The Winds of Dune (25 page)

He smelled fine sawdust and the clinging odor of sweet shellac. One baliset maker used tuning pegs carved from obsidian; another advertised strings of silk braided around a thin thread of precious metal. A flamboyantly dressed man boasted that his frets and cavilers were
made of human bone, authentic splinters from the skeleton of a great musician who had offered his body for such a remarkable purpose so that he could keep creating music long after his death.

Walking along, Gurney listened with appreciative nods, but he did not buy. Vendors could see that he was no idle curiosity seeker, though, and suggested that he try their balisets himself. They demonstrated the purported superior qualities of their harmonywood strains, how the resonance and purity of tone could not be matched. Testing the instruments, Gurney wrung beautiful melodies from some, jarring off-key tunes from others.

When he raised the subject of the recent Jongleur show, their attitudes changed swiftly. “Well, some Jongleurs may know how to play music, but that doesn’t make them musicians,” drawled one baliset maker. “They’re just actors, manipulating their audiences. House Jongleur should have remained in exile. I don’t know why Emperor Shaddam lets them keep performing, after that assassination attempt by his half brother, oh, a dozen years ago.”

Gurney recalled that Tyros Reffa’s foiled strike against Shaddam IV had occurred during a Jongleur performance. And now the entire Ollic League had been murdered. “Assassinations seem to accompany Jongleur shows.”

And Paul was in a Jongleur troupe?

One street in particular was in turmoil. Instrument-makers’ stalls were shuttered. Only one shop had open awnings and wares spread out on display, but the pieces carried excessive prices. The proprietor was tall and thin with an oddly puffy face. “These balisets are made from the clonewood grown by the Ollic League! Exquisite wood with perfect resonance.”

“I’ve heard the opposite claims from many other merchants today,” Gurney said.

“I don’t doubt it, good sir.” He leaned over the wooden display table, lowering his voice. “But ask yourself—if Ollic clonewood wasn’t so superior, why did someone burn their arbors and murder the whole family?”

Gurney hefted one of the instruments and ran his fingers across the strings. The man had a point. He set the wheel in motion so that the gyroscopic tone cylinder made the wood vibrate. When he began
to use the multipick, music seemed to flow out of his fingers. He had played nine-string models before, but it wasn’t his usual instrument.

“Nine strings are what you need, my friend. One for each note of an octave, and another to enhance.”

Gurney’s fingers strummed a beautiful chord. The wood certainly seemed equivalent, and perhaps even superior, to the instruments he’d tested in the past hour. “My baliset is old and in need of repair. It’s my fourth one.”

“You’re hard on your instruments.”

“Life’s been hard on me.” His fingers kept playing, then he plucked out a more ambitious tune. The sound was pleasing.

The craftsman saw Gurney forming an attachment to the instrument. “They say balisets choose their players, not the other way around.”

Setting the instrument back on the table, Gurney reached into his pocket and displayed the images of Paul and Bronso. “To be honest, I’m not just in the market for a baliset. I’m searching for these two young men. One is the son of my master.” He stroked the curve of the baliset enticingly. “I’d be in a position to reward you with a sale and a generous bonus, if you help me find them.”

The craftsman looked at the images, but shook his head. “Everyone around here has an apprentice. They all look the same to me.”

“These boys weren’t apprentices. They’re with a Jongleur troupe.”

“Oh yes, I heard about their performance. The same night Master Ombar Ollic was killed.” Seeing another passerby, he lifted a chunk of his polished wood and called out, “Balisets made with Ollic clonewood! Now’s your last chance—with the Ollics killed and their arbors burned, these will be the only such instruments ever made.” As the passerby continued on his way, uninterested, the vendor lowered his voice once more to Gurney, conspiratorial now. “Hence the reason for the high prices. These instruments are sure to become a rarity, my friend. You may never be able to buy another baliset like it.”

While the craftsman regarded the image of the boys again, Gurney continued to caress the instrument. “And does the Jongleur troupe have any other performances scheduled here?”

“Oh, they’re long gone from Chusuk. After the murders, nobody’s in the mood around here to see Jongleurs.”

Gurney furrowed his brow. He would have to find out which ships left that particular night before the murders were discovered, since Chusuk security had locked down the spaceports immediately afterward. How could Paul and Bronso be involved with assassins?

“I’ll buy the baliset.” Though he had no idea where the Jongleur troupe would go next, at least the music would keep him company during their travels.

Inside the business offices of House Vernius, Rhombur seemed deflated and unsure of what to do. Jessica and Leto remained with him, waiting. After more than a month of intense searching for the boys, every lead had gone nowhere; every sighting proved false; every rumor was just that. Jessica felt her hopes slipping as time passed. Paul had still sent no message, no signal of any kind.

Accompanied by a silent aide, Bolig Avati bustled over to the Grand Palais, carrying a sheaf of papers, the Technocrat Council’s weekly report to Earl Vernius. A supercilious man, Jessica thought; Avati’s body language suggested that he didn’t think Rhombur needed to be consulted about anything. “We have been managing everything in your time of difficulty, my Lord. Please attend to these documents as soon as possible, so as not to impede the progress of new developments.” As an afterthought, he turned. “Oh, yes, a message cylinder arrived this morning, a communiqué from two House Atreides men.” He waved a hand casually, and his aide stepped forth to present a cylinder.

“I would have preferred this information the moment it arrived,” Rhombur snapped, grabbing the message. “Vermillion Hells! This could be vital—”

Avati demurred with no sincerity whatsoever. “Apologies. We had other pressing business.” He left without further ado.

Rhombur unsealed the cylinder so quickly with his cyborg hand that he broke the cap. As he scanned the lines of the instroy document, his prosthetic shoulders sagged. “Your men arrived on Chusuk too late. The Jongleur troupe gave a performance and then departed immediately on another Guildship. No information on where they went afterward.”

“We can ask the Guild,” Leto said. “An inspector is due this afternoon.”

“We can
ask
,” Jessica agreed, “but they weren’t very cooperative the last time.”

Before he could proceed to the Heighliner construction site, the Guild inspector was intercepted by Rhombur’s household guard and escorted to the Vernius administrative office. He was annoyed by the disruption in his plans. “My schedule does not allow for interruptions.”

“We request information,” said Rhombur and explained what they needed to know.

The inspector was unimpressed. “Information is not gratis, nor is it readily available. The only reason we spoke with you earlier about your sons is because of the fees they owed for passage. Such discussions are over, because confidentiality is a hallmark of the Spacing Guild.”

Rhombur’s scarred face darkened. “Then let me pose the question in a way you can better understand. Effective immediately, I shall order that all construction work cease on your Heighliner. My crews will not lift a hull plate or install a single rivet until you give us answers.”

Jessica felt a warm satisfaction in her chest. Leto’s hard grin showed he was proud of the position Rhombur was taking.

The Guild inspector was startled. “That makes no commercial sense. I shall protest.”

“Protest all you like. I am House Vernius, and my commands rule here.”

Jessica stepped closer to the Guildsman. “You don’t have any children, do you, sir?”

He seemed to see her for the first time. “Why is that relevant?”

“It explains your complete ignorance and lack of humanity.”

With heavy footfalls, Rhombur crossed to a wall-comm and contacted the construction crew chief on the grotto floor. “Stop all operations immediately. Perform no further work on the Heighliner until I give the word. Tell your crews to take a break—it might be a long one.” He switched off the speaker and turned to the inspector. “You may as
well go back to your Heighliner and discuss the matter with your superiors. I’ll be here when you return.”

Thrown off balance, the Guildsman hurried out of the administrative office. Jessica looked through the transparent windows to the construction floor, where tiny figures rode suspensor platforms down from the superstructure as they exited the Heighliner framework. Workers milled about like busy insects on the wide cavern floor, not knowing what else to do.

Instead of departing for his Heighliner, the inspector demanded a special meeting with the technocrats. The Council members reacted with astonishment to hear what Rhombur had done, then showered the Guildsman with apologies.

Avati’s voice was soothing. “This is just a misunderstanding. Earl Rhombur is preoccupied with personal concerns and isn’t thinking lucidly. Obviously, his decision is not in the best interests of the Ixian economy.”

In an emergency session, the Council members unanimously invoked an obscure clause of the Ixian Charter: Because Rhombur’s brash decision could cause irreparable harm to Ix’s reputation, they voted to countermand his order and called for work to recommence at once. As a show of good faith, they reaffirmed the delivery date, promising to release the Heighliner as planned.

Rhombur could protest, but with his power base diminishing day by day, he could do nothing about it.