“I don’t think this will end as neat and clean as the Emperor expects,” Gurney said in a low tone. “The Viscount doesn’t finish conflicts by signing a piece of paper.” From what he’d seen so far, Paul could only agree. He had a queasy feeling in his stomach, and saw tension on his father’s face.
Looking around at the waiting party, however, Paul sensed an eagerness on the part of many of the Imperial retainers, minor Landsraad observers, and officials of various committees. They appeared filled with admiration that Shaddam could solve the problem simply through the force of his presence. The Sardaukar remained alert, their puissant rifles at the ready.
With a grating fanfare of strange Grumman horns, the heavy doors swung inward, and men in yellow livery somberly led the visitors into the nobleman’s reception hall. There, Viscount Hundro Moritani stood alone in the middle of the chamber wearing thick layers of furs and fine, colorful cloth. At the far end of the room, his blocky throne remained pointedly empty. His brow was moist with perspiration, and he looked red-eyed, haggard, and edgy.
Shaddam IV strode in, followed by his entourage. He surveyed the room with disdain, frowning at the brutish throne and faded tapestries on the walls. “This place will be adequate for the surrender ceremony and my decrees, but I do not intend to remain here long afterward.”
The Atreides party followed the Emperor into the room, but Duncan’s step faltered when he noticed the redheaded young man who stood at attention beside the defeated Viscount. “Hello, Duncan Idaho,” said Hiih Resser. “Old friend.”
Paul had heard stories of Duncan’s comrade, who had remained on Ginaz even when the other Grumman students were expelled from the Swordmaster school. Because of the lessons his father had taught him so many times, Paul understood the intricacies of honor that could force a man to abide by an oath even when it bound him to a bad man.
“I wish you had joined me at House Atreides,” Duncan said to him. “I’d rather be fighting at your side than against you.”
“It was not a choice I could make,” Resser answered.
“There will be no more fighting,” Shaddam interrupted them peremptorily and seated himself on the Grumman throne to preside over the ceremony. “I have already had the standard documents drawn up.” He motioned for a retainer to hurry forward and hand him a gilt-edged proclamation.
The Viscount seated himself on a chair not far from the throne, beside a squat writing desk. The station seemed designed for a chamberlain or scribe to record documents for Hundro Moritani. Now, the Grumman leader accepted his subordinate place without argument. Resser stood stiffly behind his master.
“I will need to study your terms in detail before agreeing to them,” Moritani said, with a lilting sneer in his voice.
“That will not be necessary.” Shaddam leaned forward. “The terms are non-negotiable.”
Rhombur seemed pleased by the defeated leader’s discomfiture. Standing with the Ixian, Armand Ecaz looked brittle, as if his anger had been the only glue keeping him together; Duke Leto remained carefully wary, absorbing details.
One of the Sardaukar guards presented the Imperial parchment to the Viscount, who placed it on the desk. Paul could sense a strange excitement emanating from the man, a tension that made his movements jerky and frenetic. Behind him, Resser looked nauseated.
The Grumman leader perused the document, then said, “Shall I sign using the name Moritani? Or — since this constitutes yet another instance of Corrinos stripping everything from my family — perhaps I should sign as House Tantor.”
Instead of the dramatic reaction the Viscount appeared to have expected, the Emperor and the rest of the audience responded only with puzzled muttering. “Tantor?” Shaddam asked. “Whatever do you mean?”
The Viscount exposed a concealed control panel in the surface of the small desk and instantly placed his fingers on the illuminated touchpads.
Suspecting treachery, the Sardaukar guards rushed toward him, ready to defend the Emperor. Resser drew his sword and placed himself in front of the Viscount, while Duncan drew his, in return.
“Stop!” the Viscount roared. “Or you will all die in an atomic flash — even before I wish it to happen.”
Shaddam rose from the crude throne. “Atomics? You would not dare.”
Moritani’s eyes flashed. “A Tantor would dare. The Tantors did dare, many centuries ago. When my ancestors were betrayed by Corrinos, backed into a corner and given no choice or chance for survival, they deployed all the atomics of their House and destroyed nearly all life on Salusa Secundus.”
“Tantor?” Shaddam still sounded confused. “Was that their name? No matter. They were hunted down and killed, their bloodline ended and all traces expunged from Imperial history.”
“Not all. Our survivors planted new seeds, and we reemerged, built ourselves up again, and became House Moritani. But now, our world is used up and my son Wolfram is dead — the end of our hopes for the future. We have nothing left, and neither will you, Shaddam Corrino. I knew you would come personally to intervene here.” His hand was frozen over the controls, his fingers touching the activation contacts. “All my family atomics are here in Ritka, most of them placed by my Swordmaster in the catacombs beneath our feet. My fortress keep and all of Ritka will be turned into radioactive dust.” He let out a long sigh that sounded like an exhalation of ecstasy. “I just wanted you to know before the final flash of glory. I have already dispersed records to Landsraad members. From this day forward, history will never forget the name of the House that brought down the Corrinos. Once and for all, it will be done.”
All in the same instant, Shaddam shouted a command, and Sardaukar guards charged forward. But Paul saw that no one could intervene in time.
With his eyes closed and a serene smile on his face, the Viscount activated the touchpads.
A noble leader must be stern, while his heart and actions reflect fairness and justice. This holds true for an Emperor, a minor noble, or even a father.
—Principles of Leadership, lecture by the PRINCESS IRULAN at the Arrakeen War College
Paul shouted to his father, trying to make contact one last time, but the incinerating flash did not come. Startled, Moritani stared down at the control panel that had just gone dim.
Duncan did not slow as he charged toward the writing desk, his sword upraised, but Hiih Resser interposed himself between Duncan and the Viscount. Instead of attacking Duncan, however, his former comrade held up his own blade in a gesture of surrender. “No need, Duncan. It’s over.”
Sardaukar collided with the Viscount, throwing him bodily to the floor and roughly dragging him away from the chair and the console. He thrashed and fought, but he was no match for the Emperor’s elite soldiers.
Resser gave up his sword, extending it hilt-first to Duncan, speaking with sadness. “Honor does not know politics, only obedience. He was my noble master, and I swore my loyalty to him. But in this I could see no way to condone his action, so I took matters into my own hands.”
“What did you do?” Duncan asked.
“I placed the atomics around the city, just as the Viscount ordered. I knew what he intended to do. But I could not allow him to trigger the warheads in the spectacular holocaust he planned. It would have been an unforgivable crime against the Emperor, the people of Grumman, and all of you, whom he has already wronged so greatly.” He took a long breath, and his agitated expression relaxed slightly. “So I disabled the linkages.”
Moritani screamed at him. “You betrayed me! You broke your blood oath!”
Resser turned to the Viscount. “No, my Lord. I swore to follow your commands, and more importantly I swore to protect you. I planted the atomics, just as you ordered. Then, by preventing you from killing yourself, all of these nobles, and the Emperor himself, I saved your life and many more. My honor is intact.”
“HEAR YE ALL,” announced the Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV in a ponderous voice. “Heed our decision and our Imperial command.”
&n
bsp; Having moved his court back to his flagship, he sat now in his decadent jeweled robes on a portable simulacrum of the Lion Throne. His somber gaze swept the gathered nobles, the prisoners, and the observers inside the metal-walled chamber. Shaddam sounded greatly important, as though the Grumman victory was solely his doing.
Feeling out of place, Paul stood beside his father, along with Duncan, Gurney, Archduke Armand, and Prince Rhombur, still in their formal attire.
Viscount Moritani, on the other hand, wore rumpled fur-lined robes, his hair disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, looking both wild and cunning. The man made Paul uneasy simply to look at him. Though he was a nobleman, Hundro Moritani was carried into the Emperor’s presence by Sardaukar, restrained in a stiff-backed metal chair that contrasted sharply with the flamboyant throne on which the Emperor sat. Moritani’s arms were bound at the wrists by shigawire and his legs fastened to the chair. Putting a nobleman in restraints was unheard of, but the Sardaukar chief of security had insisted on it.
House Atreides had a legitimate blood-grudge against the Viscount, as did Archduke Ecaz, but Paul was sure that Shaddam would give his own vengeance precedence. The remnants of the renegade House Tantor? How many people had suffered from this madman’s hatred over an event that had occurred thousands of years earlier? How could anyone seek revenge after so long? Then again, the Atreides and the Harkonnens had hated each other for so many millennia that the reasons for their breach were almost lost in the distant blur of history.
Finally, looking weary yet oddly at peace, Hiih Resser stood by himself, like an island in the crowd. Shortly before the Emperor’s meeting here, in a poignant gesture Resser had asked Duncan to give him his fighting knife; Duncan had offered it to him reluctantly. “You aren’t going to do anything foolish, are you?”
The redheaded Swordmaster had hesitated for a long moment, then shook his head. “Not what you think, Duncan.” Using the sharp point, he sliced the threads of the horsehead insignia patch on his collar, cut it free, and threw it to the floor. He then excised the rank marks from his shoulders and sleeves.
Now, seeing what his Swordmaster had done, the bound Viscount Moritani spat on the floor.
Commanding the attention of all inside the royal chamber of his flagship, the Emperor extended his jeweled staff of office and struck it on the deck with a great echoing report.
“Viscount Hundro Moritani, for your crimes there can be any number of punishments. Because you have explicitly acted against House Corrino and conspired to harm Our Imperial Person, I should order your immediate execution. However, considering the cumulative consequences you must face, execution need not be the first of them.” Shaddam’s eyes glinted with anger and cruel humor. Moritani had been ordered not to speak, and threatened with a gag if he refused to obey.
“As a first and vital step, I hereby revoke all of your lands, titles, and possessions: your Grumman resources, buildings, subjects, CHOAM holdings, wealth, investments, and even your wardrobe.” He smiled. “We will provide suitable clothing for you in the Imperial Prison on Kaitain. Fifty percent of your liquidated assets shall be given to the Throne.
“The remaining half” — Shaddam spread his empty hand in a benevolent gesture — “will be split among the other wronged Houses — Ecaz, Atreides, and Vernius, in proportion to the losses they suffered at your hands.” He nodded to himself, satisfied with his munificence. But Paul noticed that his father had stiffened. Rhombur didn’t look entirely pleased either, as if he considered it an insult to reap a monetary reward for aiding his friend.
Shaddam leaned back on his throne. “As for the planet Grumman and the siridar governorship, we present it as a new holding of House Ecaz. All of its planetary wealth and natural resources are now in your control. Archduke, you may exploit this world and profit from it.”
Armand stood silent and stony. His response conveyed no joy. “Thank you, Sire.” The mined-out planet — its lands barely fertile, its population poor, unhealthy, and exhausted — was no prize. It would be more of an albatross around Armand’s neck than an asset.
“Viscount Moritani, I reserve the right to order your execution at any time. However, in the spirit of harmony in the Imperium, I propose that you be delivered forthwith to Kaitain in a prison frigate, for trial in Landsraad court. Your fellow nobles will decide your specific fate.”
The Viscount snarled bitterly, unable to restrain himself further. “I look forward to speaking in my own defense. I am sure that you and the Landsraad nobles will be most interested in what I have to say… given the proper forum. Never assume that even an Emperor knows everything that goes on in the Imperium.”
Paul studied the defiant Grumman nobleman — his mannerisms, expression, and tone of voice. He wore a cloak of madness, which made him difficult to read, but Paul detected neither bravado nor a bluff. Moritani did, indeed, have something more to say. Wheels within wheels, and another set within those.
Shaddam’s eyes narrowed, a calculating expression. “We look forward to your testimony, although perhaps certain other Great Houses might not.”
Paul looked at Duncan, recalling the encounter with Beast Rabban here on Grumman. At long last, Duke Leto actually gave a weary smile. No member of House Atreides would be disappointed if the Baron was found culpable in these heinous acts. Not only would House Moritani fall, but House Harkonnen could also be stripped. With luck, Baron Harkonnen would find himself in a cell next to Viscount Moritani.
The Emperor nodded in satisfaction. “My work here is done.” He gestured dismissively toward the furious Viscount, clapped his hands, and announced a feast to celebrate the end of the War of Assassins and the prevention of a much larger, interplanetary war.
Men who are fundamentally weak look upon threats as the ultimate expressions of power. Men who are truly powerful, however, view threats as yet another vulnerability.
—BARON VLADIMIR HARKONNEN, Advice for Assassins
The Baron was furious and went out of his way to let Rabban see it. He also felt strangely unsettled, but he carefully hid any sign of that from his blundering nephew.
Only two days earlier, he had received a terse, cryptic note signed by Duke Leto Atreides. “We trust your nephew Rabban is recovering from his sword wound. A pity we could not spend more time with him on Grumman.”
The message offered no further explanation, and the Baron felt an ominous heaviness in his chest. So, Rabban had been identified. The Atreides Duke knew the Harkonnens were somehow involved in the conflict… though apparently he possessed no proof: otherwise the message would have been accompanied by a summons to the Landsraad Court. So, Leto simply wanted House Harkonnen to know that he knew.
Infuriating, yes, but no harm done. Let the Atreides stew over their inability to take action. If they dared declare kanly on such flimsy innuendo, then the Baron would play the wronged party.
This afternoon the Beast had finally made his way back to Giedi Prime, pushed past the household guards and presented himself to his uncle without delay. For all his considerable flaws, the man did have some good points. As one example, Rabban realized how much trouble he was in, and that his fate rested solely in the Baron’s hands. That demonstrated at least minimal intelligence. Apparently, the rest of the disguised Harkonnen troops had been killed.
Looking breathless and disheveled, Rabban stood in the Baron’s study. A bloodstained healing pad was secured to the side of his head, where a medic had also shaved some of his reddish hair short to treat the injury; it gave him a battered, off-balance appearance. A wound on his arm was tightly bound with healing tape. The sword cut Leto had alluded to?
“I tremble with anticipation to learn of your adventures.” The Baron’s basso voice dripped sarcasm as he sat at his dark, richly carved desk. Feyd sauntered in, eager to hear of his older brother’s escapades as well. The rangy young man glanced disdainfully at his muscular, thickheaded brother, who shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot. Feyd lounged on a divan where he could watch
.
In abrupt sentences with occasional contradictions, Rabban explained that he had been stranded with murderous Grumman soldiers, all of whom wanted his head due to their own military failures, and how the entire division of disguised Harkonnen soldiers had either fallen into the battlefield pits or been slain by vengeful Moritani barbarians. He told how he had been chased by Atreides soldiers but escaped with only a minor wound. Then, after the Vernius ships had arrived followed by the Imperial delegation, how he’d hidden in a warehouse and barely eluded capture.
His nephew wasn’t entirely without resources or imagination. Nonetheless, the Baron’s face darkened. “You were seen by Atreides soldiers. They recognized you.”
“How do you —”
The Baron slammed a beefy fist on his desk, then showed him the message from Duke Leto. “Do you understand that if you had been caught, or if you left behind any evidence of Harkonnen involvement, we would find ourselves mired in an impossible crisis?”
Rabban stood his ground. “I left no evidence, Uncle. If the Atreides Duke had any proof, he would have sent more than that message.”
The Baron smiled slightly, surprised at his nephew’s perceptive response. Feyd let out a rude noise, but made no other comment.
Rabban continued, “Fortunately, the Emperor brought such an army of retainers and servants with him that I was able to kill one and take his uniform and identification. In the confusion of his crackdown in the Ritka fortress, I slipped in among them, flew back with the Imperial entourage, then got passage back here.”
Feyd said in his most annoying tone, “So, you can be clever after all!”
The quaver had left Rabban’s voice and was replaced by confidence. “I thought I did rather well.”
“You did well getting away. You did not do well at the task I assigned you. Have you heard the Emperor’s recent announcement?”
“I heard that House Moritani has been stripped of its title and planet.”
Paul of Dune Page 42
