Jessica stepped through, Idaho behind her. She turned, spoke to al-Fali in the doorway. “You are to go to Stilgar. He’s to be trusted.”
“Yes …” But she still heard doubts in the old man’s voice.
Idaho touched her arm. “We should go at once. Is there anything you wish to take?”
“Only my common sense,” she said.
“Why? Do you fear you’re making a mistake?”
She glanced up at him. “You were always the best ’thopter pilot in our service, Duncan.”
This did not amuse him. He stepped ahead of her, moving swiftly, retracing the way he’d come. Al-Fali fell into step beside Jessica. “How did you know he came by ’thopter?”
“He wears no stillsuit,” Jessica said.
Al-Fali appeared abashed by this obvious perception. He would not be silenced, though. “Our messenger brought him here directly from Stilgar’s. They could’ve been seen.”
“Were you seen, Duncan?” Jessica asked Idaho’s back.
“You know better than that,” he said. “We flew lower than the dune tops.”
They turned into a side passage which led downward in spiral steps, debouching finally into an open chamber well-lighted by glowglobes high in the brown rock. A single ornithopter sat facing the far wall, crouched there like an insect waiting to spring. The wall would be false rock, then—a door opening onto the desert. As poor as this sietch was, it still maintained the instruments of secrecy and mobility.
Idaho opened the omithoper’s door for her, helped her into the right-hand seat. As she moved past him, she saw perspiration on his forehead where a lock of the black goat-hair lay tumbled. Unbidden, Jessica found herself recalling that head spouting blood in a noisy cavern. The steely marbles of the Tleilaxu eyes brought her out of that recollection. Nothing was as it seemed anymore. She busied herself fastening her seatbelt.
“It’s been a long time since you’ve flown me, Duncan,” she said.
“Long and far time,” he said. He was already checking the controls.
Al-Fali and the two younger Fremen waited beside the controls to the false rock, prepared to open it.
“Do you think I harbor doubts about you?” Jessica asked, speaking softly to Idaho.
Idaho kept his attention on an engine instrument, ignited the impellers and watched a needle move. A smile touched his mouth, a quick and harsh gesture in his sharp features, gone as quickly as it had come.
“I am still Atreides,” Jessica said. “Alia is not.”
“Have no fear,” he grated. “I still serve the Atreides.”
“Alia is no longer Atreides,” Jessica repeated.
“You needn’t remind me!” he snarled. “Now shut up and let me fly this thing.”
The desperation in his voice was quite unexpected, out of keeping with the Idaho she’d known. Putting down a renewed sense of fear, Jessica asked: “Where are we going, Duncan? You can tell me now.”
But he nodded to al-Fali and the false rock opened outward into bright silvery sunlight. The ornithopter leaped outward and up, its wings throbbing with the effort, the jets roaring, and they mounted into an empty sky. Idaho set a southwesterly course toward Sahaya Ridge which could be seen as a dark line upon the sand.
Presently he said: “Do not think harshly of me, My Lady.”
“I haven’t thought harshly of you since that night you came into our Arrakeen great hall roaring drunk on spice-beer,” she said. But his words renewed her doubts, and she fell into the relaxed preparedness of complete prana-bindu defense.
“I remember that night well,” he said. “I was very young … inexperienced. ”
“But the best swordmaster in my Duke’s retinue.”
“Not quite, My Lady. Gurney could best me six times out of ten.” He glanced at her. “Where is Gurney?”
“Doing my bidding.”
He shook his head.
“Do you know where we’re going?” she asked.
“Yes, My Lady.”
“Then tell me.”
“Very well. I promised that I would create a believable plot against House Atreides. Only one way, really, to do that.” He pressed a button on the control wheel and cocoon restraints whipped from Jessica’s seat, enfolded her in unbreakable softness, leaving only her head exposed. “I’m taking you to Salusa Secundus,” he said. “To Farad’n.”
In a rare, uncontrolled spasm, Jessica surged against the restraints, felt them tighten, easing only when she relaxed, but not before she felt the deadly shigawire concealed in the protective sheathing.
“The shigawire release has been disconnected,” he said, not looking at her. “Oh yes, and don’t try Voice on me. I’ve come a long way since the days when you could move me that way.” He looked at her. “The Tleilaxu armored me against such wiles.”
“You’re obeying Alia,” Jessica said, “and she—”
“Not Alia,” he said. “We do The Preacher’s bidding. He wants you to teach Farad’n as once you taught … Paul.”
Jessica remained in frozen silence, remembering Leto’s words, that she would find an interesting student. Presently she said: “This Preacher—is he my son?”
Idaho’s voice seemed to come from a great distance: “I wish I knew.”
***
The universe is just there; that’s the only way a Fedaykin can view it and remain the master of his senses. The universe neither threatens nor promises. It holds things beyond our sway: the fall of a meteor, the eruption of a spiceblow, growing old and dying. These are the realities of this universe and they must be faced regardless of how you feel about them. You cannot fend off such realities with words. They will come at you in their own wordless way and then, then you will understand what is meant by “life and death.” Understanding this, you will be filled with joy.
—MUAD’DIB TO HIS FEDAYKIN
“And those are the things we have set in motion,” Wensicia said. “These things were done for you.”
Farad’n remained motionless, seated across from his mother in her morning room. The sun’s golden light came from behind him, casting his shadow on the white-carpeted floor. Light reflected from the wall behind his mother drew a nimbus around her hair. She wore her usual white robe trimmed in gold—reminders of royal days. Her heart-shaped face appeared composed, but he knew she was watching his every reaction. His stomach felt empty, although he’d just come from breakfast.
“You don’t approve?” Wensicia asked.
“What is there to disapprove?” he asked.
“Well … that we kept this from you until now?”
“Oh, that.” He studied his mother, tried to reflect upon his complex position in this matter. He could only think on a thing he had noticed recently, that Tyekanik no longer called her “My Princess.” What did he call her? Queen Mother?
Why do I feel a sense of loss? he wondered. What am I losing? The answer was obvious: he was losing his carefree days, time for those pursuits of the mind which so attracted him. If this plot unfolded by his mother came off, those things would be gone forever. New responsibilities would demand his attention. He found that he resented this deeply. How dared they take such liberties with his time? And without even consulting him!
“Out with it,” his mother said. “Something’s wrong.”
“What if this plan fails?” he asked, saying the first thing that came into his mind.
“How can it fail?”
“I don’t know… . Any plan can fail. How’re you using Idaho in all of this?”
“Idaho? What’s this interest in … Oh, yes—that mystic fellow Tyek brought here without consulting me. That was wrong of him. The mystic spoke of Idaho, didn’t he?”
It was a clumsy lie on her part, and Farad’n found himself staring at his mother in wonderment. She’d known about The Preacher all along!
“It’s just that I’ve never seen a ghola,” he said.
She accepted this, said: “We’re saving Idaho for something important.”<
br />
Farad’n chewed silently at his upper lip.
Wensicia found herself reminded of his dead father. Dalak had been like that at times, very inward and complex, difficult to read. Dalak, she reminded herself, had been related to Count Hasimir Fenring, and there’d been something of the dandy and the fanatic in both of them. Would Farad’n follow in that path? She began to regret having Tyek lead the lad into the Arrakeen religion. Who knew where that might take him?
“What does Tyek call you now?” Farad’n asked.
“What’s that?” She was startled by this shift.
“I’ve noticed that he doesn’t call you ‘My Princess’ anymore.”
How observant he is, she thought, wondering why this filled her with disquiet. Does he think I’ve taken Tyek as a lover? Nonsense, it wouldn’t matter one way or the other. Then why this question?
“He calls me ‘My Lady,’ ” she said.
“Why?”
“Because that’s the custom in all of the Great Houses.”
Including the Atreides, he thought.
“It’s less suggestive if overheard,” she explained. “Some will think we’ve given up our legitimate aspirations.”
“Who would be that stupid?” he asked.
She pursed her lips, decided to let it pass. A small thing, but great campaigns were made up of many small things.
“The Lady Jessica shouldn’t have left Caladan,” he said.
She shook her head sharply. What was this? His mind was darting around like a crazy thing! She said: “What do you mean?”
“She shouldn’t have gone back to Arrakis,” he said. “That’s bad strategy. Makes one wonder. Would’ve been better to have her grandchildren visit her on Caladan.”
He’s right, she thought, dismayed that this had never occurred to her. Tyek would have to explore this immediately. Again she shook her head. No! What was Farad’n doing? He must know that the Priesthood would never risk both twins in space.
She said this.
“Is it the Priesthood or the Lady Alia?” he asked, noting that her thoughts had gone where he had wanted. He found exhilaration in his new importance, the mind-games available in political plotting. It had been a long time since his mother’s mind had interested him. She was too easily maneuvered.
“You think Alia wants power for herself?” Wensicia asked.
He looked away from her. Of course Alia wanted the power for herself! All of the reports from that accursed planet agreed on this. His thoughts took off on a new course.
“I’ve been reading about their Planetologist,” he said. “There has to be a clue to the sandworms and the haploids in there somewhere, if only …”
“Leave that to others now!” she said, beginning to lose patience with him. “Is this all you have to say about the things we’ve done for you?”
“You didn’t do them for me,” he said.
“Wha-a-at?”
“You did it for House Corrino,” he said, “and you’re House Corrino right now. I’ve not been invested.”
“You have responsibilities!” she said. “What about all of the people who depend upon you?”
As if her words put the burden upon him, he felt the weight of all those hopes and dreams which followed House Corrino.
“Yes,” he said, “I understand about them, but I find some of the things done in my name distasteful.”
“Dis … How can you say such a thing? We do what any Great House would do in promoting its own fortunes!”
“Do you? I think you’ve been a bit gross. No! Don’t interrupt me. If I’m to be an Emperor, then you’d better learn how to listen to me. Do you think I cannot read between the lines? How were those tigers trained?”
She remained speechless at this cutting demonstration of his perceptive abilities.
“I see,” he said. “Well, I’ll keep Tyek because I know you led him into this. He’s a good officer under most circumstances, but he’ll fight for his own principles only in a friendly arena.”
“His … principles?”
“The difference between a good officer and a poor one is strength of character and about five heartbeats,” he said. “He has to stick by his principles wherever they’re challenged.”
“The tigers were necessary,” she said.
“I’ll believe that if they succeed,” he said. “But I will not condone what had to be done in training them. Don’t protest. It’s obvious. They were conditioned. You said it yourself.”
“What’re you going to do?” she asked.
“I’m going to wait and see,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll become Emperor.”
She put a hand to her breast, sighed. For a few moments there he’d terrified her. She’d almost believed he would denounce her. Principles! But he was committed now; she could see that.
Farad’n got up, went to the door and rang for his mother’s attendants. He looked back: “We are through, aren’t we?”
“Yes.” She raised a hand as he started to leave. “Where’re you going?”
“To the library. I’ve become fascinated lately by Corrino history.” He left her then, sensing how he carried his new commitment with him.
Damn her!
But he knew he was committed. And he recognized that there was a deep emotional difference between history as recorded on shigawire and read at leisure, a deep difference between that kind of history and the history which one lived. This new living history which he felt gathering around him possessed a sense of plunging into an irreversible future. Farad’n could feel himself driven now by the desires of all those whose fortunes rode with him. He found it strange that he could not pin down his own desires in this.
***
It is said of Muad’Dib that once when he saw a weed trying to grow between two rocks, he moved one of the rocks. Later, when the weed was seen to be flourishing, he covered it with the remaining rock. “That was its fate,” he explained.
—THE COMMENTARIES
“Now!” Ghanima shouted.
Leto, two steps ahead of her in reaching the narrow cut in the rocks, did not hesitate. He dove into the slit, crawled forward until darkness enfolded him. He heard Ghanima drop behind him, a sudden stillness, and her voice, not hurrying or fearful:
“I’m stuck.”
He stood up, knowing this would bring his head within reach of questing claws, reversed himself in the narrow passage, crept back until he felt Ghanima’s outstretched hand.
“It’s my robe,” she said. “It’s caught.”
He heard rocks falling directly below them, pulled on her hand but felt only a small gain.
There was panting below them, a growl.
Leto tensed himself, wedging his hips against the rock, heaved on Ghanima’s arm. Cloth ripped and he felt her jerk toward him. She hissed and he knew she felt pain, but he pulled once more, harder. She came farther into the hole, then all the way, dropping beside him. They were too close to the end of the cut, though. He turned, dropped to all fours, scrambled deeper. Ghanima pulled herself along behind him. There was a panting intensity to her movements which told him she’d been hurt. He came to the end of the opening, rolled over and peered upward out the narrow gap of their sanctuary. The opening was about two meters above him, filled with stars. Something large obscured the stars.
A rumbling growl filled the air around the twins. It was deep, menacing, an ancient sound: hunter speaking to its prey.
“How badly are you hurt?” Leto asked, keeping his voice even.
She matched him, tone for tone: “One of them clawed me. Breached my stillsuit along the left leg. I’m bleeding.”
“How bad?”
“Vein. I can stop it.”
“Use pressure,” he said. “Don’t move. I’ll take care of our friends.”
“Careful,” she said. “They’re bigger than I expected.”
Leto unsheathed his crysknife, reached up with it. He knew the tiger would be questing downward, claws raking the narrow passage where its
body could not go.
Slowly, slowly, he extended the knife. Abruptly something struck the top of the blade. He felt the blow all along his arm, almost lost his grip on the knife. Blood gushed along his hand, spattered his face, and there came an immediate scream which deafened him. The stars became visible. Something threshed and flung itself down the rocks toward the sand in a violent caterwauling.
Once more, the stars were obscured and he heard the hunter’s growl. The second tiger had moved into place, unmindful of its companion’s fate.
“They’re persistent,” Leto said.
“You got one for sure,” Ghanima said. “Listen!”
The screams and thrashing convulsions below them were growing fainter. The second tiger remained, though, a curtain against the stars.
Leto sheathed his blade, touched Ghanima’s arm. “Give me your knife. I want a fresh tip to make sure of this one.”
“Do you think they’ll have a third one in reserve?” She asked.
“Not likely. Laza tigers hunt in pairs.”
“Just as we do,” she said.
“As we do,” he agreed. He felt the handle of her crysknife slip into his palm, gripped it tightly. Once more he began that careful upward questing. The blade encountered only empty air, even when he reached into a level dangerous to his body. He withdrew, pondering this.
“Can’t you find it?”
“It’s not behaving the way the other one did.”
“It’s still there. Smell it?”
He swallowed in a dry throat. A fetid breath, moist with the musky smell of the cat, assaulted his nostrils. The stars were still blocked from view. Nothing could be heard of the first cat; the crysknife’s poison had completed its work.
“I think I’m going to have to stand up,” he said.
“No!”
“It has to be teased into reach of the knife.”
“Yes, but we agreed that if one of us could avoid being wounded …”
“And you’re wounded, so you’re the one going back,” he said.
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