Sisterhood of Dune (33 page)

Of course, Lankiveil was not much of a planet, either—a suitable place for a disgraced man like Abulurd Harkonnen to be banished, but little more than that. It could hardly be called “home” in the comforting sense of the word.

Yet, through all the difficulties and resentments, Griffin had tried to see the potential there, the possibilities for whale-fur trade, the investments he could bring in from other noble families if he had the opportunity to talk with them. And once he became the Landsraad representative, he would travel to Salusa Secundus, make allies, and conduct business—and eventually people would learn that his ancestors were the same as the Butler family, who called themselves Corrino after the Jihad. It was all part of his and Valya’s long-term strategy. Though Griffin might not live to see it completed, his children and grandchildren would.

But the reemergence of Vorian Atreides had saddled him with other obligations first.

After the loss of Weller and the whale-fur cargo, Griffin understood how important it was for him to be on Lankiveil, to guide his family through the rough and dangerous waters. Unable to do that in person, he had left careful instructions, appointed deputies among the townspeople, and coached Vergyl Harkonnen as best he could. He had to hope they could manage the business of Lankiveil well enough until he returned.

Avenge our family honor, Griffin. I know I can count on you.

Though it gave him considerable pause to seek vengeance against such an aged man, Harkonnen family honor trumped everything, including the ledger sheets and five-year plans he’d been spending so much time on. Considering the gravity of what Griffin had to do now—assassinate the most famous hero of the Jihad—he had some misgivings. But he did not shirk the responsibility. He needed to face the grim but necessary task, and complete it.

After setting aside money for necessary planetary expenditures on Lankiveil and automating the accounts so that spaceship arrivals would be compensated and vital cargoes paid for, Griffin carefully budgeted the settlement money from Celestial Transport and booked the cheapest possible passage to Kepler. Most of the funds he took with him came out of the savings he had built up to pay for appropriate government certifications on Salusa Secundus and to establish an office in the capital city. For the time being, he set those dreams aside.

The roundabout route required several different transfers, and he was forced to travel aboard an old-model cargo vessel operated by Celestial Transport. After the terrible accident that cost his uncle’s life, Griffin was reluctant to deal with CT, but the next available ship would have taken him six more weeks to get to Kepler. He didn’t want to be gone for that long.

Upon arriving at his destination he saw a group of large, well-armed warships circling in orbit, keeping watch like fierce guardians. According to reports, Vorian Atreides had arranged the military protection from Emperor Salvador. Griffin narrowed his eyes, feeling a flash of annoyance. He didn’t know the details, but assumed the arrangement involved bribes, coercion, and calling in special favors. The Atreides patriarch manipulated people in power so easily.

By contrast, the Corrino Emperor had never bothered to station any defenses above Lankiveil.…

Kepler’s small spaceport was little more than a landing field and a transfer station out to one of the continent’s fourteen inhabited valleys. Weller had once told him, “The only way to get answers is by asking questions.” Everyone from lowly refueling technicians to the on-duty administrator of spaceport operations was delighted to talk about Vorian Atreides, whose identity had now been exposed. For years, apparently, he had lived a quiet life here, pretending to be a simple man, well liked by his family and his neighbors. Now, after what he had done in securing protection for Kepler, they regarded him as a hero, celebrating his accomplishments and applauding all he had done for the planet and its people.

A cargo handler had the most to say. “When slavers raided Vorian’s valley and captured his friends and family, he took his own ship and raced to rescue them! The rest of us had given up. What can you do after a slave raid? But he found a way!” As he spoke, the loquacious man operated a control panel, moving suspensor-borne crates of cargo from the supply shuttle to large delivery trucks. “Yes, sir, Vorian followed the slavers to Poritrin and used his own fortune to buy back the captives—not just his own family members, but everybody. Then he went to Salusa and forced the Emperor to guarantee our protection. The man was already legendary for his exploits in the Jihad, and this only adds to his incredible legacy of selfless acts.”

The cargo handler pointed a finger toward the sky. “We got those warships up there because Vorian Atreides demanded them from the Emperor. No one else could have done it except the former Supreme Bashar of the Army of Humanity. But Vorian—ah, he is still a man to be reckoned with.”

“Yes, it sounds like he is,” Griffin said, frowning. Could this be the same man he had heard about all his life, the monster who would stab his best friend Xavier Harkonnen in the back?

When she sent her message, Valya had neglected to mention the reason Vorian Atreides had come to the Imperial Court in the first place, that he was apparently on a mission of mercy to protect his adopted planet. She must have known that.

“I’d like to meet him,” Griffin said, beginning to feel a little uncertain about the nature of his enemy. Apparently, the man was not all black or white, though that did not diminish his treachery against House Harkonnen. “In fact,” Griffin said, “I have connections with him that go way back. Where does he live? He hasn’t gone back into hiding, has he?”

“Everyone knows the village where he’s lived all these years.” The cargo handler paused while the crates floated beside him. He wiped a thick hand across his sweaty forehead, then provided the name of a valley, along with vague directions. It was enough for a start. From what Valya had told him and what Griffin had seen in the historical record, his prey did not avoid calling attention to himself if the opportunity arose.

A woman in the admin office gave him more detailed guidance, and then he arranged for transport out to the valley. His heart was pumping with anticipation. When Valya entrusted this task to him, placing the obligation on his shoulders, she had not seemed to consider it an overly difficult mission.

But did she really expect him to walk up to the man and simply kill him? That seemed no more honorable than what Atreides had done to Abulurd Harkonnen.

In his mind, Griffin envisioned how their encounter might play out. After so many years of lying low, why should Atreides expect to hear from descendants of the young bashar whose career he had ruined long ago, whose name he had soiled? The surprise would be complete, and the deed needed to be done so that the man knew exactly who had defeated him. A Harkonnen must make him understand how much pain the whole family had suffered because of him—and then kill him in fair combat.

Growing up together, Griffin and Valya had sparred, building each other up, testing, fighting. They had been perfectly matched, almost as if telepathically linked. They developed their own fighting techniques, honed their reflexes, learned how to respond to the slightest flicker of movement. No hesitation. They could spar on balanced, mist-slick logs, or they could jump, kick, and land again with perfect poise on narrow, wobbly canoes out in the harbor.

Now Griffin wondered if Valya had been planning for an encounter like this all along. If he had to fight Vorian Atreides, his abilities could completely surprise his foe.

His sister considered the two of them to be the only real Harkonnens true to their bloodline. In between practice matches, they studied the history of their ancestors Abulurd, Xavier … Quentin Butler, Faykan Butler, the great heroes of the Jihad. “We are of the Imperial line,” she had told him. “We should be on
Salusa Secundus
 … not forgotten, as we are on Lankiveil. We were meant for much greater things.”

Assassination, to avenge the family honor.

Reaching the sheltered valley where Vorian Atreides and his family made their homes, Griffin arrived in the midst of a somber procession—not a celebration of Vorian’s bravery and skill, but a funeral. The village houses were adorned with black crepe, and the people who walked through the streets were in mourning. The few hundred gathered there might have been the valley’s entire population.

Griffin had hoped to make a few discreet inquiries so he could learn where the man lived; anyone could see that his questions were coming from an offworlder. But they would not recognize him. It had been eight decades since Vorian had seen a living Harkonnen, and Griffin was three generations removed from Abulurd.

He tried to slip unobtrusively into the funeral procession, feeling awkward. Maybe he could whisper a question or two. A middle-aged woman with red-rimmed eyes came up to him. “Our businesses are closed for today, sir. At times like these, the community draws together.”

“Who is the deceased?”

“Our mother has died. She was much loved. Mariella Atreides.” The woman shook her head. “I’m Bonda, her daughter.”

Griffin covered his shock. “Atreides? Do you know Vorian Atreides, then? Is he your cousin?” He added quickly, before her questions could come to the fore, “Members of my family served with him a long time ago, during the Jihad.”

Because of the sad ceremony, Bonda’s guard was down. She formed a wan smile, and seemed to think nothing of Griffin’s comment. “Vorian was my father, and he was well loved here. He did a great many good things for Kepler. We all miss him.” She shook her head. “There was a fire … the house burned down. We don’t know the exact cause.” Bonda looked up at him with tear-sparkled eyes. “My parents were married for close to fifty years. I suppose it’s no surprise that my mother didn’t last long after he was gone.”

“Gone?” Alarm swirled through Griffin’s mind. “Vorian is … dead, then?” He didn’t know whether to feel flustered or relieved. If their nemesis was dead, then the Harkonnens no longer needed vengeance. Valya might not be entirely satisfied, but at least Griffin could go back home, work on solidifying the business of Lankiveil, and prepare to go to the Imperial capital as soon as his exam results and paperwork returned.…

Bonda’s eyes widened briefly. “Oh, no, my father isn’t dead, wasn’t on Kepler when the awful fire occurred. After he came back from meeting with the Emperor on Salusa Secundus, he left Kepler for good. Some sort of bargain he made with the throne in order to guarantee the safety of this planet.”

Griffin was trembling. “Do you have any idea where he’s gone? I’ve traveled this far just to see him, just to … bring him something from my family.”

“That shows dedication! Kepler isn’t an easy place to get to.” Bonda shook her head as the mourners gathered in the center of the town. “My father went off to find more adventures, I suppose. My mother insisted that he go without her, and I’m trying to accept that.”

“Do you know the name of the planet?”

“He made no secret of it. He went to a place he’s never been, the desert world of Arrakis. I’m afraid he won’t ever come back.”

“Arrakis? Why would he go there?”

The woman shrugged. “Who can say? My father has lived so long, maybe he’s been everywhere else that interests him. Will you stay for the funeral, as our guest? Tell us what you know of him, any stories? I’m sure we’ll all be happy to hear it.”

Griffin swallowed hard. They would not like the only stories he knew about Vorian Atreides.

Though he felt reluctant to remain here where he so obviously didn’t belong, he knew from the transport schedules that it would be days before another outbound ship came to Kepler. “I’ll stay for the funeral,” he said. “I’d like to hear more about your father, but my own tales of Vorian Atreides must remain private.”

“As you wish,” Bonda said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a eulogy to deliver.”

Griffin could not think of anything else to say, and did not want to speak any more lies, so he waited, as quiet and unassuming as possible, while observing the celebration of the life of Mariella Atreides.

The galaxy is filled with countless wonders—beautiful worlds and harsh ones. No person could visit them all in a single lifetime, not even me, with all the years I have been alotted.

—
VORIAN ATREIDES
, private journals, Kepler period

The spice workers were glad to receive Vor among them. The rugged men had open minds and an accepting attitude toward an offworlder who found himself with no better options than to work out in the deep desert. But they had a hard and impatient discipline. Irresponsibility was not tolerated in the desert, because the simplest mistake could cost many lives.

New recruits had to learn quickly, and in the midst of that physically demanding challenge, Vor greatly missed Mariella and all his family and friends on Kepler.

The gruff, leathery-faced crew chief named Calbir took Vorian under his wing, treating him as an inexperienced young man, even though Vor was much, much older than he was. He didn’t seem to know Vor’s surname, though Vor had held onto his identity, placing his full name on the hiring documentation for Combined Mercantiles. He did not tell his comrades here anything about who he really was, and no one at this level seemed to have made any connection with his name at all. They just knew him as “Vor,” and his first name generated no interest.

Noticing that the new hire wore a shield belt, Calbir scowled. “That identifies you as an offworlder, boy. I know why you wear that—for personal protection in Arrakis City—but don’t activate it out here, or it will be the end of us. Holtzman fields attract the great worms. Just to play it safe, let me put it in your locker until we get back to base.” Vor removed the belt and handed it over.

Given his many years of experience flying aircraft and spacecraft, Vor suggested he would be a good candidate to pilot one of the single-man scout skimcrafts over the desert wastelands, keeping on the alert for any telltale sign of melange-stained sands, but Calbir had scoffed at the offer. “Years of experience?” He ran his eyes up and down the young-looking man who stood before him. “The winds of Arrakis are harsh and unexpected. You have to demonstrate real mastery before I’m going to trust you with a skimcraft. I don’t care where you’re from or where else you’ve flown, you’re not ready for this place—trust me when I say that.”