Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [32]
“I thought you weren’t going to do that anymore,” Leto said. “It’s been almost a year since you . . .”
“Wherever did you get that idea?”
“Your advisors, sir. It’s too risky. Isn’t that why others have been fighting the bulls in your place?”
The old man laughed. “What a foolish notion! I’ve been out of the ring for only one reason: The bulls went downhill for a while, some genetic imbalance that made them unworthy. That’s changed, though, and new bulls are being brought in now, tougher than ever. Yresk says they’re ready to fight, and so am I.” He put his arm around Leto’s narrow shoulders. “What better occasion for a corrida de toros than the leave-taking of my son? You’ll attend this bullfight—your first. Your mother can’t say you’re too young anymore.”
Leto nodded, reluctantly. His father would never be swayed, once his mind was made up. At least Paulus had the training, and would wear a personal shield.
Using personal shields, Leto himself had fought human opponents, aware of a shield’s advantages and limitations. A shield could block projectile fire and fast-moving weapons of death, but any blade traveling below the threshold speed could pass through to the unprotected flesh beneath. A rampaging Salusan bull, with its sharp horns, might well move slowly enough to pierce even the most finely tuned shield.
He swallowed hard, wondering about the new, enhanced bulls. The old ones Stablemaster Yresk had shown him seemed dangerous enough—they’d killed three matadors that Leto could remember. . . .
Consumed by his fresh idea, Duke Paulus made the announcement at the bazaar, over the public address system implanted in booths and stalls. Upon hearing this, people in the marketplace cheered and their eyes glittered. They laughed, partly in anticipation of the performance itself—and also because of the declared day of rest and celebration.
Leto’s mother wouldn’t like this at all, he knew—Paulus in the fight and Leto in attendance—but Leto also understood that as soon as Helena began to object, the Old Duke would be more determined than ever.
The bowl of the Plaza de Toros sprawled under the noonday sun. The stands spread out in an immense broad grid, so filled with people that in the farthest reaches they looked like tiny colored pixels. The Duke had never charged any fee to witness his performances; he was too proud of them, enjoyed showing off too much.
Enormous green-and-black banners flapped in the breeze, while fanfare blasted from speakers. Pillars emblazoned with Atreides hawk crests sparkled with emblems that had been newly polished and painted for the event. Thousands of floral bouquets harvested from the fields and lowlands had been placed about the bullring—an unsubtle hint that the Duke liked the people to strew the ground with blossoms each time he dispatched a bull.
Below, in the preparation chambers at ground level, Paulus girded up before the fight. Leto stood with him behind a barricade, listening to the impatient crowd. “Father, I’m uneasy about the risk you’re taking. You shouldn’t do this . . . especially not for me.”
The Old Duke brushed aside the comment. “Leto, lad, you must understand that governing people and winning their loyalty consists of more than just signing papers, collecting taxes, and attending Landsraad meetings.” He straightened his magenta cape, preened in front of a mirror.
“I depend on those people out there to produce the most that Caladan can provide. They must do so willingly, with hard work—and not just for their own profit, but for their honor and glory. If House Atreides was ever to go to war again, these people would shed their blood for me. They would lay down their lives under our banner.” He fiddled with his armor. “Tighten this for me?”
Leto grabbed the string fasteners of the back leather plate, tugged them, and cinched