The Abbess took her seat without uttering a word. Paul wondered if he should introduce himself, ask his questions. Duncan’s fist clenched where it rested on the tabletop.
After a lengthy and unpleasant moment, the woman reached up with black-gloved hands to touch the sides of her hood, hesitated as though afraid, and then pulled back the fabric to reveal dark, wavy brown hair shot through with silver-gray. She peeled down the mesh that obscured her face, and Paul gazed for the first time upon his paternal grandmother.
Her features were lean and severe, but he recognized hints of his father’s face. Lady Helena of House Richese had married Duke Paulus Atreides, and clearly she had not forgotten her regal bearing. She spoke in a voice that seemed ragged and rusty from disuse. “For now, at this meal, I will acknowledge that I am your grandmother, boy. But do not expect a loving welcome or celebratory feast.”
“Nevertheless, we expect courtesy and your guarantee of safety,” Duncan warned.
“Courtesy…” Helena seemed to consider this. “You ask for a great deal.”
Goire stood, startling the gathered women. “And you will give it to them. They have every right to make this request of us, and we have every obligation to grant it.”
Helena’s lips pursed in a scowl. “Very well. You are here, and I will learn why… but later. For now, let us eat in peace. And silence.”
Politics is a tangled web, an intricate labyrinth, an ever-shifting kaleidoscopic pattern. And it is not pretty.
—COUNT HASIMIR FENRING
Baron Harkonnen sat in a swollen, self-adjusting chair in the back row of the Landsraad Hall of Oratory, waiting for the shouting match to begin and hoping that his name would not be mentioned. He had wearied of biding his time on Giedi Prime, hoping for any hint of news about poor Duke Leto’s wedding-day tragedy and the murder of his innocent son (if the secondary assassins had completed their mission). Finally, unable to quell his impatience, he had decided on an unannounced trip to Kaitain to attend to “business matters.” No one would think anything of it.
And so, he happened to be in the Imperial city when the Mentat Thufir Hawat from House Atreides and the official Ecazi ambassador stationed on Kaitain called an emergency session of the Landsraad and demanded a judgment from the Emperor himself.
They must be very upset indeed. Oh dear. Word of the massacre quickly spread, and the Baron was disappointed to learn that Duke Leto and his son Paul had survived. So far.
Viscount Hundro Moritani was also conveniently in the Imperial city, as if he had come here just waiting to be accused. That was both provocative and foolish, the Baron thought. Tactically, the smart thing would have been for the Viscount to go home and shore up his defenses against the combined Atreides and Ecazi retaliation that was sure to come. What was he doing here? The Baron had gone out of his way to avoid seeing the man, not sure what the vitriolic Grumman leader might be up to.
The gathered nobles in the Hall of Oratory took their assigned seats with an air of hushed anticipation. Many of them were clearly disturbed by what they had heard. The box reserved for House Moritani was conspicuously empty. Was the man insane enough to defy an Imperial summons? Possibly.
Far below, Shaddam IV called the session to order from an ornate podium on the central dais. “I summon Viscount Hundro Moritani of Grumman to face the charges being leveled here today.” The Emperor raised his hand toward the vaulted ceiling, and a clearplaz bubble descended on suspensors.
Inside the transparent ball stood a tall, angular man who wrapped himself proudly in a fur-lined yellow robe. The Viscount’s indignant, heavily accented voice was transmitted through speakers around the auditorium. “Why have I been imprisoned before I have been charged with any offense? Am I to be on display like a zoo animal before this chamber of my peers?”
The Emperor was entirely unperturbed. “The confinement is for your own protection.”
“I need no protection! I demand that you release me so that I can stand before my accusers.”
Shaddam brushed at something on his gilded sleeve. “Perhaps some members of the audience feel they need to be protected from you? A formal complaint has been lodged against Grumman.” He tapped a sheet of ridulian crystal before him, as if perusing a news report. “The matters before us today concern alleged flaws in the declaration and prosecution of a legal War of Assassins. There are prescribed rules, and part of my job is to remind you of them — all of you.” Shaddam looked around the Hall of Oratory, seemed to hear resounding agreement, then gave instructions for the transparent holding chamber to be opened.
Viscount Moritani stood large and ruffled before the crowd; his thick hair was mussed. “Very well, then let us discuss what I have done. And let all hear the crimes committed against my House as well.” He glared around, perhaps looking for Baron Harkonnen, though he didn’t appear to see the Baron yet among the hundreds of representatives.
Despite his bulk, the Baron tried to withdraw unobtrusively into the shadows, sinking into the self-adjusting chair.
The female Ecazi ambassador stepped forward beside Hawat and said in an erudite voice, “Crimes were committed, indeed. We will present our evidence and let the Emperor and the Landsraad decide.” Without further encouragement, she began her recital of the major events in the ongoing feud: the biological sabotage of fogtree forests, the murder of ambassadors, the carpet bombing of Ecaz; then the expulsion of all Grumman students from the Swordmaster school on Ginaz, followed by the startling attack that leveled Ginaz, and the murder of the Archduke’s brother and eldest daughter.
As he listened, Viscount Moritani was at first stoic and then showed bitter amusement. The Landsraad members began an ugly grumbling; the Baron thought it did not bode well.
Thufir Hawat now took his turn, stepping forward. “But that was only the beginning, my Lords. These images speak for themselves.”
The audience of nobles sat in horrified silence, and the Baron watched with eager anticipation as recordings of the mayhem during the wedding ceremony were played for all to see, culminating in the Viscount Moritani delivering his damning holographic message. To the Baron’s great relief, no one mentioned the Harkonnen name.
Shaddam silenced the resulting uproar by banging his enhanced gavel. The Ecazi ambassador spoke again, so furious that her entire body shook. “Throughout this dispute, House Ecaz committed no illegal act. Even in the earlier phase, our Archduke formally declared kanly, as required. We responded only under the strict rules of a War of Assassins, as laid down in the Great Convention. We did nothing to provoke this vicious and irrational violence from House Moritani.”
The Viscount slammed a fist against the secondary podium. “You let my only son die by denying him the drug needed to cure his disease! You murdered Wolfram as surely as if you had sent an assassin to plunge a dagger into his heart! My poor son — my only heir! — was an innocent bystander targeted by Ecazi hatred.”
The Baron pursed his lips, but remained silent. Someone would probably point out that the killing of a son and heir was, strictly speaking, perfectly allowed under the terms of a War of Assassins.
The female ambassador remained unruffled. “All members of the Landsraad know Archduke Armand as a great humanitarian. Show us any formal request you made for such drugs. Prove to those assembled here that Ecaz ever directly denied your son medical treatment.” She looked at him coldly. “Considering your past behavior, Viscount, it is more likely that you allowed your son to die so you would have an excuse for more violence.”
Moritani turned purple with rage. Before the man could stalk down from the central stage, Sardaukar guards moved closer, ready to confine him within the clearplaz bubble again, should it prove necessary.
Emperor Shaddam pointed a stern finger. “Enough. This must not get out of hand.”
Hawat answered in a strong voice. “Out of hand, Sire? House Moritani has struck not only against Ecaz but also House Atreides and House Vernius of Ix. In the massacre at the wedding, the
representatives of many other noble families were put at risk and could have been killed. A Grumman sneak attack previously destroyed the Swordmaster school on Ginaz. How much more collateral damage will we tolerate? This dispute can quickly blow up into a conflagration that embroils many more Houses of the Landsraad.”
“It will not,” Shaddam said in a stern tone. “Viscount Moritani, I command that you cease your foolhardy course of action. You will pay reparations in an amount I will personally determine. And I require you to apologize to the Archduke for killing his two daughters. And his brother. There, that should settle the matter.”
Viscount Moritani just laughed cruelly, startling the entire audience. Even the Baron wondered what the man was doing. “Oh, more Houses than Ecaz and Atreides are involved. You might be surprised.” Now he seemed to be looking directly at the Harkonnen seats. A dangerous game to play with me, the Baron thought.
Moritani took a step toward the Emperor’s podium, though the Sardaukar would not let him get closer. “Why not just send another legion of Sardaukar to breathe down my neck, Sire? I will ignore them as I did before.” Now he actually turned his back on Shaddam and began to stride away as the outcry mounted in the chamber. He raised his voice bitterly, “Now if you all will excuse me, I have a funeral to plan — for my son.”
The Emperor pounded his gavel again, but the Viscount did not turn. “Hundro Moritani, you are officially censured for inappropriate behavior. On behalf of the entire Landsraad and the member Houses, you are also placed on administrative probation.” The noble members muttered at this light sentence for such extreme defiance, and Shaddam shouted, “If need be, House Moritani can be stripped. Any further violations, and you will face the loss of your fief!”
Now, the man turned slowly, looking back at the Emperor with unabashed loathing. “How much is my fief worth, Sire? Grumman is a worn-out and nearly valueless planet, but it is my home and I am its ruler. I will protect my people and my honor as I see fit. Come and see for yourself, if you like. See how a Moritani defends his honor!”
The Baron went cold. Was the man mad? After the wedding massacre, Atreides and Ecazi forces were almost certainly planning to attack Grumman, and now he provoked the Emperor as well? The Viscount no longer seemed to care about anything. Could he really have loved his son so much? The very idea made the Baron uneasy. How could he — or anyone else — control such a man?
THAT EVENING IN his diplomatic quarters, before he could make arrangements to return to Giedi Prime, the Baron received an unwelcome, secret message. When he used an ornate stir stick in his spice coffee, his touch activated a cleverly hidden projector, which produced a holo-display of the smiling Grumman nobleman wafting above the food on his tray. Startled, the Baron pushed his meal away, but that could not stop the Viscount’s recorded speech.
“I am on my way back to Grumman to prepare for our great battle. A magnificent battle. The Archduke will come with the Atreides military forces — they cannot resist the bait — and my planet must be defended.” With a smug expression, he added, “As my ally, Baron, I expect you to send a Harkonnen military division to help Grumman stand against its enemies. I must insist, for the sake of our friendship… and our secrets.”
The Baron knocked over the cup of spice coffee, hoping to disrupt the recorded spectral image, but the Viscount continued with his ominous ultimatum. “As I promised you, I will take the credit for these actions. There is no need for me to reveal Harkonnen involvement. If you provide men for our two Houses to fight side by side, I will be happy to let your troops wear Grumman uniforms to maintain our little masquerade. No one need know, besides ourselves.
“Two weeks should be enough time for you to prepare. Atreides and Ecaz will be delayed at least that long, thanks to Duke Vidal. Send the division — and your man Rabban to command them.” He smiled, and the image flickered. “I have already lost my son. You can gamble a mere nephew.”
In frustrated fury, the Baron slapped at the lingering, sneering image, but it hung maddeningly in the air, as if to remind him of his inability to assert even that small degree of control.
We build fortress walls around ourselves with thick mental barricades and deep moats. These places of sanctuary serve the dual purpose of keeping the unpleasant reminders out and locking our own guilt within.
—Bene Gesserit Azhar Book
The walls of the fortress nunnery were solid stone, but the true coldness in the weaving chamber seemed to emanate directly from his grandmother. Lady Helena Atreides clearly wanted Paul to feel uncomfortable and unwelcome, and so he flustered her by refusing to behave in an awkward manner. He had nothing to gain or lose from the older woman’s companionship, and neither, he supposed, did the Abbess have anything to gain from his. He expected no sudden change to love and acceptance.
Helena’s resentment stemmed from old memories of her husband, Paulus, and perhaps Leto as well, but when she tried to take it out on her grandson, Paul harmlessly deflected her attitude, as though he wore a personal body shield against emotions.
“Our women are hard at work,” Helena had scolded when he entered the upper chamber of the tower one morning, asking to observe their activities. “You must not disturb them.”
Paul did not slink away, though, as she apparently expected him to do. “They are forbidden to talk, Grandmother, and none of them has even looked at me, so obviously I’m not disturbing them.” He peered curiously at all the feverish activity with looms and threads. “Will you please explain what they are doing?”
Thirty women worked at various looms to the percussive sliding and spin of fibers being whisked through grids, shuttles thrown to and fro, patterns tamped and reset. The filaments changed colors, drawn from skeins of yarn, spindles of thread.
The women gathered handfuls of strands that ranged from fine gossamer fibers to thick, slubby twists. The weavers incorporated them into patterns and continued to work in a well-practiced cooperative effort, entirely without conversation. It took Paul several moments to realize that, instead of one giant tangle, there were dozens of different tapestries in production. Some were like rainbows, hues blending into hues, while others were dramatic clashes of threads, intersecting lines, and impossible knots.
“Are they following a grand design?”
“Each Sister makes her own pattern. Since we do not converse with one another, who can say what memories and visions drive us?” Helena’s face looked pinched as she frowned. “The famed abstract tapestries are our nunnery’s most profitable enterprise. They do not have patterns and pictorial representations as typical tapestries do, but these show a different sort of image, one that is open to interpretation. CHOAM pays us handsomely to distribute them across the Imperium.”
“So your religious order is a commercial operation.” This statement also seemed to annoy his grandmother.
“There is always commerce in religion. We recognize that people want the products, and we accept money in exchange for them. Beyond that, this abbey is fairly self-sufficient. We grow most of our own food. You know this, because I have noticed you two poking around.”
Since arriving, he and Duncan had been wandering about the abbey grounds, viewing the cultivated areas on steep terraces outside the thick walls. The dense jungle also yielded fruits, edible leaves, and tubers, as well as game, though Paul couldn’t imagine the Sisters in Isolation going on hunting expeditions. Swain Goire, however, might do it.
“The Caladan primitives are also fond of our tapestries.”
Paul was surprised. “What do they use them for?”
Though the mysterious tribes from the deep jungles had very little contact with the rest of Caladan, Paul had been fascinated to study them in filmbooks. Since his father was the Atreides Duke, Paul wanted to learn all he could about every aspect of this world. Duke Leto, Paulus, and their predecessors had let the primitives lead their own lives on the Eastern Continent without harassment. The Old Duke had issued a statement that whenever the Caladan primiti
ves wished to come to civilization, they would do so of their own accord. History was rife with sad examples of modern ways being forced upon an unwilling people.
Helena drew her brows together. “Who can understand the primitives, any more than they understand our abstract patterns? But they know what they see in the tapestries, and that is all our Sisters could ask for.”
Knowing it would startle, even provoke her, Paul turned to her. “And do you feel isolated from civilization, Grandmother? Will you ever request forgiveness from my father so that you may return to Castle Caladan?”
Helena’s laugh was like breaking glass. “Why would I wish to do that? I have everything I need here, and I am queen of my own domain. Why should I want to be a pawn in someone else’s game?”
Paul looked down at the carefully spaced warp of tapestry strings. A Sister with close-cropped gray hair deftly wove a pink thread into the weft and then a blue one, tying them together to add to her hypnotic kaleidoscope pattern.
His grandmother’s voice sounded sour. “Everything is running perfectly well here. My life has been smooth. I have not thought of either my son or my dead husband in years.” Then, in a startling gesture, Helena reached out with her long-fingered hands, and hooked them like claws in the unwoven threads. She yanked and ripped them free from the loom hooks. “All was in perfect harmony, until you and Duncan came.”
The silent, gray-haired sister working at the loom sat up and looked at the deliberate ruin the Abbess had made of her work.
Paul supposed her gesture was yet another attempt to intimidate him. Instead, he looked at the tangled mess of threads, viewing the colors and knots. “If each woman here creates her own design from her life experience” — he nodded toward the mess — “would I not be correct to interpret that as your life’s pattern?”
Paul of Dune Page 27
