Dune: The Duke of Caladan

by Brian Herbert

  Though the terrain around the terraced valley was mostly flat, a startling buttress of rock lurched out of the ground like a mountain in the middle of a wet plain. Before the trip, Paul had studied the geological anomaly with Dr. Wellington Yueh, the Suk doctor for House Atreides and one of his teachers. The Arondi Cliffs were two thousand meters high, sheer granite that looked as if a seismic knife had sliced half of a mountain away. Rubble lay around the base from rocks that continued to slough off.

  Paul pressed closer to the windowport. “I never expected it to be so big! That is enormous.”

  “Considered one of the most difficult and treacherous climbs on the planet. Much harder than the sea cliffs you ascend for sport.”

  “The sea cliffs are difficult, but I have mastered them, as well as the castle wall outside my balcony.” Paul studied the sheer rock face, tracing fault lines and imagining ascent routes. He looked at Duncan. “And you know I don’t just climb for sport. It teaches me skill, balance, concentration. It will help me escape from a trap if need be.”

  “You’ll hear no argument from me.” Duncan stared ahead through the cockpit. “See the Muadh village there at the base? It will provide a good enough view of the cliffs, for certain.”

  Well ahead of the more ponderous and showy Atreides processional frigate, Duncan circled above the village and landed in a flat clearing away from the cluster of dwellings. After the engines hummed down to a low throb, Paul climbed out and waved as the villagers came to greet them.

  Before long, the rest of the Atreides escort ships landed like a flock of mechanical birds while the main diplomatic craft approached. Even though this was a relatively brief expedition, the Atreides protocol ministers had made preparations as if it were a military invasion.

  Lieutenant Nupree and the Atreides guards fanned out for a quick security inspection of the Muadh village. When Nupree transmitted that the landing area was ready for the Duke, the stately ship lumbered in on suspensor engines. Paul knew the Duke’s formal processional barge was not all for show. With fast and powerful engines, it could streak away should danger arise.

  Paul had seen ducal processions and state ceremonies before. Right now, he was more impressed with the sheer rock wall of the Arondi Cliffs. He stared at the vertical expanse of stone, the cracks and lines of igneous hexagonal columns that rose high, like sharp-edged straws packed together.

  After his father disembarked from the larger craft, Paul and Duncan hurried to join them, but Paul kept staring at the cliff face, intrigued. Seeing his son’s fascination, Leto gave a wistful smile. “Ah, the Arondi Cliffs. Do you see all the rubble strewn at the base? If you look closely, you will find as many bones as rocks. Hundreds of climbers have attempted that insurmountable face. Fewer than fifty have successfully scaled it.”

  “I’m a good climber,” Paul said, reluctant to admit the danger he took upon himself even by climbing outside his castle window or on the sea cliffs.

  Leto’s face tightened. “Your abilities are superior, Paul, but this … no. When your grandfather was young, he made the attempt and had to turn back. The experience frightened even Paulus Atreides.”

  Paul knew many tales about the Old Duke. “From what I hear, my grandfather was so brave he laughed as the Salusan bull trampled him.”

  Leto took his son by the shoulder, turned him away from the cliffs. “There will be no climbing of that rock face. We have come here to meet these people, attend their ceremony, and make a good impression. Surely that is a difficult enough task for today.”

  * * *

  HURRYING TOWARD THEM from the village, Archvicar Torono arrived with several junior deacons. Crowds of rice farmers worked the fields for the day’s harvest, while their families had remained behind to prepare for the purification and centering ceremony.

  Although it was a normal routine for the locals, Paul was surrounded by a feast of new experiences. The villagers wore homespun clothes and had no extravagances, but he was struck by how calm and content they were. The Muadh were satisfied with their homes, families, and work. After all the hubbub in Castle Caladan, the astonishment and fear he had experienced when he learned about his father’s brush with death at Otorio … after the constant meetings, reports, political intrigues, and backstabbing Landsraad nobles, he was happy to see the quiet, self-contained lives of these farmers. Paul envied these people for knowing their exact place.

  While Duke Leto and Lady Jessica spent the afternoon meeting with village leaders, prominent rice farmers, and Archvicar Torono, Paul and Duncan explored the comfortable settlement. Lieutenant Nupree dispatched guard teams to lock down the village for security purposes. Though Nupree had expressed his desire to see the Arondi Cliffs, the man did not seem overly interested now that he was here. The lieutenant spent much of his time in quiet conversations with certain villagers. Paul wondered why.

  That evening, the villagers gathered in the central square and ate a meager meal, bland rice and squash from their gardens. The Archvicar apologized to Leto for the sparse hospitality. “It is traditional that we fast for the centering and purification ceremony, my Duke, avoiding most foods and beverages. The ritual is a difficult ordeal, yet also an immensely gratifying one. You will see.”

  “We honor your traditions,” Leto said. “Pundi rice and vegetables from Caladan soil make a fine enough feast for me.” He, Paul, and Jessica sat at a wooden table in the open, sharing bowls with villagers, after the Duke’s ministers verified each dish with poison snoopers. Attentive Atreides guards stood outside the feast, not eating. Lieutenant Nupree and the others would dine later in shifts.

  Archvicar Torono’s eyes shone, for he was enormously happy to have such important guests. “After tonight, you will understand us much better, Duke Leto.”

  “My Duke,” the people muttered, as if it were some kind of a chant and response.

  After darkness fell under the shadow of the Arondi Cliffs, anticipation built in the village. The rice farmers’ murmured conversation grew more animated. Paul looked all around, listening, concentrating.

  Jessica’s eyes sparkled. “Learn what you can, Paul. This is a new experience for all of us.”

  The people rose from their long tables and gathered in front of the rustic Muadh temple that rose higher than any village dwelling.

  Leto looked up at the stars sparkling overhead and spoke to Paul as they waited for the ritual to begin. “We are far from ocean mists and the glare of city lights. Look at all those stars. You can see the universe.”

  Deacons in rough-spun robes emerged from the temple carrying hand-woven baskets filled with dried brown organic material, little nubs that looked like bent, mummified fingers. Paul watched curiously, his senses alert.

  “Ailar unlocks our minds and hearts,” droned the Archvicar. “Ailar grants us peace and clarity. Ailar gives us energy. Ailar gives us calm.”

  The Muadh followers muttered something in a language Paul didn’t understand. Torono reached into the basket and held up one of the dried brown curls. “The barra fern grows wild in the forests north of here, very rare. Our village hunters comb the wilderness to harvest them at exactly the right time. A little sprig such as this…” The Archvicar held one of the brown objects between his thumb and forefinger. “Perfect potency.”

  With reverence, he extended the dried brown fern to Leto, who took it in his palm. Paul leaned closer, fascinated, but his father gave him a cautioning look. He turned the dry, airy object and let Paul hold it. The young man felt his fingers tingle, but that may have been his imagination.

  “We do not ask that you partake,” Torono said. “But observe and join us with your hearts.”

  Nupree stepped closer, accompanied by his guards. The tension rose in the air, but Paul was neither afraid, nor suspicious. He sensed no danger among these people.

  The woven baskets were passed around the crowd of reverent villagers, each person taking one of the shriveled brown curls. They nibbled the dry plant, savoring each tiny morsel. A
s they chewed, the rice farmers and their families began to hum, at first individually, then as the sound grew louder, they resonated, coordinating their voices.

  A shiver went down Paul’s back. He looked at his mother and father, saw Jessica memorizing details, while Leto stood with erect posture, observing. Paul felt the buzzing grow in the air, and the majesty of the ritual.

  The participating villagers sat cross-legged and close together on the ground, consuming the nubs of dried fern. More baskets were passed around. The people reached out to touch shoulders and arms, stroking adjacent faces as if in wonder and admiration. Their eyes and their smiles grew brighter.

  “Thus, we are unified,” said the Archvicar. “Thus, we are part of Caladan and the universe.”

  The humming became a background drone like that of summer insects. Paul felt sleepy, lulled into a sense of peace, and his eyelids drooped. The Muadh deacons returned the empty baskets to the temple and then came back outside, each one holding a bent brown fern, which they were the last to consume. They sat among the other followers who were already being affected by the ailar.

  In the back of his mind, Paul sensed a glow, as if he could join the clarity and celebration experienced by these people. He glanced at his father with a silent question, seeing many other teenagers, young men and women his own age, participating in the ritual.

  Leto shook his head and whispered, “No, we will not.”

  Paul accepted the decision and watched the others. The euphoria was thick in the air like mist on a cool morning.

  “These are my people,” Duke Leto said, then turned to Paul, “and they are your people, too.”

  Paul watched these villagers wrapped up in their own world, their own lives, and shared a measure of their satisfaction.

  In the universe of Imperial politics, it is necessary to take actions that are not made public. In fact, far more remains unseen than seen.

  —PADISHAH EMPEROR SHADDAM IV

  After flying low, beneath sensor records, Fenring landed his unmarked ’thopter at the designated coordinates, near a distinctive rock formation below the Shield Wall. Alone at the controls, he remained inside the cab as the craft clicked and cooled. Looking through the plaz screen, he scanned the rendezvous point, always alert for treachery. Although he expected to find none today, he never let down his guard.

  He’d been to this spot in a previous covert meeting with the smugglers, but he saw no one now. Still, he knew Esmar Tuek and his crew were watching him. It was a delicate dance of trust and suspicion. His interactions with these fringe people were valuable, and no one could know of his involvement.

  He continued waiting in the landed aircraft, knowing he was vulnerable. Fenring climbed out of the ’thopter and stood next to the insect-like craft. Warm, yellow sunlight reflected off the dusty fuselage. Finally, as he stared at the outcropping in front of him, a portion of the rock shifted to reveal an opening, a false front for their secret base, an electronically veiled entry. Three smugglers stood inside, wearing desert robes. They gestured for him.

  He followed them into the revealed rock cleft, and the guards opened a moisture-sealed door that led into the tunnels of the hidden base. Though the smugglers tried to lead, Fenring strode ahead, since he knew the way to Tuek’s office. He intended to move at his own pace. Fenring could only infer the size of this hidden base; in his previous meetings, he had seen only a few of the passageways.

  Esmar Tuek, the scar-faced leader of this smuggler band, waited for him in the rock-walled cave office. Gazing at his visitor with the deep blue eyes from a lifetime of melange, Tuek sat back at a metal desk with the demeanor of a king taking his throne. He signaled the others to leave. Fenring declined the offered chair across from him.

  Tuek scowled, heavy brows overhanging his eyes. The smuggler’s face had angles and planes, as if he were a creature carved out of Arrakeen stone. Though an outlaw, Tuek lived comfortably here with his cohorts, reaping extravagant profits from his illicit spice operations. “You said you have an important message, Count Fenring? My wife and son will join us. They are heavily involved in our work here.”

  “Hmmm, then they need to hear my report as well. It will affect all aspects of spice distribution from Arrakis, both through legal channels and the black market. Emperor Shaddam has instituted certain changes, after Otorio.”

  Rulla Tuek entered with a haughty toss of her head, accompanied by Esmar’s adult son, Staban. Fenring had met them before. Staban, perhaps thirty-five, had the thick eyebrows of his father and a similar craggy face. Esmar’s new wife, a dark-haired Fremen, was about the same age as his son. Inside the smuggler base, she wore an eclectic outfit that consisted of a colorful scarf, a feminine blouse of offworld design, and loose trousers such as were normally worn by a man. Here behind the moisture seals, she did not wear a stillsuit, and Fenring could see that she was obviously pregnant, her abdomen rounded. Perhaps seven months, he guessed.

  Esmar had once told Fenring privately that Rulla was vain about her appearance, one more way she pushed back against her Fremen traditions. Esmar would have preferred her to dress more conservatively as a woman of the desert, uncomfortable to have her so relaxed and even flirtatious around his rough smuggler crew. Esmar’s first wife, Staban’s mother, had been entirely different.

  He had married his ambitious second wife seven years ago, had given her gifts, wealth, and influence, and now Rulla was in charge of certain aspects of his smuggling operations, along with Staban. Through her Fremen contacts, she was especially adept at setting up spice caravans with domesticated kulons, selecting routes through the desert that were not harassed by territorial sandworms or by Harkonnen patrols.

  Rulla and Staban sat next to each other on a rock bench to the left of the metal desk. Fenring sensed tension between the woman and her husband and a well-concealed awkwardness with the son. The Count wanted to understand their personal complications, because they might affect his business relationships, but right now, he was here on the Emperor’s behalf.

  The smugglers would not like the news.

  “I bring tidings from Emperor Shaddam IV,” Fenring said. “There is a significant, hmmm-ahhh, change in policy that you will have to accept. And it will cost you. The Emperor has imposed a new spice surtax, which directs a much larger portion of all melange income to the Kaitain treasury.”

  The smuggler leader frowned. “We do not operate within Imperial rules. We have our own commercial network.”

  “That is the reason for our existence,” Rulla interjected. “We won’t pay any more.”

  Staban remained silent, listening.

  Fenring’s expression darkened. “You operate under a certain, hmmm-ahhh, understanding of the rules. Shaddam tolerates your activities, as do I. I can destroy all your operations with a single message to Kaitain—or to Carthag, if I decide to let the Baron take credit.”

  Esmar flinched. “We already pay a significant bribe to the Emperor! That was our agreement.”

  “And in return, he looks the other way. From now on, he has decreed that you will pay him more. All operations need to recognize and absorb the new spice surtax. Even smuggling operations. I will be keeping a close eye on you.”

  “Do these words come from the Emperor or from you, Count Fenring?” Rulla demanded in a tone that irritated him. “Will you pocket a part of the profits for yourself?”

  She seemed to realize he disliked her, but didn’t seem to care. Though he was a deadly assassin, the woman apparently felt protected here. But it was not wise to make an enemy of Count Hasimir Fenring, and he decided that Rulla would bear closer watching. He tamped down his indignant reaction. “It makes no difference. I speak for Shaddam.”

  Esmar shot his wife a sharp glance, then turned back to Fenring. “This will hamstring us. The Emperor needs to give us more leeway.”

  “The Emperor has made clear what he needs. So far I have convinced him it is in his best interest to ignore your operations, because I personally find y
ou useful—at times. But your freedom is merely an illusion.” He glanced pointedly from Esmar to his wife. “I can cancel your trading network whenever I wish.” Under his sharp gaze, Rulla looked away.

  “The smugglers perform a unique service for the Emperor,” Staban, the son, interjected. “We provide crucial information on the Harkonnen fief-holder, report whispers from the edges that even you did not know about.”

  Fenring smiled. “And because your information has proved valuable in the past, we are lenient with you, as a cost of doing business, although it greatly frustrates Baron Harkonnen.” He narrowed his gaze. “But there is a limit to what the Emperor will allow. Never forget that, and never try to take advantage of him, or of me. You will meet the additional surtax. I will require even more detailed and doubly verified accountings of all your production and shipments.”

  While Rulla glowered at him, keeping a hand on the curvature of her belly, Esmar gave a reluctant but deferential nod. “Is this surtax temporary? Our normal operations can resume when this crisis wanes?”

  “The tax will last only until it pays the deficit in Shaddam’s treasury after the expense of the Corrino museum and the expansion of his Sardaukar corps.”

  “How long will that be? When has a temporary tax ever remained temporary?” Rulla asked, sounding shrill. “What do the cost analyses and projections say?”

  “Hmmm-ahh, it will take as long as it needs to take.” He hardened his voice. “And the smugglers will pay what they need to pay.”

  He saw the remark hit home. Rulla looked fearful, for only a moment, but that was enough.