Paul of Dune

by Kevin J. Anderson

Paul had cut the man off. “Where Count Fenring is concerned, Korba, little is clear to me, ever.”

  Although Fedaykin guards were stationed in the hall, Stilgar could not allow himself to merely be a fellow dinner guest; instead, he vowed to serve as Paul’s personal bodyguard. Ever suspicious of the Count, Stilgar had personally scanned Marie’s clothes and paid close attention to every item Fenring and his Bene Gesserit wife brought into the banquet chamber, but he found no weapons, no poisons, nothing unusual.

  The dinner party met in the former dining hall of the old Arrakeen Residency. This was a historically significant room, where Alia’s brother and parents had broken bread when they first arrived on Arrakis — before Harkonnen treachery had changed everything. There had been no straight-line progression in her brother’s life from then to now, nor in Alia’s. As servants put the finishing touches on the table and the chefs were hard at work, Alia stood near her chair, waiting for her eminent brother to enter.

  After Marie’s parents had arrived on Arrakis, the girl’s style of play had altered subtly as they improvised more games, making Alia wonder if her friend was somehow subdued or intimidated by them. “Are you afraid they’ll take you back to Tleilax?” Alia had asked in a whisper.

  “I will never go back to the Tleilaxu.” Marie sounded as if she was stating a fact, rather than making a defiant pronouncement.

  At the appointed time, Paul and Chani entered the dining hall and took their seats at the head of the table. Forsaking formality, they wore clean yet simple desert clothes. Visible under his cape Paul had also chosen to wear a black tunic emblazoned with the red Atreides hawk crest, no doubt for the Count’s benefit. Paul’s shield mechanism was apparent, as was Chani’s, but not activated.

  Hasimir and Margot Fenring strolled into the banquet hall arm in arm: the not-quite-misshapen man and the beautiful Bene Gesserit seductress who clearly adored him. Alia wondered how far the Sisterhood’s breeding program had missed its mark in Hasimir Fenring, how close a counterpart he was to her brother’s abilities. She sensed great danger in the man. On the other hand, she had to agree with Paul: he could be a formidable ally.

  Lady Margot looked like perfection in a gown made of gray and black elfsilk; at her pale, smooth throat she wore a long strand of large muted-lavender diamonds whose color seemed enhanced by the sleek dress. So thorough were the security precautions, Stilgar had scanned the strand itself to make sure it was made of breakable thread, rather than shigawire or some other cord that could be used as a garrote.

  Little Marie walked slightly ahead of her parents, excruciatingly well-mannered but barely able to contain her energy. An impish grin touched her lips.

  For the occasion Alia had decided to wear her favored black aba robe, which gave her the paradoxical appearance of both child and Fremen matron. In stark contrast, Margot Fenring had taken great care to dress Marie as a perfect daughter in a fine little gown made of expensive fabrics, whale-fur, and lace. Her golden hair was bound up in a mist of tiny jewels. Alia hardly recognized her companion.

  Fenring placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward, his chin on his interlocked hands, as he looked past the two girls to where Paul sat. “Hmm, Sire, I have a gift for you before we begin. I could have presented it earlier, but I was waiting for… aahh… the correct time.” He stroked his clean-shaven chin, looked awkwardly across the table. “Your man Korba has it.”

  Korba was taken aback because he had not expected this. When Paul looked at him, the Fedaykin clapped his hands and gave hushed orders to one of the guards, who dashed out of the room.

  Alia leaned over to Marie. “What is it? What did they bring?”

  The girl glanced at her. “Something interesting.”

  Finally, two men bustled in from the hall carrying a wrapped package. “I hope you’ve kept it safe,” Lady Margot said.

  Korba seemed insulted. “It was placed in my care.” He set the object in front of Paul and unwrapped folds of black cloth to reveal a jewel-handled knife. The edge seemed to radiate light.

  Paul scowled. “You brought me a dagger? What sort of message is this?”

  “It is a historically significant weapon, Sire. You may recall that this is the same blade carried by Emperor Shaddam, which he gave to your father Duke Leto after the success of his Trial by Forfeiture, but Leto eventually returned it to him.” After a pause, he added, “It is also the knife Shaddam offered to Feyd-Rautha for his duel with you.”

  Paul frowned down at the offering. “Is there a deeper message I should read into this?”

  Fenring wrinkled his forehead. “You are well aware of a certain, aahh, friction in my relationship with Shaddam. In an attempt to lure me back to his side, he sent me this blade as a gift, hoping I would return to Salusa Secundus and be his companion.”

  “And you are giving it to me instead?”

  Count Fenring smiled. “That is my answer to His Fallen Majesty, Shaddam Corrino IV.”

  Paul passed the weapon to Chani. She examined it, placed it on the table between them.

  Marie fidgeted in her place, and Lady Margot caught her eye, gave her a sharp look. Alia searched for any hidden code in the gesture, but it seemed to be no more than the scolding of an impatient mother.

  The first course was brought in, accompanied by an intriguing savory aroma. “Hmmm, smells wonderful.” Fenring picked up one of the cubes of meat. “What is it?”

  “Broiled pit snake in a piquant sauce,” Chani answered, letting the Count draw his own subtle meanings.

  The guests each had a large goblet of water flavored with bits of cidrit rind. Imported olives were accompanied by a salad of chopped lettuce and portygul wedges in rosewater. Alia knew that the Fenrings fully recognized the largesse of moisture that Paul was showing, though Lady Margot hardly took a sip of her water.

  “When House Atreides took possession of Arrakis,” Paul mused, “my father hosted a banquet to present himself to important personages of the city, and — I am certain — to sniff out potential enemies.” He glanced down at the jewel-handled knife beside his plate. “Are you my enemy, Count Fenring?”

  “I don’t believe so, Sire.”

  “You are aware that I have truthsense?”

  “I am, aahh, aware of when I have told the truth and when I have not.”

  “Perhaps you shade the truth now?”

  Fenring didn’t answer, as Paul looked at him warily. Paul sensed something, but what?

  Alia continued to eat, but watched the reactions around the table. For some reason, Marie giggled.

  The chefs had chosen a main course of roasted butterfish, one of Paul’s favorites from Caladan. Gurney Halleck had recently sent a shipment of the delicately flavored fish, which was now served in a traditional peasant style. With her small, nimble fingers, Marie peeled away the scales and skin, exposing the pale flesh and vertebrae as if she were an excellent dissectionist.

  Fenring held up one of the curved sharp ribs of the butterfish. “One could easily choke on a fish bone. I hope I am not to construe this as a threat? No one but Shaddam would have ever served such an intrinsically dangerous meal.”

  It was poor joke, but nevertheless Lady Margot and Korba chuckled.

  “My father had good reason to fear assassination attempts,” Irulan said sourly. “He should have spent more effort strengthening his Empire, instead of conspiring with you, Count Fenring.” Alia was surprised to hear the bitterness in the Princess’s voice. “Many of his most troublesome ideas came directly from you.”

  “Hmmm? Your assessment is entirely unfair to me, Princess, as well as factually incorrect. If dear Shaddam had listened to my ideas more often, instead of acting on his own, he would have gotten into far less trouble.”

  Marie continued to toy with her fish. With her round-handled spoon, she tried to cut a hard-glazed vegetable, a dwarf Ecazi turnip — a slightly sweet, tasty morsel. The vegetable rolled suddenly off her plate and dropped to the floor beneath the table. As if hoping no o
ne would notice her faux pas, the girl ducked down from her chair to retrieve it. Alia hid her amusement.

  “Shaddam has been disarmed in every possible way,” Paul said. “Most of his Sardaukar have transferred their allegiance to me. Only one legion, comprised mostly of older men ready for retirement, remains with him in exile as his police force.”

  “Hmm, I think you are too trusting, Sire. Sardaukar are blood soldiers. They are sworn to defend their Emperor.”

  Chani’s voice was dangerous. “You forget, Count Fenring, that Muad’Dib is their Emperor now.”

  Lady Margot glanced under the table to see what her daughter was doing.

  Paul continued, “The fact that my Fremen defeated them so resoundingly was a mortal blow to their confidence. It is the law of the vanquished: I have proven myself the leader of the human pack, and they must bare their throats in submission.”

  When she thought no one was looking, Alia slipped beneath the table as well. “Marie, what are you doing?”

  The girl darted a glance back at her like a snake. Marie had peeled something long and thin from the table leg, barely thicker than a thread but as long as her forearm. A flexible band was wrapped around her knuckles. It had been hidden among the cracks and ornate carvings beneath the banquet table’s trim. Seeing Alia, Marie activated a minute power source, causing the object to extend and became rigid.

  Alia recognized it for what it was — needlewhip dagger — a contraband Ixian assassination tool made from sharp, braided krimskell fibers. Because it was organic, it gave off no chemical signatures that would have tripped either a poison or explosive snooper. Marie could have placed it there during one of their games.

  Alia’s thoughts tumbled into place, spelling out the details of a long-planned murder. The little girl had been planted like a cuckoo’s egg in the nest of the Arrakeen citadel. “Paul! Stilgar!”

  She lunged toward Marie under the table, but the other girl slapped a hidden switch in one of the curlicue knobs on the table’s trim, activating another booby trap. From the stone block walls near the main door came a popping crack, densely packed powders released by a tightly wound spring-dispersal mechanism. When the two inert dusts mixed, a chemical reaction caused the fumes to spread out in a noxious cloud of foul-smelling yellow smoke that billowed blindingly into the room.

  Someone screamed, repeatedly. At first it sounded like a woman, but Alia realized quickly it was Korba.

  The explosion of smoke, cleverly planted without energetic chemicals or any kind of detectable ignition device, sent the door guards running to the wrong place. The delay and diversion needed to last only a few seconds. Marie was already there under the table, and with her small but deadly body she rose up between the table and Paul, even as he pushed back to get into a defensive position.

  Marie pressed forward, far stronger than she looked, and drove herself into Paul’s now-activated shield, inserting the deadly needlewhip through the barrier. She slowed, using the resistance to her advantage. The weapon’s fine tip slid through the barrier like the needle of a medic administering a euthanasia injection.

  Moving smoothly at the first instant of turmoil, Lady Margot Fenring snapped the thread of her necklace and spilled her strand of lavender diamonds into the goblet in front of her. Immediately upon contact with the water, the Tleilaxu gems released their impregnated chemicals, a potent but short-term paralytic not detectable by the banquet room’s poison snoopers. She and Count Fenring had already consumed a prophylactic antidote. She hurled the goblet’s contents away from her, splashing it across the table at Korba and Stilgar even as the men lunged to their feet. Some of the fumes even reached Irulan.

  Alia saw Paul grab Marie’s small wrist and hold her off, preventing the needlewhip from extending more and plunging its fine, sharp point through his forehead. By now, the power source would have built up a substantial electrostatic charge, and a single burst could quickly and effectively short-circuit her brother’s brain.

  At the far side of the room, yellow smoke continued to spread out. People were choking. The guards nearly tripped over each other. Stilgar and Korba had collapsed, stunned by the paralytic; Irulan could barely move.

  Count Fenring had already acted, moving through the blinding smoke to reach the thick stone wall of the banquet room, where blocks fitted together perfectly to form a corner that, to even the most detailed inspection, appeared to be perfectly aligned. He knew the precise crack to push, the slight sliding to the left and then upward to reveal another mechanism — all the components of which were made of exactly the same kind of stone. Then a release, and the passage opened: access to the ancient tunnels underneath the Residency.

  Many years before the Atreides occupation, Count Fenring had discovered the network of incalculably old passages beneath the foundations, and he had installed several access points in key areas. Because the system was his own clever design, Fenring knew these hidden entrances would have remained undetected in all the subsequent time.

  Now, it would provide a perfect way for them to get away after the murder of Muad’Dib, leaving Arrakeen in an uproar. According to the plan he and Lady Margot had developed so carefully, an armed escape craft was already waiting outside, and from there they would reach the Heighliner and fold space to freedom.

  The right people had been bribed, the entire process made easier by the fact that the Emperor Muad’Dib was so widely hated, even by many of those closest to him. The assistance of the Spacing Guild didn’t hurt, either. In all likelihood, the Count, Margot, and Marie would fill the power vacuum after Paul’s death, or find someone compatible who could do so. Even if not, without such a charismatic, prescient leader, the Jihad and this fanatical government would consume itself from within.

  But first, Muad’Dib had to die.

  When Marie threw herself upon Paul, however, surprise and treachery had been her main advantages. As Paul stalled the initial attack for a moment, Alia burst out from beneath the table and sprang at the other girl like a mongoose.

  Breaking free of Paul, Marie lashed out at Alia with the needle-whip, and Paul’s sister danced back. Alia was more than a match for the other girl’s fighting ability, but she had no weapon of her own. Marie jabbed, and the hair-fine rapier made a whistling sigh through the air. “Let’s play, Alia.”

  Though her muscles could barely respond from her exposure to the paralytic, Irulan crawled to one side, out of the way. Stilgar lay sprawled with his head, shoulders, and arms on the table, where he had collapsed. He twitched and struggled, his eyes fully aware, as he tried to pull himself up. Chani held her drawn crysknife, looking as formidable a fighter as any Fedaykin.

  Alia sprang onto the dining table, trying to get out of reach of the needlewhip. Marie lashed and spun as she followed her up there, knocking settings aside while Alia dodged. It was clear the little Fenring assassin meant to dispatch her quickly. So much had happened in only a few seconds. “Now who is the scorpion?” Marie laughed.

  Alia took another step across the tabletop and kicked a plate with a half-eaten fish carcass at Marie. The girl ducked to one side, her hard gaze never wavering. Alia spotted the Emperor’s ornate knife near her brother’s plate. In a blur of motion, she grabbed the blade and jumped toward her opponent, slashing beneath the needlewhip, catching the girl on the wrist, severing tendons. “I can sting, too.”

  Marie’s hand instantly became useless, and the deadly weapon dangled from the loops wrapped about her knuckles. With no more than a hiss of pain, Marie jumped off the table and pounced on the half-paralyzed Irulan, choosing any victim she could find.

  But Alia was unleashed now. The voices in Other Memory howled at her like a bloodthirsty mob. She raised the jewel-handled knife and slammed it into the back of the little girl. The blow was true, and the Emperor’s sharp blade pierced Marie’s heart.

  “Marie!” Fenring cried, turning away from his exit tunnel and bounding forward. “No, not my daughter!”

  Alia stood up, leavin
g the Emperor’s blade firmly planted within the twitching body of the treacherous girl. “You were never my friend.”

  Korba looked on in awe, still seated where he had slumped helplessly back into his chair, and just starting to recover from the paralytic gas. As far as Alia could tell, the Fremen had not lifted a finger during the brief but intense battle. “The knife,” he said in a slurred voice, his lips moving slightly. “St. Alia of the Knife.”

  Caught in the swirl of events around her, Alia realized that she stood at the threshold of her own legend.

  Who can love a monster? It is an easy thing when one allows love to interfere with reason.

  —Bene Gesserit report on Abomination

  Paul switched off his shield and strode over to the fallen body of Marie Fenring. Alia stared at the jewel-hiked knife protruding from her former playmate’s back, as if she could not believe what she had just done.

  Chani stood with crysknife in hand, coiled for further violence and ready to protect Paul. “Stilgar, do you live?” she called.

  Though he moved like a man half asleep, the naib said, “I live… The poison was temporary.”

  Count Fenring had fallen to the floor on his knees and looked absolutely shattered. “Marie! Marie, my sweet little girl!” His shoulders hunched and shuddered as he lifted the dead child and cradled her. Behind him, an opening in the wall led down a sloped ramp and worn stairs into the dark tunnels of a secret labyrinth underground. His wife knelt next to him, also stricken. Both of them seemed to have abandoned their dream of escape.

  A backwash of danger clamored in Paul’s mind, but in his prescient blind spot he could sense no details. Though he had always known the Count was devious, he had wanted to believe that he shared a bond with the other potential Kwisatz Haderach.

  All along, though, Fenring’s deadly plot had been ticking like clockwork. He must have known it was a risky attempt, yet he had been willing to send his own daughter behind enemy lines and unleash her as a weapon, seeking to destroy not only Paul, but the Jihad. Had this man raised Marie from infancy with that sole purpose in mind? What kind of father could do that? He realized how Duke Leto might have reacted if the Harkonnens had actually killed Paul.