The Winds of Dune (22 page)

And Paul would have to pay the price. She knew now that the Bene Gesserits, even with all of their resources and information, would never offer assistance in this matter.

Jessica tried to tear the message into pieces, but the instroy paper
was too durable. Frustrated, she crumpled it up and fed it into an Ixian incinerator, watching her private hopes for a quick resolution vanish in the flames. Help would have to come from another quarter.

Seasoned Guildsmen avoided setting foot on solid ground, claiming that gravity unsettled them. When a Guild official presented himself to Rhombur Vernius in the Grand Palais, accompanied by two silent and unnaturally large companions, Jessica was both intrigued and wary.

All three men wore gray uniforms with the infinity symbol of the Guild on the lapels. The hairless lead representative seemed displeased by the riotous work in all the bustling factories filling the cavern floor, as if he preferred activities to be more controlled. He took small shuffling steps, as though unfamiliar with the weight of his own body.

Rhombur strode forward. “You come with word of my son? And Paul?”

The man regarded him with oddly unfocused eyes. “The Spacing Guild is aware of your situation. We have located Paul Atreides and Bronso Vernius.”

Jessica felt sudden relief after so many days of uncertainty. “They’re alive and safe?”

“At last report.” The man’s aloof demeanor signaled either disdain for the two noblemen or simply a lack of social skills. “They stowed aboard a Heighliner and posed as workers amongst the Wayku. But they were careless, and we caught them.”

Jessica let out an audible sigh of relief, but Leto remained suspicious. “So, where are they? Are you returning them to us?”

The Guildsman blinked in confusion. His two burly companions remained silent, staring straight ahead. “We did not come here for that purpose. We came to collect the fee for their passage. Your sons traveled great distances without paying for transport. House Atreides and House Vernius owe the Spacing Guild a significant sum.”

In a tone of disgust, Leto muttered a curse. Jessica pressed, “Will you at least tell us where the boys are?”

“I do not have that knowledge.”

“Vermillion Hells, you already said you caught the boys!” Rhombur took an ominous step forward, but the two muscular companions did not flinch.

“The boys were put off-ship, according to Guild policy, at one of our stops.”

“Which stop?” Leto was growing more and more exasperated.

“We pride ourselves on confidentiality, and do not discuss the movements of our passengers.”

Leto called his bluff. “In that case, we have no proof of their travels, and we refuse to pay for their passage.”

The Guildsman was startled. “Those are separate matters.”

“To you, perhaps, but not to me. Tell me where my son is, if you want to be paid.”

The representative deferred to his massive companions, who consulted each other in quiet tones before nodding. Jessica wondered who was really in charge. “Payment first,” the man said.

“No. Location first,” Rhombur countered.

Leto fumed. “Enough of this! House Atreides guarantees payment to the Guild. If you tell us what we need to know, I’ll release the solaris immediately.”

The representative gave the slightest bow. “Very well. Bronso Vernius and Paul Atreides were granted sanctuary among a Jongleur troupe that disembarked on Chusuk four days ago.”

There is a natural compatibility between our two groups, don’t you think? Your “gypsy” Wayku and my Jongleurs are both inveterate space travelers, and in a sense we are both performers—my people put on spectacular shows, while yours perform tasks so efficiently that passengers hardly notice they’re being served
.

—
RHEINVAR THE MAGNIFICENT
, from a letter to his Wayku friend Ennzyn

W
hen the shuttle dumped the Jongleur troupe on Chusuk, Bronso shouldered closer to Paul, eager to drink in all the details at once. “A Jongleur’s life is full of such things. If we stay with Rheinvar’s troupe, we’ll see a new planet every week.”

“We just joined the troupe.” They hadn’t even met the other performers yet. Still, Paul was glad to see his friend enthusiastic again, because Bronso had been so bitter for weeks.

“Yes, but we’re on Chusuk!”

Gurney Halleck had told stories and sung many songs about the planet Chusuk, renowned for its fine balisets. Paul doubted Gurney had ever been here before, though he talked like an expert. The thought of the big, lumpish man made Paul miss Caladan. He was sure his parents would be greatly concerned about him, though he hoped his mother and father had sufficient faith in his resourcefulness. Maybe he could find a way to at least send a reassuring message home, so long as he did not reveal too much. . . .

Rheinvar sauntered up to them, dressed in his sparkling white suit. “You two have to earn your keep. A favor for Ennzyn only goes so far.”

“I’ve always wanted to work with Jongleurs,” Bronso said.

The troupe leader let out a loud snort. “You don’t know the first thing about Jongleurs. Rumors, embellished stories, superstitions—hah! I’ll bet you think we’re sorcerers living in the hills who can use telepathy to manipulate audiences.”

“Exactly. And your performances are so emotionally powerful that audiences can die from the experience.”

“That wouldn’t help us get repeat customers, now would it? Those are just tall tales and rumors, ridiculous exaggerations. We’re professional showmen, acrobats, entertainers.” Rheinvar leaned closer, and his eyes twinkled. “The powerful skills you mention are only used by
Master
Jongleurs.”

“And are you a Master Jongleur?” Paul asked.

“Of course! But using my powers would be strictly against Imperial law.” Paul couldn’t tell if the man was serious or not. “Ages ago, House Jongleur founded an ancient school of storytelling, employing clever showmanship and performing skills . . . but some of us had an extra gift, mental abilities that let us share emotions—strictly for entertainment purposes, you understand—to enhance the experience and increase the fear, romance, and excitement.”

He let out a booming chuckle. “Or so the stories say. My people from the planet Jongleur used to be the best troubadours in the Imperium. We traveled from House to House, entertaining the great families, but some Master Jongleurs made the mistake of getting involved in intrigues with inter-House feuds, spying and the like . . . and ever since, we’ve been shunned by the Landsraad.” Rheinvar’s eyes glinted playfully. “As a result of our disgrace, some say there are no true Master Jongleurs left.”

“But you just told us you’re one of them yourself,” Paul said.

“You believe everything I say? Good! In truth, I think the audiences come to watch because they
hope
I might demonstrate some supernatural powers.”

“And do you?” Bronso asked.

Rheinvar waggled his finger. “The most important rule you need to learn is that a showman never divulges his secrets.” The other troupe members began to move across the Chusuk field, and Rheinvar shooed the boys along. “Enough storytelling. I hope you two can do more than
take up space and breathe the air. Tend the birds and lizards, haul crates, set up, tear down, clean up, run errands, and do the dirty work that no one else wants to do.”

“We’ll do the work, sir,” Paul said. “We’re not lazy.”

“Prove it. If you can’t find something to do on your own, then you’re either blind, helpless, or stupid.” He strode down the ramp, already looking like a showman. “I’m off to set up the performance venue. We start our practice shows tomorrow.”

With astonishing speed, the troupe members erected, fitted, powered, and furnished the stage inside the largest available theater in Sonance, the capital of Chusuk. The performers, roustabouts, and stagehands—Paul had trouble telling them apart—worked together like the well-coordinated components of an Ixian clock. He and Bronso did their best to help, while not getting in the way.

Rheinvar the Magnificent began promoting the show by going into the city to meet with family-league representatives, taking with him a few of the dancers, who demonstrated some of their more complicated moves.

Paul and Bronso did their chores without complaint, feeding the animals, cleaning equipment, helping move things into proper positions. At every opportunity, however, they gazed restlessly out at the city, wanting to explore.

When the frenetic work had died down, one of the performers came up to the boys, a lithe young male in black trousers and blouse. “I have business in Sonance, and you two are welcome to join me.” He smiled at them. “My name is Sielto, and part of my job is to observe the leading locals so that I can glean specific details for use in the show.”

Bronso and Paul did not need to consult each other before agreeing. Leaving the Jongleur encampment, the trio went out to explore Sonance. They wandered down narrow streets lined with shops, where artisans worked thin strips of golden harmonywood: planing, carving, and laminating the layers into graceful mathematical arcs and perfect shapes. Their companion gave a dry explanation: “Harmonywood
comes from a special stunted tree that grows on the windswept highlands. That wood is the key to the sophisticated characteristics of Chusuk balisets.”

While the three proceeded from shop to shop, craftsmen glanced up at them from their workbenches. The smells of potent lacquers, colorful paints, and sawdust filled the air. As soon as the artisans judged that they were mere curiosity seekers rather than actual customers, they turned back to their work.

“As the harmonywood grows,” Sielto continued, “the trees are infested with tiny borer beetles, which create honeycombs in the wood. No tree is the same as any other, so no two instruments sound exactly the same. That special wood gives Chusuk instruments their sweet, rich sound and complexity of resonance.” Through various doorways he indicated different coats of arms, varying colors and designs displayed outside the craftsman shops. “Each family league grows its own strain of the trees.”

“They’re not very innovative, though,” Bronso said, “just using the old methods over and over.” He bent over to inspect a basket of loose, polished multipicks for the balisets. The shopkeeper watched them closely, suspiciously.