Brian Herbert & Kevin J. Anderson - Dune 09 - House Corrino

373 Pages·2016·1.18 MB·English

by  Herbert Brian & Frank

Dune

House Corrino

Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson

The axis of spin for the planet Arrakis is at right angles to the radius of its orbit. The world itself is
not a globe, but more a spinning top somewhat fat at the equator and concave toward the poles.
There is a sense that this may be artificial, the product of some ancient artifice.

— Report of the Third Imperial Commission on Arrakis

UNDER THE LIGHT OF TWO MOONS IN A DUSTY SKY, the Fremen raiders flitted across the
desert rocks. They blended into the rugged surroundings as if cut from the same cloth, harsh men in
a harsh environment.

Death to Harkonnens. All members of the armed razzia squad had sworn the same vow.

In the quiet hours before dawn, Stilgar, their tall and black-bearded leader, stalked catlike ahead of
a score of his best fighters. We must move as shadows in the night. Shadows with hidden knives.

Lifting a hand, he commanded the silent squad to halt. Stilgar listened to the pulse of the desert, his
ears probing the darkness. His blue-within-blue eyes scanned towering rock escarpments profiled
against the sky like giant sentinels. As the pair of moons moved across the heavens, patches of
darkness shifted moment by moment, living extensions of the mountain face.

The men picked their way up a rock buttress, using dark-adapted eyes to follow a steep, tool-hewn
trail. The terrain seemed hauntingly familiar, though Stilgar had never been here before. His father
had described the way, the route their ancestors had taken into Hadith Sietch, once the greatest of
all hidden settlements, abandoned long ago.

"Hadith"—a word taken from an old Fremen song about the patterns of survival in the desert. Like
many living Fremen, he carried the story etched into his psyche ... a tale of betrayal and civil
conflict during the first generations of the wandering Zensunni here on Dune. Legend held that all
meanings originated here, in this holy sietch. , ,i .,

Now, though, the Harkonnens have desecrated our ancient place.

Every man in Stilgar's commando squad felt revulsion at such sacrilege, lack in Red Wall Sietch, a
flat stone held tally marks of all the enemies hiese Fremen had slain, and tonight more enemy blood
would be shed.
The column followed Stilgar as he picked up the pace down the rocky trail. It would be dawn soon,
and they still had much killing to do.

Here, far from prying Imperial eyes, Baron Harkonnen had been sing the empty caves of Sietch
Hadith to conceal one of his illegal spice oards. The embezzled stockpile of valuable melange
appeared on no in' ;ntory sheet ever submitted to the Emperor. Shaddam suspected nothing "• the
ruse. But the Harkonnens could not hide such activities from the 'es of the desert people.

In the squalid village of Bar Es Rashid at the base of the ridge, the arkonnens had a listening post
and guards up in the cliffs. Such minor ifenses presented no obstacle to the Fremen, who long ago
had built nu-erous shafts and entrances into the mountain grottoes. Secret ways ...

Stilgar found a split in the trail and followed the faint path, searching r the hidden opening into
Sietch Hadith. In low light he saw a patch of rkness beneath an overhang. Dropping to all fours, he
reached into the rkness and located the expected opening, cool and moist, without a orseal.
Wasteful.

No bright light, no sign of guards. Crawling inside the hole, he etched a leg down and located a
rough ledge, where he rested his boot, ith his other foot he found a second ledge, and below that
another. Steps ng down. Ahead, he discerned low yellow light where the tunnel sloped the right.
Stilgar backed up and raised a hand, summoning the others to low.

On the floor at the base of the rough steps he noticed an old serving vl. Tugging off his nose plugs,
he smelled raw meat. Bait for small preda-5? An animal trap? He froze, looking for sensors. Had he
already tripped lent alarm? He heard footsteps ahead, and a drunken voice. "Got an-er one. Let's
blow it to kulon-hell."

Stilgar and two Fremen darted into a side tunnel and drew their milky iknives. Maula pistols would
be far too noisy in these enclosed spaces, ten a pair of Harkonnen guards blundered past them,
reeking of spice r, Stilgar and his comrade Turok leaped out and grabbed them from be-i

Before the hapless men could cry out, the Fremen slit their throats, i slapped spongepads over the
wounds to absorb the precious blood. In efficient blur of motion, Fremen removed hand weapons
from the still' ching guards. Stilgar seized a lasrifle for himself and passed one to )k.

Dim military glowglobes floated in ceiling recesses, casting low light, razzia band continued down
the passageway, toward the heart of the

ancient sietch. When the passage skirted a conveyor system used for the transportation of materials
in and out of the secret chamber, he detected the cinnamon odor of melange, which grew stronger
as the group went deeper. Here, the ceiling glowglobes were tuned to pale orange instead of

yellow.

Stilgar's troop murmured at the sight of human skulls and rotting bodies, propped against the sides
of the corridor, carelessly displayed trophies. Rage suffused him. These might have been Fremen
prisoners or villagers, taken by the Harkonnens for sport. At his side, Turok glanced around,
searching for another enemy he might kill.
Cautiously, Stilgar led the way forward and began to hear voices and clanging noises. They came to
an alcove rimmed with a low stone railing that overlooked an underground grotto. Stilgar imagined
the thousands of desert people who must have thronged into this vast cavern long ago, before the
Harkonnens, before the Emperor . . . before the spice melange had become the most valuable
substance in the universe.

At the center of the grotto rose an octagonal structure, dark blue and silver, surrounded by ramps.
Smaller matching structures were arranged around it. One was under construction; plasmetal parts
lay strewn about, with seven laborers hard at work.

Slipping back into shadows, the raiders crept down shallow stairs to the grotto floor. Turok and the
other Fremen, each man holding his confiscated weapons, took positions in different alcoves
overlooking the grotto. Three raiders raced up the ramp that encircled the largest octagonal
structure. At the top, the Fremen vanished from view, then reappeared and made rapid hand signals
to Stilgar. Six guards had already been killed without making a sound, dispatched in deadly
crysknife silence.

Now the time for stealth had ended. On the rock floor, a pair of commandos pointed their maula
pistols at the surprised construction workers and ordered them up the stairs. The sunken-eyed
laborers complied grudgingly, as if they didn't care which masters held them captive.

The Fremen searched connecting passageways and found an underground barracks with two dozen
guards asleep among bottles of spice beer scattered on the floor. A strong odor of melange
permeated the large common room.

Scoffing, the Fremen charged in, slashing with knives, kicking and punching, dealing out pain but
no fatal wounds. The groggy Harkonnens were disarmed and herded to the central grotto.

His blood running hot, Stilgar scowled at the slouching, half-drunken men. One always hopes for
an honorable enemy. But we have found none tonight. Even here, in the highly secure grotto, these
men had been sampling the spice they were supposed to guard—probably without the Baron's
knowledge.

"I want to torture them to death right now." Turok's eyes were dark

ider the ruddy glowglobe light. "Slowly. You saw what they did to their ptives."

Stilgar stopped him. "Save that for later. Instead, we shall put them to )rk."

Stilgar paced back and forth in front of the Harkonnen captives, "atching his dark beard. The stink
of their fear-sweat began to overpower s melange odor. In a low, measured tone, he used a threat
their leader :t'Kynes had suggested. "This spice stockpile is illegal, in explicit viola->n of Imperial
orders. All melange on the premises will be confiscated d reported to Kaitain."

Liet, as the recently appointed Imperial Planetologist, had gone to itain to request a meeting with
the Padishah Emperor Shaddam IV. It s a long journey across the galaxy to the Imperial Palace, and
a simple ;ert dweller like Stilgar could scarcely comprehend such distances. "Says a Fremen?"
sneered the half-drunk guard captain, a small man :h quivering jowls and a high forehead.
"Says the Emperor. We take possession of it in his name." Stilgar's in-o eyes bored into him. The
red-faced captain didn't even have enough se to be frightened. Apparently, he had not heard what
Fremen did to ir captives. He would find out soon enough.

"Get to work unloading the silos!" Turok barked, standing with the res-d workers. Those prisoners
who weren't too exhausted to notice seemed jsed to see the Harkonnens jump. "We'll have our own
'thopters here n to pick up the spice."

the rising sun blistered the desert, Stilgar hovered on the tense edge of iety. The Harkonnen
captives worked, hour after hour. This raid was ng a long time, yet they had so much to gain.

While Turok and his companions kept their weapons ready, surly konnen guards loaded packages
of melange onto rattling conveyor s that led to openings on the cliff faces near 'thopter landing
pads, side, the Fremen raiders hauled away enough treasure to ransom a Id.

What could the Baron possibly want with such wealth?

\t noon, precisely on schedule, Stilgar heard explosions from the vil-

of Bar Es Rashid at the base of the ridge—the second Fremen razzia d attacking the Harkonnen
guard post in a well-coordinated assault, •our unmarked ornithopters circled the rock buttress
gracefully, flap-

their mechanical wings until Stilgar's men guided them onto the ing slabs. Freed construction
workers and the Fremen commandos ed the craft with the packaged, twice-stolen melange.

It was time for the operation to end.

Stilgar lined the Harkonnen guards along a sheer dropoff over the dusty huts of Bar Es Rashid far
below. After hours of hard work and brewing fear, the jowly Harkonnen captain was fully sober
now, his hair sweaty and eyes haunted. Standing before him, Stilgar studied the man with utter
contempt.

Without a word, he drew his crysknife and slit the man up the middle, from pubic bone to sternum.
The captain gasped in disbelief as his blood and entrails spilled out into the sun.

"Waste of moisture," Turok muttered beside him.

Several panicked Harkonnen prisoners tried to break away, but the Fremen fell upon them, hurling
some over the cliff and stabbing others with sharp blades. Those who stood their ground were
dispatched quickly and painlessly. The Fremen took much longer with the cowards.

The sunken-eyed construction workers were ordered to load bodies into the ornithopters, even the
decaying corpses found in the passageways. Back at Red Wall Sietch, Stilgar's people would render
the bodies in a deathstill, extracting every drop of water for the benefit of the tribe. Desecrated
Hadith would be left empty again, a ghost sietch. A warning to the Baron.

One by one the loaded 'thopters rose like dark birds into the clear sky, while Stilgar's men trotted
beneath the hot sun of afternoon, their mission
complete.

As soon as Baron Harkonnen discovered the loss of his spice hoard and the murder of his guards,
he would retaliate against Bar Es Rashid, even though those poor villagers had had nothing to do
with the raid. His mouth set in a grim line, Stilgar decided to move the entire population to the
safety of a distant sietch.

There, along with the captive construction workers, they would be turned into Fremen, or killed if
they did not cooperate. Considering their squalid lives in Bar Es Rashid, Stilgar felt he was doing
them a favor.

When Liet-Kynes returned from his meeting with the Emperor on Kaitain, he would be very
pleased with what the Fremen had accomplished.

Mankind has only one science: the science of discontentment.

— PADISHAH EMPEROR SHADDAM IV, Decree in Response to the Actions of House Moritani

PLEASE GRANT FORGIVENESS, SIRE. I crave a boon, Sire.

For the most part, Emperor Shaddam Corrino IV found his daily duties tedious. Sitting on the
Golden Lion Throne had been a thrill at first, but now as he gazed across the Imperial Audience
Chamber, it seemed to him that power lured sycophantic pests like sweet frosting lured roaches.
The supplicants' voices slipped into the back of his mind as he went through the motions, granting
or not granting favors. I demand justice, Sire. A moment of your time, Sire.

During his years as Crown Prince, he had schemed so hard to claim the throne. Now, with the snap
of a finger, Shaddam had the power to elevate a worthy commoner to noble status, to destroy
worlds, or to bring Great Houses crashing down.

But even the Emperor of the Known Universe could not rule solely as he saw fit. His decisions
were beset on all sides by challenges from political string-pullers. The Spacing Guild had its own
interests, as did Combine Honnete Ober Avancer Mercantiles, the trading conglomerate better
known as CHOAM. It was a blessing to know that the noble families bickered with each other as
much as they squabbled with him. Please hear my case, Sire. Have mercy, Sire.

The Bene Gesserit had helped him cement the early years of his reign. Yet now the witches—
including his own wife— whispered behind his back, unraveling his Imperial tapestry, creating new
patterns he could not discern.

Grant my request, 1 beg of you, Sire.

It is such a minor thing, Sire.

However, once his long-awaited Project Amal reached completion— the artificial spice secretly
being developed on Ix—he would change the face of the Imperium. "Amal." Such a magical sound
to the word. But names were one thing, and realities quite another.

The latest reports from Ix were heartening. At last, the damned Tleilaxu claimed success with their
experiments, and he was awaiting the final proof, and samples. Spice ... all of the puppet strings in
the vast Imperium were made of spice. Soon I shall have my own source, and Arrakis can rot, for
all I care.

Master Researcher Hidar Fen Ajidica would never dare to make baseless claims. Nonetheless,
Shaddam's boyhood friend and philosophical foil, Count Hasimir Fenring, had been sent to Ix to
check it out.

M.y fate is in your hands, Sire.

All hail the benevolent Emperor!

As he sat on the crystal throne, Shaddam allowed himself a mysterious smile, which made the
supplicants flinch with uncertainty.

Behind him, two copper-skinned women dressed in garments of golden silkscales climbed the steps
and lit the ion torches flanking his throne. The crackling flames were balls of harnessed lightning:
blue and green, shot through with veins of light too bright to behold. The air carried a thunderstorm
scent of ozone and the hiss of consuming flames.

After the customary pomp and ceremony, Shaddam had arrived in the throne room nearly an hour
late—his small way of reminding these pitiful beggars how little importance he placed on their
visits. By contrast, all supplicants were required to arrive precisely on time or have their
appointments canceled.

Court Chamberlain Beely Ridondo had stepped before the throne and extended his sonic staff.
When he struck it against the polished stone floor, the staff sent out a ringing tone that made the
Palace foundations tremble. Bald and high-browed, Ridondo called out Shaddam's interminably
long name and titles, proclaiming the court to be in session. He then glided backward up the dais
steps without missing a beat.

Leaning forward, his narrow face wearing a stern expression, Shaddam had begun another day on
the throne. . . .

The morning progressed exactly as he feared, an endless recital of petty matters. But Shaddam
forced himself to appear compassionate, a great ruler. He had already commissioned several
historians to ensure that the appropriate details of his life and reign were recorded and emphasized.

During a short recess, Chamberlain Ridondo paused to go over the long list of matters on the
Imperial docket. Shaddam sipped from his cup of potent spice coffee, felt the electric rush of
melange. For once, the cook had

prepared it properly. The intricately decorated cup was carefully painted, one of a kind, so delicate
it seemed to be made of eggshell. Each cup Shaddam used was destroyed after he drank from it, so
that no one else could have the privilege of using the same china.

"Sire?" Ridondo stared at the Emperor with a disconcerting expression is he rattled off complex
names without consulting notes. The Chamber-ain, while not a Mentat, had a formidable natural
memory, enabling him :o keep track of the numerous details of the Imperial workday. "A newly
irrived visitor has requested an immediate audience with you." "They always say that. What House
does he represent?" "He is not from the Landsraad, Sire. Nor is he an official from CHOAM or the
Guild."

Shaddam made a rude noise. "Then your decision is obvious, Chamber' lin. I cannot waste my time
with commoners."

"He is ... not exactly a commoner, Sire. His name is Liet-Kynes, and e comes from Arrakis."

Shaddam was irritated at the audacity of any man who would assume tat he could simply walk in
and expect an audience with the Emperor of a [illion Worlds. "If I wish to speak with one of the
desert rabble, I will mmon him."

"He is your Imperial Planetologist, Sire. Your father appointed his fa-er to investigate spice on
Arrakis. I believe numerous reports have been bmitted." :

The Emperor yawned. "All of them boring, as I recall." Now he remem-red the eccentric Pardot
Kynes, who had spent much of his life on rakis, shirking his duties and going native, preferring dust
and heat to : splendor of Kaitain. "I have lost interest in deserts." Especially now that ' al is at
hand.

"I understand your reservations about him, Sire, but Kynes could back and rile up the desert
workers. Who knows what influence he with them? They might decide to stage an immediate
general strike, reasing spice production and forcing Baron Harkonnen to crack ra. The Baron would
then request Sardaukar reinforcements, and from

Shaddam raised his well'manicured hand. "Enough! I see your point." : Chamberlain always cycled
through more consequences than an Deror needed to hear. "Let him in. But clean the dirt off of him
first."

Lm H? Tff immenS£ Imperial Palace ™pressive, but he was

arThan A3 h ** *F™*™ ^^ C°"ld be more pi lar than the sheer vastness of Dune. He had stood
face-to-face with

DUNE: HOUSE CORRINO 9

monster Coriolis storms. He had ridden great sandworms. He had watched flickers of plant life
thrive in the most inhospitable conditions.

A man sitting on a chair, however expensive, could not match any of that.

His skin felt oily from the lotion the attendants had smeared all over it. His hair smelled of flowery
perfumes, and his body stank with unnatural deodorizers. According to Fremen wisdom, sand
cleansed the body and the mind. Once he returned from Kaitain, Kynes intended to roll naked on a
dune and stand out in the biting wind just to feel truly clean again.

Because he insisted on wearing his sophisticated stillsuit, the garment had been dismantled in a
thorough search for concealed weapons and listening devices. The components had been scrubbed
and lubricated, the carefully treated surfaces coated with strange chemicals, before the security men
let him have it back. Kynes doubted the vital piece of desert equipment would ever function
properly again, and he would have to discard it. Such a waste.

But since he was the son of the great prophet Pardot Kynes, Fremen would line up to the horizon
for the honor of making a new garment for him. After all, they shared one goal: the welfare of
Dune. But only Kynes could approach the Emperor and make the necessary demands.

These Imperial men understand so little.

Liet's mottled tan cape flowed behind him as he marched forward. On Kaitain it appeared to be no
more than coarse cloth, but he wore it like a royal mantle.

The Chamberlain announced his name curtly, as if offended that the Planetologist did not carry
sufficient noble or political titles. Kynes clomped across the floor in temag boots, not bothering to
walk with grace. He came to a stop in front of the dais and spoke boldly, without bowing. "Emperor
Shaddam, I must speak to you of spice and of Arrakis."

Courtiers gasped at his forthrightness. The Emperor stiffened, obviously offended. "You are bold,
Planetologist. Foolishly so. Do you assume I know nothing of matters so vital to my Imperium?"

"I assume, Sire, that you have been given false information by the Harkonnens, propaganda to hide
their true activities from you."

Shaddam raised a reddish eyebrow and leaned forward, his full attention now focused on the
Planetologist.

Kynes continued, "The Harkonnens are wild dogs tearing at the desert. They exploit the native
people. Casualty rates on spice crawlers are higher even than in the slave pits on Poritrin or Giedi
Prime. I have sent you many reports detailing such atrocities, and my father before me did the
same. I have also delivered a long-term plan detailing how plantings of grass and desert scrub brush
could reclaim much of the surface area of Dune—Arrakis, I mean—for human habitation." He
paused a beat. "I can

hundreds of plans and contingencies in an instant, which made him vital to the mission. Gurney
was good at slipping into places where he didn't belong and escaping under the direst of
circumstances. These two might be able to succeed where all others had failed. . . .

"I'll have some more of that Caladan white," said Swordmaster Duncan Idaho, raising his goblet. A
servant rushed forward with a bottle of expensive local wine, and Duncan held his cup steady while
rich golden liquid splashed out of the bottle. Raising his hand for the servant to wait, he ;ulped the
wine, then gestured for more.

In the uncomfortable silence, Leto stared toward the wood-carved en-rance doors ... as if waiting,
anticipating the arrival of one more person. iis eyes were like chips of smoky ice.

The exploded skyclipper, the vessel in flames—

Rhombur mangled and burned, the boy Victor killed—
And then to learn it had all been caused by Leto's jealous concubine [ailea, Victor's own mother,
who had thrown herself from a high tower of >astle Caladan in unspeakable shame and grief...

The cook emerged from the kitchen archway, proudly carrying a plater. "Our finest dish, my Lord
Duke. Created in your honor."

It was a fat parafish wrapped in crisped aromatic leaves. Spiky sprigs of )semary were tucked into
folds of the pinkish meat; purple-blue juniper ;rries lay sprinkled about the platter like jewels. Even
though she served ;to the choicest part of the fillet, he did not lift his fork. He continued to atch the
main doorway. Waiting.

Finally, responding to the sound of plodding footsteps and humming otors, Leto rose to his feet, his
face filled with concern and anticipation, oving quickly on feather-light feet, the plain-featured
Bene Gesserit ;ssia entered the banquet hall. She scanned the room, noted the chairs, e stone floor
where the carpet had been removed, and gave an approving id. "He's progressing admirably, my
Duke, but we must be patient." "He is patient enough for all of us," Leto said, and his expression
began show the pale sunrise of hope.

With a calculated precision involving twitches of electrofluid muscle, ; flexing of shigawire thread
and microfiber nerves, Prince Rhombur rnius lurched into the banquet hall. His scarred face, a
blend of artificial i natural skin, reflected his intense concentration. Glistening pearls of •spiration
stood out on his waxy forehead. He wore a short, loose robe; the lapel glimmered a purple-and-
copper helix, proud symbol of the en House Vernius.

Tessia hurried toward him, but Rhombur raised a finger of polished tal and polymers, signaling her
to let him continue on his own. The skyclipper explosion had blasted his body to a broken lump
lesh, burning away his limbs and half of his face, destroying most of his

organs. Yet he had been kept alive, a fading ember of a once-bright flame. What remained now was
little more than a passenger on a mechanical vehicle shaped like a man.

"I'm going as fast as I can, Leto."

"There is no hurry." The Duke's heart went out to his brave friend. The two of them had fished
together, played games, caroused, and planned strategies for decades. "I'd be loath to have you fall
and break anything— such as the table, I mean."

"Most funny, indeed."

Leto remembered how badly the vile Tleilaxu had wanted genetic samples from the Atreides and
Vernius bloodlines, trying to blackmail the Duke in his hour of greatest grief. They had made an
anguished Leto a diabolical offer, that in exchange for the mangled but still-living body of his best
friend Rhombur, they would grow a ghola—a clone from dead cells— of the boy Victor.

Their hatred of House Atreides ran deep—and deeper still for House Vernius, whom they had
overthrown on Ix. The Tleilaxu had wanted access to complete Atreides and Vernius DNA. With
the bodies of Victor and Rhombur, they would be able to create any number of gholas, clones,
assassins, duplicates.
But Leto had turned down their offer. Instead, he had engaged the services of the Suk doctor
Wellington Yueh, an expert in the replacement of organic limbs.

"Thank you for holding this dinner in my honor, all of you." Rhombur looked at the serving platters
and dishes arrayed on the table. "I'm sorry if the food has gotten cold."

Leto brought his hands together in a firm round of applause. Smiling warmly, Duncan and Jessica
joined in. With her sharp observational skills, Jessica noticed a sheen of captive tears deep within
the Duke's gaze.

The sallow-faced Dr. Yueh moved beside his patient, tracking readings, studying a dataplate in his
hand that received impulses from Rhombur's cybernetic systems. The slender doctor pursed his
purplish lips into an intent flower-bud shape. "Excellent. You are functioning as designed, although
a few components still need fine-tuning." He circled Rhombur, moving like a ferret as the cyborg
Prince took slow, self-conscious steps.

Tessia pulled out a chair for Rhombur. His synthetic legs were powerful and sturdy, but without
grace. His hands looked like armored gloves; his arms hung like circuit-patterned oars at his sides.

Rhombur smiled at the big fish the cook had just served. "That smells wonderful." He turned his
head, a slow rotational movement, as if on ball bearings. "Do you think I might eat some of it, Dr.
Yueh?"

The Suk doctor stroked his long mustaches. "Just taste it. Your digestive system needs more work."

Rhombur swiveled his head toward Leto. "It appears I'm going to consume more power cells than
desserts for a while." He lowered himself into his chair, and the others finally resumed their seats.

Leto raised his wineglass, trying to think of a toast. Then his face acquired an anguished
expression, and he simply took a sip. "I am so sorry this has happened to you, Rhombur. These . . .
mechanical replacements . . . were the best I could do."

Rhombur's scarred face lit up in a combination of gratitude and annoyance. "Vermilion hells, Leto,
stop apologizing! Trying to find all the facets of blame would consume House Atreides for years,
and we'd all go mad." He lifted a mechanical arm, rotated the hand at the wrist joint, and stared
down at it. "This isn't so bad. In fact, it's marvelous. Dr. Yueh's a genius, you know. You should
keep him around as long as you can." The Suk doctor fidgeted in an effort to keep from glowing at
the compliment.

"Remember that I come from Ix, so I appreciate the marvels of technology," Rhombur said. "Now
I'm a living example of it. If any person is better suited to adapt to this new situation, I'd like to
meet him."

For years, the exiled Prince Rhombur had been biding his time, sending ninimal support to the
resistance movement on his devastated home-vorld, including explosive wafers and military
supplies provided by Duke .eto.

In recent months, as Rhombur grew stronger physically, he also grew tronger mentally. Though he
was only a fraction of a man, every day he poke of the need to recapture Ix, to the point where
Duke Leto and even iis concubine Tessia sometimes had to tell him to calm down.