Lady Margot was white and rigid, as if she had discarded any attempt to maintain Bene Gesserit control over her emotions. Paul saw the agonized sorrow of a mother, but most of all he felt the sheer misery of Count Fenring. Raw, authentic emotion boiled up from him like a hot cloud.
Paul said, “You used a child as a pawn in an assassination plot. Your own child!”
“Oh, Hasimir is not her father, Paul Atreides.” Lady Margot’s voice dripped with scorn. “You knew her father. Feyd’Rautha Harkonnen.” Paul snapped his gaze to her in surprise.
In that instant, Count Fenring moved like a coiled viper, his muscles trained and retrained with years of practice as the Emperor’s most reliable assassin. Fenring yanked the Emperor’s dagger out of Marie’s body and drove the blade deep into Paul’s chest.
“One of my backup plans,” he said.
Reeling backward, Paul experienced every moment splintered into a million shards of nanoseconds. Each event had been as carefully laid out as the puzzle pieces in a Chusuk mosaic. Either the plan had originally been designed in extravagant and impossible detail, or Fenring had enhanced the scheme with so many branch points and alternatives that all possibilities had intersected in this single crux point.
The knife wound created a yawning gulf of pain in Paul’s chest. He heard a shrill wail from Chani. “Uuuussssuuuullll!”
She cried out again, but this time it was barely audible, a galaxy away.
Bleeding, Paul-Muad’Dib fell, as if tumbling into a vast chasm.
My Sihaya is the water of my life and the reason my heart beats. My love for her anchors me against the storms of history.
—PAUL-MUAD’DIB, private love poem to Chani
In the uproar that ensued, the room reverberated with shouts and barked orders. Count Fenring sprang away from Paul even as he fell. Still holding the Emperor’s knife, the assassin activated his shield and retreated to a corner, trying to reach the open passageway, but Fedaykin had already blocked it. Thwarted, he stood with his back to the stone blocks, prepared to defend himself. Margot Fenring joined her husband, also ready to die. Though she had no obvious weapon, she was a Bene Gesserit, and skilled in killing as well.
The horrified and enraged guards pressed close, a barely recovered Stilgar beside them, while Korba still struggled to pick himself up.
“Take him alive!” Irulan cried, her voice quavering as she tried to assert authority. She inhaled deeply, forcing control on her stunned muscles. “If you kill him, we will never know what other schemes he may have put in place! Do not make the mistake of believing this is the only plan afoot.”
Stilgar did not need to be given orders by the Princess. “We will not kill him — at least not now, and not swiftly.” Then his voice became a growl. “After the execution of Whitmore Bludd, the mob has a taste for it. I would not deprive them of their satisfaction.”
“I look forward to your interrogation games, hmmm?” Fenring mocked. “Perhaps we shall share advice on techniques?” Inside his body shield, he passed the bloody dagger from hand to hand.
Chani felt numb. Noisome smoke still drifted through the room, and Paul lay on the floor, bleeding to death. Desperate to save him, she pressed her hands against the wound; blood seeped through her fingers, red and slick.
Paul Atreides may have been Fremen in many ways, but he did not have the genetic desert adaptations that thickened blood for rapid coagulation. “Send for medics! A battlefield surgeon! A Suk doctor! Quickly!”
Two guards rushed out into the hall. Stilgar and the other Fedaykin would not let the Count escape. With a sneer, Fenring said, “Perhaps you should tend to your Muad’Dib, hmmm? He may have final words for you.”
Chani needed to stop the hemorrhage. “Usul, Beloved, how can I help you? How can I give you strength?”
She clasped his hands and felt a faint flicker, a twitch of the fingers, as if he were trying to signal her. Maybe the doctors could heal him, if only they arrived in time. But if Paul died before they could get him into surgery…
He was fighting, struggling within himself. Chani knew he had learned many things about his body after discovering his true nature as the Kwisatz Haderach, but she doubted if he had the skill to deal with such a severe, obviously mortal wound.
Alia was beside her, but even with all of her Other Memories and unusual knowledge, the girl could not help. “My brother is on the brink of death,” she said in a peculiar tone of awe. “I should have saved him.”
“We could still save him if only we could slow the bleeding, if only we could stop time —” Suddenly Chani straightened. “Alia! Run to my quarters, in the sealed jar by the table at the window. As a Sayyadina of the Rite, I keep some sacred Water of Life. Bring it for Muad’Dib.”
Though surprised, Alia was already on her feet. “The trance — my brother’s trance. Yes, we must induce it now!” The girl ran off, as swiftly as the wind.
Chani remembered when Paul had foolishly tried to prove himself, not just to the Fremen men by becoming a wormrider, but also by doing what only the most powerful women had achieved. Believing himself to be the Kwisatz Haderach, Paul had taken the unaltered poison, the exhalation of a drowned worm. Only the tiniest amount.
“One drop of it,” Paul had said. “So small… just one drop.”
Even so, it had been enough to plunge him into a coma so deep that he’d lain like a corpse for weeks, in suspended animation. Finally, with the help of both Chani and Jessica he had broken through that impasse, and had emerged able to detect and convert poisons. But that sort of manipulation required great effort and conscious volition.
Alia came rushing back in. Clutching a plaz container, she squirmed past the two medics who were only now entering with emergency-response kits. Alia arrived first, dropping to her knees and extending the jar to Chani. When the Fremen woman unsealed the lid, the bitter alkaloid stench rose up, so powerful it stung her eyes. The Water of Life was perhaps the most potent of toxins known to humankind. But right now, it was what Muad’Dib needed.
Chani touched her finger to the liquid, withdrew a single drop, and gently brushed Paul’s pale lips in a loving gesture, a faint caress. She knew that if she gave him too much, his body would not be able to counteract the chemical; he would go into a deep coma and his valiant heart would stop beating.
After the kiss of the poison, she sensed a new rigidity in his body. The blood finally stopped flowing, but she couldn’t sense him breathing anymore. His eyelids no longer fluttered.
One of the Suk doctors nudged her aside. “Lady Chani, you must let us tend him. We are his only chance.”
The other smelled the poison. “What is that? Take it away! We have no use for Fremen folk medicines.”
The first doctor shook his head. “So much blood. He can’t possibly survive this.” They knelt, felt for a pulse, applied monitors and talked quietly between themselves. “We are too late. He no longer lives.”
There were moans from the guards, while Stilgar looked ready to explode. Irulan actually wept, causing Chani to wonder if the tears were false or real.
Seeking calmness within, Chani simply said to the doctors, “You are mistaken. Muad’Dib survives, but his life is below the threshold of your detection.” When he had undergone the same thing before, many Fremen had also believed him dead. “With the Water of Life, I bought you time. Work your medicine, patch the wound.”
“Lady Chani, there is no point —”
“Do as I command! His body already knows how to fight off the effects of the coma. Act quickly, before the window of opportunity closes.”
ON THE FLOOR of the dining hall the doctors set to work, calling for assistants, more surgical tools, even blood transfusions that would do little if Paul’s heart refused to pump.
Feeling helpless, angry, and vengeful, Irulan watched, an outsider as the pivotal events transpired around her. Chani, Alia, and Stilgar formed a cordon around the wounded Emperor, keeping her away. Irulan did not understand the mystic Fr
emen ritual Chani had applied, saving Paul by giving him poison, but she did not protest. It certainly could do no harm.
Irulan could not venture close to the Count and Lady Margot either, who by now faced a dozen murderous guards waiting for any excuse to attack. She doubted the couple would survive the next hour if Paul died, and if he died, she would not bother to protect them.
Using a delicate cellular sealant and tissue grafting applied with probes and surgical instruments that were far more precise than an Ixian needlewhip, they attempted to repair the grievous damage caused by the sharp blade.
Irulan did not know how long the silence and tension would last.
One of the Suk doctors mumbled, as though expecting no one would hear him, “This is work more suited for a mortician than a surgeon.” In nearly an hour they had seen not the faintest signs of life. Nevertheless, the doctors worked feverishly until it was clear they had done all they knew how to do.
It was up to Paul now.
At the sight of her husband suffering, Irulan felt stunned and despondent. Princess Irulan’s mother and all her Bene Gesserit instructors would have been surprised at her automatic reaction. She wondered where the cool and politically savvy schemer within her had gone.
For a frightened moment, she considered whether or not she actually felt a flicker of love for him. But that was not a sentiment she could share with anyone — probably not even with him, if he survived.
Her devotion to him was less appreciated than that of a pet. But love? She wasn’t sure.
Beyond her personal concerns, Irulan was shaken by the realization of the horrendous political turmoil that was sure to follow the death of Muad’Dib. With so many factions struggling for the throne — including, surely, her own father trying to reclaim his place — the galaxy would be ripped apart in yet another horrific civil war. When added to the damages of the continuing Jihad, could humanity survive?
Her husband’s first heartbeat came so suddenly and unexpectedly that it startled the two doctors. Then a few seconds of silence, followed by another heartbeat.
And a third. The gaps between beats grew shorter and shorter, and finally the monitors showed a slow but steady pulse.
The Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib came back to life, still weak and barely holding on. Irulan felt fragile herself after the ordeal; her own heart thumped rapidly. This was Muad’Dib — of course he lived!
His eyes flickered open, and that was all Irulan needed to see. She wiped away her tears, and then they flowed anew. Tears of joy? Yes, she decided, and of anger that anyone had attempted this against her husband.
WHEN PAUL FINALLY sat up, his black tunic torn open and soaked with blood, Count Fenring switched off his personal shield and surrendered. His shoulders sagged, and he extended the bloodstained dagger, hilt first. “It appears I have nothing to gain by continued resistance, hmmm?”
Korba, now braver, grabbed the dagger out of Fenring’s hand. The guards rushed forward and seized both the Count and his Lady, binding them in shigawire and removing them from the banquet room. During the distraction of the arrest, Korba surreptitiously slipped the ornate Imperial knife up his own sleeve.
Irulan saw him do it, and knew there was no danger in it. She wondered where the well-traveled weapon would eventually wind up, if it would be stored as a holy relic somewhere or sold to a particularly devout (and wealthy) patron.
Paul insisted on getting to his feet. The doctors helped him, but he preferred to lean on Chani, placing his other hand on Alia’s shoulder. Irulan stood stiff-backed and gazed at him, content in the knowledge that he lived.
After pausing to catch his breath, Paul spoke in a surprisingly strong voice. “Find substitute… quarters for the Count and his Lady. They do not need to be comfortable, but ensure that they are not harmed — until I give specific instructions.”
The most important battles are always waged inside a leader’s mind. This is the true proving ground of command.
—from The Wisdom of Muad’Dib by the PRINCESS IRULAN
Wearing shackles and flanked by four burly guards, Count Fenring stood at the foot of the Lion Throne. His once-fine trousers and coat were wrinkled and soiled, while his white silk shirt was torn and still bloody from the attack on Paul.
Paul had recovered miraculously — at least he had made it appear so. Already Irulan was working on the story that would add to the mythology of his life, and the people would believe it wholeheartedly, expecting nothing less from Muad’Dib. It would all be part of the growing legend. Princess Irulan now sat beside Paul’s throne with a writing tablet on her lap, but eyewitness accounts of the events had already gotten out.
Consuming great quantities of melange, he had found the energy to appear in court the following morning, where he sat on his throne and made pronouncements — all to prove that Muad’Dib still had the strength to guide his holy empire. Through prescience and plain common sense, Paul knew the havoc that would result if his followers decided to seek unbridled vengeance on anyone they could think of.
Paul knew he had to remain alive, not just for his own sake, but for the future of humanity. Paul remembered who he had been when he killed Feyd-Rautha here in a much different version of this room — a determined young man with victory in his hand and an empire at his feet. He had accepted his mantle of supreme command then, despite knowing the dark and dangerous slope that lay ahead of him. No one else could have guessed the full extent of what Paul-Muad’Dib would become. No one, not his mother, nor Gurney, nor Shaddam. Not even Chani, who understood him best.
From the beginning of his rule, Paul could have given the Imperium a glorious but temporary prosperity. Or he could have chosen ultimately to be seen as a ruthless tyrant. He could have made certain decisions to eliminate turmoil for the immediate future, to foster peace, to administer the government in such a way that all his subjects would love him. Had he handled it differently, history would have painted a favorable portrait of him… for a few generations, maybe even for millennia.
But that way was a dead end.
In his heart, he would much rather have lived in peace with Chani. Given different choices, he could have been like Duke Leto Atreides, beloved by all, fair to all, wise and honored for who he truly was. Instead, obeying no one but himself and the guidance of his prescience, he had sacrificed his personal happiness and the present to save the future. Thus Paul became not what he wanted to be, but what he needed to be… and what humankind needed him to be.
As Muad’Dib, he had taken the guilt upon himself by allowing the sacrifice of billions in order to save trillions. And only he fully understood it. He could not place the blame for this on anyone else, and so he accepted the burden and steeled himself to continue doing what needed to be done.
Now he sat in judgment over Count Hasimir Fenring, boon companion of the fallen Emperor Shaddam IV. This man had tried to kill him.
“Ah, hm-m-m-m, I suppose this means you will not be offering me your finest wine again?” Fenring infused his words with bravado and impertinent humor, but his demeanor betrayed uncertainty. His large eyes flicked from side to side, taking in the Fedaykin guards, Stilgar, and the bloodthirsty Chani. He seemed to be wondering which one of them would deal the death blow that was sure to come.
For a moment Fenring focused on Alia, who was seated on the edge of the dais in a black robe. She looked like a tiny executioner, awaiting the command from her brother. She casually kicked her dangling feet. It was a childlike pose like the one she had struck when Shaddam IV sat on this same throne, just before she surprised and killed the Baron Harkonnen.
In a way, she looked somewhat like dear Marie….
“Here on Dune, water is more precious than wine,” Paul said. At a small ornate table beside the Hagal quartz throne, he removed the stopper from a jewel-encrusted ewer. He poured himself a small goblet and another for Fenring. Chani took the cup to the prisoner.
Eyeing it suspiciously, Fenring lifted his heavily shackled hands and accept
ed the goblet with brave resignation. “So, you’ve decided on poison, hmm-m?” He sniffed the contents.
Paul sipped from his own cup. “It is pure water.” He took another drink to demonstrate.
“It is well known that Muad’Dib can, ahh, convert poisons. This is a trick, isn’t it?”
“No poison — on my honor. Atreides honor.” Paul locked his gaze with Fenring’s. “Drink with me.”
Alia poured herself a goblet and quaffed it with obvious relish.
Fenring scowled down at the liquid in his cup. “I served for many years here on Arrakis, so I know the value of water.” He drank from the goblet, then rudely let it clatter to the floor.
Paul took another sip. “That was the water distilled from Marie’s body. I wanted you to share it with me.” He casually poured the rest of the liquid on the dais and set aside the goblet, upended.
Doubling over with sudden nausea, the Count shuddered, then jerked at his shackles as if reaching for a weapon he didn’t have.
Now Lady Margot Fenring was brought into the chamber to stand beside her husband, with Korba and Stilgar behind her. The Count instantly showed worry, as if his wife’s fate concerned him more than his own. In a traditional Bene Gesserit black robe, Lady Margot still projected the hauteur of a noblewoman, despite the lack of opportunity to groom herself.
At a gesture from Paul, Alia sprang off the dais and stood in front of Marie’s mother, who gazed down at her with a stony expression. His sister held a long needle in her hand, the deadly gom jabbar. Margot Fenring stiffened, but Alia did not strike. Not yet.
Showing no weakness despite his injuries, remembering how the one-armed Archduke Armand Ecaz had insisted on going to war against Grumman after the wedding-day massacre, Paul rose from the throne and stepped down from the dais onto the polished floor. His motions were slow, deliberate, and charged with lethal intent. He stood directly in front of Fenring.
Paul of Dune Page 50
