As he made love to her, Fenring fantasized, but not about other women. He remembered the feel of warm blood on his fingers, the careful selection of proper tools of his trade. If he had enough safe time after performing his wet work, he rather enjoyed gazing upon the rich burgundy color of his victim’s life essence, the way it gushed from the body and pooled and sparkled in the smallest light, as if trying to recapture life, but then stopped and coagulated and hardened. Even Shaddam did not know how many people Fenring had killed.
The first of his murders had occurred at a much younger age than the Corrino patriarch realized, when Fenring was only four. Four! He was proud of this accomplishment, because it meant that even at a young age he was able to identify enemies. The teenage yard boy he’d stabbed had deserved it anyway, because the older boy had tried to molest him. Even as a child, Fenring had seen through the tricky words and promises and had plunged a pocket knife deep into the aggressor’s abdomen. His willpower always made up for any mismatch in physical strength between himself and his opponent. Young Hasimir had inflicted a hundred wounds on his victim’s body before getting his fill. Because the teenager had been furtive about his abnormal sexual activities, no one had ever suspected the four-year-old.
He sighed now, feeling the thrill of remembrance. Margot held him, adjusting her own movements to his, expertly controlling her own body so that they climaxed simultaneously and thunderously.
“You make it impossible for me to even think of other things, my dear,” Fenring lied.
She smiled. “My way of repaying you for being so understanding about the breeding obligations the Sisterhood placed upon me.” She stroked his cheek, scratching at the stubble there. “And you’ve been so loving.”
“I understood the need for seducing Feyd-Rautha. It was not a particularly onerous task, I presume?”
“Oh, he was cocksure, but he was just a boy who liked women telling him how good he was in bed, instead of showing him how to be good in bed. Besides, he is dead now. And we have little Marie from it.”
“Yes, hmmm, we have her — and the Sisterhood doesn’t.”
“Neither do the Tleilaxu,” Margot added with conditioned annoyance. “And now they claim to have their own Kwisatz Haderach. We must learn their plans.”
Fenring knew he needed a way to pry that knowledge from Dr. Ereboam. “Perhaps with their plans and your knowledge of the Sisterhood — and Marie — we can make this new Kwisatz Haderach truly successful, not a fiend like Muad’Dib or a dead end like myself.”
“I want to see the Kwisatz Haderach,” piped up a small voice, startling Fenring. He sprang from the bed, ready to attack. Little Marie sat calmly on a makeshift seat just inside the door. She had an innocent, yet amused look on her small face.
“How long have you been there?” Fenring demanded.
“I was watching. I was learning. You are both very interesting.”
Fenring had never been particularly prudish, and Lady Margot certainly wasn’t, but the idea of their daughter simply observing during their lovemaking both disoriented and embarrassed him. In a very real sense, it was much worse than the inquisitive eyes of the Tleilaxu.
“You must learn to respect the boundaries of privacy,” her mother said.
“That is not what you’ve taught me. You trained me to be invisible, so that I could spy. Did I not do a good job?”
Lady Margot didn’t quite know what to say. At last, Fenring chuckled. For countless centuries, children had been wandering in upon their parents having sex, but it should be accidental. Not a planned thing.
“Yes, you have learned well, Marie,” he said wryly. “You have certainly taught us to be more careful.”
11
The architecture of our lives creates the landscape of history. Some of us build great and enduring fortresses, while others merely erect facades.
—THE PRINCESS IRULAN, The Manual of Muad’Dib
Ostentatious. That word came to mind, along with grandiose, extravagant, and awe-inspiring — they were all appropriate. But in the final analysis, Whitmore Bludd’s intention was to create something that literally defied words, a palatial fortress so incredible that historians would spend centuries debating how best to describe what he had accomplished here at the heart of Muad’Dib’s empire.
Even in an enclosed inspection craft that flew slowly above the construction site, Bludd needed an hour just to circumnavigate the boundaries of the stupendous main structure and its complex of buildings and gardens.
Yes, stupendous.
The citadel zone extended to the north of Arrakeen, across the suburbs to the rugged, irregular cliffs that formed a natural boundary to the north. But the project did not stop there. Bludd’s master plan took advantage of the city itself, incorporating existing temples and blocky old imperial structures throughout the various districts. When the project was complete, Muad’Dib’s palace would consume the dusty city, like a great worm swallowing a spice harvester.
However, as far as Bludd was concerned, the work would never be “complete,” because he could always think of something else to add: a new museum wing, a higher turret, a more imposing tower, an integral sculpture of polished blue metal whose plates looked like rippling water whenever the wind stroked it. Bludd did not intend ever to retire quietly to the countryside. No, this was the pinnacle of his life and achievements, something for which he would always be remembered.
As his craft hummed along the boundary of the site, the Sword-master-turned-architect stared out the curved windows. Thankfully, Korba remained silent for a change. Paul Atreides’s Fremen leader styled himself as a prominent priest as well as an important administrator, and too often he contributed capricious ideas to the citadel design. Bludd didn’t like the interference, yet he had no choice but to listen to Korba’s suggestions. Politics!
As the two men watched, gigantic suspensor cranes lifted huge girders into place, which were then overlaid with blocks of stone that had been lascut from the Shield Wall. The labor force summoned by Muad’Dib, and the sheer quantity of imported offworld materials, were beyond anything Bludd had ever imagined.
“The amount of taxes the Emperor will have to raise for this project is beyond my ability to calculate,” he muttered. No one had ever questioned a single item in the budget.
Korba just shrugged. “If Muad’Dib wishes it, then his people will pay. If they do not reach into their own pockets, the Qizarate will do it for them.”
“It was just a comment in passing,” Bludd replied. The other man had no sense of humor whatsoever.
The work teams were competing with one another for speediness of construction, with monetary rewards for their accomplishments and severe penalties for deficiencies. Anyone who showed signs of laziness or produced shoddy workmanship was publicly flogged; for the most egregious cases involving fraud or theft, the individuals were beheaded in the central plaza — an activity at which Korba excelled. To Bludd, these sorts of punishments seemed particularly unlike the original Paul Atreides, but Fremen traditions were much more severe. Paul seemed to be losing some of his humanity in the process… or at least discovering a different, darker side of it.
Bludd had intentionally styled a section of the citadel along the lines of the old Swordmaster school on faraway Ginaz. The loathsome and dishonorable Grummans had brought down the famous school as part of their feud with House Ecaz, and then expanded their vendetta to encompass House Atreides. Poor fat Rivvy Dinari, slain on the wedding day of Duke Leto and Ilesa Ecaz. Heroic Dinari. If only his fellow Swordmaster could see Bludd now!
Korba said blithely, “After analyzing your blueprints, I realigned several turrets so that they fall upon numerically significant positions. I have already given new orders to the construction crews.”
“You can’t just move one piece of it — everything fits as part of the overall architectural pattern.”
“Everything fits according to the designs of Muad’Dib. The modifications are required for religious
reasons. You do not understand the necessities of orthodoxy, Bludd.”
“And you don’t know a thing about architecture.” Bludd knew that Korba would not change his mind, and he was wise enough not to call the man out in a duel. Though he was sure he could defeat Korba, he did not underestimate the influence and power of the Fedaykin leader.
As the inspection craft circled a helical tower whose framework seemed to defy gravity, Korba brooded down at the tiny workers. “Do not question my decisions, Bludd. I fought beside Muad’Dib in the desert and stood with him in sietch. I was one of his students of the Weirding Way. We spilled blood side by side, killed Harkonnens together. I was among the first to call him Usul, and I watched him slay Feyd-Rautha.”
Bludd couldn’t believe this desert fighter would try to engage in a game of one-upmanship with him. In response, he said, “I knew Paul Atreides when he was just a stripling, and I saved his life when your mother was still scraping the stink out of your swaddling clothes. Read your history, Korba — Imperial history. Rivvy Dinari got most of the credit, but I was there with him at the wedding massacre. I know the truth, and so does Paul.”
“Imperial history,” Korba sneered. “Paul Atreides. I speak of Muad’Dib, not the son of a Landsraad nobleman. His life before he came to Sietch Tabr and took the name of Usul has little relevance now.”
“You cannot know a man by half his life,” Bludd said, annoyed. “Isn’t that why Princess Irulan wrote his biography, which you all carry around like a holy textbook? If his earlier life was irrelevant, he would not have placed me in such an important position.” There, Bludd thought.
As Korba fell silent, the Swordmaster adjusted the temperature control inside the sealed vehicle. He wore formal clothing, not a dusty jumpsuit or worker’s garb. Whenever he was in public, Bludd liked to present himself with proper dress and manners. These desert ruffians could learn a great deal about style from him. Korba, on the other hand, seemed unwilling to peel off his stillsuit even for routine hygienic purposes, and here in the enclosed craft, the stench of him was like that of an unwashed beast. Bludd contemplated borrowing a set of stillsuit nose plugs just to filter the air.
He thought about his long-dead friend Dinari, sorry for his untimely death but not sorry for the memory. Although the obese Swordmaster had been killed in the War of Assassins, he had also been rewarded with great glory for what he had done. And if not for a fraction of a second of hesitation, Bludd would also be remembered as a hero during the wedding massacre, rather than an inept failure. Ilesa had died, and he should have protected her. No matter what other exploits he accomplished in subsequent years, history would never forget that he had missed his singular chance to make a legend of himself.
Instead, he would be relegated to a footnote in an entry about the early life of Muad’Dib. Irulan was writing that part of Paul’s life now, and Bludd wasn’t certain she would treat him kindly in her supposedly objective account. She’d been polite to him, so maybe he could convince her to insert a good word or two….
He straightened inside the cockpit of the inspection craft. Well, despite his earlier shame, this magnificent fortress-palace would overshadow everything else. The citadel would be his crowning achievement, his true legacy for history. It would surpass even the accomplishments of his revered ancestor Porce Bludd, who had selflessly sacrificed his fortune to save populations during the Butlerian Jihad.
“Make your suggestions for design alterations if you must, but I still have to approve them,” Bludd said. “This is my project, my design, and my citadel.”
“You forget yourself.” Korba’s voice carried a clear warning. “No matter what you say, no matter how you delude yourself, this will always be the Citadel of Muad’Dib. The Qizarate has named it so. It belongs to him, and to God. You are a mere facilitator, as are we all. Who will remember your part?”
The words stung. Previously, Bludd’s feelings toward the other man had been constrained to annoyance; now he was genuinely angry at him. “I still know what I accomplished. That is all that really matters.”
“If no one knows your name or your accomplishments, then your life is no more memorable than sand blown on the wind.” Korba chuckled, but Bludd didn’t think it was at all funny.
“And you, Korba, try to make your own mark by creating a religion around Muad’Dib? It’s all about power you can earn from the life and legend of the Emperor, isn’t it? It’s all about elevating yourself.”
Placing a hand over the crysknife at his waist, the Fremen growled, “Be careful what you say, man, or —”
“If you pull that blade, prepare to die,” Bludd said. He pointed a long sleeve at him, which revealed bristling needle points below the wrist, ready to launch.
With a hard smile, the Fremen relaxed his hand, and looked away, out the window. “It seems we each have a stake in Muad’Dib,” he said.
12
Your point is valid, that many of my “allies” are using the holy war as an excuse to attack rival families and resolve or inflame old feuds. You say this extravagant bloodshed has nothing to do with my rule or my decisions, but I take full responsibility nonetheless. I am accountable for each and every death.
—from Conversations with Muad’Dib by THE PRINCESS IRULAN
After he returned from Sietch Tabr, Paul announced he would receive visitors in the extravagant Celestial Audience Chamber, which was still not entirely completed.
Over the past few years, the temporary throne room in Shaddam’s former hutment had lost its luster for him, so Paul decided to hold audiences in the new space instead, despite the fact that Bludd was still not satisfied with all the finishing touches — moldings, fine filigree, stonework, intricate sculptures, elaborately painted ceilings and walls. The Swordmaster insisted on finishing some of the perfectionistic interior work himself, permitting no one to help him.
Countless alcoves were only partially filled with statuary, usually renditions of Paul or of his Atreides ancestors. Fremen tapestries above the throne depicted colorful scenes from battles of the Jihad. Bludd had announced that some of these scenes would be replicated as ceiling frescoes, encircling the base of the high dome, when it was complete.
The previous day, Paul had walked the scaffolds that were in place high above the throne, where the finest artists in the realm continued to work feverishly on their commissions. Even as he held court now, they were up there painting, voices and movements hushed reverently in the presence of Muad’Dib.
He had been shaken by the blind and suicidal devotion that those workers from Omwara had demonstrated, facing a sandstorm to show their faith. For generations, House Atreides had inspired tremendous loyalty as embodied in Gurney Halleck, Duncan Idaho, Thufir Hawat, and many others. But that loyalty had been supportive, not reckless. What had those workers accomplished by dying out there on the dunes? How had their sacrifices served Muad’Dib?
Although the ever-growing religion around him was an engine that drove the necessary force of his Jihad, it might easily slip beyond his control. Religions could be extraordinarily effective, but they could also be irresponsible… and he was at the heart of both possibilities. The people saw only him, and not the corona of consequences around his every action.
Now, dressed in a flowing brown-and-gold robe instead of the comfortable, dusty stillsuit he had worn in Sietch Tabr, Paul took his seat on the large temporary throne placed there during the construction. Eventually, he would bring in the oversized Hagal quartz seat, the legendary Lion Throne from the Corrino dynasty. For the time being, even though the throne would serve as a reminder of what he had taken from his enemies, Paul preferred not to inspire thoughts of Shaddam IV. He looked around the huge chamber as the audience took standing positions according to their rank and connections.
Wearing a loose green gown adorned with a gold-braided collar, Chani entered through a side door, followed by three Fremen women in pale gray robes designed to conceal weapons. Six-year-old Alia entered briskly in her bl
ack robe and came to a stop beside Paul’s throne, as if she were herself a bodyguard.
Given the violence Thorvald’s rebels often inspired, and the ridiculously low price on the heads of Muad’Dib and his family, Paul had assigned powerful female guards to follow and protect Chani, Alia, and even Irulan. His mother was also due to arrive soon for a brief visit, and he would grant her the same protection. He intended to take no chances.
He thought again of the group of fanatic workers standing on the dune top, facing the deadly winds to show their devotion, proving… what? And those men were his supporters.
Hearing a commotion of shouts near the massive entrance doors, Paul saw his Fremen guards scuffling with green-robed prisoners, captive priests from a splinter sect. The guards soon gained control of the situation, though they were forced to use stun goads. Paul watched without commenting on the rough treatment. Knowing what these priests had done, he found it difficult to restrain himself from ordering their immediate execution. That would come in time, he was sure. Some things were unforgivable.
Korba marched toward the throne along a rusty-red spice-fiber carpet that had been laid down only that morning. He had chosen to wear a clean white robe emblazoned with scarlet symbols, pointedly more extravagant than the green robes of the prisoners that the guards nudged along behind him. He no longer looked like a Fedaykin.
The five prisoners had cuts and bruises, and sunken red eyes that looked more dead than alive. Only one of the priests, tall and patrician, appeared defiant. With undisguised contempt, the guards flung the priests to the hard floor. All but one of them had the good sense to remain prostrate; a guard knocked the most rebellious one back down, using a boot kick.
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