A terrible sense of foreboding came over Resser. “What do you intend to do, my Lord?”
“My son is dead, so my House will die with me.”
“You can have other children, my Lord. You can remarry.”
“No, no, Resser. When Cilia died, darkness consumed my soul. Wolfram was my proper heir, and the Ecazis just let him suffer and die — out of spite! We cannot defeat the plots of our enemies in any other way. My line shall end in a way that will be written in all of the historical chronicles. And you will help.”
Resser drew a deep breath to focus. “I swore an oath to serve you, my Lord.”
“Grumman will become a tomb for House Moritani and our three principal enemies — even for House Harkonnen, if we’re lucky. I have commanded the Baron to send his heir apparent to lead a division of disguised Harkonnen troops.” His eyes took on a distant look. “Resser, I want you to take all of the family atomics and install them in the passageways immediately beneath my fortress keep. Remove the safeguards and transfer the codes to my throne room.”
“Atomics, my Lord?” Resser clung to his seat as the ‘thopter soared over the rooftops of Ritka. Years ago Duncan had begged him to break his oath to House Moritani and abandon his service to the dishonorable Viscount, but Resser had refused. Though Duncan had disagreed with Resser’s decision, he had clearly understood it, because he was an Atreides retainer — a good and loyal fighter for his noble House, just as Resser was for his. Resser had defiantly served his role, holding to his oath even when he knew that his master broke the rules and provoked his enemies.
But atomics!
Viscount Moritani shrugged, casually continuing to pilot the craft. “Do not think of the Great Convention as if it were a sacred text, like the Orange Catholic Bible. It’s no more than an ancient agreement written by a frightened people who were still stinging from the wounds of the Butlerian Jihad. Those outdated rules no longer apply to us. Prepare the atomics, as I have commanded.” He narrowed his dark eyes. “Or will you fail me? Shall I remind you of the blood oath you swore to me? A blood oath!”
The Viscount’s words cut with a razor edge. Resser didn’t doubt that the man would command him to leap from the flying craft if he did not provide a satisfactory answer. Resser was not afraid of dying — only of making the wrong choice. Perhaps he could fight for the controls and cause the ‘thopter to crash into a hillside… which might, after all, be the best outcome for the sake of the Imperium. But he could never accept the thought of killing his own master, no matter how he tried to rationalize it.
Looking away, he replied sincerely, “My Lord Viscount, am I not the only Swordmaster who remains at your side, when all the others have vanished?”
With a deep growl of agreement, the Viscount changed course and headed toward the central fortress in Ritka. Torchpots had already been lit to mark the landing zone. The sky deepened into dusk, and Resser looked up to see the stars and imagined the many quiet worlds out there.
The blood is always on your own hands, even if you have someone else do the killing for you. Any leader who forgets that will inevitably become a tyrant.
—DUKE LETO ATREIDES
In the thick jungle, Paul watched dispassionately as Duncan strung up yet another assassin-tracker’s body. The foliage was so suffocatingly dense that neither felt the need to hide their activities, though they remained constantly alert. They had been hunted for days since the surprise assault on the fortress nunnery.
Broad leaves formed a camouflage wall all around them. Wide, fleshy fungus gathered rain runoff into long-lived puddles that held colonies of tiny brine shrimp. Fern towers blocked the sunlight in an effort to choke their botanical rivals. Vines laced the forest floor and crawled up the sides of thick trees to pull them down, creating a convoluted mesh of snares.
During their wilderness flight, Paul had felt as if he were swimming through an underwater landscape of leaves and grasses. Their personal shields provided little protection here, yet the shimmering force fields at least discouraged the myriad biting insects.
Though he was dismayed to use such a magnificent weapon as a machete, Duncan hacked and slashed through the underbrush with the Old Duke’s sword, dulling and notching the blade. The fecund wilderness grew swiftly enough to cover their path, yet the assassins had still managed to track them.
Duncan had killed five of them so far. The tangled foliage made it impossible for a Grumman military force to move as a unit, so the killers had no choice but to split up and come at them singly. The Moritani assassins were arrogant, well armed… and easily defeated.
The Old Duke’s abused sword was still capable of killing — as Duncan’s latest victim had recently discovered. Paul stood close, watching dark blood ooze from the dead man’s gaping wound. Though the heart no longer pumped, gravity drew the fluid from the raw wet holes in the flesh. Holding out his hand, he intentionally caught one of the slow, thick droplets of blood, and cupped it in his palm like a crimson raindrop. “Does it ever bother you to kill these men, Duncan?”
“Not at all. I have no room for compassion toward people who are trying to slaughter us, Paul. I kill them so that you don’t have to.” He tugged on the vine and hauled the body up above their heads, so that it dangled upside down, helpless, defeated, and insulted.
Jungle scavengers would make quick work of the remains, but the rest of the assassins would still find the remains of the corpse, as they had found the other four. Paul had suggested hiding the bodies, but Duncan said the hunters would find them, no matter how dense the forest. “We need to leave a message that angers them,” Duncan said. “Try and get them to make mistakes.”
Paul looked at the killer’s face but could not apply a mask of humanity to it. He didn’t want to know why this man had chosen such a life, what had driven him to become a mindless murderer in the name of Viscount Moritani. Did he have a family? Did he love someone? The dead eyes had rolled up behind the lids, and he was just meat now.
Kill or be killed — no better place for that lesson than in Caladan’s deep jungle.
Leaving the dead man hanging, the pair set off again. Paul had not yet figured out where Duncan was leading him; the Swordmaster apparently had no plan beyond concealment and keeping his charge safe. Nevertheless, Paul sensed that they were being watched. Though they did not know how many trackers were still in pursuit after the attack on the fortress nunnery, he knew that the five Duncan had dispatched were not enough.
Fighting the assassins was only one aspect of their wilderness survival. The jungle did not care that he was the son of Duke Leto, and it offered more threats than Paul could tally. Once, they startled a spiny boar that charged them before veering off and plunging into a thick bramble.
Then there was the challenge of obtaining food. Because the jungle was so lush, they could scavenge for fruits, stems, tubers, and mushrooms. Concerned, Duncan volunteered to test some of the species in case they might be poisonous. Paul, however, had studied the flora and fauna of Caladan and memorized a plethora of safe, edible species.
With some relief, they finally found a trampled patch of grasses: a clear but winding ribbon through the underbrush, probably some sort of game trail. Paul guessed it must lead to a stream or meadow. Exhausted from fighting for every step forward, the pair chose the path of least resistance.
Duncan warned, “This trail might make things easier, but it is also the route our trackers will take.”
“And it’s used by large animals. We have to be quiet enough to hide from the assassins, while making enough noise to warn any predators.”
The sunlight broke through, shining down onto a glorious meadow filled with bright blue and red flowers. There was a buzz of pollinating insects. After the claustrophobic world of the jungle, Paul drew a deep breath, smiling.
Duncan froze. “I think it’s a trap.”
Paul’s shield was already on, his hand poised on the dagger at his waist. Duncan brandished the sword. Everything was still; th
e tall trees in the glade rustled briefly.
With a series of rushing thumps, corpses fell from high branches, suspended by their feet from vines, limp arms flopping beneath them. The bodies dropped like an offering, jerked at their tethers and then swung like grisly fruit in a crude but unnerving imitation of what Duncan had done to his own victims. Six more assassin-trackers dangled from the trees.
Duncan looked about warily, searching for shadows or silhouettes. “I don’t see anyone.”
Paul stood perfectly motionless, forcing himself to use all of his senses, examining the tiniest details of the world around him. At last he managed to detect moving figures like leaf shadows amongst the curled fern fronds. “Caladan primitives,” he whispered. “I can see them.” With only a slight gesture, he indicated two muscular, mostly naked men huddled among the leaf shadows.
He had read enough about them to remember a few of the words and phases the occasional coastal traders used when communicating with the tribesmen. Paul searched his mind and finally shouted out the native words for friend and safe. He wasn’t sure if the primitives could tell the difference between them and the Grumman assassins — or if they even cared. Perhaps the primitives simply killed anyone who trespassed in their forest.
He and Duncan waited motionless at the edge of the glade. The slain assassins hung upside down from their slowly creaking vines. Some had been dead for days. Paul wondered how long the primitives had been killing them off. These people — whether purposely or inadvertently — had kept him and Duncan safe.
Finally, with a rustle of branches and heavy thuds, three graceful figures dropped from the trees immediately above them; with his heightened perceptions even Paul hadn’t noticed these men hiding there. The trio of muscular, tattooed primitives faced them.
One was a rangy old woman with long peppery hair. Her eye hollows were deeply shadowed, stained with berry juice. A sapphire-shell beetle as large as Paul’s hand decorated her hair like some sort of living ornament. Its legs twitched and moved.
“Friend,” Paul said again.
Dozens more of the Caladan primitives dropped from the trees into the meadow. He could tell that Duncan was ready to fight them all if necessary, but Paul switched off his body shield, removed his hand from his dagger, and held both palms upward.
APPARENTLY, THE CALADAN primitives did understand the difference between the Grumman assassins and their would-be prey. They led Paul and Duncan to their settlement, which was little more than a clearing filled with nestlike dwellings of woven pampas grasses, rushes, and willow branches. With the warm climate and the abundance of fruits and animals on the Eastern Continent, the primitives did not need permanent shelters.
The tall woman with the beetle in her hair was apparently the headwoman. Paul did not have the words to communicate well with her, but he and Duncan were made to feel welcome and reasonably safe nevertheless. She carried a gnarled wooden staff whose handle had been polished smooth by the sweat of many palms. A jagged line of inset sharp teeth ran along the striking edge of the wooden staff, making it a vicious-looking weapon.
An animal carcass roasted over a greenwood fire, filling the air with aromatic smoke. Paul had eaten only fruits and berries for the past several days, and the meat smelled delicious. The headwoman gestured for them to partake of chunks of meat, which they had to tear carefully from the hot, roasting animal with their bare fingers.
Paul didn’t quite understand how he and Duncan fit in among these people. They understood so little. How long would their welcome last? The two of them had been running for days, and Paul doubted they could convince the tribe members to lead them back to civilization.
The primitives had cut down the assassins’ bodies and dragged them through the forest. When the group reached the settlement, men and women fell upon the corpses, stripping them of valuables, as if this were any other day’s chore. With nimble hands they removed clothing, boots, and equipment belts. The primitives had no experience with the night-vision scopes, communicators, or intricate weapons. They squabbled over the objects, which they saw only as incomprehensible objects rather than anything useful.
Some women wore the bloodstained tunics of the dead assassins. They hung stolen trousers and jackets next to intricately patterned tapestries from the Sisters in Isolation. Paul was surprised to see how well they cared for the woven fabrics.
When the bodies of the assassins — all impolitely naked — were piled in a heap, Paul wondered what the primitives intended to do next. Would they make a bonfire to dispose of the corpses? He feared the wilderness tribes might have some previously unrecorded tradition of cannibalism, eating the flesh of their fallen enemies.
Duncan studied some of the technological equipment taken from the hunters, trying to glean useful information. Most of the devices were Ixian, obviously bought on the black market. The assassins’ clothes bore subtle but definite indications of Grumman manufacture.
“The Viscount has never been shy about taking credit for the harm he causes,” Paul observed. “He is proud of it.”
“True, but why would he be so blatant? What does he really hope to gain? Are we playing into his hands? He has to know that when he pushes the rules so far beyond their extremes, the Emperor is bound to respond.”
Looking at one of the bodies tangled in the pile, Paul spotted a red scar in the meat of his left deltoid. The mark was repeated on all of the cadavers. “Duncan, what’s that?”
Duncan sliced into the still-pliable shoulder, cutting with the point of his knife and twisting. He removed something that looked like a tiny metal spider with long fibrous legs that had extended into the muscle tissue. He held it up.
Even though it was covered with blood, Paul could clearly see what it was. A locator device. “They kept electronic trackers on their own assassins.”
The reclusive people, particularly the gray-haired headwoman, curiously watched the activities of Duncan and Paul, not comprehending why they would cut into the shoulders of their fallen enemies. Perhaps they assumed it was some victory ritual, like their own.
Duncan rolled the corpse off the pile and bent over another one, finding the same surgical mark, and dug into the flesh with his knife. “Hurry, Paul! We have to remove these trackers before it’s too late. Somebody may already be triangulating on them.”
The largest army and most thorough tactical plans can be made vulnerable by the smallest misplaced detail.
—THUFIR HAWAT, Strategy Lessons
A dense seasonal fog rolled over the Elaccan continent, and Leto and Gurney crept in with it. The daily mists provided moisture for the fogtree forests. Basketlike cradles of branches grew upward to form intricate nests. The fogtrees were fragile things that reacted to the smallest environmental changes. Years ago, before Paul’s birth, an insidious biological blight had been unleashed upon Elacca, devastating the sensitive trees. House Moritani had been blamed, which had ignited an earlier flare-up of the feud.
The fogtrees, more than just an unusual natural growth, were considered an Elaccan art form. Artists, selected from across the Imperium for their telepathic abilities, could nurture the trees as saplings, using a focused mental vision to guide the branches into specific forms, sculpting them into fantastic shapes.
Vidal had built his palace stronghold within a prime-cluster of large fogtrees. The high branches had been groomed and shaped into a magnificent defensible residence ten meters above the ground. Seven large trunks stood in a circle, reaching up to the labyrinth of boughs that formed a warren of separated rooms, woven chambers for the Elaccan Duke and his household.
Vidal’s fogtree fortress was more than a kilometer from his massed military ships, the barracks and tents of rebel soldiers, and all the defensive weapons he had gathered. In the dense morning mist the thin interwoven branches looked like skeletal claws tangled in cotton. As Leto peered up at the eerie sight, Gurney cautioned him. “Vidal’s real guards would not stand around gawking like tourists.”
Le
to shuffled along beside his companion, drawing no attention to himself. The two men wore uniforms stripped from the bodies of Elaccan rebels that had been killed while attempting to escape from the Archduke’s palace. It had taken only half a day for the palace tailors to launder and resize the enemy uniforms to fit Leto and Gurney, while document specialists altered the soldiers’ IDs.
The key to their infiltration was a detailed topographical projection that allowed Leto and Gurney to traverse the supposedly impenetrable wilderness near Vidal’s fogtree stronghold. Because Archduke Armand believed in natural science as much as commerce, he had long ago surveyed and mapped all the terrain on Ecaz, particularly the fertile cloud-forests and valleys of the Elaccan continent. With these high-resolution terrain maps, the two men had been able to slip through the densest groves and rocky valleys, weaving through difficult forest canyons, using byways that even Prad Vidal likely didn’t know. They crossed an enormous fallen log over a narrow gorge to reach the fogtree fortress.
It was shortly before daybreak with a high moon silvering the fog. Twenty guards patrolled the outer perimeter in pairs.
When they neared the prime-cluster of trees, Leto and Gurney walked together, alert, sidearms ready, posing as another two guards on patrol. Preoccupied with their apparent importance, they walked right past other pairs of gruff guards.
They circled the ring of seven trees, going about their business. While Gurney served as lookout, Leto quickly knelt beside one trunk, reached into his small pack, and withdrew a silver hemispherical disk from the bottom of which extended a pair of sharp prongs. He slapped the disk against the fogtree and worked the prongs into the bark. The green ready light winked on.
Paul of Dune Page 29
