Paul of Dune

by Brian Herbert; Kevin J. Anderson

  “Too bad,” the Baron said, but he didn’t mean it.

  THE ARCHITECTURE OF the Viscount’s dim and dusty fortress made it seem like a tent made of stone, with angled slabs for ceilings. As the two noblemen took their seats at a private table of dark, age-stained wood, the Baron held out his hand to Piter. The Mentat handed him a bulky packet, which the Baron extended toward Hundro Moritani. “I bring a gift for your son, a supply of semuta-laced melange. It may help his condition.” From what he’d seen of the boy, Wolfram had very little time left anyway.

  Piter stepped forward to explain. “Apparently, the combination of drugs yields the same euphoric effects of semuta, but without that annoying music.”

  Nodding sadly, the Viscount said, “A kind gesture, considering how difficult it is to procure even semuta on the black market, now that Armand Ecaz has cracked down on his exports.” With a darkening expression and a thickening accent as he grew more upset, the Viscount launched into his proposal without so much as serving refreshments, making the Baron think that the Ritka fortress received few noble guests. “Vladimir, we can help each other. You hate the Atreides, and I hate the Ecazis. I have a way to solve both of our problems.”

  “I already like the way you think. What do you suggest?”

  “The news is fresh, but verified. Duke Leto Atreides intends to marry Ilesa Ecaz, sealing the two Houses together. The ceremony is scheduled to be held on Caladan in six weeks.”

  “My spies already informed me of this. How does it help us? After Shaddam’s latest spectacle, I am weary of weddings. In any case, neither of us is likely to be invited to the nuptials.”

  “That doesn’t mean we cannot send a special gift — something to make the occasion memorable. We have atomics.” The Viscount raised his bushy eyebrows. “I presume you do as well?”

  The Baron reeled in alarm. “Atomics are forbidden by the strictest possible terms in the Great Convention. Any use of atomics by one House against another is cause for the immediate extinction of that House —”

  Moritani cut him off. “As I well know, Baron. And if I have any hope of securing Ecaz as my own new fief, I wouldn’t want to turn it into a charred ball, now would I? I mention the idea only in passing.”

  What kind of leader would mention atomics like that? In passing! the Baron thought.

  Though open warfare involving great military forces and planetary-scale battles was nearly inconceivable these days, the rules of conflict among the Landsraad houses still allowed direct assassination attempts under specific circumstances. This dance of controlled violence permitted rulers to exhibit their dark sides without risking entire populations. This compromise had stood for ten thousand years, under the shield of the Great Convention.

  “Ah, Vladimir — we can send an entirely different sort of message to Atreides and Ecaz, a much more personal one. I want Archduke Armand to know that I am his attacker.”

  The Baron narrowed his gaze. “I, on the other hand, would prefer to keep any Harkonnen involvement secret.” He had not the time nor patience for a War of Assassins right now. “You may take all the credit, my dear Viscount.”

  The other man smiled. “Then we are in perfect accord.”

  The weather changes, and friends come and go, but blood ties withstand great cataclysms.

  —DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES

  Back home on Caladan, young Paul felt withdrawn. After what he had seen and learned in the Archduke’s palace, he had many questions, to which he could not find answers in filmbooks.

  He went down to the dockside, wandered past the fish-seller stalls, and made his way up the path to a coastal promontory. Looking for solace, or at least answers that made sense to him, Paul stopped at the colossal harbor statues of Duke Paulus Atreides and young Victor, Duke Leto’s first son. My brother, he thought with a wave of sadness. Paul stared up at the statues. Having seen images of the real individuals, he knew that these representations were accurate, though slightly idealized. Leto had erected the towering sculptures at the mouth of the harbor so that all craft passing in or out of Cala City would see them.

  Both deaths had left a great mark on his father’s life, and it had been during Leto’s time of deepest grief following Victor’s death that Jessica had gotten pregnant. In a way, Paul realized, he owed his life, his very existence, to that tragedy….

  He saw his mother coming up the black rock steps, and presently she stood beside him on the esplanade at the base of the statues. The salty breezes blew strands of her bronze hair about her face. “I thought you might be here, Paul. I sometimes come to this place myself to deal with my own questions.”

  He gazed at the stone figures, the burning braziers filled with bright flames. “Do they ever answer you?”

  “No, the answers have to come from ourselves.” She smiled at him. “Unless you would like to speak with me?”

  He blurted a response, not thinking. “When my father marries Ilesa Ecaz, will I still be his heir? What is my place in House Atreides?”

  “Leto has designated you, Paul. You are his son.”

  “I know, but if he has another child with Ilesa, his legal wife, won’t that boy become his rightful heir instead of me?”

  “Are you having dynastic dreams, Paul?” Jessica asked softly. “Do you want to be Duke?”

  “Thufir says that anyone who wants to be Duke would not be a good one.”

  “That’s the irony of political realities. Your father has promised that your status and mine will not change. Trust him.”

  “But how can he promise that? Didn’t he also make promises to Archduke Ecaz?”

  “Your father has made many promises. The challenge will be for him to balance and keep all of them — and you know he’ll try. His sense of honor is his most prized possession.”

  “Do you believe my father is betraying you, or us, by marrying another woman?” Paul watched his mother’s expression carefully. He could see the subtle signs of confusion and ambivalence as her Bene Gesserit-trained mind struggled to accept the necessities. Yet, no matter how much Jessica tried to convince herself, she was also a woman, a human being. She had feelings.

  “I came to accept Kailea Vernius under similar circumstances,” Jessica said. “I knew my place, and Leto knew his.”

  “But Kailea didn’t accept it. I know what happened.”

  “Neither did your grandmother Helena. Your father knows he is treading on dangerous ground, but I will not try to talk him out of it.”

  Jessica turned from the statues and surprised Paul by hugging him fiercely. Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she brushed away the dampness. “Always remember one thing, Paul. Your father loves you, he truly does.”

  Yes, he knew that in a way that went beyond politics or logic. “I will never forget it.”

  A MONTH PASSED, and the wedding drew closer. Paul did his best to concentrate on his many duties and responsibilities as the son of a Duke.

  Paul trained daily with Thufir Hawat. Gradually, the Weapons Master set the training mek to higher and higher skill levels, as if to express his own anger. The veteran Mentat had served House Atreides for generations; he had seen old Paulus and Helena during their legendary fights and watched Leto and Kailea as their relationship tumbled into disaster. But in his position as the Atreides Master of Assassins, he turned a blind eye to personal matters in the household, except where they might affect ducal security.

  Paul fought against the mek, ducking to avoid its slashing metal arms, parrying with a short sword. Since the mindless, reactive device generated its own shield, he could practice the slow plunge of the knife through the resistance, adjusting the speed of his thrust to make the blade pass through. After each exhausting session, Thufir replayed Paul’s moves via a holo-image so he could critique and assess the young man’s strengths and weaknesses.

  Now, Paul compartmentalized his thoughts as his mother had taught him, so that he could carry on a conversation while still fighting at the peak of his abilities. This habit had a
lways startled his teachers, and Paul did it just to see the effect it had on the old Mentat. “Tell me how my grandfather died, Thufir.”

  “Bullfight. A Salusan bull killed him.”

  Paul slashed and ducked. One of the mek’s cutting edges came very close to slicing open his left shoulder. “You would make a poor Jongleur. Your storytelling ability is greatly lacking.”

  Thufir continued to watch him, and finally said more. “Old Duke Paulus died because of treachery, and your grandmother was forced to take the veil with the Sisters in Isolation.”

  Pieces clicked together in Paul’s mind. He had never bothered to compare the exact dates. According to stories and rumors around Castle Caladan, Lady Helena had withdrawn to the fortress nunnery out of grief. This was shocking new information. “Was she responsible for the plot?”

  “Not for me to say… but in exile she remains. Duncan was but a stable hand at the time. Even he was implicated in the plot for a while.”

  “Duncan?” Paul nearly missed a thrust from the mek and stepped out of the way, letting the shield take the brunt of the blow when his artificial opponent thrust too quickly. “Duncan involved in the death of my grandfather? But he carries the Old Duke’s sword.”

  “He was cleared of all charges.” Thufir terminated the fighting exercise and shut down the mek. “That is enough, if you are going to insist on jabbering. You can pretend to do both at the same time, but I saw your mistakes, which could have been fatal if not for my presence. We will review them carefully, young Master. For now, go clean up, change your clothes, and prepare to receive our guests. The first members of the Ecazi wedding party arrive this afternoon.”

  Politicians and predators operate on disturbingly similar principles.

  —DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES, letter to his wife, Helena

  Several weeks after the Baron Harkonnen departed from Grumman, where plans had been set in motion, the Viscount lost all reason for restraint.

  Hiih Resser stood with a dozen members of the Moritani royal court, packed shoulder to shoulder in the sickroom of the dying boy. Viscount Moritani spoke to them all in a voice like ripping paper. “The Suk doctor says my son will soon breathe his last. It is only a matter of days, or less. If only we had the drug to cure him.” Moritani’s broken whisper drove a knife of sorrow into Resser’s heart. If only.

  On his bed, reeking of melange and semuta smoke, accompanied by wailing atonal music, whether or not the melodic trance effects were necessary, Wolfram was beyond hearing his distraught father.

  Some of the witnesses sobbed softly, but Resser had no way of judging if their tears were sincere. Looking on, he was convinced that this clumsy demonstration of support was largely an effort to gain favor with the Grumman lord.

  Preoccupied with his work, Dr. Terbali made adjustments to Wolfram’s intravenous lines, while the wild-haired Viscount leaned over his son from the other side, kissed his sunken cheek, and spoke quietly.

  The unfortunate boy did not respond, but stared vacantly, only occasionally twitching a muscle or blinking his red-veined eyes.

  The sick boy slipped so quietly into death that even Moritani did not notice for several seconds, though he held the boy’s limp hand. Then, in delayed reaction, he let out a bestial sound that was half wail, half roar.

  Dr. Terbali straightened from the bedside after checking vital signs. “I’m sorry, my Lord.”

  Hundro Moritani swept an arm across a tray of medical instruments, sending them clanging to the floor. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

  The Viscount was a hard, cruel man with easily inflamed passions, and quick to respond with violence. Resser had seen how his master skirted morality for his own purposes, while putting forth false issues to disguise his motivations. But this was no pretended grief. The anguish over his only son’s death was real.

  The flames behind Moritani’s eyes burned as brightly as stars. Resser was terrified, wondering if the Viscount would use the death of Wolfram as a catalyst to unleash the storm he had been holding inside for so long. The Grumman leader would step across the grave of his own son to obtain what he wanted for his House. With Wolfram gone, he would drum up support to take the planet Ecaz for himself, and somehow he would get another male heir. Or did he have an even larger plan? And was it simply revenge?

  That is not a question for me to answer, Resser thought. My role is to follow the orders of my master, to obey with my life, if necessary.

  The Viscount, his emotions changing in a flash, turned on the Suk doctor. With tears streaming down his cheeks, Moritani stormed around the foot of the sickbed. “You knew the cure for Wolfram! I commanded you to obtain it for me.”

  “Not possible, my Lord! The Ecazis —”

  Moritani hurled the portly doctor across the room into the clustered and clucking observers, but he was not finished yet. Drawing a slender, curved kindjal from his fur-trimmed jerkin, he stalked toward the stunned doctor, while others scrambled away, doing nothing to help or hinder the intended victim.

  “I am a Suk — I have immunity!”

  Face twisted in disgust, Moritani plunged the knife into the doctor’s chest and withdrew it as swiftly as a serpent striking, then shoved the mortally wounded man aside as if he were no more than a distraction. “Then heal yourself.”

  Trying to assuage his grief with violence, he charged out of his son’s death chamber with the bloody blade, reacting to this problem just as Resser had seen him react to so many problems before. “Where are the others? Bring the smugglers to me — every one of them!” He spun to Resser. “Swordmaster, you find them.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  Within the hour, eleven Ecazi drug smugglers were brought before the enraged, distraught Viscount. Hundro Moritani had paid these men to slip through the Ecazi restrictions and obtain doses of esoit-poay regardless of cost. After a few unsuccessful attempts to obtain the curative through illegal channels, they had tried to steal a shipment. In all instances, they had returned empty handed.

  One by one, the Viscount had the Ecazi smugglers bound by ropes around their ankles to wild Grumman stallions. In a grisly exhibition, the men were dragged across the dry, rocky seabed until they were dead. Afterward, looking at the shredded red bodies, he snapped at Resser, “I cannot stand the sight of the Ecazi race. Remove these corpses from my presence, and have them burned.”

  Resser did as he was told, knowing that Moritani was probably just beginning.

  One does not need Other Memory to be haunted by the past.

  —REVEREND MOTHER GAIUS HELEN MOHIAM

  Though Duke Leto’s wedding could in no way compare to Shaddam’s recent spectacle, Landsraad families who wished to pay their respects to House Atreides and House Ecaz would dutifully attend from across the Imperium. The most important visitors would stay in guest chambers at Castle Caladan. The innkeepers in Cala City had cleaned and expanded their rooms to prepare for the flood of visitors.

  Two weeks before the scheduled ceremony, Archduke Armand Ecaz and his retinue landed three large lighters at the spaceport. Duncan Idaho went out to greet the Ecazis, and escorted them back to the castle in a crowded procession aboard slow-moving groundcars. Cargo flats followed them, bearing their luggage and supplies.

  Paul waited inside the Castle, still feeling uncertain about his proper place in events. What he had thought to be a rock-solid island in a sea of galactic politics had become a shifting sandbar. His mother was nowhere to be found, having decided to occupy herself with household duties out of sight.

  The initial party included the Archduke himself and his daughter Ilesa, accompanied by Swordmasters Rivvy Dinari and Whitmore Bludd. Paul stared down at them from a tower window, particularly interested in his father’s bride-to-be. Ilesa was beautiful, though in a different fashion from the Lady Jessica. He considered his automatic resentment toward the young woman, then consciously decided it was unfair to dislike her simply because of her abrupt insertion into the family. After all, Ilesa was also
a pawn in the marriage game.

  Duke Leto had explained about the political necessities, fully aware that Paul himself might — and probably would — find himself in a similar situation someday. “It is a nobleman’s burden,” his father had said, “heavy enough to break a man’s back and a woman’s heart.”

  Paul went to the main reception hall, where his father was greeting Armand Ecaz. Enormous Rivvy Dinari stood at attention, pretending to guard the proceedings, while Whitmore Bludd seemed much more interested in discussing the assignment of rooms with the Atreides housemaster.

  An entire shipment of huge potted plants, rainbow-hued ferns, flowering bugle lilies, and spiky Elaccan evergreens had been sent by Duke Prad Vidal himself. The pots were large and elaborate, girdled with a mosaic design of broad hexagonal plates. There was an awkward moment as Thufir Hawat insisted on scanning the plants to prove that they were not poisonous. Some members of the Ecazi party were offended, but the Archduke told them to allow the most thorough inspection. “We will take no risks.”

  Paul saw Duke Leto watching Ilesa, who stood beside her father. “Those plants are an entirely appropriate wedding gift,” Leto said. “Arrange them in the grand hallway, to give us a bit of Ecaz on Caladan. While Ilesa lives here, they will remind her of her home.”

  Swordmaster Bludd directed the arrangement of the pots, then moved on to numerous other preparations for the spectacular wedding, while Duke Leto finally took time to get to know his bride-to-be.

  THE SEAS OF Caladan whispered against the boat as Leto sailed out of the harbor and up the coast, always remaining within sight of the misty shore. The weathersats had promised a fine forecast for the ensuing two days, so Leto would have no problem handling the sloop himself. At his request, Ilesa accompanied him, as if this trip was some form of diplomatic foray.