Paul of Dune

Young Paul Atreides — Age 12

10,187 AG

1

The Atreides household staff made frantic preparations for the departure from Caladan. At the Cala City Spaceport, Duke Leto’s personal frigate was scrubbed and buffed until it gleamed in the hazy sunlight; its interior was oiled, polished, and perfumed. In two days a Heighliner would arrive for the trip across space, but no one would tell twelve-year-old Paul their destination, which only made him more curious.

“Are we going to Ix to visit House Vernius?” he pestered Thufir Hawat during one of their training sessions. Paul Atreides was fast and fit, but short for his age. According to the Mentat assassin, however (who was not prone to giving compliments), the boy still had fighting skills that would let him defeat men twice his age and twice his size. “I do not know where we are going, young Master.” When he asked Gurney Halleck, sure that the lumpish good-humored warrior would give him a hint of their destination, Gurney had simply shrugged. “I go where my Duke commands, pup.”

Afterward, he had tried to get information from Duncan Idaho, his friend and trainer. “Are we going to Ginaz, to see the old Swordmaster school?”

“The Ginaz School hasn’t been the same since the Grumman attack twelve years ago. Viscount Moritani called it a War of Assassins, but that implies following a set of rules, and he is a vile man who does as he pleases.” Duncan’s resentment was plain; he had been at the famous school when it had fallen.

“But are we going there anyway? You didn’t answer my question.”

“Honestly, I do not know.”

Paul studied each man’s reactions and expressions, seeking to learn if they told the truth or not. He concluded that no one knew where Duke Leto was taking them….

At the appointed time his mother Jessica came gracefully down the long promenade staircase into the main foyer, from which she could look down the hill. Her household servants had finished packing her clothes and toiletries, piling packages on a suspensor-flatbed transporter that would take them to the spaceport and load them aboard the Duke’s frigate.

Gurney came striding up, his clothes sweaty, his patchy blond hair smeared over his head. His grin was wide and infectious. “The Heighliner just arrived in orbit. The Guild gives us four hours to get ourselves securely nestled in a berth.”

“Are you packed yet?” Jessica looked harried.

“I carry most of what I need in my body and in my mind. And as long as I have my baliset, all is right with the universe.”

“Will you teach me to sing, Gurney?” Paul asked.

“I can teach you the words, young Master, but a melodious voice is a gift from God. You must develop that yourself.”

“He’ll do it along with his other studies,” Jessica said. “Come, Paul, it’s time to go to the spaceport. Your father will already be there.”

WHITE CUMULOUS CLOUDS thickened overhead as afternoon thunderstorms approached. In the village fish market, vendors shouted out lowered prices for the remnants of the morning’s catch; anything not sold within the next hour would be sent to processing plants for off-world shipment. Caladan locals wouldn’t eat anything more than a day old.

Leto was waiting for them at the spaceport. His long dark hair blew in the sea breeze, his aquiline nose lifted as though trying to catch a last sniff of the sea rather than the exhaust vapors from machinery. When he saw Gurney trudging along beside Jessica and Paul with a baliset slung over his shoulder, Leto said, “I’m sorry, Gurney, but there has been a change of plans.”

Instantly alert, the loyal retainer frowned. “Has something happened, my Lord?”

“No, and I want to make sure it stays that way. You and Thufir will remain behind to watch over House Atreides while we are gone. This is a more private matter.”

Gurney did not show that he was bothered. “As you wish, my Duke. Have you given Thufir any special instructions?”

“He knows what to do — as do you, Gurney.”

In private sessions Paul studied politics, psychology, and personal interactions, knowing it would help make him a better ruler someday. Duke Leto Atreides had acknowledged Paul as his natural and legitimate son, even though Jessica was his bound concubine instead of his wife. Nevertheless, there were still dynastic games to be played. The young man knew he might face perils and intrigues that an average boy his age need never imagine. “Without Gurney and Thufir, will we be safe, Father?” he asked before walking up the ramp into the Heighliner.

“Duncan is already aboard. He’ll be piloting.” It was all Leto needed to say. If Duncan Idaho could not protect Paul, no one could.

Barely able to contain his curiosity, Paul chose a seat by a porthole, through which he watched the other vessels coming and going in the spaceport. He felt a thrill when the frigate lifted off the ground. When the cottages of the coastal village were no more than tiny spots on the landscape below, the heavier thrusters activated. Flown expertly by Duncan, the small ship rose high above the white-flecked ocean, through the afternoon thunderclouds, and into the fading darkness of space.

Overhead, Paul saw the gigantic form of the Guild Heighliner in orbit, a single spaceship as large as some asteroids. The Atreides frigate was an insignificant speck inside the vessel that carried many other ships from numerous planets — more craft than the Cala City Spaceport would see in a Standard Year. Duncan received instructions to take them to their assigned berth.

Near the bow, Jessica sat primly in a seat. She had told Paul that space travel did not entirely agree with her, though she had made interplanetary trips before — first from the Bene Gesserit school on Wallach IX to join Duke Leto’s household and then to Kaitain during her pregnancy, where she was watched over by the first wife of Emperor Shaddam.

He was surprised by a sudden thought that came into his mind as information clicked together, pieces snapping into place. Lady Anirul… Emperor Shaddam IV… Kaitain.

Anirul, the Emperor’s first wife, had died under mysterious circumstances very near the time of Paul’s birth. Since then, Shaddam had taken other wives, though none of those marriages had been successful. In fact, his second, third, and fourth wives were also dead, which seemed rather suspicious to Paul. Now the Emperor was planning yet another wedding, this time to Firenza of House Thorvald.

And Duke Leto was taking his family on a mysterious journey.

“I know where we’re going,” Paul piped up. “Each House in the Landsraad is sending representatives to Kaitain. We’re attending the Emperor’s wedding, aren’t we?” The event was bound to be spectacular, unlike anything he had ever seen.

Duke Leto’s expression darkened, and he shook his head. “No, Paul. Considering what happened to Shaddam’s previous marriages, we won’t be attending this one.” He sounded decidedly cool.

The boy frowned in disappointment. He had used his abilities, asked every question he could think of, and tried to put together the clues, but he didn’t have enough information to make another guess.

His mother seemed impatient to learn their destination as well. “I, too, had assumed we were going to Kaitain, Leto.”

With a heavy thump, their frigate settled into place within the designated docking clamp. Paul felt a vibration thrum through the hull. “Won’t you tell us where we are going now? We’re already aboard the Heighliner.”

Leto finally sat back and, glancing at Jessica with what appeared to be a bit of guilt, answered Paul. “We are bound for Ecaz.”

2

“An Imperial wedding must be very exciting, my Lord Baron.”

More interested in the nude boy’s lovely form than in his attempts at conversation, Vladimir Harkonnen balanced on the suspensor mechanism that held his body upright as he prepared for the week’s festivities. The windowplaz tint had been adjusted to permit just the right amount of natural light into the guest suite in the Emperor’s extravagant Kaitain palace.

“Ah, nuptials — how could I not be overjoyed?” the Baron answered sarcastically.

He had just sent a manservant running out of the suite to fetch another selection — an adequate selection this time — of garments for that evening’s wedding rehearsal dinner. His tailors were continually preparing alternative outfits, but he would have to make his choice soon. So far, the options looked like nomads’ tents hanging on his bulk. “I may govern Arrakis, but I can’t show up looking like a Fremen!”

The boy blinked dark, doelike eyes. “Would you like a massage before you dress in those restrictive clothes, my Lord?”

“Why bother to ask? Just do it.”

The boy dutifully kneaded fragrant ointments into the Baron’s soft shoulders, then continued the intimate massage as he had been taught. When he was finished, however, the Baron was left feeling less satisfied than he had anticipated. Perhaps it was time to train a replacement.

A CARNIVAL AIR had prevailed on Kaitain for days: jubilant crowds, fireworks displays, and sporting events featuring the best athletes of great and minor Houses. From every building in the enduring Imperial city, scarlet-and-gold Corrino flags fluttered in a warm breeze beneath a cerulean sky. For Shaddam’s wedding to Firenza Thorvald, perfect weather was guaranteed by backup satellites and technicians working long shifts.

Throngs had camped out on the route the royal procession would take on the way to the Grand Theater. Everyone wanted the best views of the Padishah Emperor and his bride-to-be. Any moment now, the two royal carriages would approach, each drawn by magnificent golden lions from Harmonthep.

Inside the dining hall for the reception, the Baron observed from a special seat designed to accommodate his bulk. The banquet table seemed as long as a street in Harko City, lined with representatives from practically every noble holding in the Landsraad. While the Baron couldn’t care less about the elaborate spectacle, weddings in general, or Shaddam IV in particular, he was certain that the officious Chamberlain Ridondo and his swarms of functionaries would make careful note of which noble families declined to attend. The Baron was somewhat surprised, scandalized, and pleased to see empty seats under the House Atreides banner. So, Duke Leto had other priorities.

So do I… and yet, I am here.

An accented voice interrupted him from his left. “A waste of time, eh? This new one doesn’t know what she’s getting into. She’ll end up dead like the previous wives.”

Startled, the Baron turned to see a large, angular man settle into a reserved highback chair. He had heavy brows over intense, pale blue eyes, and a rough-edged appearance despite his fine clothes. A horsehead emblem adorned the lapel of his white-and-blue jacket, a stylized depiction that showed sharp spines projecting from the horse’s majestic head. The Baron remained cool, uninterested in small talk. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Nevertheless, we should know each other, Vladimir. I am the Viscount Hundro Moritani from Grumman.”

The Baron did not like such casual familiarity. “I’m aware of your history, sir. You’re a nasty piece of business, aren’t you? The war with Ecaz, the attack on House Ginaz, the destruction of the Swordmaster school. Is the Imperial censure still in force against you, or has that been rescinded?”

Surprisingly, the Viscount let out a throaty, abrasive chuckle. “I am pleased you have taken an interest in my activities. I do what is necessary to protect my House and my holdings.”

Impatient to eat, the Baron raised a ring-laden hand to signal a servant to bring a plate of hors d’oeuvres. Even with the regularly spaced poison snoopers hanging over the table, he produced his own device from a pocket and wafted it over the varied morsels before tasting anything. “It was interesting to observe how hard you could push before the Emperor stopped you,” he said.

Moritani watched him intently. “And what have you concluded?”

The Baron began popping little sandwiches into his mouth, savoring the variety of flavors, the exotic seasonings. “I learned that while the Emperor made a great show of criticizing your actions, he did not inflict any lasting harm on House Moritani. Therefore, you achieved most of your aims, and paid a very small price.”

The Viscount grumbled, and the Baron could sense the hair-trigger of anger seething there. “I did not accomplish enough. Archduke Ecaz remains alive and now denies me access to a rare medicine that would cure my son.”

Awkwardly, the Baron ate another tiny sandwich. He had no interest in House Moritani’s personal feuds or family troubles. House Harkonnen had feuds of its own.

Moritani motioned to his bodyguard, a redheaded man who stood nearby. Tall and well-proportioned, the pale-skinned retainer was younger than his master; one of his ears was half missing and scarred over. “Baron, this is my personal Swordmaster, Hiih Resser.”

The Baron took greater interest now. “Few Houses have a dedicated Swordmaster these days.”

Moritani’s lips curled upward in a cruel smile. “Because the Ginaz School is not training any more of them.”

“House Atreides still has Duncan Idaho,” Resser pointed out. “I knew him on Ginaz.”

“I have no interest in House Atreides!” the Viscount raised his voice, quick to anger. “It is time to fetch Wolfram. The banquet is about to begin, but he will need to retire early. See to it that he doesn’t overexert himself.” Resser bowed and left.

The chairs began to fill, and the noise level increased. At the head table, Shaddam Corrino and Count Hasimir Fenring took seats, followed by the Emperor’s bride-to-be and Lady Margot Fenring.

“I’d say the Count got the better of those two women,” Moritani said in a low tone, admiring Lady Margot.

Seeing the Princess Firenza for the first time, the Baron was struck by how plain and pear-shaped she was, with a loose chin and too much makeup, apparently to cover flaws on her skin. “She looks like a peasant.”

“Good wide hips, though,” the Viscount said. “Maybe she’ll be the one to bear him the sons he wants.”

“Even if she does, she is too ugly. He won’t keep her long.” The Baron was beginning to enjoy his candid conversation with this gruff man. “And yet we all come here to smile and celebrate. I, for one, find these dinners and parties to be quite tedious, with very little benefit. Doesn’t anyone realize we are busy men?”

“Our attendance offers us an excuse to conduct other business, Vladimir.” Then, visibly brightening, Viscount Moritani looked toward the main entrance doors, through which Hiih Resser escorted a sickly looking boy into the dining hall. Wolfram was around ten or eleven, with facial features that closely resembled those of his father. The boy appeared disoriented, drugged.

“You say he is ill? Not contagious, I hope?” The Baron had his own diseases to deal with.

“The boy is afflicted with a rare disorder that causes him to waste away. His mother suffered from it, too. Dear sweet Cilia. She lasted a year after Wolfram’s birth, but the effort of delivering him took its physical toll.” A wave of sorrow crossed Hundro Moritani’s face; his emotions seemed as mercurial as the weather patterns on Arrakis. Resser led the groggy boy to the table and positioned him in a seat beside the Viscount. Moritani warmly patted his son’s pale hand before turning back to the Baron.

“Wolfram finds solace in semuta. Only the deep trance and the music give him relief from the terrible pain. It’s all I can do to help him. There is a cure, of course — esoit-poay, the Ecazis call it.” His voice took on a razor sharpness. “In the embargo signed by the Archduke, he explicitly forbids any drop of that drug to leave Ecaz, although very few people in the whole Imperium require it.” His fist clenched hard enough to bend silverware. “He does it only to gain vengeance on me.”

Well, you did carpet bomb his government center and kill his oldest daughter and his brother, if I remember correctly. But instead of voicing his thought, the Baron said, “An unfortunate situation. Can you not purchase the drug on the black market?”

“Not a microgram. Even semuta has been restricted so that I must pay exorbitant prices. The Archduke knows what I need and attempts to thwart me at every turn! Out of sheer spite!” A wave of anger reddened his features again, but the man’s volatile emotions quickly shifted to an expression of loving calm. “I’m left with no choice. Damn them, I have to give my son whatever he needs to ease the terrible pain.”

The Baron sensed that the Grumman leader wanted to suggest some sort of bargain with House Harkonnen. Smelling a chance to make a profit if he was careful, the Baron said, “I have certain channels of my own to obtain black-market drugs, Viscount, but House Ecaz is no friend of mine, either. The Archduke is closely allied with House Atreides.”

As Moritani helped his dazed son eat one of the small appetizers, his eyes shone brighter, as if a fire had been lit behind the pupils. “Have you noticed that neither Duke Leto Atreides nor Archduke Armand Ecaz are in attendance here? My spies tell me that Leto has gone to Ecaz for a secret meeting. They are undoubtedly plotting against both of us.”

“Many nobles are not in attendance,” the Baron pointed out. “I am not the only one weary of all the weddings. One Imperial nuptial is much like another.”

“But this one, Baron, gives me the opportunity to invite you to Grumman as my honored guest. We have much in common. Perhaps we can help each other achieve our aims.”

Wary but curious, the Baron studied the other man. “There may well be opportunities to explore. Yes, a visit to Grumman might be interesting and mutually beneficial. My people will make the arrangements.”

3

Once the Atreides frigate was released from the Guildship’s hold, Duncan Idaho piloted it toward mottled Ecaz. The sky was full of clouds, the major landmasses a riot of different shades of green. Paul could see numerous oceans below, but none so vast as the seas of Caladan.

Ever since Duke Leto had explained their destination, Paul had detected an inexplicable chill between his parents. Duncan had offered no insights either. “It is not my business, young Master. And if it were yours, your father would tell you.”

So, the boy had occupied himself during the brief journey by studying the frigate’s limited library of filmbooks, eager to learn about Ecaz — a lush and fertile world filled with jungles, rainforests, and well-watered agricultural plains. The primary exports were hardwoods and exotic forest products, as well as unusual unguents, rare drugs, deadly poisons.

“Will we visit the fogtree forests?” Paul asked. He had seen spectacular images, and also read that a blight had wiped out most of the delicate and expensive fogtrees on the continent of Elacca, which was governed by Duke Prad Vidal.

“No,” Leto answered. “Archduke Ecaz is waiting for us. Our business is with him alone.”

“Does he know that I accompany you?” Paul heard the faint bitterness in Jessica’s words.

“You are my bound concubine, the mother of my son. You must go with me.”

In his reading, Paul had taken particular note of his father’s connection to Archduke Armand and the vicious feud between House Moritani and House Ecaz. He was most surprised to learn that his father had been betrothed to the Archduke’s eldest daughter, Sanyá — until she and her uncle had been murdered by Moritani soldiers.

Duncan guided the Atreides frigate toward a small, ornate city whose centerpiece was a large structure composed of graceful loops and arches, walkways that connected towers, and thick old trees that grew up beside the walls. The palace was a fairy tale synthesis of branches, vines, and ferns intertwined with pearlescent white stone. Paul doubted even Kaitain could have been more impressive than this.

Before they could land, however, two heavily armed warships raced into the air, circled the Ecazi Palace, and crossed in front of the Atreides frigate in a clear show of force. Incensed, Duncan activated the communication controls. “This is Swordmaster Duncan Idaho of House Atreides. We are here at the invitation of Archduke Ecaz. Explain your actions.”

The two military ships peeled away, spun and darted playfully in the air, then streaked beneath the frigate. Paul was reminded of frolicking dolphins in the Caladan oceans. A booming voice came over the comline speakers. “You use that title with great pride, Swordmaster Idaho — you must have had excellent instructors.”

A thin, nasal voice joined the communication. “Are we allowed to strip him of the title if he doesn’t impress us enough, Rivvy?”

Duncan recognized the voices. “Swordmaster Whitmore Bludd? And Rivvy Dinari?”

The two men chuckled over the speaker. “We came to escort you. We weren’t sure if your pilot was proficient enough to land in the proper place.”

Paul knew the names; Duncan had often talked about his instructors from Ginaz. Duncan’s face showed great pleasure as he explained to Paul, “They must have become ronin since the Ginaz School disbanded. I wouldn’t have guessed that Archduke Ecaz needed both of them.”

“House Moritani has made no recent aggressive moves,” Leto said, “but that could change on a moment’s notice. I do not believe the conflict was ever resolved to the satisfaction of either party.”

“Feuds usually aren’t, my Lord,” Duncan said.

When the three ships had landed in an oval, paved clearing surrounded by tall, feathery trees, the two Swordmasters emerged to greet them. Whitmore Bludd had long wavy hair that was a mixture of silver and gold, a thin face, and rosebud lips that seemed to be pouting. Rivvy Dinari was an enormous globe of a man, who nevertheless seemed light on his feet; his skin was florid in the jungle heat.

Duncan bounded down the frigate’s ramp to greet them, but kept his guard up, as though expecting the two teachers to hurl themselves upon him in a playful yet deadly practice session.

“Duke Leto is here on formal business,” Dinari commented to Bludd in a deep voice which sounded like a kettledrum. “There will be time for swordplay later.”

Bludd sniffed. “There is no play with swords. We will conduct a practice session. A proving session.”

“And if I beat the two of you, how will you ever endure your shame?” Duncan teased.

“We’ll manage,” Dinari replied. “If it happens.”

Leto emerged alone from the landed frigate, wearing a black doublet that sported the red Atreides hawk crest. Paul followed, still trying to understand what was going on.

The air smelled of flowers, wood resins, and sweet sap that leaked from the cracked bark of the enormous trees that towered over the palace. Ferns as tall as his head stood like curled sentries along the flagstone paths.

Leto put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Come with me, we need to make our entrance.”

“What about Mother?” Paul glanced back at Jessica, who showed no emotion whatsoever as she followed them at some distance.

“She will make her own entrance. Pay close attention. There are many subtleties here. In the next few days you will learn important lessons about being a Duke… and some of them may be hard.”

There seemed to be as much lush foliage inside the Archduke’s palace as out in the courtyards and gardens. Narrow aqueducts spilled silvery water down channels in the walls, filling the corridors and chambers with the peaceful sound of flowing streams. It wasn’t quite as soothing as the majestic rush of the ocean on Caladan, but Paul found it comforting nevertheless.

When they entered the main audience room, Archduke Armand Ecaz was seated in a massive chair made of burlwood, at a long table polished to an incredible sheen. It was the largest piece of Elaccan bloodwood Paul had ever seen; colors and patterns flowed through the grain. The Archduke was a tall, thin man who did not appear old despite his silver hair. His face was narrow, his chin pointed.

As Leto came forward, the Archduke stood to greet him, and they clasped each other’s forearms. “We are optimists, you and I, Armand,” Leto said. “We will try this again. If we don’t keep trying, then what is the point of life?”

“This is your natural son Paul?” The Archduke extended a hand. It was small and thin, but his grip was firm. Paul shook it.

“Also, allow me to present his mother, the Lady Jessica,” Leto said, nodding in her direction. She bowed formally, but remained at the side of the room, marginalized.

“I have an introduction to make as well, Leto. You probably don’t remember her.” Armand gave a shout toward a doorway, and a willowy young woman entered. She seemed well-mannered, with large brown eyes and dark hair bound in a looping braid. She wore a thin gold chain around her neck, suspended from which was a perfectly clear yet irregularly shaped soostone. “Duke Leto Atreides, this is my daughter Ilesa.”

She executed a polite curtsy, though she seemed shy. “I am very pleased to meet you.”

Paul’s father responded with a deep, formal bow. “I saw her once, long ago. You did not exaggerate her beauty, Armand.” Now Duke Leto turned to Paul and his mother. “The arrangements have already been made. Ilesa will be my wife.”

4

After they had been shown to separate quarters in the Ecazi Palace, Paul visited his mother in her room. Jessica was quiet, absorbed in her thoughts; she herself had taught him how to read subtle nuances, and he could see how troubled she was. Obviously, his father had not discussed the betrothal announcement with her beforehand.

Logically, and politically, the arrangement had its advantages. Marriage was a tool of statecraft in the Imperium, a weapon as powerful as any lasgun in the Atreides military arsenal. But apparently Duke Leto kept secrets and political realities even from his beloved concubine.

“It will be all right, Paul,” Jessica said, and she did sound sincere. “I will stay in this room and continue my Bene Gesserit exercises, but you, Paul — no matter what else is happening, seize this as a learning opportunity. When it is time for us all to leave Ecaz, I want you to have a greater breadth of understanding. File away all these details and organize your thoughts using the techniques I have taught you.”

The very strangeness of Ecaz proved an irresistible distraction to Paul. He studied sunlit rooms whose walls reflected a trapezoidal architecture, without the perfection of perpendicular intersections. The palace grounds held an amazing topiary garden of lush plant sculptures — men, animals, and monsters — that moved with gentle grace, turning and weaving as the sun crossed the sky. A mesh-enclosed arena filled with large jewel-toned butterflies offered quite a spectacle during the twice-daily feeding-frenzy when workers entered the arena carrying dishes of syrupy nectar.

When he went to find his father, Duke Leto was locked in a conference room with Armand Ecaz. Guards and, worse, bureaucratic functionaries clustered at the doorway, and prevented him from entering. At midmorning, though, when servants delivered refreshments for the meeting, Paul finally slipped into the conference room and caught his father’s eye. Duke Leto appeared tired, but he smiled when he saw the boy. “Paul, I am sorry we’ve ignored you. These negotiations are very complex.”

Armand Ecaz lounged back in his chair. “Come now, Leto, they aren’t as difficult as all that.”

“Go find Duncan, Paul. He’ll keep you occupied — and safe.”

At a signal from Duke Leto, the stuffy Ecazi guard captain took the young man by the sleeve and led him out of the room, apologizing profusely to the Archduke for the interruption. Paul knew he would never have gotten past Thufir Hawat’s security back in Castle Caladan.

He located Duncan, Rivvy Dinari, and Whitmore Bludd out on the training field embroiled in a melee. The three were shirtless and armed with blunt-ended pulse swords that could deliver potent, stinging shocks; all three men had angry-looking red welts on their arms, chests, and shoulders. As he watched, Paul couldn’t quite tell who was fighting whom: Duncan threw himself upon Bludd, Dinari attacked Duncan, and then Bludd and Duncan ganged up on the fat Swordmaster. Finally, the three lowered their weapons, exhausted, dripping with perspiration and wearing foolish grins.

“He hasn’t forgotten much,” Dinari admitted to the thin and foppish Bludd. “He must practice occasionally.”

Finished and weary, the three switched off their shields and stood leaning on the pulse-swords on the trampled practice ground. Bludd tipped an imaginary hat in Paul’s direction. “We gave the young man a magnificent demonstration.”

“At least an entertaining one,” Rivvy Dinari said. “You were clumsy as an ox today.”

Bludd sniffed. “I scored five nasty welts on you. Then again, your body does have a great deal more surface area than the average opponent.”

Duncan toweled himself off with a fluffy rectangle woven from Elaccan eiderdown. Paul had read in filmbooks how the substance was spun from the burst seedpods of a tall, purple-leafed tree.

Paul stepped up to him. “My mother told me to learn what I can about Ecaz, and my father told me that you would keep me occupied.”

“Certainly, young Master, but no sword training right now. After my workout with these two, even you might be able to beat me.”

“I have already bested you three times.”

“Twice. I refused to concede one of them.”

“Your refusal doesn’t change the facts.” Dinari and Bludd seemed to find the conversation amusing. Duncan led him inside for a round of tame filmbook studies.

5

During the trip home to Grumman after the Imperial wedding, Viscount Moritani spent much of the time with his sickly son and a medical entourage in the main stateroom of his family frigate.

Reporting to his master, Resser paused at the open doorway of the stateroom. Inside, the Viscount sat as limp as a discarded garment in a gilded armchair, from which he stared at a paunchy Suk doctor and a male nurse as they tended Wolfram. The pungent smell of semuta and the eerie, trancelike music that accompanied its use had calmed the boy. Even so, he whimpered in constant pain.

The heavyset Dr. Vando Terbali bore a diamond tattoo on his forehead, and his long golden hair was bound in a Suk school ring. “Though this disease is not incurable, my Lord Viscount, treatment is long overdue. Wolfram’s deteriorating condition is not the fault of the Suk brotherhood.”

“If I blamed you, Doctor, you would already be dead,” Moritani said wearily.

The male nurse stiffened in alarm, and the Suk doctor’s gaze sharpened. “Threatening me will not improve the quality of my service.”

The Viscount frowned. “And how can your treatment of my son be any worse? He is dying. Your ministrations have not prolonged his life nor significantly eased his pain.”

“You need esoit-poay, my Lord, and the Ecazis refuse to give it to you. Ergo, we cannot help your son.”

The Viscount’s shoulders bunched. “Duke Prad Vidal was somewhat sympathetic, for a price, but even he could not make the Archduke change his mind. Vidal’s personal entreaty on Wolfram’s behalf was rejected out of hand, because of the Archduke’s enmity toward me.” He rose from his chair, a man-shaped pressure vessel filled with violence, and suddenly noticed that Resser was standing just outside the door. The Viscount’s expression changed, and he spoke abruptly to Dr. Terbali. “Please, if you cannot treat his symptoms then just… ease his pain as much as you can.”

Moritani joined the redheaded Swordmaster in the frigate’s corridor and sealed the stateroom door behind him. Resser watched the muscles work in the nobleman’s jaw as he clenched his teeth. “Ah, Resser, I cannot decide whom to despise more — Archduke Ecaz or the Corrino Emperor. Maybe I don’t have to make the choice. I have enough hatred for both.”

Resser was surprised. Knowing the enemies of House Moritani was a vital part of his job. “Why do you hate the Emperor, my Lord?”

“Come with me into my study. I will share with you the ancient documents I obtained from the Bene Gesserit. You’ll see the real reason we came to Kaitain.”

“I thought the real reason was to make contact with the Baron Harkonnen.”

“There are several real reasons — none of which have anything to do with Shaddam and his damned wedding.”

Resser stood at attention in the private room, looking at the man he had sworn to serve. Once, back in the smoldering ruins of Ginaz, Duncan Idaho had offered him a position with House Atreides. Although most of the Grumman students had been expelled by the Swordmaster instructors for refusing to denounce the Viscount’s dishonorable acts, Resser had insisted on staying to finish his training. He had believed that the only way to restore the respect of House Moritani would be to shepherd it back onto an honorable path. In the years since Resser’s return to Grumman, he had become Viscount Moritani’s most trusted man and had done his best to keep the volatile leader in check.

Smiling without humor, Viscount Moritani activated a palmlock and unsealed an armored drawer built into the frigate’s bulkhead. He withdrew a long, curling sheet of instroy paper on which were printed countless names and dates in minuscule letters. “This is a very small segment of the Bene Gesserit breeding records. A chart of bloodlines.”

Resser squinted to read the small script, but didn’t know what he was supposed to make of all the names. Something about House Tantor and the Salusa Incident. “And how did you obtain private breeding records, sir?”

Moritani raised a bushy eyebrow and regarded him coldly. Resser knew not to ask further about that.

“My father once told me a rumor,” the Viscount continued, “a tall tale that his father had told him, and so on. It always had a ring of truth to me, and I spent years digging.” He tapped the long sheet of paper. “This proves what I long suspected — generation after generation, dating back thousands of years.”

“What does it prove, my Lord?”

“This family was not always House Moritani. Once, we were named Tantor. After Salusa, though, every member of House Tantor was hunted down and killed. Every member the hunters could find, that is.”

A shudder ran down Resser’s spine. Now it began to make sense. “The Salusa Incident? Not the atomic attack that nearly wiped out House Corrino and devastated all of Salusa Secundus?”

“One and the same. We are the renegade family whose name was erased from the historical record.” The nobleman narrowed his eyes. “Thanks to the Bene Gesserit, I now have proof. I know what the Corrinos did to many of my ancestors… and what Archduke Ecaz is doing to my only son.”

“And no one else is aware of this genealogy? Surely everyone has forgotten about the blood hunt.”

“I have never forgotten. You are now one of only five persons, including myself, who even suspects such a connection. Five living persons, that is. I had to take certain necessary precautions to ensure the silence of an informant, and of the opportunist in whom he confided.”

The Viscount replaced the instroy document in the armored bulkhead drawer. “If not for the systematic extermination of my ancestors, poor Wolfram would not be the last of our bloodline.”

The implications rolled through Resser’s mind. From what he knew, the execution edict against the nameless family that had unleashed the atomics on Salusa Secundus had never technically been lifted. “But shouldn’t you just destroy that document, my Lord? It is dangerous to keep in your possession.”

“On the contrary, I wish to keep it as a constant reminder of the destruction my noble House is capable of … no matter which name we bear.” His mouth became a grim line. “One day we shall exact our final revenge. On House Corrino, and on House Ecaz.”

Resser felt a chill in the reprocessed air of the sealed chamber, but his oath of duty and honor required him to serve without questioning his master. “I live only to serve you and your noble House, Lord Moritani.”

6

While the Archduke’s business administrators presented options for the alliance between House Atreides and House Ecaz, Duke Leto was distracted by the ache in his heart. He had a difficult time concentrating on the nuances of the negotiations, though he knew that any mistake he made could have repercussions on his House for years to come. He could have used a Mentat to keep track of the details, but Thufir Hawat was serving a greater need by protecting Caladan.

Both Ecaz and Atreides desired this arrangement, but Leto’s life was complicated by a concubine and a son he had named as his true heir. An alliance between houses, a marriage, and another son by Ilesa would change the situation considerably.

Fortunately, most of the negotiations were similar to those from sixteen years ago, when Leto had been betrothed to Armand Ecaz’s elder daughter. The previous agreements had been brought out of the archives to use as a starting point, but much had changed in the years since the Grumman sneak attack had killed Sanyá. The last time he had tried to marry into the Ecazi sphere, Leto had had another son, Victor, by another concubine, Kailea Vernius. Both were now dead, as was Sanyá.

“You look troubled, my friend,” Armand said. “Did you not sleep well last night? Are your quarters not comfortable?”

Leto smiled. “Your hospitality is exemplary, Armand.” It was the discussion far into the night that kept me awake, and Jessica’s deep hurt long afterward.

Sitting on the edge of the bed in her quarters, a private room down the hall from his own, Leto had looked at her beautiful oval face, remembering when the Bene Gesserit first brought her to him as a young woman. His growing love for Jessica had been the wedge that drove Kailea from him. Out of jealousy, Kailea had tried to kill Leto but had instead caused the death of their innocent son, and brutally crippled Prince Rhombur Vernius. Now, Leto swore to himself that he wouldn’t allow Ilesa to become a similar wedge between himself and Jessica.

“It is business and politics,” he had said, wishing he didn’t sound so defensive. He could have spent hours listing the advantages of such an alliance, but no such explanations would ever touch Jessica’s heart. He assured her that he didn’t love Ilesa — didn’t even know her.

Jessica simply sat there with a cold expression. “I understand completely, my Duke, and I am confident you will make the appropriate decision. I am just your concubine, with no say in the matter.”

“Dammit, Jessica, you can speak openly with me!”

“Yes, my Lord.” She said nothing else.

He let the silence draw out, but he was no match for a Bene Gesserit. “I am sorry. Truly, I am.” Though her stony mask was impenetrable, she looked so lovely to him.

“I expect nothing else from you, Leto. Your father raised you never to marry for love, only for political advantage. After all, the lack of love in his marriage to Lady Helena is reflected in your own lack of love toward your exiled mother. I have seen the Old Duke’s portrait. I know what he said and what he taught you. How could you not believe as he did?”

“You must hate him.”

“Does one hate the tide for washing away the sand? Does one hate a storm for bringing lightning?”

Leto wondered if Jessica wished she could have seen the Old Duke when he was alive, just to give him a piece of her mind.

“I will take care of you and Paul,” Leto insisted. “You will always be part of Castle Caladan. You will always be with me.”

“I trust my Duke’s promises.” Jessica turned away quickly.

Bidding her good night, Leto had taken his leave, but he had remained awake for a long time afterward….

The servants brought trays of “light refreshments”: a dripping comb of silver honey, roasted tree-crabs in butter on skewers, z-nuts that were startlingly sour. Leto ate while listening to breakdowns of the prime exports of Ecaz, the most profitable forest products. Armand spoke of spending huge amounts of time and money on pharmaceutical research, testing, and processing. Suk medical chemists and biopharmacists in Elaccan jungle camps constantly discovered new leaves, lichens, berries, roots, fungi.

Most important, the Archduke laid out his absolute trade embargo against Viscount Hundro Moritani of Grumman. He passed Leto a proclamation that stated: “There shall be no export of any useful item to House Moritani.”

Armand pointed to the official document. “If you are to marry Ilesa, you must agree to this condition, Leto. I cannot bend this rule. Not so much as a leaf from a tree or a berry from a bush. That monster shall not have a gram of comfort from this world.”

At one time, Leto had tried to negotiate an end to the simmering feud between Ecaz and Moritani, and the Emperor had even stationed Sardaukar watchdogs on Grumman for two years. But as soon as the Imperial soldiers pulled out, Viscount Moritani struck again, publicly executing both Armand’s brother and his daughter Sany, opening the floodgates of a full-scale war.

“Will there never be an end to it?” Leto asked.

“I recently had to reprimand Duke Prad Vidal because he attempted to make a black-market cargo shipment against my express orders. Once caught, Vidal simply offered to pay me half the profits, expecting to be forgiven, but I spat in his face. I literally spat in his face!” Armand blinked at Leto, as though surprised at himself. “He submitted a formal apology for his actions, and seemed to expect one from me in return. My administrators claim we are losing profits because of the embargo, but what is mere money? I hate the Moritanis.”

In a quiet voice, Leto said, “I have heard that the Viscount’s son suffers from a terrible disease, and that a cure is available here on Ecaz. If you showed compassion by providing medicine, would that not be a way to resolve your conflict peacefully?”

Armand said acidly, “How could I save his pathetic son, when he murdered my daughter? By denying Moritani the medicine, I’ll make that madman feel some of the pain he has inflicted on my House. This dispute will not end without a complete extermination of one family or the other.”

The Archduke lifted a small crystalline vial that stood near his place on the table. “This is the rare medicine the Viscount so desperately needs. Esoit-poay requires months to extract, refine, and process. Yes, I could provide this to Moritani. I could save his son.”

Armand clenched the tiny bottle in his hand, then hurled it to the stone tiled floor, smashing the vial to glinting shards. “I would rather let the cure dry on the ground than have it touch the lips of that vile Grumman spawn.” He lowered. “Imagine if you were given a chance to provide comfort or save the Baron Harkonnen’s young nephew. Would you do it?”

Leto sighed heavily. “I doubt it. The Harkonnens were involved in the death of my father, and quite probably were part of the scheme that cost the life of my firstborn son. No, I’d throttle Feyd-Rautha with my bare hands rather than save him.”

“Then you understand my position better than most people.”

Leto nodded. “I agree to the terms.”

The rest of the negotiations went smoothly, and soon it was time for Leto to return home with Paul and Jessica and begin the preparations. The wedding would take place at Castle Caladan in two months.

7

Centuries of exploitation by the Harkonnens had wrung nearly every resource out of Giedi Prime. Even the Baron recognized that. The Moritani home planet of Grumman, however, was in far worse shape.

House Moritani had abused the landscape for generations until it was little more than the husk of a once-fertile world, mined out and barely capable of sustaining even the hardiest crops. The natives could extract very little more from the planet, and House Moritani was hungry for a new fief. The Viscount had already petitioned the Emperor several times, specifically mentioning Ecaz as a possibility, but his requests had been turned down.

No wonder the man is always in a foul mood, the Baron thought as he gazed across the patchy steppes. Even the breezes through the dry remnants of vegetation sounded like a death rattle.

Dressed entirely in black, the large Baron stood impatiently outside a series of linked insulated yurts and stable-sized tents. Through the fluttering tent flaps he saw high wooden stall doors, and men in leathers. He heard specially bred horses neighing and kicking in their stalls, and handlers trying to calm them.

After his arrival from Giedi Prime, a rugged open vehicle had brought him and his Mentat, Piter de Vries, directly from the spaceport.

A thick-armed driver with shaggy hair and a long mustache had said that Viscount Moritani would meet them there, but failed to say when. Now, the Harkonnen leader pulled his collar up around his neck. The air seemed laden with grit and dust, worse even than Arrakis. Vladimir Harkonnen was not accustomed to waiting.

Piter looked indignant on his behalf. “My Baron, this is a Grumman barn! Hardly an appropriate meeting place if the Viscount is trying to impress you.”

The Baron frowned at him. “Use your deductive reasoning, Mentat. Hundro Moritani loves his specially bred stallions. He probably considers this an honor.” He had heard the magnificent horses were huge and dangerous. The beasts certainly made a frightful amount of noise.

On the flight down from orbit, the pilot had pointed out the walled city of Ritka on the edge of a dry seabed that butted up against a low mountain range. Most of the people on Grumman were nomadic, wandering over the rugged land to eke out an existence from the sparse remaining resources. The inhabitants of Ritka depended almost entirely on offworld supplies.

Beneath the dry seabed and its surrounding plains, the crust had been riddled with interconnecting tunnels and mine shafts by Grumman mineral extractors that chewed like termites, scraping away every speck of worthwhile dust. The Baron had been nervous that the whole plain would collapse under the weight of the passenger ship as it landed outside of Ritka.

House Moritani was desperate, and for good reason. The Baron was eager to hear what the Viscount intended to propose. If he could use the Grumman hatred of Ecaz to inflict collateral misery on House Atreides, he would be well pleased. In the meantime, however, he was not pleased with this long wait.

Something caught his eye in the distant sky, a lumbering aircraft flying low over the hills. Soon he heard the steady, muffled drone of engines. A large, heavy creature dangled in a metallic sling from the fixed-wing flier — an animal with long legs, black hide, flailing mane and tail. One of their monster horses?

The plane hovered over a landing pad not far from the connected yurts and tents, easing the black brute down to the ground. The Baron could see vicious-looking spines protruding from the stallion’s head. Men on speedcycles encircled the creature and fired bright yellow loops of energy at it, which they tightened on all sides as the beast pulled against the restraints. Shield ribbons, the Baron realized; he’d heard of them. Releasing the harness from the aircraft, the cycle wranglers sent the sling mechanism back up into the air. As they worked, the Baron recognized one of the wranglers as the Grumman Swordmaster, Hiih Resser. The redhead was multi-talented, it seemed. The fixed-wing flier landed nearby, and Moritani emerged from the craft, flushed and grinning.

“Piter, come meet our host,” the Baron said. Buoyed by his suspensor belt, he strode purposefully toward the landing area, careful to stay clear of the thrashing animal and the cycle wranglers who fought to drag it toward a corral.

Viscount Moritani marched down the aircraft’s exit ramp wearing a brown leather jerkin, a pointed cap, chaps, and glistening spurboots. “I trust you enjoyed the show, Vladimir! You should see what my stallions can do in a blood tournament.”

“Perhaps later… after we discuss our business. I have been waiting here for quite some time.”

“Apologies. A prized wild stallion was spotted on the steppes. He led us on quite a chase, but we finally got him. Very valuable breeding stock, a thoroughbred Genga — our ancient breed is found nowhere else in the galaxy. One of the few truly profitable things left on Grumman.”

Before the handlers could get the huge spiny horse into a stall, the creature broke free of the shield ribbons and charged back out, wild-eyed, toward the Baron and the Viscount. The two noblemen stumbled toward the dubious shelter of the plane. Boosted by his suspensors, the Baron reached the ramp first. The wild stallion slammed into the thin metal walkway as the Viscount tried to get around the Baron, causing the two men to stumble into each other.

The Baron shouted, “Piter, stop that beast!” The Mentat was not sure what to do with a spiny horse that neighed and roared.

The wranglers sped forward on their cycles, throwing out more shield ribbons, but missed their mark. Standing alone, unmoving, Swordmaster Resser fired a volley of stun darts at the horse as it charged toward him. Finally it collapsed in its tracks with a heavy thud.

The Baron brushed himself off, trying to regain his composure by venting his anger at Piter de Vries. Viscount Moritani roared with laughter. “Gengas are the most spirited horses in the Imperium! Each one is big and fast, a lethal combination that can defeat the largest Salusan bull.”

After the drugged horse was safely hauled away, an aide hurried up to issue a weather report. Frowning, Moritani turned to the Baron. “I intended to put on a horse show for you, but alas our climate-control methods are rudimentary in comparison with those of other worlds.” Black clouds had begun to gather over the mountains. “We will have to retire to my fortress in Ritka.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bullfight. A Salusan bull killed him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not possible, my Lord! The Ecazis —”

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

“I am a Suk — I have immunity!”

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

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

“Yes, my Lord.”

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

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

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

10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve never been sailing before.” Leaning back, she drew a deep breath of moist air. Instead of looking toward the rugged shoreline, she stared out at the waves that stretched far, far to the edge of the world.

“On Caladan, we are born and raised to be on the water,” he said. “Everyone learns to swim, sail, judge the tides, and watch the weather.”

“Then I’ll have to learn those skills, since this is going to be my new home.”

The sun broke through the low-lying fog, turning the sky an extraordinary, rich blue. The bright light bathed Ilesa’s face, and she closed her dark brown eyes. Leto found himself observing her. With her brunette hair, her demure behavior, and her hesitant laugh, she was very different from Jessica, even from Kailea.

She leaned over the rail to the sloop’s prow, where the name VICTOR had been painted. “Leto, tell me about your son.”

“Paul is a fine young man. Intelligent and brave. I’m very proud of him. You’ve met him yourself, and you can see his potential.”

“And Victor, if you don’t mind talking about him? I only know that he died as a child.”

Leto’s voice became harder. “The innocent victim of an assassination attempt against me. Victor… Rhombur… they suffered because of Kailea’s jealous anger.”

Ilesa raised her delicately arched eyebrows. “It wasn’t a political matter, then?”

“That might have been easier to bear. No, this was far more personal. Kailea and a supposedly loyal guard captain planted a bomb in a processional airship, but the explosion killed our son instead of me.” His voice hitched. “Our son! And it mangled Kailea’s brother Rhombur, while I survived intact.”

Ilesa was looking at him with deep emotion. The boat’s deck swayed gently as they sailed onward. “And what happened to Kailea and this guard captain? I think my father would have staged a public execution — fast-growing birabu spikes to take root in his vital organs, perhaps.” Ilesa did not even sound queasy at the prospect.

“Kailea threw herself from a high tower. But Goire… I did worse than execute him — I let him live. I sent him into exile so that he must face his crime for the rest of his days.”

The two of them remained silent for a long moment, while Ilesa continued to stare out at the waves. “We are both scarred people, Leto,” she said. “I know you have deep hurts within you, and I think you are aware of mine. Are we brave enough to use those past tragedies to make us stronger… or should we give up and just be damaged?”

Leto thought for a moment. “Ours isn’t a silly romance, Ilesa. We both know why we are to be married. This may not be what you expected for your life.”

“On the contrary, Leto — this is exactly what I expected. It’s how I was raised. Once the Grummans killed Sanyá, I became the eldest Ecaz daughter. I have always been a name attached to a dowry. I never imagined that I’d fall in love with some brave man and then live happily ever after, like in a story. I am quite content with my circumstances.”

Leto came to a conclusion, knowing it would be hard, but also realizing it was the best way. He hoped that eventually Ilesa might become much more — and much more tolerable — than just a political partner, which was all that Old Duke Paulus would have recommended.

“I want you to like Jessica and Paul. And I want them to like you. It is your job to make that happen, Ilesa. Can you do it?”

“As my Duke commands,” she said.

11

The Emperor takes such a large share of our spice, he bleeds us dry.” The Baron sniffed, then nearly sneezed from the damnable, ever-present dust in the air of Arrakis. “For all the hells House Harkonnen endures on this awful world, we should keep a larger percentage of it.”

“And after today we will, my Baron.” Piter de Vries gave him a smug smile. “Right under the noses of CHOAM inspectors.”

Twelve years earlier, when House Harkonnen had been accused of skimming melange and falsifying the total tonnage reported to the Imperium, armies of auditors and Mentat accountants had poured over the Baron’s records, but the inspectors had found no significant irregularities. He had kept his nose clean for some time, though he continued to search for ways to stockpile spice secretly. Finally, de Vries had proposed an ingenious and viable idea to hide extra spice in plain sight, and now he had successfully implemented the scheme.

The spice storage yard on the outskirts of Carthag was well guarded by Harkonnen troops and by scanner technology. Ten immense silos baked in the afternoon sunlight. Black attack ‘thopters flew sorties around the area, constantly looking for Fremen thieves who might be lurking out in the sands, waiting for any opportunity to raid Harkonnen supplies.

He and de Vries rode a lift up the outside of the largest new silo.

The lift came to a stop, and the Baron stepped out onto a high platform at the very top, from which he could survey the entire field. These silos held the spice stockpiles he was mandated to maintain, ready supplies to meet regular shipments to the Landsraad, the Guild, and CHOAM, as well as strategic reserves to guarantee the Emperor’s share. “All of the silos are constructed of the new stuff?”

De Vries wiped a hand over his red-stained lips and spoke with clear pride in his voice. “Every last container has been reconstructed, including the railings and the platform on which we stand, out of polymer infused with melange. Ten extra long tons of spice not on any inventory, hidden within the structure of the outpost itself. And because of the legal spice within the silos, melange readings are naturally everywhere. No scanners would ever notice the difference. Even the slight cinnamon odor is to be expected. This is, after all, a spice storage yard. We are hiding the spice in plain sight.”

The Baron passed a plump hand across a nearby safety rail, then licked his fingertips, but tasted nothing other than dust. “Ingenious, I am sure. But how are we to take this treasure with us, if it is molded into the structures themselves? CHOAM will notice if we dismantle and remove all of the silos.”

Piter made a dismissive gesture. “We have a polymer separation mechanism, my Lord. At any time, we can quietly extract and exchange the extra spice with inert filler material, take the spice where we wish, and bank the profits without paying the Emperor’s exorbitant taxes. We can siphon off a cup of hidden melange or tons of it, whenever we please.”

In an uncharacteristically jovial mood, the Baron patted the slender Mentat hard on the back. Casually, he reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a sweet melange cake. He tossed the wrapping off the edge and watched it flutter down, then strode back onto the lift as he chewed and swallowed.

De Vries hurried to follow. “Perhaps we should discuss the upcoming Atreides wedding a bit more? Since the death of his son, Viscount Moritani has grown rather extreme.”

When the lift reached the ground, the Baron marched off toward his waiting vehicle. “I confess he makes me uneasy, Piter. He is so… volatile. I am reluctant to be too closely tied with House Moritani. It’s like having a rabid pet.”

“You’re quite right to be concerned about him, my Lord.” De Vries smiled. “Nevertheless, I cannot deny that his urge toward violence works to our advantage now. Let me explain —”

The Baron held up a hand as he entered his cool, sealed groundcar. “I don’t want to know the details, Piter. None of them. I want only your assurance that I won’t be disappointed. Nor will I be implicated.”

“You have my promise on both counts, Baron. As a follow-up plan, I have already dispatched our own operatives, each of them carefully doctored to look like Grummans should they be discovered. We leave nothing to chance.”

The groundcar sped toward the Harkonnen keep, while the Baron ate another sweet spice cake. He wiped his sticky fingers on his dusty pant leg. “Our hands must be entirely clean. No mistakes.”

“None, my Lord. The Viscount is only too happy to claim responsibility. He seems to revel in the prospect of blood.”

“As do I, Piter. But I do it privately.”

12

The Duke’s request seemed cold and unfeeling, a slap in the face. He wanted her to take Ilesa under her wing, to be the other woman’s formal companion, and to work with the Castle Caladan and Ecazi planners on preparations for the wedding. Jessica needed all of her Bene Gesserit training to nod formally. “Yes, Leto. As you wish.”

In spite of all her years of training, Jessica hated herself for her hurt feelings. She was a concubine sent under orders to become his companion, a business commodity, forced to give up the right to human emotions. She was happy with the love and devotion Leto had given her in the past, but she should not have expected it to last forever. Even so, the truth of it struck her to the core. Jessica was too smart to view this as a superficial or thoughtless slight. Leto knew exactly what he was requesting, and she forced herself to delve into his motivations in asking her to become Ilesa’s chaperone.

Finally she pulled back the curtain of emotions to let in the light and see what the Duke really needed from her: He sincerely wanted Jessica and Ilesa to be friends, and his instructions were designed to force the two women to accept reality. He did not mean to cut Jessica out, or Paul, but rather to fold them in. It also sent just as clear a signal to the daughter of Ecaz, that Duke Leto considered his concubine an important part of his household. The two would have to do things together, while each played her separate role.

When Jessica realized this, she explained it to Paul in order to help him understand. He would need that knowledge for later in life. “A wife and a lover are two different things. It is best if they can be the same person, but politics and love are as separate as the mind and the heart. Learn this lesson, Paul. As a Duke’s son, you may find yourself in the same situation someday.”

And so Jessica and Ilesa did spend their days together, setting up the halls, guest rooms, and meeting chambers of Castle Caladan for the wedding. They established plans, looked over guest lists, discussed passages from the Orange Catholic Bible, and reviewed subtle variations of the wedding liturgies. Some ceremonies could take only a few minutes, while more traditional ones might drone on for endless hours. Jessica had even read of extreme instances where a wedding ceremony lasted longer than the marriage itself. Working together, Jessica and Ilesa crafted a beautifully complex and poetic ceremony.

The household staff whispered surprised gossip at how well the two seemed to be getting along. At first Jessica considered her own cooperation just a necessary role to play, but one day she had looked across the table at Ilesa, and realized that she had come to think of Ilesa as a person, one with whom she could indeed become a friend.

The young woman confided in her with a shy smile. “Once, there was a young man with curly, straw-colored hair and a grin. And oh, what a lovely body! He was a member of the forest guard. I used to watch him train out in the courtyard with Swordmaster Dinari.”

“What was his name?” Jessica asked.

“Vaerod.” An entire symphony of wistful emotions accompanied the spoken name. “We used to walk and talk together. We even kissed once.” Her smile faltered. “Then my father transferred him away, and I spent days listening to lectures about my responsibility to House Ecaz. The deaths of my sister and uncle hardened him. I became the hope and future for our family. I couldn’t be allowed to fall in love, or plan my own life.”

She looked up, and Jessica thought the young woman seemed extremely innocent, but her words were insightful. “Why is it, do you suppose, that we noble daughters can’t take our own male concubines? If we are required to marry for political reasons, why can’t we choose someone else for love, as Duke Leto chose you?”

Jessica searched for different ways to answer the question. “Did Duke Leto tell you he loves me?”

Ilesa made a quick, dismissive sound. “Any fool can see that.”

Jessica blinked. Perhaps I am not enough of a fool.

“There are political necessities as to why Duke Leto will marry me. He will get what he wants with this alliance, and he still has you. I know this and accept it, but what about me? What about my Vaerod?”

For so long, Jessica had thought only of why Leto had decided on this alliance. His blustery father had been adamant about the political nature of marriage, and Lady Helena Atreides had accepted her lot, too, although with great bitterness.

With true compassion, Jessica said, “One of the first precepts taught at the Bene Gesserit School on Wallach IX is that the universe is not fair. Almost daily, I see evidence of that.”

WHEN THE IXIAN bearing the guests from House Vernius landed at the spaceport, Paul accompanied Thufir Hawat and Gurney Halleck to meet them. Thufir and Gurney had already told him much about Prince Rhombur.

The frigate’s ramp extended and guards marched out, carrying purple-and-copper pennants emblazoned with a helix symbol. Then three figures appeared as though they were making a grand entrance. A young woman with a trim body, short brown hair, and large eyes held the hand of a boy with thick coppery hair, a squarish face, and a shy formal demeanor. Paul could see echoes of the mother’s features in the boy.

Behind them came a hulking man whose mechanical movements somehow carried a calculated grace. Rhombur’s face was scarred; his arm was obviously prosthetic. The flesh ended at his neck, fused with polymer wrappings. He raised an artificial hand in greeting. The smile that filled his ravaged expression was genuine. “Gurney Halleck! You still look uglier than I do.” He took three thudding steps down the ramp. “And Thufir Hawat — still bearing the weight of the universe on your shoulders, I see.”

A fast groundcar pulled up, and Duke Leto sprang out wearing an exuberant grin. “Rhombur, old friend! I’m so pleased you could come.”

The Ixian nobleman chuckled. “You came to my wedding, Leto. How could I not come to yours?”

“I couldn’t avoid yours, Rhombur — it was held at Castle Caladan.”

With a strange delicateness to his flexing fingers, Rhombur took the woman beside him by the wrist. “You remember Tessia, of course.”

Leto laughed. “I’m not quite senile yet. And this is your son?” He extended a hand to the copper-haired boy.

“Yes, Leto — meet Bronso. He has been longing to leave the caverns on Ix to see the oceans that I loved so much.” The damaged man lowered his voice. “And he is anxious to meet Paul. Is this your son?”

Paul stepped forward. “Pleased to meet you, Rhombur. Or should I call you Prince?”

“You could call me your godfather, boy.” Rhombur thrust his son close to Paul. “You two will be great friends, just like your father and I were when we were younger.”

“Maybe we should initiate an exchange, as our fathers did,” Leto said. “Send Paul to Ix and have Bronso here on Caladan. It certainly changed my life.”

Prince Rhombur appeared somewhat troubled. “Ix is not quite what you remember, Leto. Under my father, it was a spectacular world, but the Tleilaxu occupation wounded our spirit and caused great damage. Even though House Vernius rules again, some things have changed forever. We have always been more of a business than a noble House, and the technocracy has grown more powerful. I have less influence over decisions than I used to.”

“Spreadsheets and quotas command Ix now,” Tessia added, not shy about speaking up for her husband. “Increasing production at the expense of decreasing humanity.”

Another man now emerged from the frigate — smallish in stature and thin, with a sallow face and the diamond tattoo of a Suk doctor on his forehead. His long hair was bound in a single silver ring. He bowed formally. “I brought all the medical equipment that may be needed. Prince Rhombur’s cyborg enhancements function quite well, though I still monitor them regularly.”

“Dr. Wellington Yueh, you are always welcome here. I owe you my life, and Rhombur owes you his. If I could find a doctor as dedicated, I would keep him as my personal physician on Caladan.”

Yueh seemed embarrassed, but Tessia interrupted before he could answer. “Politics, medical doctors, complaints? Is this the way House Atreides prepares for a wedding?”

“Tessia’s right,” Rhombur agreed. “We shouldn’t stand around in the noise and heat of the spaceport. Take us back to Castle Caladan. I’m certain my wife wants to see Jessica again, and we’re all anxious to meet your bride-to-be.”

BACK AT THE Castle, Jessica greeted them, standing at Ilesa’s side. Paul recognized and admired what his mother was doing, and thought she was remarkably composed and elegant.

The whole front foyer and reception hall had been decorated with Caladan pennants, ornate streamers, and large potted plants from Ecaz. Paul could smell the lush greenery, and the flowers that had already begun to bloom in the few days since they’d been set out.

“An auspicious beginning.” Rhombur stroked the plants with his prosthetic hands. “Look at the blooms!”

“A wedding gift from Duke Prad Vidal,” Leto said. “I think Ilesa is very pleased.”

“She should be pleased just to be marrying you, Leto,” Rhombur said. Then he glanced at Jessica and seemed embarrassed by his comment. “It’ll all work out for the best. Leto, you always seem to manage that.”

13

On the day of the wedding, Castle Caladan looked magical. Fabric streamers blended the colors of House Atreides and House Ecaz in a symbolic braid. A set of jeweled mirrors from Richese faced each other along the foyer hall. Fine crystal goblets from Balut graced every place setting for the grand banquet that would follow the ceremony. Ixian clocks chimed a harmonic sequence with every hour. Wrapped wedding gifts from countless Landsraad Houses filled tables in side alcoves, each package prominently displaying the giver’s name. Lush potted plants from Elacca decorated the stage of the grand hall.

Duke Leto was most touched by a wall-sized, hand-stitched quilt that had been crafted by the locals, one square given by each family in the fishing village and merchant district of Cala City. The people had made this with their own sweat and devotion, not because they sought political favors or alliances, but because they loved their Duke. Leto told Paul to learn from it, and demanded that the quilt be kept forever in Castle Caladan.

For days, Paul had watched guests arrive — representatives of prominent noble families. Putting his formal training in etiquette, politics, and protocol to use, he made an effort to meet every guest, noting details about their mannerisms, moods, and other features, so that he could remember them. Paul had been raised to be the next Duke, and would continue to believe that was the case, despite this new marriage.

As a formality, Leto had invited his cousin Shaddam IV, but was not surprised when neither the Emperor nor any important representative from Kaitain bothered to attend, though the Emperor did send a courier with kind wishes and the gift of an ornate set of cutlery. At first, Paul wondered if Shaddam was being petulant that Duke Atreides had not attended his own recent wedding; then he realized that someone as powerful as the Padishah Emperor would never hold such a petty grudge.

His father was kept so busy making arrangements that Paul barely saw him in the hours leading up to the actual ceremony. The morning dawned sunny on Caladan. Town bells rang, and the fishermen flew colorful pennants on their boats to celebrate the Duke’s marriage.

Inside his bedchamber Paul took care in getting dressed. The garments he donned — a black jacket with razor-edge collar and tasteful tails, a white shirt with crisp cuffs, black trousers — had been carefully fitted by the finest tailor on Caladan. The elegant old man even pinned a badge with the Atreides hawk crest on the boy’s chest. When Paul regarded himself in the looking glass, he decided he looked like a child playing dress-up.

But Duke Leto thought otherwise. Paul turned to see his father standing in the doorway, a look of pride on his face. “This is supposed to be my special day, Paul, but you might well steal the show. You look as if you could become Emperor yourself.”

Paul had never been particularly adept at accepting compliments, especially extravagant ones. “All eyes will be on you, Father.”

“No, all eyes will be on Ilesa. It is the bride’s job to be the center of the ceremony.”

“And today, we all have our jobs to do, don’t we?” Paul wasn’t sure if he had intended the comment to sting. Seeing his father’s expression falter, Paul stepped forward and reached up to straighten his collar. “I am ready to meet the guests. Tell me what I can do to assist you.”

The guests had gathered in the grand hall. The costumes, faces, exotic features, and traditional adornments of so many noble Houses made Paul dizzy. Even this tiny representative slice of population demonstrated how widespread the Imperium was, how many different planets and ethnic groups the Emperor ruled. It amazed him that all could come together beneath a single ruler.

Archduke Ecaz was smiling and full of good cheer, his long silver hair held back by a thin circlet. His formal uniform was embellished with ruffles and jewels, so elaborate that he was upstaged only by his wiry Swordmaster Whitmore Bludd.

No matter how Ilesa might be dressed, Paul could not imagine that she would look more beautiful than his mother. He was right. In a long gold-and-black gown, Lady Jessica was breathtaking. He wondered if she had done that intentionally, to remind Duke Leto of all she had to offer.

Thufir Hawat wore an old military uniform, one that featured medals he had earned during his service with Duke Paulus and Earl Dominic Vernius in the Ecazi revolt so many years before. House Atreides had a long-standing history of supporting House Ecaz.

Hawat had once again scanned the grand hall, dispatching his security troops through all public areas. Each wedding guest had been searched in accordance with standard security protocols. None of the nobles took offense, for they would have imposed the same measures upon their own visitors. At every doorway, Atreides soldiers stood beside their Ecazi counterparts.

Duncan Idaho had also dressed for the day. As a Swordmaster, he often played the role of dashing warrior, the Duke’s special fighter and bodyguard; now he wore the formal sword of Old Duke Paulus strapped to his side, a weapon he had carried many times into battle for House Atreides. Paul knew Duncan’s abilities were unmatched, although the two visiting Swordmasters from House Ecaz were also there to show their mettle, if need be.

Despite his attempts to make himself presentable, Gurney Halleck was not designed for formal clothing. His body had been battered too many times, and the inkvine scar stood out on his jawline, defying any attempts at makeup. He was a man more accustomed to work clothes that let him move among the common folk. He was meant to sit with a nine-string baliset on his knee and sing songs to noblemen, rather than pretend to be one of them. But the grin on his face dismissed all awkwardness. Seeing Paul in his outfit, Gurney said, “Young pup, you look like a future director of CHOAM.”

“Oh, I was trying to look like the son of a Duke.”

Duke Leto had chosen his son as best man, and for the honor, Paul had been coached not only by his mother but by official planners and choreographers. Now, one of the choreographers motioned for him to take his place on the garlanded stage that had been erected just for the wedding. Paul walked past the huge potted plants on the stage toward the central podium that held an ancient oversized Orange Catholic Bible, the same book that had been used at the wedding of Paulus and Helena, as well as eighteen generations of Atreides before that. Armand Ecaz stood to one side of the podium with Swordmasters Dinari and Bludd, while Paul joined Duke Leto, Thufir, Gurney, and Duncan on the opposite side.

When he turned to face the room full of strangers, Paul’s eyes fixed upon the large figure of Prince Rhombur, whose cyborg body was mostly covered with a formal suit, though his scarred and surreal face set him apart from the other attendees. Tessia and their reticent son, Bronso, sat on either side of him in the front row. Paul couldn’t interpret the odd grimace on Rhombur’s face for certain, but he thought the Ixian Prince might be grinning.

On cue, the fanfare began, and the audience hushed. Heads turned to look back toward the arched entrance where high fernlike flowers bracketed the doorway. Ilesa entered gracefully, her gown a lavish confection of pearlescent silk, its bodice covered by a spray of shimmering pearls. Her dark hair was done up in an intricate arrangement of small polished seashells.

Paul glanced at his father. Duke Leto wore an astonished expression, as if he had never expected his bride-to-be would look so beautiful.

While everyone watched Ilesa, the robed priest emerged unnoticed from a side alcove to take his position at the podium bearing the ancient book. Though there had been offers from other noble families, and even from important church officials including an Archbishop from Kaitain, Duke Leto had asked one of the most popular local priests to perform the ceremony. Archduke Ecaz had no particular preference in the matter. After the tragedies that had befallen him and the senseless pain the Grummans had inflicted upon his House, he had become decidedly nonreligious.

Ilesa glided forward, smiling. Flanked by the Swordmasters, Archduke Armand watched her, his smile rapturous. Duke Leto stood straight, showing his respect until Ilesa took her place beside him, facing the village priest. As quietly and discreetly as possible, the priest opened the book to the wedding liturgy and set out a crystal bell with which he would begin the ceremony. Leto took Ilesa’s hand in his, and Paul saw that his father was holding his breath.

The priest struck a clear musical tone on the bell. “Friends of House Ecaz, House Atreides, and Emperor Shaddam IV, we welcome you to this moment of happiness.” He struck a second tone.

As the priest began to speak again, Paul heard a snick, followed by a hum. He didn’t want to tear his eyes from the bride and groom, while everyone in the room was listening so intently, but then he heard another sound and sensed a faint movement. He concentrated, forcing the background noise to fall away, and pinpointed the source of the sound: the huge Elaccan flowerpots.

Thufir Hawat snapped his head to one side. The old Master of Assassins had heard it as well.

The large hexagonal mosaic tiles had popped loose — extending slightly from the curved pots on some type of axle — and began to spin.

“Duncan!” Paul shouted, not caring that he would disrupt the ceremony.

But Duncan was already in motion. Gurney crouched, dagger in hand, ready to fight, looking for an attacker. Rivvy Dinari and Whitmore Bludd both drew their swords, advancing to protect Archduke Ecaz and Ilesa; Paul had never seen them move so fast.

The decorative hexagonal plates, thin sheets of metal, propelled themselves forward, spinning through the air like circular saw blades. Their edges, which had been mounted into the glazed clay of the pots, were razor sharp.

The air of the hall was filled with whirling blades, executioner discs that flashed toward their targets: everyone in the wedding party, any person who stood on the stage.

Duncan swept the Old Duke’s sword in an arc to strike one of the discs, sending it into the stone blocks of the wall, where it cut a deep gouge before clattering to the ground. Thufir grabbed Duke Leto by the tuxedo collar and pulled him sideways to the floor, diving upon him as another scythelike blade slashed a long rent across the old veteran’s back.

More blades crisscrossed in the air, and the audience began to scream in panic. Like a charging bull, Gurney threw himself toward Paul. “Young Master, down!” Paul had already crouched to dodge the flying blades, and Gurney bowled him over, throwing himself between Paul and one of the deadly plates. At the last instant, Paul grabbed a handful of Gurney’s blond hair and yanked the man’s head. A sharp disc streaked past, missing Gurney’s skull by millimeters, clipping a small lock of hair.

“Ilesa! Save her!” Rivvy Dinari bellowed. “I have the Archduke!” Whitmore Bludd sprang toward the bride, whipping his thin rapier before him. He struck one of the disks, and it caromed off into the ceiling.

Undeterred by the Swordmasters, another of the weapons struck like an executioner’s hatchet into the Archduke’s upper arm, neatly severing it above the elbow. Pushing himself free of Gurney, Paul watched in nightmarish slow motion as the detached limb dropped to the floor, sleeve and all, in a rain of blood.

Dinari roared, realizing his failure. He brandished his sword and stood as a human blockade, spreading himself in front of his grievously wounded master. The Archduke gasped, clutching at his stump.

More spinning blades flew directly at the Ecazi leader. The corpulent Swordmaster smashed one out of the air and sent it ricocheting into the floor. He struck another disk a glancing blow. Then four more blades slammed into his great body with the sound of cleavers cutting into tough meat, embedding themselves deep in Rivvy Dinari’s lungs, cutting through his sternum and slicing his heart in half. The last disc bit deep into his gut. Dinari’s great hulk collapsed to the floor of the stage, but he had intercepted all of the deadly devices aimed toward his master.

With a howl of outrage, Bludd attempted to defend Ilesa. His rapier skewered and flung aside another executioner disc. He reached up with the thin blade to parry one more razor-edged tile, moving with both speed and precision.

He missed.

Though Ilesa was backing away, she couldn’t bend far enough, and the spinning disc slashed her throat. Her delicate hands fluttered up, as if to catch the scarlet spray, but blood fountained from her neck, drenching her beautiful gown in red.

With a roar from his artificial lungs, Rhombur threw himself forward, knocking aside guests in the front row. “Leto!”

Squirming free of Gurney, Paul got to his hands and knees again, intent only on ensuring that his father was safe. Duke Leto, as expected, was shouting orders, organizing an immediate response, telling his guards to smash the deadly pots, calling for medics, showing concern for everyone but himself.

Acting on instinct, as if he could foresee what was about to happen, Paul sprang toward his father. Every instant stretched, drawn out to a long and syrupy timeline. Duke Leto turned, his gray eyes widening as he saw the sharp, whirling edge —

But Paul slammed him aside, and the cutter disk made only a harmless whirring noise as it passed and thudded into a wall. From the corner of his eye, extraordinarily aware of every detail, Paul saw his mother rushing toward the stage.

Like a mechanical ox, Rhombur used his artificial limbs to smash the pots, destroying the targeting mechanisms, preventing the launch of any more razor-edged plates. Duncan struck the last three spinning discs out of the air.

Archduke Ecaz sat on the floor in shock, blood flowing from the stump of his arm, though the severed blood vessels had collapsed, slowing the massive bleeding. He could barely manage to sit upright next to the mangled corpse of the fat Swordmaster.

Whitmore Bludd stood entirely unscathed, though his fine clothes were speckled by droplets of crimson. He stared down in denial at Ilesa, who lay twitching, but already dead, on the stage.

A shimmering hologram arose from the wreckage of the flowerpots. Some small generator that must have been placed there played a microscopic crystal that held a recorded message and the image of Viscount Moritani, dressed in fine clothes fit for a funeral, not a wedding.

“Archduke Ecaz! Please accept this humble tribute from Grumman. I would have been there in person, you see, but I had to attend the funeral of my son. My son! Wolfram would have lived, but for you. You should have given me the gift of a cure. Now I give you the gift of these memories.

“I hope the slaughter is as extravagant as I have imagined. In all probability, you aren’t even alive to hear this. But others are. Heed the cost of making an enemy of House Moritani. By all rights and all that is just, this War of Assassins is mine.”