Dune: The Duke of Caladan

by Brian Herbert

  He had barely sketched out a few unsatisfactory lines before Leto himself entered the hall. When Paul looked up and saw him, he slid the paper aside to conceal what he was doing.

  Leto frowned. “Secrets between us, son?”

  “No secrets. I was writing you a letter. I thought it would be best to be logical and judicious about my words.”

  Leto at first seemed amused, then noted his son’s seriousness. “Oh? And the subject?”

  “I would rather write it out, choose my phrasing, but—” He inhaled a deep breath. “I might as well get it off my chest right now.”

  “This sounds serious.” Leto took his customary seat, placed his elbows and hands on the table, and regarded Paul as if he were an important diplomatic visitor.

  Wrestling with his thoughts, the young man expressed his uncertainty, his concerns for himself, his future, and the future of House Atreides, and his mother. After a brief pause, while Leto listened intently, he also revealed his fear—and anger—at how close he had come to losing his father. Duke Leto had indeed escaped, by mere good fortune, but the brush with death had chilled Paul to the core.

  Leto did not interrupt. When Paul had said everything that was on his mind, sure that it must be a jumbled, irrational mess, he finished by saying, “That’s what I wanted to write in the letter.” His hands and voice shook with the passion of his emotions, and he tried to compose himself using Bene Gesserit techniques, but it did not work well.

  Leto considered his response for a long moment. “You are my son and heir, Paul, and everyone knows it. Your opinion is valuable to me, but Imperial politics place certain obligations on a person of my station.”

  A ball of ice formed in the pit of Paul’s stomach. What was his father saying?

  Leto continued, “You have studied history and politics, the Landsraad code, the Great Convention, the rules of conflict and alliances between houses. House Atreides is a Great House, but not a particularly powerful one, and that is fine with me. My peers in the Landsraad accept me well enough, but after the Otorio massacre, I fear that a large part of our social fabric could shift, maybe even unravel. We are facing a time of turmoil, and many conditions may change.”

  Paul felt his cheeks grow hot, wondering if his father was once again considering a political marriage, which would shift his role and that of his mother. Assailed by unaccustomed insecurity, the young man rose to his feet, not wanting to hear any justifications his father might offer.

  “If you will excuse me, sir. I’ll return to my room to reflect on what you said.” He tried not to let Leto see his distress, but could not hide it. “I will do my best to understand.”

  I have faced the most extreme conflicting loyalties. And I made my decision.

  —LADY JESSICA

  The next morning, Paul faced off against both Duncan and Gurney in shield fighting. They put him through more than the customary exercises, attacking from two directions in one lesson. As always, his trainers fought to their utmost and expected Paul to do the same.

  “A real assassin would show you no mercy, lad,” Gurney said, striking harder.

  Wiping sweat from his brow with his free hand, Duncan was especially complimentary of Paul’s technique. “Excellent work today. You’re close to passing a threshold that’s been holding you back. For two months, you’ve been at a plateau in personal combat, and we need to push you beyond it. Even if it takes two of us.”

  “Aye, a true statement,” Gurney said. “I saw the same thing. There’s something … more about you now.”

  Paul beamed, glad that they had noticed. “I practiced a couple of specific techniques over and over, just as both of you taught me to do.” His mother had also been quietly teaching him Bene Gesserit skills, helping him master muscular control beyond any ability Duncan or Gurney possessed. He grinned at his two opponents now. “Every aspect makes me a better fighter. Learn each method slowly and get it right before moving on to the next.”

  Gurney laughed, a deep roar. “So now you think you’re in charge of these lessons and not us? You decide when you move on, and when you hang back?”

  “Ah, but if I’m doing what you tell me to do, doesn’t that mean you’re still in charge of me?” Paul asked.

  “And a slippery lad you are, fighting with both words and blades.”

  Though it was designed to prepare him for life-or-death encounters, Paul enjoyed his training, was proud of his progress. But he did not let himself grow overconfident, because each stage of improvement only pointed to some higher rung he needed to reach. Always more to learn, always more to know.

  The trio clasped arms as they did at the end of a particularly good session, then parted. Paul showered and changed into a simple tunic and trousers, then went back to his quarters, which were like a museum of his young life—sports and fencing equipment, an assortment of projectile weapons, framed images of his parents and Paul on his fourteenth birthday the previous month.

  He stood at the center bank of windows and gazed out on the Caladan Sea, which stretched to the horizon. Looking down the sheer cliff beneath his window, he saw the white spray of surf hitting the rocks. Out on the waves, fishing boats bounced around in the whitecaps. An ornithopter buzzed overhead on its security patrol, like one of the scout craft Thufir Hawat liked to fly, keeping watch over House Atreides.

  The thought of the Mentat teacher and his frequent admonishments made Paul suddenly self-conscious. Thufir insisted that he never sit or stand with his back to a door. Situational awareness. As part of this, the young man always knew where doors were, where threats could arise, what direction a potential assassin might use, and what Paul’s escape routes were. His room had a second door that led to his private bedchamber, where he could take refuge in an attack. He had even practiced escaping through the balcony door and climbing down the castle wall, or up to other balconies.

  He turned to face the closed door with one hand on a dagger at his waist. He’d heard a small noise out in the corridor, but at the sound of a soft knock, a familiar knock, he let himself relax. “Enter, Mother.”

  Jessica opened the door and stepped through. She looked regal with her bronze hair secured in a formal wrap with a blue sapphire pin on the front. It had been a gift from Duke Leto on a special occasion. Her expression was serious, concerned. “I heard you and your father having a tense conversation yesterday. I sensed the uneasiness in your words, maybe more than he did. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Paul looked at her for a long moment. She was also one of his teachers. Thanks to her lessons, he could adjust his breathing, his pulse, his reflexes. Jessica was far more advanced than he was, could even control her metabolism, alter some of her biochemical processes.

  He had tried to use those Sisterhood techniques to steady his own doubts, but he had not entirely succeeded. He was disappointed in himself, though he refused to admit it to her.

  Jessica saw his expression, recognized the Atreides pride not unlike that which she often saw in Leto. She stood before Paul now, saw that he was hurt, trying to show her support. She wanted to reach out and hug him, but held back. “You still seem distressed, but if you don’t want me here—”

  “I didn’t say that.” He smiled a little. “I’m still processing.”

  She touched his arm. “Will you talk about it?”

  He disengaged. “I always appreciate your concern for me.”

  “My love for you,” she corrected him.

  “I already talked with my father about my future and his plans for House Atreides.” He turned to the window. “But he is the Duke.” That single phrase raised, and answered, so many questions.

  She moved to his side and stood gazing out at the ocean with him. Jessica understood Paul’s pride, his streak of independence. She watched him, but did not pamper him. Leto would not want his son to seem weak. Paul was finding out who he was, growing up and breaking free of his parents. It was a normal process.

  With all her Bene Gesserit responsib
ilities and training, Jessica had stepped into a role here far more complex than she had ever anticipated. Though she still had unbreakable ties to the Sisterhood, she had become a vital part of House Atreides, a true companion to Leto. But her most important job was to be a mother to Paul. The Sisterhood, however, might disagree.…

  She considered all the Bene Gesserit around the Imperium, the Sisterhood’s unspoken but widespread agenda, how they watched noble houses and pulled the strings of government. Even though Jessica had been raised in the Mother School, she was not power hungry. She was content, even happy, as the bound concubine of Leto Atreides and the mother of Paul. She had found love, despite Bene Gesserit warnings against emotions. The Sisterhood’s paramount command was to put the order above her personal interests. Jessica was doing both, walking a fine line and succeeding.

  She gazed sidelong at her teenage son and thought of his potential. When Paul was just a child, she’d often watched him at play, but now he had turned to more serious pursuits, training to become the next Duke of Caladan. No longer a boy, but not quite a man, either. She wished he could enjoy what little freedom and innocence he might still have. He had no friends his age, no flirtations or dalliances with local girls. At least he had Gurney Halleck and Duncan Idaho as his trainers, protectors, and friends.

  She said, calm and firm, “As the Duke’s son, you must decide and define your role, your identity. How will you handle yourself?”

  As he stared out to sea, he showed no sign that he’d heard her. Jessica could see he was deep in thought. Silently, she slipped out of the room.

  * * *

  DISTURBED AFTER THE previous night’s unexpectedly weighty conversation with his son, Leto consulted Thufir Hawat. The warrior Mentat had been Leto’s own mentor and trainer when he was young. Hawat had just returned from copiloting a patrol aircraft on its rounds, verifying that House Atreides security was being performed to his satisfaction.

  The two met in the Atreides family museum, a small collection of valuable artifacts that was open to the public twice a month. Earlier in the morning, a burglar had been arrested by Hawat’s guards, caught trying to steal one of the first Atreides hawks, a small metal sculpture several centuries old. The very attempt had exposed an unusual lapse in watchfulness, which concerned Leto more than the attempted robbery. The old Mentat quickly vowed to review all household patrols and external security measures.

  Leto was distracted by his racing thoughts, though. “I am certain you will get to the bottom of it, Thufir.” After the conversation with Paul, he had finally come to a decision. He remained silent for a moment, and then because Hawat was such a close personal friend, he brought up the other matter that had been troubling him.

  “My son is concerned about his role in House Atreides, his future as my heir.” He inhaled. “And he is correct to worry. Two years ago, everything was thrown into doubt when I agreed to marry Ilesa Ecaz. His stability vanished, and he’s never forgotten. If I ever formally married, a legitimate heir would call his own succession into question. Now, after the attack on Otorio, there will be much upheaval in the Landsraad, and many more marriage alliances will be available—and required.” He shook his head. “Though I have asked the Emperor for nothing, I’ve had to publicly keep my options open, at the expense of my son and the woman I love, I fear.”

  “Politics change,” Hawat said. “Someday a wedding to another House might become necessary.”

  “But what about the people I am hurting?”

  Hawat drew his heavy eyebrows together. “It is a political reality, my Lord, and all you can do is diminish the damage. Show Paul and Jessica the love they seek, but hold your ground. Lady Jessica is fully aware of this fact. As is Paul.”

  Leto looked up at him. “I do not intend to set Jessica aside. If a marriage alliance is required, we must bow to political necessity, at least for appearances’ sake. But I have another solution.”

  Hawat straightened, intrigued.

  “Paul is now fourteen,” Leto said. “If the Landsraad demands that House Atreides consider a marriage alliance, then let us approach the matter from a different direction, one that will at least keep them talking and distracted.”

  “How can I help, my Lord?”

  “I want you to research and suggest candidates for a possible marriage to Paul.”

  Masks and uniforms cannot hide all the secrets of our past.

  —COLONEL BASHAR JOPATI KOLONA, private journal

  Standing beside the Golden Lion Throne while the Emperor held court, the Sardaukar commander remained motionless. He could not allow outsiders to see that he was simmering and alert for danger.

  Colonel Bashar Jopati Kolona had been at Otorio and investigated Duke Leto’s warning of suspicious activity. He himself had ensured the evacuation of the Emperor and his immediate retinue. He would never allow such a threat to happen again.

  Now Landsraad nobles came forward into the Imperial audience chamber to express their concern for their beloved Shaddam IV, making certain they were noticed and remembered. They mourned all those killed in Jaxson Aru’s heinous attack, but the Sardaukar guard could tell that every one of these people also had their eyes on the empty seats, vacant holdings, and wealth that might be up for grabs.…

  For most of his life, Jopati Kolona had watched how Imperial politics shaded reality, changed the recording of history, and swept disfavored noble families into obscurity. Jopati’s own Great House had been overthrown many years ago in a scheme concocted by Emperor Elrood and Duke Paulus Atreides, an act of treachery that the man would never forget or forgive.

  Shaddam’s father had somehow convinced, or blackmailed, Paulus Atreides to launch a surprise attack on the House Kolona homeworld of Borhees, killing some of Jopati’s family members, driving the young man, along with his father and brothers, into hiding. Eventually, Duke Paulus had tracked down the guerilla fighters, with—Jopati knew now—the secret aid of Imperial Sardaukar disguised in Atreides uniforms. Young Jopati Kolona and his brothers had been captured, then exiled to the prison planet of Salusa Secundus, where they were recruited and trained as Sardaukar themselves.

  After a lifetime in the ruthless military corps, the colonel bashar had no remaining House, but he did not forget. He had excelled among the Sardaukar, rose to become an officer, and now served directly at the Emperor’s side. He was loyal, but always remembered that his family had been wiped out, their holdings stripped away. It left him with perpetual dark feelings, an enmity that he concealed from everyone.

  The people who had committed that terrible betrayal were gone, dead for years, but House Atreides and House Corrino remained. On the other hand, the colonel bashar could not forget how young Duke Leto Atreides had surprised him with an unexpected act of generosity and honor.…

  * * *

  EXHAUSTED AFTER HOLDING court for hours, Emperor Shaddam retired to his quarters to rest and ponder. He had not slept well since the Otorio mess, wrestling with his many possible responses and reactions—if only he knew where to strike. He had appointed several commissions to dig deeper into the Noble Commonwealth movement, to uproot further sedition. Was Jaxson Aru just an impetuous lone wolf with a personal grudge? How widespread was this supposed uprising whose goal was to end millennia of Corrino rule?

  Empress Aricatha went about her own activities to discuss the remodeling progress with a construction crew supervisor in the north wing of the palace. Though Shaddam wanted to mount a dramatic response to the rebels—wherever they might be—his wife insisted that the work of the Imperium must continue for the sake of appearances. She even advised downplaying the disaster on “that minor planet.”

  In his plush apartments, Shaddam reclined on a daybed, propping himself up on pillows, but knowing he wouldn’t sleep. So many problems! He realized he was not well liked among the nobles. Much of the Landsraad would even applaud the breakup of the Imperium, but he could not believe they would engage in an outright civil war, as Jaxson Aru advocated.

/>   He had noted the names of the most outspoken nobles, but Fenring advised—and was probably correct—that the loudest ones were likely the least problematic. The quiet, insidious traitors would cause far more damage.

  He had a complete list of those who had come to his celebration on Otorio, and none of them could have known what Jaxson intended to do. It would have been suicide. Conversely, he knew which noble families had made excuses and chosen not to attend. For now, Shaddam had no hard evidence that all those families had actively joined the rebel movement. Only suspicions.

  Fenring had helped him compile a list of those he considered loyal, as well as a maddeningly large group of those who remained ambivalent—nobles poised to go in either direction. Could anyone be a bystander in a civil war? Shaddam would watch them closely, having his associates note every move they made, every word they said. After the massacre on Otorio, there were many Landsraad seats to fill, and he needed to choose the right people.

  As expected, he did not sleep, but managed to rest a little. Ever since ascending to the Golden Lion Throne, he’d had so many worries. Shaddam recalled how he had longed to become Emperor, all those years of waiting and scheming, how he and Fenring initiated the long, slow poisoning of Elrood. And now this.…

  He stepped out onto a north balcony from which he could look across the expansive garden courtyard. He saw his lovely wife speaking with the construction supervisor accompanied by lanky Chamberlain Ridondo and Aix Nibs, a small, feisty man responsible for monitoring the remodel. Nibs always carried a rubber truncheon with him to emphasize his decisions.

  Aricatha and Ridondo both had offices in the wing where the remodeling was taking place, and the two often met, even shared meals as they discussed long-term plans for the Imperial Palace. Shaddam knew their friendship was entirely innocent; he’d sent investigators to make certain of that. He was glad, hoping his sixth wife would last longer than the others. Aricatha had a way about her.…