Dune dc-1

by Frank Herbert

  ***

  How often it is that the angry man rages denial of what his inner self is telling him.

  —“The Collected Sayings of Muad’Dib” by the Princess Irulan

  THE CROWD in the cavern assembly chamber radiated that pack feeling Jessica had sensed the day Paul killed Jamis. There was murmuring nervousness in the voices. Little cliques gathered like knots among the robes.

  Jessica tucked a message cylinder beneath her robe as she emerged to the ledge from Paul’s private quarters. She felt rested after the long journey up from the south, but still rankled that Paul would not yet permit them to use the captured ornithopters.

  “We do not have full control of the air,” he had said. “And we must not become dependent upon offworld fuel. Both fuel and aircraft must be gathered and saved for the day of maximum effort.”

  Paul stood with a group of the younger men near the ledge. The pale light of glowglobes gave the scene a tinge of unreality. It was like a tableau, but with the added dimension of warren smells, the whispers, the sounds of shuffling feet.

  She studied her son, wondering why he had not yet trotted out his surprise—Gurney Halleck. The thought of Gurney disturbed her with its memories of an easier past—days of love and beauty with Paul’s father.

  Stilgar waited with a small group of his own at the other end of the ledge. There was a feeling of inevitable dignity about him, the way he stood without talking.

  We must not lose that man, Jessica thought. Paul’s plan must work. Anything else would be the highest tragedy.

  She strode down the ledge, passing Stilgar without a glance, stepped down into the crowd. A way was made for her as she headed toward Paul. And silence followed her.

  She knew the meaning of the silence—the unspoken questions of the people, awe of the Reverend Mother.

  The young men drew back from Paul as she came up to him, and she found herself momentarily dismayed by the new deference they paid him. “All men beneath your position covet your station,” went the Bene Gesserit axiom. But she found no covetousness in these faces. They were held at a distance by the religious ferment around Paul’s leadership. And she recalled another Bene Gesserit saying: “Prophets have a way of dying by violence. ”

  Paul looked at her.

  “It’s time,” she said, and passed the message cylinder to him.

  One of Paul’s companions, bolder than the others, glanced across at Stilgar, said: “Are you going to call him out, Maud’Dib? Now’s the time for sure. They’ll think you a coward if you—”

  “Who dares call me coward?” Paul demanded. His hand flashed to his crysknife hilt.

  Bated silence came over the group, spreading out into the crowd.

  “There’s work to do,” Paul said as the man drew back from him. Paul turned away, shouldered through the crowd to the ledge, leaped lightly up to it and faced the people.

  “Do it!” someone shrieked.

  Murmurs and whispers arose behind the shriek.

  Paul waited for silence. It came slowly amidst scattered shufflings and coughs. When it was quiet in the cavern, Paul lifted his chin, spoke in a voice that carried to the farthest corners.

  “You are tired of waiting,” Paul said.

  Again, he waited while the cries of response died out.

  Indeed, they are tired of waiting, Paul thought. He hefted the message cylinder, thinking of what it contained. His mother had showed it to him, explaining how it had been taken from a Harkonnen courier.

  The message was explicit: Rabban was being abandoned to his own resources here on Arrakis! He could not call for help or reinforcements!

  Again, Paul raised his voice: “You think it’s time I called out Stilgar and changed the leadership of the troops!” Before they could respond, Paul hurled his voice at them in anger: “Do you think the Lisan al-Gaib that stupid?”

  There was stunned silence.

  He’s accepting the religious mantle, Jessica thought. He must not do it!

  “It’s the way!” someone shouted.

  Paul spoke dryly, probing the emotional undercurrents. “Ways change.”

  An angry voice lifted from a corner of the cavern: “We’ll say what’s to change!”

  There were scattered shouts of agreement through the throng.

  “As you wish,” Paul said.

  And Jessica heard the subtle intonations as he used the powers of Voice she had taught him.

  “You will say,” he agreed. “But first you will hear my say.”

  Stilgar moved along the ledge, his bearded face impassive. “That is the way, too,” he said. “The voice of any Fremen may be heard in Council. Paul-Muad’Dib is a Fremen.”

  “The good of the tribe, that is the most important thing, eh?” Paul asked.

  Still with that flat-voiced dignity, Stilgar said: “Thus our steps are guided.”

  “All right,” Paul said. “Then, who rules this troop of our tribe—and who rules all the tribes and troops through the fighting instructors we’ve trained in the weirding way?”

  Paul waited, looking over the heads of the throng. No answer came.

  Presently, he said: “Does Stilgar rule all this? He says himself that he does not. Do I rule? Even Stilgar does my bidding on occasion, and the sages, the wisest of the wise, listen to me and honor me in Council.”

  There was shuffling silence among the crowd.

  “So,” Paul said. “Does my mother rule?” He pointed down to Jessica in her black robes of office among them. “Stilgar and all the other troop leaders ask her advice in almost every major decision. You know this. But does a Reverend Mother walk the sand or lead a razzia against the Harkonnens?”

  Frowns creased the foreheads of those Paul could see, but still there were angry murmurs.

  This is a dangerous way to do it, Jessica thought, but she remembered the message cylinder and what it implied. And she saw Paul’s intent: Go right to the depth of their uncertainty, dispose of that, and all the rest must follow.

  “No man recognizes leadership without the challenge and the combat, eh?” Paul asked.

  “That’s the way!” someone shouted.

  “What’s our goal?” Paul asked. “To unseat Rabban, the Harkonnen beast, and remake our world into a place where we may raise our families in happiness amidst an abundance of water—is this our goal?”

  “Hard tasks need hard ways,” someone shouted.

  “Do you smash your knife before a battle?” Paul demanded. “I say this as fact, not meaning it as boast or challenge: there isn’t a man here, Stilgar included, who could stand against me in single combat. This is Stilgar’s own admission. He knows it, so do you all.”

  Again, the angry mutters lifted from the crowd.

  “Many of you have been with me on the practice floor,” Paul said. “You know this isn’t idle boast. I say it because it’s fact known to us all, and I’d be foolish not to see it for myself. I began training in these ways earlier than you did and my teachers were tougher than any you’ve ever seen. How else do you think I bested Jamis at an age when your boys are still fighting only mock battles?”

  He’s using the Voice well, Jessica thought, but that’s not enough with these people. They’ve good insulation against vocal control. He must catch them also with logic.

  “So,” Paul said, “we come to this.” He lifted the message cylinder, removed its scrap of tape. “This was taken from a Harkonnen courier. Its authenticity is beyond question. It is addressed to Rabban. It tells him that his request for new troops is denied, that his spice harvest is far below quota, that he must wring more spice from Arrakis with the people he has.”

  Stilgar moved up beside Paul.

  “How many of you see what this means?” Paul asked. “Stilgar saw it immediately.”

  “They’re cut off!” someone shouted.

  Paul pushed message and cylinder into his sash. From his neck he took a braided shigawire cord and removed a ring from the cord, holding the ring aloft.


  “This was my father’s ducal signet,” he said. “I swore never to wear it again until I was ready to lead my troops over all of Arrakis and claim it as my rightful fief.” He put the ring on his finger, clenched his fist.

  Utter stillness gripped the cavern.

  “Who rules here?” Paul asked. He raised his fist. “I rule here! I rule on every square inch of Arrakis! This is my ducal fief whether the Emperor says yea or nay! He gave it to my father and it comes to me through my father!”

  Paul lifted himself onto his toes, settled back to his heels. He studied the crowd, feeling their temper.

  Almost, he thought.

  “There are men here who will hold positions of importance on Arrakis when I claim those Imperial rights which are mine,” Paul said. “Stilgar is one of those men. Not because I wish to bribe him! Not out of gratitude, though I’m one of many here who owe him life for life. No! But because he’s wise and strong. Because he governs this troop by his own intelligence and not just by rules. Do you think me stupid? Do you think I’ll cut off my right arm and leave it bloody on the floor of this cavern just to provide you with a circus?”

  Paul swept a hard gaze across the throng. “Who is there here to say I’m not the rightful ruler on Arrakis? Must I prove it by leaving every Fremen tribe in the erg without a leader?”

  Beside Paul, Stilgar stirred, looked at him questioningly.

  “Will I subtract from our strength when we need it most?” Paul asked. “I am your ruler, and I say to you that it is time we stopped killing off our best men and started killing our real enemies—the Harkonnens!”

  In one blurred motion, Stilgar had his crysknife out and pointed over the heads of the throng. “Long live Duke Paul-Muad’Dib!” he shouted.

  A deafening roar filled the cavern, echoed and re-echoed. They were cheering and chanting: “Ya hya chouhada! Muad‘Dib! Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib! Ya hya chouhada!”

  Jessica translated it to herself: “Long live the fighters of Muad’Dib!” The scene she and Paul and Stilgar had cooked up between them had worked as they’d planned.

  The tumult died slowly.

  When silence was restored, Paul faced Stilgar, said: “Kneel, Stilgar.”

  Stilgar dropped to his knees on the ledge.

  “Hand me your crysknife,” Paul said.

  Stilgar obeyed.

  This was not as we planned it, Jessica thought.

  “Repeat after me, Stilgar,” Paul said, and he called up the words of investiture as he had heard his own father use them. “I, Stilgar, take this knife from the hands of my Duke.”

  “I, Stilgar, take this knife from the hands of my Duke,” Stilgar said, and accepted the milky blade from Paul.

  “Where my Duke commands, there shall I place this blade,” Paul said.

  Stilgar repeated the words, speaking slowly and solemnly.

  Remembering the source of the rite, Jessica blinked back tears, shook her head. I know the reasons for this, she thought. I shouldn’t let it stir me.

  “I dedicate this blade to the cause of my Duke and the death of his enemies for as long as our blood shall flow,” Paul said.

  Stilgar repeated it after him.

  “Kiss the blade,” Paul ordered.

  Stilgar obeyed, then, in the Fremen manner, kissed Paul’s knife arm. At a nod from Paul, he sheathed the blade, got to his feet.

  A sighing whisper of awe passed through the crowd, and Jessica heard the words: “The prophecy—A Bene Gesserit shall show the way and a Reverend Mother shall see it.” And, from farther away: “She shows us through her son!”

  “Stilgar leads this tribe,” Paul said. “Let no man mistake that. He commands with my voice. What he tells you, it is as though I told you.”

  Wise, Jessica thought. The tribal commander must lose no face among those who should obey him.

  Paul lowered his voice, said: “Stilgar, I want sandwalkers out this night and cielagos sent to summon a Council Gathering. When you’ve sent them, bring Chatt, Korba and Otheym and two other lieutenants of your own choosing. Bring them to my quarters for battle planning. We must have a victory to show the Council of Leaders when they arrive.”

  Paul nodded for his mother to accompany him, led the way down off the ledge and through the throng toward the central passage and the living chambers that had been prepared there. As Paul pressed through the crowd, hands reached out to touch him. Voices called out to him.

  “My knife goes where Stilgar commands it, Paul-Muad‘Dib! Let us fight soon, Paul-Muad’Dib! Let us wet our world with the blood of Harkonnens!”

  Feeling the emotions of the throng, Jessica sensed the fighting edge of these people. They could not be more ready. We are taking them at the crest, she thought.

  In the inner chamber, Paul motioned his mother to be seated, said: “Wait here.” And he ducked through the hangings to the side passage.

  It was quiet in the chamber after Paul had gone, so quiet behind the hangings that not even the faint soughing of the wind pumps that circulated air in the sietch penetrated to where she sat.

  He is going to bring Gurney Halleck here, she thought. And she wondered at the strange mingling of emotions that filled her. Gurney and his music had been a part of so many pleasant times on Caladan before the move to Arrakis. She felt that Caladan had happened to some other person. In the nearly three years since then, she had become another person. Having to confront Gurney forced a reassessment of the changes.

  Paul’s coffee service, the fluted alloy of silver and jasmium that he had inherited from Jamis, rested on a low table to her right. She stared at it, thinking of how many hands had touched that metal. Chani had served Paul from it within the month.

  What can his desert woman do for a Duke except serve him coffee? she asked herself. She brings him no power, no family. Paul has only one major chance—to ally himself with a powerful Great House, perhaps even with the Imperial family. There are marriagable princesses, after all, and every one of them Bene Gesserit-trained.

  Jessica imagined herself leaving the rigors of Arrakis for the life of power and security she could know as mother of a royal consort. She glanced at the thick hangings that obscured the rock of this cavern cell, thinking of how she had come here—riding amidst a host of worms, the palanquins and pack platforms piled high with necessities for the coming campaign.

  As long as Chani lives, Paul will not see his duty, Jessica thought. She has given him a son and that is enough.

  A sudden longing to see her grandson, the child whose likeness carried so much of the grandfather’s features—so like Leto, swept through her. Jessica placed her palms against her cheeks, began the ritual breathing that stilled emotion and clarified the mind, then bent forward from the waist in the devotional exercise that prepared the body for the mind’s demands.

  Paul’s choice of this Cave of Birds as his command post could not be questioned, she knew. It was ideal. And to the north lay Wind Pass opening onto a protected village in a cliff-walled sink. It was a key village, home of artisans and technicians, maintenance center for an entire Harkonnen defensive sector.

  A cough sounded outside the chamber hangings. Jessica straightened, took a deep breath, exhaled slowly.

  “Enter,” she said.

  Draperies were flung aside and Gurney Halleck bounded into the room. She had only time for a glimpse of his face with its odd grimace, then he was behind her, lifting her to her feet with one brawny arm beneath her chin.

  “Gurney, you fool, what are you doing?” she demanded.

  Then she felt the touch of the knife tip against her back. Chill awareness spread out from that knife tip. She knew in that instant that Gurney meant to kill her. Why? She could think of no reason, for he wasn’t the kind to turn traitor. But she felt certain of his intention. Knowing it, her mind churned. Here was no man to be overcome easily. Here was a killer wary of the Voice, wary of every combat stratagem, wary of every trick of death and violence. Here was an instrument she herself had h
elped train with subtle hints and suggestions.

  “You thought you had escaped, eh, witch?” Gurney snarled.

  Before she could turn the question over in her mind or try to answer, the curtains parted and Paul entered.

  “Here he is, Moth—” Paul broke off, taking in the tensions of the scene.

  “You will stand where you are, m’Lord,” Gurney said.

  “What ….” Paul shook his head.

  Jessica started to speak, felt the arm tighten against her throat.

  “You will speak only when I permit it, witch,” Gurney said. “I want only one thing from you for your son to hear it, and I am prepared to send this knife into your heart by reflex at the first sign of a counter against me. Your voice will remain in a monotone. Certain muscles you will not tense or move. You will act with the most extreme caution to gain yourself a few more seconds of life. And I assure you, these are all you have.”

  Paul took a step forward. “Gurney, man, what is—”

  “Stop right where you are!” Gurney snapped. “One more step and she’s dead.”

  Paul’s hand slipped to his knife hilt. He spoke in a deadly quiet: “You had best explain yourself, Gurney.”

  “I swore an oath to slay the betrayer of your father,” Gurney said. “Do you think I can forget the man who rescued me from a Harkonnen slave pit, gave me freedom, life, and honor … gave me friendship, a thing I prized above all else? I have his betrayer under my knife. No one can stop me from—”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong, Gurney,” Paul said.

  And Jessica thought: So that’s it! What irony!

  “Wrong, am I?” Gurney demanded. “Let us hear it from the woman herself. And let her remember that I have bribed and spied and cheated to confirm this charge. I’ve even pushed semuta on a Harkonnen guard captain to get part of the story.”

  Jessica felt the arm at her throat ease slightly, but before she could speak, Paul said: “The betrayer was Yueh. I tell you this once, Gurney. The evidence is complete, cannot be controverted. It was Yueh. I do not care how you came by your suspicion—for it can be nothing else—but if you harm my mother ….” Paul lifted his crysknife from its scabbard, held the blade in front of him. “… I’ll have your blood.”