Hawat recited from his Mentat knowledge, “The planet was named in the early days of the Imperium. It is not overly rich in resources, nor is it a harsh or difficult place. It is remarkably … average.”
“Perhaps the world’s name explains Duke Verdun’s ambition to add more worthwhile holdings to his House,” Leto pointed out. “That could work in our favor. I’ve met him. Our House is equivalent to his, except Verdun has a CHOAM Directorship—an unusually important one, apparently—that was grandfathered in from earlier days of prominence. Although House Atreides has no CHOAM Directorship of our own, perhaps he could help us push for one as our moonfish industry expands.”
The images showed a teenage blonde strolling through a garden, riding purebred horses, swimming laps in a large pool. According to the biographical report, the young woman was charming, musically talented, and performed volunteer work at a hospital.
“Bear in mind,” Hawat added, “some of this information may be slanted by Duke Verdun to make his daughter a more desirable marriage candidate. He does not know we are considering her for Paul, but he has made it plain he expects to use her for a solid marriage alliance.”
“And this was before Otorio,” Leto said.
They spent the next hour reviewing other young women Hawat had selected for consideration. Leto lost track of the number, but the Mentat had been thorough. Jessica added occasional comments and objections about which girls would be poor personal matches for Paul, deflecting some names but willing to accept most of them.
The meeting was interrupted when servers descended the cliff on the rail-lift to deliver a lunch Leto had arranged. When the food was certified free of poison and spread out—giant Caladan mussels in a seafood stew for the main course—the three of them sat around a small buffet table, sharing the meal while continuing to discuss candidates. They had gone through the dossier three times before they ate small pastries to finish the luncheon. After reviewing holo-reports and detailed supporting files, they kept coming back to Junu Verdun.
Finally, the Duke made his decision. “I will extend an offer to Duke Fausto Verdun and suggest that we formally begin discussions for a marriage alliance between our Houses. If our negotiations are satisfactory, we could announce a betrothal, with an extended time frame.”
“As you wish, m’Lord,” Hawat said.
Satisfied with the choice, Jessica looked at Leto. “Let me be the one to tell Paul.”
Thinking of the uneasiness the young man had shown recently, the tension of their discussion in the dining hall, Leto nodded. “He might find that reassuring.” He softened his voice. “At least he will be glad to know that I myself don’t plan to marry.”
Jessica gave him a resigned smile. “I can make him see the advantages of this Junu Verdun—at least for the sake of discussion.”
“It’s settled, then,” Leto said. He wished it could be different, that he could marry Jessica after all, and Paul could marry for love … and they would all live happily on Caladan.
I must stay the course, he thought, no matter how difficult it is.
We can manipulate others through granting a thing or withholding a thing … and knowing when to do both.
—IBBO VIPP, a philosopher of Ecaz
Dressed in a black Bene Gesserit robe, Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam accompanied the Emperor into the cavernous Landsraad Hall. An emergency meeting of nobles after the Otorio disaster had been called into session.
The stately chamber had never looked like this before, draped with black mourning banners from the walls and ceiling. Eighty-four painfully empty seats indicated the members killed in the most monstrous terrorist attack in modern history, and countless flowers symbolized the hundreds of family members and tens of thousands of support staff and locals also obliterated in the crash when the dump boxes crashed into Otorio.
After Shaddam took his ornate chair at the side of the stage, the Truthsayer seated herself on his right like a silent conscience. A dozen high-ranking Landsraad dignitaries filed in and took seats subordinate to the Emperor. They had gravely important roles in this emergency session, including elderly Speaker Tilson Xumba and even the dignified Ur-Director of CHOAM, Malina Aru, who rarely appeared in public. As the mother of the mastermind behind the Otorio massacre, Malina Aru faced a wave of anger and scorn. Nevertheless, showing remarkable bravery, or audacity, she had come to face the Landsraad in person. Mohiam was curious to hear how the Urdir would frame the situation.
She also feared the Landsraad nobles might tear Malina Aru limb from limb.
In initial statements, the Ur-Director had insisted that neither she nor the CHOAM Company had anything to do with Jaxson Aru’s fanatical act and denied any involvement in the Noble Commonwealth movement. Malina and her other son, Frankos, the CHOAM President, had publicly disavowed the violent actions. Mohiam could not analyze the Urdir’s written statement with truthsense, but she believed the woman’s claims. How could allowing such ruthless devastation possibly be in CHOAM’s best interests? Malina Aru had a sterling reputation, was a vocal supporter of the Imperium and its traditions, and surely wasn’t part of the resistance to bring it all down.
Gazing across the restless noble members in the long banks of seats, Mohiam noted faces that were red-eyed and shadowed with grief. So many close friends, associates, allies, and family members had been lost in the carnage—larger-than-life personalities and important voices that were now gone forever. Repercussions would continue throughout the Imperium for generations, and fundamental power shifts would occur.
Those eighty-four empty seats had to be filled, all at once, and ambitious nobles would be attracted like carrion birds to a fresh corpse.
As the simmering crowd settled, Speaker Xumba caught the eye of the Emperor, who nodded. The Speaker, a tall mahogany-skinned man of advanced years, walked slowly to the podium, where cones of light shone down on him. His eyes were red and moist, his expression downturned with grief.
He gripped the lectern and stood in silence, staring meaningfully at the empty seats as if reciting each individual name in his mind. No one made a sound. The Landsraad Hall had become like a graveyard for the noble dead.
Xumba gazed up at the ceiling, as if grasping for appropriate words for such a solemn occasion. “Funerals for our dead have been held, eulogies spoken, remembrances shared, and tears shed.” He wiped his cheeks. Mohiam detected sincerity in the Speaker’s words, genuine grief.
He waved an arm in a slow horizontal arc to indicate the empty seats, the vacuum left in the political landscape of the Imperium. “All those passionate voices silenced, dedicated noble rulers seeking to keep the Landsraad strong. How can we ever replace them? The Emperor will consider candidates for those positions, and soon, he will submit names to us for our review.”
Shaddam leaned to one side and whispered to Mohiam, “The balance of power has shifted, since so many of my allies were killed at Otorio. We will need to rectify that.”
She knew the truth of it. The Emperor’s closest loyalists had attended the gala celebration, while lesser sycophants, possibly even Noble Commonwealth sympathizers, had made excuses not to attend on Otorio. “So many seats, Sire. But you had a majority before, and you will arrange to install only true loyalists in their places. At a time like this, the Landsraad would not dream of weakening the Imperium further.”
Shaddam frowned at her. “Would they not? It seems the rebels might use our perceived weakness as an opportunity to fracture our very civilization.”
She considered. “I will use truthsense to vet any candidates and make sure that each one is truly loyal. You will reward your real allies, and leave the false ones out in the cold.”
“I like that approach.”
As Speaker Xumba finished his speech and stepped back, the Emperor rose in the weighty silence and took his place at the podium. He waited for the amplification fields to adjust. “This is a vital and serious matter. I will never forget my loyal comrades who were murdered at Ot
orio. Eighty-four of the finest, most loyal nobles. It will not be easy to replace such qualified, talented members, but my committee will work day and night. I will give due consideration to new candidates who can fulfill those tragically empty seats.”
A few members of the audience called out in support. One shouted, “Long live the Imperium!” Sitting quietly, Mohiam knew Shaddam would have preferred to hear “Long live the Emperor!”
Nevertheless, he accepted the praise. “Things will get better,” he promised. “Things will get much better.” Shaddam spoke for several minutes, naming the Landsraad members who had been lost, one by one in a solemn recitation, highlighting those with the most significant accomplishments. He ended with a vow. “We will find and punish the criminals responsible for this terrible attack. The violent nature of the Noble Commonwealth has been exposed for all to see. My Sardaukar will not rest until Jaxson Aru is brought to justice.” He basked in a thunderous standing ovation.
Mohiam felt tension in the air. Ur-Director Malina Aru would speak next, and Shaddam had just lit a funeral pyre for her.
An awkward, hushed ripple traveled through the room when the proud woman approached the speaking zone. She walked without shame, though muttered insults and accusations were hurled at her like sharp barbs. Malina Aru stepped up to address the noble families of those whom her son had murdered.
Without flinching, she waited for the angry undertone to subside. Many gave her only numb stares, silenced by their own disbelief. Mohiam could hear the underlying venom in the audience, though a few seemed slightly more sympathetic toward an innocent mother blindsided by her son’s crimes.
As a Bene Gesserit, Mohiam admired the Ur-Director for the power she held in CHOAM, although Malina’s work was far different from the Sisterhood’s. Few women ever achieved such prominent, visible power in the Imperium. Malina Aru had been brought in to salvage the less-competent administration of her husband, who had been quietly retired from his position. As Urdir, Malina’s record of CHOAM profits and influence was unimpeachable.
Today, though, the woman was not here for her business acumen but for an accounting of Jaxson’s terrible act.
At the podium, Malina Aru looked as if she wished she were somewhere else, anywhere else, and finally her strong, stoic expression cracked. She appeared uneasy—uncharacteristically so. From what Mohiam knew, the Urdir had always been extremely self-confident, sure of herself in life and business; when seen in public, she even carried herself with a certain swagger. Now Malina had something to say beyond her carefully worded written statement.
Facing the Landsraad, the Urdir’s posture slumped. With a visible effort, she gathered herself and turned to the side of the speaking zone, waiting. Three men in formal attire entered from the perimeter, and then another three from the opposite side, and another trio came from the front, each group bearing a large and impressive display of exotic flowers from all across the Imperium. They placed the lavish bouquets on the stage around Malina.
“These flowers are to honor the victims of the horrendous tragedy on Otorio, blossoms from the worlds that each fallen noble called home,” she said, then added steel to her voice. “No memorial can possibly make up for the loss of so many significant lives.”
The audience grumbled in dissatisfaction. Reverend Mother Mohiam knew that the Urdir needed to say more, or do something, to bring them around to her side.
Malina’s gesture activated a set of images. Holos of the dead Landsraad members shimmered throughout the audience in the great hall, appearing in their proper empty seats, like ghosts. The Reverend Mother was eerily reminded of the display Jaxson Aru had unleashed just before the impact from orbit.
The audience gasped in unison. Some members sobbed.
The holos did not move, mere projections of the dead, each one depicted in official Landsraad robes, sitting stiffly with hands clasped on their laps.
Malina continued, “I was not able to attend the gala on Otorio, and for that I have formally apologized to the Emperor. I survived, but only by happenstance. I did not know what my son intended to do.”
Some members wiped tears from their eyes, and waves of sobbing passed through the chamber. A few angry grumbles of disbelief rippled through the tiered seats.
Malina added an edge of real anger to her voice. “If I had known, I would have stopped him. I would have killed him if necessary! I denounce what Jaxson did. CHOAM does not support his actions in any way, nor do I … his mother.” She drew in a shuddering breath.
Reverend Mother Mohiam listened with her truthsense to analyze how much of this woman’s emotions were real and how much of her grief and indignation was manufactured. Surprisingly, she couldn’t entirely tell. The Ur-Director had remarkable control of herself.
“From my personal holdings, and by assent of the CHOAM board, we will donate a significant sum to help the noble houses harmed by my son’s reprehensible act, and also the families of the other victims, the commoners, the retainers, friends, and support staff. Not every casualty came from a wealthy House—countless workers helped build the Corrino museum and the Imperial Monolith. For their laudable achievements, CHOAM wishes to honor their memories.”
Polite applause went through the chamber, but did not last long. The audience was still resentful, still suspicious of her. Mohiam could read their mood.
Malina Aru faced them, letting shame descend upon her like a mourning cloak. “I find this difficult to say. Impossible to say. I know … I know … I gave birth to a monster.” Tears streamed down her face.
The audience fell silent, listening to her every word, watching her every movement and gesture.
“I renounce my son, sever all ties to him. Emperor Shaddam has declared him an outlaw, as do I. I grieve with you, but not for him. I hope never to see Jaxson again … except when he is brought to justice.”
She left the speaking zone to a stunned silence. The holoprojections of the dead Landsraad members remained for a few moments longer before they flickered out.
As Speaker Xumba closed the meeting, Mohiam pondered what Malina Aru had just said, trying to decide whether it was an incredibly brave act or merely a measure of self-preservation, designed to protect CHOAM. As Truthsayer, she had listened closely. The Urdir carefully shaded the truth, interweaving it with oblique falsehood, but Mohiam could not identify outright lies.
When the crowd dispersed, the Emperor lingered in the vast hall, engaged in conversation with several nobles who had rushed up to make their case for some of the now-vacant Landsraad holdings.
While Shaddam was preoccupied, a Bene Gesserit messenger slipped up to Mohiam, one of the trusted Sisters also assigned on Kaitain. Her words were carefully modulated so that only Mohiam could hear her. “Reverend Mother, you are summoned back to Wallach IX. It is an urgent matter regarding one of your former students. The message comes directly from Mother Superior Harishka. You must obey.”
Even though she was the Emperor’s Truthsayer, Mohiam responded to a secret, higher calling. “I must obey. Arrange immediate passage to the Mother School.”
In his developmental years, many people said of Paul Atreides that he was destined for greatness.
—Imperial histories
Paul enjoyed his training sessions with Duncan Idaho more than with any of his other instructors. Sometimes at the beginning of a session, the Swordmaster just gave him an intense look that told Paul it would be a tough and demanding workout.
Now he raised two large, heavy blades, one in each hand. “Today, young Master, we train with a different weapon. Broadswords.”
Paul frowned, knowing the weapon was unwieldy and inappropriate for someone of his small stature. “Not our usual type of swordplay.”
“All the more reason to train.” Duncan tested the broadsword, swishing it in the air. “This one is for you. It’s easier to handle, though longer than your arm. A good weapon to start with. Use your shield.”
“Ah,” Paul said, activating the controls at
his belt. “You want a larger weapon than mine because you are afraid of me.”
“Not unless you give me a reason to fear you.”
They fought with the overlarge two-handed swords and body shields, using traditional thrusts and parries, along with combat variations Duncan had learned on Ginaz. Paul also applied some of Gurney Halleck’s defensive tactics, which Duncan easily recognized.
During the practice fight, Duncan teased the young man by calling him Gurney, which distracted Paul and threw him off balance. In the heat of combat, he lost the nuances of what he’d been taught and instead resorted to instinctive fighting, relying on the quick footwork of his youth.
After a loud and vehement clash, Paul stepped back, panting. “So is it better to fight instinctively, as animals, or constrained by knowledge and rehearsed techniques, as humans often do? Natural versus the trained, animal versus human?”
Duncan raised his heavy sword, ready to fight again. “We are basically animals, so that’s our instinctive side. The other side, the human one, involves socialization, learning how to find our way in society and excel in our pursuits.” He sliced the air, pressed closer.
Paul parried, grunting with the effort of lifting his blade, and then Duncan paused. “We use learned fighting methods to overcome obstacles and danger,” the Swordmaster said. “Our human side is more polished and refined, an advantage over lower animal forms. We can call upon a larger arsenal of actions to remain dominant.” He nodded to himself, pretending to relax, but Paul could sense he was prepared to lunge. “Ultimately, the goal of our lives is to become as human as possible, to advance as far as we can.”
When Duncan suddenly sprang forward, Paul danced out of the way, and spun to face him with the broadsword raised. “On the other hand,” the young man said, “we can never abandon our primal ways, never allow our basic senses and inborn traits to atrophy.” Duncan swung hard, and Paul used his shield to slow and block the blow, then stepped away, hefting his own broadsword.
Dune: The Duke of Caladan Page 12
