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fail in yours" -- Kryubi's nostrils flared --" then I must do mine. If you
speak out against the Baron, if you insult him, if you ridicule him to incite
discontent, I will have to act. You're smart enough to know that."
With an angry grunt, Gurney shook his head. Only his anger sustained him.
Every drop of his blood that spattered the ground he swore to repay with
Harkonnen blood. With his dying breath he would discover what had happened to
his sister -- and if by some miracle Bheth remained alive, he would rescue her.
Kryubi turned toward the troop transport, where the guards had already seated
themselves. "Don't make me come back." He looked over his shoulder at Gurney
and added a very odd word. "Please."
Gurney lay still, wondering how long it would take for his parents to venture
out and see whether he lived or not. He watched through blurred vision and
pain-smeared eyes as the transport lifted off and left the village. He wondered
if any other lights would come on, if any villagers would come out and help him,
now that the Harkonnens were gone.
But the dwellings in Dmitri remained dark. Everyone pretended not to have seen
or heard.
The strictest limits are self-imposed.
-FRIEDRE GINAZ, Philosophy of the Swordmaster
WHEN DUNCAN IDAHO ARRIVED at Ginaz, he believed he needed nothing more than the
Old Duke's prized sword to become a great warrior. His head full of romantic
expectations, he envisioned the swashbuckling life he would lead, the marvelous
fighting techniques he would learn. He was only twenty, and looked forward to a
golden future.
Reality was quite different.
The Ginaz School was an archipelago of habitable islands scattered like bread
crumbs across turquoise water. On each island, different Masters taught
students their particular techniques that ranged from shield-fighting, military
tactics, and combat skills to politics and philosophy. Over the course of his
eight-year training ordeal, Duncan would move from one environment to the next
and learn from the best fighters in the Imperium.
If he survived.
The school's main island served as the spaceport and administration center,
surrounded by reefs that blocked waves from the choppy water. Tall clustered
buildings reminded Duncan of the bristles on a spiny rat, like the one he'd kept
as a pet inside the Harkonnen prison fortress.
Revered throughout the Imperium, the Swordmasters of Ginaz had built many of
their primary structures as museums and memorials, rather than classrooms. This
reflected the supreme confidence they felt in their personal fighting abilities,
a self-assurance that bordered on hubris. Politically neutral, they served
their art and allowed its practitioners to make their own choices regarding the
Imperium. Contributing to the mythology, the academy's graduates had included
the leaders of many Great Houses in the Landsraad. Master jongleurs were
commissioned to compose songs and commentary about the great deeds of the
legendary heroes of Ginaz.
The central skyscraper, where Duncan would endure his final testing years hence,
held the tomb of Jool-Noret, founder of the Ginaz School. Noret's sarcophagus
lay in open view -- surrounded by clear armor-plaz and a Holtzman-generated
shield -- yet only the "worthy" were allowed to see it.
Duncan vowed that he would prove himself worthy. . . .
He was met at the spaceport by a slender, bald woman wearing a black martial-
arts gi. Brisk and businesslike, she introduced herself as Karsty Toper. "I
have been assigned to take your possessions." She extended her hand for his
rucksack and the long bundle containing the Old Duke's sword.
He clutched the blade protectively. "If you give me your personal guarantee
that these items will be safe."
Her forehead furrowed, wrinkling her shaved head. "We value honor more than any
other House in the Landsraad." Her hand remained extended, unwavering.
"Not more than the Atreides," Duncan said, still refusing to relinquish the
blade.
Karsty Toper frowned as she considered. "Not more, perhaps. But we are
comparable."
Duncan handed her the packages, and she directed him to a long distance shuttle
'thopter. "Go there. You will be taken to your first island. Do what you are
told without complaining, and learn from everything." She tucked the sword
bundle and his rucksack under her arms. "We will hold these for you until it is
time."
Without seeing the Ginaz city or the school administration tower, Duncan was
flown far across the deep sea to a low, lush island like a lily pad that barely
lifted itself out of the water. Jungles were dense and huts were few. The three
uniformed crewmen dropped him on the beach and departed without answering any of
his questions. Duncan stood all alone, listening to the rush of ocean against
the island shore, reminded of Caladan.
He had to believe this was some sort of test.
A deeply tanned man with frizzy white hair and thin, sinewy limbs strode out to
meet him, parting palm fronds. He wore a sleeveless black tunic belted at the
waist. The man's expression appeared stony as he squinted into the light
glaring off the beach.
"I am Duncan Idaho. Are you my first instructor, sir?"
"Instructor?" The man scowled. "Yes, rat, and my name is Jamo Reed -- but
prisoners don't use names here, because everyone knows his place. Do your work,
and don't cause any trouble. If the others can't keep you in line, then I
will."
Prisoners? "I'm sorry, Master Reed, but I'm here for Swordmaster training --"
Reed laughed. "Swordmaster? That's rich!"
Without giving him any time to settle, the man assigned Duncan to a rugged work
crew with dark-skinned Ginaz natives. Duncan communicated by rough hand
signals, since none of the natives spoke Imperial Galach.
For several hot and sweaty days, the men dug channels and wells to improve the
water system for an inland village. The air was so thick with humidity and
biting gnats that Duncan could barely breathe. As evening approached and the
gnats dissipated, the jungle swarmed with mosquitoes and black flies, and
Duncan's skin was covered with swollen bites. He had to drink copious amounts [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]