Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [52]
Leto tried to be optimistic, but he knew it might be a long time before help could come. He had no food, no warm clothing, not even a portable shelter. He had to take care of this problem himself.
“Hello!” he shouted again. The vast emptiness snatched his words and drained them to nothing, without even bothering to echo them back.
He considered venturing forth in search of some landmark or settlement, but decided to stay put for the time being. Next, he mentally assessed the possessions he’d brought in his suitcases, trying to think of what he might use to send a message.
Then, from beside him, in a blue-green thicket of spiny plants struggling to survive in the tundra, came a rustling sound. Startled, Leto jumped back, then looked closer. Assassins? A group intending to take him captive? The ransom of a ducal heir might bring a mountain of solaris . . . as well as the wrath of Paulus Atreides.
He drew the curve-bladed fishing knife from its sheath at his back and made ready to fight. His heart pounded as he tried to guess his peril, to prepare in some way. An Atreides had no qualms about shedding necessary blood.
The branches and pointed leaves moved, then opened to reveal a round plaz pad on the ground. With a hum of machinery, a transparent lift tube emerged from beneath the surface, looking totally incongruous on the rugged landscape.
A stocky young man stood inside the transparent tube, grinning a warm welcome. He had blond, unruly hair that looked tousled despite careful combing; he wore loose military-style trousers and a color-shifting camouflage shirt. His pale, open face had soft edges from outgrown baby fat. A small pack hung on the stranger’s left shoulder, similar to the one he carried in his hand. He appeared to be about Leto’s age.
The transparent lift came to a stop, and a curved door rotated open. A breath of warm air brushed Leto’s hands and face. He crouched, ready to attack with his fishing knife, though he could not imagine this innocuous-looking stranger to be a killer.
“You must be Leto Atreides, right?” the young man said. He spoke in Galach, the common language of the Imperium. “So should we start out with a day hike?”
Leto’s gray eyes narrowed and fixed on the purple-and-copper Ixian helix adorning the boy’s collar. Trying to hide his immense relief and maintain a professional, even suspicious facade, Leto nodded and lowered the tip of the knife, which the stranger had pretended not to notice.
“I’m Rhombur Vernius. I, uh, thought you’d want to stretch a bit before we settle in down below. I heard you like being outdoors, though I prefer to be underground myself. Maybe after you spend a little time with us, you’ll feel at home in our cavern cities. Ix is really quite nice.”
He looked up at the clouds and high-altitude sleet. “Oh, why is it raining? Vermilion hells, I hate being in unpredictable environments.” Rhombur shook his head in disgust. “I told weather control to give you a warm, sunny day. My apologies, Prince Leto—but this is just too dreary for me. How about we go down to the Grand Palais?”
Catching himself rambling, Rhombur dropped both day packs inside the lift tube and nudged Leto’s floating luggage inside as well. “It’s good to meet you at last. My father’s been talking about Atreides this and Atreides that for so long. We’ll be studying together for some time, probably family trees and Landsraad politics. I’m eighty-seventh in line to the Golden Lion Throne, but I think you rank even higher than I do.”
Golden Lion Throne. The Great Houses were ranked according to an elaborate CHOAM-Landsraad system, and within each House was a sub-hierarchy based upon primogeniture. Leto’s ranking was indeed substantially higher than the Ixian Prince’s—through his mother he was actually a great-grandson of Elrood IX, through one of his three daughters by his second wife,