How could this man be dead here? Leto asked himself. Who killed him?
The mewling sound was louder here. It came from ahead and down the side passage to the central room where they had installed the main shield generator for the house.
Hand on belt switch, kindjal poised, the Duke skirted the body, slipped down the passage and peered around the corner toward the shield generator room.
Another grey blob lay stretched on the floor a few paces away, and he saw at once this was the source of the noise. The shape crawled toward him with painful slowness, gasping, mumbling.
Leto stilled his sudden constriction of fear, darted down the passage, crouched beside the crawling figure. It was Mapes, the Fremen housekeeper, her hair tumbled around her face, clothing disarrayed. A dull shininess of dark stain spread from her back along her side. He touched her shoulder and she lifted herself on her elbows, head tipped up to peer at him, the eyes black-shadowed emptiness.
“S‘you,” she gasped. “Killed… guard… sent… get… Tuek … escape… m’Lady … you… you… here … no….” She flopped forward, her head thumping against the stone.
Leto felt for pulse at the temples. There was none. He looked at the stain: she’d been stabbed in the back. Who? His mind raced. Did she mean someone had killed a guard? And Tuek—had Jessica sent for him? Why?
He started to stand up. A sixth sense warned him. He flashed a hand toward the shield switch—too late. A numbing shock slammed his arm aside. He felt pain there, saw a dart protruding from the sleeve, sensed paralysis spreading from it up his arm. It took an agonizing effort to lift his head and look down the passage.
Yueh stood in the open door of the generator room. His face reflected yellow from the light of a single, brighter suspensor above the door. There was stillness from the room behind him—no sound of generators.
Yueh! Leto thought. He’s sabotaged the house generators! We’re wide open!
Yueh began walking toward him, pocketing a dartgun.
Leto found he could still speak, gasped: “Yueh! How?” Then the paralysis reached his legs and he slid to the floor with his back propped against the stone wall.
Yueh’s face carried a look of sadness as he bent over, touched Leto’s forehead. The Duke found he could feel the touch, but it was remote … dull.
“The drug on the dart is selective,” Yueh said. “You can speak, but I’d advise against it.” He glanced down the hall, and again bent over Leto, pulled out the dart, tossed it aside. The sound of the dart clattering on the stones was faint and distant to the Duke’s ears.
It can’t be Yueh, Leto thought. He’s conditioned.
“How?” Leto whispered.
“I’m sorry, my dear Duke, but there are things which will make greater demands than this.” He touched the diamond tattoo on his forehead. “I find it very strange, myself—an override on my pyretic conscience—but I wish to kill a man. Yes, I actually wish it. I will stop at nothing to do it.”
He looked down at the Duke. “Oh, not you, my dear Duke. The Baron Harkonnen. I wish to kill the Baron.”
“Bar … on Har….”
“Be quiet, please, my poor Duke. You haven’t much time. That peg tooth I put in your mouth after the tumble at Narcal—that tooth must be replaced. In a moment, I’ll render you unconscious and replace that tooth.” He opened his hand, stared at something in it. “An exact duplicate, its core shaped most exquisitely like a nerve. It’ll escape the usual detectors, even a fast scanning. But if you bite down hard on it, the cover crushes. Then, when you expel your breath sharply, you fill the air around you with a poison gas—most deadly.”
Leto stared up at Yueh, seeing madness in the man’s eyes, the perspiration along brow and chin.
“You were dead anyway, my poor Duke,” Yueh said. “But you will get close to the Baron before you die. He’ll believe you’re stupefied by drugs beyond any dying effort to attack him. And you will be drugged—and tied. But attack can take strange forms. And you will remember the tooth. The tooth, Duke Leto Atreides. You will remember the tooth.”
The old doctor leaned closer and closer until his face and drooping mustache dominated Leto’s narrowing vision.
“The tooth,” Yueh muttered.
“Why?” Leto whispered.
Yueh lowered himself to one knee beside the Duke. “I made a shaitan’s bargain with the Baron. And I must be certain he has fulfilled his half of it. When I see him, I’ll know. When I look at the Baron, then I will know. But I’ll never enter his presence without the price. You’re the price, my poor Duke. And I’ll know when I see him. My poor Wanna taught me many things, and one is to see certainty of truth when the stress is great. I cannot do it always, but when I see the Baron—then, I will know.”
Leto tried to look down at the tooth in Yueh’s hand. He felt this was happening in a nightmare—it could not be.
Yueh’s purple lips turned up in a grimace. “I’ll not get close enough to the Baron, or I’d do this myself. No. I’ll be detained at a safe distance. But you… ah, now! You, my lovely weapon! He’ll want you close to him—to gloat over you, to boast a little.”
Leto found himself almost hypnotized by a muscle on the left side of Yueh’s jaw. The muscle twisted when the man spoke.
Yueh leaned closer. “And you, my good Duke, my precious Duke, you must remember this tooth.” He held it up between thumb and forefinger. “It will be all that remains to you.”
Leto’s mouth moved without sound, then: “Refuse.”
“Ah-h, no! You mustn’t refuse. Because, in return for this small service, I’m doing a thing for you. I will save your son and your woman. No other can do it. They can be removed to a place where no Harkonnen can reach them.”
“How… save… them?” Leto whispered.
“By making it appear they’re dead, by secreting them among people who draw knife at hearing the Harkonnen name, who hate the Harkonnens so much they’ll burn a chair in which a Harkonnen has sat, salt the ground over which a Harkonnen has walked.” He touched Leto’s jaw. “Can you feel anything in your jaw?”
The Duke found that he could not answer. He sensed distant tugging, saw Yueh’s hand come up with the ducal signet ring.
“For Paul,” Yueh said. “You’ll be unconscious presently. Good-by, my poor Duke. When next we meet we’ll have no time for conversation.”
Cool remoteness spread upward from Leto’s jaw, across his cheeks. The shadowy hall narrowed to a pinpoint with Yueh’s purple lips centered in it.
“Remember the tooth!” Yueh hissed. “The tooth!”
***
There should be a science of discontent. People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles.
—from “Collected Sayings of Muad’Dib” by the Princess Irulan
JESSICA AWOKE in the dark, feeling premonition in the stillness around her. She could not understand why her mind and body felt so sluggish. Skin raspings of fear ran along her nerves. She thought of sitting up and turning on a light, but something stayed the decision. Her mouth felt… strange.
Lump-lump-lump-lump!
It was a dull sound, directionless in the dark. Somewhere.
The waiting moment was packed with time, with rustling needlestick movements.
She began to feel her body, grew aware of bindings on wrists and ankles, a gag in her mouth. She was on her side, hands tied behind her. She tested the bindings, realized they were krimskell fiber, would only claw tighter as she pulled.
And now, she remembered.
There had been movement in the darkness of her bedroom, something wet and pungent slapped against her face, filling her mouth, hands grasping for her. She had gasped—one indrawn breath—sensing the narcotic in the wetness. Consciousness had receded, sinking her into a black bin of terror.
It has come, she thought. How simple it was to subdue the Bene Gesserit. All it took was treachery. Hawat was right.
She forced herself not to pull on her bindings.
This is not my bedroom, she thought. They’ve taken me someplace else.
Slowly, she marshaled the inner calmness.
She grew aware of the smell of her own stale sweat with its chemical infusion of fear.
Where is Paul? she asked herself. My son—what have they done to him?
Calmness.
She forced herself to it, using the ancient routines.
But terror remained so near.
Leto? Where are you, Leto?
She sensed a diminishing in the dark. It began with shadows. Dimensions separated, became new thorns of awareness. White. A line under a door.
I’m on the floor.
People walking. She sensed it through the floor.
Jessica squeezed back the memory of terror. I must remain calm, alert, and prepared. I may get only one chance. Again, she forced the inner calmness.
The ungainly thumping of her heartbeats evened, shaping out time. She counted back. I was unconscious about an hour. She closed her eyes, focused her awareness onto the approaching footsteps.
Four people.
She counted the differences in their steps.
I must pretend I’m still unconscious. She relaxed against the cold floor, testing her body’s readiness, heard a door open, sensed increased light through her eyelids.
Feet approached: someone standing over her.
“You are awake,” rumbled a basso voice. “Do not pretend.”
She opened her eyes.
The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen stood over her. Around them, she recognized the cellar room where Paul had slept, saw his cot at one side—empty. Suspensor lamps were brought in by guards, distributed near the open door. There was a glare of light in the hallway beyond that hurt her eyes.
She looked up at the Baron. He wore a yellow cape that bulged over his portable suspensors. The fat cheeks were two cherubic mounds beneath spider-black eyes.
“The drug was timed,” he rumbled. “We knew to the minute when you’d be coming out of it.”
How could that be? she wondered. They’d have to know my exact weight, my metabolism, my…. Yueh!
“Such a pity you must remain gagged,” the Baron said. “We could have such an interesting conversation.”
Yueh’s the only one it could be, she thought. How?
The Baron glanced behind him at the door. “Come in, Piter.”
She had never before seen the man who entered to stand beside the Baron, but the face was known—and the man: Piter de Vries, the Mentat-Assassin. She studied him—hawk features, blue-ink eyes that suggested he was a native of Arrakis, but subtleties of movement and stance told her he was not. And his flesh was too well firmed with water. He was tall, though slender, and something about him suggested effeminacy.
“Such a pity we cannot have our conversation, my dear Lady Jessica,” the Baron said. “However, I’m aware of your abilities.” He glanced at the Mentat. “Isn’t that true, Piter?”
“As you say, Baron,” the man said.
The voice was tenor. It touched her spine with a wash of coldness. She had never heard such a chill voice. To one with the Bene Gesserit training, the voice screamed: Killer!
“I have a surprise for Piter,” the Baron said. “He thinks he has come here to collect his reward—you, Lady Jessica. But I wish to demonstrate a thing: that he does not really want you.”
“You play with me, Baron?” Piter asked, and he smiled.
Seeing that smile, Jessica wondered that the Baron did not leap to defend himself from this Piter. Then she corrected herself. The Baron could not read that smile. He did not have the Training.
“In many ways, Piter is quite naive,” the Baron said. “He doesn’t admit to himself what a deadly creature you are, Lady Jessica. I’d show him, but it’d be a foolish risk.” The Baron smiled at Piter, whose face had become a waiting mask. “I know what Piter really wants. Piter wants power.”
“You promised I could have her,” Piter said. The tenor voice had lost some of its cold reserve.
Jessica heard the clue-tones in the man’s voice, allowed herself an inward shudder. How could the Baron have made such an animal out of a Mentat?
“I give you a choice, Piter,” the Baron said.
“What choice?”
The Baron snapped fat fingers. “This woman and exile from the Imperium, or the Duchy of Atreides on Arrakis to rule as you see fit in my name.”
Jessica watched the Baron’s spider eyes study Piter.
“You could be Duke here in all but name,” the Baron said.
Is my Leto dead, then? Jessica asked herself. She felt a silent wail begin somewhere in her mind.
The Baron kept his attention on the Mentat. “Understand yourself, Piter. You want her because she was a Duke’s woman, a symbol of his power—beautiful, useful, exquisitely trained for her role. But an entire duchy, Piter! That’s more than a symbol; that’s the reality. With it you could have many women… and more.”
“You do not joke with Piter?”
The Baron turned with that dancing lightness the suspensors gave him. “Joke? I? Remember—I am giving up the boy. You heard what the traitor said about the lad’s training. They are alike, this mother and son—deadly.” The Baron smiled. “I must go now. I will send in the guard I’ve reserved for this moment. He’s stone deaf. His orders will be to convey you on the first leg of your journey into exile. He will subdue this woman if he sees her gain control of you. He’ll not permit you to untie her gag until you’re off Arrakis. If you choose not to leave … he has other orders.”
“You don’t have to leave,” Piter said. “I’ve chosen.”
“Ah, hah!” the Baron chortled. “Such quick decision can mean only one thing.”
“I will take the duchy,” Piter said.
And Jessica thought: Doesn’t Piter know the Baron’s lying to him? But—how could he know? He’s a twisted Mentat.
The Baron glanced down at Jessica. “Is it not wonderful that I know Piter so well? I wagered with my Master at Arms that this would be Piter’s choice. Hah! Well, I leave now. This is much better. Ah-h, much better. You understand, Lady Jessica? I had no rancor toward you. It’s a necessity. Much better this way. Yes. And I’ve not actually ordered you destroyed. When it’s asked of me what happened to you, I can shrug it off in all truth.”
“You leave it to me then?” Piter asked.
“The guard I send you will take your orders,” the Baron said. “Whatever’s done I leave to you.” He stared at Piter. “Yes. There will be no blood on my hands here. It’s your decision. Yes. I know nothing of it. You will wait until I’ve gone before doing whatever you must do. Yes. Well… ah, yes. Yes. Good.”
He fears the questioning of a Truthsayer, Jessica thought. Who? Ah-h-h, the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen, of course! If he knows he must face her questions, then the Emperor is in on this for sure. Ah-h-h-h, my poor Leto.
With one last glance at Jessica, the Baron turned, went out the door. She followed him with her eyes, thinking: It’s as the Reverend Mother warned—toopotent an adversary.
Two Harkonnen troopers entered. Another, his face a scared mask, followed and stood in the doorway with drawn lasgun.
The deaf one, Jessica thought, studying the scarred face. The Baron knows I could use the Voice on any other man.
Scarface looked at Piter. “We’ve the boy on a litter outside. What are your orders?”
Piter spoke to Jessica. “I’d thought of binding you by a threat held over your son, but I begin to see that would not have worked. I let emotion cloud reason. Bad policy for a Mentat.” He looked at the first pair of troopers, turning so the deaf one could read his lips: “Take them into the desert as the traitor suggested for the boy. His plan is a good one. The worms will destroy all evidence. Their bodies must never be found.”
“You don’t wish to dispatch them yourself?” Scarface asked.
He reads lips, Jessica thought.
“I follow my Baron’s example,” Piter said.
“Take them where the traitor said.”
Jessica heard the harsh Mentat control in Piter’s voice, thought: He, too, fears the Truthsayer.
Piter shrugged, turned, and went through the doorway. He hesitated there, and Jessica thought he might turn back for a last look at her, but he went out without turning.
“Me, I wouldn’t like the thought of facing that Truthsayer after this night’s work,” Scarface said.
“You ain’t likely ever to run into that old witch,” one of the other troopers said. He went around to Jessica’s head, bent over her.” It ain’t getting our work done standing around here chattering. Take her feet and—”
“Why‘n’t we kill ’em here?” Scarface asked.
“Too messy,” the first one said. “Unless you wants to strangle ‘em. Me, I likes a nice straightforward job. Drop ’em on the desert like that traitor said, cut ’em once or twice, leave the evidence for the worms. Nothing to clean up afterwards.”
“Yeah… well, I guess you’re right,” Scarface said.
Jessica listened to them, watching, registering. But the gag blocked her Voice, and there was the deaf one to consider.
Scarface holstered his lasgun, took her feet. They lifted her like a sack of grain, maneuvered her through the door and dumped her onto a suspensor-buoyed litter with another bound figure. As they turned her, fitting her to the litter, she saw her companion’s face—Paul! He was bound, but not gagged. His face was no more than ten centimeters from hers, eyes closed, his breathing even.
Is he drugged? she wondered.
The troopers lifted the litter, and Paul’s eyes opened the smallest fraction—dark slits staring at her.
He mustn’t try the Voice! she prayed. The deaf guard!
Paul’s eyes closed.
He had been practicing the awareness-breathing, calming his mind, listening to their captors. The deaf one posed a problem, but Paul contained his despair. The mind-calming Bene Gesserit regimen his mother had taught him kept him poised, ready to expand any opportunity.
Paul allowed himself another slit-eyed inspection of his mother’s face. She appeared unharmed. Gagged, though.
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