Dune (54 page)

They were seated in the golden box above the triangular arena–horns
blaring, the tiers above and around them jammed with a hubbub of people and
waving pennants–when the answer came to the Baron.

“My dear Baron,” the Count said, leaning close to his ear, “you know, don’t
you, that the Emperor has not given official sanction to your choice of heir?”

The Baron felt himself to be within a sudden personal cone of silence
produced by his own shock. He stared at Fenring, barely seeing the Count’s lady
come through the guards beyond to join the party in the golden box.

“That’s really why I’m here today,” the Count said. “The Emperor wishes me
to report on whether you’ve chosen a worthy successor. There’s nothing like the
arena to expose the true person from beneath the mask, eh?”

“The Emperor promised me free choice of heir!” the Baron grated.

“We shall see,” Fenring said, and turned away to greet his lady. She sat
down, smiling at the Baron, then giving her attention to the sand floor beneath
them where Feyd-?Rautha was emerging in giles and tights–the black glove and the
long knife in his right hand, the white glove and the short knife in his left
hand.

“White for poison, black for purity,” the Lady Fenring said. “A curious
custom, isn’t it, my love?”

“Um-?m-?m-?m,” the Count said.

The greeting cheer lifted from the family galleries, and Feyd-?Rautha paused
to accept it, looking up and scanning the faces–seeing his cousines and
cousins, the demibrothers, the concubines and out-?freyn relations. They were so
many pink trumpet mouths yammering amidst a flutter of colorful clothing and
banners.

It came to Feyd-?Rautha then that the packed ranks of faces would look just
as avidly at his blood as at that of the slave-?gladiator. There was not a doubt
of the outcome in this fight, of course. Here was only the form of danger
without its substance–yet . . .

Feyd-?Rautha held up his knives to the sun, saluted the three corners of the
arena in the ancient manner. The short knife in white-?gloved hand (white, the
sign of poison) went first into its sheath. Then the long blade in the black-
gloved hand–the pure blade that now was unpure, his secret weapon to turn this
day into a purely personal victory: poison on the black blade.

The adjustment of his body shield took only a moment, and he paused to sense
the skin-?tightening at his forehead assuring him he was properly guarded.

This moment carried its own suspense, and Feyd-?Rautha dragged it out with
the sure hand of a showman, nodding to his handlers and distracters, checking
their equipment with a measuring stare–gyves in place with their prickles sharp
and glistening, the barbs and hooks waving with their blue streamers.

Feyd-?Rautha signaled the musicians.

The slow march began, sonorous with its ancient pomp, and Feyd-?Rautha led
his troupe across the arena for obeisance at the foot of his uncle’s box. He
caught the ceremonial key as it was thrown.

The music stopped.

Into the abrupt silence, he stepped back two paces, raised the key and
shouted. “I dedicate this truth to . . . ” And he paused, knowing his uncle
would think: The young fool’s going to dedicate to Lady Fenring after all and
cause a ruckus!

“ . . . to my uncle and patron, the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen!” Feyd-?Rautha
shouted.

And he was delighted to see his uncle sigh.

The music resumed at the quick-?march, and Feyd-?Rautha led his men scampering
back across the arena to the prudence door that admitted only those wearing the
proper identification band. Feyd-?Rautha prided himself that he never used the
pru-?door and seldom needed distracters. But it was good to know they were
available this day–special plans sometimes involved special dangers.

Again, silence settled over the arena.

Feyd-?Rautha turned, faced the big red door across from him through which the
gladiator would emerge.

The special gladiator.

The plan Thufir Hawat had devised was admirably simple and direct, Feyd-
Rautha thought. The slave would not be drugged–that was the danger. Instead, a
key word had been drummed into the man’s unconscious to immobilize his muscles
at a critical instant. Feyd-?Rautha rolled the vital word in his mind, mouthing
it without sound: “Scum!” To the audience, it would appear that an un-?drugged
slave had been slipped into the arena to kill the na-?Baron. And all the
carefully arranged evidence would point to the slavemaster.

A low humming arose from the red door’s servomotors as they were armed for
opening.

Feyd-?Rautha focused all his awareness on the door. This first moment was the
critical one. The appearance of the gladiator as he emerged told the trained eye
much it needed to know. All gladiators were supposed to be hyped on elacca drug
to come out kill-?ready in fighting stance–but you had to watch how they hefted
the knife, which way they turned in defense, whether they were actually aware of
the audience in the stands. The way a slave cocked his head could give the most
vital clue to counter and feint.

The red door slammed open.
Out charged a tall, muscular man with shaved head and darkly pitted eyes.
His skin was carrot-?colored as it should be from the elacca drug, but Feyd-
Rautha knew the color was paint. The slave wore green leotards and the red belt
of a semishield–the belt’s arrow pointing left to indicate the slave’s left
side was shielded. He held his knife sword-?fashion, cocked slightly outward in
the stance of a trained fighter. Slowly, he advanced into the arena, turning his
shielded side toward Feyd-?Rautha and the group at the pru-?door.

“I like not the look of this one, ”said one of Feyd-?Rautha’s barb-?men. “Are
you sure he’s drugged, m’Lord?”

“He has the color,” Feyd-?Rautha said.

“Yet he stands like a fighter,” said another helper.

Feyd-?Rautha advanced two steps onto the sand, studied this slave.

“What has he done to his arm?” asked one of the distracters.

Feyd-?Rautha’s attention went to a bloody scratch on the man’s left forearm,
followed the arm down to the hand as it pointed to a design drawn in blood on
the left hip of the green leotards–a wet shape there: the formalized outline of
a hawk.

Hawk!

Feyd-?Rautha looked up into the darkly pitted eyes, saw them glaring at him
with uncommon alertness.

It’s one of Duke Leto’s fighting men we took on Arrakis! Feyd-?Rautha
thought. No simple gladiator this! A chill ran through him, and he wondered if
Hawat had another plan for this arena–a feint within a feint within a feint.
And only the slavemaster prepared to take the blame!

Feyd-?Rautha’s chief handler spoke at his ear: “I like not the look on that
one, m’Lord. Let me set a barb or two in his knife arm to try him.”

“I’ll set my own barbs,” Feyd-?Rautha said. He took a pair of the long,
hooked shafts from the handler, hefted them, testing the balance. These barbs,
too, were supposed to be drugged–but not this time, and the chief handler might
die because of that. But it was all part of the plan.

“You’ll come out of this a hero,” Hawat had said. “Killed your gladiator man
to man and in spite of treachery. The slavemaster will be executed and your man
will step into his spot.”

Feyd-?Rautha advanced another five paces into the arena, playing out the
moment, studying the slave. Already, he knew, the experts in the stands above
him were aware that something was wrong. The gladiator had the correct skin
color for a drugged man, but he stood his ground and did not tremble. The
aficionados would be whispering among themselves now: “See how he stands. He
should be agitated–attacking or retreating. See how he conserves his strength,
how he waits. He should not wait.”

Feyd-?Rautha felt his own excitement kindle. Let there be treachery in
Hawat’s mind, he thought. I can handle this slave. And it’s my long knife that
carries the poison this time, not the short one. Even Hawat doesn’t know that.

“Hai, Harkonnen!” the slave called. “Are you prepared to die?”

Deathly stillness gripped the arena. Slaves did not issue the challenge!

Now, Feyd-?Rautha had a clear view of the gladiator’s eyes, saw the cold
ferocity of despair in them. He marked the way the man stood, loose and ready,
muscles prepared for victory. The slave grapevine had carried Hawat’s message to
this one: “You’ll get a true chance to kill the na-?Baron.” That much of the
scheme was as they’d planned it, then.

A tight smile crossed Feyd-?Rautha’s mouth. He lifted the barbs, seeing
success for his plans in the way the gladiator stood.

“Hai! Hai!” the slave challenged, and crept forward two steps.

No one in the galleries can mistake it now, Feyd-?Rautha thought.

This slave should have been partly crippled by drug-?induced terror. Every
movement should have betrayed his inner knowledge that there was no hope for
him–he could not win. He should have been filled with the stories of the
poisons the na-?Baron chose for the blade in his white-?gloved hand. The na-?Baron
never gave quick death; he delighted in demonstrating rare poisons, could stand
in the arena pointing out interesting side effects on a writhing victim. There
was fear in the slave, yes–but not terror.

Feyd-?Rautha lifted the barbs high, nodded in an almost-?greeting.

The gladiator pounced.

His feint and defensive counter were as good as any Feyd-?Rautha had ever
seen. A timed side blow missed by the barest fraction from severing the tendons
of the na-?Baron’s left leg.

Feyd-?Rautha danced away, leaving a barbed shaft in the slave’s right
forearm, the hooks completely buried in flesh where the man could not withdraw
them without ripping tendons.

A concerted gasp lifted from the galleries.

The sound filled Feyd-?Rautha with elation.

He knew now what his uncle was experiencing, sitting up there with the
Fenrings, the observers from the Imperial Court, beside him. There could be no
interference with this fight. The forms must be observed in front of witnesses.
And the Baron would interpret the events in the arena only one way–threat to
himself.

The slave backed, holding knife in teeth and lashing the barbed shaft to his
arm with the pennant. “I do not feel your needle!” he shouted. Again he crept
forward, knife ready, left side presented, his body bent backward to give it the
greatest surface of protection from the half-?shield.

That action, too, didn’t escape the galleries. Sharp cries came from the
family boxes. Feyd-?Rautha’s handlers were calling out to ask if he needed them.

He waved them back to the pru-?door.

I’ll give them a show such as they’ve never had before, Feyd-?Rautha thought.
No tame killing where they can sit back and admire the style. This’ll be
something to take them by the guts and twist them. When I’m Baron they’ll
remember this day and won’t be a one of them can escape fear of me because of
this day.

Feyd-?Rautha gave ground slowly before the gladiator’s crablike advance.
Arena sand grated underfoot. He heard the slave’s panting, smelled his own sweat
and a faint odor of blood on the air.

Steadily, the na-?Baron moved backward, turning to the right, his second barb
ready. The slave danced sideways. Feyd-?Rautha appeared to stumble, heard the
scream from the galleries.

Again, the slave pounced.

Gods, what a fighting man! Feyd-?Rautha thought as he leaped aside. Only
youth’s quickness saved him, but he left the second barb buried in the deltoid
muscle of the slave’s right arm.

Shrill cheers rained from the galleries.

They cheer me now, Feyd-?Rautha thought. He heard the wildness in the voices
just as Hawat had said he would. They’d never cheered a family fighter that way
before. And he thought with an edge of grimness on a thing Hawat had told him:
“It’s easier to be terrified by an enemy you admire.”

Swiftly, Feyd-?Rautha retreated to the center of the arena where all could
see clearly. He drew his long blade, crouched and waited for the advancing
slave.

The man took only the time to lash the second barb tight to his arm, then
sped in pursuit.

Let the family see me do this thing, Feyd-?Rautha thought. I am their enemy:
let them think of me as they see me now.

He drew his short blade.

“I do not fear you, Harkonnen swine,” the gladiator said. “Your tortures
cannot hurt a dead man. I can be dead on my own blade before a handler lays
finger to my flesh. And I’ll have you dead beside me!”
Feyd-?Rautha grinned, offered now the long blade, the one with the poison.
“Try this one,” he said, and feinted with the short blade in his other hand.

The slave shifted knife hands, turned inside both parry and feint to grapple
the na-?Baron’s short blade–the one in the white gloved hand that tradition said
should carry the poison.

“You will die, Harkonnen,” the gladiator gasped.

They struggled sideways across the sand. Where Feyd-?Rautha’s shield met the
slave’s halfshield, a blue glow marked the contact. The air around them filled
with ozone from the field.

“Die on your own poison!” the slave grated.

He began forcing the white-?gloved hand inward, turning the blade he thought
carried the poison.

Let them see this! Feyd-?Rautha thought. He brought down the long blade, felt
it clang uselessly against the barbed shaft lashed to the slave’s arm.

Feyd-?Rautha felt a moment of desperation. He had not thought the barbed
shafts would be an advantage for the slave. But they gave the man another
shield. And the strength of this gladiator! The short blade was being forced
inward inexorably, and Feyd-?Rautha focused on the fact that a man could also die
on an unpoisoned blade.

“Scum!” Feyd-?Rautha gasped.

At the key word, the gladiator’s muscles obeyed with a momentary slackness.
It was enough for Feyd-?Rautha. He opened a space between them sufficient for the
long blade. Its poisoned tip flicked out, drew a red line down the slave’s
chest. There was instant agony in the poison. The man disengaged himself,
staggered backward.