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Chapter Six: The Duchess of Caladan
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It was a week before the last of the wedding guests left Castle Caladan. The post-nuptial festivities had forced Rhiannon into a peculiar sort of purgatory, caught halfway between her old life and the new. In that week of limbo, she was Lady Atreides, Duchess of Caladan—but with random noble guests determined to outstay their welcome still ambling the halls, demanding entertainment and turning every meal into a formal occasion, Rhiannon didn't have much of an opportunity to figure out just who Lady Atreides was.
Larion and the party from Iro were the last to go. She would miss her brother, of course, but no more than the things she had already been missing for a while now, and so his departure still came as a huge relief.
At last the hallways were quiet. No excess guard retinues or servants to get underfoot. Everyone she encountered was directly under her command and doing the things they were meant to be doing.
At last she could get to work.
The Castle quickly settled into the peaceful droning of everyday life, a sort of efficient monotony that Rhiannon decided she liked; servants stoked the fires in the main rooms every five hours; the guards changed every four on staggered schedules to prevent every post from changing at once (which Rhiannon appreciated greatly); the kitchens were open at all hours, but communal meals were served to the staff three times a day; twice a week, the Duke would eat with the staff, and on the other days he expected Rhiannon to have dinner with him—sometimes Paul would join them, but Jessica never did; it was up to Rhiannon to decide where and when she wanted breakfast and lunch, she only needed to let the kitchen staff know ahead of time.
It was easygoing. It was comfortable. Established. House Atreides wore its authority on Caladan like old leather. And why shouldn't it? The House had ruled there for—what? Twenty generations? And in that time, its jurisdiction had gone uncontested.
The notion was still strange to Rhiannon—that a House could rule without having to fight every moment to remain sovereign. House Dering had uprooted and entirely changed the lands it governed twice in her girlhood alone.
House Atreides faced threats, of course. Big ones. Cataclysmic ones that made her accomplishments feel small. But it must be nice to go to bed knowing that everything you'd cultivated would still be yours in the morning.
Then again, was that something she really wanted to get used to? Losing her edge wouldn't do her any favors.
A few days after Castle Caladan was freed from the burdens of hosting, Thurfir Hawat sent Rhiannon a message, asking if she would be available for a meeting sometime midmorning. Even though the Security Commander didn't include his reasons for wanting to meet, she accepted.
Rhiannon was punctual. She arrived in their designated meeting place—the War Room—exactly two minutes ahead of time.
The War Room was a conference room hidden in the depths of the security wing of Castle Caladan. It was a large room, longer than it was wide with slightly curved walls that bowed outward in the middle. Like the rest of the castle, it relied on natural light, which poured in from a line of windows spanning the length of one of the two longer walls. The other three walls were covered by dark display screens. A large conference table dominated the space, made of polished oak and surrounded by ergonomic chairs.
Naturally, the room was empty when Rhiannon arrived; she'd never be allowed in it while it was being used for its intended purpose. In theory, the Lady of the House would never have a reason to be in this room at all, let alone when the Council was in session.
She didn't miss the symbolism. Hawat was clearly a fan of subtle tactics. He wanted to make her feel uneasy. Unwelcome. Out of place.
It didn't work, of course, but she admired the effort all the same.
Rhiannon went to the windows. The security wing itself was built high into the side of a sheer cliff face. The view from the War Room was of the horizon, and the dark, tumultuous sea sucking at the jagged rocks below. She turned to survey the room more closely, noted the odd way the sunlight reflected on the screen set into the far wall, the one just behind the ducal chair at the head of the table.
It looked as if Hawat had been using the War Room as a temporary office. Files and stacks of paper surrounded the seat adjacent to the one at the head; Hawat's usual place at the Duke's right hand.
Rhiannon paused to sift through the files. Major exports. Imports. Mostly things she had actually been given copies of and were already filed away in her study. She put those aside. The third file from the bottom was on Iro—again, all information she already knew, or at least had access to. She opened it and began to read.
About ten minutes after their meeting was supposed to start, the door was flung open with more force than was strictly necessary. Halfway through a sentence, Rhiannon didn't bother looking up.
It had been a test, the unsecured files bait, and she had failed. Could Lady Atreides be trusted around sensitive documents clearly not meant for her?
Absolutely not. She wasn't ashamed of it, either. As far as she was concerned, all House business was her business too, and she didn't care if Hawat thought otherwise.
"Hawat," Rhiannon greeted absently, still reading. Ten minutes was a long time to keep your Duchess waiting, but she elected not to mention it. "How are things?"
"M'Lady." He sounded irritated. "It isn't wise to stand with your back to a door."
"No, it isn't," she agreed, indicating the screen on the opposite wall with a flick of her head, "that's why I kept it in the reflection."
Rhiannon didn't look up at Hawat to see if he was impressed or annoyed by her statement. Annoyed, most likely, because she was still standing over his seat. He loomed close by her shoulder, clearly wanting her to move.
"M'Lady." Rhiannon got the sense that he was resisting the urge to snatch the file out of her hands. "We have a lot to discuss."
Rhiannon finally looked up. She smiled. "Of course."
She moved away from his seat and—just to annoy him more—dismissed the regular chair to Hawat's right in favor of the adjacent ducal seat on his left. It was technically correct—in this situation, she was entitled to the head of the table—but presumptuous. A not-so-subtle reminder that she outranked him, and would be the one leading this meeting. Rude, but necessary. The more she let him control their dynamic now, the harder it would be to reestablish later.
Hawat said nothing, only settled into his own chair, stacked the disturbed files neatly to one side before placing a new one on the table.
"As you know, M'Lady," he started slowly, "I am directly responsible for the security of the Duke and his heir. Now that you're officially a senior member of the Atreides family, your safety is my top priority."
"I appreciate your dedication, sir."
"Thank you. For me to do my job efficiently, m'Lady, you'll need to familiarize yourself with our emergency protocols, so you'll know what to do if there's a threat to security. You'll have your own security codes, comm devices, and guard detachment. Also, it's vital that you learn the Atreides Battle Language."
Rhiannon already knew about it, so she asked innocently, "Battle language?"
Hawat nodded. "A sign language we teach our soldiers. You'll need to know it so you can communicate with your guards, and they with you, in situations where it's important that outsiders can't understand what's being said."
"I understand."
"In less than two months, we'll be traveling to Ahmes to attend the Adelio trade summit. I'd prefer it if you were at least somewhat familiar with it by then."
"That's within reason," Rhiannon reassured, "I'm a fast learner."
"Yes, m'Lady." The condescension in this voice was subtle, just like the rest of the emotions he allowed himself to express. But Rhiannon caught it anyway. "With your permission, I'd like to start you with some of the basic commands—the ones you're most likely to need in any given situation."
Ah, yes. She'd failed his little test, hadn't she? As a woman, she had shown that she was willing to overstep, proven herself to be nosey—not to mention impudent and clumsy for not even trying to hide it, and displayed blatant disregard for established protocol.
Smart wives didn't do that. They did their duties, tossed razor-sharp quips across the dinner table to entertain their husbands or keep wealthy guests in line. A smart wife, upon finding the room empty, would've sat quietly down in the chair across from Hawat's, not touched anything, and simply waited until he arrived. She would have scolded him for keeping her waiting, but that would've been acceptable, even expected.
Rhiannon had done none of that, so she couldn't be smart.
Rhiannon knew she should probably just let it slide. Under other circumstances, she would have. More specifically, if Hawat was her enemy, she would have. Being underestimated by your enemies was a good thing.
"Of course. But first," she said slowly, her voice sickly sweet, "I have a question. As the Security Commander, surely you'll know the answer."
Hawat straightened up, focused on her with the entirety of his Mentat processing capabilities. "M'Lady?"
Except Hawat wasn't her enemy. He was loyal to the Atreides family—had served them for two generations. Three, if you counted Paul. Despite the current friction between them, Rhiannon knew that Hawat would give his life for her without question, and she took that kind of thing very seriously.
Also she liked Hawat. He was intelligent, meticulous, and efficient. His loyalty couldn't be bought. One day, hopefully, they could be friends. But that couldn't happen if he doubted her intellect. She could never be friends with someone who saw her as anything less than what she was.
"This room," Rhiannon asked, "who designed it?"
Hawat blinked. His dark eyes scoured her face, evidently unwilling to go into a Mentat trance to find the answer to the question. "That… was before my time, m'Lady." He frowned. "Is it important?"
Rhiannon made a dismissive gesture. "Perhaps not. Only I couldn't help but notice that when they installed the display screen over the one-way mirror, they used the wrong glass."
Hawat's expression didn't change, but his eyes flickered over her head to the darkened display screen behind her.
"I assume the display is fully functional," she went on, "otherwise, it would've been easier to tint the mirror to imitate a display, and be done with it. But whoever designed the room forgot that the glass of the standard display isn't dark enough. When the light hits it at an angle, it reflects off the first layer, but still shines through to the mirror underneath, and there's a double reflection."
A muscle in Hawat's jaw twitched as he realized she was right. At least he wasn't annoyed at her anymore, just at himself for not realizing it sooner. How many times had he been in this room, in this very spot, and not noticed?
"You have keen eyes, m'Lady," Hawat said. "I'll see that the glass is darkened."
"That's a high compliment to receive from a Mentat. Thank you." Then she shrugged. "Though, I don't suppose it really matters, anyway. The only real purpose to a one way mirror in a room such as this is to protect the council with armed guards without them being a distraction. I can't imagine that it's worth going through the trouble of replacing the glass for something as trivial as that."
Rhiannon's pleasant expression turned to ice. She leaned in a bit, as if to tell him something she didn't want anyone else to hear.
"Then again, there are some drawbacks to not fixing it," Rhiannon went on conspiratorially, savoring the flicker of alarm she caught in the old Mentat's eyes. "Having tinted glass over a one-way mirror lessens the reflectivity of the mirror. If the tinted glass isn't dark enough, look carefully, and you can see movement on the other side."
Hawat's expression darkened with realization. She'd seen through his test. Rhiannon had known that he was on the other side of the screen, watching her, and she'd decided to fail it anyway. Mentally, Rhiannon congratulated herself. Working out the implications of this conversation would keep the Mentat dizzy for a week. Then, the tests he put to her might finally be worth her time.
"I'll keep that in mind, m'Lady," Hawat acknowledged, having schooled his expression back to professional neutrality. "Do you have any other questions you wish to ask?"
Rhiannon smiled brightly, shrugging off the gravity of the last five minutes with practiced ease. "No Hawat, thank you. Now then, Atreides Battle Language?"
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In the small seaside town below the castle, Leto guided Rhiannon through the marketplace crowds. The bazaar was busy at this time of day, but the point was to be seen, so seen they were.
Among his people, Leto seemed entirely at ease. He browsed the stalls of vegetables and fresh fish with bright eyes and a smile, his chest puffed out with pride as he showed off his new wife. For Rhiannon, it was a bit overwhelming. She had been in crowds many times over the years, but rarely as herself. Today, she was not unanimous. Not allowed to blend in with everyone else in the market. A security risk, surely—Captain Pennon had not been happy, and even Hawat had worn a long-suffering expression when he was informed of how his Duke and Duchess would be spending the afternoon.
She was the Duchess of Caladan, and everyone who saw her knew it. For a highborn Lady, Rhiannon was dressed fairly simply: a dark cotton dress with wide sleeves, complemented by a wide belt and boots that weren't afraid of the mud. The only details that marked her as the Duchess were the intricate designs of gold thread trimming the high collar of the dress, and the large emerald brooch pinned over her heart.
But even if she dressed herself down as a lowly fishwife, Rhiannon wouldn't have been able to hide. The ducal wedding had been holorecorded and broadcast across the planet for all the citizens to enjoy, and by now most everyone knew her face.
One of the things Rhiannon found unique about her husband was the relationship he had with his people. On Iro, the noble houses and the common folk maintained a sort of passive indifference towards the other; the houses were too busy fighting each other to worry much about the population beyond the paying of taxes, and the population more concerned with staying out of the crossfire to complain about poor—or better yet, absent—leadership. On most of the other worlds Rhiannon had been on, it was more or less the same, with some variety based on how oppressive the ruling class was and how hungry the people were.
On Caladan, she was met with something different; the citizens actually really seemed to like their Duke. As she walked the streets—arm in arm with her husband and protected by nothing more than an honor guard and the dagger hidden in her belt—the casual camaraderie and trust Leto placed in the crowd struck Rhiannon as both reckless and strange.
Nevertheless, she smiled at everyone in the market who spoke to them—who were allowed to approach the Duke and Duchess unchallenged—well wishers offering congratulations on the marriage and curious shoppers eager to get a look at, if not speak directly to, the new Duchess.
A little girl—about five or six years old—approached them with a few hand picked, ever-so-slightly battered wildflowers clutched in her fist. Scarcely daring to take her eyes off her tiny scuffed boots, she offered the flowers up to Rhiannon. Rhiannon let go of Leto's arm and crouched down so she was at the child's eye level.
"Those are very lovely," Rhiannon said kindly. "Did you pick them yourself?"
Leto stepped away to inspect beautiful tapestries woven from beaten ponji fibers and fire-threads, but even as he spoke to the stall's owner, she could tell by the way he angled himself that he was watching her out of the corner of his eye.
The little girl helped Rhiannon to arrange the flowers through the clasp of her brooch, so they were pinned with it to her chest. Before she straightened up, Rhiannon licked her thumb and rubbed away a smear of dirt—undoubtedly acquired at the same time and place as the flowers—away from the side of the girl's nose.
And anyway, it was becoming clear to her that being recognizable, even approachable, was part of her job as Duchess. Behind closed doors, Rhiannon could be whatever she wanted (and would take on much more interesting tasks, whether Leto knew about them or not), but in the eyes of the public, her Duchess persona needed to compliment the Duke's. Royalty was theatre, and they both had their role to play.
Leto gave her an approving smile when she drifted back to his side. He took up her arm again and introduced her to the man he'd been talking to, an older gentleman with scraggly white mutton chops. He was an artisan, had been selling his woven goods in the marketplace for many years, and had known Leto since he was boy.
"Aye, you chose well for yourself, Sire," the old artisan said to Leto with a conspiratorial nod. "I reckon your father would've liked her, rest his soul. He never could talk his own dear wife into visiting us here in the market!"
If the statement made Leto uncomfortable, he didn't show it. He smiled and laughed, as if his mother and father hadn't loathed each other. Hadn't fought constantly. Like his mother hadn't been behind his father's gruesome death.
Theatre.
They wandered the bazaar for a few hours, buying trinkets and sampling food from vendors. With the sun hanging low over the water, they started the long walk back to Castle Caladan.
The late afternoon sky was a painting. Orange tinted clouds drifted lazily across the horizon, borrowing the shapes of horses, boats, and fish. Against the setting sun, the sea was almost black, shot through with rivets of dancing color where the light skimmed across the waves.
Rhiannon and Leto walked side by side on the wide cliffside path leading to the castle. They were alone, more or less. The honor guard would stay with them until they were safely within the castle grounds, but had dropped back to walk behind them out of earshot.
"I'm glad you came today," Leto admitted when they were well out of sight of the village. "I know it's a little unorthodox, but the Old Duke did it, so it's important that I do it too."
"I understand," Rhiannon acknowledged. "I'll admit, it did feel a little odd, but I'll get used to it."
He reached out and squeezed her hand to show his appreciation. For a time after that, they walked without speaking. Between their shared dinners, they'd already had a fair amount of time to get comfortable in their shared silences.
Rhiannon could tell that he was worried about something. There were deep lines between his eyebrows that weren't usually there, and the eyebrows themselves seemed to weigh heavier on his face than usual.
"I may need to go back to Iro soon," Leto said eventually, once they had passed onto castle grounds and the honor guard had left them to their own devices. "If I do, would you want to go with me?"
"I'd never turn down the opportunity to see my home planet again," Rhiannon answered, forgoing a joke about him wanting to return her after only being married to her for a few weeks. "But it hasn't been very long at all. Is something wrong?"
Rhiannon knew of several things, actually, but she wasn't sure which one of them Leto would consider serious enough to merit him traveling all the way there himself. Heighliner travel was costly, and although House Atreides could pay for it easily, an unnecessary expense was still an unnecessary expense. More importantly, it took a week to make the journey from Caladan to Iro—usually longer, depending on the route the Heighliner took.
With the combined travel time added to however long it took Leto to solve the issue, he could easily be gone for a month. A month was a long time for a Duke to be away from his responsibilities at home.
"Nothing you need to worry about," he reassured. "I just needed to know, in case we need to make plans to travel."
"Leto," she chided, "there's something wrong on Iro. That sounds exactly like the kind of thing I need to worry about."
"Rhia, It's nothing." He spoke firmly, in a way that was probably meant to reassure her by letting her know that he had the problem under control. "The last thing you need is to get caught up in business affairs. Forget I said anything."
Rhiannon huffed and shot him an unimpressed look. "Kindly refrain from telling what I do and don't need, dear husband. I can do that on my own just fine, thank you."
"I didn't mean it that way." He squeezed her hand again. "You have enough on your plate as it is. You should be focused on adjusting to your role as Duchess, and it wouldn't be fair if I expected you to take on my problems on top of everything else."
"Believe it or not, Leto, helping you in that corner is exactly one of my duties as Duchess," she admonished. "Your problem is on Iro. You married an Ironian. I know that planet inside and out, and have contacts and resources you don't. Chances are, I can solve the problem from here and save everyone a lot of time."
Leto smiled, his eyes glinting with fond amusement. "Point taken. Sorry for making assumptions." He became serious. "Several of our operational mining sites are reporting damaged equipment."
"Sabotage?"
The somber look on his face told her she was right. "At first the damages were minor, but it's been getting worse. We've increased security, but it hasn't done any good."
"I take it you have no suspects?" Rhiannon knew a little about the situation. Despite the efficacy of her Ironian information web, it took a long time for news to reach her on Caladan. She didn't like that Leto was hearing things before her.
"At first, we thought it had to be the workers." He scowled, frustrated. "We have higher wages and better working conditions than any other mining operation on the planet. But there's no evidence of trespassers, so it seemed like it could only be someone on the inside."
"Past tense. You don't think it's the workers anymore?" Rhiannon inferred.
"Someone has been sabotaging the life support systems," Leto continued. "Five times now, the power has gone out while workers were down in the shafts. No one's been hurt, but it's only a matter of time. Two sites have stopped production completely because the men won't work in those conditions. And I don't blame them for it, either."
Leto blew out a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "We've already fallen behind schedule. All of the profits we would be seeing at this stage are going into repairing equipment. This incident has gotten expensive fast, and the last thing we need is for it to spread."
Thankfully, Rhiannon didn't need the insight of the thousands of eyes she had on Iro to know exactly what was happening
"Leto," Rhiannon said gently. "You've pissed off the Dwellers."
"The Dwellers?" Leto stopped walking and turned to face her with a puzzled frown. "None of our mines are on Dweller lands, we made sure of that when we started. What could we have done to anger them?"
"The affected mines, I assume they're all in the same sector."
He nodded. "Near Candidi."
"That's right beside Hreidmar lands," she explained. "Dwellers are masters of guerilla warfare. If something about the Atreides mining presence is bothering them, a bit of sabotage is how they'd let you know."
"Hreidmar," Leto echoed, committing the name to memory. "If they don't like what we're doing, why not just tell us? Their complaints would have been taken seriously."
She shook her head. "They don't know that. The Dweller Clans have a… uh… let's say complex history with the Imperial Houses. They wouldn't be willing to just send an emissary. If a House wants diplomatic ties with a Clan, they'd have to be the one to initiate, and even then, the House would need a Dweller to vouch for them in order to even make contact."
"Okay." Leto looked at her with a serious expression and squared shoulders. Ducal mode. Ready to problem solve. Rhiannon really, really liked that about him. "How do we go about establishing formal relations? You clearly know a lot about the Dwellers—do you know a Dweller that would be willing to vouch for House Atreides?"
"Having good relations with the Dwellers is absolutely worth the effort," Rhiannon reasoned. "But if we're going to do it, we'll need to do it right. That would mean both you and I returning to Iro, and staying there for however long negotiations take. We both know that now isn't the best time for us to be away from Caladan."
Leto blew out a sigh. "I know. And we've already committed to traveling for the trade summit in just over a month."
"Exactly." Rhiannon paused, thinking. Then added, "We can put it off, I think. The Hreidmar aren't asking for a relationship, they just want something fixed. Actually, it might be better to wait, anyway. Who are you more likely to negotiate with: the neighbors who respected your wishes, or the assholes who are actively harming you?"
"But that's assuming that we know what we've done," Leto complained. "We don't."
Rhiannon shrugged. "If they aren't trying to tell what's wrong, they must think it's obvious."
"Not to us. We haven't violated their borders. Atreides security is under orders to leave them be. What else is there?"
Rhiannon pulled a pin out of her hair from where it had been sliding loose. She smoothed her hair back into place and replaced the pin. "Runoff can be a big problem with mining. If we were accidentally poisoning the water, I can imagine they'd be pretty upset"
"We did ecological impact studies on each location," Leto said defensively, "and all waste is disposed of properly. We've been very careful about that."
"I know that," she soothed. "I was just thinking out loud. If their water was being poisoned, they probably would've been a lot more aggressive from the start anyway. Rivers though, those are still important." She paused thoughtfully. "The Candidi River Basin. The road transporting raw ore to the refineries at Plateau City runs through there, doesn't it?"
Leto's brow furrowed. "It does."
Rhiannon nodded knowingly. "That's it."
"The road?"
"In the late summer," Rhiannon explained, "a lot of big game animals migrate through the Candidi River Basin into Hreidmar lands. They depend on that migration to fill their stores for winter. They're worried that having a busy road in the basin will divert the animals away from their hunting grounds."
Leto considered this, rubbing his hand across his bearded jaw. "It won't be easy to reroute the road, but we could do it, I suppose. Are you sure that's it?"
"I am." The sun was starting to set, casting long shadows across the cliffside path. Castle Caladan wasn't a long walk from where they had stopped to talk, but Rhiannon knew that they would probably end up being late for dinner anyway. She resumed walking, and Leto followed. "But if that doesn't pacify them, I can still send someone to ask. I don't know anyone that belongs to Clan Hreidmar, but Hreidmar is an old ally of Clan Vidar. I could ask them to send someone on our behalf."
Leto looked at her, eyebrows raised. "You have contacts in Vidar?"
"I have cousins in Vidar. They're good for a favor. Blood is everything to the Dwellers."
A pleased smile stretched across Leto's face.
"I didn't know that." The look he gave her was surprisingly tender, and it made her feel like someone had filled her chest with air. "Sounds like a good story. Can I talk you into telling it over dinner?"
"You could." Having Dweller heritage wasn't exactly fashionable on Iro, so she hadn't had many opportunities to talk about that part of her family history. And it was a good story, one that she'd be happy to tell. "Honestly though, we should probably get out the maps first. If we're going to rechart the transport route, we need to do it as soon as possible."
Her husband sighed, gazing at the warm lights popping on in the castle windows one by one with less enthusiasm than usual.
"I never really liked working over dinner," Leto said ruefully. "But you're right. If we can get it drafted tonight, I can have the orders on a ship to Iro by tomorrow afternoon. How likely are the Hreidmar to leave the mines alone once we start work on the new road? We can't shut down the current one until the new one is finished."
"Pretty likely. They're smart. That's why they're bothering us about it now, and not in three months, when it's too late for us to do anything." Rhiannon paused, then turned to look at him expectantly. "See how much easier things are when you let your wife help you?"
Leto barked out a laugh and then, to Rhiannon's surprise, smacked a kiss onto her forehead.
"I do," Leto said. "We make a good team, Rhia, and I promise to keep that in mind from now on."
Rhiannon smiled to herself as they walked through the courtyard and into the castle, where they split up briefly to get the things they would need to work during dinner.
While rummaging through her desk for writing implements and her personal journal on Dweller hunting habits, her eyes drifted to the drawer filled with tapwire hairpins.
"A good team," she echoed quietly. "Let's hope so."
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The new Lady Atreides swept through Castle Caladan as a breeze—learning, acclimating, and adjusting things as she saw fit. Always on the move, always working, never seeming to tire. Polite, calculating, and efficient. Although they had yet to get to know each other, Jessica found herself quickly growing to accept, and even respect, Lady Rhiannon's presence. But it didn't stop her from feeling a flicker of dread when she received an early morning invitation to join the Duchess for breakfast.
In the weeks following the wedding, she had told herself that she was giving the Duchess space to adapt to her new home—even with the wedding over, there was much to do. It was only during her walk through Castle Caladan to the Duchess' study that Jessica admitted to herself that she had been stalling. Avoiding Leto's wife, as if hiding from the facts would change anything.
Jessica mentally scolded herself for behaving childishly—actions driven by emotion were against her Bene Gesserit training, not to mention extremely foolish, given the circumstances.
Not to mention dangerous. Especially now that Leto was so enamored with her. Despite his insistence that he was not romantically involved with her, Jessica saw the way his eyes sharpened with interest every time he caught sight of his new wife, listened as he called her generous for not nagging him for having concubine and understanding for not forcing him to consummate their union.
Knowing that her love was smitten with another woman hurt, but that pain was growing familiar. Now, she was becoming aware of a new kind of pain—a sinking, icy class of uncertainty that began with the realization that, should the Duchess prove to be more nefarious than the quick witted, good natured creature Leto thought she was, there was a chance that he might not notice. Might not want to notice.
Lady Atreides was now at the heart of the household. Jessica needed to know her—needed to be able to read her, notice her patterns, predict her. Knowledge was power, and there was no other way of obtaining it.
A young handmaid—Loah, sister to Mariona and a part of the Duchess' inner circle—showed Jessica into Lady Rhiannon's private study. It was a functional space, designed to accommodate both solitary contemplation and small gatherings. The heavy oak desk sat to the far side, placed so that the person sitting at it had a full view of the room. Behind it lay the door to the bedchamber, now closed. By the unlit fireplace, several comfortable looking chairs and a chaise lounge—all a calming shade of blue—were arranged for conversation around a low glass coffee table.
The walls were where the Duchess' heritage showed through. They were of the same gray stone that made up the rest of the castle, but the adornments were distinctly Ironian. Ancient, battered blades, laced with gold and highly polished. The teeth and claws of great predators, mounted on stands or under glass. There were a few paintings, too. Mostly of orange and white fish. Sketchy, abstract, and proudly displayed, undoubtedly done by a child's hand.
Lady Rhiannon herself stood by her desk, frowning thoughtfully down at a magnaboard of metal-laced documents. Even so early in the morning and half-bent over a desk, she was utterly composed and elegant.
The Duchess glanced up. Transfixed Jessica with piercing brown eyes. Flashed a smile that showed just a few too many teeth.
"Good morning, Jessica," she greeted pleasantly. Her accent was interesting. At its heart was her native Ironian brogue, but it sounded like she'd taken a lot of time to smooth out the edges until it vaguely resembled Kaitain intonation. "How are you today?"
Lady Rhiannon was tall—the top of Jessica's head was just about level with her nose—and very beautiful. She had a strong jaw and dark, carefully shaped eyebrows. There was a tiny scar just to the right of her chin, unnoticeable to the untrained eye.
"I'm well." Jessica folded her hands in front of her, taking great care to appear serene. "Thank you for the invitation. I'm honored that you thought of me."
Lady Rhiannon closed the magnaboard and placed it neatly on top of a stack of others. Jessica had a good sense of what was on them; household accounts; spending sheets; business transcripts; the staff roster and wages.
"Thank you for accepting." She extended a guiding hand to the balcony, where a small glass table was already laden with breakfast foods—sweet breads, fruits, and cooked meats. "I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to set something up. I hope you haven't felt that I've been neglecting you."
Something about her choice of words struck Jessica as odd. She filed them away for later. Then she eased into the chair opposite of the Duchess, smiling meekly and folding the eggshell blue napkin across her lap.
"Of course not," Jessica said lightly. "Duty takes precedence over personal correspondence, after all."
"Yes, naturally," Lady Rhiannon mused as she poured spice coffee for them both. "Mind you, there is often a certain amount of overlap between the two. Especially when one resides within the scope of Imperial politics, as we do." She paused. Helped herself to some sweet bread and fruit. "Though we are overdue for a discussion on the household finances, but it isn't really a topic suitable for the breakfast table."
Jessica copied her movements, adding fruit and bread to her own plate. "I see. Do you have a problem with the way I've managed them?"
"Not at all." She popped a berry into her mouth and gestured inside at the stacks of paper on her desk. "Quite the opposite, in fact. Clearly, you're exceptionally good at organization and have quite the mind for business. I was actually hoping that, sometime soon, we might find the time for you to walk me through your rationale. Since we're going to be collaborating in that arena, it would be helpful for me to be more intimately knowledgeable of your process."
Jessica took a sip from her spice coffee, buying herself a moment in which she tried to decide whether or not she was being insulted. Lady Rhiannon's expression was inscrutable: pleasant, yet superficial. Jessica sifted through the things she'd said thus far, noting the words she'd chosen to put stress upon. Clearly. Hoping. Intimately.
It had been established early on that Jessica would be allowed to maintain some of her duties as Lady of Caladan, given that she had fulfilled the role for so many years. It was one of the things she'd asked Leto to lobby for on her behalf.
Part of the prestige of being the Lady of a household was the influence her duties held—overseeing social relations with Imperial society; managing the household staff; orchestrating formal dinners and functions; generally being in control of how other noble families perceived House Atreides. It was a lot of power and responsibility to wield, just as it was a lot of power and responsibility to lose.
It had seemed like a lot to ask at the time, especially given all the other things they were asking of the then-Countess. Lady Rhiannon's reply, written down by a trusted courtier and delivered to Jessica in an envelope for her to pour over and analyze later, had been congenial enough:
The Countess does not wish for Lady Jessica to feel like a stranger in her own home, and encourages her to retain as many or as few of the responsibilities of the Lady of the House as she wishes.
A very kind response. Generous, as Leto had stressed. But Jessica was finding it hard to believe that her concessions were just out of the kindness of her heart. From what Jessica had seen of her so far, Lady Rhiannon was ambitious, intelligent, meticulous, and not the sort of person to be lax on important matters just for the sake of being nice.
There had to be more. Jessica was almost sure of it. A goal—maybe even a plan. Or an angle, at the least. Something. She just couldn't see it yet.
At the same time, Jessica knew that she wasn't unbiased. Everything about the situation hurt, so it was possible that she was predisposed to look for the worst in Lady Rhiannon. She was being replaced—in the Household, in Leto's favor—and even the most genuine kindness couldn't dampen the sting.
Jessica swallowed her bitterness and smiled amicably. "I serve at my Lord and Lady's pleasure."
From there, the conversation turned to trivial matters. They talked about the weather, Caladan's local holidays, and Paul's most recent antics with his new pet weasel. The entire time, Jessica observed Lady Rhiannon using all of her Bene Gesserit abilities and focus.
There were countless rumors surrounding the Bene Gesserit—that they were witches; that they could read minds and influence thoughts. In truth, they were masters of observation, trained to notice the slightest physical manifestation of a thought and divine its meaning: the twitch of the mouth; the dilation of pupils; the barest change in pallor; an increase or decrease in respiration.
All women of the Order had been trained well enough in matters of perception to glean an understanding of people that others missed. Hidden meanings. Half-truths. Disguised emotions. Buried intent. There were also specially trained Truthsayers, who could detect even the slightest falsehood from the most compelling liar.
Jessica was no Truthsayer, but she was perceptive. Even so, Lady Rhiannon gave almost nothing away. Every movement, word, and expression was intentional, impeccably controlled, and seemed to mean exactly what she wanted them to mean.
Jessica was begrudgingly impressed. Surely, she'd been taught at some point to master her expressions. It was annoying, but not alarming; some people were just naturally good at keeping themselves hidden.
Though the Duchess had learned to suppress the standard indications of expression, the truth would always find ways of manifesting itself. Lady Rhiannon would have physiological tells that were unique to her, and over time, Jessica would learn what they were. Until then, she would have to rely on her own wits and intuition to navigate encounters with the Duchess.
She could work with that. Jessica finished off the last of her spice coffee, savoring the gentle burn of its cinnamon flavor on her tongue.
"Do you feel threatened by me?"
The question came from nowhere. The tone of cool, causal interest in which the Duchess spoke sent a spike of ice down Jessica's spine. She had to concentrate to keep from choking.
Jessica cleared her throat delicately and tilted her head. "I'm sorry?"
It was as if a switch had been flipped. Between one blink and the next, Lady Rhiannon's demeanor had changed completely. Outwardly, she appeared calm—her movements unhurried, her expression relaxed—but her dark eyes burned with unspoken intensity. She lounged back in her chair, watching Jessica with cold, unblinking focus, as if she were a scientist studying a particularly interesting specimen. Or a predator, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
"As women raised to occupy positions in a nobleman's household," Lady Rhiannon explained almost lazily, "we were both taught that subtlety is the correct way to approach difficult situations. But over the years, it's come to my attention that it's expected of us because highborn men can't stand to be directly criticized or confronted in any way."
Lady Rhiannon added sugar to her coffee, stirred it, then tapped the spoon twice on the rim of the cup before continuing.
"So since it's just the two of us, and we seem to be pitted against each other in a conflict that we'd both rather avoid, I thought it might be interesting to try a more direct approach. So, I ask again: do you feel that I am a threat to you?"
Jessica steeled herself. She locked down on her physical processes in the ways that only a Bene Gesserit could—the muscles in her face, her heartbeat, the dilation of her irises, respiration, metabolism. She consciously schooled every aspect of her being, then raised an eyebrow.
"What makes you think that I feel you are a threat?" Jessica asked mildly, as if this suddenly dangerous conversation was no more than an amusing thought exercise.
One corner of Lady Rhiannon's mouth twitched upward. For a second, Jessica worried that she'd seen through her, and knew just how unsettled she was. "My name."
Jessica maneuvered her features into a puzzled frown. "I don't understand."
"This whole time we've been talking," Lady Rhiannon reasoned, "you've never once referred to me by my name. Correct me if I'm wrong, but if I had to guess, you want to call me 'my Lady', because there's safety in subordination. Except I gave you permission to use my name the first time we spoke, so you can't refer to me by title without being rude."
Jessica's mind stuttered. "A coincidence, surely."
"That's entirely possible," Lady Rhiannon admitted. "I haven't been here long, but I've heard you speak to others enough to know that you regularly address them within a direct conversation."
Jessica's mind raced. That couldn't be true. At least not entirely. Jessica could count the number of conversations she'd had where the Duchess had been within earshot on one hand.
It dawned on her. Mariona. The kind, efficient Lady in Waiting, who had already been in the Castle for weeks before Lady Rhiannon arrived. Jessica had underestimated her. Clearly, both Mariona's attention to detail and ability to report her findings to her mistress were well honed skills. Jessica would have to be more cautious in the future.
"I'm flattered," Jessica said coldly, "that you find me of enough interest to make note of my conversations."
Lady Rhiannon's smile only widened. "Really? If I were you, I'd be feeling pretty annoyed right about now. But you still haven't answered my question."
Jessica felt a flash of anger. It mingled unpleasantly with the fear. She was being tested. She hadn't expected the Duchess to test her fairly, but this was going too far. There was no right answer, and no way of telling what would happen if Jessica hazarded a guess.
This was a power play, and no clean way for Jessica to fight back.
And if she told Leto about it, he would do nothing.
"Apologies, Rhiannon." Jessica took the only exit available to her, and stood up. The Duchess' expression changed, became confused, then concerned. Jessica didn't stop to think about what it might mean. There would be time for that later. "But I have duties to attend to. Thank you for breakfast. I hope we'll have the opportunity to speak again soon."
With that, Jessica turned and went back inside.
.
~0~0~0~
.
Alone on the balcony, Rhiannon put her head in her hands and whispered, "Fuck."
.
~0~0~0~