Feyd struggled against the Baron’s grip. Finally the fat man released his fingers, letting the toddler make his way to the package that lay torn open on the floor.
The child looked inside and laughed. The Baron floated over on his suspensors. Curled up in the box he saw the mummified body of Piter de Vries, surrounded by metallic moldings that must have prevented scanners from determining exactly what the contents were. His lean face was unmistakable, though his cheeks and eyes were sunken in death. The twisted Mentat’s papery lips still showed sapho stains.
“Who sent this?” the Baron roared.
Now that the danger seemed to be past, Rabban strutted forward. He bent a molding aside and pried a note from de Vries’s stiff fingers. “It’s from the witch Mohiam.” He held it in front of his close-set eyes and read slowly, as if even the four words were difficult for him. “ ’Never underestimate us, Baron.’ ” Rabban crumpled the note and threw it to the floor. “They killed your Mentat, Uncle.”
“Thank you for explaining that.” The Baron wrenched moldings aside and tipped the box over so that the mummy tumbled out. He then delivered a vicious kick to the body’s rib cage. Now, in this most difficult time that required delicate political maneuvers just to ensure the survival of House Harkonnen, he needed a scheming Mentat more than ever.
“Piter! How could you be so stupid, so clumsy as to get yourself killed?”
The corpse did not answer.
On the other hand, de Vries had begun to outlive his usefulness. He had, admittedly, been an adequate Mentat, devious and full of sophisticated ideas. But he’d also had a penchant for drugs that distorted his perceptions, and a tendency toward showing too much initiative and acting on his own….
The next one would have to be watched more closely. The Baron knew the Tleilaxu had already grown other gholas from the same genetic stock: serial versions of Piter de Vries, fully trained as Mentats and twisted with specialized conditioning. The genetic wizards had known it was only a matter of time before the Baron finally lost his temper and carried out his repeated threats to kill de Vries.
“Send a message to the Tleilaxu,” he growled. “Have them rush me another Mentat.”
Inevitably, the aristocrat resists his final duty— which is to step aside and vanish into history.
— CROWN PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO
According to a public Proclamation by Emperor Shaddam, the funeral pyre would be more magnificent than any seen before in the Imperium.
Lady Anirul’s body, swathed in her finest whale-fur robes and adorned with worthless replicas of her most expensive jewelry, lay atop a bed of green crystal fragments, like jagged monster-teeth made of emeralds.
Shaddam stood at the head of the pyre, gazing across the ocean of faces. The sweeping crowd of mourners had gathered from across the Imperium to watch this final farewell to their ruler’s wife. The grieving Emperor wore regal garments in muted colors to portray an atmosphere of subdued splendor.
Feigning sadness, he bowed his head. All of his daughters hovered near the front row of the crowd, by the bier, sniffling and mourning in earnest. Baby Rugi cried at all the right times. Only Irulan stood formal and reserved.
This display would pull at the heartstrings of every member of the audience, but Shaddam felt no sorrow at her death. Given time, his wife would have driven him to assassinate her anyway.
Trying not to look defeated, he let his mind wander while priests intoned their tedious chants, reading from the Orange Catholic Bible and going through more ritual than Shaddam had seen during his own coronation or his marriage to this Bene Gesserit witch, whose primary allegiance was not to him. Still, this ceremony was what the populace expected, what they enjoyed in their perverse fashion.
And now, shackled with the restraints imposed on him by the hostile Landsraad, Guild, and CHOAM, Shaddam could not flout any rules. The forms must be obeyed. He had to behave. Those chains would hold him back for years.
The sanctions to be imposed against Shaddam had been hotly debated behind closed doors. For a full decade, severe restrictions and controls would be placed on his activities, as prescribed by Imperial Law. During that time, the Landsraad, the Spacing Guild, and CHOAM would all have far greater influence in Imperial politics and business.
Spitefully, he wished he could afford to exile Fenring again, to punish him for the amal debacle. But after all of the Emperor’s own mistakes— which, as the Count reminded him, he never would have made had he obtained Fenring’s advice— Shaddam knew that if he had any chance of restoring his power base, he would need the devious intelligence of his longtime friend. Still, he would leave the Count on Arrakis for a while, to let him know his place….
At last the priests finished their droning, and a curtain of silence fell over the assemblage. Rugi cried again, and a nursemaid tried to hush her.
Court Chamberlain Ridondo and the High Priest waited until Shaddam realized that it was his turn to speak. He had drafted a brief statement, which had been read and approved beforehand by Landsraad magistrates, the President of CHOAM, and the Guild’s Primary Legate. Though the words were innocuous, they still caught in his throat, an insult to his Imperial Majesty.
He spoke with all the gloom he could summon in his voice. “My beloved wife Anirul has been stolen from me. Her untimely death will forever leave a scar on my heart, and I can only hope that I will rule the Imperium with compassion and grace hereafter, even without my Lady’s wise counsel and generous love.”
Shaddam raised his chin, and his tired green eyes flared with the Imperial wrath he had demonstrated so many times. “My investigation teams will continue to study the evidence surrounding her violent death. We will not rest until the perpetrator is caught and this plot is unraveled.” He glared out at the sea of upturned faces, as if he might spot the murderer among them with a mere glance.
Truthfully, he intended to do little to investigate the crime. The kidnapper-assassin had vanished, and if he posed no threat to the crown, Shaddam didn’t particularly care who had done it. Most of all he was relieved that the troublesome, meddling witch would no longer interfere with his daily decisions. He would leave her empty throne in place for a few months out of feigned respect, and then would have it removed and destroyed.
The Guild and the Landsraad would be pleased that he had followed the approved speech. He finished quickly, in an effort to remove the distaste from his mouth: “For now, alas, we have no choice but to endure our grief and carry on— to make the Imperium a better place for all.”
Beside him, Truthsayer Gaius Helen Mohiam stood with her head bowed. Mohiam seemed to know far more about Anirul’s murder than anyone had been able to determine, but she refused to divulge her secrets. He didn’t press her too closely.
Letting his printed copy of the speech flutter to the ground, the Emperor nodded to the green-robed High Priest of Dur, who in better times had performed Shaddam’s coronation. Two Acolytes pointed their laser staffs, similar to the one his bastard half brother Tyros Reffa had used to shoot at him during the play.
Energy beams lanced out and struck the prismatic emerald crystal shards, heating the controlled ionization fires within them. A column of flame rose in an incandescent blaze. Perfumed smoke spilled through grates around the pyre, finally melting the calm, waxy features of the dead woman. The blazing heat made everyone shield their eyes.
The crystal blaze continued to build until the lasers went dim and the pulsing lights faded, leaving only crackling, hissing crystals and a fine film of white ash in the shape of a body.
* * *
Paying little attention to the Emperor, Mohiam watched the cremation of Lady Anirul, who had secretly guided the long-term breeding program through its final stages. The unfortunate death of the Kwisatz Mother in this, the final generation of the Sisterhood’s extended plan, left Mohiam to safeguard Jessica and her new child.
The Reverend Mother was troubled by her daughter’s defiance and betrayal… and by the kidnapping
of the baby and the murder of Anirul. Too many things were going wrong at a critical time in the breeding program.
Still, the baby was safe, and genetics was not a precise science. There was a chance. Maybe this son of Duke Leto Atreides would be the Kwisatz Haderach after all.
Or something else entirely.
Human comfort is relative. Some would consider a particular environment austere and hellish, while others are pleased to call it home.
— PLANETOLOGIST PARDOT KYNES,
An Arrakis Primer
Count Hasimir Fenring stood on an outside deck of his Residency at Arrakeen, grasping the rail and gazing out at the weathered buildings of the city. Exiled again. Though he retained his official title as Imperial Spice Minister, he wanted to be anyplace but here.
On the other hand, it was good to be away from the turmoil on Kaitain.
In the dirty streets, the day’s last few water-sellers strode past open doorways, dressed in colorful traditional garb. Their pans and dippers clanged, bells at their waists jingled, and their high voices rose in the familiar, haunting cry of “Soo-soo sooook!” In the heat of late afternoon, merchants closed their shops and sealed the doors, so they could drink spice coffee in the cool shadows, surrounded by colorful interior hangings.
Fenring watched a cloud of dust kicked up by a groundtruck that rolled into the city, filled with labeled spice containers for transfer to off-world Guild ships. All of the records would pass through the Spice Minister’s offices, but he had no intention of scrutinizing them. For the foreseeable future, the Baron Harkonnen would be so unsettled by his near brush with disaster that he would not dare tamper with the official accounting.
The Count’s willowy wife Margot approached, giving him a comforting smile. She wore a cool, diaphanous gown that wrapped around her skin like an amorous ghost. “It is quite a change from Kaitain.” Margot stroked his hair, and he shivered with desire for her. “But this is still a palace of our own. I do not resent being here with you, my love.”
He ran his fingers along the spiderweb sleeve of her gown. “Hmmm, indeed. In fact, I believe it is safer for us to separate ourselves from the Emperor at this time.”
“Perhaps. For all of the mistakes he has made, I doubt one scapegoat will be sufficient.”
“Hmmm, Shaddam does not grovel well.”
She took Fenring by the arm and led him back inside and down the vaulted hallway. Diligent Fremen housekeepers, silent as usual, went about their duties circumspectly, averting their blue-within-blue eyes. The Count sniffed as he watched them move from task to task, like mobile secrets.
The Count and Lady Fenring paused at a statuette purchased in a town market, a robed faceless figure. The artist had been Fremen. Thoughtfully, Fenring lifted the piece from its stand and studied the creased, smothering garments of a desert man, captured so well by the sculptor.
She gave him a calculating look. “House Corrino still needs your help.”
“But will Shaddam listen, hmmm-ah?” Fenring replaced the statuette on the table.
They walked to the door of the wet-plant conservatory he had built for her. Reaching forward, she activated the palm-lock and stepped back as it glowed, unsealing the door. The humid smell of mulch and vegetation wafted out, filling Fenring’s nostrils. It was an odor he rather liked, since it was so different from the arid desolation of this world.
He sighed. Things could be a lot worse for him. And for the Emperor. “Shaddam, our Corrino lion, needs to lick his wounds for a while, and reflect on the mistakes he has made. One day, hmmm, he will learn to value me.”
They stepped in among the tall, broad-leafed plants and drooping vines, under diffused light from glowglobes hovering near the ceiling. At that moment, mist nozzles turned on like hissing serpents; they floated on suspensors from plant to plant. Moisture sprayed Fenring’s face, but he didn’t mind. He inhaled a long, deep breath.
Count Fenring found a crimson hibiscus blossom, a bright stain of bloodred petals clinging to a vine, and on impulse plucked it for her. Lady Margot sniffed the perfume.
“We will make a paradise wherever we are,” she said. “Even here on Arrakis.”
The cultural borrowings and interminglings which have brought us to this moment cover vast distances and an enormous span of time. Presented with such an awesome panoply, we can only derive a sense of great movement and powerful currents.
— PRINCESS IRULAN CORRINO, IN MY FATHER’S HOUSE
The return of the Atreides heroes to their homeworld marked the start of a joyous, weeklong festival. In the courtyard of Castle Caladan and along the docks and narrow streets of the old town, vendors served the finest seafoods and pundi rice delights. On the beaches at the base of the sea cliffs, bonfires burned night and day, surrounded by drinking, dancing, and merrymaking. Tavern owners brought out the most expensive local wines from their private cellars and served enough spice beer to float a fleet of coracles.
It was a time of new legends in the making, with stories of Leto the Red Duke, the cyborg Prince Rhombur, the troubadour-warrior Gurney Halleck, the Swordmaster Duncan Idaho, and the Mentat Thufir Hawat. Thufir’s key deception against the unmarked ships that had approached Caladan got so many cheers that the stern old Mentat seemed quite embarrassed.
Fresh from battle and a victory well earned, the embellishments to Leto’s biography grew, with Gurney as the catalyst. On his first evening back home, filled with alcohol and good cheer, the scarred man took a place beside the largest bonfire with his baliset and broke into song, in the tradition of a Jongleur.
Who can forget the stirring tale
Of Duke Leto the Just and his gal-lant men!
Broke the blockade of Beakkal and the Sardaukar there,
Led his forces to Ix and righted a wrong.
Now I say to you and listen well,
Let no one doubt his words or his vow:
Free-dom… and jus-tice… for all!
As Gurney continued to drink his wine, he added verses to the song, paying more attention to the music than to the facts.
* * *
On the day of his son’s naming ceremony, a throng of well-wishers gathered in the Castle gardens adjacent to an arbor draped with aromatic silver wisteria and pink calaroses. On a stage inside the enclosure, Leto wore simple clothing to show his people that he was one of them: dungarees and a blue-and-white striped shirt with a navy blue fisherman’s cap.
Beside him, Lady Jessica cradled their son in her arms. The infant was dressed in a tiny Atreides uniform, while Jessica had donned the clothes of a common village woman— a brown-and-green linen skirt and simple white blouse, with short, gathered sleeves. Her bronze hair was secured with a clasp made of driftwood and shells.
Taking his son in his strong hands, Duke Leto lifted the baby high. “Citizens of Caladan, meet your next ruler— Paul Orestes Atreides!” The name had been chosen to honor Leto’s father Paulus, while the middle name, Orestes, commemorated the son of Agamemnon in the House of Atreus, thought to be the forerunner of House Atreides. Jessica looked at him with love and acceptance, smiling at her son and glad he was safe.
To the sound of the cheering crowd, Leto and Jessica crossed the stage and stepped down into the gardens, where they mingled with the gathered well-wishers.
Visiting only briefly from Ix, Rhombur stood on a grassy mound with his wife Tessia. Slamming his cyborg hands together, he applauded louder than anyone else. He had left Ambassador Pilru in the underground city to oversee the restoration and reconstruction work, so that the new Ixian Earl and his Bene Gesserit Lady could attend this special event.
Listening to Duke Leto describe his hopes for his newborn son, Rhombur remembered something his father Dominic had once told him. “No great victory is won without cost.”
Tessia nuzzled against him. He put his arm around her, but felt very little of her body warmth. It was one of the deficiencies of his cyborg body. He was still growing accustomed to his new hand.
On
the surface, he was cheerful and upbeat, with his old optimistic personality returning. But in his heart he grieved for everything his family had lost. Now, even though he had cleared the name of his ancestors and reoccupied the Grand Palais, Rhombur knew he would be the last in the Vernius line. He was resigned to the fact, but this naming ceremony was especially difficult for him.
He looked at Tessia, and a gentle smile formed on her mouth, though her sepia eyes revealed uncertainty, and faint lines of concern etched her face. He waited, and finally she said, “I don’t know how to broach a certain subject with you, my husband. I hope you will consider it good news.”
Rhombur gave her a game smile. “Well, I certainly can’t stand any more bad news.”
She squeezed his new artificial hand. “Think back to when Ambassador Pilru brought news of your half brother, Tyros Reffa. He performed every sort of genetic test to prove his case, and he took great care with the evidence.”
Rhombur looked at her blankly.
“I… preserved the cellular samples, my love. The sperm is genetically viable.”
Caught off-balance, he said, “You are saying that we could use it, that it would be possible to—”
“Out of my love for you I am willing to bear the child of your half brother. Your mother’s blood would run through the baby’s veins. A distaff surrogate child. Perhaps not a true Vernius, but—”
“Vermilion hells, close enough, by the gods! I could formally adopt him and designate him my official heir. No man in the Landsraad would dare challenge me.” With his powerful arms, he swept her into a firm, loving embrace.
Tessia gave him a coy smile. “I am available for whatever you wish, my Prince.”
He chuckled. “I am no longer merely a Prince, my love— I am the Earl of House Vernius. And House Vernius is not going to become extinct! You will bear many children. The Grand Palais will be filled with their laughter.”
Dune: House Corrino Page 57
