He grasped the boy’s shoulders in a hug, then held him at arm’s length to look at him. “I am safe, Paul, but my injuries are here.” He pressed a hand to his heart. The memories would haunt him for a long time.
Jessica glided forward with perfect grace, and Leto saw that she was using Bene Gesserit control to keep from throwing herself into his arms, as Paul had done. “My Duke,” she said, her eyes sparkling like Hagal emeralds.
“My Lady.” He could not remain frozen any longer, and he wrapped his arms around her in an embrace that provoked another round of cheers from the welcoming crowd.
Thufir, Duncan, and Gurney gave him a few moments with Jessica and Paul, then greeted their Duke. The broad smile on Gurney’s face made the inkvine scar wriggle like a bloodworm.
As if a dam had broken, other people pressed forward. It seemed as if everyone wanted to clap him on the back, but Thufir, Gurney, and Duncan took up protective positions, giving the Duke his space.
A bearded man in heavy brown robes parted the crowd with majestic grace. The man wore a square cap embroidered with a simple fern frond. He had heavy eyebrows, bright eyes, and a smile that broke through the thick nest of his beard.
“I came to see you in person, Duke Leto Atreides, my Duke. I do not often come to such a crowded place.” He looked around at the spaceport and the city, discomfited. “These … mountains of buildings make me uncomfortable.”
“You honor me, Archvicar,” Leto said.
Archvicar Torono led the ancient Muadh sect on Caladan, and he was popular and well respected in the northern agricultural reaches. Countless pundi rice farmers belonged to the introspective, untroublesome religion. The Muadh revered the land, preached peace, and concerned themselves with the bounty of the harvest, as symbolized by their colors of brown for the soil and green for the thriving rice plants.
Torono gave another bow. “When we learned what happened at the Emperor’s festival, I had to bring word from my followers. We prayed for you, Duke Leto, our Duke. I came in person so that you would know. The Muadh rejoice that you have returned to us safely. The Duke of Caladan is Caladan, who walks among us.” He spread his fingers and bent to touch the ground, then rose up as if pulling invisible lines from the world itself. He spread his hands again, dispensing the bounty. “I bring you our blessing.”
When the solemn moment was broken, the people cheered again. Leto looked at his son, at his beloved concubine, and replied to the religious leader, “Thank you, Archvicar. I am truly blessed.”
* * *
AT THE EVENING meal in the dining hall of Castle Caladan, Duke Leto wore his own clothes again, glad to be out of the garments provided by the Imperial chamberlain. He took comfort in sitting with his family in his ancestral home.
Caladan was in his blood, and sea breezes were entwined in every strand of his genes. After so many generations, so many fallen ancestors whose remains lay buried on the land or distributed out to sea, how could it not be so?
He gazed across the room at the painting of his father, the Old Duke, dressed in a matador costume. The portrait showed the characteristic overconfident lilt in his smile, the superior air he flaunted because his people loved and expected it. At the opposite end of the table, Leto sat beneath the mounted head of the Salusan bull that had killed Paulus. A transparent fixative had preserved the bloodstains on the beast’s sharp horns.
Lady Jessica sat at his side in a formal banquet gown, looking at Leto instead of the mounted trophy. Paul wore the uniform of a young Duke, the presumed heir. At Leto’s request, the kitchens served a feast of traditional Caladan fare—honey-glazed moonfish, seasoned pundi rice, and slices of sweet paradan melon. Leto basked in the sensations of home.
Duncan Idaho joined them at dinner, as did Hawat, Halleck, and a number of advisers, ministers, and trade representatives, all celebrating the return of their Duke, though Leto did not have his mind on business, not now. Even so, the business of Caladan still needed to be done, and Leto could not let his surrogates do it alone.
Hawat ate his meal mechanically, his mind always turning with Mentat processing. His lips were stained deep red from the sapho juice he consumed to increase his mental acuity. As the first-course plates were taken away, the old veteran spoke up. “Caladan is secure, my Duke. While you were away, your staff and ministers handled everyday details. Let me take this opportunity to brief you on certain matters so you are fully aware of the state of your holdings.”
The Mentat glanced down at his hands, as if reading imaginary reports there. “Pundi rice remains Caladan’s most lucrative export, both in volume of shipment and solaris earned. Crop output has been stable for generations. As a longer-term strategy, we may wish to consider upgrading agricultural operations to increase yields from the terraced paddies.”
“The pundi rice farmers are traditionalists,” Jessica said. “They have done things the same way for generation after generation. They may take offense if we try to … improve things.”
Thinking of the loyalty the Archvicar and his followers had demonstrated, Leto agreed with her. “I am content with our pundi rice operations as they stand. We don’t always have to increase what we have. The Harkonnens may try to squeeze more and more out of their people and planets, but that is not the way of House Atreides.”
Hawat conceded the point and changed subjects. “In other exports, moonfish shows the most significant uptick in outside demand.” He produced reports, which Leto had no intention of reading at the moment. “The northern fisheries have expanded so we can deliver more tonnage of fillets and less-expensive by-products. Demand throughout the Imperium increases as our customer base grows. Many Landsraad nobles have acquired a taste for moonfish.”
Leto muttered, “Let us hope they weren’t all killed on Otorio.” His comment brought a moment of awkward silence.
Hawat glanced at a man dressed in formal business attire two seats down the banquet table. “Commerce Minister Wellan has more insight into the moonfish market. He recently visited the fisheries himself—”
“Then let the man speak, Thufir,” Leto said with an edge of impatience, “and let him be done with his report so I can eat in peace.”
The minister seemed agitated, nervous at being put on the spot. His eyes were bright, as if a thin film of cracked glass had been laid over the irises. “Yes, our fishery operations have expanded. They are privately owned but regulated by the ducal norms imposed by your father, my Lord. The facilities are extensive—rustic but effective. The fragile nature of moonfish breeding and the unique spawning grounds present serious challenges for large-scale production, but with sonic panels providing the proper soothing harmonics, the moonfish breed as much as we could want.” He brought forth a thick stack of papers, set it on the table next to his plate. His hands had a faint tremor. “Everything is detailed here.”
Leto looked at his half-finished meal, closed his eyes for a second—as long as he dared to withdraw—then opened them again. “I will review it later. For now, I would like time with my Lady and my son.” Realizing his words sounded like a rebuke, he gathered his calm and pulled the invisible mantle of leadership around him. “I apologize, Minister. I find the business of Caladan reassuring, and on the morrow, I will study your findings thoroughly.”