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The Emperor's birthday celebrations promised to be a lavish affair. A masquerade, held within the palace itself and sprawling outward into the gardens, the grounds. A banquet, and fireworks brightening the night, and music until dawn rose into the sky.
And the masks!
A requirement—every guest had to wear one. Each an animal, carved not from precious metals but from organic matter—wood or stone, which was, on some planets, even more valuable. They were marvelously realistic; some of these faces were long extinct, and some were only seen on one or two worlds in the Imperium. Paul knew it to be a joke. The entire Landsraad, dressed as beasts, corralled into Shaddam's palace. Look at what I rule! said the Emperor. Look how I bring peace to the Imperium, herding these animals!
Paul studied the display. Behind the table, one of the Emperor's servants stood, head bowed, patiently waiting for him to make his decision. They were all of expert craftsmanship, exquisitely carved and painted and decorated. A ram of thin, gray stone with horns of bone—from what animal, Paul could not tell. A mouse of polished wood, the color of sand, the ears round and somehow slightly tufted. A hawk with a beak of obsidian and real feathers along the borders of the mask. A rabbit made of marble, the ears stiff and ever-alert.
The hawk would be too obvious. The whole point was to be someone else, just for the night. Paul looked again at the proffered masks, each a masterpiece in its own right, and chose the mouse.
Prey for the hawk, a small, inconsequential creature, quiet but quick, scurrying to and fro in search for grain and seeds. Tricky to get rid of, once they'd made their nest. The bane of rice farmers throughout Caladan! Nothing worse than rodents in the storehouses, rifling through the harvest! It amused Paul to take the role of an irritation for this masquerade. He dismissed the servant who bowed, murmured, "My lord," and whisked the table and masks away, leaving Paul to dress.
He donned the mask. For earrings he set chose a set crafted from gold, two curtains of small, fine gold beads that nearly reached his shoulders and that undulated like wind-tossed waves with a turn of his head. He tussled his hair, let it become wild. As for his clothes—something to dance in, because he wanted to dance this night. Not the formal dance of the court, with its precise steps, but the natural motion of the body when thrumming with song. He'd wear something that gave him freedom of movement, and something brighter than what he usually wore. This was a festive occasion, after all.
Ultimately, he decided on a white tunic with a sky-blue surcoat, and matching leggings in a blue-and-white diamond pattern. His gloves, too, were white. The way the outfit contrasted with the bright, polished wood of the mouse mask and the warmth of the gold earrings was appealing.
Paul looked at himself in the mirror and thought, I still look like myself! It was how he stood—upright and straight, like an Atreides soldier. He recalled the dancers of the Emperor's court, the favored concubines and pleasure-slaves, mimicked the way they held themselves, the grace and elegance of their steps, the sensuous sway of their bodies.
Hah! His own father wouldn't recognize him! Certainly none of the guests would know that it was Paul Atreides beneath the mouse-mask!
But Paul would know them!
He walked into the courtyard, felt the cool, summer night air, saw the suspensor lamps shining like small moons, the court musicians on their harps and balisets, the servants wandering with platters of hors d'oeuvres and glasses of champagne, the highborn and noble guests drinking, flirting, conversing.
It was a game, to look at the revelers and to use his Bene Gesserit training to identify them by their voice or their body language.
The Count of House Gueles wore a tiger's stripes, but he still brayed like a donkey when he made a salacious comment. "Careful, little mouse," he said. "Or I might eat you up." Paul skillfully avoided his clawed hands, made his escape seem playful so that the Count brayed again.
The middle daughter of House Varick had such a timid way of holding herself that Paul saw her even beneath a fox's face and a gown like crackling fire. Dressed as a vixen, and yet! She was a kind young woman, and Kaitain was no place for her, and Paul wanted her to have a fine night, so he bowed, low and exaggerated to make her giggle shyly, and he lead her into a dance and lifted and twirled her about to make her laugh aloud. A sweet laugh, one that attracted a few interested men, and when the musicians began to play another song Paul carefully guided her into the arms of the son of House Devon, who wore the mask of a bear and was the size of one besides, but who had gentle nature.
They will be a good match, thought Paul as he went to the refreshments table. Fruit-infused water, cold and refreshing; Paul turned his head to the side and sipped at a glass until the heat in his face subsided. He was content to simply observe, to watch the celebrations.
Fireworks painted the sky, sending patterns of blue and gold and red and purple and white across the stars, blooming like flowers. The air held the scent of them—a smell slightly chemical and slightly burnt wood, but altogether pleasant.
The musicians were costumed as well, dressed as songbirds, their masks beaked, their robes lined with colorful feathers, glimmering and iridescent in the moonlight. Their songs were sweet and skillfully played.
A figure appeared in front of him. He wore a bull mask carved from obsidian, accompanied by black gloves, black boots, and robes of deep gold and purple. A bold choice—those were the royal colors of House Corrino. But brazenness was only natural on a night when faces were hidden. Certain trespasses were more than forgiven—they were expected.
The bull inclined his head and held out a hand. No other greeting, no other comment. Bold, Paul thought again. He slipped his hand into the bull's and was promptly swept into a dance.
It was one of their own design, heedless of the music, of their audience. There was a rhythm to the way their bodies moved against each other, like the current of a river flowing into the sea, as though it were only natural that they should come together and that each step was followed by another and then another and then another. Paul swayed his hips, and the bull placed his gloved hand on the small of his back and responded in kind, drawing him closer, letting Paul feel the hard heat of him.
Paul wound his arms around the bull's neck, lifted his head. Their masks nudged together, muzzle against muzzle. If they hadn't been wearing them, it might have been their lips that met instead. He heard the bull's sharp intake of breath—not surprise, but a noise to gain control.
Someone came near, assuming the dance had ended, and edged toward Paul, and the growl that came from his companion's throat was neither bull nor man but something more primal still, both threatening and possessive. The interloper raised quickly fled, proverbial tail between their legs.
Staking his claim. But I don't want to be claimed just yet! Paul released the bull from his hold and walked deeper into the palace gardens. The stone beneath his feet became grass wet with evening dew. The draping leaves of weeping willows caressed his shoulders like a lover's caress.
And all the while the bull trailed after him, a second shadow.
How far into the gardens would they go before the man made his move? When they'd danced it was as though their bodies had become one; now, Paul was followed by a creature with a predator's gait. Not a bull but a panther, stalking him through the undergrowth.
If this were a battle, then I wouldn't leave my back to him, Paul thought. But the rules are different here.
He turned, leaned against the sinuous trunk of a willow, and waited.
There was a certain confidence to the bull's steps, a powerful roll of his shoulders, a determined set of his body as he moved to stand in front of Paul.
"I want to see your face."
The shape of the bull mask had a strange effect on his voice. It echoed in such a way that the pitch changed, low to high, high to low. But the cadence, the manner of speaking—Paul had suspected who it was who danced so easily with him, and now he knew for certain.
The na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.
Paul shook his head. No.
"How shy you are now," murmured Feyd-Rautha. "But just a moment before you wanted everyone to look at you." He stepped forward, one hand lifted to catch the edge of Paul's mask with his gloved fingers. "That's fine. You'll be for my eyes alone."
Bold, and bolder still! With a soft huff, Paul now turned away, facing the direction of the palace courtyard, where the light from the small suspensor lamps shone through the trees and the music continued to play.
"No?" asked Feyd-Rautha. "You enjoyed our dance, though. I could feel it." With that, he slid his fingers between the mask and to Paul's lips, pressing insistently for entry. Paul opened his mouth, allowed Feyd-Rautha's gloved fingers touch his tongue—
And then he bit down, hard, grinding the material of the glove and skin between his teeth.
Feyd-Rautha hissed—in pain, or pleasure? He did not move to free his hand, but drew ever closer. "If you wanted to taste me, you needed only ask." Index and forefinger still trapped in Paul's mouth, he pressed his thumb to the underside of Paul's chin and tried to turn his head, to loosen the mask.
If I speak I'll be reveal myself, but if I allow him to remove the mask, he'll have revealed me! thought Paul. The former was the better option. There was more power in it, at least—a concession, but not a forced unveiling. He took a breath; Feyd-Rautha freed his fingers. With his other hand he grabbed Paul's bicep and held him tightly.
"Come, now," said the bull. His voice was low and entreating, his grip firm. "I want to see you."
The right pitch—what was the right pitch for one such as Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen? He wants to see me, but he'll have to settle for hearing my voice. That is all I'll give him. He'll respond to power. "Stop." Paul spoke the word like a hammer striking an anvil.
An unnatural stillness came over Feyd-Rautha, as though he was one of the many statues in the palace gardens. Paul quickly put distance between them—he wasn't certain how long the Voice would keep him at bay. But he did turn to glance at Feyd-Rautha standing there beneath the weeping willow, and he could tell that beneath the bull mask he was staring right at him—with anger, with wonder, with desire.
"Another time, na-Baron," Paul told him, and retreated to the path back to the palace.