But Korba, though also a Fedaykin, had chosen a different path to glory. Though subtle, the man’s motives were transparent to Paul: While a warrior was just a warrior, the head of a religion wielded a more sustainable power in the ever-widening circle of Muad’Dib’s influence and the increasing number of conquered or allied subjects. By fostering the development of the Qizarate, giving new and zealous priests teachings and rules to enforce, Korba created and held his own moral high ground — in the name of Muad’Dib.
In spite of the sour taste that development left in his mouth, Paul needed all of the energy that religion could provide. And he knew that he, too, had to keep up appearances.
With Chani at his side, Paul walked from table to table and looked over the model structures, focusing on the multiple domes and soaring arches. A cutaway showed where a Celestial Audience Chamber would house his primary throne. “Some of the individual chambers will be so large that kingly palaces could fit inside them. The entire complex is designed to be a vast fortified city, both to protect its inhabitants and to impress outsiders.”
The flamboyant Swordmaster used his own rapier as a pointer to show Irulan how her private gardens would be laid out, including “contemplation offices” where she could continue her writing. Paul noted the pride in the man’s demeanor as he explained his grand dream, and the Princess seemed suitably impressed.
Chani glanced sidelong at Irulan. “Perhaps such things were expected in the old Imperium, but we do not need such a place, Usul. Fremen would consider this sort of extravagance… greedy, in the manner of offworlders.”
“No extravagance is too great for Muad’Dib,” Korba insisted. “The people will settle for nothing less than the greatest work of construction in human history.”
Sadly, Paul knew that Korba was right.
Bludd cleared his throat loudly. “Those were my instructions, and that is what it shall be. From the central core, the rest of the construction will blossom like a beautiful flower in the desert.” Though they had radically conflicting personalities, Korba and Bludd were developing a grudging respect for each other during the early stages of the construction project. A common ambition and goal served as a balancing point between the men.
Paul took Chani’s hand, and said to her, “Such extravagance is necessary, Beloved. The magnificence itself is a lever that can move the most stubborn doubters and the newly converted. Through sheer size, scope, and grandeur, my new fortress must inspire awe in the hearts of everyone who experiences it — even in us, who know its inner workings and design. Especially in us, perhaps, because we have to play our parts well, and I must play mine the best of all.”
He clapped a hand on the fine fabric of the Swordmaster’s waistcoat. “You have my wholehearted approval, Bludd. Yes, this palace will be built according to your plans. With each stone laid and each tapestry hung, we will strengthen the Jihad — and hasten its conclusion. I will make public appearances on my throne and from my balconies overlooking throngs of the faithful. These places must be incomparable in their opulence.
“My private quarters, however, will be simple.” Paul gestured dismissively at the plans for the royal suite that seemed to drip ostentation. “When Chani and I retire to our chambers, there will be only those traditional amenities one might find in a sietch, articles and furnishings that typical Fremen would use. In private we shall remember our roots.”
Bludd and Korba looked at him in alarm, while Irulan came closer. “My Husband, the people expect you to live as an Emperor, not as a tribal chieftain. The entire citadel, including your living quarters, should show all humankind how great and powerful Muad’Dib is. My father’s royal wing in the old Imperial Palace could be a model for you.”
“The simplicity of a sietch is enough for us, in our private quarters,” Chani insisted, and Paul agreed, ending the discussion. His concubine had always been less comfortable in cities, in gigantic and ornate structures. “Even though he is the Emperor, Muad’Dib is still one of the people.”
Yes, he thought. My father would have liked the sound of that.
I was destined for greatness, not to be a mere footnote in history.
—MASTER WHITMORE BLUDD, Personal Diaries
and Observations, Volume VII
The storehouse of expensive wine was part of the vast trove of spoils the armies of Muad’Dib were already bringing back to Arrakis. Whitmore Bludd found the uncatalogued cache during his work of managing the materials and overseeing the huge citadel construction project.
He perused the labels on the bottles, noting the vintages with growing admiration and amazement. He doubted the uncouth Fremen had any idea of the value of what they had found. They had piled the seized bottles without any sort of inventory list or temperature control.
These desert fanatics had no appreciation, no taste, no finesse. They would not know the difference between a crisp, delicate Caladanian white and a robust chianti from the greenhouse vineyards of IV Anbus. As he examined case after case of bottles inside the storehouse, Bludd realized he could not, in good conscience, let such a treasure go to waste.
Now, finding a rough-red table wine meant to be drunk in quantity rather than savored, he decided the Fremen might enjoy that more than anything too sophisticated. Or perhaps one of the syrupy muscats. When he came across a bottle of genuine Kirana champagne, he set it aside with the fine vintages. He couldn’t allow that to be wasted on a desert rat’s unsophisticated palate!
For tonight, Bludd settled on an enhanced claret he had tasted years ago, when he and his fellow Swordmaster Rivvy Dinari had toasted their service to Archduke Armand Ecaz. The corpulent Dinari had considered the vintage exceptional, and Bludd had fond memories of that evening, owing more to the fellowship and the situation than to the wine’s quality. Dinari, for all his girth, claimed to have quite a discriminating palate, although he did seem to prefer both quantity and quality.
Bludd had already changed into his evening clothes: a tailored maroon jacket, a belted black tunic with ruffled collar, tight black pants, and knee-high suede boots that matched the color of the jacket. As always, his long rapier hung at his hip, a weapon that was both decorative and deadly. He hefted the case of wine, balancing it on his other hip, and walked out of the storehouse with as much grace as he could summon. If these desert fighters were capable of enjoying good things — not at all a certainty — he would endear himself to them, and they would all have a fine time swapping tales of their exploits.
In a celebratory mood, he brought the wine and his own corkscrew, as well as a case of stemmed glasses, to the Fremen barracks. Smiling, he lifted out the bottles so that he could share the vintage, but the Fremen regarded him suspiciously. They accepted Bludd as one of Muad’Dib’s special advisers and a long-time acquaintance, yet the overdressed Swordmaster did not match their notion of a warrior.
He sniffed and quickly hid his distaste for all the smells around him. As members of Paul’s elite military stationed here on Arrakeen, they had access to enough water to bathe at least once in a while!
“I have brought fine wine from the stores of Emperor Paul Atreides” — he shrugged quickly — “or Muad’Dib, if that’s what you prefer to call him. Does anyone wish to partake?” Bludd began to pour glasses and gestured for the dusty Fremen soldiers to take them, one by one. “It is tradition among Swordmasters to share a glass of good wine while we exchange our stories of battle. Having been a primary instructor at the Ginaz School, I later became one of the two highest ranking swordfighters in the Ecazi court.”
Half a dozen Fremen picked up the glasses and looked at them. One, a Fedaykin named Elias, took a gulp and made a face.
“Not like that!” Bludd snapped, losing patience. “Examine its rich color, inhale its magnificent bouquet. Take a little sip. Allow the flavors to separate on your palate. This isn’t one of your coarse spice beers.” Elias seemed offended by the rebuff, though Bludd pretended not to notice. He held up a wineglass, took a sip, and let out a
long sigh. “So… the stories. Since you are so enamored of Paul-Muad’Dib, shall I tell you of the time my fellow Swordmasters Rivvy Dinari, Duncan Idaho, and I went with young Paul Atreides — I believe he was twelve years old then — down into the jungles of Ginaz, where we were attacked by giant caterpillars —”
“We know all about Duncan Idaho,” one of the Fremen interrupted. “He died saving Muad’Dib during his flight from the Harkonnens. That was how he and his mother came to be among us.”
“So Paul’s told you this story, then?” Bludd looked around, but could not find any answers on the faces.
“We have read the book by Princess Irulan,” replied one of the men. The others murmured solemn assent.
Bludd had read the book as well and felt that Irulan had left out a great many important things, even suggesting that Paul had never been away from the planet Caladan before coming to Arrakis, ignoring all of his exploits on Ecaz! That and other errors. Bludd had already spoken to the Princess about them.
The Fremen were drinking the wine, though obviously out of a sense of obligation rather than enjoyment. Bludd tried again, suggesting another story that Irulan had not included in her original chronicle. “Or shall I tell you how the War of Assassins began in Castle Caladan, with a heinous attack by the Grummans? Several people died, including —” He sniffed, drew a breath. “Perhaps I shall not tell that story, either.”
Bludd expected some of them to brag about their own exploits and tell their tall tales. But these Fremen were a dour bunch.
“This wine tastes like unfiltered urine,” growled Elias, whom Bludd had offended. “If we run it through a reclamation unit, at least we can get the water back.”
“My dear sir, this is a fine and expensive vintage. I am not surprised, however, that you cannot taste —”
Elias drew his crysknife, and the others fell immediately still. “You insult me!”
Bludd looked around, made a bored sigh. “Now, what?” “It is a matter of honor,” said one of the other men.
“You really don’t want to do this, my good sir,” Bludd said. “Draw your blade!” Elias held his crysknife and took up a fighting stance.
With utmost calmness, Bludd slid the rapier from his belt. “Have I not made it quite clear that I am an accomplished Swordmaster of Ginaz? Your wormtooth dagger is pretty, but I have four times the reach.” He flicked the rapier in the air for good measure.
“Are you a coward, then?”
“In a word… no.” Bludd straightened his jacket, plucked at his black ruffles. “En garde, if you insist.”
Elias lunged with the crysknife, to shouts and catcalls from his comrades. Though Bludd was dressed in fine clothes, the well-fitting garments gave him perfect ease of movement. He melted away from the man’s vicious thrust. Then in a flash, he circled around and pricked the Fremen’s shoulder.
“There, first blood is mine. Do you yield?”
The Fremen spectators chuckled. “Bad Bludd brags more than he fights! Bad Bludd!”
“My, what a feeble play on words.” His voice dripped sarcasm.
The angry Fremen fighter slashed and lunged again with surprising speed. Elias tossed the knife to his other hand and struck. Ah, so he could fight with either hand, a useful skill! Bludd parried, scissored his blade in the air, twirled, and pricked the man’s other shoulder. “You are fortunate that I have decided to restrain myself.”
Bludd toyed with him for several more minutes, showing off, making sweeping, grandiose moves of the type he had taught his students never to risk using. Showmanship was one thing, but victory was paramount. It did no good to have fine form if your opponent lopped off your head.
But this opponent did not seem to weaken or tire and continued with a relentless, though pedestrian, style of fighting. When Bludd realized he was starting to grow tired himself, he decided to put an end to the silly dance. He had heard how easily Fremen pride could be wounded, and did not want this man to hold a simmering blood vendetta against him. He had to give him a way to save face.
Driving forward with a flurry of intricate sword work, Bludd flailed his flexible blade so that it dizzied Elias. Then Bludd intentionally stepped in too close. He had observed the man’s style and knew how he would react. When he gave the Fremen an opportunity, just a hint of one, the crysknife flashed and cut a shallow gouge in the meat of Bludd’s upper left arm. There, now the man could be satisfied that he too had drawn blood. Elias responded with a feral grin.
“That’s enough, then.” Bludd drove the flat of his blade down hard on the back of the Fremen’s knife hand, forcing the fingers to release the handle. The wormtooth dagger dropped to the floor of the barracks.
One of the other Fremen soldiers stepped forward and kicked the crysknife beyond Elias’s reach. “He beat you fairly, Elias, but you drew blood as well.”
The Fremen looked bewildered and still angry. Another soldier added in a low voice, “Muad’Dib has commanded us to have no tribal rivalries.”
“This peacock is of no Fremen tribe,” Elias said.
“Muad’Dib wants his soldiers to fight the enemy, not each other.”
“And fine advice that is.” Bludd sheathed his rapier, picked up one of the unopened bottles of wine, and took it with him as he left the barracks. “Next time, perhaps I will just bring spice beer.”
Never turn your back on a Tleilaxu.
—ancient saying
Lady Margot Fenring rode beside her young daughter in the rear compartment of a groundcar as it negotiated the winding streets of Thalidei. Lady Margot had ordered the driver to take them to one of the dockside public markets. She rarely went anywhere without her husband, but little Marie needed time away from her ever-watchful Bene Gesserit nanny and tutor. Though Margot could easily have defeated scores of Tleilaxu men, she was forbidden to travel without an escort, for her own “safety.”
Little Marie sat high on a thick cushion designed for a Tleilaxu Master. She drank in the details outside, her wide eyes filled with curious questions, but the girl was already wise enough to look for her own answers. The Fenrings had developed plans for the unique girl, determined to see to it that Marie was equipped with a breadth of experiences and abilities. She had to be prepared and armed for her destiny.
The worker-caste Tleilaxu driver assigned to them expertly avoided hitting diminutive Masters who haughtily walked out into the street without looking. Clearly uncomfortable around females, the driver did not speak to his passengers; he may even have received instructions to ignore them. Unlike all other vehicles around the city, the one in which Margot and her daughter rode had dark-tinted windows, as if the Tleilaxu did not want a female to be seen out in the open.
When traveling with her husband, Margot was treated quite differently, accepted grudgingly if not welcomed. When she went out without him, though, the Tleilaxu seemed offended by her flagrant actions. She didn’t care this time. Let them be offended. She’d lost count of the pinpricks of displeasure her reluctant hosts had inflicted on her. Margot had grown to loathe the bigoted high-caste men, but as an adept Bene Gesserit, she’d also learned to hide her true feelings.
The young towhead smiled up at her, then gazed out the low tinted window on her left, oblivious to her mother’s concerns. Like Margot, she wore a long black dress, but she had pale blue eyes instead of gray-green. Feyd’s color, Margot remembered, though her eyes are not so sullen as his.
The Harkonnen na-Baron had been an adequate lover, though not as skilled as he should have been, considering his repertoire of pleasure women. In light of later events, it was clear that Feyd was also not as skilled a fighter as he believed himself to be. Nevertheless, Margot had collected his seed and allowed herself to conceive a daughter as the Sisterhood had instructed her to do. Such perfect genetics from generations of Bene Gesserit coaxing human genetic stock. Yes, little Marie was indeed special.
During the year that the Fenrings had spent on Tleilax, Lady Margot had remained in touch with the Sist
erhood, exchanging clandestine messages by letter or embedded in objects that were transported by courier between here and Wallach IX. She had no doubt that the nanny Obregah-Xo also sent secret reports.
Despite the Mother Superior’s personal interest in this daughter of Feyd-Rautha, Margot had plans of her own. She did not intend to let the girl become a mere pawn of the Bene Gesserit. Since the arrival of Muad’Dib — a Kwisatz Haderach that the Sisterhood could not control — and his Abomination sister Alia, Margot Fenring had begun to lose faith in the overly complex and insufficiently successful schemes of the Bene Gesserit.
She and Hasimir had too many other ideas.
Lady Margot smiled at her daughter. The child had a bright and inquisitive mind, and learned quickly. Thanks to her mother’s teachings, as well as those of Count Fenring and Obregah-Xo, the girl had already mastered Bene Gesserit skills that were far beyond her years.
The vehicle drove past a bustling marketplace of tents and shacks that extended out onto the docks, with vendors selling foods and personal articles. “Driver, stop. We would like to explore the market.”
“It is forbidden,” the driver gruffly answered, which only served to make Lady Margot more determined.
“Nevertheless, we will get out here and walk.”
“I am only authorized to drive you around the city.”
Margot had had enough of Tleilaxu secrets and restrictions. She spoke with the full force of Voice. “You will stop the vehicle and do as I command.”
The driver jerked involuntarily, then pulled the groundcar over to the nearest clustered market stalls.
“You will wait for us here as we observe the vendors and their wares.”
Although the driver sat shuddering and almost immobile, he fumbled with a small compartment beside his seat. Sweating with the effort, yet persistent, he produced a tiny black ball, which he squeezed in his palm. It seemed to sprout into two black scarves, one large and one small. “You must cover yourselves. Each of you. Dress as man and boy.”
Paul of Dune Page 9
