Bene-Gesserit trained indeed, Paul thought.
The Emperor cleared his throat, said: "Perhaps my respected kinsman believes he has things all his own way now. Nothing could be more remote from fact. You have violated the Convention, used atomics against--"
"I used atomics against a natural feature of the desert," Paul said. "It was in my way and I was in a hurry to get to you, Majesty, to ask your explanation for some of your strange activities."
"There's a massed armada of the Great Houses in space over Arrakis right now," the Emperor said. "I've but to say the word and they'll--"
"Oh, yes," Paul said, "I almost forgot about them." He searched through the Emperor's suite until he saw the faces of the two Guildsmen, spoke aside to Gurney. "Are those the Guild agents, Gurney, the two fat ones dressed in gray over there?"
"Yes, m'Lord."
"You two," Paul said, pointing. "Get out of there immediately and dispatch messages that will get that fleet on its way home. After this, you'll ask my permission before--"
"The Guild doesn't take your orders!" the taller of the two barked. He and his companion pushed through to the barrier lances, which were raised at a nod from Paul. The two men stepped out and the taller leveled an arm at Paul, said: "You may very well be under embargo for your--"
"If I hear any more nonsense from either of you," Paul said, "I'll give the order that'll destroy all spice production on Arrakis ... forever."
"Are you mad?" the tall Guildsman demanded. He fell back half a step.
"You grant that I have the power to do this thing, then?" Paul asked.
The Guildsman seemed to stare into space for a moment, then: "Yes, you could do it, but you must not."
"Ah-h-h," Paul said and nodded to himself. "Guild navigators, both of you, eh?"
"Yes!"
The shorter of the pair said: "You would blind yourself, too, and condemn us all to slow death. Have you any idea what it means to be deprived of the spice liquor once you're addicted?"
"The eye that looks ahead to the safe course is closed forever," Paul said. "The Guild is crippled. Humans become little isolated clusters on their isolated planets. You know, I might do this thing out of pure spite... or out of ennui."
"Let us talk this over privately," the taller Guildsman said. "I'm sure we can come to some compromise that is--"
"Send the message to your people over Arrakis," Paul said. "I grow tired of this argument. If that fleet over us doesn't leave soon there'll be no need for us to talk." He nodded toward his communications men at the side of the hall. "You may use our equipment."
"First we must discuss this," the tall Guildsman said. "We cannot just--"
"Do it!" Paul barked. "The power to destroy a thing is the absolute control over it. You've agreed I have that power. We are not here to discuss or to negotiate or to compromise. You will obey my orders or suffer the immediate consequences!"
"He means it," the shorter Guildsman said. And Paul saw the fear grip them.
Slowly the two crossed to the Fremen communications equipment.
"Will they obey?" Gurney asked.
"They have a narrow vision of time," Paul said. "They can see ahead to a blank wall marking the consequences of disobedience. Every Guild navigator on every ship over us can look ahead to that same wall. They'll obey."
Paul turned back to look at the Emperor, said: "When they permitted you to mount your father's throne, it was only on the assurance that you'd keep the spice flowing. You've failed them, Majesty. Do you know the consequences?"
"Nobody permitted me to--"
"Stop playing the fool," Paul barked. "The Guild is like a village beside a river. They need the water, but can only dip out what they require. They cannot dam the river and control it, because that focuses attention on what they take, it brings down eventual destruction. The spice flow, that's their river, and I have built a dam. But my dam is such that you cannot destroy it without destroying the river."
The Emperor brushed a hand through his red hair, glanced at the backs of the two Guildsmen.
"Even your Bene Gesserit Truthsayer is trembling," Paul said. "There are other poisons the Reverend Mothers can use for their tricks, but once they've used the spice liquor, the others no longer work."
The old woman pulled her shapeless black robes around her, pressed forward out of the crowd to stand at the barrier lances.
"Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam," Paul said. "It has been a long time since Caladan, hasn't it?"
She looked past him at his mother, said: "Well, Jessica, I see that your son is indeed the one. For that you can be forgiven even the abomination of your daughter."
Paul stilled a cold, piercing anger, said: "You've never had the right or cause to forgive my mother anything!"
The old woman locked eyes with him.
"Try your tricks on me, old witch," Paul said. "Where's your gom jabbar? Try looking into that place where you dare not look! You'll find me there staring out at you!"
The old woman dropped her gaze.
"Have you nothing to say?" Paul demanded.
"I welcomed you to the ranks of humans," she muttered. "Don't besmirch that."
Paul raised his voice: "Observe her, comrades! This is a Bene Gesserit Reverend Mother, patient in a patient cause. She could wait with her sisters--ninety generations for the proper combination of genes and environment to produce the one person their schemes required. Observe her! She knows now that the ninety generations have produced that person. Here I stand... but... I ... will ... never... do ... her... bidding!"
"Jessica!" the old woman screamed. "Silence him!"
"Silence him yourself," Jessica said.
Paul glared at the old woman. "For your part in all this I could gladly have you strangled," he said. "You couldn't prevent it!" he snapped as she stiffened in rage. "But I think it better punishment that you live out your years never able to touch me or bend me to a single thing your scheming desires."
"Jessica, what have you done?" the old woman demanded.
"I'll give you only one thing," Paul said. "You saw part of what the race needs, but how poorly you saw it. You think to control human breeding and intermix a select few according to your master plan! How little you understand of what--"
"You mustn't speak of these things!" the old woman hissed.
"Silence!" Paul roared. The word seemed to take substance as it twisted through the air between them under Paul's control.
The old woman reeled back into the arms of those behind her, face blank with shock at the power with which he had seized her psyche. "Jessica," she whispered. "Jessica."
"I remember your gom jabbar," Paul said. "You remember mine. I can kill you with a word."
The Fremen around the hall glanced knowingly at each other. Did the legend not say: "Andhis word shall carry death eternal to those who stand against righteousness. "
Paul turned his attention to the tall Princess Royal standing beside her Emperor father. Keeping his eyes focused on her, he said: "Majesty, we both know the way out of our difficulty."
The Emperor glanced at his daughter, back to Paul. "You dare? You! An adventurer without family, a nobody from--"
"You've already admitted who I am," Paul said. "Royal kinsman, you said. Let's stop this nonsense."
"I am your ruler," the Emperor said.
Paul glanced at the Guildsmen standing now at the communications equipment and facing him. One of them nodded.
"I could force it," Paul said.
"You will not dare!" the Emperor grated.
Paul merely stared at him.
The Princess Royal put a hand on her father's arm. "Father," she said, and her voice was silky soft, soothing.
"Don't try your tricks on me," the Emperor said. He looked at her. "You don't need to do this, Daughter. We've other resources that--"
"But here's a man fit to be your son," she said.
The old Reverend Mother, her composure regained, forced her way to the Emperor's side
, leaned close to his ear and whispered.
"She pleads your case," Jessica said.
Paul continued to look at the golden-haired Princess. Aside to his mother, he said: "That's Irulan, the oldest, isn't it?"
"Yes."
Chani moved up on Paul's other side, said: "Do you wish me to leave, Muad'Dib?"
He glanced at her. "Leave? You'll never again leave my side."
"There's nothing binding between us," Chani said.
Paul looked down at her for a silent moment, then: "Speak only truth with me, my Sihaya." As she started to reply, he silenced her with a finger to her lips. "That which binds us cannot be loosed," he said. "Now, watch these matters closely for I wish to see this room later through your wisdom."
The Emperor and his Truthsayer were carrying on a heated, low-voiced argument.
Paul spoke to his mother: "She reminds him that it's part of their agreement to place a Bene Gesserit on the throne, and Irulan is the one they've groomed for it."
"Was that their plan?" Jessica said.
"Isn't it obvious?" Paul asked.
"I see the signs!" Jessica snapped. "My question was meant to remind you that you should not try to teach me those matters in which I instructed you."
Paul glanced at her, caught a cold smile on her lips.
Gurney Halleck leaned between them, said: "I remind you, m'Lord, that there's a Harkonnen in that bunch." He nodded toward the dark-haired Feyd-Rautha pressed against a barrier lance on the left. "The one with the squinting eyes there on the left. As evil a face as I ever say. You promised me once that--"
"Thank you, Gurney," Paul said.
"It's the na-Baron ... Baron now that the old man's dead," Gurney said. "He'll do for what I've in--"
"Can you take him, Gurney?"
"M'Lord jests!"
"That argument between the Emperor and his witch has gone on long enough, don't you think, Mother?"
She nodded. "Indeed."
Paul raised his voice, called out to the Emperor: "Majesty, is there a Harkonnen among you?"
Royal disdain revealed itself in the way the Emperor turned to look at Paul. "I believe my entourage has been placed under the protection of your ducal word," he said.
"My question was for information only," Paul said. "I wish to know if a Harkonnen is officially a part of your entourage or if a Harkonnen is merely hiding behind a technicality out of cowardice."
The Emperor's smile was calculating. "Anyone accepted into the Imperial company is a member of my entourage."
"You have the word of a Duke," Paul said, "but Muad'Dib is another matter. He may not recognize your definition of what constitutes an entourage. My friend Gurney Halleck wishes to kill a Harkonnen. If he--"
"Kanly!" Feyd-Rautha shouted. He pressed against the barrier lance. "Your father named this vendetta, Atreides. You call me coward while you hide among your women and offer to send a lackey against me!"
The old Truthsayer whispered something fiercely into the Emperor's ear, but he pushed her aside, said: "Kanly, is it? There are strict rules for kanly."
"Paul, put a stop to this," Jessica said.
"M'Lord," Gurney said, "You promised me my day against the Harkonnens."
"You've had your day against them," Paul said and he felt a harlequin abandon take over his emotions. He slipped his robe and hood from his shoulders, handed them to his mother with his belt and crysknife, began unstrapping his stillsuit. He sensed now that the universe focused on this moment.
"There's no need for this," Jessica said. "There are easier ways, Paul."
Paul stepped out of his stillsuit, slipped the crysknife from its sheath in his mother's hand. "I know," he said. "Poison, an assassin, all the old familiar ways."
"You promised me a Harkonnen!" Gurney hissed, and Paul marked the rage in the man's face, the way the inkvine scar stood out dark and ridged. "You owe it to me, m'Lord!"
"Have you suffered more from them than I?" Paul asked.
"My sister," Gurney rasped. "My years in the slave pits--"
"My father," Paul said. "My good friends and companions, Thufir Hawat and Duncan Idaho, my years as a fugitive without rank or succor ... and one more thing: it is now kanly and you know as well as I the rules that must prevail."
Halleck's shoulders sagged. "M'Lord, if that swine... he's no more than a beast you'd spurn with your foot and discard the shoe because it'd been contaminated. Call in an executioner, if you must, or let me do it, but don't offer yourself to--"
"Muad'Dib need not do this thing," Chani said.
He glanced at her, saw the fear for him in her eyes. "But the Duke Paul must," he said.
"This is a Harkonnen animal!" Gurney rasped.
Paul hesitated on the point of revealing his own Harkonnen ancestry, stopped at a sharp look from his mother, said merely: "But this being has human shape, Gurney, and deserves human doubt."
Gurney said: "If he so much as--"
"Please stand aside," Paul said. He hefted the crysknife, pushed Gurney gently aside.
"Gurney!" Jessica said. She touched Gurney's arm. "He's like his grandfather in this mood. Don't distract him. It's the only thing you can do for him now." And she thought: Great Mother! What irony.
The Emperor was studying Feyd-Rautha, seeing the heavy shoulders, the thick muscles. He turned to look at Paul--a stringy whipcord of a youth, not as desiccated as the Arrakeen natives, but with ribs there to count, and sunken in the flanks so that the ripple and gather of muscles could be followed under the skin.
Jessica leaned close to Paul, pitched her voice for his ears alone: "One thing, Son. Sometimes a dangerous person is prepared by the Bene Gesserit, a word implanted into the deepest recesses by the old pleasure-pain methods. The word-sound most frequently used is Uroshnor. If this one's been prepared, as I strongly suspect, that word uttered in his ear will render his muscles flaccid and--"
"I want no special advantage for this one," Paul said. "Step back out of my way."
Gurney spoke to her: "Why is he doing this? Does he think to get himself killed and achieve martyrdom? This Fremen religious prattle, is that what clouds his reason?"
Jessica hid her face in her hands, realizing that she did not know fully why Paul took this course. She could feel death in the room and knew that the changed Paul was capable of such a thing as Gurney suggested. Every talent within her focused on the need to protect her son, but there was nothing she could do.
"Is it this religious prattle?" Gurney insisted.
"Be silent," Jessica whispered. "And pray."
The Emperor's face was touched by an abrupt smile. "If Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen ... of my entourage... so wishes," he said, "I relieve him of all restraint and give him freedom to choose his own course in this." The Emperor waved a hand toward Paul's Fedaykin guards. "One of your rabble has my belt and short blade. If Feyd-Rautha wishes it, he may meet you with my blade in his hand."
"I wish it," Feyd-Rautha said, and Paul saw the elation on the man's face.
He's overconfident, Paul thought. There's a natural advantage I can accept.
"Get the Emperor's blade," Paul said, and watched as his command was obeyed. "Put it on the floor there." He indicated a place with his foot. "Clear the Imperial rabble back against the wall and let the Harkonnen stand clear."
A flurry of robes, scraping of feet, low-voiced commands and protests accompanied obedience to Paul's command. The Guildsmen remained standing near the communications equipment. They frowned at Paul in obvious indecision.
They're accustomed to seeing the future, Paul thought. In this place and time they're blind ... even as I am. And he sampled the time-winds, sensing the turmoil, the storm nexus that now focused on this moment place. Even the faint gaps were closed now. Here was the unborn jihad, he knew. Here was the race consciousness that he had known once as his own terrible purpose. Here was reason enough for a Kwisatz Haderach or a Lisan al-Gaib or even the halting schemes of the Bene Gesserit. The race of humans had felt it
s own dormancy, sensed itself grown stale and knew now only the need to experience turmoil in which the genes would mingle and the strong new mixtures survive. All humans were alive as an unconscious single organism in this moment, experiencing a kind of sexual heat that could override any barrier.
And Paul saw how futile were any efforts of his to change any smallest bit of this. He had thought to oppose the jihad within himself, but the jihad would be. His legions would rage out from Arrakis even without him. They needed only the legend he already had become. He had shown them the way, given them mastery even over the Guild which must have the spice to exist.
A sense of failure pervaded him, and he saw through it that Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen had slipped out of the torn uniform, stripped down to a fighting girdle with a mail core.
This is the climax, Paul thought. From here, the future will open, the clouds part onto a kind of glory. And if I die here, they'll say I sacrificed myself that my spirit might lead them. And if I live, they'll say nothing can oppose Muad'Dib.
"Is the Atreides ready?" Feyd-Rautha called, using the words of the ancient kanly ritual.
Paul chose to answer him in the Fremen way: "May thy knife chip and shatter!" He pointed to the Emperor's blade on the floor, indicating that Feyd-Rautha should advance and take it.
Keeping his attention on Paul, Feyd-Rautha picked up the knife, balancing it a moment in his hand to get the feel of it. Excitement kindled in him. This was a fight he had dreamed about--man against man, skill against skill with no shields intervening. He could see a way to power opening before him because the Emperor surely would reward whoever killed this troublesome duke. The reward might even be that haughty daughter and a share of the throne. And this yokel duke, this back-world adventurer could not possibly be a match for a Harkonnen trained in every device and every treachery by a thousand arena combats. And the yokel had no way of knowing he faced more weapons than a knife here.
Let us see if you're proof against poison! Feyd-Rautha thought. He saluted Paul with the Emperor's blade, said: "Meet your death, fool."
"Shall we fight, cousin?" Paul asked. And he cat-footed forward, eyes on the waiting blade, his body crouched low with his own milk-white crysknife pointing out as though an extension of his arm.
They circled each other, bare feet grating on the floor, watching with eyes intent for the slightest opening.
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