This had been the government mansion in the days of the Old Empire. Costs had been of less importance then. It had been before the Harkonnens and their new megalopolis of Carthag -- a cheap and brassy place some two hundred kilometers northeast across the Broken Land. Leto had been wise to choose this place for his seat of government. The name, Arrakeen, had a good sound, filled with tradition. And this was a smaller city, easier to sterilize and defend.
Again there came the clatter of boxes being unloaded in the entry. Jessica sighed.
Against a carton to her right stood the painting of the Duke's father.
Wrapping twine hung from it like a frayed decoration. A piece of the twine was still clutched in Jessica's left hand. Beside the painting lay a black bull's head mounted on a polished board. The head was a dark island in a sea of wadded paper. Its plaque lay flat on the floor, and the bull's shiny muzzle pointed at the ceiling as though the beast were ready to bellow a challenge into this echoing room.
Jessica wondered what compulsion had brought her to uncover those two things first -- the head and the painting. She knew there was something symbolic in the action. Not since the day when the Duke's buyers had taken her from the school had she felt this frightened and unsure of herself.
The head and the picture.
They heightened her feelings of confusion. She shuddered, glanced at the slit windows high overhead. It was still early afternoon here, and in these latitudes the sky looked black and cold -- so much darker than the warm blue of Caladan. A pang of homesickness throbbed through her.
So far away, Caladan.
"Here we are!"
The voice was Duke Leto's.
She whirled, saw him striding from the arched passage to the dining hall.
His black working uniform with red armorial hawk crest at the breast looked dusty and rumpled.
"I thought you might have lost yourself in this hideous place," he said.
"It is a cold house," she said. She looked at his tallness, at the dark skin that made her think of olive groves and golden sun on blue waters. There was woodsmoke in the gray of his eyes, but the face was predatory: thin, full of sharp angles and planes.
A sudden fear of him tightened her breast. He had become such a savage, driving person since the decision to bow to the Emperor's command.
"The whole city feels cold," she said.
"It's a dirty, dusty little garrison town," he agreed. "But we'll change that." He looked around the hall. "These are public rooms for state occasions.
I've just glanced at some of the family apartments in the south wing. They're much nicer." He stepped closer, touched her arm, admiring her stateliness.
And again, he wondered at her unknown ancestry -- a renegade House, perhaps?
Some black-barred royalty? She looked more regal than the Emperor's own blood.
Under the pressure of his stare, she turned half away, exposing her profile.
And he realized there was no single and precise thing that brought her beauty to
focus. The face was oval under a cap of hair the color of polished bronze. Her eyes were set wide, as green and clear as the morning skies of Caladan. The nose was small, the mouth wide and generous. Her figure was good but scant: tall and with its curves gone to slimness.
He remembered that the lay sisters at the school had called her skinny, so his buyers had told him. But that description oversimplified. She had brought a regal beauty back into the Atreides line. He was glad that Paul favored her.
"Where's Paul?" he asked.
"Someplace around the house taking his lessons with Yueh."
"Probably in the south wing," he said. "I thought I heard Yueh's voice, but I couldn't take time to look." He glanced down at her, hesitating. "I came here only to hang the key of Caladan Castle in the dining hall."
She caught her breath, stopped the impulse to reach out to him. Hanging the key -- there was finality in that action. But this was not the time or place for comforting. "I saw our banner over the house as we came in," she said.
He glanced at the painting of his father. "Where were you going to hang that?"
"Somewhere in here."
"No." The word rang flat and final, telling her she could use trickery to persuade, but open argument was useless. Still, she had to try, even if the gesture served only to remind herself that she would not trick him.
"My Lord," she said, "if you'd only . . . "
"The answer remains no. I indulge you shamefully in most things, not in this. I've just come from the dining hall where there are --"
"My Lord! Please."
"The choice is between your digestion and my ancestral dignity, my dear," he said. "They will hang in the dining hall."
She sighed. "Yes, my Lord."
"You may resume your custom of dining in your rooms whenever possible. I shall expect you at your proper position only on formal occasions."
"Thank you, my Lord."
"And don't go all cold and formal on me! Be thankful that I never married you, my dear. Then it'd be your duty to join me at table for every meal."
She held her face immobile, nodded.
