Dune: House Harkonnen

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  His demeanor didn’t soften. “What’s more important to you . . . your Sisters or me?”

  She shook her head in dismay. “You have no right to ask me such a thing. I’ve never given you any reason to feel I’ve been less than faithful to the crown.”

  Lifting her head proudly, Anirul reminded herself of her position in the long history of the Sisterhood. She would never admit to him that she had orders from the Bene Gesserit hierarchy never to give birth to a Corrino son. The wisdom of her Sisters echoed through her mind. Love weakens. It is dangerous, for it clouds reason and diverts us from our duties. It is an aberration, a disgrace, an unforgivable infraction. We cannot love.

  Anirul tried to divert Shaddam’s anger. “Accept your daughter, Sire, for she can be used to cement important political alliances. We should discuss her name. What do you think of Wensicia?”

  With sudden alarm she became aware of warm moisture on her inner thighs. Blood? Had the stitches broken? Red droplets were falling onto the carpet.

  Anirul saw him peering down at her feet. New rage consumed the Emperor’s features. “That carpet has been in my family for centuries!”

  Don’t show weakness. He’s an animal . . . will attack weakness and back down from strength. She turned slowly, allowing several more drops to fall, then staggered away. “Given the history of House Corrino, I am certain that blood has been spilled on it before.”

  It is said that there is nothing firm, nothing balanced, nothing durable in all the universe— that nothing remains in its original state, that each day, each hour, each moment, there is change.

  — Panoplia Propheticus of the Bene Gesserit

  On the rugged shore beneath Castle Caladan, a lone figure stood at the end of a long dock, profiled against the sea and the newly risen sun. He had a narrow, olive-skinned face with a high-bridged nose, giving him the look of a hawk.

  Out on the water, a fleet of fishing coracles was just departing, trailing wakes behind them. Men in heavy sweaters, coats, and knit hats scrambled about on the cluttered decks, preparing their gear for the day. In the village downshore, wisps of smoke rose above the chimneys. Locals called it “old town,” the site of the original settlement centuries before the elegant capital city and spaceport were built on the plain behind the Castle.

  Duke Leto Atreides, dressed casually in blue fishing dungarees and a white tunic with a red hawk crest, took a deep breath of invigorating salt air. Though he was master of House Atreides, representing Caladan to the Landsraad and the Emperor, Leto liked to rise early with the fishermen, many of whom he knew on a first-name basis. Sometimes they invited the Duke to their homes, and despite the objections of his Security Commander, Thufir Hawat, who trusted no one, he occasionally joined them for a fine meal of cioppino.

  The salt wind picked up, whipping the sea into dancing whitecaps. He wished he could accompany the men, but his responsibilities were too great here. And there were matters of importance beyond his world as well; he owed allegiance to the Imperium as well as the people he ruled, and he found himself thrust into the middle of great things.

  The shocking murder of an Ecazi diplomat by a Grumman ambassador was no small matter, even on distant Arrakis, but Viscount Moritani didn’t seem to care about public opinion. Already the Great Houses were calling for Imperial intervention in order to avoid a larger conflict. The day before, Leto had sent his own message to the Landsraad Council on Kaitain, volunteering his services as a mediator.

  He was only twenty-six years old, but a veteran of a decade at the helm of a Great House. He attributed his success to the fact that he had never lost touch with his roots. For that, he could thank his late father, Paulus. Ostensibly, the Old Duke had been an unpretentious man who mixed with his people, just as Duke Leto did now. But his father must have known— though he’d never admitted it to Leto— that this was also a good political tactic, one that endeared the Duke to his people. The requirements of the office made for a complex mixture; sometimes Leto couldn’t tell where his personal and official personas began and left off.

  Shortly after being thrust into his responsibilities, Leto Atreides had stunned the Landsraad with his dramatic Trial by Forfeiture, a bold gamble to escape being framed for an attack on two Tleilaxu ships inside a Guild Heighliner. Leto’s gambit had impressed many of the Great Houses, and he’d even received a congratulatory letter from Hundro Moritani, the puckish and unlikeable Viscount of Grumman, who often refused to cooperate— or even participate— in matters of the Imperium. The Viscount said he admired Leto’s “brash flouting of the rules,” proving that “leadership is made by strong men with strong convictions, not clerks who study commas on lawslates.” Leto wasn’t entirely sure that Moritani believed in his innocence; instead, he thought the Viscount simply enjoyed seeing Duke Atreides get away unpunished, against such insurmountable odds.

  On the other side of the dispute, Leto had a connection to House Ecaz as well. The Old Duke, his father, had been one of the great heroes in the Ecazi Revolt, battling beside Dominic Vernius to overthrow violent secessionists and defend the Landsraad-sanctioned rulers of the forested world. Paulus Atreides himself had stood beside the grateful young Archduke Armand Ecaz during the victory ceremony that restored him to the Mahogany Throne. Somewhere among the Old Duke’s possessions lay the Chain of Bravery that Armand Ecaz had placed around Paulus’s thick neck. And the lawyers who had represented Leto during his Landsraad trial had come from the Ecazi region of Elacca.

  Since he was respected by both parties in the feud, Leto thought he might make them see a way to peace. Politics! His father had always taught him to be careful to consider the whole picture, from the tiniest to the largest elements.

  From his tunic pocket Leto brought out a voicescriber and dictated a letter to his cousin, Shaddam IV, congratulating him on the joyous birth of another child. The message would be sent by official Courier on the next Guild Heighliner departing for Kaitain.

  When Leto could no longer hear the putt-putting of the fishing boats, he hiked up the steep zigzag path that led to the top of the cliff.

  • • •

  He shared a breakfast in the courtyard with twenty-year-old Duncan Idaho. The round-faced young man wore a green-and-black Atreides trooper uniform. His wiry dark hair had been cropped short, out of his eyes for vigorous weapons training. Thufir Hawat had spent a lot of time with him, proclaiming him to be a particularly skilled student. But Duncan had already reached the limits of what the warrior Mentat could teach him.

  As a boy, he had escaped from Harkonnen bondage to Castle Caladan, where he’d thrown himself upon the mercy of the Old Duke. As he grew up, Duncan remained one of the most loyal members of the Atreides household, and certainly the best weapons trainee. Longtime military allies of House Atreides, the Swordmasters of Ginaz had recently granted Duncan Idaho admission into their renowned academy.

  “I will be sorry to see you go, Duncan,” Leto told him. “Eight years is a long time. . . .”

  Duncan sat straight, showing no fear. “But when I return, my Duke, I will be better able to serve you in all ways. I’ll still be young, and no one will dare threaten you.”

  “Oh, they’ll still threaten me, Duncan. Make no mistake about that.”

  The young man paused before giving him a thin, hard smile. “Then they will be making the mistake. Not me.” He lifted a slice of paradan melon to his mouth, took a bite of the yellow fruit, and wiped away the salty juice that ran down his chin. “I am going to miss these melons. Barracks food can’t compare.” He cut his portion into smaller sections.

  Bougainvillea vines trailed up the stone walls around them, but it was still winter and the plants were flowerless. With unseasonable warmth and predictions of an early spring, though, buds had already begun to appear on trees. Leto gave a contented sigh. “I’ve seen no more beautiful place in all the vast reaches of the Imperium than Caladan in the spring.”

  “Certainly, Giedi Prime can’t compare.” Duncan raise
d his guard, uneasy to see how relaxed and content Leto appeared. “We must remain constantly on the alert, my Duke, not permitting the slightest weakness. Never forget the ancient feud between Atreides and Harkonnen.”

  “Now you sound like Thufir.” Leto scooped up a sweet mouthful of his pundi rice pudding. “I’m sure there is no finer man than you in the service of the Atreides, Duncan. But I fear we may be creating a monster in sending you away for eight years of training. What will you be when you return?”

  Pride infused the young man’s deeply set blue-green eyes. “I will be a Swordmaster of the Ginaz.”

  For a long moment, Leto thought of the extreme dangers at the school. Nearly a third of all students died during training. Duncan had laughed off the statistics, saying he had already survived far worse odds against the Harkonnens. And he was right.

  “I know you will succeed,” Leto said. He felt a thickness in his throat, a deep sadness at letting Duncan go. “But you must never forget compassion. No matter what you learn, don’t come back here with the attitude that you’re better than other men.”

  “I won’t, my Duke.”

  Leto reached under the table and brought out a long, thin parcel and passed it across the table. “This is why I asked you to join me for breakfast.”

  Surprised, Duncan opened it and removed an ornately carved ceremonial sword. He gripped the inlaid rope pattern of the pommel. “The Old Duke’s sword! You’re lending it to me?”

  “Giving it to you, my friend. Remember when I found you in the weapons hall, just after my father died in the bullring? You had taken this sword from the display rack. It was nearly as tall as you were then, but now you’ve grown into it.”

  Duncan could find no words to thank him.

  Leto looked the young man up and down, appraising him. “I believe if my father had lived to see the man you’ve become, he might have given it to you himself. You’re grown now, Duncan Idaho— worthy of a Duke’s sword.”

  “Good morning,” a cheerful voice said. Prince Rhombur Vernius sauntered into the courtyard, still bleary-eyed but dressed. The fire-jewel ring on his right hand gleamed in stray sunlight. His sister Kailea walked beside him, her coppery hair held back by a golden clasp. Rhombur glanced from the sword to the tears brimming in Duncan’s eyes. “What’s going on here?”

  “Giving Duncan a going-away present.”

  Rhombur whistled. “Pretty fancy for a stableboy.”

  “Perhaps the gift is too much,” Duncan said, looking at Duke Leto. He stared at the sword, then glared at Rhombur. “I’ll never work in the stables again, though, Prince Vernius. The next time you see me I’ll be a Swordmaster.”

  “The sword is yours, Duncan,” Leto said in his firmest tone, one he had copied from his father. “There will be no further discussion of the matter.”

  “As you wish, my Duke.” Duncan bowed. “I beg to be excused, to prepare for my trip.” The young man strode across the courtyard.

  Rhombur and Kailea sat at the table, where their breakfast plates had been set up. Kailea smiled at Leto, but not in her customary warm fashion. For years, the pair had been tiptoeing around romantic involvement, with the Duke unwilling to get any closer because of political concerns, his need to wed the daughter of a powerful Great House. His reasons were strictly those his father had drilled into him, a Duke’s responsibility to the people of Caladan. Only once had Leto and Kailea held hands; he had never even kissed her.

  Lowering her voice, Kailea said, “Your father’s sword, Leto? Was that really necessary? It’s so valuable.”

  “But only an object, Kailea. It means more to Duncan than to me. I don’t need a sword to retain fond memories of my father.” Then Leto noted the blond stubble on his friend’s face, which made Rhombur look more like a fisherman than a Prince. “When was the last time you shaved?”

  “Vermilion hells! What difference does it make how I look?” He took a drink of cidrit juice, puckered his lips at the tartness. “It’s not as if I have anything important to do.”

  Kailea, eating quickly and quietly, studied her brother. She had penetrating green eyes; her catlike mouth was turned down in disapproval.

  As Leto looked across the table at Rhombur, he noted that his friend’s face still retained a childlike roundness, but the brown eyes were no longer bright. Instead they revealed deep sadness over the loss of his home, the murder of his mother, the disappearance of his father. Now only he and his sister remained of their once-great family.

  “Makes no difference, I suppose,” Leto said. “We have no affairs of state to conduct today, no trips to glorious Kaitain. In fact, you may as well stop bathing altogether.” Leto stirred his bowl of pundi rice pudding, then his voice became uncharacteristically sharp. “Nonetheless, you remain a member of my court— and one of my most trusted advisors. By now, I’d hoped you might develop a plan to regain your lost holdings and position.”

  As a constant reminder of the glory days of Ix, when House Vernius had ruled the machine world before the Tleilaxu takeover, Rhombur still wore the purple-and-copper helix on the collar of every shirt. Leto noted that the shirt Rhombur wore was badly wrinkled and needed to be washed.

  “Leto, if I had any idea what to do, I would jump on the next Heighliner and try.” He looked flustered. “The Tleilaxu have sealed Ix behind impenetrable barricades. Do you want Thufir Hawat to send in more spies? The first three never found their way underground to the cavern city, and the last two vanished without a trace.” He tapped his fingers together. “I just have to hope the loyal Ixians are fighting from within and will soon overthrow the invaders. I expect everything will turn out all right.”

  “My friend, the optimist,” Leto said.

  Kailea scowled at her breakfast and finally spoke up. “It’s been a dozen years, Rhombur. How long does it take for everything to magically fix itself?”

  Uncomfortable, her brother tried to change the subject. “Have you heard that Shaddam’s wife just gave birth to their third daughter?”

  Kailea snorted. “Knowing Shaddam, I’ll bet he’s none too pleased that it wasn’t a male heir.”

  Leto refused to accept such negative thoughts. “He’s probably ecstatic, Kailea. Besides, his wife still has many childbearing years left.” He turned to Rhombur. “Which makes me think, old friend—you should take a wife.”

  “To keep me clean and make sure I shave?”

  “To begin your House again, perhaps. To continue the Vernius bloodline with an heir in exile.”

  Kailea almost said something, seemed to have second thoughts. She finished a melon, nibbled on a piece of toast. Presently she rose and excused herself from the table.

  During the long silence, tears glistened on the lower lids of the Ixian Prince’s eyes, then rolled down his cheeks. Embarrassed, he wiped them away. “Yes. I’ve been thinking about that myself. How did you know?”

  “You’ve told me so more than once, after we’ve shared two or three bottles of wine.”

  “The whole thing is a crazy idea. My House is dead, and Ix is in the hands of fanatics.”

  “So, start a new House Minor on Caladan, a new family trade. We could look over the list of industries and see what’s needed. Kailea has plenty of business sense. I’ll provide the resources you need to get established.”

  Rhombur allowed himself a bittersweet laugh. “My fortunes will always remain closely allied with yours, Duke Leto Atreides. No, I’d better remain here to watch your backside, making sure you don’t give the whole Castle away.”

  Leto nodded without smiling, and they clasped hands in the half handshake of the Imperium.

  Nature commits no errors; right and wrong are human categories.

  — PARDOT KYNES,

  Arrakis Lectures

  Monotonous days. The three-man Harkonnen patrol cruised over the golden swells of dunes along a thousand-kilometer flight path. In the unrelenting desert landscape, even a puff of dust caused excitement.

  The troopers flew thei
r armored ornithopter in a long circle, skirting mountains, then curving south over great pans and flatlands. Glossu Rabban, the Baron’s nephew and temporary governor of Arrakis, had ordered them to fly regularly, to be seen—to show the squalid settlements that Harkonnens were watching. Always.

  Kiel, the sidegunner, considered the assignment a license to hunt any Fremen found wandering near legitimate spice-harvesting operations. What made those dirty wanderers think they could trespass on Harkonnen lands without permission from the district office in Carthag? But few Fremen were ever caught abroad in daylight, and the task had grown dull.

  Garan flew the ’thopter, rising up and dipping down to catch thermals, as if operating an amusement ride. He maintained a stoic expression, though occasionally a grin stole across his lips as the craft bucked and jostled in rough air. As they completed their fifth day on patrol, he continued to mark discrepancies on topographical maps, muttering in disgust each time he found another mistake. These were the worst charts he had ever used.

  In the back passenger compartment sat Josten, recently transferred from Giedi Prime. Accustomed to industrial facilities, gray skies, and dirty buildings, Josten gazed out over the sandy wastelands, studying hypnotic dune patterns. He spotted the knot of dust off to the south, deep in the open Funeral Plain. “What’s that? Spice-harvesting operation?”

  “Not a chance,” the sidegunner Kiel said. “Harvesters shoot a plume like a cone into the air, straight and thin.”

  “Too low for a dust devil. Too small.” With a shrug, Garan jerked the ’thopter controls and soared toward the low, reddish-brown cloud. “Let’s take a look.” After so many tedious days, they would have gone out of their way to investigate a large rock sticking out of the sand. . . .

  When they reached the site, they found no tracks, no machinery, no sign of human presence— and yet acres of desert looked devastated. A mottled rust color stained the sands a darker ocher, as if blood from a wound had dried in the hot sun.