own lives on the Eastern Continent without harassment. The Old Duke had issued a statement that whenever the Caladan primitives wished to come to civilization, they would do so of their own accord. History was rife with sad examples of modern ways being forced upon an unwilling people.
Helena drew her brows together. “Who can understand the primitives, any more than they understand our abstract patterns? But they know what they see in the tapestries, and that is all our Sisters could ask for.”
Knowing it would startle, even provoke her, Paul turned to her. “And do you feel isolated from civilization, Grandmother? Will you ever request forgiveness from my father so that you may return to Castle Caladan?”
Helena’s laugh was like breaking glass. “Why would I wish to do that? I have everything I need here, and I am queen of my own domain. Why should I want to be a pawn in someone else’s game?”
Paul looked down at the carefully spaced warp of tapestry strings. A Sister with close-cropped gray hair deftly wove a pink thread into the weft and then a blue one, tying them together to add to her hypnotic kaleidoscope pattern.
His grandmother’s voice sounded sour. “Everything is running perfectly well here. My life has been smooth. I have not thought of either my son or my dead husband in years.” Then, in a startling gesture, Helena reached out with her long-fingered hands, and hooked them like claws in the unwoven threads. She yanked and ripped them free from the loom hooks. “All was in perfect harmony, until you and Duncan came.”
The silent, gray-haired sister working at the loom sat up and looked at the deliberate ruin the Abbess had made of her work.
Paul supposed her gesture was yet another attempt to intimidate him. Instead, he looked at the tangled mess of threads, viewing the colors and knots. “If each woman here creates her own design from her life experience” — he nodded toward the mess — “would I not be correct to interpret that as
8
The Forms must be obeyed. Our very civilization depends on this.
With the sudden arrival of the House Atreides ships and thousands of well-trained, heavily armed soldiers, Archduke Armand had a ready-made planetary force that more than doubled his fighting power. Together, the two militaries should have been enough to crush the Grummans.
But first, they had an unanticipated battle to win here on Ecaz. They could not risk losing the planet to rebels in their absence.
In a private discussion chamber within the recaptured Ecazi Palace, the Archduke still trembled with weakness, both from grief and his severe injury. His voice sounded hollow, like a cold storm wind blowing. “I did not intend to fight a civil war.”
Gurney lounged in his carved wooden chair, not to imply casualness but rather to remain loose and ready to fight. “Vidal has been planning this for some time — that much is obvious. This morning’s overflights on Elacca mapped out the extent of his military buildup and his scrambled defenses. Mark my words, it did not happen overnight. You have proven him a liar simply by being alive, my Lord.”
Leto shook his head, disturbed. “If he had simply bided his time, his treachery would not have been so obvious.”
Armand heaved a deep sigh. “Vidal blithely assumed I would be assassinated. Now that he has already announced to everyone that I was killed, how can he explain my return?”
Gurney gave a rumbling chuckle. “That man is a poor leader if he banks on every plan coming off as expected.”
“And now there will be tremendous bloodshed because of it.” The Archduke hung his head, letting his unkempt silver hair fall forward. “And why do so many of my own people follow him? His deceit is painfully obvious. Does he plant ridiculous stories to cast doubt in the minds of his followers? Could he have suggested to them that I’m a Face Dancer? Or does he simply keep them ignorant?”
“Probably the latter,” Leto mused. “But it is not the province of common soldiers to wrestle with the tangles of politics. They will follow his orders.”
Whitmore Bludd sat on the opposite side of the table, near the Archduke, yet alone. Though pale, the Swordmaster tried to summon defiance, sounding uncharacteristically bloodthirsty. “We will crush the rebels, no matter the cost. Ecaz will soon be in your complete control again, my Lord. Then we can move on Grumman. It is only a matter of time before we place Hundro Moritani’s head on a stake. I promise you that.”
Without looking up, the Archduke nodded slowly, as if his head were too heavy for his neck. “Yes, but our path can take many different turns. How do I stomach a bloody campaign against my own people, who have been led astray by a traitor?”
“Maybe you won’t have to. I propose that we not launch a full-scale civil war,” Leto offered. “Even though our armies can defeat the Elaccan rebels, it would be wasteful to set so many brave Ecazi fighters at each other’s throats.”
“What choice do we have? By now our case has been presented in the Landsraad court. Do you suggest we simply wait to hear from Kaitain while Vidal reinforces his fortifications? And every day of delay here gives Viscount Moritani more time to prepare for us on Grumman.”
Leto traced the table’s swirling grains of bloodwood. “We brought our armies here to join with yours and then move immediately on to Grumman. Now that Vidal has seen our overwhelming force, he will expect us to launch a full-scale attack, instead of the precision strikes required by the Great Convention. Vidal has never even declared himself in this War of Assassins, and yet he has joined it. Viscount Hundro Moritani has cast the rules to the winds in this conflict.” His expression became hard and implacable as he crossed his arms over his chest. “But we do not have to. Others have flagrantly violated the rules, but that does not give us carte blanche to do the same. One crime does not justify another, particularly when it comes to the emotional pitfalls of internecine warfare.”
Gurney could see where Leto was going. His voice was deep and resonant. “The Forms must be obeyed.”
The exhausted and grieving Archduke was no longer so nimble, though. “What are you suggesting, my friend?”
“Merely that if they are prepared for a total civil war, ready to defend against a frontal assault from a large military force, we should demonstrate what a War of Assassins is all about. We
“I’ll do it,” Gurney said. “The Orange Catholic Bible states: ‘For I have a righteous Lord, and the enemies of my Lord are the enemies of God.’”
“It is my place to spill the blood of my enemy,” the Archduke said.
“You cannot go, Armand,” Leto said, his voice filled with compassion, though he knew he was stating the obvious. “I’ll go in your stead. Gurney and I will be the assassins.”
“And I,” said Bludd, a moment late. “For the honor of House Ecaz, my Lord Archduke, let me go and destroy our enemies.”
The one-armed Armand did not want to admit his own frailty, yet he could not deny it. “No, stay with me, Swordmaster. I require your security. We have not yet completed a thorough sweep of the palace and the cities. I need you here.”
Bludd seemed diminished by the comment, inferring — perhaps correctly, Leto thought — that the Archduke was not willing to overlook his failure. “But my Lord, how can you send a nobleman to do bloody work like this? The Duke should not put himself in such danger.”
“I should not,” Leto said, “but I will anyway. I am not defenseless. Ask Gurney here, or Duncan Idaho. They are my best fighters, my most loyal bodyguards, and they trained me.”
