Leto remained guarded. He remembered the scandal and uproar, the overthrow of House Kolona, the extermination of the family. Duke Paulus had always regretted being blackmailed into the ignoble deed. After his father died, Leto had discovered that the entire scheme originated with Emperor Elrood IX, and Leto had returned the stolen planetary holdings to distaff cousins of House Kolona, removing the stain from Atreides honor.
“The Noble Commonwealth is a fanciful notion that bored people discuss in drawing rooms,” Leto said. He remembered Armand Ecaz and several nobles discussing it in the Imperial Monolith. Lord Atikk had been part of that small group. “But what you did on Otorio proved the movement is brutal and shameful. Why should I want anything to do with what it stands for?”
Jaxson laughed. “Then you do not know what we stand for.”
Oddly, there was something appealing about the man’s manner, his charisma. He seemed almost convincing, although Leto considered him as dangerous as a viper. Leto said, “Even a Duke cannot simply declare independence for Caladan. The Emperor’s Sardaukar would slaughter everyone on this world.”
Leto did not like what he had just heard himself say, but at least the rebel was listening, rather than threatening to detonate the bombs and kill more innocent people. And Leto was buying a moment of time.
Jaxson shrugged. “Shaddam does indeed have that capability, but if Caladan declares independence along with a thousand other worlds, and if the Spacing Guild cooperates by delaying certain Heighliners to sidetrack Imperial troop movements, the Emperor could never put out so many brush fires at once. The Imperium would fall apart before he could do anything about it.” The rebel’s eyes took on a deeper intensity. “But we must begin by setting all those brush fires! The Noble Commonwealth needs you, Duke Leto Atreides.”
Leto could only think of all those who had been killed on Otorio, the indiscriminate destruction. Before he could speak, the other man pointed out in a reasonable voice, “There is no such thing as a peaceful, bloodless civil war.”
“I don’t want a civil war of any kind.”
A flash of disgust crossed Jaxson’s face. “You do not even know what you want! Consider my offer, Duke Leto. Isn’t the promise of true freedom and economic independence worth expending a little effort, enduring a little pain?”
Leto hardened his own response. “I am a citizen of the Imperium and a member of the Landsraad. I will not join your movement. It is my duty to turn you in.”
Jaxson sniffed and turned to watch a whitecap that crashed into the end of the promontory. “Come now, Leto. I have done my research. You are not a person who scrambles for wealth or fawns over Imperial favor. You are a respected man of independence. That is why I came to present you with my proposal. And I know that you, a man of good conscience, will give it due consideration.”
Leto had gone out here to be alone, to look at the memorials to his father and his lost son, but apparently Jaxson Aru knew he would be alone. Like a confidence man finding a mark. Troubling thoughts roiled through the Duke’s mind. “You are an outlaw. The entire Imperium is searching for you. If Emperor Shaddam knew you were here, a legion of Sardaukar would descend on Caladan.”
Jaxson seemed amused by the idea. “But the Emperor does not know. He has no idea of my movements or whereabouts, and you will not tell him. Would you really want the Emperor’s special forces to swarm over your lovely planet?”
“If that is what justice requires,” Leto said.
“I came here meaning no harm to you.” The rebel leader shrugged. “I just want to talk.”
“Talk? While you threaten my people with bombs?”
Jaxson pouted. “Only to get your attention. My visit was not wasted, because I have begun a dialogue with you. I gave you things to think about. You don’t know it, but I find myself on Caladan on occasion. We can speak again later, after you have had time to consider.”
“You need to face justice for what you did.”
“Justice, yes, that is what I seek. Just remember what I said to you.”
When Leto bristled, Jaxson swirled his fisherman’s cloak around him and prepared to leave. “You have a choice to make, a difficult but important choice.” He gave a rakish laugh in parting. “If you wanted only simple choices, perhaps you should have been a fisherman instead of a Duke.”
Jaxson stalked off, folding himself among the other people gathered there.
We operate on the fringes of rules and of Imperial law. In these nether regions between destruction and success the most money is made.
—ENGER RISTOS, Guild Banker
Shaddam Corrino IV received many briefings in various forms and from numerous sources, but this morning, he read a report so disturbing that he skipped breakfast with his dear Empress Aricatha.
The initial report of income generated by his new spice surtax had proved disappointing. He had established the surtax to fill the hole in the treasury left by the gigantic, expensive, and now-vaporized Corrino museum complex, but the increased income was far less than he had expected.
He was upset with his financial experts and their now-useless projections. Hasimir Fenring had clearly warned him of the risks of such a high surtax. The price of melange was already prohibitively high, due to the outrageous cost of production. The Arrakis environment wrecked equipment regularly, destroying expensive harvesters and spice factories. Baron Harkonnen had reported five harvesters destroyed or scuttled in just the past month, due to sandworm attacks and an exceptionally heavy storm season.
His surtax had pushed melange above the price where anyone but the wealthy could afford it, which had resulted in a precipitous decline in use. Worse, the tightening market was causing great unrest among nobles, merchants, and businessmen who consumed spice but could no longer purchase what they needed. Instead, as a poor substitute, they turned to alternative, illicit euphoric drugs.
Because of the disruption and inconvenience, they were also less reticent about voicing complaints about House Corrino, and that, in turn, played directly into the hands of the Noble Commonwealth rebels who were busily spreading sedition. Violent scoundrels like Jaxson Aru must be laughing at his conundrum.
Shaddam needed time alone in his private contemplation chamber to review the report. His young daughters Josifa and Rugi came to him dressed in colorful gowns. They asked permission to throw a party in the palace orchards, which were just now blossoming, but he sent them away, telling them to consult with Aricatha. He knew the Empress would do the right thing.
Sighing, he concentrated on all the information in the surtax summary, a dizzying roil of numbers. A forensic accounting traced spice sales and distribution, along with careful records of all harvesting and processing on Arrakis, tracked almost down to the kilogram. As his Imperial Spice Observer, Count Fenring watched every Harkonnen move with a careful eye, and he had even interrogated his smuggler contacts. The melange records seemed to be accurate. But off.
The Mentat accountants insisted that they saw something missing, a gap where there should have been none. Some of the tracked usage of spice did not have corresponding sales channels. Their conclusions were fourth- and fifth-order projections, subtleties beyond subtleties, and Shaddam simply could not follow it all. He tightened the sash of his embroidered formal robe and carried the rolled instroy parchment of the report as he left his contemplation chamber and strode toward his throne room.