Dune: House Atreides Read online

  “With Salusan bulls?” Leto asked, picturing in his mind the spine-backed beasts, their black heads studded with multiple horns, their eyes faceted. When he had been a younger boy, Leto had often gone into the stables to look at the monstrous animals. Stablemaster Yresk, one of his mother’s old retainers from Richese, tended the bulls for Paulus’s occasional spectacles.

  “Naturally,” the Old Duke said. “And as usual, I’ll fight them myself.” He swept his arm out in a flourish, as if imagining a colorful cape there. “These old bones are agile enough to dodge around a lumbering monster like that. I’ll have Yresk prepare one— or would you like to pick the beast yourself, lad?”

  “I thought you weren’t going to do that anymore,” Leto said. “It’s been almost a year since you . . .”

  “Wherever did you get that idea?”

  “Your advisors, sir. It’s too risky. Isn’t that why others have been fighting the bulls in your place?”

  The old man laughed. “What a foolish notion! I’ve been out of the ring for only one reason: The bulls went downhill for a while, some genetic imbalance that made them unworthy. That’s changed, though, and new bulls are being brought in now, tougher than ever. Yresk says they’re ready to fight, and so am I.” He put his arm around Leto’s narrow shoulders. “What better occasion for a corrida de toros than the leave-taking of my son? You’ll attend this bullfight— your first. Your mother can’t say you’re too young anymore.”

  Leto nodded, reluctantly. His father would never be swayed, once his mind was made up. At least Paulus had the training, and would wear a personal shield.

  Using personal shields, Leto himself had fought human opponents, aware of a shield’s advantages and limitations. A shield could block projectile fire and fast-moving weapons of death, but any blade traveling below the threshold speed could pass through to the unprotected flesh beneath. A rampaging Salusan bull, with its sharp horns, might well move slowly enough to pierce even the most finely tuned shield.

  He swallowed hard, wondering about the new, enhanced bulls. The old ones Stablemaster Yresk had shown him seemed dangerous enough— they’d killed three matadors that Leto could remember. . . .

  Consumed by his fresh idea, Duke Paulus made the announcement at the bazaar, over the public address system implanted in booths and stalls. Upon hearing this, people in the marketplace cheered and their eyes glittered. They laughed, partly in anticipation of the performance itself— and also because of the declared day of rest and celebration.

  Leto’s mother wouldn’t like this at all, he knew— Paulus in the fight and Leto in attendance— but Leto also understood that as soon as Helena began to object, the Old Duke would be more determined than ever.

  • • •

  The bowl of the Plaza de Toros sprawled under the noonday sun. The stands spread out in an immense broad grid, so filled with people that in the farthest reaches they looked like tiny colored pixels. The Duke had never charged any fee to witness his performances; he was too proud of them, enjoyed showing off too much.

  Enormous green-and-black banners flapped in the breeze, while fanfare blasted from speakers. Pillars emblazoned with Atreides hawk crests sparkled with emblems that had been newly polished and painted for the event. Thousands of floral bouquets harvested from the fields and lowlands had been placed about the bullring— an unsubtle hint that the Duke liked the people to strew the ground with blossoms each time he dispatched a bull.

  Below, in the preparation chambers at ground level, Paulus girded up before the fight. Leto stood with him behind a barricade, listening to the impatient crowd. “Father, I’m uneasy about the risk you’re taking. You shouldn’t do this . . . especially not for me.”

  The Old Duke brushed aside the comment. “Leto, lad, you must understand that governing people and winning their loyalty consists of more than just signing papers, collecting taxes, and attending Landsraad meetings.” He straightened his magenta cape, preened in front of a mirror.

  “I depend on those people out there to produce the most that Caladan can provide. They must do so willingly, with hard work— and not just for their own profit, but for their honor and glory. If House Atreides was ever to go to war again, these people would shed their blood for me. They would lay down their lives under our banner.” He fiddled with his armor. “Tighten this for me?”

  Leto grabbed the string fasteners of the back leather plate, tugged them, and cinched the knots tight. He kept silent but nodded to show he understood.

  “As their Duke, I need to give them something back, prove that I’m worthy. And it’s not just for entertainment, but to instill in their minds that I’m a man of grand stature, of heroic proportions . . . someone blessed by God to rule them. I can’t do that unless I put myself before them. Leadership is not a passive process.”

  Paulus checked his shield belt, then smiled through his beard. “ ‘No one is too old to learn,’ ” he quoted. “That’s a line from the Agamemnon play— just to show you that I’m not always sleeping when I appear to be.”

  Thufir Hawat, the stern-faced weapons master, stood beside his Duke. As a loyal Mentat, Hawat would not speak out against his superior’s decisions; instead, he gave the best advice he could, whispering to Paulus the patterns he had seen in the movements of this new batch of mutated Salusan bulls.

  Leto knew his mother would be up in the stands in the ducal spectator box. She would be dressed in her finery, wearing colorful gauzy veils and robes, playing her part, waving to the people. The night before, once again, there had been much heated discussion behind the bedroom doors; finally, Duke Paulus had simply silenced her with a barked command. Afterward he had gone to sleep, resting for the following day’s exertions.

  The Duke put on his green-bordered cap, then took the equipment he would need to conquer the wild bull: his poniards and a long, feathered vara with nerve toxin on the lance tip. Thufir Hawat had suggested that the stablemaster slightly tranquilize the bull to deaden its rampaging impulses, but the Duke was a man who loved to face a challenge. No drug-dulled opponent for him!

  Paulus clipped the activation pack onto his shield belt and powered up the field. It was only a half shield, used to guard his side; the Duke used a garishly brilliant cape called a muleta to cover his other side.

  Paulus bowed first to his son, then his Mentat, and then the trainers waiting at the entrance to the arena. “Time for the show to begin.” Leto watched him swirl about and, like a bird on a mating display, strut out into the open Plaza de Toros. At his appearance, cheers thundered out with a roar far louder than any Salusan bull’s.

  Leto stood behind the barricade, blinking into the glare of the open sun. He smiled as his father made a slow circuit of the arena, waving his cape, bowing, greeting his ecstatic people. Leto could sense the love and admiration they had for this brave man, and it warmed his heart.

  Waiting there in the shadows, Leto vowed to do all he could to study his father’s triumphs, so that one day he would command such respect and devotion from the people. Triumphs . . . this would be another in a long list of them for his father, Leto assured himself. But he couldn’t help worrying. Too much could change in the flicker of a shield, the flash of a sharp horn, the stamp of a hoof.

  Tones sounded, and an announcer’s voice gave introductory details of the impending corrida de toros. With a flourish of a sequined glove, Duke Paulus gestured toward the broad reinforced doors on the opposite side of the arena.

  Moving to another archway for a better view, Leto reminded himself that this would be no sham performance. His father would be battling for his very life.

  Stableboys had been tending the ferocious beasts, and Stablemaster Yresk had personally selected one for the day’s corrida. After inspecting the animal, the Old Duke had been satisfied, certain the crowd would be equally pleased by its ferocity. He looked forward to the fight.

  Heavy gates opened with a grinding of suspensor hinges, and the Salusan bull charged out, shaking its massive, m
ultiple-horned head in the dazzling light. Its faceted eyes glittered with feral rage. The scales on the mutated creature’s back reflected iridescent colors from its black hide.

  Duke Paulus whistled and waved his cape. “Over here, stupid!” The spectators laughed.

  Turning toward him, the bull lowered its head with a loud bubbling snort.

  Leto noticed that his father hadn’t yet switched on his protective shield. Instead, Paulus snapped and fluttered his colorful cape, trying to draw the wrath of the beast. The Salusan bull pawed and snorted on the sandy arena floor, then charged. Leto wanted to cry out, to warn his father. Had the man simply forgotten to switch on his protection? How could he possibly survive without a shield?

  But the bull thundered past, and Paulus swept his cape gracefully to one side, letting the creature strike the diversionary target. Its hooked horns shredded the bottom of the fabric into ragged frays. While it was coming about, the Old Duke turned his back to the bull, exposed and overconfident. He bowed mockingly toward the crowd before he stood straight— then calmly, patiently, flicked on his personal shield.

  The bull attacked again, and now the Duke used his poniard to toy with it, pricking through its thick, scaled hide before slashing a stinging yet minor wound along its flank. The creature’s faceted eyes saw multiple images of its colorfully garbed tormentor.

  It charged again.

  Moving too fast to penetrate the shield, Leto thought. But if the bull tires and slows, he could be even more dangerous. . . .

  As the fight continued, Leto saw how his father was playing this up for all the spectacle he could muster, tantalizing the audience to amuse them. Old Paulus could have killed the Salusan bull at any time, yet he drew out the moment, savored it.

  From the reactions of the spectators, Leto knew this would be an event talked about for years. The rice farmers and fishermen led such dreary, hardworking lives. But this celebration would fix a proud image of their Duke forever in their minds. Look what Old Paulus was doing, they would say, despite his age!

  Eventually the bull became exhausted, its eyes reddened with blood, its snorts heavy and tired as it spilled its life fluid onto the powdery surface of the arena. Duke Paulus himself now chose to end the fight. He had dragged the sport along for nearly an hour. Though dripping with sweat, he somehow maintained his regal appearance and did not allow his manner to show weariness, or his fine clothes to be disheveled.

  Up in the stands, Lady Helena continued to wave her pennants, smiling fixedly down at the spectacle.

  By now, the Salusan bull was like a maddened machine, a rampaging monster that had few vulnerable spots in its black-scaled armor. As the beast ran at him again, its gait staggering, its gleaming horns pointed like spears, Duke Paulus feinted to the left, then returned as the bull surged past.

  Then Paulus swung sideways, tossed his flapping cape to the dust, and gripped the shaft of his vara lance in both hands. He threw all of his strength into a powerful side thrust. Flawlessly performed, magnificently executed. The blade of the lance drove home through a chink in the Salusan bull’s armored hide, sliding through an intersection of bone and skull, skewering straight through to impale both of the creature’s separated brains— the most difficult, most sophisticated way to kill it.

  The bull ground to a halt, wheezing, groaning— and suddenly dead. Its carcass slumped like a crashing spaceship onto the ground.

  Planting his foot on the horned head of the bull, Duke Paulus heaved against his lance, pulled the bloodied blade out, and dropped it onto the ash-covered ground. Next he drew his sword and, raising it high, twirled it in a triumphant gesture.

  As one, the people in the stands surged to their feet, screaming, howling, and cheering. They waved their banners, snatched bouquets from flowerpots, and tossed the blossoms onto the arena floor. They sang out Paulus’s name over and over.

  Reveling in the adoration, the Atreides patriarch smiled and turned about, opening his coat so that the spectators could see his blood-spattered, sweat-drenched form. He was the hero now; he had no need to show off his finery.

  After the throbbing cheers had died down, many minutes later, the Duke raised his sword again and struck downward, hacking repeatedly until he had severed the head of the bull. Finally, he plunged the bloody sword into the soft ground of the plaza and used both hands to grasp the horns of the bull and lift its head high.

  “Leto!” he shouted over his shoulder, his voice booming into the acoustics of the Plaza de Toros. “Leto, my son, come out here!”

  Leto, still in the shadows of the archway, hesitated a moment, then marched forth. He held his head high as he crossed the hoof-trampled dirt to stand at his father’s side. The crowd cheered with renewed enthusiasm.

  Old Duke Paulus turned and presented his son with the bloodied head of his kill. “I give you Leto Atreides!” he announced to the audience while pointing at his son. “Your future Duke!”

  The crowd continued to applaud and shout hurrahs. Leto grasped one of the bull’s horns; he and his father stood together holding the defeated beast’s head high, the trophy oozing thick red drops onto the sand.

  As Leto heard the people echo his name, he felt deep stirrings within, and wondered for the first time if this was truly what it felt like to be a leader of men.

  N’kee: Slow-acting poison that builds up in the adrenal glands; one of the most insidious toxins permitted under the accords of Guild Peace and the restrictions of the Great Convention. (See War of Assassins.)

  —The Assassins’ Handbook

  Mmmm, the Emperor will never die, you know, Shaddam.” A small man with oversize dark eyes and a weasel face, Hasimir Fenring, sat opposite the shield-ball console from his visitor, Crown Prince Shaddam. “At least not while you’re young enough to enjoy the throne.”

  With a sharp, darting gaze Fenring watched the black shield-ball come to rest on a low-scoring point. Completing his turn at the game, the heir to the Imperium clearly wasn’t happy about the result. They had been close companions for most of their lives, and Fenring knew exactly how to distract him at the right moment.

  From the game room of Fenring’s luxurious penthouse, Shaddam could see the lights of his father’s Imperial Palace glittering on the gentle hillside a kilometer away. With Fenring’s aid he had disposed of his older brother Fafnir years and years ago, and still the Golden Lion Throne seemed no closer.

  Shaddam went over to the balcony and drew a long, deep breath.

  He was a strong-featured man in his mid-thirties, with a firm chin and aquiline nose; his reddish hair was cut short and oiled and styled into a perfect helmet. In an odd way, he looked similar to the century-old busts of his father sculpted during the early decades of Elrood’s reign.

  It was early evening, and two of Kaitain’s four moons hung low in the sky beyond the gigantic Imperial building. Illuminated gliders rode the calm skies of dusk, chased by flocks of songbirds. Sometimes, Shaddam just needed to get away from the sprawling Palace.

  “A hundred and thirty-six years as Padishah Emperor,” Fenring continued in his nasal voice. “And old Elrood’s father ruled for more than a century himself. Think about it, hmm-m-m-ah? Your father took the throne when he was only nineteen, and you’re almost twice that age.” The narrow-faced man looked with huge eyes at his friend. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  Shaddam didn’t respond, stared at the skyline, knowing he should return to the game . . . but he and his friend had bigger games to play.

  After his long years of close association Fenring knew that the Imperial heir could not deal with complex problems when other amusements distracted him. Very well, then, I will end this diversion.

  “My turn,” he said. Fenring lifted a rod on his side of the shimmering shield globe and dipped it through the shield to engage a spinning interior disk. This in turn caused a black ball in the center of the globe to levitate into the air. With expert timing, Fenring withdrew the rod, and the ball dropped into the center of an o
val receptacle bearing the highest mark.

  “Damn you, Hasimir, another perfect game for you,” Shaddam said, returning from the balcony. “When I’m Emperor, though, will you be wise enough to lose to me?”

  Fenring’s oversize eyes were alert and feral. A genetic-eunuch, incapable of fathering children because of his congenital deformities, he was still one of the deadliest fighters in the Imperium, so single-mindedly ferocious that he was more than a match for any Sardaukar.

  “When you’re Emperor?” Fenring and the Crown Prince held so many deadly secrets between them that neither could imagine keeping knowledge from the other. “Shaddam, are you listening to what I’m telling you, hmmm?” He gave an annoyed sigh. “You’re thirty-four years old, sitting on your hands and waiting for your life to begin— your birthright. Elrood could last another three decades, at least. He’s a tough old Burseg, and the way he gulps spice beer, he might outlive both of us.”

  “So why even talk about it?” Shaddam toyed with the shield-ball controls, clearly wanting to play another round. “I’ve got what I need here.”

  “You’d rather play games until you’re an old man? I thought you had better things in store for you, hm-m-m-m-ah? The destiny of your Corrino blood.”

  “Ah, yes. And if I don’t achieve my destiny,” Shaddam said in a bitter tone, “where does that leave you?”

  “I’ll do fine, thank you.” Fenring’s mother had been trained as a Bene Gesserit before entering Imperial service as lady-in-waiting to Elrood’s fourth wife; she had raised him well, preparing him for great things.

  But Hasimir Fenring was disgusted with his friend. At one time, in his late teens, Shaddam had been much more ambitious to claim the Imperial throne, even to the point of encouraging Fenring to poison the Emperor’s eldest son, Fafnir, who had been forty-six and eagerly awaiting the crown himself.