Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [219]
“It’ll be all right,” Rhombur said, trying to console her. “We’ll make our own memories.”
“And we’ll make them remember us,” Kailea said, her voice suddenly brittle.
Feeling sick inside, and deeply weary, Leto rubbed the ducal signet ring on his finger. It still felt strange and heavy there, but he knew he would never remove it until someday far in the future, when he would pass it to his own son to continue the traditions of House Atreides.
Outside, the storm flung more rain at the walls and windows of the ancient stone Castle, while the sea shushed a foamy lullaby against the cliffs far below. Caladan felt very large and overwhelming around him, and Leto seemed incredibly small. Though it was still an inhospitable night, when the young Duke exchanged smiles with Kailea and Rhombur, he felt warm and comfortable in his home.
Leto learned of the Emperor’s death as he and three attendants were struggling to hang the mounted Salusan bull’s-head in the dining hall. Workers used ropes and pulleys to haul the monstrous trophy onto a spot on the previously unadorned, highly polished walls.
A grim Thufir Hawat stood by, watching with hands clasped behind his back. Absently, the Mentat touched the long scar on his leg, a souvenir of the time when he had rescued a much younger Paulus from another rampaging bull. This time, however, he had not acted swiftly enough. . . .
Kailea shuddered as she looked up at the ugly creature. “It’s going to be hard to eat in this hall, with that thing staring down at us. I can still see the blood on its horns.”
Leto regarded the bull’s-head with an appraising eye. “I see it as a reminder that I must never let my guard down. Even a dumb animal—albeit with the interference of human conspirators—can conquer the leader of a Great House of the Landsraad.” He felt a shiver. “Think of that lesson, Kailea.”
“I’m afraid that’s not a very comforting thought,” she murmured, her green eyes bright with unshed tears. Blinking to clear her vision, she turned back to her own activities.
With a ridulian crystal report folder open before her on the table, she devoted her energies to studying the household accounts. Using what she had learned in the Orb Office on Ix, Kailea analyzed the income streams for Atreides holdings in order to determine how work and productivity were distributed on Caladan’s continents and seas. She and Leto had been discussing the matter in depth, despite their youth. The exiled Kailea Vernius had an excellent head for business, Leto was delighted to discover.
“Being a good Duke is not all swordplay and bullfighting,” Thufir Hawat had told him once, long before all the latest troubles and challenges. “Management of little things is often a more difficult battle.” For some reason the statement had stuck in Leto’s mind, and now he was discovering the wisdom of the words. . . .
When the Imperial messenger marched into the dining hall, fresh off a Guild Heighliner, he stood tall, formally dressed in scarlet-and-gold Imperial colors. “I request an audience with Duke Leto Atreides.”
Leto, Rhombur, and Kailea all froze, remembering the horrible news they’d received the last time a crier had entered the great receiving room. Leto prayed that nothing had happened to the fugitive Dominic Vernius in his continued flight. But this official messenger wore House Corrino colors, and looked as if he had delivered his announcement a dozen times already.
“It is my duty to announce to all members of the Great and Minor Houses of the Landsraad that the Padishah Emperor Elrood Corrino IX has died, struck down by an extended illness in the one hundred thirty-eighth year of his reign. May history fondly remember his long rule, and may his soul find eternal peace.”
Leto stepped back, astounded. One of the workers almost let the mounted bull’s-head slip from its position on the wall, but Hawat shouted for the man to attend to his tasks.
The Emperor had been a fixture