Duncan was alarmed. “I cannot guarantee your safety yet, young Master, and these repeated attacks prove there is continuing danger.”
“There is danger everywhere, Duncan.” Though he was not a large or muscular boy, Paul felt like a full-grown Duke. The last week had fundamentally changed him. “You saw it yourself — I am not protected or sheltered by staying here on Caladan. Even with our best efforts to hide in the most isolated of places, the assassins keep coming after me. And think of all those who have died because of us — these tribesmen, the Sisters in Isolation, Swain Goire. What is the point in further hiding? I would rather stand with my father.”
Paul saw Duncan wrestling with this decision. He could tell what the man wanted to do; he just had to convince him it was an acceptable decision. “Duncan, look always to the course of honor. House Atreides must fight together. Can you think of a better way to prepare me for what lies ahead?”
Finally, the Swordmaster wiped a hand through his curly black hair. “I would rather be on the battlefield at Grumman, no doubt about it. Our armies can protect you almost as well as I can.”
Paul smiled and nodded toward the notched and bent blade that had once belonged to the Old Duke. “Besides, Duncan, you need a new sword.”
PART V
Emperor Muad’Dib
10,198 AG
1
Some leaders create great works in order to be remembered; others need to destroy so that they can make their mark on history. But I — I will do both.
—from Conversations with Muad’Dib by the PRINCESS IRULAN
Whitmore Bludd — architect and Swordmaster — stood admiring the detailed projection model, as if he himself couldn’t believe what he had accomplished. He smiled at Paul. “Your magnificent citadel will never be completed, my Lord, and that is by design. Your followers will see the palace as a symbol that your work will never be finished.” With a limber movement of his arms, he cracked his knuckles. “Nevertheless, I proudly announce that I am satisfied with the portion I call Phase One.”
On the solido hologram that covered a conference-room table, the main part of the immense fortress, already as large as a small city and centered on the old Arrakeen Residency, looked solid and tangible; semitransparent extensions marked new structures that Bludd still wished to build. He had proposed additions that would be the size of districts, towers so high that they would experience their own weather patterns, and labyrinthine corridors that (some quipped) would require a Guild Navigator to explore.
Paul frowned skeptically. “Master Bludd, the cost of constructing such a thing would bankrupt CHOAM. Do you think the financial resources of my Empire are infinite?”
The Swordmaster smiled at him again. “Why yes, my Lord, I do. I present this model not to ask for more money or workers, but to suggest a spectacular celebration, a… grand opening of sorts.” He activated the holo-controls, and all of his proposed additions dissolved, leaving only the actual structure. “Think of it as a gala celebration. Representatives from every world conquered in your Jihad will come here to demonstrate their obedience.”
Chani and Korba were both in the room; their brows furrowed as they tried to digest the foppish man’s proposal and its implications. Alia sat at the end of the table, and the holographic image dwarfed her small body. “I think you merely wish to show off your work, Swordmaster,” she said.
Bludd seemed embarrassed. “As always, child, you have a talent for cutting to the heart of the matter.” He spread his hands in a deprecating gesture. “Naturally, I am proud of my work. Can you think of a better way to cement my place in history? Long after I am gone, I would like to be remembered in the company not just of my old friends Rivvy Dinari and Duncan Idaho, but also my famous ancestor, Porce Bludd, maybe even Jool Noret, the founder of the Ginaz School.”
Korba said in a low voice, “Security will be extremely difficult with all those planetary governors and Landsraad representatives here. Many of them despise you, Usul.”
Paul wished Stilgar could have been here, but the naib was leading a force of Fremen, chasing down another group of Thorvald’s persistent followers. Paul frowned at Korba. “Do you say that protecting me is not possible in such a situation?”
Now Korba seemed offended. “Of course not, Usul.”
Bludd asked, “With your prescience, could you not identify and eliminate any danger?”
Paul sighed. With every battle, every crisis, every failure (that his faithful viewed as “tests” rather than mistakes), he could not help but be reminded of how uncertain his knowledge was. Year by year, as the Jihad worsened and he saw no end in sight, he doggedly stuck to the path that had once seemed terrible but clear.
In recent days he’d experienced a recurring dream that baffled him, a vivid image of a leaping fish carved of wood over thick brown waves, also of wood. A symbol of his childhood on Caladan, now turned false? Was he the fish? He had no idea what the dream meant.
“My visions are imperfect and incomplete, Whitmore. I can see the great swell of dunes in the desert, but I do not always know the movement of individual grains of sand.”
Even so, as soon as Bludd had suggested the festival, Paul had sensed a tumultuous and chaotic clash of futures, many of which held grave danger for him. Some possibilities even offered a path to martyrdom. But he knew that, whatever the cost, humanity must survive for an even more incredible battle to come in the far future. While looking so far ahead, though, he had to beware that he did not fall into a pit at his feet.
The very fact that so many people believed in him and prayed to him, that they believed Muad’Dib saw all and knew all, paradoxically muddled his ability to perceive the workings of the future. But the future was always there in front of him, alternately veiled or exposed in fine detail. Wherever his destiny led him, he could not escape it. The path he would take was, and would be, determined by both Fate and his own actions.
He made his decision. “Yes, it is time to announce my victories and give the weary people something to celebrate. Send for Irulan. Tell her I need her.”
***
BECAUSE THE PRINCESS sequestered herself in her private chambers and offices, a few wagging tongues suggested that she had taken a secret lover since she did not share Muad’Dib’s bed. The more faithful believed that Irulan simply meditated in private on her awe for Muad’Dib.
But Paul knew that Irulan spent most of her days occupied with the next volume of her massive biographical project. He had read some of her draft passages, noting occasional errors and fabrications designed to build his image as a messiah. Because her alterations almost always coincided with his purposes, he rarely asked her to change what she had written. He smiled, thinking of this.
She takes grains of truth and builds them into vast deserts.
He had asked his spies to watch for any seditious treatises or manifestos that she might attempt to circulate among the populace. Thus far they had found no cause for concern. He didn’t think Irulan would try to foment a revolution, simply because it did not make sense for her to do so. Though he didn’t trust her entirely, he could rely on her for certain things. Such as now.
Pursuant to his summons, Irulan arrived at the conference room where Bludd’s citadel model still shimmered, although the wiry Swordmaster had already gone away to begin his preparations. An army of workers would complete the finishing touches, cleaning and polishing every corner, slab, and engraving, though Bludd insisted on doing the final ornate work in the Celestial Audience Chamber with his own hands, claiming his personal standards of perfectionism were far more rigorous than any other man’s (though Korba disagreed).
Irulan’s long blonde hair was tied back in a serviceable, yet not extravagant, style. Paul liked her better this way than with her formal hauteur. Her blue eyes studied the others who were present. “You summoned me, Husband?”
“I have a new task for you, Irulan — one for which you are well suited. It will require that you re-establish connections wi
th the once-prominent families of the Landsraad.” He explained about the proposed ceremony. “Help me to summon them here. Bring forth one representative from every world in my Empire to celebrate the completion of the first part of my palatial fortress.”
When Korba spoke, he found a way to impart vehemence into every word. “This festival will also force every leader to prove his loyalty to Muad’Dib. My Qizarate will help administer the details. We will call this the Great Surrender. All must comply. Attendance is mandatory.”
Irulan was surprised. “Even my father, from Salusa Secundus?”
Paul tapped his fingers on the table. “Shaddam IV is one of my subjects as well. He is not exempt.”
Irulan’s face took on a calculating expression. “I can help you write the invitations, send summonses that will not be ignored, but are you aware of how much such an extravagance will cost you? Plus the commotion, the security issues, the traffic flow through the spaceports? Can the Guild handle the transport details?”
“The Guild will handle it,” Paul said. “And the lords themselves will help defray the expense. Each representative shall come to Dune with his frigate’s cargo hold filled with water.”
Irulan’s eyes showed surprise, then admiration. “A neat trick. Such a thing will not unduly strain the coffers of any planetary lord, and the Fremen will delight in it. A perfect symbolic gesture.”
“Symbolic and practical. We will distribute the water to all the people in Arrakeen,” Chani said. “It will show the benevolence of Muad’Dib.”
Irulan bowed slightly to him. “I will write my father immediately and compose missives for Guild couriers to deliver to the Landsraad nobles and other dignitaries.”
Paul had no doubt that she would sign each one “Princess Irulan, Daughter of Shaddam IV, Wife of Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib Atreides.” And that was her due.
2
It was from Count Hasimir Fenring that my father learned to use people as bargaining chips.
—from In My Father’s House by the PRINCESS IRULAN
Sire, I bring a message from your daughter, the Princess Irulan.” Dressed in his gray Sardaukar uniform, Bashar Zum Garon held his officer’s cap in one hand and with the other he extended a message cylinder to Shaddam, who had just finished breakfast with Wensicia and her husband in the austere drawing room of his private residence. An attendant had taken the baby away for now; Shaddam couldn’t abide eating with all the fuss surrounding the infant.
“And what makes you think I want to hear from her?” Shaddam motioned for Wensicia to accept the transmittal. “I would rather hear from Count Fenring.”
Sitting too close to Wensicia, Dalak brightened. “Sire, would you like me to write my cousin? Perhaps this time I can convince him to come back to us. I am happy to continue trying.”
Wensicia frowned at her husband. “Stop overestimating your own importance and influence. It has become tedious. Count Fenring barely even remembers who you are.” Dalak had left Salusa twice in the previous six months, brightly insisting that he could find and talk to his cousin. Each time, however, he had “encountered travel difficulties” and was unable to reach the Tleilaxu, much less find Fenring, though Bashar Garon never seemed to have such troubles. Both times Dalak had returned looking childishly abashed, shrugging in embarrassment at his incompetence.
Shaddam, however, had discovered exactly what Dalak was up to on these extracurricular expeditions. Wensicia’s simpering husband was less of a fool than he appeared to be — and more of a Fenring. Shaddam intended to deal with the man’s indiscretions in his own way….
Wensicia studied the message cylinder suspiciously. “This bears both Irulan’s personal seal and the royal seal of the Emperor.”
“Official business,” Garon said, still standing at attention. “And, no, Sire, I have not been able to make Count Fenring reconsider. He sends his regards along with a thousand apologies, but circumstances will not permit his return to Salusa.”
“And did he give you any response to his dear cousin’s pleas?” Shaddam looked pointedly at Dalak, who cringed.
“He made no mention whatsoever of having any contact with Wensicia’s husband, Sire. But I will continue to press him with each visit to the Tleilaxu homeworlds. They have begun to develop your private army, as requested.”
“Whether or not his cousin can convince him, as our plans build toward fruition, Hasimir won’t be able to resist getting involved. I know it.”
Dalak seemed eager to change the subject of the conversation. “I thought Irulan wasn’t allowed to participate in official business?” He peered over his wife’s shoulder to study the sealed message cylinder. “Is Paul Atreides finally going to send troops and work crews here to begin the terraforming? I would love for our little Farad’n to grow up in a more hospitable place.”
Wensicia broke open the seals and read the missive. “Muad’Dib means to show off his new citadel, which he claims surpasses the old Imperial Palace on Kaitain in both size and opulence.”
His mouth curling downward bitterly, Shaddam looked out the reinforced window onto the devastated landscape. “Anything surpasses what I have now.”
“He requests a representative from every world and every noble family, including the Corrinos on Salusa Secundus. He will even generously ease the travel restrictions that keep you bottled up here.”
Wensicia looked up. “It is more than an invitation, Father: It is a summons. You, or your representative, are required to attend a Great Surrender ceremony on Arrakis — bringing a cargo hold full of water as a gift for the Emperor.”
“I am the Emperor.” Shaddam made the comment out of habit, without much conviction.
“It is to be a gift for Muad’Dib. There are other specifics here, concerning the minimum amount of water.”
“I was given to understand that similar messages have gone out to all planetary leaders. I do not advise ignoring the summons,” Bashar Garon said. “His fanatics would seize upon any excuse to kill you and end the Corrino bloodline forever.”
Shaddam knew the commander was right. “Does it specify exactly who must attend? Or will any representative do?” His gaze fell on Wensicia’s milquetoast husband. The thin little man always dressed in silk and lace, and swooped around like a prince at a costume ball, oblivious to his stark surroundings or the plight of his father-in-law. “Maybe it’s time for you to make yourself useful, Dalak. Give me the sort of advice and counsel that Count Fenring once provided for me. Kill some of my enemies, as he did. Go there as my representative and find a way to assassinate Muad’Dib.”
“Sire?” Dalak’s face turned the color of pale cheese. “Don’t you have other people to do that for you?”
“No one as expendable.” Shaddam was pleased to see the shocked expression on the man’s face, as if he had never been so blatantly insulted before. “What good are you, Dalak? Hasimir could have done it easily. My daughter says that the first thing you do after you awaken is look at yourself in a mirror at the foot of your bed. Is this the best sort of ally I have now? No wonder House Corrino is in such disgrace.”
Dalak stiffened, gathering a thin and fragile shell of pride. “I groom meticulously to present myself well in your royal court. I do it all for you, Majesty. And I would do anything you command. It is my duty. My life revolves around restoring glory to House Corrino.”
“Ah, restoring glory to House Corrino. Perhaps I can help.” Shaddam sent a signal, and four of his servants entered from a side door, nudging along several large crates that were lightened by suspensors. “These crates contain some of the greatest and most valuable Corrino family treasures. They are restored to us now. Somehow, they vanished from our private vaults and secret hiding places. These treasures found their way onto the black market.”
From the panicked look on Dalak’s face, Shaddam could tell that the man knew precisely what the crates contained. “I… I am glad to see them returned to their rightful owners.”
Shaddam got up from th
e dining table and walked over to the man. “It was rather difficult, and expensive. I am sure, however, that those costs can be retrieved from your own private accounts.”
Wensicia looked at her husband as if he had become a putrefying mass of flesh. “You stole and liquidated Corrino heirlooms?”
“Certainly not!” Dalak’s indignant demeanor was not quite convincing. “I had nothing whatsoever to do with anything like that.”
Shaddam continued, “We now know why he had such difficulty reaching the Tleilaxu worlds and speaking with Count Fenring. He was much too preoccupied by other business.”
“No — I deny it completely. Where is your proof?”
“An Emperor’s word is all the proof any loyal subject should need.” Indeed, he had sufficient documentation, hidden receipts, secret images of the transactions occurring. There could be no question at all. Shaddam glanced at Bashar Garon. “Do you have an extra weapon on your person that you might loan to this young man? One of the daggers or handguns you keep in your boots and sleeves? Or perhaps that little poison dart pistol in your inside jacket pocket. That seems an adequate weapon for my effeminate son-in-law.”
Dutifully, Garon reached into his coat and brought out the tiny weapon, not certain what Shaddam intended. The dart pistol was flat and half the size of his hand.
Dalak was deeply frightened. Count Fenring would never have acted so, even in the direst of circumstances. “Sire, there has been a misunderstanding. I can prove my worth to you. Let me speak to my cousin. I can convince him to return to Salusa. I know I can! I will do anything you ask.”
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