The Winds of Dune (28 page)

Jessica stepped out with her companions and saw a plump brunette woman followed by an entourage of formally dressed men. Alra Kio was all smiles, pleased to earn the goodwill of two Great Houses. “Duke Leto, Earl Rhombur—your sons are safe. Rheinvar was quite astonished when we revealed the true identities of his two roustabouts.”

Rhombur was ready to surge ahead. “Where are the boys?”

A tent flap rustled behind the group of military men, and Paul emerged from one of the tents, dressed in a white tunic and dark trousers. His black hair was tousled, and a smear of dirt crossed his forehead. Seeing his parents, he lit up and ran to them without any hesitation. “I’m so glad to see you. How did you find us?”

Unabashed, he embraced his father first, but the Duke pulled back awkwardly and coolly shook the boy’s hand. Jessica could see the joy and relief nearly bursting from Leto, but he locked it all inside. “I am happy you’re unharmed, son. That was a foolish risk you took, jeopardizing House Atreides and completely disregarding your responsibilities. You could have—”

Jessica squeezed Paul in a crushing hug. “We were so worried about you!”

Paul saw his mother wrinkle her nose at the thick, unpleasant odors from his perspiration-damp clothes. “Bronso and I work with animals and do other odd jobs. I’ve got so much to tell you both.”

Leto remained stern, and Jessica understood why he felt he needed to be so harsh. “Yes, you do.”

“I didn’t disregard my responsibilities, sir. I—”

With much more hesitation than Paul had shown, another boy appeared at the tent opening. Rhombur lumbered toward him, followed closely by Dr. Yueh. “Bronso!”

The redheaded boy folded his arms across his chest and glared at the cyborg prince. Puffed up with anger and resentment, he struggled to maintain his hard façade, but words were already spilling out of Rhombur’s mouth. “Oh, Bronso. I know I handled our situation badly. I’m sorry. Please forgive me—I can’t lose both Tessia and you! We had a good relationship before—uh, can’t we go back to that and talk about what happened between us?”

Bronso’s voice was as cold as the plazcrete gray of his eyes; he had been holding the words inside for some time, had probably even rehearsed them for an imagined confrontation with Rhombur. “You want me to forget that you lied to me all of my life? That you’re not my real father?”

Rhombur refused to accept that guilt. “A
real
father is the one who gives you a home and raises you, the one who trains and teaches and loves you no matter what. A
real
father would travel across the entire galaxy to find you, leaving everything else behind because nothing else matters as much.”

Time seemed to have frozen around them, and Jessica longed to see the breach healed. She looked imploringly at Bronso.
Reach out to him, boy!

An expression of remorse shaded the youth’s face as he looked at Rhombur. Jessica wondered if he saw only a cyborg who was broken and deficient in so many ways. Bronso unfolded his arms, heaved a deep breath, and after a long silent moment, began to cry. “And my mother? Do the witches still have her?”

“They do.” Rhombur pulled the boy against his artificial chest. “I
promise, you and I will travel together to Wallach IX to see her. We’ll go as soon as we leave here, and I don’t care how the Sisters feel about it. I’d like to watch them stop me from seeing her.” He stepped back, looking down at the boy. “Then, when we get back to Ix, we’ll attend council meetings together. We’ll stand firm against the technocrats as a united House Vernius. We can be strong enough to do anything.”

They could not book passage to Caladan for three days. Pacing the floor inside the fine guest quarters that Governor Kio had provided, Duke Leto frowned at the printed transport schedule, then set it aside on a plaz-topped side table. “We won’t be leaving Balut as soon as I’d hoped.”

Paul was not disappointed in the least. Once home on Caladan, he would go back to being trained as a Landsraad nobleman, and Bronso would return to the technocracy on Ix, their carefree days over. “That means we’ll be here for the performance. You can see the Jongleurs in action. Their Face Dancers are unlike anything you’ve—”

“I have no interest in acrobats or shape-shifters.” For more than a day, Leto had maintained a veneer of displeasure at what Paul had done, though the Duke could not entirely hide his deep-seated relief.

Paul had admitted his culpability and apologized, though he could not deny the sense of honor he felt toward safeguarding Bronso. He had explained why he’d felt it necessary to stay with Rhombur’s son, no matter what.

Now, he faced his father with a growing sense of confidence. “Sir, you sent me away to learn. Before that, you taught me about politics and leadership, while Thufir, Duncan, and Gurney showed me how to fight and defend myself. Rheinvar’s troupe showed us how to affect great crowds, how to enhance emotions and reactions. Isn’t that useful knowledge for a Duke to have?”

“You mean you learned how to trick and manipulate people.”

Paul lowered his eyes, careful not to argue. “I believe there is a place for charismatic elocution in statecraft, sir.”

Jessica interceded in a carefully controlled tone of voice. “The Bene Gesserit teach those things as well. Paul will face unexpected dangers and crises when he becomes Duke. Why object to any skill that might
save him? He has the tools to use—now trust that he also has the honor and moral underpinnings to know when, and when not, to use them.”

Leto remained stiff, didn’t reply. . . .

Later that afternoon, Rhombur Vernius came to the doorway to speak on Paul’s behalf. The cyborg prince knew full well that Bronso was the one who had instigated the brash flight from Ix. “
I
should have been there to protect the boys, Leto, even after what happened to Tessia. Paul did the honorable thing. I beg you, don’t punish him. Without his courage, Bronso might very well be lost or dead.”

Finally, Leto’s sternness melted like frost on one of the castle windows on an autumn morning. He was forced to admit, “I did make Paul swear to watch over your son.”

Nevertheless, the Duke was not quick to forget—and would not let his son forget, either. When the Balut governor invited them all to a banquet on the night before the scheduled Jongleur performance, Leto told Paul to take his meal alone and ponder the consequences of his foolish, shortsighted decision, no matter his good intentions toward Bronso Vernius.

Left by himself in their guest quarters, Paul considered how hard Rheinvar’s troupe must be scrambling to assemble the rest of the stage and the complex special-effects mechanisms inside the Theater of Shards; the performers would be rehearsing repeatedly. Paul longed to be out there helping them.

But something troubled him. He had not told his parents that there were Face Dancer assassins in the Jongleur troupe. It was the sort of problem that he wished would just go away, because if he explained, his father would be even more upset with him and more critical of him. Paul didn’t know how to phrase it, but knew he would have to find a way. Endorsing “necessary assassinations” was certainly not a House Atreides ideal.

A liveried Balut servant appeared at the doorway bearing a tray of dishes prepared by the Governor’s finest chefs. The rich aromas wafting up from the covered plates made Paul’s stomach rumble. The servant placed the tray on a table and removed the coverings with a showman’s flourish. Paul thanked him distractedly, and the man straightened, meeting his gaze. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Instantly on his guard, Paul watched the plain features on the servant’s face shift and revert to another familiar form. “Sielto?”

“You may call me that.”

Paul didn’t press him for a more definite answer. “What brings you here? Is Rheinvar all right?”

“Delivering a cautionary note is strictly against protocol, but . . .” The Face Dancer shrugged. “I decided to make an exception in this case, since I already chose to get involved—to interfere—when I informed the Wayku of your identity and whereabouts. That is how your family knew to come to Balut.”

“
You
did that? Why?”

“Because you two boys dabble in this life, but do not belong here. You and your companion will both achieve great things, but not if you remain with a traveling Jongleur troupe.”

Paul frowned. “I’m not sure why you’re telling me this.”

“Even a play may hold more drama than meets the eye.”

“A play? You mean the performance tomorrow, or . . . ?”

“Everything is part of the performance, and no one has the complete script.”

“A cautionary note? More drama than meets the eye? Is someone in danger?”

“Everyone is in danger, young man, every day. Danger can come from anywhere, and strike anyone. It can come in any form or package. Just remain vigilant, young friend, even though you are not in the script.” Sielto’s features resumed the appearance of a Balut servant, and he left without another word, though Paul had many more questions.

Sielto’s cryptic words didn’t rise quite to the level of a warning. To Paul, it sounded more philosophical. But Sielto had not come merely to philosophize with Paul. Something more had to be there. A script? Did that mean a plot?

Alone in his room, the young man looked at food that no longer tempted him. Thufir Hawat had told him never to lower his guard, and that habit had become second nature to Paul. He couldn’t imagine how much more security Governor Kio could mount. Even without specifics, he decided he would have to tell his father, though he did not look forward to the conversation.

While an audience is captivated by the show, they must ask themselves: At whose expense is the entertainment derived?

—
RHEINVAR THE MAGNIFICENT

W
hen the grand Jongleur performance began inside the Theater of Shards, Paul was awash with emotions. Just a few days ago, he had expected to be part of this show behind the scenes, a nameless roustabout; now he found himself with his family high above the stage in a private balcony box, the son of a Landsraad nobleman occupying one of the best seats in the house, at the insistence of Governor Kio. He fidgeted on the Governor’s Balcony, feeling like an outsider.

Beside him, his father sat in a formal black jacket emblazoned with the Atreides hawk crest, while the governor had provided Paul with a similar dark jacket. Jessica looked lovely in a dark green gown spangled with ice diamonds, much like those that adorned the costume of Rheinvar the Magnificent.

After Paul had delivered the mysterious and nonspecific warning from Sielto, revealing how the Face Dancers were sometimes involved in surreptitious assassinations, Duke Leto had scowled, then dispatched a message to Governor Kio to increase her security precautions.

But Leto had decided not to hide. “There are always threats against us, Paul, and we can’t let them prevent us from going out in public. As the Old Duke used to tell me, ‘If fear rules us, we don’t deserve to rule.’ ”

Paul had sat quietly in his room, the food hardly touched on the table, his stomach roiling. He hated to have his father, whom he admired greatly, disappointed in him. “I’ll do better, sir. I promise.”

“See that you do.” Duke Leto’s features then softened. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to miss the performance that is so important to you.”