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

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.

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

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