8
The human race is bound not only by common genetics but also by universal standards of behavior. Those who do not willingly follow the guidelines of civilization can no longer be considered truly human.
When the next morning dawned upon the enforced peace on Grumman, an armada of Corrino warships hung in the gray sky. Guarded by Sardaukar soldiers in imposing dress uniforms, the Padishah Emperor and a delegation of noblemen and Landsraad officials gathered outside the grand entrance of the Ritka stronghold, garbed in their own importance. The huge fortress lay exposed and vulnerable, like a supplicant. Viscount Hundro Moritani had been forced into submission.
During the night, the Grumman defenders had retreated into the fortress city, and the Viscount had willingly shut down his house shields to allow the Corrino dignitaries and the leaders of the opposing armies to enter. Now, the formal group stood before tall wooden doors engraved with the spiny horsehead crests of House Moritani. The forward walls of the ancient fortification, with turrets, ramparts, and bastions, towered high overhead. Yellow banners snapped in a cold breeze.
In the delegation from the offworld armies, Paul stood with his father, along with the one-armed Ecazi Archduke and the cyborg Ixian Prince, waiting for the ornate doors to open. Overnight, they had cleaned themselves and changed out of their battle clothes into dress uniforms that proudly displayed their House crests on the lapels and collars. Armand’s empty sleeve was pinned up by a medal bearing the symbol of House Ecaz.
Paul noted how old and scarred the Ritka fortress looked; over the centuries, it had obviously survived numerous battles. Beneath the crest on each door, carved panels depicted military exploits from the long and checkered history of House Moritani, some of which Paul already knew from his studies. Conspicuously absent, however, were depictions of the modern atrocities the Viscount had committed against Ginaz and Ecaz.
As they waited to enter, Paul realized he had never stood so close to Shaddam IV before. And he had to admit to himself that the Padishah Emperor looked quite majestic and powerful, surrounded by the trappings of his office. Did the man really rule a million worlds, or was that just hyperbole? The Emperor seemed satisfied and eager to wrap up the Moritani “unpleasantness” and make his way back to Kaitain. He and his retainers were obviously vested in the idea that disputes could be resolved through the force of law, but that assumption remained valid only so long as all parties abided by the same rules.
“I don’t think this will end as neat and clean as the Emperor expects,” Gurney said in a low tone. “The Viscount doesn’t finish conflicts by signing a piece of paper.” From what he’d seen so far, Paul could only agree. He had a queasy feeling in his stomach, and saw tension on his father’s face.
Looking around at the waiting party, however, Paul sensed an eagerness on the part of many of the Imperial retainers, minor Landsraad observers, and officials of various committees. They appeared filled with admiration that Shaddam could solve the problem simply through the force of his presence. The Sardaukar remained alert, their puissant rifles at the ready.
With a grating fanfare of strange Grumman horns, the heavy doors swung inward, and men in yellow livery somberly led the visitors into the nobleman’s reception hall. There, Viscount Hundro Moritani stood alone in the middle of the chamber wearing thick layers of furs and fine, colorful cloth. At the far end of the room, his blocky throne remained pointedly empty. His brow was moist with perspiration, and he looked red-eyed, haggard, and edgy.
Shaddam IV strode in, followed by his entourage. He surveyed the room with disdain, frowning at the brutish throne and faded tapestries on the walls. “This place will be adequate for the surrender ceremony and my decrees, but I do not intend to remain here long afterward.”
The Atreides party followed the Emperor into the room, but Duncan’s step faltered when he noticed the redheaded young man who stood at attention beside the defeated Viscount. “Hello, Duncan Idaho,” said Hiih Resser. “Old friend.”
Paul had heard stories of Duncan’s comrade, who had remained on Ginaz even when the other Grumman students were expelled from the Swordmaster school. Because of the lessons his father had taught him so many times, Paul understood the intricacies of honor that could force a man to abide by an oath even when it bound him to a bad man.
“I wish you had joined me at House Atreides,” Duncan said to him. “I’d rather be fighting at your side than against you.”
“It was not a choice I could make,” Resser answered.
“There will be no more fighting,” Shaddam interrupted them peremptorily and seated himself on the Grumman throne to preside over the ceremony. “I have already had the standard documents drawn up.” He motioned for a retainer to hurry forward and hand him a gilt-edged proclamation.
The Viscount seated himself on a chair not far from the throne, beside a squat writing desk. The station seemed designed for a chamberlain or scribe to record documents for Hundro Moritani. Now, the Grumman leader accepted his subordinate place without argument. Resser stood stiffly behind his master.
“I will need to study your terms in detail before agreeing to them,” Moritani said, with a lilting sneer in his voice.
“That will not be necessary.” Shaddam leaned forward. “The terms are non-negotiable.”
Rhombur seemed pleased by the defeated leader’s discomfiture. Standing with the Ixian, Armand Ecaz looked brittle, as if his anger had been the only glue keeping him together; Duke Leto remained carefully wary, absorbing details.
One of the Sardaukar guards presented the Imperial parchment to the Viscount, who placed it on the desk. Paul could sense a strange excitement emanating from the man, a tension that made his movements jerky and frenetic. Behind him, Resser looked nauseated.
The Grumman leader perused the document, then said, “Shall I sign using the name Moritani? Or — since this constitutes yet another instance of Corrinos stripping everything from my family — perhaps I should sign as House Tantor.”
Instead of the dramatic reaction the Viscount appeared to have expected, the Emperor and the rest of the audience responded only with puzzled muttering. “Tantor?” Shaddam asked. “Whatever do you mean?”
The Viscount exposed a concealed control panel in the surface of the small desk and instantly placed his fingers on the illuminated touchpads.
Suspecting treachery, the Sardaukar guards rushed toward him, ready to defend the Emperor. Resser drew his sword and placed himself in front of the Viscount, while Duncan drew his, in return.
“Stop!” the Viscount roared. “Or you will all die in an atomic flash — even before I wish it to happen.”
Shaddam rose from the crude throne. “Atomics? You would not dare.”
Moritani’s eyes flashed. “A
“Tantor?” Shaddam still sounded confused. “Was that their name? No matter. They were hunted down and killed, their bloodline ended and all traces expunged from Imperial history.”
“Not all. Our survivors planted new seeds, and we reemerged, built ourselves up again, and became House Moritani. But now, our world is used up and my son Wolfram is dead — the end of our hopes for the future. We have nothing left, and neither will you, Shaddam Corrino. I knew you would come personally to intervene here.” His hand was frozen over the controls, his fingers touching the activation contacts. “All my family atomics are here in Ritka, most of them placed by my Swordmaster in the catacombs beneath our feet. My fortress keep and all of Ritka will be turned into radioactive dust.” He let out a long sigh that sounded like an exhalation of ecstasy. “I just wanted you to know before the final flash of glory. I have already dispersed records to Landsraad members. From this day forward, history will never forget the name of the House that brought down the Corrinos. Once and for all, it will be done.”
All in the same instant, Shaddam shouted a command, and Sardaukar guards charged forward. But Paul saw
