The defiant, patrician-looking priest got to his feet. “An autopsy would prove that a poison-tipped weapon or dart killed that poor man. Parlor tricks!” He pushed himself two steps forward, even though the guards struggled to hold him back. “There is nothing holy about you. The Priests of Dur call you Paul Atreides the Demon!”
The chamber erupted in wild howling from the insult. “Gouge out their eyes!” a woman screamed, her voice shrill. One of the other priests whimpered, but his companions silenced him immediately.
Paul recalled the War of Assassins in his childhood, the battles on Ecaz and Grumman, the bloodshed and tragedies, and he remembered the great reverence with which he and his loved ones had entombed Duke Leto’s skull. My father’s greatest mistake was not being harsh enough with his enemies.
“All of you shall die for the crimes your misguided religion has inspired,” Paul said, looking at the green-robed men and knowing Korba would make sure their deaths were long and painful. “From this day forward, I hereby remove my sanction of your reckless beliefs. All across my realm, I command that every one of your places of worship be leveled. Henceforth, my Qizarate will carefully reshape your followers so that they find the proper path.” He stood and turned his back to the crowds, ending the audience. “There shall be no more Priests of Dur.”
THE NEXT DAY, in a private room behind the throne, Paul was pleased to welcome his visitors. Lady Jessica and Gurney Halleck were, however, a somber-faced pair. Paul accepted an embrace from his mother and then clasped hands with Gurney. The pair had arrived on the same Heighliner, and he was very glad to see them.
He let down his guard, sighing as he looked at them with deep affection. “Mother, Gurney, I have missed you both. Is everything well on Caladan? On Giedi Prime?”
Gurney looked somewhat abashed, but Jessica gave a quick reply. “No, Paul. Not on either planet.”
Though Gurney was surprised at her blunt answer, he added, “I have made some progress on Giedi Prime, my Lord, but the whole planet throbs with the pain of old wounds. It will be generations before the people begin to stand on their own again.”
Concerned, Paul glanced from one face to the other. “What has happened on Caladan, Mother?”
Jessica looked regal and every bit as beautiful as she must have appeared to Duke Leto. “There have been demonstrations, insults, bold criticism. Defectors from the Atreides guard took charge of Castle Caladan and holed up in it, forcing me to take shelter elsewhere until we could regain control. Entire villages have been burned.”
“Defectors? From the Atreides guard?” Paul had always assumed Caladan would remain a bastion of stability, one of many coins in his pocket. He had so many other problems, in particular the increasingly violent gadfly Memnon Thorvald. He looked at Gurney. “How could this happen?”
“They remember Duke Leto, my Lord. They expected you to be exactly like him.”
Muad’Dib had to deal with practical matters first. “Has the disturbance been quelled?”
“Quelled but not resolved,” Jessica said. “They are upset with you, Paul. You may have expected loyalty, but you’ve done nothing to earn it. I have been there to speak on your behalf for years, but they feel you have snubbed and abandoned them. Caladan is the Atreides home-world, but you have made no visit of state since early in the Jihad.”
Paul drew a deep breath, tried to suppress his anger. “During that visit my armies conquered Kaitain. Kaitain, Mother! I have a war to conduct. Do the people expect me to return to Caladan for dancing and parades?” He paused, then looked more intently at her. “I left you to cany on in my place.”
“True, but I am no Duke Leto — and neither are you.”
“I see.” Paul tried not to sound stung. The radical Priests of Dur had attempted to desecrate the shrine of his father’s skull, but now he wondered if he, as Muad’Dib, might also be desecrating the memory of Leto Atreides.
“I should return there as soon as possible to insure the peace,” Jessica said, “and I would like to take Gurney with me. The people know him. Gurney the Valorous.”
“Gurney has important work to do on Giedi Prime.”
Jessica’s eyes flashed, and her words cut like razors. “How could you think Gurney wanted Giedi Prime? Do you understand so little about human nature? Every day there is a torment for him.”
Paul opened his eyes in surprise. “Is that true, Gurney?”
The other man seemed embarrassed. “You ordered me to do a job, my Lord, so I have done my best. But in truth, there is no planet in all the Imperium that I hate more. It will always be the Harkonnen world to me.”
Paul felt deeply moved. “I am sorry, old friend. I did not mean to increase your pain. You will retain your title to Giedi Prime, and I hope that your name alone will insure that some of the reforms continue. I will give you personnel and financial resources to continue the work there, but in the meantime I grant you leave to return to Caladan, to watch out for my mother’s safety.”
Gurney bowed formally. “My heart is on Caladan, where I served noble House Atreides.”
“Very well, my friend. You have helped my family and me in more ways than I can ever hope to repay,” Paul said. “To Caladan it is. Heal the damage I have inadvertently caused by my neglect.”
Later, after the meeting was concluded, Paul remained by himself in the small chamber. It was quiet in there now, so infinitely quiet….
In a shadowed corner of his mind, he worried that he had not correctly interpreted the hints of long-term prescience, that his own warriors might be precipitating a new Dark Age more grim than humanity had experienced in the frightened times after the end of the Butlerian Jihad. Beyond these walls, his holy war swept over planet after planet. His legions left broken populations and devastation in their wake, decapitated governments, and provided nothing to fill the vacuum. Somehow, he had to put the pieces back together. A problem Alexander the Great never had to face.
Surprises are too often unpleasant ones.
—KORBA THE PANEGYRIST, to a delegation of Qizarate missionaries
Alert for treachery, Hasimir and Margot Fenring followed the albino Tleilaxu doctor through narrow, metal-sheathed tunnels beneath the city of Thalidei. Black streaks and patches mottled the gray plates where water had trickled down and mold had formed. As Dr. Ereboam scurried through the intricate passageways, Count Fenring thought of a white lab rat moving through a complex maze.
Fenring’s persistent “persuasion” techniques had convinced Ereboam to show him what he needed to see, but the Count remained wary. He did not trust this man — not at all. At least little Marie was as safe as possible, left under the protection of Tonia Obregah-Xo, sealed in their quarters and away from any interference or counter-blackmail; the Bene Gesserit nanny would kill anyone who attempted to intrude. After years of uneasy tolerance, Fenring doubted any of the Tleilaxu would try something so bold, especially now that they had so much to gain. Marie and their would-be Kwisatz Haderach offered interesting possibilities for cooperation and synergy.
No, the danger might be directed toward him instead, or Lady Margot. Count Fenring’s instincts kept him alert for a trap or ambush, but he sensed both resignation and eagerness from Ereboam. They were going to see the supposedly successful Kwisatz Haderach candidate.
Although they had entered the labyrinth through a long, security-guarded stairway near Thalidei’s outer walls, which fronted the deep and stinking lake, they had made so many turns that Fenring no longer had his bearings. “Are we still beneath the city, or have we gone under the lake bed?” He wiped a drip of water from his face.
Ereboam clucked. “We are in the atmosphere distribution tunnels and ventilation systems of Thalidei. Please follow. Not much farther.”
A clearplaz lift in a tube carried them up into a multi-story building, ascending past floor after floor where Tleilaxu researchers bustled about, preoccupied with experimental work. When the unusual lift came to a smooth stop, its doors irised open, and Er
eboam hurried them along a white-walled corridor. A pink flush of excitement enlivened his narrow white face. “This way, please. Hurry, hurry. You’re going to be very impressed.”
At the end of a corridor that was bathed in lemon-yellow illumination, Ereboam adjusted a security scanner, and the door slid open to reveal a gray mistiness beyond. They entered.
As his eyes adjusted, Fenring noticed that the walls were heavily padded, showing numerous rips and scrape marks. Squeezing Margot’s hand, he sent an urgent finger signal to be alert. She positioned herself carefully close to him, coiled to strike if necessary. He detected a chemical odor in the room, a tinge of medicinals… and something rank that he could not quite identify. He felt Margot’s back tense against his. She had noticed, too. An animal smell.
Ereboam disappeared into the fog, though Fenring could hear him murmuring something reverential in a low tone. Prayers? “No need to worry,” the doctor said. “This fog is specially tuned to the subject’s metabolism, and has made him sleepy.”
When the mist thinned, Fenring saw the albino researcher standing next to what at first appeared to be an amorphous shape on the floor. Then he realized it was a classically proportioned human crouched over, head down, wearing a beige filmsuit that clung to his body and showed his muscles as if they had been carved by a master sculptor. One of the Twisting subjects they had seen in the laboratories? Fenring didn’t think so.
The crouched figure straightened, as if unfolding his body from a chrysalis. The filmsuit hid most of his skin except for his bare hands, feet, and head. The Count noticed his wife’s gaze move over the muscular form up to the strikingly handsome face, aquiline nose, and somewhat haughty pout. But Fenring could see past the physical perfection, and he was certain that Margot did as well. The mysterious man’s acorn brown eyes revealed a strange inner torment.
“Meet Thallo.” Ereboam’s voice was filled with pride. “Our Kwisatz Haderach.”
Lady Margot’s green-gray eyes took on a sudden, intense interest. “From your own genetic map?”
When speaking to a female, the researcher’s tone automatically became condescending. “Using sophisticated laboratory techniques instead of the unpleasant vagaries of natural human reproduction, we have achieved in only a few accelerated generations something that you Bene Gesserits could not accomplish in thousands of years.”
“Hmm, that remains to be seen.” Fenring walked slowly around Thallo, looking for flaws. “He looks, ahh, younger than Paul Atreides. He is what, seventeen or eighteen years old?”
Ereboam smiled. “Chronologically, Thallo is only nine, but we accelerated his physical growth. He has made a great deal of progress. In some respects he is quite polished, but in others he is somewhat raw and unrefined.”
Reaching up, Ereboam smoothed the dark, wavy hair on the back of Thallo’s head, a gentle, caring motion. The eyes of the strange creation grew more calm as the doctor spoke. “He is the pinnacle of Tleilaxu genetic accomplishment. Our Kwisatz Haderach possesses untapped mental and even prescient abilities that we can hardly begin to fathom.”
“Can it speak?” Fenring asked.
“I can speak better than the greatest orators in history,” Thallo said, in an erudite tone, with perfect diction. “I know all of the facts in every encyclopedic work in the Imperium. I am a Mentat with enhanced computational abilities. I could debate with all of you simultaneously, and defeat every argument.”
Ereboam brought a rectangular biscuit out of a pocket of his smock and handed the treat to Thallo, as if he were a pet. The creature chewed, fixing a hard gaze on Count Fenring. Between bites, Thallo said, “And I wish to inform these guests that I am not an it. I am a human being.”
“Much more than a human being,” Ereboam asserted. “What better way to take down Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib than with our own superman?”
“Um-m-m-m-ah,” Fenring said. “Your champion would charge into the throne room and throw cookies at him?” Thallo smiled as he chewed.
Making a true decision requires more than cursory data. The correct choice must trigger feelings and sensations. The process is instinctive.
—THE PRINCESS IRULAN, unpublished notes
In the evenings, away from public appearances and closed-door meetings, Irulan relished her quiet time — but did not relax. She sat upon the billowing softness of her immense four-post bed, surrounded by the comforts that supposedly befitted her royal station. She heard only a few voices in the corridor outside, the ever-present female guards Paul had set at her door, not the normal beehive of activity that surrounded her husband.
This was her most productive time for writing.
According to Bludd’s master plan, her private apartments had been decorated with trappings stripped out of her cabin in Shaddam’s captured ship from the plains of Arrakeen. The Emperor’s ship and the now-defeated Sardaukar had all belonged to House Corrino — a legacy that had been mismanaged for years by her father, as she’d come to realize with great sadness. Her own lot in life, as a figurehead princess and the symbolic wife of a usurper, was a constant reminder of Shaddam’s failures. However, Irulan now held a role of greater potential significance than any position her Corrino destiny had offered.
A year earlier, Paul had allowed her to reestablish contact with the exiled Imperial family on Salusa Secundus, though Irulan did not doubt that he scanned every communique for evidence of conspiracies. That was to be expected. With his innate truthsense, he should realize that she had no intention of overthrowing or assassinating Emperor Muad’Dib in order to bring her father back into power. But she could not blame him for being cautious.
Even from isolated Salusa, the disgraced remnants of House Corrino controlled a network of spies, smugglers, and black-market traders who could tap into the hidden wealth that the Padishah Emperor had buried in the long years of his reign. Nevertheless, her father probably had only limited and inaccurate information about what was really happening in the rest of the ravaged Imperium. Shaddam could never comprehend the scope of the Jihad, as Irulan did.
She was sure that Earl Memnon Thorvald had been in contact with her father, but Irulan knew the rebellious lord had no great love for Shaddam either. After all, Thorvald’s sister Firenza had not survived long after marrying the Emperor, so many years ago….
Meanwhile, she concentrated on news from her family. Supposedly meaningless things. Wensicia had given birth to a healthy son, Shaddam’s first grandchild and only male heir. This event seemed to have brought her father little joy, however, since it could not restore the Corrino bloodline to the throne, as a son from Irulan and Paul would have done.
In her role here at Arrakeen, Irulan had sent formal, though heartfelt, congratulations and gifts for baby Farad’n, but her sister’s reply had been surprisingly cruel and accusatory. Wensicia insisted that the entire family considered her a traitor for staying with the usurper and writing his propaganda. “Sleeping with the enemy,” she called it.
Irulan could only smile bitterly at that. If only they knew…
Even sweet and innocent Rugi felt that way. Her youngest sister had scribbled a horrid little note as a postscript: “We all hate you for doing this to us! You don’t know what it’s like here.” That part had stung the most. Rugi had always been affectionate toward her.
Dismayed, Irulan looked past the billowing Nonian lace of her bed canopy to the handmade furnishings, the antique Balut lamps, and the priceless paintings. On the surface, Paul denied her no luxuries, no trappings of wealth or noble station. The wife of an Emperor was expected to have such things.
Despite the finery around her, Irulan felt an emptiness in her soul. She tried to imagine she was a girl again, bright-eyed and full of hope for the future, instead of a lonely, childless woman in her mid-thirties.
The Sisterhood still demanded that she preserve his bloodline by conceiving a child, and she wanted the same thing for herself, as much as the Imperium needed an heir.
But Paul had sworn in publi
c that he would never share Irulan’s bed, further shaming her while demonstrating devotion to his desert concubine, though even Chani had not given him a second son.
Regardless, through the writing process Irulan had come to understand and even respect Paul’s relationship with Chani. The depth of the feelings those two shared went as deep as the sands of Arrakis, beyond the reach of politics or other outside influence. Irulan noticed how they gazed into one another’s eyes and exchanged wordless thoughts. They had their own communication system, a private language that genuine lovers shared. The relationship seemed to be the only mark of normalcy that Paul allowed himself to show.
Under other circumstances, Irulan and Paul might have become friends, even lovers. Theoretically, they were well matched for each other. In the beginning, when she had suggested the marriage alliance as a path to peace, she had assumed she could seduce him with her Bene Gesserit skills, if given half a chance. But he was not a normal man, and he resisted her every move to get close to him. He offered his deep love for Chani as the excuse for his fidelity, but what did love have to do with dynastic concerns?
And why had Chani not yet become pregnant? Yes, their first son, Leto II, had been slain in a Sardaukar raid. Was she afraid to try again? Had the birth caused physical damage that prevented her from conceiving? Irulan thought not, though the subject was never discussed.
The Imperium needed an heir!
On the oversized bed she had arranged documents and notes in neat piles, including shigawire spools containing interviews and heavily censored battlefield reports that Korba had permitted her to have. A stark reality hit her: Her bed had become an office instead of a place where she might conceive a child. In a sudden, angry gesture, she cast aside the journal and hurled it to the floor. It landed on the plush carpeting with a soft thud.
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