”

  She set her wineglass down with a heavy click that nearly broke the delicate crystal. It overbalanced on the uneven crate and spilled. Abruptly, Jessica turned to the pantry door, surprising him. “If you only knew what I’ve done for your love.” She left, straightening her clothes.

  Leto cared for her deeply, though he didn’t always understand her. He followed her down the interior Castle corridors, ignoring the servants’ curious stares, longing for her acceptance.

  With quiet footsteps, she moved swiftly through pools of light cast by glowglobes and entered her private chamber. She knew he followed, knew he would probably grow angrier because she’d made him pursue her.