Unknown

We create our own future by our own beliefs, which control our actions. A strong enough belief system, a sufficiently powerful conviction, can make anything happen. This is how we create our consensus reality, including our gods.

The swordmaster practice hall on the new Ginaz island was so opulent that it would not have been out of place in any Landsraad ruling seat or even in the Imperial Palace on Kaitain.

When Duncan Idaho stepped onto the gleaming hardwood floor, a veneer of light and dark strips laid down and polished by hand, he looked around in wonder. A dozen reflected images stared back at him from beveled floor-to-ceiling mirrors, bounded by intricately wrought gold frames. It had been seven years since he’d seen surroundings this fine, in Castle Caladan, where he’d trained under Thufir Hawat in the Atreides hall.

Wind-bowed cypress trees surrounded the magnificent training facility on three sides, with a stony beach on the fourth. The ostentatious building was startling in its stark contrast with the students’ primitive barracks. Run by Swordmaster Whitmore Bludd, a balding man with a purple birthmark on his forehead, the ornamentation of this practice hall would have made shaggy-haired Mord Cour laugh.

Though an accomplished duelist, foppish Bludd considered himself a noble and surrounded himself with fine things, even on his remote Ginaz island. Blessed with an inexhaustible family fortune, Bludd had spent his own money to make this fencing facility the most “civilized” place in the entire archipelago.

The Swordmaster was a direct descendant of Porce Bludd, who had fought valiantly in the Butlerian Jihad. Prior to the battle exploits that had bought him fame and cost him his life, Porce Bludd transported war-orphaned children to sanctuary planets, paying the tremendous costs out of his huge inheritance. On Ginaz, Whitmore Bludd never forgot his heritage— or allowed others to forget, either.

As Duncan stood with the others in the echoing hall— smelling lemon and carnauba oil, seeing splinters of light from chandeliers and mirrors— the finery seemed foreign to him. Paintings of dour-looking Bludd noblemen lined the walls; a massive fireplace befitting a royal hunting lodge reached to the ceiling. A fully stocked armory held racks of swords and fencing paraphernalia. The palatial decor implied an army of servants, but Duncan saw no other souls besides the trainees, the assistant instructors, and Whitmore Bludd himself.

After permitting the students to gape in astonishment and uncertainty, Swordmaster Bludd strutted in front of them. He wore billowy lavender pantaloons bound at the knees, and gray hose down to short black boots. The belt was wide, with a square buckle the size of his hand. His blouse shirt had a high, restrictive collar, long ballooning sleeves, tight cuffs, and lace trimmings.

“I will teach you fencing, Messieurs,” he said. “No brutish nonsense with body shields and kindjal daggers and power packs. No, most vehemently no!” He withdrew a whip-thin blade with a bell-shaped handguard and a triangular cross section. He swished it in the air. “Fencing is the sport— no, the art of swordsmanship with a blunted blade. It is a dance of mental reflexes, as well as of the body.”

He thrust the flexible épée into a scabbard at his side, then ordered all of the students to change into fancy fencing outfits: archaic musketeer costumes with studded buttons, lacy cuffs, ruffles, and cumbersome billows—“the better to display the beauty of fencing,” Bludd said.

By now, Duncan had learned never to hesitate in following instructions. He pulled on knee-high calfskin boots with cavalier spurs, and slipped into a blue-velvet shortcoat with a lace collar and voluminous white sleeves. He donned a rakish, broad-brimmed felt hat with the variegated pink plume of a Parella peacock tucked into its band.

Across the room, he and Hiih Resser made eyes and faces at each other, amused. The attire seemed better suited to a holiday masque than to fighting.

“You will learn to fight with finesse and grace, Messieurs.” Whitmore Bludd strutted back and forth, immensely pleased with all the finery around him. “You will see the artistry in a fine duel. You will turn every movement into an art form.” The foppish but powerfully built Swordmaster picked at a speck of lint on his ruffled shirt. “With only a year left in your training, one assumes you have the potential to rise above animal attacks and cloddish brawls? We will not lower ourselves to barbarism here.”

Morning sunlight passed through a high, narrow window and glinted off Duncan’s pewter buttons. Feeling foolish, he examined himself in the wall mirror, then found his usual place in formation.

When the remaining students lined up on the hardwood practice floor, Swordmaster Bludd inspected their uniforms with many sighs and disapproving noises. He smoothed wrinkles, while scolding the young men for incorrectly buttoned cuffs and criticizing their attire with surprising seriousness.

“Terran musketeer fencing is the fifteenth fighting discipline you will learn. But knowing the moves does not mean you understand the style. Today you will compete against one another, with all the grace and chivalry that fencing demands. Your épées will not be blunted, and you will wear no protective masks.”

He indicated racks of fencing swords between each bank of mirrors on the wall, and the students moved forward to arm themselves; all the blades were identical, ninety centimeters long, flexible, and sharp. The students toyed with them. Duncan wished he could use the Old Duke’s sword, but the fabulously tooled weapon was made for a different kind of fighting. Not fencing.

Bludd sniffed, then swished his thin épée in the air to recapture their attention. “You must fight to your fullest ability— but I insist that there be no injuries or blood on either opponent. Not so much as a scratch— no, most vehemently no! And certainly no damage to the clothes. Learn the perfect attack, and the perfect defense. Lunge, parry, riposte. Practice supreme control. You are each responsible for your fellows.” He swept his ice-blue gaze across the trainees, and his birthmark darkened on his forehead. “Any man who fails me, anyone who causes a wound or allows himself to be injured, will be disqualified from the next sequence of competitions.”

“This is a test of your artistry, Messieurs,” Bludd said, pacing the polished floor in his black boots. “This is the delicate dance of personal combat. The goal will be to score touchés upon your opponent’s person without cutting him.”

The spotlessly clean Swordmaster picked up his feathered hat and set it firmly on his head. He indicated marked combat rectangles inlaid into the beautiful parquet floor. “Prepare to fight.”

Duncan quickly defeated three comparatively easy opponents, but his fourth adversary, Iss Opru— a smooth stylist from Al-Dhanab— made himself a difficult target. Even so, the dark-skinned Opru had insufficient skill in offense to match his defense, and Duncan outscored him by a single point.

In a nearby combat box, a student buckled at the knees, and bled from a wound in his side. The assistant trainers rushed in and removed him on a litter. His opponent, a Terrazi with shoulder-length hair, scowled at his stained blade, awaiting his punishment. Whitmore Bludd snagged the Terrazi student’s sword and viciously flogged his backside with it, as if it were a metal whip. “Both of you are a disgrace to your training— him for allowing the wound, you for not exercising sufficient restraint.” Without protest, the Terrazi stumbled to the losers’ bench.

Now, two liveried servants— the first Duncan had seen— rushed in to clean up the blood and polish the parquet in preparation for the next match. The fighting continued.

Duncan Idaho, along with Resser and two other perspiring finalists, stood panting in the center of the practice hall, awaiting their final dueling assignments. Frustrated and uncomfortable, they had come to loathe their extravagant costumes, but so far none of the finalists had been scratched, none of the heavy fabric had been torn.

“Idaho and Resser over here! Eddin and al-Kaba, there!” Swordmaster Bludd called out, designating combat rectangles on the floor.

Obediently, the students moved into position. Resser eyed Duncan, sizing him up as a foe instead of as a friend. Duncan crouched, flexing his knees and balancing on the balls of his feet. Leaning forward with his arm slightly bent, he extended the épée toward Resser, then drew back in a brief salute. With a confident look, the redheaded Grumman did the same. Evenly matched, they had dueled one another many times in full protective gear, with other weapons. Duncan’s speed usually compensated for lanky Resser’s superior height and reach. But now they had to follow Bludd’s rules of fencing, inflict or receive no scratches, not even damage the expensive, anachronistic outfits.

Bouncing on his feet to stay loose, Duncan said nothing. The flexible sword would do the talking for him. Perspiration prickled his black hair beneath the felt hat and the distracting peacock plume. He stared up at his freckled opponent.

At the signal to begin, Resser lunged forward. Duncan parried, deflecting his opponent’s blade with a sound like singing chimes, then took half a step to the right and delivered a precise riposte, skillfully diverted by the tall Grumman. Swords clattered together, steel skimming steel, as the two felt each other out.

Both men were sweating, panting, their expressions fading into blank stares as they moved back and forth within the clear boundaries of dark wood on the parquet floor. So far Resser had done nothing unexpected, as usual. Duncan hoped he could use that trait to defeat his opponent.

As if sensing the direction of his friend’s thoughts, the redhead began to fight with the fury of a warrior possessed, scoring one touché on Duncan and then two, careful not to damage his opponent but also relying on Duncan to mount a perfect defense.

Duncan had never seen such energy in his friend, and he struggled to elude a series of vicious thrusts. He backed up, waiting for the flurry of activity to ebb. Sweat ran down his cheek.

Still, Resser pressed on at a frantic pace, as if under the influence of a stimulant. Their swords clattered loudly. Duncan could spare no fraction of his attention to note the progress of the other match, but heard shouting and a final clang of blades that told him the two other contestants had finished.

The redhead’s point touched him on his padded shirt, then seconds later on the forehead. Resser was scoring points, leaving no scratches, following the rules. Four points now, and with five he would win the match. If this had been a fight to the death, I would be dead now.

Under Resser’s onslaught, Duncan’s muscles seemed to be slowing, holding him back and preventing him from applying his normal skills. He looked at the épée in his right hand and dredged up resources and strength within himself, drawing upon everything he had learned in seven years on Ginaz. I fight for House Atreides. I can win.

Resser danced deftly around him with the épée, making him look foolish. Duncan’s breathing slowed, and his heart rate diminished. Maximize chi, he thought, visualizing the energy that flowed along precise paths in his body. I must become a complete Swordmaster to defend my Duke— not make a pretty performance to please these instructors.

Resser ceased scoring as Duncan danced away. The chi within him mounted, building pressure, waiting for the right moment to be released. Duncan focused the energy, aiming it. . . .

Now he was on the attack. He confused the lanky redhead with moves synthesized from various fighting disciplines. He whirled, kicked, used his free hand as a weapon. They both staggered outside the boundaries of the fencing area, then back into the rectangle. Duncan attacked again. A fist to the side of Resser’s head, knocking off the feathered cap, a kick to the stomach— all without drawing blood.

Stunned, Resser thudded to the floor. Duncan knocked his rival’s sword away and leaped on top of him, placing the tip of his own blade at the Grumman’s throat. Victory!

“Gods below! What are you doing?” Swordmaster Bludd shoved Duncan off Resser. “You clod!” He grabbed the flexible sword away, and slapped Duncan twice across the face. “This isn’t a street brawl, fool. We’re doing musketeer fencing today. Are you an animal?”

Duncan rubbed his face where he’d been struck. In the heat of combat he had fought for survival, ignoring the frivolous restrictions imposed by the instructor.

Bludd slapped Duncan several more times, harder each time, as if the student had personally insulted him. In the background, Resser kept saying, “It’s all right— I’m not hurt. He bested me, and I couldn’t defend myself.” Humiliated, Duncan backed away.

Bludd’s rage did not subside. “You may think you’re the best student in the class, Idaho— but you’re a failure in my eyes.”

Duncan felt like a small child being backed into a corner by an adult with a strap. He wanted to fight back, wanted to stand up to this ridiculous-looking man, but didn’t dare.

He recalled the ill-tempered Trin Kronos using the same reasoning with fat Swordmaster Rivvy Dinari. If you are bound by nonsensical strictures, you’ll be beaten by any opponent willing to bend the rules. His primary purpose was to defend his Duke against any possible threat, not to play fencing games in costumes.

“Think about why you’re a failure,” Whitmore Bludd thundered, “and then explain it to me.”

Duncan thought hard. He did not want to echo the shameful thinking of the spoiled Kronos, though it made more sense than he had realized before. Rules could be interpreted differently, depending on the purpose they served. In some situations there was no absolute good or evil, simply points of view. In any event, he knew what his instructor wanted to hear.

His answer seemed to surprise the muscular man, but a bemused smile gradually formed on Bludd’s face. “Correct enough, Idaho,” he said. “Now get over there with the other losers.”