The Forms must be obeyed. Our very civilization depends on this.
—from the Rules of the Great Convention, as applied to a War of Assassins
With the sudden arrival of the House Atreides ships and thousands of well-trained, heavily armed soldiers, Archduke Armand had a ready-made planetary force that more than doubled his fighting power. Together, the two militaries should have been enough to crush the Grummans.
But first, they had an unanticipated battle to win here on Ecaz. They could not risk losing the planet to rebels in their absence.
In a private discussion chamber within the recaptured Ecazi Palace, the Archduke still trembled with weakness, both from grief and his severe injury. His voice sounded hollow, like a cold storm wind blowing. “I did not intend to fight a civil war.”
Gurney lounged in his carved wooden chair, not to imply casualness but rather to remain loose and ready to fight. “Vidal has been planning this for some time — that much is obvious. This morning’s overflights on Elacca mapped out the extent of his military buildup and his scrambled defenses. Mark my words, it did not happen overnight. You have proven him a liar simply by being alive, my Lord.”
Leto shook his head, disturbed. “If he had simply bided his time, his treachery would not have been so obvious.”
Armand heaved a deep sigh. “Vidal blithely assumed I would be assassinated. Now that he has already announced to everyone that I was killed, how can he explain my return?”
Gurney gave a rumbling chuckle. “That man is a poor leader if he banks on every plan coming off as expected.”
“And now there will be tremendous bloodshed because of it.” The Archduke hung his head, letting his unkempt silver hair fall forward. “And why do so many of my own people follow him? His deceit is painfully obvious. Does he plant ridiculous stories to cast doubt in the minds of his followers? Could he have suggested to them that I’m a Face Dancer? Or does he simply keep them ignorant?”
“Probably the latter,” Leto mused. “But it is not the province of common soldiers to wrestle with the tangles of politics. They will follow his orders.”
Whitmore Bludd sat on the opposite side of the table, near the Archduke, yet alone. Though pale, the Swordmaster tried to summon defiance, sounding uncharacteristically bloodthirsty. “We will crush the rebels, no matter the cost. Ecaz will soon be in your complete control again, my Lord. Then we can move on Grumman. It is only a matter of time before we place Hundro Moritani’s head on a stake. I promise you that.”
Without looking up, the Archduke nodded slowly, as if his head were too heavy for his neck. “Yes, but our path can take many different turns. How do I stomach a bloody campaign against my own people, who have been led astray by a traitor?”
“Maybe you won’t have to. I propose that we not launch a full-scale civil war,” Leto offered. “Even though our armies can defeat the Elaccan rebels, it would be wasteful to set so many brave Ecazi fighters at each other’s throats.”
“What choice do we have? By now our case has been presented in the Landsraad court. Do you suggest we simply wait to hear from Kaitain while Vidal reinforces his fortifications? And every day of delay here gives Viscount Moritani more time to prepare for us on Grumman.”
Leto traced the table’s swirling grains of bloodwood. “We brought our armies here to join with yours and then move immediately on to Grumman. Now that Vidal has seen our overwhelming force, he will expect us to launch a full-scale attack, instead of the precision strikes required by the Great Convention. Vidal has never even declared himself in this War of Assassins, and yet he has joined it. Viscount Hundro Moritani has cast the rules to the winds in this conflict.” His expression became hard and implacable as he crossed his arms over his chest. “But we do not have to. Others have flagrantly violated the rules, but that does not give us carte blanche to do the same. One crime does not justify another, particularly when it comes to the emotional pitfalls of internecine warfare.”
Gurney could see where Leto was going. His voice was deep and resonant. “The Forms must be obeyed.”
The exhausted and grieving Archduke was no longer so nimble, though. “What are you suggesting, my friend?”
“Merely that if they are prepared for a total civil war, ready to defend against a frontal assault from a large military force, we should demonstrate what a War of Assassins is all about. We use assassins. A defensive line can protect against a large army, but one or two carefully trained infiltrators might make it through.”
“I’ll do it,” Gurney said. “The Orange Catholic Bible states: ‘For I have a righteous Lord, and the enemies of my Lord are the enemies of God.’”
“It is my place to spill the blood of my enemy,” the Archduke said.
“You cannot go, Armand,” Leto said, his voice filled with compassion, though he knew he was stating the obvious. “I’ll go in your stead. Gurney and I will be the assassins.”
“And I,” said Bludd, a moment late. “For the honor of House Ecaz, my Lord Archduke, let me go and destroy our enemies.”
The one-armed Armand did not want to admit his own frailty, yet he could not deny it. “No, stay with me, Swordmaster. I require your security. We have not yet completed a thorough sweep of the palace and the cities. I need you here.”
Bludd seemed diminished by the comment, inferring — perhaps correctly, Leto thought — that the Archduke was not willing to overlook his failure. “But my Lord, how can you send a nobleman to do bloody work like this? The Duke should not put himself in such danger.”
“I should not,” Leto said, “but I will anyway. I am not defenseless. Ask Gurney here, or Duncan Idaho. They are my best fighters, my most loyal bodyguards, and they trained me.”
Gurney nodded. “Duke Leto is a nobleman first and rarely allows himself to be seen in personal combat, but he is a formidable fighter. He can even best me one time out of ten.”
“Four out of ten, Gurney.”
The inkvine scar darkened with a bit of a flush. “It is not for me to argue with my Duke.”
Armand pondered. “We will provide a diversion by continuing our military buildup as if we are preparing to attack Elacca. Vidal’s spies will be watching to see when we intend to move against him. He won’t expect a small, personal attack, even though it is exactly what the rules require.”
“Gurney and I will make plans and slip away to the Elaccan continent at our earliest opportunity,” Leto said.
When a man is pushed to extremes, which aspect manifests itself — his humanity or his brutality? That is the defining aspect of character.
—DUKE LETO ATREIDES
Atop the fortress nunnery’s tallest tower, Duncan stood at midday with Swain Goire, surveying the steep jungle hills all around. Verdant plantings filled terraced gardens on the abrupt slope.
One silent Sister had come up to the tower with them to add food to the rookery. Grains and fruits were spread out as a banquet for the large black hawks. Duncan thought the raptors must be perfectly capable of hunting their own prey in the jungles. Were these women trying to turn them into vegetarians? Then he realized that the grains and fruit were not for the hawks, but served instead to lure smaller birds, which the raptors then devoured. Hawks circled high above the tower, no more than black specks in the clouds, while others swooped down to the thick jungle.
Goire wore his reticence like a thick cloak on a cold day. In his youth Duncan had not known the man well, having been away at the Ginaz School when Goire became captain of the Atreides guard. Duncan knew only what this man had done, and that was enough for him.
Goire finally spoke up. “Paul reminds me so much of young Victor. He has the look of his father about him.”
“I barely knew Victor. His life was over by the time I returned from Ginaz.”
Like a wave-battered rock on the coast, Goire showed no reaction despite the brusqueness of Duncan’s words. “Well, I knew the boy well. I saw him every day, up until the end. I was supposed to keep him safe,
and I failed.”
“Paul has me to defend him,” Duncan said.
Goire’s eyes were weary and reddened. “I didn’t intend for Victor to be harmed, but we all know that failure renders such intentions irrelevant. Actions and results are all that matter.”
The two fell into a longer silence, watching the high-circling hawks, gazing at the jungle-covered hills that stretched to the horizon and the empty sky. In the distance, Duncan could see small flying ships that must have been part of the business of the coastal towns.
“What exactly are you defending Paul from?” Goire finally asked. “What sort of desperation drove you here? A mere squabble would not require such extreme measures.”
With a sigh, Duncan explained about Viscount Moritani’s blood feud with Ecaz, in which House Atreides was now embroiled. When he was done, the old guard said, “And you have reason to believe the danger isn’t over? You suspect that more assassins are coming for Paul?”
“Viscount Moritani wants to kill the Duke’s son, for whatever twisted reason he has in his head. Paul still lives, and I intend to keep it that way. I will not lower my guard.”
“But it makes no sense for the Grummans to continue attacking. Paul is an innocent.”
“It made no sense in the first place, and still the attack occurred. Ilesa was an innocent, too.”
Goire nodded solemnly. Both of them regarded the distant glints of silvery ships, which were now approaching, sleek fliers skimming over the untracked green canopy. Viewed from the high vantage point, these craft looked no larger than the hawks circling in the air. Within moments, the roar of engines could be heard.
Goire tensed. “I have not seen ships like that before. We get very little —”
Duncan could tell immediately they were not supply craft. “They’re going to attack!”
“Yes — yes they are.” Goire gave Duncan a push. “Go! Go get Paul!” Duncan ran as angular attack fliers streaked in.
DUNCAN BURST INTO the tapestry room, having already retrieved and drawn the Old Duke’s sword. “They’re coming. We’ve got to get to shelter!”
After years of training, Paul did not hesitate, but sprang into motion to join his companion.
Paying no heed to the Swordmaster’s obvious urgency, Helena was about to scold him for the interruption, when the first great concussive explosions hit the side of the abbey. Duncan shouted to her. “Sound an evacuation. Get your Sisters out of here!”
“I will not.” Helena stood icily. “This is our fortress. Our home.” Her pride seemed more important to her than survival. “Are you saying the great Duncan Idaho cannot protect us all with that sword?”
Scowling, he grabbed Paul by the arm and rushed him toward the door and the stone stairs. “I am not sworn to protect you, my Lady. Your safety is on your own head now. Your fortress is under attack.”
“This War of Assassins has nothing to do with us,” Helena insisted.
“It does now!” Paul called from the doorway. “They’re trying to kill me. And even if you’re no more than collateral damage, you will still be dead.”
The other Sisters blithely continued their weaving, since the Abbess had not instructed them to do otherwise. A second explosion impacted the outer walls, and the entire tower room shook violently.
“Those aren’t just assassins. This is a full-fledged military strike,” Paul said.
“Viscount Moritani has already proven the lengths to which he’ll go. It’s my job to keep you safe.” Duncan pulled him through the door and they bounded down the winding stairway three steps at a time. “We have to get out of here. These walls won’t hold.”
By the time the two raced out into the courtyard, the fliers had circled back to launch more targeted missiles toward the Abbey. The shock waves caused the entire structure to thrum. Cracks shot like lightning bolts through the reinforced walls. The main tower shuddered and collapsed into fire and stone dust.
His grandmother, and all those women, had been inside. Like the tapestry that Helena had destroyed, the whole tower now lay in jumbled ruins. Red mingled with the gray of the rock in a mosaic of rubble. He searched for a spot in his heart where he might be shocked and horrified by Lady Helena’s death, but found nothing there for her.
With a deafening boom and buzzing whine, the attackers streaked back and forth, then came in to land and disgorge fighters who wore no uniforms, no insignia. Many Sisters ran about screaming. Some gathered makeshift weapons and raced to defend the Abbey, while others tried to flee, but they had no place to go.
Paul seized upon a crucial fact. “If they are attempting to kill me, and they blew up the tower, how can they know whether I am among the dead?”
Duncan shook his head, holding up the Old Duke’s sword to defend them both. “They can’t. This must be one of the Viscount’s grand schemes. He likes to cause damage more than anything else. He thrives on chaos.”
Swain Goire ran up to them, breathless and covered with dust. His hair was matted with blood from a shrapnel injury. “Take Paul and escape into the jungle.”
“Which direction?”
“Anywhere away from here — that is your only priority now.” Goire had two wooden staves, one sharpened into a crude spear and the other to serve as a club. “I have a body shield, and I have these. I’ll hold them off long enough for you to escape.”
“Duncan, we can’t just run!” Paul said, not willing to leave Goire to do all the fighting for them.
“My strategic imperative is to save you, young Master. Your father gave me my mission.” Parts of the outer walls had crumbled during the succession of explosions, and jagged breaches now opened the barrier to the wilderness beyond. Duncan silenced Paul by pushing him toward the nearest gap. “If the only way I can accomplish my mission is to take advantage of a diversion or delay, I’ll do it.”
Goire activated his body shield, and the shimmering intangible barrier cocooned him. He had his weapons. Duncan felt certain Goire was trying to atone for his mistake in allowing Victor to be killed. Did he hope Duke Leto would forgive him if he sacrificed his life now, to let Paul escape? Possibly.
Duncan hesitated, wondering if he should hand Goire the Old Duke’s sword — but that was his only weapon, and he could not surrender his best means of defending Paul.
Howling, Goire charged toward the attacking soldiers — one man against dozens, yet he rushed in. It was suicide.
Duncan dragged Paul through the broken wall rubble and into the thick foliage. The last glimpse he got of Swain Goire was when the man collided with the advancing armed soldiers, his body shield thrumming, his two wooden weapons thrashing from side to side. The assassins engulfed him, and their weapons were far sharper.
Paul and Duncan ran blindly into the jungle.
When a lasbeam strikes a shield, the destructive interaction is wholly disproportionate to the initiating energy. Both parties are completely annihilated. This is a perfect metaphor for politics.
—THUFIR HAWAT, Strategy Lessons
The small ornithopter flew low and fast over the grassy hills of Grumman. With whisper-quiet engines and movable wings, the vehicle made hardly any noise in its passage, just the slight, smooth sounds a large bird might make. Resser sat beside the Viscount, who piloted, ostensibly to test the new aircraft design for rounding up wild horses.
Resser was not fooled, though. He knew Hundro Moritani was preparing for war.
The Grumman soldiers, gruff and hardened warriors culled from villages out in the steppes, had been toiling in the salt tunnels and mineral shafts that riddled the ground under the dry lake bed outside of Ritka. Moritani had gathered hundreds of his stallions into corrals beyond the perimeter of the fortress shields, fitting them all with spiked armor, though he had ten times as many horses as riders. And Resser didn’t see what a mere cavalry could do against a modern military force.
As the ‘thopter flew along, the setting sun turned the windows of the fortress city orange, as if the structures were on f
ire. The Viscount looked intently at the illusion, paying little attention to his piloting. A downdraft caught the craft abruptly and they reeled downward, nearly scraping the ground before he regained control.
“It’s not my time to die,” the Viscount said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Nor yours. Not yet. We have work to do, Resser.” Since returning from Kaitain, Moritani had been in uncharacteristically high spirits, even though he had received a censure from the Landsraad and sparked the wrath of Shaddam IV.
The redheaded Swordmaster said, “With all due respect, my Lord, I cannot understand your tactics. Did you intentionally provoke the Padishah Emperor?”
“Absolutely. When the upcoming battle looks most terrible, I expect that our paternal Shaddam will come running to stop us from hurting ourselves.” He glared at Resser. “Never forget how my ancestors made their mark forever on Salusa Secundus, and how the damned Corrinos hunted them down for revenge.”
“I will not forget, my Lord, but I fail to see what you can accomplish in this manner. Both Duke Atreides and Archduke Ecaz survived your assassination attempt. You heard their representatives file formal protests, but they will not stop there. As we speak, they are sure to be combining their planetary militaries in order to strike Grumman hard. You may have intended this to be a War of Assassins, but you are obviously preparing for far more than that. How can we possibly defeat the armed forces of two noble Houses?”
He also knew that Duncan Idaho, his old friend from Ginaz, would be with the Atreides forces.
Moritani chuckled. “Oh, Resser, how you misunderstand! We don’t need to defeat them! We merely have to hold out long enough for the Corrino Emperor to come to the rescue — and mark my word, he will. Grumman is a powerful magnet that will draw all of our enemies at once.” Still chuckling, he gripped the controls of the ‘thopter and flew them on a daredevil run toward the stony hills behind Ritka, but Resser could see that the man’s large, squarish hands were shaking. He continued in a whisper, “And then it will all be over. Whether our noble House is known by the name of Tantor or Moritani, we have always been underestimated. After this, no one will ever forget our family name again.”
Paul of Dune Page 28
