Paul of Dune

Young Paul Atreides

10,187 AG

1

In the midst of the chaos and gore, Duke Leto rushed many of the wedding attendees from the grand hall and had soldiers escort them back to safety inside their waiting frigates at the spaceport, though the ships were forbidden to leave. Other guests barricaded themselves inside interior rooms in Castle Caladan.

The horrendous slaughter, the flying executioner discs, the failed defense by the Swordmasters and Leto’s security men — all had transpired in less than a minute. Even as uniformed Atreides soldiers charged in through the hall doors, the victims already lay slashed and bleeding, some chopped to pieces, others sobbing in shock and disbelief. Prince Rhombur looked down at himself and saw that his formal wedding suit had been cut to ribbons, though otherwise he seemed undamaged.

Dr. Yueh moved swiftly and professionally among the injured, using an eye for triage to sort those who could not be helped from those who could. He worked first on Archduke Ecaz, applying a self-constricting tourniquet to the stump of his arm.

The severed limb on the floor had been mangled and broken in the melee. After regarding it for a moment, Yueh spoke quietly to Leto, “It is too damaged to reattach. The Tleilaxu may have a way to regrow this flesh, but I do not know how.” He gestured to where Rhombur stood, battered and scuffed. “As I did with the Prince of House Vernius, I may be able to develop a prosthetic arm for the Archduke. I possess that sort of skill.”

“We can discuss it later,” Leto said, wiping blood from his forehead.

Potent painkillers made Archduke Armand groggy and distant, but anger penetrated his fog. He looked at his daughter’s blood-soaked body, fixated on her chalky, pale skin. As though his head moved on poorly oiled hinges, he glared at Whitmore Bludd, who was ashen and shaking. “You were supposed to protect her.” His words cut the elegant Swordmaster more deeply than any disk.

Bludd’s lips drew together. “I failed,” he spoke in hollow disbelief. “I am a Swordmaster… and I failed. I would have sacrificed myself for Ilesa. Rivvy knew his duty.”

Duncan stumbled over to the sprawled corpse of Rivvy Dinari, who lay on the floor like a butchered whale. The cutter discs remained embedded deeply in his wide chest. “He died a proud death, the heroic end of a true Swordmaster.”

Bludd simply stared in disbelief at his thin rapier, then cast it aside in disgust, with a clatter. “Help me carry his body away, Duncan. It seems to be all I am good for.”

COLD AND EFFICIENT, refusing to be paralyzed by grief, Duke Leto ordered a total lockdown of the Cala City Spaceport. He offered curt apologies as he announced that no ships would be allowed to depart until a full investigation had been completed. Thufir Hawat, with the deep gash in his back sutured and bandaged, paid special attention to anyone who seemed overly upset and angered by the delay, as well as those who showed too much maudlin sympathy. These were all subjected to additional questioning.

As a small glint of good news, all of the fourteen killed had belonged to either House Atreides or House Ecaz, servants, retainers, guests. After the first wash of fear had subsided, many of the noble wedding guests had expressed their outrage, either directed at House Moritani for involving them in a blood feud or at House Atreides for inviting them into a dangerous situation. Since the ruffled noblemen had suffered only minimal damages compared to Atreides and Ecaz, however, their bluster would fade and no further interfamily quarrels would erupt because of it.

Duke Leto, however, would not forget so quickly.

Gurney Halleck and Thufir Hawat scoured every brick of Castle Caladan, searching for secondary assassination devices. Even in such an elaborate plot, the murderous Viscount might not have put all his eggs in one basket. Such a plan, layer upon layer upon layer, could have been in the works for months.

Prince Rhombur vowed to help. He was like a juggernaut, never leaving Leto’s side, though his Ixian bureaucratic advisers insisted that he, Tessia, and the boy Bronso withdraw to the safety of their private frigate and remain there behind blast shields. Much to his annoyance, the technocrats pointed out that twice now Rhombur had nearly been killed in an assassination attempt against Duke Leto Atreides. This time, his cyborg body had only been scratched and slightly damaged — but if he had been mere flesh and blood, Rhombur might not have survived.

When the Ixian advisers continued to nag him, actually threatening to disrupt his rule once they returned home, Rhombur finally whirled and, without controlling his strength, struck out at one of the yammering men, Bolig Avati, knocking him across the room. Indignant, the cyborg Prince announced in a booming voice, “Tessia, Bronso, and I will remain here in Castle Caladan, beside my friend Leto Atreides.”

His fellow technocrats helped Avati up, looking at Rhombur in astonishment and fear. In a group, they scuttled back to the Vernius frigate and did not bother him further.

DURING THE MEMORIAL service for his daughter Ilesa, the Archduke could only stand there one-armed, his mind muddied with painkillers, tears streaming down his face. He seemed to need the release of grieving, but his fuzzy state denied him the full catharsis. Nevertheless, Armand Ecaz did understand the tragedy that had befallen him, and that was enough.

Leto stood by the other man’s side out on the high cliffs, where the local priest — his hand bandaged from a slight injury in the massacre — delivered a eulogy, in sharp contrast to the more joyous sermon he had been meant to give. Ilesa’s preserved body would be taken back to Ecaz, where she would lie in state for a suitable mourning period before interment in a mausoleum beside her sister Sanyá and uncle Theo.

“Moritani has done this to me too many times,” Armand said to Leto, his voice cold and hollow. “I survived my grief before, but this time I do not know if I can.”

Duncan and Bludd arranged a private Swordmaster’s pyre for Dinari. He would not be going back to Ecaz. By tradition, a Swordmaster found his final resting place wherever he fell. Though this gathering was meant to be a private matter, Duncan did allow Paul to stand at his side; Gurney Halleck and Thufir Hawat were also there. Gurney promised to compose a sonnet to commemorate the heroic last deeds of the “fattest, nimblest man” he had ever known.

Whitmore Bludd seemed broken by his failure, ashamed (and offended) by the fact that he had walked away without a scratch.

FOR DAYS, THE entire planet of Caladan remained off-limits to visitors, even to locals who had been offworld at the time of the tragic affair. Leto brusquely turned away two arriving Heighliners and sent messages to CHOAM representatives, refusing to let them offload the ships in their holds or take aboard any cargo or passengers. Caladan was locked down until further notice; no travel in or out. The Duke gave no explanation, despite the persistent inquiries and demands of the Guild.

Soon, the wedding guests began to show signs of unrest. Several lords sent petitions to Castle Caladan, but Leto turned them all away, claiming that he could not be disturbed during his time of grieving.

For the first day, Jessica allowed him to wrestle with his own sorrow, anger, and dismay. He had become hardened but not heartless, and it was his way to insist on covering his hurt. Finally, though, the ache in her chest drove her to him. She could not bear to leave her beloved alone.

Jessica met him in their shared bedchamber. Before the wedding, she had moved her possessions out in preparation for Ilesa’s residence. As the Duke’s concubine, she would customarily keep her own private rooms in a separate section of the castle, though still a place of honor befitting her position.

Now, Jessica sat beside Leto, without words. Even though her clothes, private keepsakes, and furniture had been moved out to make way for the new bride, she felt at home just to be near Leto. She watched him wrestle with his grief, then compose himself, trying to hide it behind a stony mask.

She finally said, “Leto, at first I was angry with you for asking me to spend so much time with Ilesa, but now I’m glad I got to know her. We developed a mutual respect, and I’m certain she would have been a worthy Lady for House Atreides.”

Leto walled himself off from Jessica and pretended to be indifferent. “I barely knew her myself. Yes, she would have been my wife, but it was only a political arrangement.” His coldness did not convince her. “I am angrier for my friend Armand. The loss of his arm is of little consequence compared to the loss of his daughter, and his Swordmaster.”

Jessica rose to go, seeing that he still wanted to be left alone. “No matter what else happens, Leto, I will stand by you.”

He finally looked at her with his gray eyes. “I know, Jessica. I’ve always known that.”

FINALLY, AFTER FOUR stark and uncomfortable days, Leto met with Duncan, Thufir, and Gurney in the Atreides war room. The atmosphere in the chamber roiled with murderous anger, with Duncan the most overtly incensed of all. “House Moritani has declared a War of Assassins before, but that form of conflict has specific rules, which the Viscount has broken — again. No innocents should have been killed.”

Thufir replied, “Even Shaddam cannot ignore this.”

“We have no connections with House Moritani,” Leto argued. “How could they possibly have arranged and implemented such a plot here in our own home? Someone must have planted spies among our household servants or down in the village.”

“Prad Vidal supplied those flowerpots,” Gurney said. “Archduke Armand left him in charge on Ecaz during his absence.”

Duncan said, “If he is the traitor, my Lord, he could be entrenching himself well.”

“Moritani is the force behind this attack,” Leto said with a growl. “If Duke Vidal played a role, it’s bound to be only a minor one.”

“It is likely neither one of them expected the Archduke to survive,” Thufir said. “By blocking all communication from Caladan, no one else knows what has really happened here.”

Looking weak and tired, Armand Ecaz came to stand in the doorway with all the dignity he could manage. His stump was cleanly bandaged, and he wore a simple Ecazi robe. His face was drawn and his eyes were red, but his gaze seemed clear and angry. The medics said he’d been refusing further painkillers.

“It is time for me to go home, Leto. I must bury my daughter, strengthen my household — and make my war plans against Grumman. That Moritani animal wasn’t targeting House Atreides. He saw this wedding as an easy way to get to me and my family. You were merely in the way.” He stood straighter, as if a formidable demeanor would push away the mental and physical pain. “I no longer have anything to lose, so I accept the Moritani challenge. The Viscount has opened the floodgates for a bloodbath the Imperium will never forget.”

2

Even though the grimy air of Harko City made the Baron cough, he still felt invigorated. For all its flaws and odors, he much preferred his own planet to hot and dusty Arrakis, gaudy Kaitain, or bleak Grumman. This was home.

He and Piter de Vries rode a slidewalk from the Keep, heading for a luncheon engagement with his nephews Rabban and Feyd. Both young men continued to vie for his attention, waiting for him to choose one or the other as his official successor. He was in no hurry to make his selection known. So far, neither one had proved himself to the Baron’s satisfaction.

As the walkway crossed a park cluttered with imposing statues of Harkonnen leaders, de Vries pointed out, “The birds have been perching on your head again, my Lord.”

The Baron noted a recently commissioned sculpture of himself as a lean and handsome young man, striking a heroic pose and holding a broadsword. He thought wistfully of the muscular body that had once been a source of so much pride for him, before that witch Mohiam inflicted him with a chronic malady. To his dismay, white streaks of bird excrement ran down the statue’s forehead into the bronze eyes.

“Another park attendant shall die,” the Baron said matter-of-factly.

As they approached, a worker ran desperately toward the statue with a ladder and cleaning materials, but it was too late. Seeing his vigorous attention to duty, the Baron mused, “On second thought, this maintenance problem must go higher up. Let us have the supervisor put to death as well. Arrange for a bird motif of some sort at the execution, gouge out his eyes with a beak-shaped tool or something, or use a talon device to rip his face to shreds. It’s the sort of thing Rabban would enjoy. We shall mention it to him at lunch.”

His oldest nephew was powerful and without a conscience, an excellent enforcer, and useful in his own way. Rabban’s much younger brother Feyd, though only fourteen, showed a greater deviousness and wit. That made him a more worthy candidate to be the Baron’s successor… and more dangerous.

“Maybe you should have your nephew kill the entire park staff and start over,” de Vries suggested. “He’s bound to do it anyway, unless you forbid him.”

The Baron shook his head. “That would be wasteful. Better to strike fear into them, but leave enough of them alive so that the work gets done. I never want to see excrement on my statues again.”

When the slidewalk reached the terrace level, the Baron and his Mentat disembarked. The pair made their way between tables of diners to a roped-off area that had been reserved for them, with a view of a smoky stone-oil refinery. Rabban and Feyd were already there.

Feyd, in fluid-fabric knickers with a tie and jacket, was feeding bits of bread to pigeons that hopped around on the pavement under the tables. Just as one bird got close to the young man, the stocky Rabban lunged off his chair, startling the bird into flight. Feyd looked at his older brother with poisonous annoyance.

The Baron adjusted his suspensor belt and eased into his seat after checking for bird droppings there, too. “It seems we have a pigeon problem that we must deal with.”

After de Vries explained about the soiled statues, Rabban predictably suggested executing the entire maintenance staff. Feyd, though, offered another idea. “Perhaps, Uncle, we could eradicate the birds instead.”

The Baron nodded thoughtfully. “Approaching the problem from a different perspective. Very good, Feyd. Yes, let us try that solution first.”

As the meal was delivered on overladen platters, de Vries lowered his voice while grinning through sapho-stained lips. “We have received no word yet, but Duke Leto’s wedding ceremony should have occurred yesterday. How lovely it must be on Caladan, with the flowers, the music and festivities… the blood of loved ones spilled at the altar.”

“Delightful images. I await the news… and the confirmation.” The Baron smiled as he visualized what had probably happened. “Poor Duke Leto and his bride lying dead amidst the flowers, while bumbling guards run around in circles, looking for culprits.”

“They will blame House Moritani, and probably Prad Vidal, but not Harkonnen,” the Mentat said. “Our second-wave operatives remain in place to clean up any mistakes there, but even they will be seen as Grumman assassins if they make a move. No Harkonnen fingerprints are on the scene. As far as anyone can see, Viscount Moritani charged in like a Salusan bull to avenge himself against Ecaz for the death of his son… and an Atreides Duke just happened to be in the line of fire. How sad! Such a tragic loss for the people of Caladan!”

“Nicely put.” The Baron held up his thick hands, showed the puffy palms. “We must always keep our hands clean.”

“As spotless as your statue is going to be from now on.”

The Baron scowled at the mocking reminder, causing de Vries to move himself out of reach.

“I can’t wait to hear the news,” Rabban said.

“We must not be overly anxious,” the Baron cautioned. “Make no inquiries of any kind. Let the announcement arrive here through regular channels, as it spreads throughout the Imperium. There’s bound to be quite an uproar.”

3

Castle Caladan was asleep, seemingly holding its breath. Even in daytime, the people rarely spoke above whispers. Though all windows were open and every skylight cleared, the castle was full of suspicious shadows. Security was tighter than at any other time in memory.

In happier times, Duke Leto kept a full staff of servants, cooks, cleaners, and maids; he welcomed aspiring artists to paint watercolors of the landscape as viewed from the high balconies. Not anymore. As Duncan Idaho stalked the halls carrying the Old Duke’s sword, it felt to him as if the castle had been wounded. Every person, even old familiar faces, underwent a thorough security scan prior to entering the fortress. Imposing such measures made Leto extraordinarily uncomfortable, but Thufir Hawat insisted.

When Duncan was a boy, he had escaped the Harkonnens and gone to work for House Atreides as a mere stable hand. There, he had observed the fury of the caged Salusan bulls, which would attack anything that moved. Viscount Moritani reminded him of those maddened bulls. Once the vile man set his sights on a particular enemy, he would strike and strike again, trampling anyone who got in his way.

Duncan did not make the mistake of assuming that the danger was past. Now, on his security rounds, he paced the halls, sword in hand, eyes alert. He opened Paul’s door to make sure that nothing threatened the Duke’s son. The boy slept soundly in his room, though his bed-sheets were a tangle — evidence that he had been tossing and turning, as he often did when he had one of his vivid nightmares. In an adjacent bed his guest, Bronso Vernius, snored softly. Prince Rhombur had insisted that the two boys room together and watch out for each other.

Duncan continued his rounds to the dimly lit kitchens. In a plaz case, large ambulatory crustaceans crawled over each other, their claws taped; they would be served for the following day’s meal. The pantries were locked, the gate to the wine cellar shut, the ovens still warm. All the kitchen staff had been dismissed for the day, but they would be back shortly before dawn, when Gurney took his shift. The troubadour warrior liked to be there at breakfast.

From one of the high windows Duncan looked down at the surf crashing against the black rocks. The ocean was dark and restless, occasionally glowing with a wash of phosphorescent plankton. The rocks, slick with spray and algae, blended in with the stone walls of Castle Caladan.

He thought he saw shapes out there, oily moving shadows that slithered up the stone walls, but the night was moonless, the stars obscured by clouds, and he could discern little. Peering into the darkness through a diamond-shaped window pane, he caught a flicker of movement again.

The ocean side of the castle was impregnable. Still, that section of the structure contained the infirmary wing where Archduke Ecaz slept, monitored by medical instruments and regular visits by Dr. Yueh. If another group of stealthy assassins meant to kill him, this would be their last chance on Caladan. The Archduke was due to leave the following morning.

Duncan changed his rounds and headed toward the infirmary.

AS SOON AS the footsteps had disappeared down the corridor, Paul opened his eyes and turned over to regard the son of Prince Rhombur Vernius. For years now, Paul had been able to feign sleep well enough to fool even his guards and closest friends.

He could see Bronso’s bright eyes in the dimness as he lay on a cot beside the main sleeping pallet. Though the Ixian boy was generally quiet and reserved, Paul had quickly recognized how intelligent and adaptable Bronso was. “Now tell me more about Ix,” he whispered.

Sounding homesick, Bronso described the underground caverns, where he said subterranean industries produced valuable technological items, while leaving the planet’s surface a pristine, natural wilderness. Paul’s father had also told him stories about staying on Ix with House Vernius. Leto and Rhombur had barely escaped with their lives during the unexpected Tleilaxu takeover of that planet — a reminder that being “home” was not the same as being safe.

Now, as Bronso continued to whisper, Paul’s ears picked up a stealthy movement, so subtle it almost seemed to be a subset of the silence. The corridor should have been empty, but he heard the most delicate of whispery footsteps. He lowered his voice. “Someone’s coming.”

Despite years of training and preparation for the countless threats he would face as the son of a duke, Paul had never truly felt unsafe. But since the wedding-day slaughter, wherever he walked, whomever he met, Paul was aware of his surroundings with a razor clarity, looking for the tiniest fleck of detail out of place.

Bronso immediately fell silent and strained to listen. “Duncan Idaho coming back?”

“No, it’s not Duncan — I would know. Find a place to take shelter until we see what this is. We can’t be too cautious.”

“You want me to hide like a coward?”

“I want you to stay safe, like a guest of House Atreides.”

Paul slipped from his own sleeping pallet, while Bronso plumped up his blankets and pillows in a very crude deception, then crawled under his loose cot. Paul had no time to strap on his personal shield, so he crept to the assortment of keepsakes he kept on a low shelf and selected a sharp-edged lump of coral rock that he and his father had found on the beach. It was heavy enough to be an effective weapon.

The chamber door remained slightly ajar after Duncan’s cursory inspection. The hall outside, though dimly lit, was still much brighter than the bedchamber, and someone was out there. Paul would have to act swiftly. He remembered some tactical advice Thufir had given him: “Strike fast, and strike where they do not expect. If you are in a position of weakness, surprise your opponent with aggression. The entire scenario can change in a millisecond.”

A millisecond… Paul might not have much more time than that.

He held the heavy coral and crouched at floor level, just to the side of the door where no one would expect him, since the two boys were supposed to be on their sleeping pallets. Paul tensed and waited, mentally reminding himself of the most vulnerable points in a human body.

The door swung open, and hall light flooded into the room. In a mental snapshot, Paul saw a muscular stranger who seemed to be covered in tar, a skintight oily suit. Spotting a curved scimitar-like dagger in the stranger’s hand, he no longer had any doubts about what this man meant to do. The dark, slick-skinned man slipped into the room.

But Paul struck first.

INSIDE THE INFIRMARY, Archduke Armand was sleeping. Yueh had suggested several effective drugs and supplements to increase the man’s energy and improve his stamina, perhaps even a strong dose of melange, but Armand had refused it all. He seemed to prefer his restless sleep and nightmares. Duncan could imagine the ache and misery this nobleman endured, since he had lost his own family when he was just a boy on Giedi Prime, thanks to Rabban. But Duncan had recovered from those scars.

The room was illuminated by instrument panels and medical monitors, sensing that something wasn’t right, he absorbed all the details and waited.

Duncan tightened his grip on the Old Duke’s sword and, preparing for the glare, he slapped the wall controls to full illumination, firing up the room’s clustered glowglobes. Ducking instinctively in the dazzle, he saw three black shapes lunging at him. Each infiltrator was covered in a skin made of black oil that rippled with rainbow iridescence. The figures carried curved daggers halfway between a knife and sickle, tipped with an extra razor-sharp barb. These assassins clearly wanted to hack and slash. They meant to leave Archduke Armand not just dead, but in pieces — obviously, to send a message from House Moritani.

Facing the silhouetted infiltrators, Duncan brandished the sword. The assassins threw themselves toward him, moving in almost complete silence but with speed and coordination. He noted scars on their throats and wondered if they had been rendered speechless so that they might never cry out, never reveal information. The attackers’ eyes bulged, and the tendons on their necks were taut, as if they were pumped up on some type of drug.

They set upon him like a wolf pack, but Duncan was able to spin away and use his sword and shield defensively. He slammed the long blade hard against one of the curved daggers, a blow that should have been enough to snap the wrist and knock the dagger free, but the assassin retained his oily black grip. The other two men moved with a manic flurry of jittery gestures.

Duncan stabbed one man through the chest, and barely withdrew the Old Duke’s sword in time to knock aside another assassin’s sickle-dagger as it slid through the shield. With his free hand, Duncan grasped the wrist of its wielder, pushed it back, and then thrust his sword into the second assassin. The tip sank deep into the silent man’s abdomen.

Though both assassins were mortally wounded, they continued to fight him, heedless of their own injuries. The third was still uninjured. Duncan needed to end this quickly.

FROM HIS LOW position, Paul smashed with the heavy coral rock, shattering the intruder’s right kneecap. He heard the crunch of the patella, the snap of cartilage, and the man’s eerily quiet whuff of pain.

Although the oily-suited man could barely stand upright, he seemed to shrug off the injury. No words came from his throat, only a raspy sound like rustling paper. When the man swung the sickle-dagger, Paul ducked, still brandishing the sharp-edged coral rock, but it was a clumsy weapon for a nimble person. The assassin’s mangled knee made him walk with a dying insect’s gait, yet he lurched farther into the room, slashing with the knife again.

Seeing the cot where Bronso supposedly slept, the intruder turned back to Paul, thrusting the dagger toward him as Paul attacked again with the heavy rock. Suddenly Bronso’s cot burst upward, and the Ixian boy used it as a battering ram, yelling at the top of his lungs. The unexpected appearance of the lightweight rectangular bed startled the crippled assassin. The curved dagger slammed through the bedding, through the pillow, and into the thin mattress pad, but Bronso twisted the cot, snagging the blade.

Paul smashed the man’s shoulder with his coral rock, then shouted, “Guards! Duncan! We’re being attacked!”

With a great burst of strength the oil-skinned killer tore his knife free from the pallet. Paul and Bronso backed together into a defensive position.

Outside the door, Paul heard a sound like a stampeding bull — footfalls crashing down the corridor. Prince Rhombur Vernius smashed into the room in a fury of prosthetics, knocking the door off its hinges. The silent assassin whirled at the new arrival, and Rhombur grabbed him by the throat.

Refusing to surrender, the intruder drove the curved dagger down, slicing into Rhombur’s reinforced chest, chopping repeatedly into his shoulder, trying to stab the cyborg’s spine. Rhombur’s synthetic grip tightened. With a final clench of his hand, he crushed the man’s throat and cast him like a limp doll to the floor.

The dead assassin’s arms and legs twitched and jittered, as from a heavy pulse of electricity, and the black, oily suit burst into flame, incinerating his entire body in an astonishing self-destruct process.

“Bronso, are you all right?” Rhombur demanded. “Paul, what happened here?”

“We are safe,” Paul said.

Bronso added, “Neither of us is as defenseless as that man believed.”

THE COMMOTION AND lights in the infirmary had awakened Armand Ecaz, who was still in a weakened state. The Archduke saw Duncan fighting the assassins and, knowing he could not fight alongside Duncan, he did his best to help nonetheless. He yanked the medical monitors from his body, cutting off his vital signs.

Instantly, shrill medical alarms echoed from the monitors.

The sound startled the third assassin for just a moment, and with a broad sweep of the sword Duncan decapitated him, cutting through the oily black hood that extended over the man’s hair. The other two men, though dying from their sword wounds, still struggled to come at him.

Duncan stood back, wondering how much information could be gleaned from them before they perished. He had no doubt that they were a second wave of Moritani killers sent to murder Archduke Ecaz. But what if a third wave of assassins was hidden on Caladan… or a fourth?

As the three attackers died, their black suits activated a final failsafe measure. The headless man burst into flames first. His incendiary suit created a pyre that filled the ward with a thick greasy smoke and the stench of roasting flesh. The white-hot flames grew brighter, cremating the remains to the bone — eliminating any evidence. The mortally wounded pair fell next and were also immolated as soon as they died.

The Archduke lay back in his bed coughing, fighting for words. “Too weak to fight… it was the only way I could summon help.”

“It made all the difference.” Fuming with anger at the invasion, Duncan heard shouts from down the hall. “At least you are safe, Archduke.”

“I am not safe,” the one-armed man replied hoarsely. “And neither are you — nor any member of House Atreides.”

4

In the War Council chamber, Leto could barely find words to express his outrage. “One massacre wasn’t enough for the Viscount? Not only has he violated my home, crippled my friend, cut down a great warrior, and murdered my bride-to-be — now he has tried to kill my son!”

Archduke Armand sat wearily at the table, his arm stump still wrapped in bandages, a few scabbed cuts showing on his face and hands, like badges of honor. “You are not the reason for this, Leto. The Viscount meant to attack me. Those boys were just convenient additional targets.”

“No, Armand, it was no accident. That assassin purposely sought out Paul’s chamber. Now that Moritani has set his sights on killing my son, he will not stop. None of us are safe.” Leto’s expression remained dark. “If I ever was a mere bystander, I am not anymore. I am as involved as you.”

He turned to his own Swordmaster. “Duncan, I charge you with a task more important than any other service you have performed for House Atreides. I think it likely the Grummans have other assassins in hiding. Take Paul away from Castle Caladan and keep him safe — go someplace where he will never be found.”

Duncan frowned. “Does such a place exist, my Lord?”

“The Eastern Continent, the Sisters in Isolation. Their abbey is a veritable fortress. Have him stay there with his grandmother.”

“My son was also a target last night,” Rhombur rumbled like a steam engine about to explode. “You are not in this alone, Leto. If you join this War of Assassins, I will fight at your side — even though the technocrats would prefer that I go back and watch over the assembly lines.”

“No, that is exactly what you should do, my friend,” Leto said. “Thanks to House Moritani, this firestorm has already spread beyond the Ginaz School and Ecaz to involve Caladan. If you bring Ix into this as well, Emperor Shaddam will punish all of us rather than let this explode into a conflict that spreads through the whole Landsraad.”

“But you can’t just let him get away with this!” Rhombur exclaimed.

“No indeed — we must take the offensive.” Leto looked at Archduke Ecaz. “My marriage to your daughter was not completed, but I am still bound by my word of honor. House Atreides and House Ecaz are allies — not just for politics and commerce, but in all things. I pledge the forces of House Atreides to your military. My military will accompany you to Ecaz to gather your forces, and together we will bring the bloodshed to the Viscount’s doorstep. Perhaps God Himself can forgive Hundro Moritani for what he has done, but I shall not.”

WHEN LETO FINALLY lifted the travel embargo to and from Caladan, the wedding guests and noble visitors clamored for positions on the waiting Heighliner above, bidding for berths to hold their family frigates. But the Duke commandeered every available spot in order to carry an entire Atreides military fleet to Ecaz. He told the other travelers they would have to wait for the next Guildship.

The Spacing Guild representatives were at first offended that a nobleman from a minor planet would give them such instructions, but Leto displayed images of the massacre caused by Viscount Moritani. Slamming his palm on the hard tabletop, Leto said, “These matters extend outside the scope of normal commerce. I invoke the Rules of the Great Convention.”

Thufir Hawat had offered specific legal arguments for Leto to cite, but the Guildsmen knew their own rules. When the representative from the orbiting ship saw the uncompromising expressions on the faces of Leto and the one-armed Archduke, he conceded. “So long as you pay for the passage of all your ships, we will take you where you need to go.”

Gurney Halleck came with them, bringing his baliset, although Leto doubted there would be much opportunity for singing. In the meantime, Thufir was dispatched directly to Kaitain to present the horrific evidence of Viscount Moritani’s crime and demand Imperial justice or, if possible, Sardaukar intervention.

For as long as Leto was gone, Jessica would remain on Caladan to act in the Duke’s stead. She was torn between wanting to accompany him and remaining behind to shield their son — although Duncan had already taken the twelve-year-old and vanished before dawn. Without trying to sway the Duke, Jessica said goodbye to him at the Cala City spaceport, giving him an embrace that expressed her depths of emotion.

Leto froze for a moment, thinking of how lovely Ilesa had looked on their wedding day. But Jessica was here, and real, and warm against him. His expression nearly broke, his resolve wavered. But he could not allow that, neither in his mind nor in his heart. He was going to fight beside Armand Ecaz because of the attack on his House, the death of Ilesa, and the threat against Paul’s life.

Leto hardened himself, just as he had done after Victor’s death and the suicide of Kailea. He had no time for the weakness or hesitation of love. Wasn’t that what the Bene Gesserits always taught? Leto finally pushed Jessica away, gave her one more kiss, and then marched into the frigate beside his waiting companions. Right now he had only one focus, as sharp and as all-consuming as a singularity.

A promised marriage was different from any other trade agreement or business arrangement. His father’s mistake with Helena had been that he had viewed their marriage as nothing more than a strategic move in a large Imperial game. Paulus had never invested himself personally in it. He may have been a beloved Duke and a good father, but he’d never been much of a husband.

Leto felt a sense of relief when his ships rose from Caladan to be engulfed in the cavernous hold of the Heighliner. The giant doors closed them in, and it was done. He did not want, or need, a chance to change his mind.

He rode with the Archduke in the lead frigate of the Ecazi delegation. The man was damaged and deeply hurt, and Leto would remain at his side as friend and staunch ally against the evil they now faced.

Pale and agitated, Whitmore Bludd rode next to Gurney. The Swordmaster’s fine clothes were rumpled now, with no indication of the peacock finery he usually wore. He carried the rapier at his side, though he seemed loathe to use it.

A small amount of the ashes from Rivvy Dinari’s funeral pyre had been mixed into a polished plaz cube to be the keystone of a new monument. Archduke Ecaz had already promised to build a towering memorial to the beefy Swordmaster for his selfless bravery.

Bludd flinched as he looked at the transparent cube, in which the ashes were suspended like dark stars floating in a bright nebula. The Archduke spoke very little to him, pointedly ignoring his remaining Swordmaster. Whitmore Bludd’s name would barely be mentioned in any historical recounting of this event.

Now that Leto had time to consider the scope of the military operation under way, as well as the Guild’s transport fees, the realization of how much this full-scale war was going to cost finally began to sink in. If the mad Grumman leader had followed the rules set down for a War of Assassins, there would have been precise targets, specific victims, and no need for a gigantic armed fleet with all of its attendant support costs. “This could bankrupt me, Armand.”

The Archduke turned a gaunt face toward him. “House Ecaz will pay half of your expenses.” He blinked, and his eyelids seemed heavy. “What is the price of honor?”

Though there was nothing to see within the Heighliner’s hold, the Archduke stared out the small porthole, looking at all of the Atreides military ships there, which would soon be joined with his own warships.

WHEN THE HEIGHLINER reached Ecaz and the hold opened for the Atreides vessels to drop down as a magnificent escort for the Archduke’s frigate, a great deal of confusion tangled the communication lines from the palace below.

With a dismissive gesture toward his surviving Swordmaster, Armand said, “Bludd, inform them who we are! Tell them there is no threat.” His face looked dead, rather than gloating, as he added, “I want to look Duke Vidal in the eye and watch him squirm. He will be most surprised to see me still alive. How will he make excuses, I wonder?”

“He will claim that the evidence we bring of his treachery was falsified,” Leto said.

“He can claim whatever he likes… but I will believe only the truth.”

But Duke Vidal did not give them the chance. On the main continent, a swarm of ships scrambled from the Ecazi Palace at the appearance of the overwhelming force coming down from orbit. Hundreds of vessels flew swiftly across the sea to the Elaccan continent. A mass exodus had begun as soon as the unexpectedly large military force began its descent.

Leto could understand the panicked reaction, though. “With a military force this size, they must think we’re invading.” But weren’t the Ecazis honorable enough to defend their women and children, even if they thought they faced an overwhelming enemy force? Why were they fleeing like thieves in the night?

“I’ll set them straight.” Bludd eagerly spoke into the microphone. “Archduke Armand has returned, and he calls for an immediate war council. We bring grave news.”

“The Archduke is alive?” blurted the spaceport manager. “We were told he was assassinated, along with his daughter and much of the Atreides household!”

Armand scowled. Leto rose halfway to his feet from his passenger seat. “Who told you this? How did this information come to Ecaz?”

“Why, Duke Prad Vidal announced it. He has assumed temporary control of the planet, as acting leader.”

Armand’s face darkened with anger, and Gurney growled. “There is no way a courier could have brought that information, my Lord. We allowed no ships to leave Caladan. We are the first. No one could have spread the word.”

“He didn’t need a courier,” Leto said. “He knew the attack was going to happen, but I did not expect he would act precipitously. He’s a fool.”

“He is impatient. He could not have guessed we would cut off all communication from Caladan after the massacre, or that either of us would survive. It seems he was too anxious to steal my seat of power to wait for confirmation.” Armand wrested the communication controls from Bludd and issued orders to the spaceport manager. “Have Duke Vidal arrested immediately. He has many questions to answer.”

At the main palace, Leto could see the great confusion, numerous ships still lifting off and streaking away, an entire military force in disorganized retreat. Vidal’s supporters? The small gang that supported the Elaccan governor’s bid for power could not possibly withstand the full Atreides fleet, and they knew it.

“He wanted to take over my palace, but didn’t realize he’d have to fight for it. Now he runs back to Elacca to hide behind his own fortifications — for all the good they’ll do him.” The Archduke’s expression was a barely contained thunderstorm.

“Before we can crush the Grumman threat, we will have to deal with the cockroaches under your own doormat, my Lord,” Gurney said.

The stream of frantic ships continued to evacuate from the Ecazi Palace, racing toward the coast and the open ocean. Armand clenched and unclenched his one remaining fist. “Duke Leto, have your warships destroy those vessels. That will take care of our problem.”

Leto straightened. “Armand, that would break the rules of the War of Assassins. Minimize collateral damage. Take out only the noble target. If this is not handled properly, you could begin a civil war here on Ecaz and be censured by the Landsraad.”

Armand nodded slowly as his lead frigate came in for a landing. “I cannot accept that. A civil war would delay my strike against Grumman.”

5

With his wiry black hair and distinctive features, Duncan Idaho bore no resemblance to young Paul Atreides. Since they could not pose as father and son traveling together, they decided instead upon uncle and ward.

They wore comfortable but ill-fitting clothes and carried patched travel sacks, all of which had been picked up at a secondhand market in Cala City. Duncan concealed the Old Duke’s sword beneath a loose cape. Paul’s hair had been cropped short, and his recent scabs and scrapes also altered his appearance. The Swordmaster inspected him and said, “The job of a disguise is not to be perfect, but to deflect attention.”

They boarded a large passenger ferry that slowly crossed the ocean, carrying cargo, farm crews, vacationers who preferred the leisurely pace, and others who were simply too poor to afford a long-distance flight. Most of the passengers in the lower decks were pundi rice farmers who moved from paddy to paddy along the continental coasts, following the monsoon season. Short in stature, they had broad faces and aboriginal features, and they spoke a dialect that Paul did not understand; many were descended from tribes that still resided in the dense jungles, isolated for hundreds of generations. In filmbooks Paul had read about the mysterious “Caladan primitives,” but little was known about them, since for many generations the Atreides rulers had adhered to a policy of noninterference in the natural, self-contained societies.

Some passengers amused themselves by fishing from the main deck. The ferry’s cook dragged a net from the stern and used his catch for the day’s communal meal. All passengers ate at a common table, though Paul and Duncan kept to themselves. Paul was satisfied enough with the thin fish stew and dried wedges of paradan melon.

Once, a storm came close enough to make the large ferry sway back and forth, but Paul had his sea legs and stood on deck with Duncan, watching the clouds and whitecaps, seeing flashes of lightning in the distance. He thought of the stories of electrical creatures named elecrans that preyed upon lost sailors, but this was a more mundane form of lightning, a simple thunderstorm that passed away to the north.

When the ferry finally arrived at the Eastern Continent’s largest city, little more than a village with docks and wooden houses that extended out over the shoreline, they disembarked. Paul regarded the rugged mountains that rose abruptly from the coastline. “Are we going to the interior, Duncan? I don’t see any roads.”

“It will probably be no more than a trail. The Sisters keep themselves hidden, but there’s no isolation so great that I can’t find it.”

When they asked villagers about the mysterious fortress abbey, they received sour, suspicious looks. Though the Sisters in Isolation were not revered, the locals viewed strangers with even less enthusiasm. Nevertheless, Duncan continued to press, insisting that his interest in the abbey was a private matter. Finally he received vague directions, which enabled the two of them to set off.

It took them days to make the journey on foot, following a wide road that degenerated into a dirt one, then a rutted trail, and ultimately dwindled to a muddy path that wound upward into the mountains. Around them the jungle grew denser, the trees taller, the rugged slopes steeper.

When they finally reached the fortress nunnery on the third afternoon, it seemed almost as if they had stumbled upon it by accident. Sheer black walls rose from the ground like artificial cliffs. Paul stared at the imposing razor-edged corners and lookout turrets on which small figures could be discerned. The communal home of the Sisters in Isolation had few windows, only small slots in the thick barricade — perhaps to minimize vulnerabilities, or to give the Sisters few opportunities to view the outside world.

Duncan and Paul strode up to the barred, unwelcoming gates. “They must receive visitors occasionally,” Paul mused. “How else do they get supplies and equipment? They can’t be entirely self-sufficient.”

“No sense hiding our identity, now that we’re here. I’m sure they’ve been watching us for the past several kilometers.” Duncan threw back his hood and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. He shouted at the gate. “Hello!”

Other than the tiny figures stationed at the highest towers, he detected no movement, heard no sound. Duncan called again, “Open the gate! We demand entry in the name of Duke Leto Atreides of Caladan!”

After a moment, Paul saw a flurry above. One of the blocks of stone over the gate shifted aside to reveal a camouflaged window. “Duke Leto the Just? Your claim is easy enough for any man to make,” came a gruff voice. A male voice, Paul decided. He wondered why a man would be guarding the door of the towering abbey.

“But it’s not easy for a man to bring the Duke’s own son, Paul,” Duncan countered. “His grandmother Helena is with you. She won’t recognize her grandson, since she’s never looked upon him, but she will recognize me.”

Paul turned his face upward, sure that hidden imagers were capturing every detail.

“And why should the Abbess wish to see her grandson? Your Duke himself told her never again to have contact with his family.”

Paul absorbed this information quickly. The Abbess? He was not actually surprised. From what he’d read of Helena Atreides, she was a scheming, highly intelligent woman with lofty ambitions.

Duncan said, “That is a matter we will discuss in private with Lady Helena. She knows why she is there — or would she rather I shout the reasons at the top of my lungs?”

A mechanical click was followed by a heavy droning hum as the gates swung inward. The man who came down to meet them had once been handsome — Paul could see that from his features — but now his face was lined and weathered, as though psychological pressures and sadness had eaten away at his heart for years. Amazingly, he wore a faded and much-mended House Atreides uniform.

Duncan regarded the man, then suddenly stiffened. “Swain Goire! So you have kept yourself alive all these years.”

The other man’s scowl appeared to be a natural expression for him. “I remain alive only because my Duke commanded it as part of my punishment. Still, my penance can never atone for what I took from him.”

“No, but you can help keep us alive for him.” Duncan nudged Paul through the gates and into the thick fortress walls of the abbey.

THEY REQUESTED SANCTUARY in the Duke’s name, and the Sisters in Isolation grudgingly provided them with quarters, but very little welcome. The women were dressed in uncomfortable black outfits; many wore dark wimples, while others covered their faces with obscuring mesh. They spoke little, if at all, and seemed to be better at building barricades than bridges.

The Sisters in Isolation had almost no contact with the outside, though they were known for their handmade tapestries. Most of the women were said to have come here because of mental injuries, scars they could not bear. Paul suspected that they simply wallowed together in combined grief, and for their own protection.

At sunset, brassy bells shattered the haunted silence of the abbey, summoning everyone for dinner in a large mess hall. The meal was plain — bread, fruits, vegetables, and preserved fish. They drank water that bubbled up from jungle springs and was piped into the abbey.

Goire took a seat by himself at a small table on the far edge of the room, avoiding even the two new guests. Apparently he was not welcome to dine with the Sisters. Sentenced here after the death of Victor and Kailea, he was one of the few males in the entire abbey.

The large chair at the head of the long table remained empty, and Paul wondered if his grandmother would bother to show up, or if she would spurn them. He was eager to meet this woman whose name was rarely spoken around the castle. Even though he had pressed Duncan, Gurney, and Thufir for details, they had only answered him with brusque, dismissive words.

Finally, as though telepathically linked, all the silent Sisters turned to face a wooden door at the far side of the banquet chamber. It opened, and a tall, hooded woman entered.

She wore a black mesh over her face, and spangles of Richesian circuit-embroidery wound about the wrapping at her throat. Threaded speakers. The woman glided forward to stand straight-backed at her chair. She looked ominous to Paul, like a superstitious old drawing of the Grim Reaper. When she turned her obscured face toward the two visitors, Paul noticed that, at the side of the room, Swain Goire had turned away from her.

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.”

6

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.

7

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 primitives 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?”

8

With the sudden arrival of the House Atreides ships and thousands of well-trained, heavily armed soldiers, Archduke Armand had a ready-made planetary force that more than doubled his fighting power. Together, the two militaries should have been enough to crush the Grummans.

But first, they had an unanticipated battle to win here on Ecaz. They could not risk losing the planet to rebels in their absence.

In a private discussion chamber within the recaptured Ecazi Palace, the Archduke still trembled with weakness, both from grief and his severe injury. His voice sounded hollow, like a cold storm wind blowing. “I did not intend to fight a civil war.”

Gurney lounged in his carved wooden chair, not to imply casualness but rather to remain loose and ready to fight. “Vidal has been planning this for some time — that much is obvious. This morning’s overflights on Elacca mapped out the extent of his military buildup and his scrambled defenses. Mark my words, it did not happen overnight. You have proven him a liar simply by being alive, my Lord.”

Leto shook his head, disturbed. “If he had simply bided his time, his treachery would not have been so obvious.”

Armand heaved a deep sigh. “Vidal blithely assumed I would be assassinated. Now that he has already announced to everyone that I was killed, how can he explain my return?”

Gurney gave a rumbling chuckle. “That man is a poor leader if he banks on every plan coming off as expected.”

“And now there will be tremendous bloodshed because of it.” The Archduke hung his head, letting his unkempt silver hair fall forward. “And why do so many of my own people follow him? His deceit is painfully obvious. Does he plant ridiculous stories to cast doubt in the minds of his followers? Could he have suggested to them that I’m a Face Dancer? Or does he simply keep them ignorant?”

“Probably the latter,” Leto mused. “But it is not the province of common soldiers to wrestle with the tangles of politics. They will follow his orders.”

Whitmore Bludd sat on the opposite side of the table, near the Archduke, yet alone. Though pale, the Swordmaster tried to summon defiance, sounding uncharacteristically bloodthirsty. “We will crush the rebels, no matter the cost. Ecaz will soon be in your complete control again, my Lord. Then we can move on Grumman. It is only a matter of time before we place Hundro Moritani’s head on a stake. I promise you that.”

Without looking up, the Archduke nodded slowly, as if his head were too heavy for his neck. “Yes, but our path can take many different turns. How do I stomach a bloody campaign against my own people, who have been led astray by a traitor?”

“Maybe you won’t have to. I propose that we not launch a full-scale civil war,” Leto offered. “Even though our armies can defeat the Elaccan rebels, it would be wasteful to set so many brave Ecazi fighters at each other’s throats.”

“What choice do we have? By now our case has been presented in the Landsraad court. Do you suggest we simply wait to hear from Kaitain while Vidal reinforces his fortifications? And every day of delay here gives Viscount Moritani more time to prepare for us on Grumman.”

Leto traced the table’s swirling grains of bloodwood. “We brought our armies here to join with yours and then move immediately on to Grumman. Now that Vidal has seen our overwhelming force, he will expect us to launch a full-scale attack, instead of the precision strikes required by the Great Convention. Vidal has never even declared himself in this War of Assassins, and yet he has joined it. Viscount Hundro Moritani has cast the rules to the winds in this conflict.” His expression became hard and implacable as he crossed his arms over his chest. “But we do not have to. Others have flagrantly violated the rules, but that does not give us carte blanche to do the same. One crime does not justify another, particularly when it comes to the emotional pitfalls of internecine warfare.”

Gurney could see where Leto was going. His voice was deep and resonant. “The Forms must be obeyed.”

The exhausted and grieving Archduke was no longer so nimble, though. “What are you suggesting, my friend?”

“Merely that if they are prepared for a total civil war, ready to defend against a frontal assault from a large military force, we should demonstrate what a War of Assassins is all about. We use assassins. A defensive line can protect against a large army, but one or two carefully trained infiltrators might make it through.”

“I’ll do it,” Gurney said. “The Orange Catholic Bible states: ‘For I have a righteous Lord, and the enemies of my Lord are the enemies of God.’”

“It is my place to spill the blood of my enemy,” the Archduke said.

“You cannot go, Armand,” Leto said, his voice filled with compassion, though he knew he was stating the obvious. “I’ll go in your stead. Gurney and I will be the assassins.”

“And I,” said Bludd, a moment late. “For the honor of House Ecaz, my Lord Archduke, let me go and destroy our enemies.”

The one-armed Armand did not want to admit his own frailty, yet he could not deny it. “No, stay with me, Swordmaster. I require your security. We have not yet completed a thorough sweep of the palace and the cities. I need you here.”

Bludd seemed diminished by the comment, inferring — perhaps correctly, Leto thought — that the Archduke was not willing to overlook his failure. “But my Lord, how can you send a nobleman to do bloody work like this? The Duke should not put himself in such danger.”

“I should not,” Leto said, “but I will anyway. I am not defenseless. Ask Gurney here, or Duncan Idaho. They are my best fighters, my most loyal bodyguards, and they trained me.”

Gurney nodded. “Duke Leto is a nobleman first and rarely allows himself to be seen in personal combat, but he is a formidable fighter. He can even best me one time out of ten.”

“Four out of ten, Gurney.”

The inkvine scar darkened with a bit of a flush. “It is not for me to argue with my Duke.”

Armand pondered. “We will provide a diversion by continuing our military buildup as if we are preparing to attack Elacca. Vidal’s spies will be watching to see when we intend to move against him. He won’t expect a small, personal attack, even though it is exactly what the rules require.”

“Gurney and I will make plans and slip away to the Elaccan continent at our earliest opportunity,” Leto said.

9

Atop the fortress nunnery’s tallest tower, Duncan stood at midday with Swain Goire, surveying the steep jungle hills all around. Verdant plantings filled terraced gardens on the abrupt slope.

One silent Sister had come up to the tower with them to add food to the rookery. Grains and fruits were spread out as a banquet for the large black hawks. Duncan thought the raptors must be perfectly capable of hunting their own prey in the jungles. Were these women trying to turn them into vegetarians? Then he realized that the grains and fruit were not for the hawks, but served instead to lure smaller birds, which the raptors then devoured. Hawks circled high above the tower, no more than black specks in the clouds, while others swooped down to the thick jungle.

Goire wore his reticence like a thick cloak on a cold day. In his youth Duncan had not known the man well, having been away at the Ginaz School when Goire became captain of the Atreides guard. Duncan knew only what this man had done, and that was enough for him.

Goire finally spoke up. “Paul reminds me so much of young Victor. He has the look of his father about him.”

“I barely knew Victor. His life was over by the time I returned from Ginaz.”

Like a wave-battered rock on the coast, Goire showed no reaction despite the brusqueness of Duncan’s words. “Well, I knew the boy well. I saw him every day, up until the end. I was supposed to keep him safe, and I failed.”

“Paul has me to defend him,” Duncan said.

Goire’s eyes were weary and reddened. “I didn’t intend for Victor to be harmed, but we all know that failure renders such intentions irrelevant. Actions and results are all that matter.”

The two fell into a longer silence, watching the high-circling hawks, gazing at the jungle-covered hills that stretched to the horizon and the empty sky. In the distance, Duncan could see small flying ships that must have been part of the business of the coastal towns.

“What exactly are you defending Paul from?” Goire finally asked. “What sort of desperation drove you here? A mere squabble would not require such extreme measures.”

With a sigh, Duncan explained about Viscount Moritani’s blood feud with Ecaz, in which House Atreides was now embroiled. When he was done, the old guard said, “And you have reason to believe the danger isn’t over? You suspect that more assassins are coming for Paul?”

“Viscount Moritani wants to kill the Duke’s son, for whatever twisted reason he has in his head. Paul still lives, and I intend to keep it that way. I will not lower my guard.”

“But it makes no sense for the Grummans to continue attacking. Paul is an innocent.”

“It made no sense in the first place, and still the attack occurred. Ilesa was an innocent, too.”

Goire nodded solemnly. Both of them regarded the distant glints of silvery ships, which were now approaching, sleek fliers skimming over the untracked green canopy. Viewed from the high vantage point, these craft looked no larger than the hawks circling in the air. Within moments, the roar of engines could be heard.

Goire tensed. “I have not seen ships like that before. We get very little —”

Duncan could tell immediately they were not supply craft. “They’re going to attack!”

“Yes — yes they are.” Goire gave Duncan a push. “Go! Go get Paul!” Duncan ran as angular attack fliers streaked in.

DUNCAN BURST INTO the tapestry room, having already retrieved and drawn the Old Duke’s sword. “They’re coming. We’ve got to get to shelter!”

After years of training, Paul did not hesitate, but sprang into motion to join his companion.

Paying no heed to the Swordmaster’s obvious urgency, Helena was about to scold him for the interruption, when the first great concussive explosions hit the side of the abbey. Duncan shouted to her. “Sound an evacuation. Get your Sisters out of here!”

“I will not.” Helena stood icily. “This is our fortress. Our home.” Her pride seemed more important to her than survival. “Are you saying the great Duncan Idaho cannot protect us all with that sword?”

Scowling, he grabbed Paul by the arm and rushed him toward the door and the stone stairs. “I am not sworn to protect you, my Lady. Your safety is on your own head now. Your fortress is under attack.”

“This War of Assassins has nothing to do with us,” Helena insisted.

“It does now!” Paul called from the doorway. “They’re trying to kill me. And even if you’re no more than collateral damage, you will still be dead.”

The other Sisters blithely continued their weaving, since the Abbess had not instructed them to do otherwise. A second explosion impacted the outer walls, and the entire tower room shook violently.

“Those aren’t just assassins. This is a full-fledged military strike,” Paul said.

“Viscount Moritani has already proven the lengths to which he’ll go. It’s my job to keep you safe.” Duncan pulled him through the door and they bounded down the winding stairway three steps at a time. “We have to get out of here. These walls won’t hold.”

By the time the two raced out into the courtyard, the fliers had circled back to launch more targeted missiles toward the Abbey. The shock waves caused the entire structure to thrum. Cracks shot like lightning bolts through the reinforced walls. The main tower shuddered and collapsed into fire and stone dust.

His grandmother, and all those women, had been inside. Like the tapestry that Helena had destroyed, the whole tower now lay in jumbled ruins. Red mingled with the gray of the rock in a mosaic of rubble. He searched for a spot in his heart where he might be shocked and horrified by Lady Helena’s death, but found nothing there for her.

With a deafening boom and buzzing whine, the attackers streaked back and forth, then came in to land and disgorge fighters who wore no uniforms, no insignia. Many Sisters ran about screaming. Some gathered makeshift weapons and raced to defend the Abbey, while others tried to flee, but they had no place to go.

Paul seized upon a crucial fact. “If they are attempting to kill me, and they blew up the tower, how can they know whether I am among the dead?”

Duncan shook his head, holding up the Old Duke’s sword to defend them both. “They can’t. This must be one of the Viscount’s grand schemes. He likes to cause damage more than anything else. He thrives on chaos.”

Swain Goire ran up to them, breathless and covered with dust. His hair was matted with blood from a shrapnel injury. “Take Paul and escape into the jungle.”

“Which direction?”

“Anywhere away from here — that is your only priority now.” Goire had two wooden staves, one sharpened into a crude spear and the other to serve as a club. “I have a body shield, and I have these. I’ll hold them off long enough for you to escape.”

“Duncan, we can’t just run!” Paul said, not willing to leave Goire to do all the fighting for them.

“My strategic imperative is to save you, young Master. Your father gave me my mission.” Parts of the outer walls had crumbled during the succession of explosions, and jagged breaches now opened the barrier to the wilderness beyond. Duncan silenced Paul by pushing him toward the nearest gap. “If the only way I can accomplish my mission is to take advantage of a diversion or delay, I’ll do it.”

Goire activated his body shield, and the shimmering intangible barrier cocooned him. He had his weapons. Duncan felt certain Goire was trying to atone for his mistake in allowing Victor to be killed. Did he hope Duke Leto would forgive him if he sacrificed his life now, to let Paul escape? Possibly.

Duncan hesitated, wondering if he should hand Goire the Old Duke’s sword — but that was his only weapon, and he could not surrender his best means of defending Paul.

Howling, Goire charged toward the attacking soldiers — one man against dozens, yet he rushed in. It was suicide.

Duncan dragged Paul through the broken wall rubble and into the thick foliage. The last glimpse he got of Swain Goire was when the man collided with the advancing armed soldiers, his body shield thrumming, his two wooden weapons thrashing from side to side. The assassins engulfed him, and their weapons were far sharper.

Paul and Duncan ran blindly into the jungle.

10

The small ornithopter flew low and fast over the grassy hills of Grumman. With whisper-quiet engines and movable wings, the vehicle made hardly any noise in its passage, just the slight, smooth sounds a large bird might make. Resser sat beside the Viscount, who piloted, ostensibly to test the new aircraft design for rounding up wild horses.

Resser was not fooled, though. He knew Hundro Moritani was preparing for war.

The Grumman soldiers, gruff and hardened warriors culled from villages out in the steppes, had been toiling in the salt tunnels and mineral shafts that riddled the ground under the dry lake bed outside of Ritka. Moritani had gathered hundreds of his stallions into corrals beyond the perimeter of the fortress shields, fitting them all with spiked armor, though he had ten times as many horses as riders. And Resser didn’t see what a mere cavalry could do against a modern military force.

As the ‘thopter flew along, the setting sun turned the windows of the fortress city orange, as if the structures were on fire. The Viscount looked intently at the illusion, paying little attention to his piloting. A downdraft caught the craft abruptly and they reeled downward, nearly scraping the ground before he regained control.

“It’s not my time to die,” the Viscount said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Nor yours. Not yet. We have work to do, Resser.” Since returning from Kaitain, Moritani had been in uncharacteristically high spirits, even though he had received a censure from the Landsraad and sparked the wrath of Shaddam IV.

The redheaded Swordmaster said, “With all due respect, my Lord, I cannot understand your tactics. Did you intentionally provoke the Padishah Emperor?”

“Absolutely. When the upcoming battle looks most terrible, I expect that our paternal Shaddam will come running to stop us from hurting ourselves.” He glared at Resser. “Never forget how my ancestors made their mark forever on Salusa Secundus, and how the damned Corrinos hunted them down for revenge.”

“I will not forget, my Lord, but I fail to see what you can accomplish in this manner. Both Duke Atreides and Archduke Ecaz survived your assassination attempt. You heard their representatives file formal protests, but they will not stop there. As we speak, they are sure to be combining their planetary militaries in order to strike Grumman hard. You may have intended this to be a War of Assassins, but you are obviously preparing for far more than that. How can we possibly defeat the armed forces of two noble Houses?”

He also knew that Duncan Idaho, his old friend from Ginaz, would be with the Atreides forces.

Moritani chuckled. “Oh, Resser, how you misunderstand! We don’t need to defeat them! We merely have to hold out long enough for the Corrino Emperor to come to the rescue — and mark my word, he will. Grumman is a powerful magnet that will draw all of our enemies at once.” Still chuckling, he gripped the controls of the ‘thopter and flew them on a daredevil run toward the stony hills behind Ritka, but Resser could see that the man’s large, squarish hands were shaking. He continued in a whisper, “And then it will all be over. Whether our noble House is known by the name of Tantor or Moritani, we have always been underestimated. After this, no one will ever forget our family name again.”

A terrible sense of foreboding came over Resser. “What do you intend to do, my Lord?”

“My son is dead, so my House will die with me.”

“You can have other children, my Lord. You can remarry.”

“No, no, Resser. When Cilia died, darkness consumed my soul. Wolfram was my proper heir, and the Ecazis just let him suffer and die — out of spite! We cannot defeat the plots of our enemies in any other way. My line shall end in a way that will be written in all of the historical chronicles. And you will help.”

Resser drew a deep breath to focus. “I swore an oath to serve you, my Lord.”

“Grumman will become a tomb for House Moritani and our three principal enemies — even for House Harkonnen, if we’re lucky. I have commanded the Baron to send his heir apparent to lead a division of disguised Harkonnen troops.” His eyes took on a distant look. “Resser, I want you to take all of the family atomics and install them in the passageways immediately beneath my fortress keep. Remove the safeguards and transfer the codes to my throne room.”

“Atomics, my Lord?” Resser clung to his seat as the ‘thopter soared over the rooftops of Ritka. Years ago Duncan had begged him to break his oath to House Moritani and abandon his service to the dishonorable Viscount, but Resser had refused. Though Duncan had disagreed with Resser’s decision, he had clearly understood it, because he was an Atreides retainer — a good and loyal fighter for his noble House, just as Resser was for his. Resser had defiantly served his role, holding to his oath even when he knew that his master broke the rules and provoked his enemies.

But atomics!

Viscount Moritani shrugged, casually continuing to pilot the craft. “Do not think of the Great Convention as if it were a sacred text, like the Orange Catholic Bible. It’s no more than an ancient agreement written by a frightened people who were still stinging from the wounds of the Butlerian Jihad. Those outdated rules no longer apply to us. Prepare the atomics, as I have commanded.” He narrowed his dark eyes. “Or will you fail me? Shall I remind you of the blood oath you swore to me? A blood oath!”

The Viscount’s words cut with a razor edge. Resser didn’t doubt that the man would command him to leap from the flying craft if he did not provide a satisfactory answer. Resser was not afraid of dying — only of making the wrong choice. Perhaps he could fight for the controls and cause the ‘thopter to crash into a hillside… which might, after all, be the best outcome for the sake of the Imperium. But he could never accept the thought of killing his own master, no matter how he tried to rationalize it.

Looking away, he replied sincerely, “My Lord Viscount, am I not the only Swordmaster who remains at your side, when all the others have vanished?”

With a deep growl of agreement, the Viscount changed course and headed toward the central fortress in Ritka. Torchpots had already been lit to mark the landing zone. The sky deepened into dusk, and Resser looked up to see the stars and imagined the many quiet worlds out there.

11

In the thick jungle, Paul watched dispassionately as Duncan strung up yet another assassin-tracker’s body. The foliage was so suffocatingly dense that neither felt the need to hide their activities, though they remained constantly alert. They had been hunted for days since the surprise assault on the fortress nunnery.

Broad leaves formed a camouflage wall all around them. Wide, fleshy fungus gathered rain runoff into long-lived puddles that held colonies of tiny brine shrimp. Fern towers blocked the sunlight in an effort to choke their botanical rivals. Vines laced the forest floor and crawled up the sides of thick trees to pull them down, creating a convoluted mesh of snares.

During their wilderness flight, Paul had felt as if he were swimming through an underwater landscape of leaves and grasses. Their personal shields provided little protection here, yet the shimmering force fields at least discouraged the myriad biting insects.

Though he was dismayed to use such a magnificent weapon as a machete, Duncan hacked and slashed through the underbrush with the Old Duke’s sword, dulling and notching the blade. The fecund wilderness grew swiftly enough to cover their path, yet the assassins had still managed to track them.

Duncan had killed five of them so far. The tangled foliage made it impossible for a Grumman military force to move as a unit, so the killers had no choice but to split up and come at them singly. The Moritani assassins were arrogant, well armed… and easily defeated.

The Old Duke’s abused sword was still capable of killing — as Duncan’s latest victim had recently discovered. Paul stood close, watching dark blood ooze from the dead man’s gaping wound. Though the heart no longer pumped, gravity drew the fluid from the raw wet holes in the flesh. Holding out his hand, he intentionally caught one of the slow, thick droplets of blood, and cupped it in his palm like a crimson raindrop. “Does it ever bother you to kill these men, Duncan?”

“Not at all. I have no room for compassion toward people who are trying to slaughter us, Paul. I kill them so that you don’t have to.” He tugged on the vine and hauled the body up above their heads, so that it dangled upside down, helpless, defeated, and insulted.

Jungle scavengers would make quick work of the remains, but the rest of the assassins would still find the remains of the corpse, as they had found the other four. Paul had suggested hiding the bodies, but Duncan said the hunters would find them, no matter how dense the forest. “We need to leave a message that angers them,” Duncan said. “Try and get them to make mistakes.”

Paul looked at the killer’s face but could not apply a mask of humanity to it. He didn’t want to know why this man had chosen such a life, what had driven him to become a mindless murderer in the name of Viscount Moritani. Did he have a family? Did he love someone? The dead eyes had rolled up behind the lids, and he was just meat now.

Kill or be killed — no better place for that lesson than in Caladan’s deep jungle.

Leaving the dead man hanging, the pair set off again. Paul had not yet figured out where Duncan was leading him; the Swordmaster apparently had no plan beyond concealment and keeping his charge safe. Nevertheless, Paul sensed that they were being watched. Though they did not know how many trackers were still in pursuit after the attack on the fortress nunnery, he knew that the five Duncan had dispatched were not enough.

Fighting the assassins was only one aspect of their wilderness survival. The jungle did not care that he was the son of Duke Leto, and it offered more threats than Paul could tally. Once, they startled a spiny boar that charged them before veering off and plunging into a thick bramble.

Then there was the challenge of obtaining food. Because the jungle was so lush, they could scavenge for fruits, stems, tubers, and mushrooms. Concerned, Duncan volunteered to test some of the species in case they might be poisonous. Paul, however, had studied the flora and fauna of Caladan and memorized a plethora of safe, edible species.

With some relief, they finally found a trampled patch of grasses: a clear but winding ribbon through the underbrush, probably some sort of game trail. Paul guessed it must lead to a stream or meadow. Exhausted from fighting for every step forward, the pair chose the path of least resistance.

Duncan warned, “This trail might make things easier, but it is also the route our trackers will take.”

“And it’s used by large animals. We have to be quiet enough to hide from the assassins, while making enough noise to warn any predators.”

The sunlight broke through, shining down onto a glorious meadow filled with bright blue and red flowers. There was a buzz of pollinating insects. After the claustrophobic world of the jungle, Paul drew a deep breath, smiling.

Duncan froze. “I think it’s a trap.”

Paul’s shield was already on, his hand poised on the dagger at his waist. Duncan brandished the sword. Everything was still; the tall trees in the glade rustled briefly.

With a series of rushing thumps, corpses fell from high branches, suspended by their feet from vines, limp arms flopping beneath them. The bodies dropped like an offering, jerked at their tethers and then swung like grisly fruit in a crude but unnerving imitation of what Duncan had done to his own victims. Six more assassin-trackers dangled from the trees.

Duncan looked about warily, searching for shadows or silhouettes. “I don’t see anyone.”

Paul stood perfectly motionless, forcing himself to use all of his senses, examining the tiniest details of the world around him. At last he managed to detect moving figures like leaf shadows amongst the curled fern fronds. “Caladan primitives,” he whispered. “I can see them.” With only a slight gesture, he indicated two muscular, mostly naked men huddled among the leaf shadows.

He had read enough about them to remember a few of the words and phases the occasional coastal traders used when communicating with the tribesmen. Paul searched his mind and finally shouted out the native words for friend and safe. He wasn’t sure if the primitives could tell the difference between them and the Grumman assassins — or if they even cared. Perhaps the primitives simply killed anyone who trespassed in their forest.

He and Duncan waited motionless at the edge of the glade. The slain assassins hung upside down from their slowly creaking vines. Some had been dead for days. Paul wondered how long the primitives had been killing them off. These people — whether purposely or inadvertently — had kept him and Duncan safe.

Finally, with a rustle of branches and heavy thuds, three graceful figures dropped from the trees immediately above them; with his heightened perceptions even Paul hadn’t noticed these men hiding there. The trio of muscular, tattooed primitives faced them.

One was a rangy old woman with long peppery hair. Her eye hollows were deeply shadowed, stained with berry juice. A sapphire-shell beetle as large as Paul’s hand decorated her hair like some sort of living ornament. Its legs twitched and moved.

“Friend,” Paul said again.

Dozens more of the Caladan primitives dropped from the trees into the meadow. He could tell that Duncan was ready to fight them all if necessary, but Paul switched off his body shield, removed his hand from his dagger, and held both palms upward.

APPARENTLY, THE CALADAN primitives did understand the difference between the Grumman assassins and their would-be prey. They led Paul and Duncan to their settlement, which was little more than a clearing filled with nestlike dwellings of woven pampas grasses, rushes, and willow branches. With the warm climate and the abundance of fruits and animals on the Eastern Continent, the primitives did not need permanent shelters.

The tall woman with the beetle in her hair was apparently the headwoman. Paul did not have the words to communicate well with her, but he and Duncan were made to feel welcome and reasonably safe nevertheless. She carried a gnarled wooden staff whose handle had been polished smooth by the sweat of many palms. A jagged line of inset sharp teeth ran along the striking edge of the wooden staff, making it a vicious-looking weapon.

An animal carcass roasted over a greenwood fire, filling the air with aromatic smoke. Paul had eaten only fruits and berries for the past several days, and the meat smelled delicious. The headwoman gestured for them to partake of chunks of meat, which they had to tear carefully from the hot, roasting animal with their bare fingers.

Paul didn’t quite understand how he and Duncan fit in among these people. They understood so little. How long would their welcome last? The two of them had been running for days, and Paul doubted they could convince the tribe members to lead them back to civilization.

The primitives had cut down the assassins’ bodies and dragged them through the forest. When the group reached the settlement, men and women fell upon the corpses, stripping them of valuables, as if this were any other day’s chore. With nimble hands they removed clothing, boots, and equipment belts. The primitives had no experience with the night-vision scopes, communicators, or intricate weapons. They squabbled over the objects, which they saw only as incomprehensible objects rather than anything useful.

Some women wore the bloodstained tunics of the dead assassins. They hung stolen trousers and jackets next to intricately patterned tapestries from the Sisters in Isolation. Paul was surprised to see how well they cared for the woven fabrics.

When the bodies of the assassins — all impolitely naked — were piled in a heap, Paul wondered what the primitives intended to do next. Would they make a bonfire to dispose of the corpses? He feared the wilderness tribes might have some previously unrecorded tradition of cannibalism, eating the flesh of their fallen enemies.

Duncan studied some of the technological equipment taken from the hunters, trying to glean useful information. Most of the devices were Ixian, obviously bought on the black market. The assassins’ clothes bore subtle but definite indications of Grumman manufacture.

“The Viscount has never been shy about taking credit for the harm he causes,” Paul observed. “He is proud of it.”

“True, but why would he be so blatant? What does he really hope to gain? Are we playing into his hands? He has to know that when he pushes the rules so far beyond their extremes, the Emperor is bound to respond.”

Looking at one of the bodies tangled in the pile, Paul spotted a red scar in the meat of his left deltoid. The mark was repeated on all of the cadavers. “Duncan, what’s that?”

Duncan sliced into the still-pliable shoulder, cutting with the point of his knife and twisting. He removed something that looked like a tiny metal spider with long fibrous legs that had extended into the muscle tissue. He held it up.

Even though it was covered with blood, Paul could clearly see what it was. A locator device. “They kept electronic trackers on their own assassins.”

The reclusive people, particularly the gray-haired headwoman, curiously watched the activities of Duncan and Paul, not comprehending why they would cut into the shoulders of their fallen enemies. Perhaps they assumed it was some victory ritual, like their own.

Duncan rolled the corpse off the pile and bent over another one, finding the same surgical mark, and dug into the flesh with his knife. “Hurry, Paul! We have to remove these trackers before it’s too late. Somebody may already be triangulating on them.”

12

A dense seasonal fog rolled over the Elaccan continent, and Leto and Gurney crept in with it. The daily mists provided moisture for the fogtree forests. Basketlike cradles of branches grew upward to form intricate nests. The fogtrees were fragile things that reacted to the smallest environmental changes. Years ago, before Paul’s birth, an insidious biological blight had been unleashed upon Elacca, devastating the sensitive trees. House Moritani had been blamed, which had ignited an earlier flare-up of the feud.

The fogtrees, more than just an unusual natural growth, were considered an Elaccan art form. Artists, selected from across the Imperium for their telepathic abilities, could nurture the trees as saplings, using a focused mental vision to guide the branches into specific forms, sculpting them into fantastic shapes.

Vidal had built his palace stronghold within a prime-cluster of large fogtrees. The high branches had been groomed and shaped into a magnificent defensible residence ten meters above the ground. Seven large trunks stood in a circle, reaching up to the labyrinth of boughs that formed a warren of separated rooms, woven chambers for the Elaccan Duke and his household.

Vidal’s fogtree fortress was more than a kilometer from his massed military ships, the barracks and tents of rebel soldiers, and all the defensive weapons he had gathered. In the dense morning mist the thin interwoven branches looked like skeletal claws tangled in cotton. As Leto peered up at the eerie sight, Gurney cautioned him. “Vidal’s real guards would not stand around gawking like tourists.”

Leto shuffled along beside his companion, drawing no attention to himself. The two men wore uniforms stripped from the bodies of Elaccan rebels that had been killed while attempting to escape from the Archduke’s palace. It had taken only half a day for the palace tailors to launder and resize the enemy uniforms to fit Leto and Gurney, while document specialists altered the soldiers’ IDs.

The key to their infiltration was a detailed topographical projection that allowed Leto and Gurney to traverse the supposedly impenetrable wilderness near Vidal’s fogtree stronghold. Because Archduke Armand believed in natural science as much as commerce, he had long ago surveyed and mapped all the terrain on Ecaz, particularly the fertile cloud-forests and valleys of the Elaccan continent. With these high-resolution terrain maps, the two men had been able to slip through the densest groves and rocky valleys, weaving through difficult forest canyons, using byways that even Prad Vidal likely didn’t know. They crossed an enormous fallen log over a narrow gorge to reach the fogtree fortress.

It was shortly before daybreak with a high moon silvering the fog. Twenty guards patrolled the outer perimeter in pairs.

When they neared the prime-cluster of trees, Leto and Gurney walked together, alert, sidearms ready, posing as another two guards on patrol. Preoccupied with their apparent importance, they walked right past other pairs of gruff guards.

They circled the ring of seven trees, going about their business. While Gurney served as lookout, Leto quickly knelt beside one trunk, reached into his small pack, and withdrew a silver hemispherical disk from the bottom of which extended a pair of sharp prongs. He slapped the disk against the fogtree and worked the prongs into the bark. The green ready light winked on.

“All right, Gurney — let’s move.” Leto planted one of the silver blisters on the next trunk as well, followed by the next, circling the perimeter until all seven had been rigged.

By now, Gurney had mentally tracked the patterns of the other guards. “Three more minutes, my Lord, and they should be at their widest dispersal.”

The two intruders waited, and the mist seemed to thicken. Leto held the activator in his hand, and when Gurney nodded, he pressed the button.

The high-capacitance dischargers made almost no sound as they released a powerful static pulse into the tree trunks. The giant fogtree structures, sensitive enough to be guided by faint telepathy, were utterly vulnerable to such an intense burst. The willowy nested limbs twitched like the legs of a dying insect, then drew together to form the bars of a cage.

“Like shigawire bindings,” Gurney chuckled. “The more you struggle, the tighter they pull.”

The interlaced walls of the fogtree fortress now turned the separate rooms into prison cells. Though the Elaccan trees responded to any disturbance by coiling and clenching, they were not flimsy by any means. Fibers ran through their branches like plasteel cables. As the smaller rooms compressed, some of the sleeping people were crushed; a few could be heard gasping and crying out as they slowly suffocated.

Prad Vidal and his family, though, were very much alive. The Elaccan leader shouted from within his bedchamber, wrapping his hands around two of the bowed-over branches and pushing his face to a small opening. “This is an assassination attempt!”

Below, the guards ran about, trying to pinpoint the source of the attack.

Armand Ecaz had given Leto and Gurney specialty equipment used by Ecazi jungle workers. Strapping on needle-sharp claw gloves and sticky toepads, they climbed like beetles, slipping upward and unseen into the thickening mist. They had to be swift now, and bold.

Vidal spotted the two men climbing, saw their Elaccan uniforms, and thrust his hand through the opening in the clenched branches. “Free me from this! Do you have cutters?” Dangling from the trunk by their claws, Leto and Gurney halted. Without answering the rebellious leader, Leto removed a diamond-edged circular saw designed to slice through difficult branches. When Vidal saw it, he exclaimed, “Good, hurry!”

Gurney scrambled up, but Leto gave him a quick signal. “This is my responsibility.”

When Leto started the whirling branch-cutter blade, the diamond teeth were enhanced by the glow of a hot laser field. The Elaccan Duke stretched out his grasping hand. It was clear he did not recognize either Leto or Gurney in their Elaccan uniforms. “Quickly! The imposter Archduke must be behind this.”

“I know the Archduke very well,” Leto intoned.

Watching Vidal desperately extending his arm, Leto could not drive away horrific images of his wedding day. He thought of his friend Armand, crippled for life, his arm severed. And dead Rivvy Dinari, the fat Swordmaster killed as he shielded his master with his own bulk. And Ilesa, sweet, innocent Ilesa, butchered during what should have been her happiest moment. The other dozen people dead, many more injured.

Any man who could order such a thing was a monster, an animal.

“Archduke Armand Ecaz was my friend,” he shouted. “His daughter would have been my wife, but she is dead now.” Leto had not yet loved her, but he could have. And that made all the difference.

Vidal gasped as he saw the blade getting closer. Suddenly realizing who faced him, he sucked in great astonished breaths and recoiled into the cramped room.

The diamond blade swept downward through the intertwined branches. Leto barely felt any resistance at all.

Despite his fury, grief, and horror, there were barriers an Atreides would not cross. Duke Leto descended from a long line of proud noblemen. He used the cutter to slice through the fogtree branches, carving an entrance for himself and Gurney. They pushed forward side by side, Leto holding the still-spinning saw.

Trapped inside his chamber, Vidal was unable to find the breath even to scream.

Leto remembered the threat to his household, to his son and heir Paul. The Grummans were behind the outrageous actions, but the Elaccan Duke had plotted the actual event and planted the hexagonal cutter discs in the terra-cotta pots. The wedding bloodbath had been this man’s responsibility. He had thrust himself into this War of Assassins.

But Leto refused to follow his enemy over this particular moral precipice. Out of revenge, he could have cut off Vidal’s arm, could have tortured him. But that was not the course of honor. Abiding by the rules of civilization was not a weakness. The forms must be obeyed. There were necessities, wars to end, lives to save.

“By the laws of the Great Convention, the established rules of conflict among the Landsraad,” Leto intoned, “I hereby execute you in the name of peace.” Vidal writhed, tried to fight back, but Leto continued, “Thus, I end this feud on Ecaz.”

He did what had to be done, without joy, without satisfaction. He pressed the blade release, and the flying cutter shot forward. With a meaty smack, the blade sliced through Vidal’s neck, decapitating him cleanly.

Gurney said, “Let’s hope those soldiers below will follow the rules of kanly, even if their master did not.”

Now the two men stripped off their Elaccan uniforms to proudly display the red hawk crest of House Atreides. Leto also wore an armband given him by Archduke Armand himself.

In the turmoil below, the guards rushed about, still expecting a frontal attack. Some climbed the fogtrees, using crude knives to slash their way into the barred rooms where victims screamed the loudest.

Gurney wrestled with the headless body of Vidal and shoved it through the wall opening. As soon as it fell to the ground, several guards screamed in high-pitched, fearful voices.

“I am Duke Leto Atreides!” The mist seemed to make his shout from inside the chamber even louder. He lifted up Vidal’s head by the hair like a trophy. “By the rules of the Great Convention, I have eliminated an enemy to Ecaz, a man declared a rebel and a traitor by your rightful Archduke. We have targeted only the man responsible — by the rules!

“If you throw down your arms and cease fighting, none of you will be held accountable. None of you will face trial. If you attempt to resist the commands of your lawful Archduke, we will annihilate you with the full military might of House Ecaz and House Atreides.” As he spoke, the mist began to clear.

Leto thrust the severed head forward for all to see in the dawn light. Down below, the pale, upturned faces of the Elaccan guards were wide-eyed, their mouths agape in astonishment. With a muttered epithet, Leto hurled Vidal’s head down among them. It tumbled in the air, then struck the ground with a sickening sound. The guards jumped away.

“Duke Prad Vidal conspired against your Archduke and against House Atreides, aiding the true enemy of Ecaz — Viscount Hundro Moritani. They murdered Ilesa Ecaz at the bridal altar. Vidal was responsible.”

The soldiers seemed uncertain, muttering. Gurney finally bellowed, “Are you fools? You know who your enemy is. The Archduke needs you and your sword arms to fight House Moritani. Whom would you rather kill — your brothers, or Grummans?”

13

By late afternoon, the celebrations of the Caladan primitives had died down. The smoky fire had burned low, and the roasted animal carcass was picked to the bone.

Paul could not relax, though. Hyperaware of his surroundings, he attuned his senses to the hum of normal existence in the jungle, the familiar sounds, the movement of leaves and insects. Now, as he and Duncan sat planning what to do next, Paul detected a subtle change around him, a faint alteration in the forest’s rhythm. His brow furrowed.

The primitives sensed the same thing and instantly reacted. The headwoman grabbed her polished club and shouted a high-pitched command.

Duncan rose into an armed defensive position. “Paul, activate your body shield. Now!”

As the faint hum of the protective barrier dulled the subtle jungle sounds, Paul drew his own dagger. He summoned to mind the numerous close-in knife-fighting techniques in which Thufir, Gurney, and Duncan had mercilessly drilled him. He had never killed a man, but he had always known it was only a matter of time, unless someone killed him first. He prepared to fight.

He knew that more of the assassin-trackers had found them.

A projectile launched into the trees around the clearing made an unimpressive, hollow thump, followed by the gasp of outrushing gases and a distinct snick. Paul heard the two stages, separated by only a fraction of a second, and knew exactly what sort of weapon it was: The first was a kinetic dispersal unit, pushing out a thick fuel-air vapor to fill the largest possible volume; the second was a charge to ignite an incendiary cloud.

Orange flames rolled through the air like a Caladan hurricane, stripping towering ferns and leathery trees to the bare bones of branches in an instant. The fuel vapor was consumed swiftly, and Paul’s body shield protected him from the brief but devastating thermal shock wave, but the flashfire was enough to mow down most of the unprotected primitives, leaving them charred and flattened. The merest breath of the focused heat was enough to burn lungs to ash. Some survivors gasped, clutching their chests and throats, trying to inhale, but only smoke came from their mouths.

Most of the beautiful tapestries woven by the Sisters in Isolation had been crisped in the thermal bombardment, smoking as they curled. One of the primitives, her skin blackened, had wrapped herself in a tapestry to smother the fire.

Three dark-uniformed men appeared riding a suspensor platform above the canopy, hunting for their quarry. No longer stealthy killers, the assassins screeched as they fired projectiles from their platform. “For House Moritani!” They shot at Paul and Duncan, whose shields deflected the projectiles. At the moment, the assassins didn’t seem to care about any specific quarry.

Those primitives not killed by the incendiary bomb had begun to tally, grabbing weapons. Unshielded, they ran toward the three attackers — and were gunned down, their bodies ripped apart by projectiles.

Paul was not some pampered princeling who needed to be guarded every moment. He noted a flicker of indecision on Duncan’s face, which Paul easily interpreted. The Swordmaster was torn between two methods of keeping the young man safe — fight or escape. Paul made the choice for him. Only three assassins remained. “We’ve got to fight, Duncan. No more running. We’re safer if we stop them.”

With a bitter quirk of a smile, he said, “As you command, young Master.”

Shouting to each other in Atreides battle-language, the pair raced forward. Then, with a sword thrust so ferocious it went through the torso and out the back, Duncan dispatched the assassin who had called out in support of his Viscount.

Paul had no time to admire the kill because a second assassin tossed aside his depleted projectile weapon and retrieved a hooked dagger reminiscent of a fisherman’s gutting knife. Facing him, Paul stood in the correct stance, holding his own dagger and turning his shield to meet the hooked blade.

The killer wore a baggy, flexible hooded suit that encased his entire body. When Paul slashed with the dagger, he easily cut through the oily gray cloth. This wasn’t body armor, but a thermal suit. The three assassin-trackers must have expected to wade into an inferno. They probably had more incendiary bombs in their arsenal on the hovering platform.

Paul parried the barbed knife with his own, turned about, and thrust in, hoping to score a second slash, but the assassin fought with greater verve now that he had realized that this was no helpless boy.

With his entire focus on the combat at hand, Paul couldn’t watch Duncan. The universe had collapsed to nothing more than himself and his opponent. He felt no reluctance about killing this enemy. The massacre and the subsequent assassination attempts had left no room for doubt, and he would not hesitate if the opportunity presented itself. He had trained well for this.

Seeing Paul struggling, Duncan shoved his own adversary aside by using his shield to inflict a blow that sent the foe staggering. He spun and hamstrung Paul’s rival with a single slash of the notched sword. The man let out a brief gasp as he fell. Duncan flattened him with a kick and killed him with a thrust of the point, before turning to confront the remaining assassin.

These three hunters were ill prepared for a concerted resistance. Expecting the incendiary bomb to do their work for them, they had come here merely to recover bodies.

Seeing he was alone, the remaining killer produced a second dagger and leaped toward Duncan with a knife in each hand, yelling. In a blur of steel, Duncan thrust the Old Duke’s blade through the man’s abdomen. The assassin didn’t even try to evade the sword.

Thinking the fight was over, Paul resheathed his own dagger.

But the Moritani assassin, whether pumped up on a stimulant or on adrenaline and bloodlust, looked down at the long blade piercing his stomach — and kept coming, pressing himself forward as if the sword didn’t exist. He raised his two daggers as if they were lead weights and worked his way in through Duncan’s shield.

Duncan struggled with his trapped weapon, twisting to withdraw it, but the man was too close. The sword was caught in the man’s rib cage, and Duncan wrenched the hilt in a desperate gesture. The shield generator flickered off.

Paul drew his dagger again, bounded toward Duncan.

The impaled assassin grimaced and lurched forward along the sword blade, bending it. Paul couldn’t get there fast enough.

But like an unintelligible banshee, the silver-haired headwoman rose up behind the assassin and swung her fang-inset club. The blow against the back of the man’s skull sounded like the splitting of an overripe paradan melon.

DUNCAN AND PAUL used their field medical packs to help the surviving primitives, but even so, nearly three-quarters of the tribe had been wiped out by the flaming shock wave and projectile fire.

Paul looked around, sickened and unutterably exhausted. “If we were the targets, Duncan, why did they need to kill so many of these people?”

“Their attack shows desperation. I would speculate that these three were the last of those hunting us, but we can’t be certain of that.”

“So we just keep hiding?”

“The best alternative, I’d say.”

Like the previous group, the assassins’ bodies carried no obvious identification. Paul’s father, as well as Gurney and Archduke Armand, would soon be taking their military forces to Grumman for a full-scale attack — while he and Duncan were skulking about in the jungle.

When Paul spoke next, he used the powers of command that his father had taught him as Duke and his mother had shown him through Bene Gesserit exercises. “Duncan, we will return to Castle Caladan. Hiding hasn’t kept me any safer than if I’d remained with my father. I am the heir of House Atreides, and we need to be part of this. I will not turn my back in a fight… or a war.”

Duncan was alarmed. “I cannot guarantee your safety yet, young Master, and these repeated attacks prove there is continuing danger.”

“There is danger everywhere, Duncan.” Though he was not a large or muscular boy, Paul felt like a full-grown Duke. The last week had fundamentally changed him. “You saw it yourself — I am not protected or sheltered by staying here on Caladan. Even with our best efforts to hide in the most isolated of places, the assassins keep coming after me. And think of all those who have died because of us — these tribesmen, the Sisters in Isolation, Swain Goire. What is the point in further hiding? I would rather stand with my father.”

Paul saw Duncan wrestling with this decision. He could tell what the man wanted to do; he just had to convince him it was an acceptable decision. “Duncan, look always to the course of honor. House Atreides must fight together. Can you think of a better way to prepare me for what lies ahead?”

Finally, the Swordmaster wiped a hand through his curly black hair. “I would rather be on the battlefield at Grumman, no doubt about it. Our armies can protect you almost as well as I can.”

Paul smiled and nodded toward the notched and bent blade that had once belonged to the Old Duke. “Besides, Duncan, you need a new sword.”