The other elders stood behind the one-eyed Naib, firm in their decision. “Take two watermen with you,” Heinar said, “to collect the water of this Planetologist and use it for the good of our sietch.”
“Perhaps we should take a small amount and plant a bush in his honor,” said Aliid, but no one seconded the suggestion.
Out of the stone-walled chamber Uliet walked tall and proud, a warrior of the Fremen. He did not fear this Planetologist, though the outsider spoke fervently of his wild and preposterous plans, as if he were guided by a holy vision. A shudder went up the assassin’s spine.
Uliet narrowed his deep blue eyes and forced such thoughts from his mind as he strode down the shadowed passageways. Two watermen followed him, bearing empty literjons for collecting Kynes’s blood, and absorbent cloths to soak up every drop that might spill on the stone floor.
The Planetologist was not difficult to find. An entourage trailed him, their faces filled with either awe or skepticism tinged with wonder. Towering over the others, Kynes walked an aimless path, lecturing as he went, waving his arms. His flock scuttled after him at a wary distance, sometimes asking questions, but more often just listening.
“The human question is not how many can survive within the system,” Kynes was saying as Uliet approached, the crysknife plain in his hand, his mission clear on his face, “but what kind of existence is possible for those who do survive.”
Moving forward, unwavering, Uliet stepped through the fringes of the crowd. The Planetologist’s listeners saw the assassin and his knife. They stepped away and looked at each other knowingly, some with disappointment, some with fear. They fell silent. This was the way of the Fremen people.
Kynes didn’t notice at all. With one finger he made a circle in the air. “Open water is possible here, with a slight but viable change. We can do this if you help me. Think of it— walking in the open without a stillsuit.” He pointed at two of the children closest to him. They backed away shyly. “Just imagine: so much moisture in the air that you no longer need to wear stillsuits.”
“You mean we could even have water in a pond that we might dip out and drink anytime we wish?” one of the skeptical observers said, his voice sarcastic.
“Certainly. I’ve seen it on many worlds, and there’s no reason we can’t do it on Dune, too. With windtraps, you can grab the water from the air and use it to plant grasses, shrubs, anything that will lock the water in cells and root systems and keep it there. In fact, beside those open ponds one could even have orchards with sweet, juicy fruit for the picking.”
Uliet stepped forward in a trance of determination. The accompanying watermen behind him held back; they would not be needed until after the killing was finished.
“What kind of fruit?” a girl asked.
“Oh, any kind you like,” Kynes said. “We’d have to pay attention to soil conditions and moisture first. Grapes, perhaps, on the rocky slopes. I wonder what an Arrakeen vintage wine would taste like. . . . “ He smiled. “And round orange fruits, portyguls. Ah, I like those! My parents used to have a tree on Salusa Secundus. Portyguls have a hard leathery rind, but you peel it away. Inside, the fruit is in sections, sweet and juicy, and the brightest color of orange you could ever imagine.”
Uliet saw only a red haze. His assignment burned in his brain, obscuring all else from his vision. Naib Heinar’s orders echoed in his skull. He walked into the empty area where the people had drawn back to listen to the Planetologist’s rantings. Uliet tried not to hear the dreams, tried not to think of the visions Kynes summoned. Clearly this man was a demon, sent to warp the minds of his listeners. . . .
Uliet stared fixedly ahead, while Kynes continued to wander down the corridor, taking no notice. With broad gestures he described grasslands, canals, and forests. He painted pictures in their imaginations. The Planetologist licked his lips as if he could already taste the wine from Dune.
Uliet stepped in front of him and raised the poisoned crysknife.
In the middle of a sentence, Kynes suddenly noticed the stranger. As if annoyed at the distraction, he blinked once and simply said, “Remove yourself,” as he brushed past Uliet and continued to talk.
“Ah, forests! Green and lush as far as the eye can see, covering hills and swales and broad valleys. In ancient times, sand encroached on plants and destroyed them, but it will be the reverse on the new Dune: The wind will carry seeds across the planet, and more trees and other plants will grow, like children.”
The assassin stood still, astonished at being so casually dismissed. Remove yourself. The import of what he had been charged to do transfixed him. If he killed this man, Fremen legends would call Uliet the Destroyer of Dreams.
“First, though, we must install windtraps in the rocks,” Kynes continued, breathless. “They’re simple systems, easy to construct, and will grasp moisture, funneling it to where we can use it. Eventually, we’ll have vast underground catchbasins for all the water, a step toward bringing water back to the surface. Yes, I said back. Once water ran freely on Dune. I have seen signs of it.”
In dismay Uliet stared at the poisoned knife, unable to believe that this man had no fear of him whatsoever. Remove yourself. Kynes had faced his death and walked right past it. Guided by God.
Uliet stood there now, knife in hand, the unprotected shoulders of the Imperial servant taunting him. He could easily drive a killing blow into the man’s spine.
But the assassin could not move.
He saw the Planetologist’s confidence, as if he were protected by some holy guardian. The vision this great man brought for the future of Dune had already captivated these people. And the Fremen, with their harsh lives and generations of enemies who had forced them from planet to planet, needed a dream.
Perhaps someone had finally been sent to guide them, a prophet. Uliet’s soul would be damned forever if he dared to kill the long-awaited messenger sent by God!
But he had accepted a mission from his sietch leader, and knew that the crysknife could never be put away without shedding blood. In this case, the dilemma could not be resolved by a minor cut either, for the blade was poisoned; the merest scratch would kill.
Those facts could not be reconciled with each other. Uliet’s hands trembled on the hilt of the curved knife.
Without noticing that everyone had fallen silent around him, Kynes rambled on about windtrap placement, but his audience, knowing what must happen, watched their esteemed warrior.
Then Uliet’s mouth watered. He tried not to think of it, but— as if in a dream— he seemed to taste the sweet, sticky juice of portyguls, fresh fruit that one could simply pluck from a tree and eat . . . a mouthful of lush pulp washed down with pure water from an open pond. Water for everyone.
Uliet took a step back, and another, holding the knife up in a ceremonial gesture. He took a third step away, as Kynes spoke of wheat- and rye-covered plains and gentle rain showers in the spring.
The assassin turned, dizzy, thinking of the two words the messenger had said to him, “Remove yourself.”
He turned away and stared down at the knife he held in front of him. Then, Uliet swayed, stopped, then swayed forward again, deliberately— and fell on his knife. His knees did not bend, nor did he flinch or try to avoid his fate as he let himself fall facefirst onto the floor, onto the tip of the blade. The poisoned crysknife plunged below his sternum and up into his heart. Sprawled on the stone floor, his body trembled. Within moments Uliet was dead. There was very little blood.
The sietch audience cried out at the omen they had just witnessed and backed away. Now, as the Fremen gazed at Kynes with religious awe, his words finally stuttered to a halt. He turned and saw the sacrifice this Fremen had just made for him, the bloodletting.
“What’s going on here?” Kynes demanded. “Who was that man?”
The watermen rushed forward to remove Uliet’s body. With a rustle of robes, a shrouding of blankets and towels and cloths, they whisked away the fallen assassin, taking him to the
deathstills for processing.
The other Fremen now stared at Kynes with reverence. “Look! God has shown us what to do,” one woman exclaimed. “He has guided Uliet. He has spoken to Pardot Kynes.”
“Umma Kynes,” someone said. Prophet Kynes.
One man stood up and glared at the others gathered around. “We would be fools not to listen to him now.”
Runners departed and dashed through the sietch. Not understanding the Fremen religion, Kynes couldn’t grasp it all.
From that point on, however, he didn’t think he would have trouble getting anyone to listen to him.
No outsider has ever seen a Tleilaxu female and lived to tell about it. Considering the Tleilaxu penchant for genetic manipulation— see, e.g., related memos on clones and gholas— this simple observation raises a wealth of additional questions.
—Bene Gesserit Analysis
A breathless Ixian woman with full Courier credentials arrived on Kaitain, bearing an important communiqué for the Emperor. She marched into the Palace without pause, stopping to answer no questions. Even Cammar Pilru, the official Ambassador from Ix, had not yet heard the message or the dire news of the underground suboid revolt.
Since instantaneous foldspace communication did not exist between planets, certified and bonded Couriers booked passage on express Heighliners, bearing flash-memorized communications for personal delivery to the intended recipients. The net result was much faster than radio or other electronic signals that would take years to cross vast space.
Under the escort of two Guildsmen, Courier Yuta Brey arranged for an immediate appointment with the Emperor. The woman staunchly refused to reveal anything to her planet’s own Ambassador, who got wind of the excitement and rushed into the audience chamber. The magnificent Golden Lion Throne sat empty; Elrood was again feeling tired and ill.
“This is for the Emperor’s ears only, an urgent private request from Earl Dominic Vernius,” Brey said to Ambassador Pilru, turning hard eyes toward him. The Guild and CHOAM used various harsh techniques to indoctrinate official Couriers, ensuring accuracy and loyalty. “However, please remain at hand, Ambassador. I also bear vital news regarding the possible downfall of Ix. You must be apprised of the situation.”
Gasping, Ambassador Pilru beseeched the Courier for more information, but the woman remained silent. Leaving her Guild escorts and the Ixian diplomat behind in the audience chamber, Sardaukar elite guards examined her credentials and ushered her alone into an anteroom adjacent to Elrood’s bedchamber.
The Emperor, looking aged and drawn, wore a robe bearing the Imperial crest on its lapel. He sat slumped in a high-backed chair, with his feet on a heated ottoman. Beside him stood a tall, fussy-looking man with drooping mustaches, Chamberlain Aken Hesban.
It surprised Brey to see the old man seated in this rather ordinary fashion instead of on the massive throne. His blue-tinted eyes were filled with sickness, and he could hardly hold his head erect on its rail-thin, wattled neck. Elrood seemed ready to pass out at any moment.
With a curt bow she announced, “I am Courier Yuta Brey from Ix, Sire, with an important request from Lord Dominic Vernius.”
The Emperor scowled upon hearing his old rival’s name, but said nothing, waiting and ready to pounce. He coughed, hawking something onto a lacy handkerchief. “I am listening.”
“It is for the Emperor’s ears only,” she said, staring insolently at Hesban.
“Well?” Elrood said, with a terse smile. “I don’t hear so well anymore, and this distinguished gentleman is my ears. Or should I say, ‘are my ears’? Does one use the plural in a situation like this?”
The Chamberlain bent over to whisper something to him.
“I am informed that he is my ears,” Elrood said with a decisive nod.
“As you wish,” Brey said. She recited the memorized words, using even the intonations Dominic Vernius had used.
“We are under attack from the Bene Tleilax under a false guise of internal unrest. Through infiltration by Face Dancer mimics, the Tleilaxu have fomented an insurrection among our working class. By these treacherous means, the rebels have gained the advantage of surprise. Many of our defense installations have either been destroyed or are besieged. Like madmen, they scream ‘Jihad! Jihad!’ ”
“Holy war?” Hesban said. “Over what? What has Ix done now?”
“We have no idea, Monsieur Chamberlain. The Tleilaxu are known to be religious fanatics. Our suboids are bred to follow instructions, and thus are easily manipulated.” Yuta Brey hesitated, with a slight trembling of her lips. “Earl Dominic Vernius respectfully requests the immediate intervention of the Emperor’s Sardaukar against this illegal act.”
She recited extensive details on Ixian and Tleilaxu military positions, including the extent of the uprising, the manufacturing facilities crippled, and the citizens murdered. Prominent among the victims was the Ambassador’s own wife, a Guild banker, who had died in an explosion at the Guild Embassy Building.
“They’ve gone too far.” Indignant, Hesban appeared ready to issue the order himself for the defense of Ix. The request of House Vernius was eminently reasonable. Looking down at the Emperor, he said, “Sire, if the Tleilaxu wish to accuse Ix of violating any strictures of the Great Convention, let them do so in open Landsraad court.”
Although incense burned in the air, and spicy hors d’oeuvres sat arrayed on mother-of-pearl serving trays, Brey could still smell a sour odor of sickness hanging in the stuffy air of the anteroom. Elrood fidgeted under the weight of his heavy robe. He narrowed his rheumy eyes. “We will take your request under advisement, Courier. I feel as if I need to rest a bit now. Doctor’s orders, you know. We will discuss the matter tomorrow. Please take refreshment and select a chamber in our visiting dignitaries’ quarters. You may also wish to meet with the Ixian Ambassador.”
A look of alarm electrified the woman’s gaze. “This information is already several hours old, Sire. We are in a most desperate situation. I have been instructed to tell you that Earl Vernius believes any delay will be fatal.”
Hesban responded loudly, still confused as to why Elrood would not take immediate action. “One does not tell the Emperor anything, young lady. One makes requests of him, no more.”
“My deepest apologies, Sire. Please forgive my agitation, but today I have seen my world struck a deadly blow. What response may I give to Earl Vernius?”
“Be patient. I will get back to him in due time, after I have considered my reply.”
All color drained from Brey’s face. “May I ask when?”
“You may not!” Elrood thundered. “Your audience is concluded.” He glared back at her.
Taking charge, Chamberlain Hesban stepped forward, placing a hand on Brey’s shoulder and steering her toward the door as he looked curiously over his shoulder at the Emperor.
“As you wish, Sire.” Brey bowed, and the elite guards escorted her from the room.
• • •
Elrood had not failed to notice anger and despair in the Courier’s expression when she realized that her mission had failed. He had seen desperation and the beginnings of tears in her eyes. So tiresome, so predictable.
But everything had proceeded perfectly.
As soon as the Ixian Courier and the Court Chamberlain were gone, Crown Prince Shaddam and Fenring entered the anteroom and stood before Elrood. The old man knew they had been eavesdropping.
“Quite an education you two are getting, eh?” Elrood said. “Watch, and learn.”
“Ah, yes. You handled the situation masterfully, Father. Events are unfolding exactly as you predicted.” With a great deal of invisible help from me and Fenring.
The Emperor beamed, then fell into a bout of coughing. “My Sardaukar would have been more efficient than Tleilaxu, but I couldn’t risk showing my hand too early. A formal Ixian complaint to the Landsraad could spell trouble. We’ve got to get rid of House Vernius and put the Tleilaxu in place as our puppets, with legions of Sardaukar se
nt in afterward to crack down and ensure the takeover.”
“Hm-m-m-m-ah, perhaps it would be preferable to refer to it as ‘fostering a smooth and orderly transition.’ Avoid using the term ‘crack down.’ ”
Elrood smiled with his papery lips, exposing teeth in a way that made his head look even more like a skull. “See, Hasimir, you are learning to be a politician after all— despite your rather direct methods.”
Though all three of them knew the underlying reasons for the overthrow of Ix, none of them spoke of the benefits they would receive after Hidar Fen Ajidica had begun the artificial spice research there.
Chamberlain Hesban burst back into the room, uncharacteristically flustered. He bowed. “Sire, pardon me, please? As I was transferring the Courier back to her Guild escorts, she informed them that you had refused to act in accordance with Imperial regulations. She has already joined with Ambassador Pilru in requesting an immediate audience with the members of the Landsraad Council.”
“Hm-m-m-m, she’s going behind your back, Sire,” Fenring said.
“Absurd,” the old Emperor snapped, then searched for his everpresent mug of spice beer. “What does a messenger know of Imperial regulations?”
“Though they have not qualified for full Mentat training, Licensed Couriers have perfect memories, Sire,” Fenring pointed out, bending close to the Emperor in the position Chamberlain Hesban usually assumed.
“She can’t process the concepts, but she may well have every regulation and codicil readily accessible in her brain. She rattled off a number of them in my presence.”
“Ah, yes. But how can she contest the Emperor’s decision, when he hasn’t even made up his mind yet?” Shaddam asked.
Hesban tugged on one of his drooping mustaches, increasing the frown that he directed at the Crown Prince, but he refrained from scolding Shaddam for his ignorance of Imperial law. “By mutual agreement between the Federated Council of the Landsraad and House Corrino, the Emperor is required either to render immediate assistance, or convene an emergency Security Council meeting to deal with the matter. If your father does not act within the hour, the Ixian Ambassador is within his rights to convene the Council himself.”
Dune: House Atreides Page 27