Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [157]
Smiling grimly, the Duke knew what he had to do. Rhombur and Kailea had been placed in his care. He had sworn to keep them safe, had given his blood oath to Dominic Vernius. He must give them the best chance they could possibly have.
He would send Rhombur and Leto to his Master of Assassins, Thufir Hawat.
The warrior Mentat stood like an iron pillar, glaring at his two new students. They stood atop a barren sea cliff kilometers north of Castle Caladan. The wind smashed against the slick rocks and blasted upward, rustling clumps of pampas grass. Gray gulls wheeled overhead, shrieking to each other, scanning for edible flotsam on the rocky beach. Stunted cypress trees huddled like hunchbacks, bowed against the constant ocean breeze.
Leto had no idea how old Thufir Hawat was. The sinewy Mentat had trained Duke Paulus when he was much younger, and now the Master of Assassins fended off any appearance of age through brute force. His skin was leathery, having been exposed to harsh environments on many worlds during previous Atreides campaigns, from blistering heat to numbing cold, whipping storms and the hard rigors of open space.
Thufir Hawat stared at the young men in silence. He crossed his arms over his scuffed leather chestplate. His eyes were like weapons, his silence a goad. His unsmiling lips were stained the deep cranberry of sapho juice.
Leto stood next to his friend, fidgeting. His fingers were chilled enough that he wished he had brought gloves. When are we going to begin training? He and Rhombur glanced at each other, impatient, waiting.
“Look at me, I said!” Hawat snapped. “I could have leaped forward and gutted both of you in the instant you exchanged those cute little glances.” He took a menacing step toward them.
Leto and Rhombur wore fine clothes, comfortable yet regal-looking. Their capes snapped about in the breeze. Leto’s was brilliant emerald merh-silk trimmed in black, while the Prince of Ix proudly sported the purple and copper of House Vernius. But Rhombur looked decidedly uneasy to be out under the towering sky. “It’s all so . . . wide-open,” he whispered.
After interminable silence, Hawat raised his chin, ready to begin. “First of all, remove those ridiculous capes.”
Leto reached up to the clasp at his throat, but Rhombur hesitated just a moment. Within the space of a heartbeat, Hawat had ripped out his short sword and slashed the tiny cord mere millimeters from the Prince’s jugular vein. The wind grasped the purple-on-copper cape and carried it like a lost banner over the cliff. The cloth flew like a kite until it drifted to the churning water below.
“Hey!” Rhombur said. “Why did you—”
Hawat sidestepped the indignant outcry. “You came here to learn weapons training. So why did you dress for a Landsraad ball or an Imperial banquet?” The Mentat snorted, then spat with the wind. “Fighting is dirty work, and unless you intend to conceal weapons in those capes, wearing them is foolish. It’s like carrying your own burial shroud on your shoulders.”
Leto still held his green cape in his hands. Hawat reached forward, grabbed the end of the fabric, snapped it, twirled it around—and in a flash had captured Leto’s right hand, his fighting hand. Hawat yanked hard and thrust out with his foot to catch the young man’s ankle. Leto sprawled on the rocky ground.
Static spun in front of his eyes, and he gasped to catch his breath. Rhombur laughed at his friend, then managed to restrain himself.
Hawat yanked the cape free and tossed it up in the air, where it blew out on the ocean winds to join Rhombur’s. “Anything can be a weapon,” he said. “You’re carrying your swords, and I see daggers at your sides. You have shields, all of which are obvious