“Interesting that the Guild never requests less spice,” Chani said.
Alia added, “My brother has already been generous with you. We all must make sacrifices in support of the greater good.”
“He has commandeered many of our Heighliners and Navigators for his war effort,” interjected Ertun. “The Guild needs those ships to conduct business throughout the worlds of the Imperium. CHOAM has already reported drastically reduced profits.”
“We are in the midst of a war,” Irulan pointed out, even though the little girl could well have said it herself. “What is your business worth if you have no spice to fuel the prescience of your Navigators?”
“We do not wish to displease Muad’Dib.” Loyxo brushed orange hair out of one of his eyes. “We merely state our needs.”
“Pray, then, that his Jihad is swiftly completed,” Alia said.
“Tell us how we might please the Emperor,” Ertun said.
Alia pondered the question as if receiving a telepathic message from her brother. “The divine Muad’Dib will increase the Guild’s spice allotment by three percent per annum if you contribute another two hundred ships to his Jihad.”
“Two hundred Heighliners!” Crozeed said. “So many?”
“The sooner my brother consolidates his rule, the sooner you can have your precious monopoly back.”
“How do we know he will not be defeated?” Loyxo asked.
Alia glared at him. “Ask your Navigators to look into their prescience to see if Muad’Dib rules the future.”
“They have looked,” Ertun said, “but there is too much chaos around him.”
“Then help him reduce the chaos. Help him put everything in order, and he will be eternally grateful. Muad’Dib’s generosity — like his rage against his enemies — knows no bounds. Do you wish to be in the same category as the foolish houses who dare oppose us?”
“We are not the Emperor’s enemies,” Ertun insisted. “The Spacing Guild’s constant neutrality is our safety net.”
“There is no safety for you in such a position,” Alia said. The words were terse, weighted. “Understand this, and understand it well. All those who do not openly support Muad’Dib may be considered his enemies.” The girl made a gesture of dismissal. “This audience is concluded. Others have waited long to speak with me. The Spacing Guild shall have its increased spice only after the ships are delivered.”
After the three dissatisfied representatives marched awkwardly out of the chamber, an aged bald man with a high forehead entered, accompanied by a female attendant. The man’s steps were halting, and he used his sonic staff as a walking stick instead of an instrument of state.
Surprised, Irulan caught her breath. Though she had not seen him in years, she recognized her father’s Court Chamberlain, Beely Ridondo. At one time Ridondo had been a person of considerable influence, managing Landsraad and palace schedules for the Padishah Emperor. Ridondo had gone into exile on Salusa Secundus with Shaddam IV, but now he had come here.
Maybe she should give Ridondo an inscribed copy of her book… or would that only enrage her father?
As the chamberlain neared the throne, clicking his ornate cane on the blood-red marble floor, Irulan noticed that the years had not been kind to him. His white-and-gold suit was dusty and slightly wrinkled on the sleeves; at one time he would never have gone to an Imperial function looking anything other than immaculate. Leaving his attendant behind, the man stopped in front of the throne. After a long and awkward silence, Ridondo spoke, “I am waiting to be announced.”
“You may announce yourself.” Alia’s voice was high-pitched. “As Shaddam’s chamberlain, you have sufficient experience.”
Irulan could see his indignation. “I bring an important message from his Excellency Shaddam Corrino, and I demand to be treated with respect.”
Taking a half step forward, Korba put a hand to the crysknife at his waist, acting the good Fedaykin again, but at a gesture from Alia he relaxed.
The girl looked bored. “I shall announce you. Comes now Beely Ridondo, personal chamberlain to the exiled Emperor.” She gazed at him with Fremen-blue eyes out of an oval face that was just beginning to lose its baby fat.
Ridondo turned to Irulan, as if hoping for a better reception from her. “Your father will be pleased to know you are well, Princess. Is that still your proper title?”
“Princess will do.” Empress Irulan would have been more fitting, but she did not expect that. “Please state your business.”
Gathering himself to his full height, Ridondo stood free of the sonic staff. “I speak the words of the Padishah Emperor, and he —”
Chani cut him off. “The former Padishah Emperor.”
Alia said, “Very well, what does Shaddam have to say?”
Pausing only a moment to recover, he said, “With respect, my… Lady… when Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib exiled the Padishah Emperor to Salusa Secundus, he promised that the world would be improved. Shaddam IV inquires when such measures will begin. We live in squalor, at the mercy of a harsh environment.”
Irulan knew that the very severity of Salusa’s landscape had been a fine catalyst for toughening the pool of men from which her father drew his Sardaukar. By softening that training ground through terraforming, Paul meant to soften the former Emperor’s potential soldiers as well. Apparently Shaddam did not see the virtues of such extreme hardships now that he, his remaining family, his retainers, and a small police force of Sardaukar had been exiled there.
“We’ve been preoccupied with our Jihad,” Alia said. “Shaddam will need to be patient. A bit of discomfort will not harm him.”
The chamberlain did not back away. “The Emperor promised us! Here are Muad’Dib’s exact words, spoken when he sentenced Shaddam Corrino to exile: ‘I will ease the harshness of the place with all the powers at my disposal. It shall become a garden world, full of gentle things.’ He does not appear to be using all the powers at his disposal. Does Paul-Muad’Dib break his word?”
Just then Korba leaped forward, sliding his crysknife from its sheath. Irulan shouted, trying to stop him, but the Fremen leader did not listen to her. Neither Alia nor Chani spoke a word as Korba slit the chamberlain’s throat before the old man could raise his sonic staff to defend himself.
The crowd blocked the female aide from escaping, and Korba stalked forward, clearly intending to dispatch her as well, but Alia stopped him. “Enough, Korba.” Alia stood from the throne and gazed down at the chamberlain’s fallen body. A widening pool of blood spilled out onto the impermeable polished stones, where it could be collected and reclaimed.
The Fedaykin commander lifted his chin. “Forgive me, Lady Alia. My enthusiasm to defend the honor of Muad’Dib knows no bounds.” He uttered a quick prayer, and some members of the audience echoed his words.
Irulan stared in horror at the dead chamberlain, then slowly turned to glare at Alia and Chani. “He came here as an ambassador, bearing a message from the former Emperor. He had diplomatic immunity and should not have been harmed!”
“This is not the old Imperium, Irulan,” Alia said, then raised her voice. “Send the aide safely back to Salusa Secundus. She can tell Shaddam and his family that Emperor Muad’Dib will send terraforming experts and machinery as soon as they become available.”
The crowd chanted, “Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib!”
With a feral gaze, obviously in a mood for more killing, Korba glanced at Irulan, but only for a moment before wiping his knife and resheathing it. Unafraid, but sickened by the bloodshed, the Princess stared at him defiantly. Given her Bene Gesserit training, he would not have had such an easy time dispatching her.
Servants hurried forward to whisk away Ridondo’s body and mop up the blood. Alia sat back on her throne. “Now, who wishes to be announced next?”
No one stepped forward.
6
I leave my footprints in history, even where I do not tread.
— The Sayings of Muad’Dib by the PRINCESS IRULAN
The shuttle from the Heighliner set down on Kaitain. From the viewing lounge of the craft, Paul watched the hordes of victorious Fedaykin commandos presenting themselves on the landing field. He could hear the din even over the engines. In a perverse dichotomy, the screaming crowds and cheering soldiers at the spaceport only reinforced the feeling that he was alone.
On Caladan he had briefly hoped to feel like one of the common people again — as his father had always insisted a Duke should be — only to be reminded that he was irrevocably different. As it must be. He was no longer simply Paul Atreides. He was Muad’Dib, a role he had assumed so easily and perfectly that he was not always entirely certain which was the mask and which was his real personality.
Wearing an implacable expression, he took a deep breath and flung his long faux-stillsuit cape behind his shoulder. He moved with Imperial grace down the ramp to stand before the cheering mob. The Fedaykin closed ranks around him to form an extravagant escort. A conquering hero.
The resounding wave of shouts and cheers nearly pushed him backward. He understood how tyrants could allow themselves to feel infallible, buoyed by a swell of overconfidence. He was acutely aware that with a word, he could command all of these fighters to slaughter every man, woman, and child on Kaitain. That troubled him.
In his childhood studies, he had seen countless images of the glorious capital, but now he noticed a dark stain of smoke across the sky. The towering white buildings had been gutted by fire, majestic monuments toppled, government halls and lavish private residences ransacked. From ancient history, Paul was reminded of barbarians sacking Rome, ending one of humanity’s first titanic empires and bringing about the start of centuries of Dark Ages. His detractors were saying that about his own regime, but he was doing only what was necessary.
Stilgar presented himself to his commander in a stained and battle-scuffed uniform. Marks that must have been dried blood showed prominently on his sleeves and chest. A wound on the naib’s left arm had been bound and dressed with a colorful, expensive scarf that might have been torn from a rich noble, but Stilgar used it as a gaudy rag. “Kaitain has fallen, Usul. Your Jihad is an unstoppable storm.”
Paul gazed out across the war-torn former capital. “Who can stop a storm from the desert?”
Even before launching his Jihad, Paul had known there would be far too many battlefields for a single commander to oversee. How he wished Duncan were still alive to participate in a succession of precise military strikes with Stilgar, Gurney Halleck, and even several flinty-eyed Sardaukar commanders, who had shifted their loyalty to the man who had conquered them. In the wake of their astonishing defeat on the plain of Arrakeen, Shaddam’s elite soldiers had been shaken to the core, and many had transferred their loyalty to the only military commander who had ever bested them. Though Sardaukar fervor did not spring from religious passion, it was fanaticism nevertheless. And useful. Wisely, though, Paul had not asked any of the Sardaukar to participate in the sacking of Kaitain.
“When will Irulan arrive?” Paul asked Stilgar. “Did she receive my summons?”
“The Guild informs me that another Heighliner is bringing her within the day.” His voice carried an unmistakable note of distaste. “Although why you want her I cannot imagine. Chani is bound to be incensed.”
“I do not want Irulan, Stil, but she is necessary, especially here. You’ll see.”
Stilgar was joined by Orlop and Kaleff, the sons of Jamis. “Let us show you, Usul!” said Orlop, who had always been the more talkative brother. “This planet is full of miracles and treasure. Have you ever seen the like?”
Paul didn’t want to dampen the boys’ enthusiasm by telling them he had seen so many things, both wondrous and horrible, that his eyes were weary. “All right, show me what has gotten you so excited.”
In the center of the once-magnificent city, Fremen warriors had torn down Landsraad banners and smashed the stained-glass crests of noble houses. As conquerors, the soldiers had chased the terrified citizens, taking some prisoner, killing others. It had been a wild blood orgy, and though violent, was reminiscent of the spice orgy a Sayyadina would host when Fremen felt the need to celebrate in their sietches. Looking around, Paul knew that trying to control these victory celebrations would only make matters worse in the long run. It was a price he had to accept, and the worst was already over….
He had his own advisers, though he longed for the wise counsel of Duke Leto, Thufir Hawat, or Duncan Idaho… all long dead. He was sure Duke Leto would have disapproved of what had happened here. Nevertheless, Paul had learned to make his own decisions. I have created a universe in which the old rules do not apply. A new paradigm. I am sorry, Father.
Paul saw the damage done to the Landsraad Hall, the museums, and the off-planet embassies. The old domed rock garden erected by House Thorvald as a wedding gift to Emperor Shaddam had been blown up, and now lay in a pile of wreckage. Paul couldn’t conceive what his fighters had been trying to accomplish. It was destruction for its own sake.
In the public square seven garroted men with cords still tied around their purple throats had been strung upside down to dangle like macabre trophies in an arbor. Judging by their fine clothes, they were noble leaders who had not surrendered with sufficient promptness. Paul felt a dark twinge of anger; such lynchings would make his job of forging alliances, or at least a peace, with the Landsraad even more difficult.
A group of yelling, laughing Fremen came running out of the Landsraad Hall, carrying long pennants. He recognized the varied colors of House Ecaz, House Richese, and House Tonkin. The Fremen didn’t know any of the historically great families, nor did they care. As far as they were concerned, the Landsraad itself had teetered, fallen, and splintered into disarray.
“Not even Shaddam would want this place back now,” Paul muttered to himself.
Fremen carried makeshift baskets and satchels full of booty. In the melee, they’d discarded priceless historical artifacts. Four muscular warriors had thrown themselves into a wide, shallow fountain adorned with statuary and dancing jets of water. They drank water until they were sick and splashed in the pool as if they had finally found paradise.
Kaleff came running up, his face sticky with juice. Cradled in his arm, he held half a dozen perfectly round portyguls, an orange fruit with a hard rind and sweet flesh. “Usul, we found an orchard out in the open — trees just standing there, lush and green and full of fruit… fruit for the taking! Here, would you like one?” He extended the oranges.
Paul accepted one, bit through its bitter rind, and squeezed the crisp citrus juice into his throat. He supposed these were Emperor Shaddam’s portyguls, and that made the fruit taste even sweeter.
***
WHEN THE SECOND Heighliner arrived, bringing an icily reticent Irulan, Paul asked for her to be brought to him at the steps of the old Imperial Palace. He had guessed she would be very shaken to come here and see this. But he needed her.
Shaddam’s daughter wore a gown of rich blue in a style that had once been the height of Imperial fashion. Her golden hair was done up in ringlets that draped down her long neck. She had performed her duties with considerable grace after her father’s defeat; she was not hungry for power herself, but she was intelligent enough to see and acknowledge the new realities.
At first, Irulan seemed to think that her Bene Gesserit seduction techniques would let her slip easily into Paul’s bed and produce an heir binding the Corrino and Atreides bloodlines — almost certainly at the orders of the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood. But thus far in his reign he had been immune to her tricks. Chani possessed all of his heart and all of his love.
Thwarted in her primary goal, Irulan followed instead the basic tenet of the Sisterhood: adapt or die. Thus she had worked to find a new function for herself in the government, and quickly achieved her own fame by publishing The Life of Muad’Dib, Volume 1. It was rapidly written, swiftly published and distributed, and wildly popular. Most of Paul’s Fremen warriors carried w
ell-read copies of her book.
Here, at the downfall of Kaitain, however, the Princess could play a more traditional role.
Crowds followed him everywhere, expecting him to issue some profound announcement at any moment. They had already gathered in front of the Palace.
Perfectly regal and requiring no escort, Irulan came up the polished steps from the plaza level to where Paul stood at the first landing. Stilgar remained at the base of the waterfall of stairs, looking up toward the royal pair. With all the Imperial pride she could manage, Irulan took her place at Paul’s side, dutifully slipping her arm through his. “You summoned me, my Husband?” She seemed exceedingly wary, angry at the destruction she saw around her.
“I needed you here. This is likely to be the last time you will see Kaitain.”
“This is no longer my Kaitain.” She looked around the Palace, clearly unable to reconcile what she saw with what she remembered. “This is a raped and pillaged corpse of what was once the grandest of cities. It will never be the same.”
Paul could not deny her statement. “Wherever Muad’Dib goes, nothing is the same again. Didn’t you write that in your book?”
“I wrote the story you told me. As I interpreted it, of course.”
He gestured toward the crowd. “And here is more of the tale.”
As a special honor, Paul had already given instructions to Kaleff and Orlop, and at his signal they trotted up the stairs, streaming the long banners of his fighting forces: green-and-white, green-and-black. Paul stared out at the sea of faces as the shouts rose to a deafening tumult, then diminished to an anticipatory silence.
“This is Kaitain, and I am the Emperor.” He clasped Irulan’s hand, and she stared stonily ahead. They both knew the reason she had to be there. “But I am much more than the successor to the Padishah Emperor, Shaddam Corrino IV. I am Muad’Dib, and I am unlike any force the galaxy has ever seen.”
Behind them, fire began to catch hold inside the Imperial Palace. Pursuant to his orders, loyal fighters had set blazes at dozens of flashpoints inside the great structure. He had seen this in his visions, and had fought against it, but he had also seen the obligation, the powerful tool of the symbolism here. These fires, at least, would burn out quickly.
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