Dune: The Duke of Caladan

by Brian Herbert

  The man cleared his throat and recited, “His Excellency, the Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV awaits you at a special reception in the Imperial Monolith. Come with me.” The official seemed surprised that Leto wasn’t swooning with delight. “Now.”

  History is a tool to be used, a weapon to be wielded. The past must conform to the needs of the Imperium, otherwise an Emperor has failed utterly in his duty.

  —EMPEROR FONDIL III, THE HUNTER, “Private Guidance on the Expansion of Imperial Archives on Kaitain”

  From the top floor of the Monolith, Shaddam IV placed his hands behind his back and drank in the glorious Corrino complex as if it were a fine vintage. He turned to the vulpine-faced man beside him with a satisfied smile. “The people look so small from up here, Hasimir.”

  Count Hasimir Fenring raised his expressive eyebrows as he joined Shaddam in surveying the spectacular plazas and monuments. “So you like to look down on people, hmmm-mmm?” He had a nasal voice, and his sentences often ended with some annoying vocal mannerism.

  The plaz window was as transparent as air. The gleaming slivers of many noble spacecraft rested on the nearby field adjacent to the central plaza. “I like to observe my subjects from an objective distance. This vantage gives me a unique perspective.”

  Shaddam marveled at the towering statues of his Corrino forebears. They looked like titans arrayed in the city. Once word spread, Otorio would become a destination for countless travelers. Armies of tourists would stream here to pay their respects and pour money into the planetary treasury—and hence, into the Corrino coffers. Soon, the Spacing Guild might even offer direct Heighliner routes from Kaitain.

  “We brought civilization to this unremarkable place,” the Emperor said. Light-headed with satisfaction, he hummed deep in his throat, then stopped himself as he realized it was the same annoying noise that Fenring often made. “We did a great thing here.”

  Small-statured but with deceptive strength and considerable acumen, Fenring was the Emperor’s boyhood friend and still his most respected adviser on complex and confidential matters. Fenring held one of the most influential positions in Shaddam’s government, Imperial Spice Observer on Arrakis. An unattractive man with exaggerated facial features, the Count styled himself in expensive garments: an overlarge frilled collar, cuffs buttoned up with thick blue jewels. His fingers were nimble and fidgety, adorned with gold and platinum rings.

  “Yes, hmmm, I am glad I rediscovered this planet, Sire, though I still have questions about why it remained a cipher for so long.” Fenring’s nostrils narrowed as he sniffed. “I am still investigating. My guess is that Otorio was not accidentally misplaced in the records. The local inhabitants were, ahh, reticent to provide information. They’re either ignorant about Otorio’s previous rulers, or they are complicit.”

  Shaddam didn’t care. “It is irrelevant now. Otorio will forever be known as the site of the Grand Corrino Museum.”

  By happy coincidence, an eccentric Mentat—actually, the failed Mentat Grix Dardik—had stumbled upon a misfiled mention of the planet Otorio in old Imperial records. The inhabitants of the unnoticed planet did not have so much as a House Minor lord to represent them in the Landsraad. They had no contact with the wider politics of the Imperium, had not participated in any census, nor had they paid Imperial taxes for generations. Dardik had reported the discovery to Count Fenring, the only person who had the patience to keep him around, and Fenring had in turn shown it to Shaddam. With the stroke of his ornate Imperial pen, the Emperor had annexed Otorio and chosen it as the site for his fabulous museum.

  With a swirl of diamondweave skirts, a damask corset, and a blouse embroidered with bloodfibers, the new Empress Aricatha approached the two men, slipping between them at the broad viewing window. “Shaddam, my Lord.” She gave him a sweet, sincere smile.

  Aricatha was his sixth and newest wife—very new after the death of the disappointing, drab Firenza Thorvald, who had been a mediocre political match and a very poor spouse. The lovely Aricatha still had the shine of a fresh marriage, and Shaddam accepted her conjugal company more often than he visited his concubines.

  Her full lips were painted a deep maroon, and her teeth were perfect and even, like fine pearls. “You are being a poor host, my dear. Come away from the window. These people have traveled here at your command specifically to see you.”

  “They came here to be seen by me.” He glanced at the crowds milling in the penthouse reception chamber. “I can observe them just as well from here.”

  Fenring let out a snicker. “Shaddam has a point, my lovely Empress, but so do you, mmmm-ahh? Sire, we can scheme and plot any time. Perhaps we should let you be respected and adored today. It doesn’t happen often, hmmm?”

  Shaddam’s brow wrinkled. “You insult me at your peril, Hasimir.”

  “It is good for a man to hear the truth, if only occasionally. I offer frankness, but only when no one else is in earshot.”

  “But I could hear you, Count Fenring,” the Empress said with a musical chuckle. “Don’t worry, I will tell no one. We are all united in doing what is best for the Imperium.”

  Fenring and Shaddam were both surprised by Aricatha’s bold statement. She was indeed a stunning woman with blue-black hair that drank in the light, smooth skin the color of caramels, and large eyes like jet and obsidian. She provided charming company when Shaddam wanted it and was wise enough to avoid him when he wished to be left alone. Fenring watched her carefully and had cautioned Shaddam that she might be manipulating him in many ways. He once remarked, “She plays you not like a musical instrument, Sire, but like an entire orchestra.”

  Shaddam put little stock in the concerns, believing himself above any manipulation. Considering the pleasurable sensations Aricatha evoked when she played her fingers across his skin, he had no complaint.

  Now at the gala, the Empress slipped her arm through his, and Shaddam escorted her across the expansive reception area, which filled the entire top floor of the Imperial Monolith. She led him to the center of the room, as if she meant to put him on display.

  The metal doors of the accelerated lift opened to spill out a flock of noble guests in colorful finery with prominent Landsraad crests. Only those invited to this special reception were allowed to ride the elevator that shot them in seconds to the top of the Monolith.

  Since Fenring did not much care for public appearances, Shaddam was not surprised to watch the Count melt away into the hubbub as the nobles around him chattered on.

  The guests stared at the impressive exhibits and display cases, while servants wandered about with trays of drinks and exotic delicacies. Upon spotting the Emperor, the nobles lit up, having practiced their awe and respect for hours before meeting him in person. They came forward in a rush, but Aricatha intercepted the guests in order to introduce them one by one, somehow remembering their names and Houses. Shaddam flashed his wife a thankful glance, impressed by her social skill. The nobles beamed, pleased to be recognized by the beautiful new Empress, if not by the Padishah Emperor himself.

  A crisply uniformed Sardaukar officer stepped up, exuding strength and competence. Shaddam gave the man his attention, grateful for the distraction. “Something to report, Colonel Bashar Kolona?”

  The officer spoke in a calm, efficient whisper. “Every guest has been vetted to the fullest of our ability, Sire. Enjoy the reception in comfort. You are safe.”

  With so much security around him, so many Imperial troops in the city, it had never occurred to Shaddam that he wasn’t safe. He dismissed the officer, then turned to the next person who had come to pay his respects.

  Shaddam recognized him even without an introduction from the Empress. “Archduke Armand Ecaz.” He extended a hand, then awkwardly let it drop at the sight of the Archduke’s empty sleeve pinned across his chest, a reminder that the man’s arm had been cut off in the bloody assassination attempt at his daughter’s ill-fated wedding with Duke Leto Atreides. “You have had a peaceful and productive year?
Is that how long it’s been since…?” The Emperor could not take his eyes from the empty sleeve.

  “One year, one month, and an odd number of days, Sire,” said the Archduke, who looked as if he had aged much more than a year since Shaddam last saw him in person.

  The Emperor cleared his throat and tried to sound reassuring. “It was indeed a terrible crime, but all the troubles with Grumman are now over. Not even the most distant relative of House Moritani has been invited here.”

  “There is no more House Moritani, Sire. That has been taken care of,” the Archduke said. “I thank you and the Imperium for granting me their planet as an Ecazi holding, though that world has little to offer except maintenance.”

  Shaddam clucked his tongue. “Any planet added to House Ecaz increases your standing in the Landsraad, does it not?”

  “It does, Sire,” the Archduke admitted, but he did not sound entirely pleased. “You have my gratitude.”

  Shaddam saw other nobles standing a few steps away, impatiently waiting to bask in his Imperial presence. He needed to move on. “We shall see about finding some other underutilized planet to add to your control. My Imperium has a million worlds, and many of them have gone unnoticed.” He spread his hands. “Like Otorio, for instance. The people here had no ruling noble house for centuries. If there are similar planets, a nobleman like yourself could put them to good use for the benefit of the Imperium.”

  Ecaz bowed, but did not smile. “As the code says, the first responsibility of a noble is to the Landsraad and to the Imperium.” He drifted away, and Shaddam felt disappointed by the interaction. Most nobles would have been overjoyed at the offer of another planetary holding. Perhaps he should find someone more appreciative.

  Noble after noble approached, and Shaddam endured as the afternoon waned into the rich colors of sunset. The accelerated elevator delivered another batch of guests, then another.

  Returning, Count Fenring insinuated himself into the clustered nobles as if he had been greased. Catching Shaddam’s eye, he made one of the special hand signs they had developed as boyhood friends. This one told the Emperor he had something important to convey.

  “Excuse me,” Shaddam said to a waiting noble. “I’ll be right back. A matter of governance has come to my attention.” He slipped over to the Count, and they found a place where they could talk in a bubble of privacy.

  “After studying the list of arrivals, I am perplexed by a pattern of missing guests,” Fenring said in a low tone. “CHOAM President Frankos Aru publicly accepted your invitation, but as far as we can tell, he remains at the Silver Needle on Kaitain.” His pale brow wrinkled. “His mother, Ur-Director Malina Aru, did not respond at all. For an event of such significance, we expected her to make one of her rare public appearances—to benefit CHOAM, if nothing else.”

  The Combine Honnete Ober Advancer Mercantiles, or the CHOAM Company, was a gigantic monopoly encompassing all forms of commerce across the Imperium. Their widespread business dealings were secretive and subtle, and most people in the Imperium never noticed the extent of their influence.

  Shaddam brushed aside Fenring’s observation. “This sort of historical spectacle is not in CHOAM’s usual repertoire. Everyone here wants to be seen and noticed, and you know that CHOAM prefers to remain in the shadows.”

  Fenring grudgingly nodded. He tapped his chin with a long finger. “After rediscovering Otorio, I dug deeper and uncovered further strings tied to strings tied to a whole intricate web. It is my suspicion, hmmm-ahh, that this particular world was intentionally kept off the books to hide it from you and many Emperors before you. Perhaps by someone connected to CHOAM.”

  Shaddam felt his face flush. “Everything is connected to CHOAM. Otorio is mine now, and if someone wishes to state an objection, they are welcome to do so. I will speak to the Urdir myself if she is brave enough to show her face.”

  The Emperor saw that some impatient nobles were attempting to eavesdrop.

  Shaddam nudged the Count and watched the Empress valiantly try to distract the guests. “For now, let me enjoy my moment, Hasimir. We will deal with complications and political unpleasantries later.” He turned to the crowd, opened his arms expansively, and muttered, “I must meet these sycophants and give them what they need.”

  Fenring kept his voice low. “Do not consider them all sycophants, Sire. Some are worth noting … as enemies or potential allies.”

  The engraved metal doors of the accelerated lift opened. The first noble to step out was dressed in a green-and-black cape with a hawk insignia on his chest. His gray eyes met the Emperor’s, and he gave a nod of acknowledgment. Shaddam knew this man well.

  Duke Leto Atreides.

  The ability to survive is the ability to face and overcome unexpected dangers.

  —Bene Gesserit axiom

  Baron Vladimir Harkonnen had never considered himself fat, though others had called him that—at great personal risk, if he ever found out. He was a large man, a very large man, and sheer size implied power.

  Because of his demeanor and reputation, people could not avoid being intimidated by the Baron. When he moved through a chamber or corridor, buoyed up by suspensors, everyone moved out of his path, even the high officials of other noble houses. Perhaps one day, given the proper circumstances, a Harkonnen might even occupy the Golden Lion Throne. Someday.

  That person would not be his crude and unpolished nephew Glossu Rabban. No, that was inconceivable. Rabban’s younger brother, however … Feyd-Rautha, such a lovely boy. He was a definite possibility to wear Imperial robes.

  The Baron kept this at the front of his mind as he prepared to depart Arrakis for Shaddam’s gala celebration on some backwater world. It was good to be seen in the Imperial presence.

  Wearing his suspensor belt, the Baron glided with ungainly grace through a dusty tunnel beneath the city of Carthag on his secret way to the spaceport. His departure would not be announced, and he expected no one to stop him. Before receiving the ostentatious invitation, the Baron had never even heard of the planet Otorio.

  Khaki-uniformed guards jogged ahead, with personal attendants beside and behind him. Members of his entourage moved large trunks of the Baron’s clothing for the expedition offworld. He had left the Harkonnen mansion in the fortified core of his capital, and would catch a shuttle to a waiting Guild Heighliner.

  The Baron wore a long, black overcoat with a blue griffin on the lapel, the symbol of House Harkonnen. He felt the gentle airflow of cooling fans within his voluminous garment. He wiped perspiration and grit from his fleshy face, looking forward to when he could be comfortable again aboard the shuttle.

  This desert world was called “Dune” by the natives, a weak nickname, although they uttered the word as if it had spiritual or mystical meaning. He preferred the Imperial name of Arrakis, which sounded more crisp and proper, a thing that could be known and controlled. Arrakis was an unpleasant place, though, dirty and dusty, unlike the sweet, civilized odors of his homeworld, Giedi Prime. But as the sole source of the vital spice melange, Arrakis was an extremely profitable fief, and the Baron could tolerate the discomforts by remembering how many solaris it earned for the Harkonnen treasury.

  A diligent attendant sprayed mist in front of him as he moved down the illuminated tunnel. He inhaled the moist air, motioned for the attendant to add more. Refreshed, the Baron proceeded, and attendants alternated mists to help him breathe. The secret tunnel seemed to go on for miles, but at least it kept him unseen.

  Finally, the tunnel sloped upward to where it ended at a set of double doors. The Spacing Guild set its own rigid schedules, and he did not want the Heighliner to depart without him.

  Before emerging into the open air, the Baron took a welcome sip from the moisture tube beside his mouth. His entourage hurried him across a short distance of furnace-hot hardpan and aboard the waiting shuttle. Once inside the posh private compartment, attendants removed his outer clothing, and the Baron relaxed in the coolness at last.


  Rabban filled the doorway, thick-boned and fleshy. “We are ready to take off, my lord Baron. I am your pilot today.” His nephew was overly proud of his ability.

  “Get on with it. The Padishah Emperor awaits.”

  The burly man whirled to cover his flushed expression and left.

  * * *

  WHEN HE REACHED the piloting deck, Rabban waved at a scanner to enter the cockpit. The panel flashed orange, refusing to grant him access, and the door remained locked.

  To his shock, he felt the deck vibrate as the engines activated—without him! The shuttle was preparing to take off! He pounded on the door with his beefy hands and threw his entire body weight against the barrier. The metal shuddered, but the door did not open.

  Hearing the commotion, two Harkonnen guards rushed to help as the shuttle lifted off from the Carthag spaceport. The big men, all armed with blades and shield belts, slammed into the door together, finally breaching the seal. The barricade gave inward with a great crashing noise.

  Inside the piloting compartment, Rabban was shocked to discover several desert people in dusty tan cloaks, outnumbering the Harkonnens. A lean woman had commandeered the shuttle controls, guiding the ship in its liftoff. She slashed a glance at Rabban, shouted a command to her companions in their gibberish language. These were far different from the downtrodden city people in Carthag. They had a fire in their blue-tinted eyes, a hardness that came from the deep desert. Local spice workers? Maybe even the mysterious Fremen?

  A swarthy man lunged at Rabban with a curved knife. He stabbed but missed when Rabban slipped out of the way and activated his personal shield in a single gesture. Other desert fighters rushed toward him, each with a deadly blade in one hand and a primitive Maula pistol in the other. His Harkonnen guards drew their own weapons, ready to fight in the close quarters.