Dune (40th Anniversary Edition)

by Frank Herbert

  Pausing in the doorway to inspect the arrangements, the Duke thought about the poison-snooper and what it signified in his society.

  All of a pattern, he thought. You can plumb us by our language-the precise and delicate delineations for ways to administer treacherous death. Will someone try chaumurky tonight—poison in the drink? Or will it be chaumas—poison in the food?

  He shook his head.

  Beside each plate on the long table stood a flagon of water. There was enough water along the table, the Duke estimated, to keep a poor Arrakeen family for more than a year.

  Flanking the doorway in which he stood were broad laving basins of ornate yellow and green tile. Each basin had its rack of towels. It was the custom, the housekeeper had explained, for guests as they entered to dip their hands ceremoniously into a basin, slop several cups of water onto the floor, dry their hands on a towel and fling the towel into the growing puddle at the door. After the dinner, beggars gathered outside to get the water squeezings from the towels.

  How typical of a Harkonnen fief, the Duke thought. Every degradation of the spirit that can be conceived. He took a deep breath, feeling rage tighten his stomach.

  “The custom stops here!” he muttered.

  He saw a serving woman—one of the old and gnarled ones the housekeeper had recommended—hovering at the doorway from the kitchen across from him. The Duke signaled with upraised hand. She moved out of the shadows, scurried around the table toward him, and he noted the leathery face, the blue-within-blue eyes.

  “My Lord wishes?” She kept her head bowed, eyes shielded.

  He gestured. “Have these basins and towels removed.”

  “But... Noble Born....” She looked up, mouth gaping.

  “I know the custom!” he barked. “Take these basins to the front door. While we’re eating and until we’ve finished, each beggar who calls may have a full cup of water. Understood?”

  Her leathery face displayed a twisting of emotions: dismay, anger....

  With sudden insight, Leto realized that she must have planned to sell the water squeezings from the foot-trampled towels, wringing a few coppers from the wretches who came to the door. Perhaps that also was a custom.

  His face clouded, and he growled: “I’m posting a guard to see that my orders are carried out to the letter.”

  He whirled, strode back down the passage to the Great Hall. Memories rolled in his mind like the toothless mutterings of old women. He remembered open water and waves—days of grass instead of sand—dazed summers that had whipped past him like windstorm leaves.

  All gone.

  I’m getting old, he thought. I’ve felt the cold hand of my mortality. And in what? An old woman’s greed.

  In the Great Hall, the Lady Jessica was the center of a mixed group standing in front of the fireplace. An open blaze crackled there, casting flickers of orange light onto jewels and laces and costly fabrics. He recognized in the group a stillsuit manufacturer down from Carthag, an electronics equipment importer, a watershipper whose summer mansion was near his polar-cap factory, a representative of the Guild Bank (lean and remote, that one), a dealer in replacement parts for spice mining equipment, a thin and hard-faced woman whose escort service for off-planet visitors reputedly operated as cover for various smuggling, spying, and blackmail operations.

  Most of the women in the hall seemed cast from a specific type—decorative, precisely turned out, an odd mingling of untouchable sensuousness.

  Even without her position as hostess, Jessica would have dominated the group, he thought. She wore no jewelry and had chosen warm colors—a long dress almost the shade of the open blaze, and an earth-brown band around her bronzed hair.

  He realized she had done this to taunt him subtly, a reproof against his recent pose of coldness. She was well aware that he liked her best in these shades—that he saw her as a rustling of warm colors.

  Nearby, more an outflanker than a member of the group, stood Duncan Idaho in glittering dress uniform, flat face unreadable, the curling black hair neatly combed. He had been summoned back from the Fremen and had his orders from Hawat—“Under pretext of guarding her, you will keep the Lady Jessica under constant surveillance. ”

  The Duke glanced around the room.

  There was Paul in the corner surrounded by a fawning group of the younger Arrakeen richece, and, aloof among them, three officers of the House Troop. The Duke took particular note of the young women. What a catch a ducal heir would make. But Paul was treating all equally with an air of reserved nobility.

  He’ll wear the title well, the Duke thought, and realized with a sudden chill that this was another death thought.

  Paul saw his father in the doorway, avoided his eyes. He looked around at the clusterings of guests, the jeweled hands clutching drinks (and the unobtrusive inspections with tiny remote-cast snoopers). Seeing all the chattering faces, Paul was suddenly repelled by them. They were cheap masks locked on festering thoughts—voices gabbling to drown out the loud silence in every breast.

  I’m in a sour mood, he thought, and wondered what Gurney would say to that.

  He knew his mood’s source. He hadn’t wanted to attend this function, but his father had been firm. “You have a place—a position to uphold. You’re old enough to do this. You’re almost a man.”

  Paul saw his father emerge from the doorway, inspect the room, then cross to the group around the Lady Jessica.

  As Leto approached Jessica’s group, the water-shipper was asking: “Is it true the Duke will put in weather control?”

  From behind the man, the Duke said: “We haven’t gone that far in our thinking, sir.”

  The man turned, exposing a bland round face, darkly tanned. “Ah-h, the Duke,” he said. “We missed you.”

  Leto glanced at Jessica. “A thing needed doing.” He returned his attention to the water-shipper, explained what he had ordered for the laving basins, adding: “As far as I’m concerned, the old custom ends now.”

  “Is this a ducal order, m’Lord?” the man asked.

  “I leave that to your own... ah ... conscience,” the Duke said. He turned, noting Kynes come up to the group.

  One of the women said: “I think it’s a very generous gesture—giving water to the—” Someone shushed her.

  The Duke looked at Kynes, noting that the planetologist wore an old-style dark brown uniform with epaulets of the Imperial Civil Servant and a tiny gold teardrop of rank at his collar.

  The water-shipper asked in an angry voice: “Does the Duke imply criticism of our custom?”

  “This custom has been changed,” Leto said. He nodded to Kynes, marked the frown on Jessica’s face, thought: A frown does not become her, but it’ll increase rumors of friction between us.

  “With the Duke’s permission,” the water-shipper said, “I’d like to inquire further about customs.”

  Leto heard the sudden oily tone in the man’s voice, noted the watchful silence in this group, the way heads were beginning to turn toward them around the room.

  “Isn’t it almost time for dinner?” Jessica asked.

  “But our guest has some questions,” Leto said. And he looked at the water-shipper, seeing a round-faced man with large eyes and thick lips, recalling Hawat’s memorandum: “... and this watershipper is a man to watch—Lingar Bewt, remember the name. The Harkonnens used him but never fully controlled him. ”

  “Water customs are so interesting,” Bewt said, and there was a smile on his face. “I’m curious what you intend about the conservatory attached to this house. Do you intend to continue flaunting it in the people’s faces... m’Lord?”

  Leto held anger in check, staring at the man. Thoughts raced through his mind. It had taken bravery to challenge him in his own ducal castle, especially since they now had Bewt’s signature over a contract of allegiance. The action had taken, also, a knowledge of personal power. Water was, indeed, power here. If water facilities were mined, for instance, ready to be destroyed at a signal....
The man looked capable of such a thing. Destruction of water facilities might well destroy Arrakis. That could well have been the club this Bewt held over the Harkonnens.

  “My Lord, the Duke, and I have other plans for our conservatory,” Jessica said. She smiled at Leto. “We intend to keep it, certainly, but only to hold it in trust for the people of Arrakis. It is our dream that someday the climate of Arrakis may be changed sufficiently to grow such plants anywhere in the open.”

  Bless her! Leto thought. Let our water-shipper chew on that.

  “Your interest in water and weather control is obvious,” the Duke said. “I’d advise you to diversify your holdings. One day, water will not be a precious commodity on Arrakis.”

  And he thought: Hawat must redouble his efforts at infiltrating this Bewt’s organization. And we must start on stand-by water facilities at once. No man is going to hold a club over my head!

  Bewt nodded, the smile still on his face. “A commendable dream, my Lord.” He withdrew a pace.

  Leto’s attention was caught by the expression on Kynes’ face. The man was staring at Jessica. He appeared transfigured—like a man in love ... or caught in a religious trance.

  Kynes’ thoughts were overwhelmed at last by the words of prophecy: “And they shall share your most precious dream. ” He spoke directly to Jessica: “Do you bring the shortening of the way?”

  “Ah, Dr. Kynes,” the water-shipper said. “You’ve come in from tramping around with your mobs of Fremen. How gracious of you.”

  Kynes passed an unreadable glance across Bewt, said: “It is said in the desert that possession of water in great amount can inflict a man with fatal carelessness.”

  “They have many strange sayings in the desert,” Bewt said, but his voice betrayed uneasiness.

  Jessica crossed to Leto, slipped her hand under his arm to gain a moment in which to calm herself. Kynes had said: “...the shortening of the way.” In the old tongue, the phrase translated as “Kwisatz Haderach.” The planetologist’s odd question seemed to have gone unnoticed by the others, and now Kynes was bending over one of the consort women, listening to a low-voiced coquetry.

  Kwisatz Haderach, Jessica thought. Did our Missionaria Protectiva plant that legend here, too? The thought fanned her secret hope for Paul. He could be the Kwisatz Haderach. He could be.

  The Guild Bank representative had fallen into conversation with the water-shipper, and Bewt’s voice lifted above the renewed hum of conversations: “Many people have sought to change Arrakis.”

  The Duke saw how the words seemed to pierce Kynes, jerking the planetologist upright and away from the flirting woman.

  Into the sudden silence, a house trooper in uniform of a footman cleared his throat behind Leto, said: “Dinner is served, my Lord.”

  The Duke directed a questioning glance down at Jessica.

  “The custom here is for host and hostess to follow their guests to table,” she said, and smiled: “Shall we change that one, too, my Lord?”

  He spoke coldly: “That seems a goodly custom. We shall let it stand for now.”

  The illusion that I suspect her of treachery must be maintained, he thought. He glanced at the guests filing past them. Who among you believes this lie?

  Jessica, sensing his remoteness, wondered at it as she had done frequently the past week. He acts like a man struggling with himself, she thought. Is it because I moved so swiftly setting up this dinner party? Yet, he knows how important it is that we begin to mix our officers and men with the locals on a social plane. We are father and mother surrogate to them all. Nothing impresses that fact more firmly than this sort of social sharing.

  Leto, watching the guests file past, recalled what Thufir Hawat had said when informed of the affair: “Sire! I forbid it!”

  A grim smile touched the Duke’s mouth. What a scene that had been. And when the Duke had remained adamant about attending the dinner, Hawat had shaken his head. “I have bad feelings about this, my Lord,” he’d said. “Things move too swiftly on Arrakis. That’s not like the Harkonnens. Not like them at all.”

  Paul passed his father escorting a young woman half a head taller than himself. He shot a sour glance at his father, nodded at something the young woman said.

  “Her father manufactures stillsuits,” Jessica said. “I’m told that only a fool would be caught in the deep desert wearing one of the man’s suits.”

  “Who’s the man with the scarred face ahead of Paul?” the Duke asked. “I don’t place him.”

  “A late addition to the list,” she whispered. “Gurney arranged the invitation. Smuggler.”

  “Gurney arranged?”

  “At my request. It was cleared with Hawat, althought I thought Hawat was a little stiff about it. The smuggler’s called Tuek, Esmar Tuek. He’s a power among his kind. They all know him here. He’s dined at many of the houses.”

  “Why is he here?”

  “Everyone here will ask that question,” she said. “Tuek will sow doubt and suspicion just by his presence. He’ll also serve notice that you’re prepared to back up your orders against graft—by enforcement from the smugglers’ end as well. This was the point Hawat appeared to like.”

  “I’m not sure I like it.” He nodded to a passing couple, saw only a few of their guests remained to precede them. “Why didn’t you invite some Fremen?”

  “There’s Kynes,” she said.

  “Yes, there’s Kynes,” he said. “Have you arranged any other little surprises for me?” He led her into step behind the procession.

  “All else is most conventional,” she said.

  And she thought: My darling, can’t you see that this smuggler controls fast ships, that he can be bribed? We must have a way out, a door of escape from A rrakis if all else fails us here.

  As they emerged into the dining hall, she disengaged her arm, allowed Leto to seat her. He strode to his end of the table. A footman held his chair for him. The others settled with a swishing of fabrics, a scraping of chairs, but the Duke remained standing. He gave a hand signal, and the house troopers in footman uniform around the table stepped back, standing at attention.

  Uneasy silence settled over the room.

  Jessica, looking down the length of the table, saw a faint trembling at the corners of Leto’s mouth, noted the dark flush of anger on his cheeks. What has angered him? she asked herself. Surely not my invitation to the smuggler.

  “Some question my changing of the laving basin custom,” Leto said. “This is my way of telling you that many things will change.”

  Embarrassed silence settled over the table.

  They think him drunk, Jessica thought.

  Leto lifted his water flagon, held it aloft where the suspensor lights shot beams of reflection off it. “As a Chevalier of the Imperium, then,” he said, “I give you a toast.”

  The others grasped their flagons, all eyes focused on the Duke. In the sudden stillness, a suspensor light drifted slightly in an errant breeze from the serving kitchen hallway. Shadows played across the Duke’s hawk features.

  “Here I am and here I remain!” he barked.

  There was an abortive movement of flagons toward mouths—stopped as the Duke remained with arm upraised. “My toast is one of those maxims so dear to our hearts: ‘Business makes progress! Fortune passes everywhere!’ ”

  He sipped his water.

  The others joined him. Questioning glances passed among them.

  “Gurney!” the Duke called.

  From an alcove at Leto’s end of the room came Halleck’s voice. “Here, my Lord.”

  “Give us a tune, Gurney.”

  A minor chord from the baliset floated out of the alcove. Servants began putting plates of food on the table at the Duke’s gesture releasing them—roast desert hare in sauce cepeda, aplomage sirian, chukka under glass, coffee with melange (a rich cinnamon odor from the spice wafted across the table), a true pot-a-oie served with sparkling Caladan wine.

  Still, the Duke remained stan
ding.

  As the guests waited, their attention torn between the dishes placed before them and the standing Duke, Leto said: “In olden times, it was the duty of the host to entertain his guests with his own talents.” His knuckles turned white, so fiercely did he grip his water flagon. “I cannot sing, but I give you the words of Gurney’s song. Consider it another toast—a toast to all who’ve died bringing us to this station.”

  An uncomfortable stirring sounded around the table.

  Jessica lowered her gaze, glanced at the people seated nearest her—there was the round-faced water-shipper and his woman, the pale and austere Guild Bank representative (he seemed a whistlefaced scarecrow with his eyes fixed on Leto), the rugged and scar-faced Tuek, his blue-within-blue eyes downcast.

  “Review, friends—troops long past review,” the Duke intoned. “All to fate a weight of pains and dollars. Their spirits wear our silver collars. Review, friends—troops long past review: Each a dot of time without pretense or guile. With them passes the lure of fortune. Review, friends—troops long past review. When our time ends on its rictus smile, we’ll pass the lure of fortune.”

  The Duke allowed his voice to trail off on the last line, took a deep drink from his water flagon, slammed it back onto the table. Water slopped over the brim onto the linen.

  The others drank in embarrassed silence.

  Again, the Duke lifted his water flagon, and this time emptied its remaining half onto the floor, knowing that the others around the table must do the same.

  Jessica was first to follow his example.

  There was a frozen moment before the others began emptying their flagons. Jessica saw how Paul, seated near his father, was studying the reactions around him. She found herself also fascinated by what her guests’ actions revealed—especially among the women. This was clean, potable water, not something already cast away in a sopping towel. Reluctance to just discard it exposed itself in trembling hands, delayed reactions, nervous laughter... and violent obedience to the necessity. One woman dropped her flagon, looked the other way as her male companion recovered it.