“I believe that takes care of the Face Dancer question,” the Emperor announced in a not-quite-satisfied tone.
Truth often carries with it the inherent necessity for change. The most common expression when real change enforces itself is the plaintive cry: “Why didn’t anyone warn us?” Truly, they do not hear— or hearing, do not choose to remember.
— REVEREND MOTHER HARISHKA, COLLECTED SPEECHES
After weeks of turmoil, the shock waves of uncovered plots and tangled secrets still swept across Kaitain. All that remained was for the last few fires to be put out, the political fallout assessed, favors exchanged, and debts called in.
Impressively attired in the Old Duke’s ceremonial red uniform, with buttons and medals gleaming, Leto Atreides sat on an elevated platform at the center of the Hall of Oratory. This historic meeting would be part censure, part inquisition… and part bargaining session.
Emperor Shaddam Corrino faced the room alone.
On the platform beside Leto sat six Guild representatives and an equal number of Landsraad noblemen, including the newly restored Prince Rhombur. The banners of Great Houses were draped all around, an array of crests and colors like rainbows after a storm, including the purple and copper of Vernius— formally replacing the flag that had been taken down and publicly burned after Dominic Vernius had gone renegade. Largest of all was the golden lion banner of House Corrino in the center, flanked on either side by the equally large banners of the Spacing Guild and the moiré checkerboard of CHOAM.
Plush black and maroon booths held the noblemen, ladies, prime ministers, and ambassadors of all the Great Houses. Not far from Leto sat the official Atreides delegation, including his concubine Jessica and their new son, only a few weeks old. With them sat Gurney Halleck, Duncan Idaho, Thufir Hawat, and a number of brave Atreides officers and troops. Tessia was there as well, looking at her husband. Rhombur flexed his new replacement hand, which Dr. Yueh had attached, scolding his patient all the while.
The accusers’ table had been reserved for grim-faced representatives from the savaged Houses of Ix, Taligari, Beakkal, and Richese. Premier Ein Calimar sat straight-backed, watching the proceedings with his metal replacement eyes, purchased from the Tleilaxu.
More widely reviled than ever as a result of their actions, the Bene Tleilax were not represented at all. The token members of the race who had been at the Imperial Court seemed to have vanished. Leto did not look forward to hearing the long record of their crimes and moral atrocities, but he could already tell that the hated little men would receive the brunt of blame and punishments.
At the first morning bell, the elderly CHOAM president rose in front of the lectern. “During this time of upheaval, many terrible mistakes were made. Others were barely averted.”
Oddly, neither Baron Harkonnen nor even the official House Harkonnen ambassador was in attendance at the hearings. After the debacle on Arrakis, apparently the Baron had difficulty arranging passage off-world, and his twisted Mentat had disappeared from the Palace. Leto was sure the Harkonnens had had something to do with at least part of the turmoil.
Meanwhile, many rival families crouched here like vultures, hoping to feast upon the fat holdings of Arrakis, but Leto did not doubt that House Harkonnen would keep its fief— though barely. The Baron would be required to pay stiff fines, and had probably placed bribes in the right places.
There had already been enough upheavals in the Imperium.
For hours the preliminaries were read, with lawtech Mentats reciting long descriptions and summaries from the Imperial Law Code. The questions and charges were extensive. The audience began to grow bored.
Finally, Rhombur was called forward. The cyborg Prince stood in full Ixian military uniform with an officer’s cap on his scarred head. He took his position at the podium and locked his mechanical legs into place. “After many years of oppression, the Tleilaxu invaders are now gone from my world. We have achieved victory on Ix.”
The delegates applauded, though none of them had responded to Dominic Vernius’s requests for help years ago.
“I formally request a full reinstatement of Great House privileges for the Vernius family, who were forced by treachery to go renegade. If we are returned to our former role in the Imperium, every House here will benefit.”
“I second that!” Leto shouted from his seat at the main table.
“The throne approves,” Shaddam said loudly, unasked. He looked over at Ambassador Pilru, as if they had reached a prior agreement. When none of the other representatives raised any objection, the audience bellowed its approval, passing the measure by acclamation.
“So noted,” the CHOAM president said, not even bothering to ask for dissenting opinions or further discussion.
Rhombur’s scarred face managed a grin, though the restoration of House Vernius was a mere formality, since the Prince could never beget an heir. He raised his chin. “Before I leave the podium, I believe certain honors are in order.” Lifting a rack of colorful medals from the lectern, holding them up to the light, he said, “Would someone step up here and pin all of these on me, please?”
The audience laughed, a brief respite from the tension and tedium.
“Only a jest.” His face grew serious. “Duke Leto Atreides, my faithful friend.” Leto walked onto the stage, accompanied by thunderous applause. The rest of the Atreides delegation joined him: Duncan Idaho, Thufir Hawat, Gurney Halleck, and even Jessica, holding her baby.
While the Duke stood at attention, beaming with pride, Rhombur pinned a medal onto the Old Duke’s jacket, a swimming helix of precious metals, immersed within liquid crystal. He presented similar honors to the Atreides officers, as well as to the long-faithful Ambassador Cammar Pilru. The Ambassador also received a posthumous medal for his valiant son, C’tair Pilru, as well as for the Navigator D’murr, who had brought all the passengers of his lost Heighliner back to safety. Finally, Rhombur removed the last medal from the rack and looked at it, perplexed. “Did I forget someone?”
Leto took the gleaming award and pinned it on Rhombur’s own chest. Then, in the midst of a cheering din, the two men embraced.
From the podium, Leto gazed down at the Emperor. No ruler in the long history of the Imperium had ever suffered such an ignominious defeat. He wondered how Shaddam could possibly survive— but the alternatives were not clear-cut. After so many thousands of years, even political rivals would not lightly abandon stability in the Imperium, and no faction had clear support. Leto had no idea how the hearings would turn out.
Finally, Shaddam IV was called upon to speak in his own defense. The Landsraad Hall fell into uneasy murmurings. Chamberlain Ridondo directed an Imperial fanfare to play loudly enough to drown out their noise.
Showing no uncertainty, holding his head high, the Emperor of the Known Universe stood, but did not go to the podium. In a voice that was hoarse (probably from days of shouting at his staff), he delivered a scathing speech that blamed the Tleilaxu and his own father for developing the ill-fated artificial spice project. “I do not know why Elrood IX did business with such despicable men, but he was old. Many of you remember how volatile and irrational he became near the end of his life. I deeply regret that I did not discover his mistake sooner.”
Shaddam claimed he had never fully understood the ramifications and had assigned Sardaukar troops to Ix only to keep the peace. As soon as he learned of the existence of amal, he had sent his Imperial Spice Minister, Count Hasimir Fenring, to investigate— and Fenring had been held hostage. The Emperor hung his head in a too-careful expression of sorrow.
“The word of a Corrino must mean something, after all.” Shaddam said all the proper words, though few of the attendees looked as if they believed what he said. Delegates whispered among themselves and shook their heads. “Slippery as a greased slig,” Leto heard one of them say.
In spite of all the forces aligned against him, Shaddam remained a proud man. He stood on the shoulders of powerful, highly respected ancestor
s dating all the way back to the Battle of Corrin. His representatives at court had worked behind the scenes to salvage his position, and certain concessions would undoubtedly be granted.
Leto stared at the ceiling, his thoughts in turmoil. Old Paulus had always taught him that there were ugly necessities in politics.
Coming to a decision, the Duke spoke to the assemblage before returning to the main table, deviating slightly from the agenda. The CHOAM president frowned, but allowed him to have the floor. “Years ago, at my Trial by Forfeiture, Emperor Shaddam stepped forward and spoke on my behalf. I find it appropriate to return the favor at this time.”
Many members of the audience reacted with surprise.
“Hear me out. The Emperor, through his… ignorance, nearly brought ruin to the Imperium. However, if this assembly were to take rash countermeasures, this could bring even more turmoil and suffering. We must consider the good of the Imperium. We dare not degenerate into chaos, as our civilization did during the Interregnum centuries ago.”
Pausing, Leto locked eyes with the Emperor, whose expression betrayed warring emotions. “At this point, the Imperium needs stability more than anything else, or we face the very real risk of civil war. With wiser counsel and strict controls, I believe Shaddam can reassert his prudence and rule with benevolence.”
Leto stepped around the lectern. “Know this. We all owe many obligations to the Imperial House. Every family of the Landsraad must mourn the loss of Shaddam’s beloved wife Anirul— and I more than most, since the Great Lady gave her life to protect my newborn child, the heir to House Atreides.”
He raised his voice to be heard over the crowd. “I suggest that the Landsraad and the Guild select many new advisors to assist the Padishah Emperor in his rule from this day forward. Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV, do you formally agree to work with the chosen representatives, for the good of all people, of all worlds, of all holdings?”
The beaten ruler knew he had no choice. Rising to his feet, he replied, “I accept what is best for the Imperium. As always.” He stared at the floor, wishing he could be anywhere but there. “I pledge to cooperate fully and learn how to better serve my people.” He had to admit a certain grudging admiration for Duke Leto, but it irked him how this Atreides cousin had risen so far, while he, the Emperor of a Million Worlds, had been forced into this embarrassing position.
Duke Leto stepped to the edge of the platform, never removing his gaze from Shaddam, who stood alone in his private area. Leto yanked the jeweled ceremonial knife from his own belt. The Emperor’s eyes widened.
Leto flipped the knife around and extended it hilt-first to Shaddam. “More than two decades ago you gave this weapon to me, Sire. You supported me when I was falsely accused by the Tleilaxu. Now, I believe you have a greater need for it. Take it back, and rule wisely. Think of Atreides loyalty whenever you look at it.”
Grudgingly, Shaddam accepted the ceremonial weapon. My time will come again. I do not forget my enemies.
The secret worlds of the Bene Tleilax have long been the source of twisted Mentats. Their creations have always raised the question of which is more twisted, the Mentats or the source?
— Mentat Handbook
To the Baron Harkonnen, Giedi Prime was beautiful, even in comparison with spectacular Kaitain. Smoky skies turned the sunset into torchlight. The blocky buildings and dramatic statues gave the Harkonnen capital a solid, implacable appearance. The very air, with its odors of industry and crowded population, smelled comforting and familiar.
The Baron had never thought to see this place again.
Once the ominous Heighliners and the Emperor’s Sardaukar fleet had departed from Arrakis, the desert world had trembled liked a kangaroo mouse that had barely escaped a predator.
According to the official story from the Palace, the Emperor had merely been bluffing, and never actually intended to damage melange operations. The Baron was not entirely convinced of this, but decided not to speak his mind. Shaddam IV had taken extreme, ill-advised actions before, like a petulant child who did not know his limits.
Insanity!
In his damaged garrison capital, the Baron had slammed around in search of scapegoats; all of his Fremen house workers had mysteriously vanished. It had taken him weeks just to get transport back to civilization. Rabban— with a variety of excuses— hadn’t been too quick to send a frigate.
Shaken by the infuriating Landsraad scrutiny and censures, the uneasy nobleman had fled to Giedi Prime to lick his wounds. Though he had been forced to miss the drawn-out proceedings against the Emperor, he had sent Couriers and messages, expressing his outrage at Shaddam’s misguided threat to destroy all life on Arrakis— “in reaction to a few minor bookkeeping errors.” He was skilled at shadings of truth, at massaging information to make himself look the least culpable. As the de facto Harkonnen ambassador, Piter de Vries should have been on Kaitain to take care of such matters.
He would have to send gifts quietly to Kaitain and act humbled and repentant, hoping the politically hamstrung Emperor would choose not to lash out at House Harkonnen. The Baron would make amends and pay even more substantial bribes than he’d already expended, probably amounting to all of the spice he had managed to stockpile illegally.
But the twisted Mentat had vanished without even bothering to send a message. The Baron hated unreliability, especially in an expensive Mentat. During the turmoil following the siege of Arrakis, as well as the revolt on Ix, there must have been ample opportunity for de Vries to kill Duke Leto’s woman and their baby. Reports were guarded, but it seemed that, while there had been a brief scuffle shortly after the birth, the Atreides baby was safe and healthy.
The Baron wanted to wring de Vries’s neck, but the Mentat was nowhere to be found. Damn the man!
As darkness fell, the fat Harkonnen lord glided on suspensors back inside Harkonnen Keep. He had much to do in preparation for his own legal defense, should CHOAM pursue the matter of his “indiscretions.” He wanted to be ready, though he had spoken the words all the Imperium wanted to hear. “I assure you that melange production will continue, as always. The spice will flow.”
His nephew Rabban was no help at all when it came to record keeping and technicalities. The brute was proficient at bashing skulls together, but nothing that required finesse. Certainly his chosen nickname of “Beast” did little to foster the image of a judicious statesman or skilled diplomat.
In addition, expensive repairs were necessary to rebuild the infrastructure of Arrakis, especially the spaceports and communication systems damaged by the Guild embargo. It was all so hard to do by himself, and he seethed again, angry that his supposedly loyal Mentat was not there to serve him.
Cursing his misfortune, he returned to his private chamber, where slaves had laid out a banquet: succulent meat dishes, rich pastries, exotic fruits, and the Baron’s expensive kirana brandy. He paced, nibbled, and brooded.
Since being trapped in bleak Carthag for so many days, unable even to send a transmission or summon a Courier, he had felt desperate for the finer things in life. Now he liked to snack all day long, just to reassure himself. He licked frosting off his fingers.
His body was soft and perfumed, having been bathed by fine serving boys, oiled, and massaged, until finally his tensions were beginning to relax. He was exhausted and sore, weary from the pleasures in which he had immersed himself.
Rabban lumbered into the chamber unannounced. Feyd-Rautha toddled along beside his big brother, wearing an intelligent but mischievous expression on his cherubic face.
The Beast thought he and the Viscount Moritani had managed to cover up their bungled attack on Caladan. The Baron, though, had learned of it almost immediately, and had kept silent about it. The idea did indeed show a surprising amount of initiative, and might have worked, but he would never want to admit that to his nephew. The Beast seemed to have covered his tracks well enough to keep any fallout away from House Harkonnen, and so the Baron would keep silent and let his
nephew stew about it, worrying that he would be found out.
Now, Rabban shouted to two slaves who plodded along behind him. They carried a long, bulky package covered in bright wrapping and ribbons. “This way. The Baron will want to open it himself. Hurry up, you fools.” With a show of bravado, Rabban yanked the inkvine whip from a clip at his belt, and threatened to lash the slaves. Neither of the tall, bronze-skinned men flinched, though their arms and necks bore bright scars from previous whippings.
The Baron looked with disdain at the object, which appeared to be nearly two meters long. “What is this? I’m expecting no package.”
“A gift for you, Uncle, just arrived by Courier. There’s no marking on the outside.” He poked the wrapping with a blunt finger. “You’ll have to open it and see who it’s from.”
“I have no intention of opening it.” The Baron stepped back warily. “Has it been scanned for explosives?”
Rabban made a rude snort. “Of course. For all types of booby traps and poisons. We found nothing. It’s completely safe.”
“Then what is it?”
“We… couldn’t exactly determine that.”
The Baron took another small step backward, propelled by momentum and the assistance of his suspensors. He had not survived this long without a suspicious nature. “Open it for me, Rabban, but make sure Feyd remains well clear of you.” He had no intention of losing both heirs in one assassination attempt.
Rabban gave his little brother a small shove. Feyd stumbled toward the Baron, who snatched the child by the shirt collar and yanked him to safety. Rabban himself kept his distance from the package, and snapped to the two slaves. “You heard the Baron. Open it!”
Feyd-Rautha wanted to see what was inside and fussed when the Baron held him back. The slaves tore at the packaging. Since they were not allowed to hold knives or any sharp objects, they were forced to use their fingers to break the seals.
Remaining where he was, Rabban bellowed, “Well? What is it?”
Dune: House Corrino Page 56