HOUSE HARKONNEN (24/38)
Anonymous
Beneath a world -- in its rocks, its dirt and sedimentary overlays -- there you
find the planet's memory, the complete analog of its existence, its ecological
memory.
-PARROT KYNES, An Arrakis Primer
IN TIGHT FORMATION, armored Imperial prison ships dropped out of the Heighliner
hold and fell toward the festering planet like an airborne funeral procession.
Even from space, Salusa Secundus looked gangrenous, with dark scabs and a filmy
cloud layer like a torn shroud. According to official press releases, new
convicts sent to Salusa had a sixty-percent mortality rate in the first
Standard Year.
After the new cargo of prisoners and supplies had been shuttled down to guarded
unloading points, Spacing Guild crewmen held the bay doors open long enough for
another battered frigate and two unmarked fast lighters to emerge. Leaving no
record of their passage, Dominic Vernius and his men proceeded to the planet
through a gap in the satellite surveillance net.
Liet-Kynes sat in a passenger seat of the frigate, fingers pressed to the cool
pane of the viewplaz. His eyes were as wide as those of a Fremen child on his
first worm ride. Salusa Secundus!
The sky was a sickly orange, streaked by pallid clouds even in the noon
brightness. Ball lightning bounced across the heavens, as if invisible titans
were playing electrical ninepins.
Avoiding Imperial detection beacons, Dominic's frigate skimmed across the
puckered and cracked wastelands as it headed for its landing area. They
crossed expanses of vitrified rock that sparkled like lakes, but were actually
puddles of granite-glass. Even after so many centuries, only sparse brown
grass pried upward through the blasted fields, like the clawed fingers of men
buried alive.
Between one heartbeat and the next, Liet understood how his father had been so
profoundly moved by the unhealed wounds of this forsaken place. He made a low
sound in his throat. When Dominic turned toward him with a curious expression,
Liet explained, "In ancient times the Zensunni people -- the Fremen -- were
slaves here for nine generations." Staring at the blistered landscape, he
added in a quiet voice, "Some say you can still see their blood staining the
soil and hear their cries carried on the wind."
Dominic's broad shoulders sagged. "Weichih, Salusa has endured more than its
share of pain and misery."
They approached the outskirts of a once-sprawling city that now looked like an
architectural scar. Stumps of buildings and blackened milk-marble columns lay
as detritus of the splendor that once held dominion here. Off in the scabrous
hills, a new wall zigzagged around a portion of reasonably intact structures,
the remains of an abandoned city that had survived the holocaust.
"That wall was meant to enclose the prison population," Dominic said, "but
after it broke down and the prisoners escaped, the functionaries and
administrators sealed up the barrier again and lived inside it, where they felt
protected." He coughed out a snorting laugh. "Once the prisoners realized
they were better off in a place where they were at least fed and clothed, they
tried to break back in."
He shook his shaved head. "Now, the toughest ones have learned to make their
own lives out here. The others just die. The Corrinos imported dangerous
beasts -- Laza tigers, Salusan bulls, and the like -- to keep the survivors in
check. Convicted criminals are just . . . abandoned here. No one expects to
leave."
Liet studied the landscape with a Planetologist's eye, trying to remember
everything his father had taught him. He could smell a sour dampness in the
air, even in this desolate place. "Seems to be enough potential, enough
moisture. There could be ground cover, crops, livestock. Someone could change
this place."
"The damned Corrinos won't allow it." Dominic's face darkened. "They like it
this way, as a suitable punishment for anyone who dares to defy the Imperium.
Once prisoners get here, a cruel game begins. The Emperor likes to see who
toughens up the best, who survives the longest. In his Palace, members of the
Royal Court place bets on renowned prisoners, as to who will survive and who
won't."
"My father didn't tell me that," Liet said. "He lived here for years when he
was younger."
Dominic gave a wan smile, but his eyes remained dark and troubled. "Whoever
your father is, lad, he must not know everything." The weary exile guided the
frigate above the rubble of the outer city, to a broken hangar where the roof
had sagged into a spiderweb of rusted girders. "As the Earl of Ix, I prefer to
be underground. No need to worry about aurora storms down there."
"My father also told me about aurora storms."
The frigate descended into the dark hole in the hangar -- and kept going down
into cavernous warehouse spaces. "This used to be an Imperial repository,
reinforced for long-term storage." Dominic switched on the ship's running
lights, splashing yellow beams into the air. A settling dust cloud looked like
gray rain.
The two mismatched lighters swooped in beside the frigate and landed first.
Other smugglers emerged from within the hidden base to lock down the craft.
They unloaded cargo, tools, and supplies. The pilots of the small ships
hurried over to stand by the frigate ramp, waiting for Dominic to emerge.
As he followed the bald leader down, Liet sniffed, still feeling naked without
stillsuit or nose plugs. The air smelled dry and burned, tinged with solvents
and ozone. Liet longed for the rough warmth of natural rock, like a
comfortable sietch; too many of the walls around him were covered with
artificial sheets of metal or plastone, concealing chambers beyond.
On a ramp that circled the landing zone, a well-muscled man appeared. He
bounded down a stairway to the ground with a smooth and feral grace, though his
body was lumpy and unwieldy-looking. A startling, beet-red inkvine scar marred
his squarish face, and his stringy blond hair hung at an odd angle over his
left eye. He looked like a man who had been broken and then reassembled
without instructions.
"Gurney Halleck!" Dominic's voice echoed in the landing chamber. "Come and
meet our new comrade, born and raised among the Fremen."
The man grinned wolfishly and came over with startling swiftness. He extended
a broad palm and tried to crush Liet's hand with his grip. He quoted a passage
that Liet recognized from the Orange Catholic Bible, "Greet all those whom you
would have as friends, and welcome them with your heart as well as your hand."
Liet returned the gesture, speaking a traditional Fremen response in the
ancient language of Chakobsa.
"Gurney comes to us from Giedi Prime," Dominic said. "He stowed away on a
shipment bound for my old friend Duke Leto Atreides, then switched ships on
Hagal, moving through commercial hubs and spaceports, until he fell in with the
right comrades."
Gurney gave an awkward shrug. He was sweaty, his clothes disheveled from
rigorous sword practice. "By the hells, I continued to dig myself deeper,
hiding in more and more miserable places for half a year before I finally found
these thugs . . . at the very bottom."
Liet narrowed his eyes suspiciously, ignoring the good-natured banter. "You
come from Giedi Prime? The Harkonnen world?" His fingers strayed toward his
belt, where he kept his crysknife sheathed. "I have killed a hundred Harkonnen
devils."
Gurney detected the movement, but locked gazes with the bearded young Fremen.
"Then you and I will be great friends."
LATER, WHEN LIET SAT with the smuggler band in the drinking hall of the
underground base, he listened to the discussions, the laughter, the gruffly
exchanged stories, the boastings and outright lies.
They opened expensive bottles of a rare vintage and passed around snifters of
the potent amber liquid. "Imperial brandy, lad," Gurney said, handing a glass
to Liet, who had trouble swallowing the thick liqueur. "Shaddam's private
stock, worth ten times its weight in melange." The scarred man gave him a
conspiratorial wink. "We swapped a shipment from Kirana, took the Emperor's
personal goods for ourselves, and replaced them with bottles of skunk-vinegar.
I expect we'll hear about it soon."
Dominic Vernius entered the hall, and all the smugglers greeted him. He had
changed into a sleeveless jerkin made of maroon merhsilk lined with black whale
fur. Floating like ghosts near him were several holo-images of his beloved
wife, so that he could see her no matter which way he turned.
It was warm and comfortable inside the stronghold, but Liet hoped to spend time
outside, exploring the Salusan landscape as his father had done. First,
though, Liet had promised to use his Fremen skills to study the hidden base, to
help disguise it and protect it from observers -- though he agreed with Dominic
that few people would bother to look for a hideout here.
No one willingly came to Salusa Secundus.
On the wall of his hideout mess hall, Dominic kept a centuries-old map,
depicting the way this world had been in its glory days as the magnificent
capital of an interstellar empire. Lines were drawn in gold metal, palaces and
cities marked with jewels, ice caps made of tiger's-breath opal, and inlaid
seas of petrified Elaccan bluewood.
Dominic claimed (from his own imagination rather than any documentary evidence)
that the map had belonged to Crown Prince Raphael Corrino, the legendary
statesman and philosopher from thousands of years ago. Dominic expressed
relief that Raphael -- "the only good Corrino of the bunch," as far as he was
concerned -- had never lived to see what had happened to his beloved capital.
All of that fairy-tale magnificence, all the dreams and visions and good deeds,
had been wiped away by nuclear fire.
Gurney Halleck strummed his new baliset and sang a mournful song. Liet
listened to the words, finding them sensitive and haunting, evoking images of
bygone people and places.
O for the days of times long past,
Touch sweet nectar to my lips once more.
Fond memories to taste and feel . . .
The smiles and kisses of delight
And innocence and hope.
But all I see are veils and tears
And the murky, drowning depths
Of pain and toil and hopelessness.
It's wiser, my friend, to took another way,
Into the light, and not the dark.
Each man took his own meaning from the song, and Liet noticed tears at the
edges of Dominic's eyes, while his gaze was directed at the holo-portraits of
Shando. Liet flinched at the naked emotion that was so rare among the Fremen.
Dominic's distant gaze was only partly focused on the bejeweled map on the
wall. "Somewhere in Imperial records, undoubtedly covered with dust, is the
name of the renegade family that used forbidden atomics to devastate a
continent here."
Liet shuddered. "What were they thinking? Why would even a renegade do such a
terrible thing?"
"They did what they had to do, Weichih," Johdam snapped, rubbing the scar on
his eyebrow. "We cannot know the price of their desperation."
Dominic sagged deeper into his chair. "Some Corrinos -- damn them and their
descendants -- were left alive. The surviving Emperor, Hassik III, moved his
capital to Kaitain . . . and the Imperium goes on. The Corrinos go on. And
they took an ironic pleasure in turning the hellhole of Salusa Secundus into
their private prison world. Every member of that renegade family was hunted
down and brought here to suffer horrible deaths."
The bristly-haired veteran Asuyo nodded gravely. "It's said that their ghosts
still haunt this place, eh?"
Startled, Liet recognized that the exiled Earl Vernius saw reminders of himself
in that desperate, long-forgotten family. Though Dominic seemed good-natured,
Liet had learned the depths of pain this man had endured: his wife murdered,
his subjects crushed under a Tleilaxu yoke, his son and daughter forced to live
in exile on Caladan.
"Those renegades long ago . . ." Dominic said with a strange light in his eyes,
"they weren't as thorough as I'd have been with the killing."
A Duke must always take control of his household, for if he does not rule those
closest to him, he cannot hope to govern a planet.
-DUKE PAULUS ATREIDES
SHORTLY AFTER THE NOONDAY MEAL, Leto sat on the carpeted floor of the playroom,
bouncing his four-and-a-half-year-old son on his knee. Though he had grown big
for the game, Victor still squealed with unbounded glee. Through armor-plat
windows the Duke could see the blue Caladan sky kissing the sea at the horizon,
with white clouds scudding above.
Behind him, Kailea watched from the doorway.
"He's too old for that, Leto. Stop treating him like a baby."
"Victor doesn't seem to agree." He bounced the dark-haired boy even higher,
eliciting louder giggles.
Leto's relationship with Kailea had improved in the six months since he'd
installed the fabulously expensive blue obsidian walls. Now the dining hall
and Kailea's private tower chambers echoed the splendor of the Grand Palais.
But her mood had darkened again in recent weeks, as she brooded (no doubt egged
on by Chiara) over how much time he spent with Jessica.
Leto no longer paid any attention to her complaints; they ran off him like
spring rain. In sharp contrast, Jessica demanded nothing from him. Her
kindness and occasional suggestions energized him and allowed him to perform
his duties as Duke with compassion and fairness.
For Kailea's sake, and for Victor's as well, Leto would not harm her reputation
on Caladan. The people loved their Duke, and he let them maintain their
illusions of fairy-tale happiness in his Castle -- much the same way Paulus had
feigned a pleasant marriage with Lady Helena. The Old Duke had called it
"bedroom politics," the bane of leaders all across the Imperium.
"Oh, why do I make the effort to talk with you at all, Leto?" Kailea said,
still standing at the playroom doorway. "It's like arguing with a stone!"
Leto stopped bouncing Victor and looked over at her, his gray eyes hard. He
kept his voice carefully neutral. "I didn't realize you were making much of an
effort."
Muttering an insult under her breath, Kailea whirled and stalked down the
corridor. Leto pretended not to notice she had left.
Spying her blond-haired brother carrying a baliset over one shoulder, Kailea
hurried to catch up with him. But upon seeing her, Rhombur just shook his
head. He held up a wide hand to forestall what he knew would be a flood of
complaints.
"What is it now, Kailea?" He touched one hand to the baliset strings. Thufir
Hawat had continued teaching him how to play the nine-stringed instrument.
"Have you found something new to be angry about, or is it a subject I've heard
before?"
His tone took her aback. "Is that any way to greet your sister? You've been
avoiding me for days." Her emerald eyes flashed.
"Because all you do is complain. Leto won't marry you . . . he plays too rough
with Victor . . . uh, he spends too much time with Jessica . . . he should take
you to Kaitain more often . . . he doesn't use his napkin right. I'm tired of
trying to mediate between you two." He shook his head. "To top it all off, it
seems to irritate you that I'm completely content with Tessia. Stop blaming
everyone else, Kailea -- your happiness is your own responsibility."
"I've lost too much in my life to be happy." She raised her chin.
Now Rhombur actually looked angry. "Are you really too self-centered to see
that I've lost as much as you have? I just don't let it eat at me every day."
"But we didn't have to lose it. You can still do more for House Vernius." She
was ashamed of his ineffectiveness. "I'm glad our parents aren't here to see
this. You're a pitiful excuse for a Prince, brother."
"Now that does sound a little like Tessia, though the way she says it isn't so
grating."
She fell silent as Jessica emerged from a passageway and turned toward the
playroom. Kailea flashed the other concubine a dagger-glare, but Jessica
smiled congenially. After entering the playroom to join Leto and Victor, she
closed the door behind her.
Looking back at Rhombur, Kailea snapped, "My son Victor is the future and hope
of a new House Atreides, but you can't understand that simple fact."
The Ixian Prince just shook his head, deeply saddened.
"I TRY TO BE PLEASANT TO HER, but it's no use," Jessica said, inside the
playroom. "She hardly says a word to me, and the way she looks at --"
"Not again." Leto heaved a perturbed sigh. "I know Kailea's causing damage to
my family, but I can't find it in my heart to just send her away." He sat on
the floor, while his son played with toy groundcars and ornithopters. "If it
weren't for Victor --"
"Chiara is always whispering something to her. The results are obvious.
Kailea is a powder keg, ready to explode."
Holding a model 'thopter in his hands, Duke Leto looked up at Jessica
helplessly. "Now you're showing spite of your own, Jessica. I'm disappointed
in you." His face hardened. "Concubines do not rule this House."
Because he knew Jessica had spent years in Bene Gesserit training, Leto was
surprised to see all color drain from her face. "My Lord, I . . . didn't mean
it that way. I'm so sorry." Bowing, she backed up and left the room.
Leto stared blankly at the toy, then at Victor. He felt completely lost.
A short while later, concealed like a shadow, Jessica observed Kailea in the
Castle foyer, whispering to Swain Goire, the household guard who spent much of
his time watching over Victor. Goire's loyalty and dedication to the Duke had
always been clear, and Jessica had seen how much he adored his young ward.
Goire seemed uneasy about receiving so much attention from the ducal concubine;
seemingly by accident, Kailea brushed her breasts against his arm, but he
pulled away.
Having been schooled in the intricate ways of human nature by the Bene
Gesserit, Jessica was only surprised that Kailea had taken so long to attempt
this petty revenge against Leto.
TWO NIGHTS LATER, unnoticed even by Thufir Hawat, Kailea slipped quietly into
Goire's bedroom.
We create our own future by our own beliefs, which control our actions. A
strong enough belief system, a sufficiently powerful conviction, can make
anything happen. This is how we create our consensus reality, including our
gods.
-REVEREND MOTHER RAMALLO, Sayyadina of the Fremen
THE SWORDMASTER PRACTICE HALL on the new Ginaz island was so opulent that it
would not have been out of place in any Landsraad ruling seat or even in the
Imperial Palace on Kaitain.
When Duncan Idaho stepped onto the gleaming hardwood floor, a veneer of light
and dark strips laid down and polished by hand, he looked around in wonder. A
dozen reflected images stared back at him from beveled floor-to-ceiling
mirrors, bounded by intricately wrought gold frames. It had been seven years
since he'd seen surroundings this fine, in Castle Caladan, where he'd trained
under Thufir Hawat in the Atreides hall.
Wind-bowed cypress trees surrounded the magnificent training facility on three
sides, with a stony beach on the fourth. The ostentatious building was
startling in its stark contrast with the students' primitive barracks. Run by
Swordmaster Whitmore Bludd, a balding man with a purple birthmark on his
forehead, the ornamentation of this practice hall would have made shaggy-haired
Mord Cour laugh.
Though an accomplished duelist, foppish Bludd considered himself a noble and
surrounded himself with fine things, even on his remote Ginaz island. Blessed
with an inexhaustible family fortune, Bludd had spent his own money to make
this fencing facility the most "civilized" place in the entire archipelago.
The Swordmaster was a direct descendant of Porce Bludd, who had fought
valiantly in the Butlerian Jihad. Prior to the battle exploits that had bought
him fame and cost him his life, Porce Bludd transported war-orphaned children
to sanctuary planets, paying the tremendous costs out of his huge inheritance.
On Ginaz, Whitmore Bludd never forgot his heritage -- or allowed others to
forget, either.
As Duncan stood with the others in the echoing hall -- smelling lemon and
carnauba oil, seeing splinters of light from chandeliers and mirrors -- the
finery seemed foreign to him. Paintings of dour-looking Bludd noblemen lined
the walls; a massive fireplace befitting a royal hunting lodge reached to the
ceiling. A fully stocked armory held racks of swords and fencing
paraphernalia. The palatial decor implied an army of servants, but Duncan saw
no other souls besides the trainees, the assistant instructors, and Whitmore
Bludd himself.
After permitting the students to gape in astonishment and uncertainty,
Swordmaster Bludd strutted in front of them. He wore billowy lavender
pantaloons bound at the knees, and gray hose down to short black boots. The
belt was wide, with a square buckle the size of his hand. His blouse shirt had
a high, restrictive collar, long ballooning sleeves, tight cuffs, and lace
trimmings.
"I will teach you fencing, Messieurs," he said. "No brutish nonsense with body
shields and kindjal daggers and power packs. No, most vehemently no!" He
withdrew a whip-thin blade with a bell-shaped handguard and a triangular cross
section. He swished it in the air. "Fencing is the sport -- no, the art of
swordsmanship with a blunted blade. It is a dance of mental reflexes, as well
as of the body."
He thrust the flexible epee into a scabbard at his side, then ordered all of
the students to change into fancy fencing outfits: archaic musketeer costumes
with studded buttons, lacy cuffs, ruffles, and cumbersome billows -- "the
better to display the beauty of fencing," Bludd said.
By now, Duncan had learned never to hesitate in following instructions. He
pulled on knee-high calfskin boots with cavalier spurs, and slipped into a blue-
velvet shortcoat with a lace collar and voluminous white sleeves. He donned a
rakish, broad-brimmed felt hat with the variegated pink plume of a Parella
peacock tucked into its band.
Across the room, he and Hiih Resser made eyes and faces at each other, amused.
The attire seemed better suited to a holiday masque than to fighting.
"You will learn to fight with finesse and grace, Messieurs." Whitmore Bludd
strutted back and forth, immensely pleased with all the finery around him.
"You will see the artistry in a fine duel. You will turn every movement into
an art form." The foppish but powerfully built Swordmaster picked at a speck
of lint on his ruffled shirt. "With only a year left in your training, one
assumes you have the potential to rise above animal attacks and cloddish
brawls? We will not lower ourselves to barbarism here."
Morning sunlight passed through a high, narrow window and glinted off Duncan's
pewter buttons. Feeling foolish, he examined himself in the wall mirror, then
found his usual place in formation.
When the remaining students lined up on the hardwood practice floor,
Swordmaster Bludd inspected their uniforms with many sighs and disapproving
noises. He smoothed wrinkles, while scolding the young men for incorrectly
buttoned cuffs and criticizing their attire with surprising seriousness.
"Terran musketeer fencing is the fifteenth fighting discipline you will learn.
But knowing the moves does not mean you understand the style. Today you will
compete against one another, with all the grace and chivalry that fencing
demands. Your epees will not be blunted, and you will wear no protective
masks."
He indicated racks of fencing swords between each bank of mirrors on the wall,
and the students moved forward to arm themselves; all the blades were
identical, ninety centimeters long, flexible, and sharp. The students toyed
with them. Duncan wished he could use the Old Duke's sword, but the fabulously
tooled weapon was made for a different kind of fighting. Not fencing.
Bludd sniffed, then swished his thin epee in the air to recapture their
attention. "You must fight to your fullest ability -- but I insist that there
be no injuries or blood on either opponent. Not so much as a scratch -- no,
most vehemently no! And certainly no damage to the clothes. Learn the perfect
attack, and the perfect defense. Lunge, parry, riposte. Practice supreme
control. You are each responsible for your fellows." He swept his ice-blue
gaze across the trainees, and his birthmark darkened on his forehead. "Any man
who fails me, anyone who causes a wound or allows himself to be injured, will
be disqualified from the next sequence of competitions."
Duncan drew deep, calming breaths, centering himself to face the challenge.
"This is a test of your artistry, Messieurs," Bludd said, pacing the polished
floor in his black boots. "This is the delicate dance of personal combat. The
goal will be to score touches upon your opponent's person without cutting him."
The spotlessly clean Swordmaster picked up his feathered hat and set it firmly
on his head. He indicated marked combat rectangles inlaid into the beautiful
parquet floor. "Prepare to fight."
DUNCAN QUICKLY DEFEATED three comparatively easy opponents, but his fourth
adversary, Iss Opru -- a smooth stylist from Al Dhanab -- made himself a
difficult target. Even so, the dark-skinned Opru had insufficient skill in
offense to match his defense, and Duncan outscored him by a single point.
In a nearby combat box, a student buckled at the knees, and bled from a wound
in his side. The assistant trainers rushed in and removed him on a litter.
His opponent, a Terrazi with shoulder-length hair, scowled at his stained
blade, awaiting his punishment. Whitmore Bludd snagged the Terrazi student's
sword and viciously flogged his backside with it, as if it were a metal whip.
"Both of you are a disgrace to your training -- him for allowing the wound, you
for not exercising sufficient restraint." Without protest, the Terrazi
stumbled to the losers' bench.
Now, two liveried servants -- the first Duncan had seen -- rushed in to clean
up the blood and polish the parquet in preparation for the next match. The
fighting continued.
Duncan Idaho, along with Resser and two other perspiring finalists, stood
panting in the center of the practice hall, awaiting their final dueling
assignments. Frustrated and uncomfortable, they had come to loathe their
extravagant costumes, but so far none of the finalists had been scratched, none
of the heavy fabric had been torn.
"Idaho and Resser over here! Eddin and al-Kaba, there!" Sword, master Bludd
called out, designating combat rectangles on the floor.
Obediently, the students moved into position. Resser eyed Duncan, sizing him
up as a foe instead of as a friend. Duncan crouched, flexing his knees and
balancing on the balls of his feet. Leaning forward with his arm slightly
bent, he extended the epee toward Resser, then drew back in a brief salute.
With a confident look, the redheaded Grumman did the same. Evenly matched,
they had dueled one another many times in full protective gear, with other
weapons. Duncan's speed usually compensated for lanky Resser's superior height
and reach. But now they had to follow Bludd's rules of fencing, inflict or
receive no scratches, not even damage the expensive, anachronistic outfits.
Bouncing on his feet to stay loose, Duncan said nothing. The flexible sword
would do the talking for him. Perspiration prickled his black hair beneath the
felt hat and the distracting peacock plume. He stared up at his freckled
opponent.
"En garde," Bludd said. His blue eyes flashed as he raised his blade.
At the signal to begin, Resser lunged forward. Duncan parried, deflecting his
opponent's blade with a sound like singing chimes, then took half a step to the
right and delivered a precise riposte, skillfully diverted by the tall Grumman.
Swords clattered together, steel skimming steel, as the two felt each other
out.
Both men were sweating, panting, their expressions fading into blank stares as
they moved back and forth within the clear boundaries of dark wood on the
parquet floor. So far Resser had done nothing unexpected, as usual. Duncan
hoped he could use that trait to defeat his opponent.
As if sensing the direction of his friend's thoughts, the redhead began to
fight with the fury of a warrior possessed, scoring one touché on Duncan and
then two, careful not to damage his opponent but also relying on Duncan to
mount a perfect defense.
Duncan had never seen such energy in his friend, and he struggled to elude a
series of vicious thrusts. He backed up, waiting for the flurry of activity to
ebb. Sweat ran down his cheek.
Still, Resser pressed on at a frantic pace, as if under the influence of a
stimulant. Their swords clattered loudly. Duncan could spare no fraction of
his attention to note the progress of the other match, but heard shouting and a
final clang of blades that told him the two other contestants had finished.
Swordmaster Bludd gave Duncan's match the full weight of his scrutiny.
The redhead's point touched him on his padded shirt, then seconds later on the
forehead. Resser was scoring points, leaving no scratches, following the rules.
Four points now, and with five he would win the match. If this had been a
fight to the death, I would be dead now.
Like a carrion bird waiting for a feast, Bludd watched every move.
Under Resser's onslaught, Duncan's muscles seemed to be slowing, holding him
back and preventing him from applying his normal skills. He looked at the epee
in his right hand and dredged up resources and strength within himself, drawing
upon everything he had learned in seven years on Ginaz. I fight for House
Atreides. I can win.
Resser danced deftly around him with the epee, making him look foolish.
Duncan's breathing slowed, and his heart rate diminished. Maximize chi, he
thought, visualizing the energy that flowed along precise paths in his body. I
must become a complete Swordmaster to defend my Duke -- not make a pretty
performance to please these instructors.
Resser ceased scoring as Duncan danced away. The chi within him mounted,
building pressure, waiting for the right moment to be released. Duncan focused
the energy, aiming it. . . .
Now he was on the attack. He confused the lanky redhead with moves synthesized
from various fighting disciplines. He whirled, kicked, used his free hand as a
weapon. They both staggered outside the boundaries of the fencing area, then
back into the rectangle. Duncan attacked again. A fist to the side of
Resser's head, knocking off the feathered cap, a kick to the stomach -- all
without drawing blood.
Stunned, Resser thudded to the floor. Duncan knocked his rival's sword away
and leaped on top of him, placing the tip of his own blade at the Grumman's
throat. Victory!
"Gods below! What are you doing?" Swordmaster Bludd shoved Duncan off Resser.
"You clod!" He grabbed the flexible sword away, and slapped Duncan twice
across the face. "This isn't a street brawl, fool. We're doing musketeer
fencing today. Are you an animal?"
Duncan rubbed his face where he'd been struck. In the heat of combat he had
fought for survival, ignoring the frivolous restrictions imposed by the
instructor.
Bludd slapped Duncan several more times, harder each time, as if the student
had personally insulted him. In the background, Resser kept saying, "It's all
right -- I'm not hurt. He bested me, and I couldn't defend myself."
Humiliated, Duncan backed away.
Bludd's rage did not subside. "You may think you're the best student in the
class, Idaho -- but you're a failure in my eyes."
Duncan felt like a small child being backed into a corner by an adult with a
strap. He wanted to fight back, wanted to stand up to this ridiculous-looking
man, but didn't dare.
He recalled the ill-tempered Trin Kronos using the same reasoning with fat
Swordmaster Rivvy Dinari. If you are bound by nonsensical strictures, you'll
be beaten by any opponent willing to bend the rules. His primary purpose was
to defend his Duke against any possible threat, not to play fencing games in
costumes.
"Think about why you're a failure," Whitmore Bludd thundered, "and then explain
it to me."
Tell that to the dead soldiers on the losing side.
Duncan thought hard. He did not want to echo the shameful thinking of the
spoiled Kronos, though it made more sense than he had realized before. Rules
could be interpreted differently, depending on the purpose they served. In
some situations there was no absolute good or evil, simply points of view. In
any event, he knew what his instructor wanted to hear.
"I am a failure because my mind is imperfect."
His answer seemed to surprise the muscular man, but a bemused smile gradually
formed on Bludd's face. "Correct enough, Idaho," he said. "Now get over there
with the other losers."