Jessica carried a second tiny cup of water to one of the struggling portyguls. The six hard, green fruits dangling from its branches would turn orange like a setting sun as they ripened. “Chani was my friend. She was the mother of my grandchildren, and she was my son’s true love.” It had been hard for her at first, but Jessica had indeed accepted Paul’s Fremen woman, had told him that she loved Chani herself. She drew a breath now. “Even when all of humanity shouted his name, she made Paul remember that he was human.”
Stilgar motioned for Harah to be next. His wife, normally so outspoken, sounded nervous as she spoke. Jessica could see the emotions barely held in check by her set face. “Chani was my friend, a Fremen woman and a Fremen warrior. She was—” Harah’s voice cracked. “As Usul was the base of the pillar, she was his base, his support.”
The hundred guests came forward in a special type of communion, doling out sips of Chani’s essence in a hushed and reverential ceremony. They took small measures of Chani’s water for the plantings, while the remainder would be poured into the communal reservoir.
“It is said that Muad’Dib will never be found, but all men will find him,” Stilgar announced as the final audience member emptied his demi-cup. “Chani’s water will never be found, yet all Fremen in the tribes will find her.”
Jessica added, “She did not wish to be deified. Chani, daughter of Liet, will be sacred to us in her own way. She needs nothing more, nor do we.”
None of the Fremen here comprehended the vastness of Muad’Dib’s empire or the underlying tangles of his Jihad, but they knew Chani, and understood what this ceremony meant for her identity as a Fremen.
When the somber gathering was over, Jessica whispered, “We did a good thing today, Stilgar.”
“Yes, and now we can go back to Arrakeen and continue as before, but I feel rejuvenated. I must confess to you, Sayyadina Jessica, that I have long experienced a desire to withdraw from the government, to make myself remote from the wider and more unpleasant realities I’ve seen . . . just as Muad’Dib withdrew from his place in history by walking off into the desert.”
“Sometimes it is a brave gesture to withdraw.” Jessica remembered how she had turned her back during the heat of the Jihad, how she would soon return to Caladan to govern the people there. “And sometimes it is braver to stay.”
He began fitting his stillsuit, twisted a noseplug into place, and brushed dust from his cloak. “I will continue to advise Regent Alia, and will watch over the children of Muad’Dib. In those duties, I shall always hold true to my Fremen self. Come, we must return to Arrakeen, before your daughter notices that we are gone.”
My loyalty has always been to House Atreides, yet the needs of the various Atreides are often contradictory—Alia, Jessica, Paul, Duke Leto, even the newborn twins. That is where loyalty and honor become complicated and depend upon good judgment.
—GURNEY HALLECK
Though Bronso of Ix had been a wanted man for seven years already, Alia launched an even more vigorous hunt to find him and stop his never-ending character-assassination campaign against Paul Atreides. She felt his diatribes as personal affronts, and she wanted him captured before her wedding.
She placed Duncan Idaho in charge, with Gurney Halleck to offer any possible help—just like old times.
The ghola met with Gurney in a private room in a large and mostly empty wing of the Citadel. “Remember when we both went chasing after Rabban at the end of the military debacle on Grumman?” Gurney asked, taking a seat. “We ran him down, cornered him above a hydroelectric dam.”
Duncan looked at him without amusement. “I see you’re still testing me—it was at a waterfall in a steep canyon, not a dam. That was when I first blooded my own sword.” He narrowed his artificial eyes. “Bronso is a far more devious man than Beast Rabban, and much more elusive. You should concentrate on hunting him, not on testing my memories.”
Gurney made a low grunt. “You may have all your memories, my friend, but you don’t seem to have your old sense of humor.”
Duncan leaned forward, elbows on his knees in a surprisingly casual gesture. “We’ve got a job to do, and Bronso will not make it easy. Over the years, he’s attempted to eliminate all images of himself from public records, and he’s been so successful that he must have had help from influential sources—the Spacing Guild, perhaps, or the Bene Gesserit.
“Paul made powerful enemies. Therefore, Bronso has allies out in the Imperium, people who agree with his assessment of Muad’Dib’s governmental excesses—disenfranchised members of the Landsraad, certainly the Guild and the Sisterhood, along with loyalists of the fallen Corrino Emperor.”
Gurney frowned, scratched his chin. “But Bronso has also mortally offended many. I can’t believe someone hasn’t turned him in by now.”
“The first time he was arrested, it did no good,” Duncan said.
“Aye, but he wouldn’t have gotten away if you or I had been in charge of security.”
Three years earlier, during the final battles of the Jihad, Bronso Vernius had been thrown into a death cell and interrogated by ruthless Qizara inquisitors. According to the sketchy records Gurney could uncover about the embarrassing incident, the priests had kept Bronso there in secret, not even informing Muad’Dib . . . yet Bronso had escaped, and continued his seditious crusade.
Given the incredible security inside Muad’Dib’s citadel, it did not seem possible that the renegade could have broken free without help—one rumor even suggested that Paul himself had a hand in it, although Gurney couldn’t imagine why he would have done that. The Qizarate had tried to cover up the debacle, but word slipped out anyway, and the legend of Bronso of Ix grew. . . .
Now, after the Ixian’s outrageous actions during Paul’s funeral, Alia offered vast rewards of spice, and blessings in the name of Muad’Dib, for Bronso’s arrest. But he was as mysterious and impossible to find as the outlaw Muad’Dib had been during his desert years. Having studied Paul so thoroughly—if only to criticize him—Bronso might be using similar techniques to elude capture.
“He couldn’t have eliminated all images of himself,” Gurney said. “Bronso was the heir to House Vernius. There must be Landsraad records?”
“They were either lost in the Jihad and the sacking of Kaitain, or intentionally deleted by cooperative Landsraad representatives. Paul made few friends there, and under Alia their power is slipping even further.” Duncan fashioned a smile. “However, we’ve obtained images from the Ixian Confederation, who have no great love for him. They’re still trying to buy themselves back into Alia’s good graces. And I have a perfect memory of Bronso from when he was younger, when he was with Paul.”
“He was just a boy then. This is a lot different from the last time you and I went hunting for him.”
“But we will find him—as we did before.” Duncan drew out a crystalpad projector, called up an entry. “I followed the distribution of his new tracts. They seem to appear at random, all over the place, on world after world, involving people who have no obvious connection to each other, no political similarities, no apparent grudges against Paul. I believe Bronso has a Heighliner distribution network, using the Guild, possibly even without their knowledge.”
Gurney scowled. “On our journey here, Jessica and I saw one of his manifestos left out in a public drinking establishment. At least some of the Wayku are involved. Bronso may have thousands of converts helping him, slipping publications to random travelers who inadvertently carry them to far-flung places, like a gaze hound transports ticks.”
Duncan showed no surprise at the idea. “I’ve already developed a plan. I have recruited nine hundred trained Mentats. Each one has memorized Bronso’s appearance from the images the Ixians provided, and they keep watch for him in spaceports, in cities, anywhere he is likely to appear.”
“Nine hundred Mentats? Gods below, I didn’t know you could gain access to so many.”
“Nine hundred. If any one of them sees Bronso, he will be rec
ognized and reported.” Duncan stood up as if to adjourn the meeting. “I believe we should concentrate our efforts here on Arrakis. It’s a gut feeling.”
“A gut feeling? Now there’s the old Duncan. You truly think he’s here somewhere?”
“Specifically, in Arrakeen.”
Gurney’s brow furrowed. “Why would Bronso come here? He knows it’s not safe. This would be the last place I’d expect to see him.”
“That is precisely why I believe he’s here, or soon will be. I’ve performed a detailed analysis of the movements and distributions of his publications. It fits his pattern. I can explain the Mentat derivation if you like, but it will take some time.” Duncan raised his eyebrows.
“I trust your conclusions, whether or not I understand them. Meanwhile, I’ll put the word out among my old smuggler contacts. There’s a chance Bronso might seek their aid—his grandfather Dominic had quite a network among them.” Including me. “We’ll find him.”
Duncan walked to the door. “Of course we will. We have resources he cannot match. And if you and I work together, no man can stand against us.”
Gurney Halleck was always pleased when Jessica asked to see him. She called for him to meet her in the underground levels of the palace; the tunnels that had once been beneath the Arrakeen Residency were now access passages to huge buried cisterns that held water for daily use by the thousands of inhabitants. She had recently returned from the desert, but had been reluctant to tell him about it.
Normally, whenever the mother of Muad’Dib moved from chamber to chamber or went out into the city, a flock of functionaries followed her, but Jessica had brushed them aside under the pretense that she needed to inspect the palace’s water supply without any interference. Gurney knew the real reason she had gone alone: She wanted a quiet, private place to speak with him.
He found her in a shadowy chamber lit by sparse glowglobes. A coolness hung in the stone-lined tunnels, and the shadows themselves seemed moist. Like music, Gurney could hear the background sounds of water dripping into the reservoirs, reclaimed moisture from the halls above.
Thanks to the long-term plans of Pardot Kynes and his son Liet, Fremen had been stockpiling enormous amounts of water for the eventual transformation of Arrakis. Even so, these huge polymer-lined reservoirs would have astonished inhabitants of the old Dune. Such a hoard proved the power and glory of Muad’Dib.
Jessica stood with her back to him. Her bronze hair was set in an intricate knot, her gown and demeanor an odd combination of Fremen practicality, sedate Bene Gesserit conservativism, and regal beauty.
It had been sixteen years since Leto’s death, and in that time Gurney had struggled with his changing perception of Jessica. They had been close friends for a long time, and he could not stop his awakening feelings for her, though he tried to dispel them. He could not forget that when they were first reunited out in the desert—Gurney with his band of smugglers, Paul and Jessica with their Fremen—Gurney had tried to kill her, convinced she was a traitor to House Atreides. He had believed the lies spread by Harkonnens.
Gurney no longer doubted Jessica’s integrity.
By the cistern, she turned to look at him, her face little changed despite the intervening years, but not through Bene Gesserit age-defying tricks. Jessica was simply beautiful, and she did not need chemicals or cellular adjustments to retain her stunning appearance.
He gave a formal bow. “My Lady, you summoned me?”
“I have a favor to ask, Gurney, something very important, and very private.” She did not use Voice on him and applied no apparent Bene Gesserit techniques, but in that instant he would have done anything for her.
“It shall be done—or I will die in the attempt.”
“I don’t want you to die, Gurney. What I have in mind will require finesse and the utmost care, but I believe you are fully capable of it.”
He knew he was flushing. “You honor me.” He was not so foolish as to think that Jessica was unaware of his feelings for her, no matter how he struggled to maintain a placid demeanor and a respectable distance. Jessica was Bene Gesserit trained, a Reverend Mother in her own right; she could read his moods no matter how cleverly he covered them up.
But what kind of love did he feel for her? That was unclear even to Gurney. He loved her as his Duke’s lady, and was loyal to her as Paul’s mother. He was physically attracted to her; no doubt of that. Yet his sense of Atreides honor muddied all of his feelings. He had been her companion for so many years; they were friends and partners, and they ruled Caladan well together. Out of respect for Duke Leto, Gurney had always fought back his romantic feelings for her. But it had been so many years. He was lonely; she was lonely. They were perfect for each other.
Still, he didn’t dare. . . .
She startled him out of his reverie. “Alia asked you and Duncan to track down Bronso of Ix.”
“Yes, my Lady, and we will do our utmost. Bronso’s writings promote chaos in this delicate time.”
“That’s what my daughter says, and that’s exactly what she’s forced Irulan to write.” Troubled wrinkles creased Jessica’s forehead. “But Alia doesn’t understand everything. What I ask of you now, Gurney, I cannot explain, because I’ve made other promises.”
“I don’t need explanations, merely your instructions, my Lady. Tell me what you need.”
She took a step closer to him, and he focused only on her. “I need you to not find Bronso, Gurney. It will be difficult, because Duncan is sure to throw all of his resources into the hunt. But I have my reasons. Bronso of Ix must be allowed to continue his work.”
A storm of doubts swept into Gurney’s mind, but he stopped himself from uttering them. “I gave you my word that I wouldn’t ask questions. If that is all, my Lady?”
Jessica looked at him intently. Her eyes, which used to be clear green, had taken on a blue cast from melange usage over the years. Beyond that, he thought he saw a hint of affection for him there, more than usual.
She turned back to stare at the rock wall of the cistern. “Thank you for trusting me, Gurney. I appreciate that more than you can ever know.”
Evil does not have a face, nor does it have a soul.
—ANONYMOUS
Though Rheinvar the Magnificent had kept a low profile for many years since the debacle at Balut’s Theater of Shards, his Jongleur troupe still performed on backwater worlds and fringe outposts. The ubiquitous Wayku kept track of their movements as they slipped from system to system.
Bronso, traveling under a succession of assumed names and theatrical disguises, thought fondly of the troupe leader, one of the rare Master Jongleurs. Now, he needed Rheinvar and his Face Dancers to help him on his mission.
When the Guildship arrived at the secondary world of Izvinor, the Ixian used his ID scramblers to pose as a steerage-class passenger and travel down to the surface. There, he changed clothes, altered his identity again, and became a businessman looking for investment opportunities in keefa futures.
He had already sent word ahead to the Jongleur encampment, and as he made his way to the rendezvous hotel, he saw leaflets and placards advertising the upcoming performance. He smiled. Very little seemed to have changed.
“This suite is our finest,” the bellman said, guiding a suspensor platform filled with Bronso’s luggage into the parlor room. A smooth-faced man with a narrow black mustache and a bald head, the bellman was the sort of fellow whose age could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-five.
After the door closed behind them, the man dutifully began to unload the bags. “Do you have fresh fruit?” Bronso asked.
“The mumberries are ready for picking.” The bellman began to hang clothing in a closet.
“Too sweet for my tastes.” With this exchange of code words, the other man’s features shifted, rearranged, and then settled into an appearance that Bronso recalled warmly from his youth. “Ah, now you look like Sielto—but are you truly him?”
“Who is truly anyone? Ever
y person is illusion to some degree. But . . . yes, I am the Sielto you remember. Rheinvar awaits you with great anticipation.”
After a series of secretive movements through the city, doubling back, changing clothes, Bronso walked with the Face Dancer to the simple camp—very much the same as the tents he remembered from his boyhood, though they were a bit more battered and threadbare. Ten dancers practiced on dry grass, turning somersaults and vaulting over one another.
“These days, we no longer play the big palaces and theaters,” said a familiar, rich voice. “But we get by.”
Bronso felt years of anxiety and heavy responsibilities lift away as he turned to face the Jongleur leader. Rheinvar wore one of his trademark white suits, though his top hat was nowhere in sight; his dark brown hair still had only a little gray in it. “You haven’t aged a day in twenty years!”
“Many things have changed . . . only appearances remain the same.” The troupe leader gestured for Bronso to follow him into an administrative tent. “And you, young man—you’ve become quite infamous. I could lose my head just for speaking with you.” Rheinvar gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Though some say that would be no great loss to the universe.” He extended his hands, locked his fingers together, cracked his knuckles. “Your message said you need my help. Have you come to work as a roustabout again?”
“I’m not applying for a job, old friend. I am offering one for your Face Dancers in their . . . extracurricular capacity.” He glanced over his shoulder at Sielto. “Years ago, before I fled Ix, I transferred my entire fortune from House Vernius to hidden accounts. I can pay you quite extravagantly.”
“Very interesting. And the job?”
Without flinching, Bronso looked into the Jongleur leader’s eyes. “I want you to help me assassinate someone.”
“If you’re willing to pay a vast fortune, the target must be an incredibly important person. Who could possibly warrant so much money?”
The Winds of Dune Page 20