His own marriage to Frieth had turned out well enough. He had a fine son, whom he had groomed to take over his work one day. Kynes smiled at Liet— whose name came from, he suddenly remembered, the assassin Uliet, whom Heinar and the elders had sent to kill him, back when the Fremen had considered him an outsider, a stranger with frightful dreams and ways.
But that assassin had seen the grandeur of the Planetologist’s vision and had fallen on his own crysknife. The Fremen saw omens in everything, and ever since, Pardot Kynes had been provided with the resources of ten million Fremen at his beck and call. Dune’s reshaping— the plantings and the reclamation of the desert— had proceeded at a remarkable pace.
As the couple stood in front of the assemblage, with Liet gazing upon his bride longingly, Pardot felt disturbed at the fixity of his son’s attention, the opening of the young man’s already-wounded heart. He loved his son in a different way, as an extension of himself. Pardot Kynes wanted Liet to assume the mantle of Planetologist when it was time to pass it on.
Unlike his father, Liet seemed too vulnerable to emotions. Pardot loved his wife well enough, as she performed her traditional role as a Fremen companion, but his work was more important than the marital relationship. He had been captivated by dreams and ideas; he felt the passion for restoring this planet to a lush Eden. But he had never been engulfed by a single person.
Naib Heinar performed the ceremony himself, since the old Sayyadina had been unable to travel across the sands. As Kynes listened to the young couple speaking their vows to each other, he felt a strange pall settle over this wedding . . . a heavy worry about his son’s mind-set.
Liet: “Satisfy Me as to Thine eyes, and I will satisfy Thee as to Thy heart.”
Faroula’s answer: “Satisfy Me as to Thy feet, and I will satisfy Thee as to Thy hands.”
“Satisfy Me as to Thy sleeping, and I will satisfy Thee as to Thy waking.”
And she completed the spoken prayer. “Satisfy Me as to Thy desire, and I will satisfy Thee as to Thy need.”
With two sinewy hands, Heinar grasped the palms of the bride and groom, holding them together and raising them up so the entire sietch could see. “You are now united in the Water.”
A subdued cheer rose, which grew in intensity until it became heartfelt, happy, and welcoming. Both Liet and Faroula looked relieved. . . .
• • •
Later, after the celebration, Pardot came to see his son alone in a passageway. Awkwardly, he clasped Liet’s shoulders in the semblance of a hug. “I’m so happy for you, my son.” He struggled for the proper words. “You must be filled with joy. You have wanted that girl for a long time, haven’t you?”
He grinned, but Liet’s eyes flashed with anger, as if the elder Kynes had just struck him an unfair blow. “Why do you torment me, Father? Haven’t you done enough already?”
Baffled, Pardot stepped back and released his son’s shoulders. “What do you mean? I’m congratulating you on your wedding. Is she not the woman you’ve always wanted to be with? I thought—”
“Not like this! How can I be happy with this shadow hanging over us? Perhaps it will go away in a few years, but for now I feel too much pain.”
“Liet, my son?”
Pardot’s expression must have told Liet all he needed to know. “You don’t understand a thing, do you, Father? The great Umma Kynes.” He laughed bitterly. “With your plantings, and your dunes, and your weather stations, and your climate maps. You are so blind, I pity you.”
The Planetologist’s mind reeled as he tried to place the angry words into some grid of meaning, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. “Warrick . . . your friend.” Then he stopped. “He died accidentally, didn’t he, in the storm?”
“Father, you missed it all.” Liet hung his head. “I am proud of your dreams for Dune. But you see our entire world as an experiment, just a test bed where you play with theories, where you collect data. Don’t you see, these aren’t experiments? These aren’t test subjects— these are people. These are the Fremen. They have taken you in, given you a life, given you a son. I am Fremen.”
“Well, so am I.” Pardot’s tone was indignant.
In a husky tone so low that no one else could hear, Liet said, “You’re just using them!”
Pardot, startled, didn’t respond.
Liet’s voice rose in pitch and volume. He knew the Fremen would hear portions of this argument and would be disturbed at the friction between their prophet and his heir. “You’ve spoken to me all my life, Father. When I recall our conversations, though, I only remember you reciting reports from botanical stations and discussing new phases of adapted plant life. Have you ever said a thing about my mother? Have you ever talked to me as a father rather than as a . . . colleague?”
Liet pounded his own chest. “I do feel your dream. I do see the wonders you’ve brought in hidden corners of the desert. I do understand the potential that lies beneath the sands of Dune. But even when you do accomplish everything you wish . . . will you bother to notice? Try to put a human face on your plans and see who will reap the benefits of your efforts. Look at the face of a child. Look into the eyes of an old woman. Live your life, Father!”
Helpless, Pardot sagged onto a bench against a curved rock wall. “I . . . I’ve meant well,” he said, his voice thick in his throat. His eyes brimmed with tears of shame and confusion as he looked at his son. “You are truly my successor. At times I’ve wondered if you would ever learn enough about planetology . . . but now I see I was wrong. You understand more things than I can ever know.”
Liet sank onto the bench beside his father. Hesitantly the Planetologist reached over and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, more meaningfully this time. In turn, Liet reached up to touch the hand, and looked with Fremen amazement at the tears pouring down his father’s cheeks.
“You are truly my successor as Imperial Planetologist,” Pardot said. “You understand my dream— but with you, it will be even greater, because you have a heart as well as a vision.”
Good leadership is largely invisible. When everything runs smoothly, no one notices a Duke’s work. That is why he must give the people something to cheer, something to talk about, something to remember.
— DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES
Kailea saw her chance during an interminable family dinner in the grand banquet hall of Castle Caladan. Looking happy, black-haired Leto sat in the ducal chair at the head of the long table while household servants delivered tureens of a spicy fish stew commonly enjoyed by the lower classes of fishermen and villagers.
Leto ate with gusto, savoring the crude dish. Perhaps it reminded him of his childhood running loose on the docks, jumping aboard fishing boats, and avoiding his studies on the leadership of a Great House. As far as Kailea was concerned, Old Duke Paulus had allowed his only heir to spend too much time with commoners and their petty concerns, and not enough time learning political nuances. It was clear to her that Duke Leto had never understood how to run his household and deal with the disparate forces of the Guild, CHOAM, the Emperor, and the Landsraad.
Beside his father, Victor sat on a thickly cushioned chair, raised so that he could eat at the same level. The dark-haired boy slurped his soup, imitating his father while Leto did his best to outdo the six-year-old in making noise. With her elegant background, it especially displeased Kailea how her son tried to copy his father’s rough edges. Someday, when the boy became the true Atreides heir and Kailea was regent, she would train him properly so that he might appreciate the obligations of his birthright. Victor would have the best of both House Atreides and House Vernius.
Around the table, the others tore hunks from loaves of bread and drank bitter Caladan ale, though Kailea knew there were plenty of fine wines in the cellar. Laughter and casual conversation drifted, but she didn’t participate and instead picked at her food. Several seats away, Gurney Halleck had brought his new baliset to the table and would entertain them during dessert. Because this man had been close
to the father neither Kailea nor her brother had known, she felt pleased to have him there . . . despite the fact that Gurney had not been overly friendly toward her.
Sitting across from her, Rhombur seemed perfectly content with his concubine Tessia, and with trying to best Leto in the quantity of fish stew he could consume. In his own chair, Thufir Hawat sat deep in concentration, studying the people around the table, neglecting his meal. The Mentat’s gaze slid from face to face, and Kailea tried to avoid eye contact.
Halfway down the table sat Jessica, as if to demonstrate that they were equals in the ducal household. The nerve of that woman! Kailea wanted to strangle her. The attractive Bene Gesserit ate with measured movements, so assured in her position that she exhibited no self-consciousness. She saw Jessica pause and study Leto’s face, as if able to read every nuance of expression as easily as words imprinted on a shigawire spool.
This evening Leto had called them all to eat together, though Kailea could think of no special occasion, anniversary, or holiday he meant to celebrate. She suspected the Duke had thought up some wild and inadvisable scheme, one he’d insist upon completing no matter what advice she or anyone else gave him.
Glowglobes hovered above the table like decorations, surrounding the articulated arms of the poison snooper that drifted high above their food, like a hovering insect. The snooper was a necessary device, given the twisted politics of Landsraad feuds.
Leto finished his large bowl of stew and dabbed his mouth with an embroidered linen napkin. He leaned back in the hand-carved ducal chair with a contented sigh. Victor did the same on the high cushions of his own seat; he had finished barely a third of the stew in his small bowl. Having already decided what song to play after dinner, Gurney Halleck looked over at his nine-string baliset leaning against the wall.
Kailea watched Leto’s gray eyes, how his gaze drifted from one end of the banquet hall to the other, from the portrait of Paulus Atreides to the mounted bull’s-head, its rack of horns still stained with blood. She didn’t know what the Duke was thinking, but as she looked across the table, the witchling Jessica met her gaze with green eyes, as if she understood what Leto was about to do. Kailea turned away, frowning.
When Leto stood up, Kailea drew a deep sigh. He was about to engage in one of his interminable ducal speeches, trying to inspire them about all the good things in their lives. But if life was so good, why had both of her parents been murdered? Why did she and her brother, the heirs of a Great House, remain in exile, rather than enjoying what should have been theirs?
Two servants hurried forward to remove the soup dishes and leftover bread, but Leto waved them away so that he might speak uninterrupted. “Next week is the twentieth anniversary of the bullfight in which my father was killed.” He looked up at the matador portrait. “Consequently, I’ve been thinking of the grand entertainments Duke Paulus performed for his subjects. They loved my father for that, and I think it’s about time I created a worthy spectacle, as would be expected from a Duke of Caladan.”
Instantly, Hawat raised his guard. “What is it you intend, my Duke?”
“Nothing so dangerous as a bullfight, Thufir.” Leto grinned down at Victor, then over at Rhombur. “But I want to do something the people will talk about for a long time to come. I’m leaving soon for the Landsraad Council on Kaitain, to begin a new diplomatic mission in the Moritani-Ecazi conflict, especially now that we might be forming a much stronger alliance with Ecaz.”
He paused for a moment, appearing embarrassed. “As a grand send-off, I’m going to take our largest skyclipper on a magnificent procession across the lowlands. My people can look up and see the banners and the colorful airship— and wish their Duke well in his mission. We’ll pass above the fishing flotillas, and then inland over the pundi rice farms.”
Victor clapped his hands, while Gurney nodded in approval. “Ho! It will be a marvelous sight.”
Leaning his elbows on the table, Rhombur rested his square chin in his hands. “Uh, Leto, isn’t Duncan Idaho returning soon from Ginaz? Will you be away when he arrives? Or can we combine his homecoming with the same celebration?”
Pondering this, Leto shook his head. “I haven’t heard anything in some time. We don’t expect him for a couple of months yet.”
Gurney thumped a hand on the table. “Gods below! If he’s coming to us as a Swordmaster of Ginaz after eight long years of training, the man deserves a reception of his own, don’t you think?”
Leto laughed. “Indeed, Gurney! Plenty of time for that when I return. With you, Thufir, and Duncan bearing swords for me, I need never fear a scratch from an enemy.”
“There are other ways an enemy can strike, my Lord,” Jessica said with a low warning in her voice.
Kailea stiffened, but Leto didn’t notice. Instead he looked at the witch. “I’m fully aware of that.”
Already, wheels were turning in Kailea’s mind. At the conclusion of the meal she excused herself and went to tell Chiara what Leto planned to do.
• • •
That night Leto slept on a cot in a hangar of the Cala Municipal Spaceport, while his household staff went about making preparations for the gala event, delivering announcements and gathering supplies. Within a few days the sail-enhanced skyclipper would begin its grand and colorful procession.
Left alone in her chambers, Kailea summoned Swain Goire and seduced him, as she had done many times in the past. She made love to the guard captain with a feral passion that surprised and exhausted him. He looked so much like Leto, but was such a different man. Afterward, when he had fallen asleep beside her, she stole a tiny code-locked key from a concealed pocket in his thick leather belt, which was curled on the floor. Only rarely used, it would be some time before Goire noticed the missing key.
The following morning, she pressed the small object into Chiara’s leathery palm and squeezed the old woman’s fingers over it. “This will give you access to the Atreides armory. Move with care.”
Chiara’s ravenlike eyes sparkled, and quickly she tucked the key into secret folds of her layered garments. “I will handle the rest, my Lady.”
War, as the foremost ecological disaster of any age, merely reflects the larger state of human affairs in which the total organism called “humanity” finds its existence.
— PARDOT KYNES, Reflections on
the Disaster at Salusa Secundus
On the administration island of Ginaz, the five greatest living Swordmasters met and judged their remaining students in the oral examination phase of their curriculum, grilling them on history, philosophy, military tactics, haiku, music, and more— all according to the exacting requirements and traditions of the school.
But this was a somber, tragic occasion.
The entire school archipelago remained in an uproar, outraged and grieving for the six slain students. Flaunting their barbarity, the Grummans had dumped four of the bodies in the surf near the main training center, where they had washed up on shore. The other two— Duncan Idaho and Hiih Resser— remained missing, likely lost at sea.
On the top floor of the central tower, the Swordmasters sat along the straight side of a semicircular table, their ceremonial swords extended point-outward on the surface in front of them, like the rays of a sun. Each student who stood in front of the table would see the threatening points while he answered rigorous questions.
They had all passed. Now Karsty Toper and the school administration would arrange travel for the successful students to return to their respective homes, where they would apply what they had learned. Some had already gone to the nearby spaceport.
And the Swordmasters were left with the consequences.
Fat Rivvy Dinari sat in the center, drawing out the sword of Duke Paulus Atreides and a jeweled Moritani heirloom knife, found among the possessions of Idaho and Resser. Beside him, Mord Cour hung his gray-maned head. “We have had much experience sending back the keepsakes of fallen students, but never like this.”
Sinewy master Jamo R
eed, though hardened from overseeing his prison island for many years, could not stop weeping. He shook his head. “If Ginaz students die, it should be during difficult training— not because they are murdered.”
Ginaz had lodged formal protests, issuing culturally tailored insults and censures, none of which meant anything to Viscount Hundro Moritani. He had never made satisfactory amends for his brutal attacks on Ecaz. The Landsraad and the Emperor were now holding hearings on the best means of response, with the leaders of many Great Houses traveling to Kaitain in order to speak with the Council. But they had never managed more than censures, fines, and slaps on the hand even for a “mad dog” like the Viscount.
The Grummans believed they could get away with anything.
“I feel . . . violated,” Jeh-Wu said, his dreadlocks hanging in disarray. “No one has ever dared to do this sort of thing to a Swordmaster.”
Foppish Whitmore Bludd sat up straighter and fiddled with the ruffles on his shirt, the heavy cuffs at his wrists. “I propose that we rename six of our islands after the murdered students. History will remember the dastardly crime, and we will honor the Six.”
“Honor?” Rivvy Dinari slapped his fat palm on the tabletop, making the sword blades jangle. “How can you use such a word in this context? I spent three hours last night by Jool-Noret’s burial vault, praying and asking what he would do in such a situation.”
“And did he answer you?” Scowling, Jeh-Wu stood up and went to look out the window, at the flat spaceport and the foamy reefs. “Even in his own lifetime, Jool-Noret never taught anybody. He drowned in a tidal wave, and his disciples tried to emulate him. If Noret never helped his closest followers, he certainly won’t help us.”
Bludd sniffed, looking offended. “The great man taught by example. A perfectly valid technique, for those capable of learning.”
Dune: House Harkonnen Page 57
