Paul of Dune

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Using a Bene Gesserit calming exercise, Irulan forced the tears not to come. Such an emotional release would make nothing better. Ironically, though, the writing helped.

  The winds of the Imperium had buffeted the tiny boat of her life, driving her onto a small island where her movements were restricted and her emotions were supposed to be confined. Paul showed little outward dislike toward her; in fact, he usually ignored Irulan, keeping the daughter of Shaddam out of any direct role in his government. Her position had improved somewhat after she’d published her first book about Muad’Dib, but she still didn’t know if he would let her publish her own version of the truth in subsequent books. So far he had only read snippets of her new drafts, and had made no comment on them, despite the fact that the material did not show him in an entirely positive light. Interesting.

  Her multi-volume biographical project had become much more than she had originally imagined it to be. With every bit of information she accumulated, the more she learned, the greater the potential legend became. And what to do about that? Her writings could provide important insights into the life of Paul-Muad’Dib, or they might serve another purpose entirely.

  The more she learned about his younger years and his father Duke Leto, the more she thought that Paul might have spent a fine and happy life on Caladan, if not for the same cosmic choreographer that had intervened in Irulan’s life. She saw clearly that her father was not blameless in this epic. Shaddam had allowed numerous improprieties during the War of Assassins, which had caused so much pain and harm to the Atreides and the Ecazis. Later, he had played political games with House Harkonnen, setting the trap on Arrakis, turning a blind eye toward the Baron’s schemes in exchange for the promise of increased spice revenues. Shaddam IV had brought much of this disaster on himself.

  So, her sisters considered her a traitor to the family, and her father found her beneath contempt? I am not the traitor, she thought. Because of the Padishah Emperor’s numerous betrayals of House Atreides, Paul had more than enough reason to loathe House Corrino — and her.

  Her private journal had become a bosom companion with whom she spent uncounted solitary nights, sharing her innermost thoughts with the fine spice paper pages. And, like a good friend, the journal revealed truths to her when she reread her own words and saw them in a more reflective light. On these pages, she was coming to recognize her own frailties.

  She rearranged the pillows behind her and retrieved the journal from the floor. She stared at the words she had written today. Her heart ached to think of the sorrow and shock young Paul had endured after witnessing the wedding-day massacre in Castle Caladan and escaping the subsequent attempts on his life. He had been a pawn from such a young age. And now he was the Emperor of the Known Universe.

  With a resigned sigh, the Princess began to write in her journal again. It was speaking to her, urging her to continue the story….

  PART IV

  Young Paul Atreides

  10,187 AG

  Those who have seen the wrath of Muad’Dib in the fighters of his Jihad say that he became bloodthirsty because of his time among the Fremen. But the Lisan-al-gaib was set on his life’s course long before that.

  One cannot look at Muad’Dib the man and fail to see Paul Atreides the boy, and the events and experiences that created him. He was a human being sculpted by treachery and tragedy. As a young man of twelve, he was flung into a War of Assassins that encompassed more than three noble Houses and threatened to decapitate the Imperium itself. Although Paul had been trained for years to face the dangers that were part of the upbringing of any duke’s son, when Viscount Moritani from Grumman made his initial attack, those lessons suddenly became real. Paul found himself a target, hunted by assassins, caught in the center of a whirlpool of blood.

  These experiences, though, had an even greater effect on his father, Duke Leto Atreides, who became not broken but hardened… tempered rather than destroyed. Duke Leto — the Red Duke, Leto the Just — had to fight repeatedly against treachery and betrayal, in matters where my father, the Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV, was not innocent.

  Through those pivotal events, Young Paul watched his father prepare and respond with an extremism that some might have called ruthlessness. The ultimate lesson he learned from this, though, was that despite all of his father’s retaliations, Duke Leto Atreides ultimately failed because he did not learn to be ruthless enough.

  —Muad’Dib the Man by the PRINCESS IRULAN

  Viscount, O Viscount, what have you unleashed? What have you done?

  —GURNEY HALLECK, The Tragedy of House Ecaz

  In the midst of the chaos and gore, Duke Leto rushed many of the wedding attendees from the grand hall and had soldiers escort them back to safety inside their waiting frigates at the spaceport, though the ships were forbidden to leave. Other guests barricaded themselves inside interior rooms in Castle Caladan.

  The horrendous slaughter, the flying executioner discs, the failed defense by the Swordmasters and Leto’s security men — all had transpired in less than a minute. Even as uniformed Atreides soldiers charged in through the hall doors, the victims already lay slashed and bleeding, some chopped to pieces, others sobbing in shock and disbelief. Prince Rhombur looked down at himself and saw that his formal wedding suit had been cut to ribbons, though otherwise he seemed undamaged.

  Dr. Yueh moved swiftly and professionally among the injured, using an eye for triage to sort those who could not be helped from those who could. He worked first on Archduke Ecaz, applying a self-constricting tourniquet to the stump of his arm.

  The severed limb on the floor had been mangled and broken in the melee. After regarding it for a moment, Yueh spoke quietly to Leto, “It is too damaged to reattach. The Tleilaxu may have a way to regrow this flesh, but I do not know how.” He gestured to where Rhombur stood, battered and scuffed. “As I did with the Prince of House Vernius, I may be able to develop a prosthetic arm for the Archduke. I possess that sort of skill.”

  “We can discuss it later,” Leto said, wiping blood from his forehead.

  Potent painkillers made Archduke Armand groggy and distant, but anger penetrated his fog. He looked at his daughter’s blood-soaked body, fixated on her chalky, pale skin. As though his head moved on poorly oiled hinges, he glared at Whitmore Bludd, who was ashen and shaking. “You were supposed to protect her.” His words cut the elegant Swordmaster more deeply than any disk.

  Bludd’s lips drew together. “I failed,” he spoke in hollow disbelief. “I am a Swordmaster… and I failed. I would have sacrificed myself for Ilesa. Rivvy knew his duty.”

  Duncan stumbled over to the sprawled corpse of Rivvy Dinari, who lay on the floor like a butchered whale. The cutter discs remained embedded deeply in his wide chest. “He died a proud death, the heroic end of a true Swordmaster.”

  Bludd simply stared in disbelief at his thin rapier, then cast it aside in disgust, with a clatter. “Help me carry his body away, Duncan. It seems to be all I am good for.”

  COLD AND EFFICIENT, refusing to be paralyzed by grief, Duke Leto ordered a total lockdown of the Cala City Spaceport. He offered curt apologies as he announced that no ships would be allowed to depart until a full investigation had been completed. Thufir Hawat, with the deep gash in his back sutured and bandaged, paid special attention to anyone who seemed overly upset and angered by the delay, as well as those who showed too much maudlin sympathy. These were all subjected to additional questioning.

  As a small glint of good news, all of the fourteen killed had belonged to either House Atreides or House Ecaz, servants, retainers, guests. After the first wash of fear had subsided, many of the noble wedding guests had expressed their outrage, either directed at House Moritani for involving them in a blood feud or at House Atreides for inviting them into a dangerous situation. Since the ruffled noblemen had suffered only minimal damages compared to Atreides and Ecaz, however, their bluster would fade and no further interfamily quarrels would erupt because of it.
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br />   Duke Leto, however, would not forget so quickly.

  Gurney Halleck and Thufir Hawat scoured every brick of Castle Caladan, searching for secondary assassination devices. Even in such an elaborate plot, the murderous Viscount might not have put all his eggs in one basket. Such a plan, layer upon layer upon layer, could have been in the works for months.

  Prince Rhombur vowed to help. He was like a juggernaut, never leaving Leto’s side, though his Ixian bureaucratic advisers insisted that he, Tessia, and the boy Bronso withdraw to the safety of their private frigate and remain there behind blast shields. Much to his annoyance, the technocrats pointed out that twice now Rhombur had nearly been killed in an assassination attempt against Duke Leto Atreides. This time, his cyborg body had only been scratched and slightly damaged — but if he had been mere flesh and blood, Rhombur might not have survived.

  When the Ixian advisers continued to nag him, actually threatening to disrupt his rule once they returned home, Rhombur finally whirled and, without controlling his strength, struck out at one of the yammering men, Bolig Avati, knocking him across the room. Indignant, the cyborg Prince announced in a booming voice, “Tessia, Bronso, and I will remain here in Castle Caladan, beside my friend Leto Atreides.”

  His fellow technocrats helped Avati up, looking at Rhombur in astonishment and fear. In a group, they scuttled back to the Vernius frigate and did not bother him further.

  DURING THE MEMORIAL service for his daughter Ilesa, the Archduke could only stand there one-armed, his mind muddied with painkillers, tears streaming down his face. He seemed to need the release of grieving, but his fuzzy state denied him the full catharsis. Nevertheless, Armand Ecaz did understand the tragedy that had befallen him, and that was enough.

  Leto stood by the other man’s side out on the high cliffs, where the local priest — his hand bandaged from a slight injury in the massacre — delivered a eulogy, in sharp contrast to the more joyous sermon he had been meant to give. Ilesa’s preserved body would be taken back to Ecaz, where she would lie in state for a suitable mourning period before interment in a mausoleum beside her sister Sanyá and uncle Theo.

  “Moritani has done this to me too many times,” Armand said to Leto, his voice cold and hollow. “I survived my grief before, but this time I do not know if I can.”

  Duncan and Bludd arranged a private Swordmaster’s pyre for Dinari. He would not be going back to Ecaz. By tradition, a Swordmaster found his final resting place wherever he fell. Though this gathering was meant to be a private matter, Duncan did allow Paul to stand at his side; Gurney Halleck and Thufir Hawat were also there. Gurney promised to compose a sonnet to commemorate the heroic last deeds of the “fattest, nimblest man” he had ever known.

  Whitmore Bludd seemed broken by his failure, ashamed (and offended) by the fact that he had walked away without a scratch.

  FOR DAYS, THE entire planet of Caladan remained off-limits to visitors, even to locals who had been offworld at the time of the tragic affair. Leto brusquely turned away two arriving Heighliners and sent messages to CHOAM representatives, refusing to let them offload the ships in their holds or take aboard any cargo or passengers. Caladan was locked down until further notice; no travel in or out. The Duke gave no explanation, despite the persistent inquiries and demands of the Guild.

  Soon, the wedding guests began to show signs of unrest. Several lords sent petitions to Castle Caladan, but Leto turned them all away, claiming that he could not be disturbed during his time of grieving.

  For the first day, Jessica allowed him to wrestle with his own sorrow, anger, and dismay. He had become hardened but not heartless, and it was his way to insist on covering his hurt. Finally, though, the ache in her chest drove her to him. She could not bear to leave her beloved alone.

  Jessica met him in their shared bedchamber. Before the wedding, she had moved her possessions out in preparation for Ilesa’s residence. As the Duke’s concubine, she would customarily keep her own private rooms in a separate section of the castle, though still a place of honor befitting her position.

  Now, Jessica sat beside Leto, without words. Even though her clothes, private keepsakes, and furniture had been moved out to make way for the new bride, she felt at home just to be near Leto. She watched him wrestle with his grief, then compose himself, trying to hide it behind a stony mask.

  She finally said, “Leto, at first I was angry with you for asking me to spend so much time with Ilesa, but now I’m glad I got to know her. We developed a mutual respect, and I’m certain she would have been a worthy Lady for House Atreides.”

  Leto walled himself off from Jessica and pretended to be indifferent. “I barely knew her myself. Yes, she would have been my wife, but it was only a political arrangement.” His coldness did not convince her. “I am angrier for my friend Armand. The loss of his arm is of little consequence compared to the loss of his daughter, and his Swordmaster.”

  Jessica rose to go, seeing that he still wanted to be left alone. “No matter what else happens, Leto, I will stand by you.”

  He finally looked at her with his gray eyes. “I know, Jessica. I’ve always known that.”

  FINALLY, AFTER FOUR stark and uncomfortable days, Leto met with Duncan, Thufir, and Gurney in the Atreides war room. The atmosphere in the chamber roiled with murderous anger, with Duncan the most overtly incensed of all. “House Moritani has declared a War of Assassins before, but that form of conflict has specific rules, which the Viscount has broken — again. No innocents should have been killed.”

  Thufir replied, “Even Shaddam cannot ignore this.”

  “We have no connections with House Moritani,” Leto argued. “How could they possibly have arranged and implemented such a plot here in our own home? Someone must have planted spies among our household servants or down in the village.”

  “Prad Vidal supplied those flowerpots,” Gurney said. “Archduke Armand left him in charge on Ecaz during his absence.”

  Duncan said, “If he is the traitor, my Lord, he could be entrenching himself well.”

  “Moritani is the force behind this attack,” Leto said with a growl. “If Duke Vidal played a role, it’s bound to be only a minor one.”

  “It is likely neither one of them expected the Archduke to survive,” Thufir said. “By blocking all communication from Caladan, no one else knows what has really happened here.”

  Looking weak and tired, Armand Ecaz came to stand in the doorway with all the dignity he could manage. His stump was cleanly bandaged, and he wore a simple Ecazi robe. His face was drawn and his eyes were red, but his gaze seemed clear and angry. The medics said he’d been refusing further painkillers.

  “It is time for me to go home, Leto. I must bury my daughter, strengthen my household — and make my war plans against Grumman. That Moritani animal wasn’t targeting House Atreides. He saw this wedding as an easy way to get to me and my family. You were merely in the way.” He stood straighter, as if a formidable demeanor would push away the mental and physical pain. “I no longer have anything to lose, so I accept the Moritani challenge. The Viscount has opened the floodgates for a bloodbath the Imperium will never forget.”

  I prefer bad news to no information whatsoever. Silence is like starvation.

  —BARON VLADIMIR HARKONNEN

  Even though the grimy air of Harko City made the Baron cough, he still felt invigorated. For all its flaws and odors, he much preferred his own planet to hot and dusty Arrakis, gaudy Kaitain, or bleak Grumman. This was home.

  He and Piter de Vries rode a slidewalk from the Keep, heading for a luncheon engagement with his nephews Rabban and Feyd. Both young men continued to vie for his attention, waiting for him to choose one or the other as his official successor. He was in no hurry to make his selection known. So far, neither one had proved himself to the Baron’s satisfaction.

  As the walkway crossed a park cluttered with imposing statues of Harkonnen leaders, de Vries pointed out, “The birds have been perching on your head again, my Lo
rd.”

  The Baron noted a recently commissioned sculpture of himself as a lean and handsome young man, striking a heroic pose and holding a broadsword. He thought wistfully of the muscular body that had once been a source of so much pride for him, before that witch Mohiam inflicted him with a chronic malady. To his dismay, white streaks of bird excrement ran down the statue’s forehead into the bronze eyes.

  “Another park attendant shall die,” the Baron said matter-of-factly.

  As they approached, a worker ran desperately toward the statue with a ladder and cleaning materials, but it was too late. Seeing his vigorous attention to duty, the Baron mused, “On second thought, this maintenance problem must go higher up. Let us have the supervisor put to death as well. Arrange for a bird motif of some sort at the execution, gouge out his eyes with a beak-shaped tool or something, or use a talon device to rip his face to shreds. It’s the sort of thing Rabban would enjoy. We shall mention it to him at lunch.”

  His oldest nephew was powerful and without a conscience, an excellent enforcer, and useful in his own way. Rabban’s much younger brother Feyd, though only fourteen, showed a greater deviousness and wit. That made him a more worthy candidate to be the Baron’s successor… and more dangerous.

  “Maybe you should have your nephew kill the entire park staff and start over,” de Vries suggested. “He’s bound to do it anyway, unless you forbid him.”

  The Baron shook his head. “That would be wasteful. Better to strike fear into them, but leave enough of them alive so that the work gets done. I never want to see excrement on my statues again.”