“Salusa Secundus is not a pleasant place,” Stilgar said. “Or so I have heard.”
“Comforts mean little to Count Fenring,” Paul said. “For years, he served on Arrakis as the Imperial Spice Minister. I suspect that he left Salusa, not because he wanted a finer palace, but because he could no longer stand being with Shaddam.”
Irulan’s demeanor hardened. “My father often took action before he possessed all the facts. He simply expected the rest of the Imperium to bow to his will, whether or not his decisions were wise or rational. He often acted without consulting Count Fenring, and as a result got himself into terrible debacles. The Count grew tired of cleaning up after my father’s messes.”
With a sigh, Paul leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees.
“The question remains — how shall we respond to this request? Lady Margot wishes to send her little daughter here for schooling, and no doubt to make connections. The girl is only six years old. Could their motives be as straightforward as wanting to get into my good graces, since they abandoned Shaddam IV?”
“Occam’s Razor suggests that may be the real answer,” Irulan said. “The simplest answer does make perfect sense.”
“Occam’s Razor is dull where the Bene Gesserit are concerned,” Alia said. “I know from the clatter in my head that they have always schemed and plotted.”
Paul lifted the filmy sheets again and read the words Margot had imprinted there: “‘Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib Atreides, I humbly and respectfully request a favor. Though my husband has chosen to take refuge among the Tleilaxu, I am convinced that this is not the environment in which our daughter should be raised. The misogynist Tleilaxu culture is reprehensible in my eyes. I ask leave for Marie to come to your court in Arrakeen and spend the remainder of her formative years there, if her company should prove acceptable to you.’”
Paul set down the sheets. “Then Lady Margot also reminds me — unnecessarily — that she was the one who left a message in the conservatory of the Arrakeen Residency to warn my mother of a hidden Harkonnen threat. There is no disputing that, or the accuracy of her information.”
“She has placed a water-debt on you,” Stilgar said. The old naib’s brow furrowed, and he ran his fingers along the dark beard on his chin. “And yet, I cannot understand why she would offer us such an important hostage.”
“That works both ways,” Paul said. “We may have the little girl as a hostage, but we are also allowing a potential spy into the royal court.”
Irulan was surprised. “She’s only a child, my Lord. Just six years old.”
“I am just a little girl too,” Alia said, letting the rest of them draw their own comparisons and conclusions. Then she crossed her legs and sat down on the step in front of the Lion Throne, adjusting her child-sized black aba robe. “I think I would like to have a playmate, Brother.”
2
Increasingly, I am only able to see myself through the eyes of the monster.
—from Muad’Dib and the Jihad by the PRINCESS IRULAN
Paul hadn’t slept well for seven nights in a row, and he couldn’t hide the fact from Chani. She got up in the still darkness and came to stand by him on the balcony. Paul had passed through the moisture seal and wore only a loose, lightweight tunic in the dry air, wasting water. No stillsuit. Chani did the same.
When did I forget the basic lessons of Arrakis? he thought. Just because I am Emperor, does that mean water costs me nothing?
Listening to the humming restlessness of the vast city, he absorbed the vibrations in the air, the mixture of scents that filled every breath, unfiltered by stillsuit nose plugs. Arrakeen reminded him of an insect hive, filled with countless skittering subjects, all needing someone else to think for them, to decide for them, to command them.
He looked up into the night sky, saw the stars and imagined all the worlds out there, all the battles still taking place. With a faint smile, he recalled something Irulan had added to one of her stories, an obvious yet mythic fabrication — that at the moment of Duke Leto’s death, a meteor had streaked across the skies above his ancestral palace on Caladan….
“It pains me to see you so troubled every night, Beloved.” He turned to Chani, let out a long sigh. “My Sihaya, the people trouble me. I have known since childhood that this must come to pass, and I wanted them to trust me, to join me in this journey, to cooperate instead of forcing me to become a tyrant. Now they obey not because it is the right thing to do for the ultimate good of humanity, but because Muad’Dib commands it. If I walked out in the streets during any hour of the day, crowds would form and demand incessantly ‘Guide us, my Lord! Guide us!’ Is that what humanity needs, the danger of relying on a charismatic leader?”
“Perhaps you need guidance yourself, Usul,” Chani said quietly, stroking his dark hair away from his ear. “The guidance of Shai-Hulud. Perhaps you need to remember what it means to be a Fremen. Go out in the desert, summon a worm, and make your own hajj.”
He turned to kiss her on the mouth. “As always, you make me see clearly. Only in the desert can a man’s thoughts be still enough for him to think.” This was exactly what both Paul Atreides and the Emperor Muad’Dib needed.
***
LEAVING ALIA BEHIND behind as his delegate, he granted her the authority to make the appropriate decisions and perform necessary court functions, with Stilgar positioned as the girl’s adviser and protector (not that she needed one). Paul had offered to take Chani along on his journey, but after studying his face for a long moment, she declined. “You require solitude and stillness, Usul. You and the desert have much to say to each other.”
Sometimes she thought in ways that did not occur to him, as if her mind filled an essential portion of the container of his life. Their relationship was far more than that of a man and a woman, or of kindred spirits, or of any of the usual cliches. The feelings they held for each other stretched across the eons of human existence.
As the sun rose, he took a ‘thopter beyond the broken Shield Wall, past the water trenches that kept the deep-desert worms at bay, and landed at the edge of the vast, open desert. Unfortunately, though he had intended to depart alone, without ceremony, an entourage of assistants, advisers, and gawking observers soon followed. Korba transmitted that he had summoned them to provide Muad’Dib with the fanfare he deserved.
Ignoring them, dwelling on his own concerns, he turned his back on the unwelcome crowd and walked away from his landed ‘thopter, trudging out onto the dunes where he could summon a worm. He glanced over his shoulder and was dismayed to see eight ‘thopters and perhaps a hundred people, some dressed in desert fashion, some wearing the robes of the Qizara priesthood. At least a third of them did not even wear stillsuits.
Korba should know better. When had it changed that people would venture out to the desert as if attending a parade? Paul felt that the purity of the sands had already been lost. The Fremen were so enamored with their continual string of Jihad victories that they failed to recognize the loss of their heritage, the loss of their very souls.
Paul planted a thumper, winding the clockwork mechanism and setting the pendulum to make the rhythmic lump-lump-lump. Although he had done this many times, he still felt awe at the experience. He was an offworlder, yet he was also a wormrider who had proved himself among the Fremen. He had raided the Harkonnens many times. Back then, unlike now, the enemy had been clearly defined, as had victory.
In his Jihad he had offered larger and larger rewards for bringing down Earl Memnon Thorvald, whose rebellion continued to flare up, employing more desperate measures and unexpectedly violent tactics that reminded Paul of the defeated Viscount Hundro Moritani. But the Fedaykin seemed to relish having a persistent enemy to fight. Their outward-looking hatred bound them as a unit.
Behind him by the ‘thopters, some of the observers actually applauded his rote actions in calling a worm, as if he were giving a performance just for them. The thumper continued its droning rhythm. Paul waited, listening for the
hiss of sand made by a behemoth worm, scanning for the faint ripple of dunes stirred by underground movement.
The thumper continued to pulse.
The distant audience began to mutter, surprised at what they saw. Finally the clockwork spring ran out, and the thumper fell silent. No sandworm had come. They would call it an inauspicious omen.
Paul lifted the counterweight, rewound the device, and jammed it deeper into the sand before he activated the syncopating mechanism again. He felt awkward. So many people read meanings into everything he did. Muad’Dib didn’t want this.
And now he heard the people continuing to murmur, wondering if Shai-Hulud had abandoned Muad’Dib. Paul began to grow angry, not just at them but at himself. Shai-Hulud did not perform for audiences!
Then, just before the thumper fell silent for a second time, he noticed a stirring of the dunes. A shallow trough ran toward him as a sandworm raced toward the sonic disturbance. His pulse quickened.
Korba saw it next, and the people emitted a loud cheer. The fools! Their noise would distract the creature, and the small barrier of rocks on which they had gathered would never stop a large sandworm.
Paul grabbed his ropes, his Maker hooks, his spreaders. When the sand parted and a huge rounded head exploded upward, he stepped back and clanged his worm hooks together to make a loud reverberating sound, seeking to tug the creature’s attention away from the observers who had finally fallen silent in terror and awe.
“Shai-Hulud! To me!” Paul planted his feet properly, gauging the worm’s approach, and at just the right moment, hooked one of the ring segments. He clasped the rope and scrambled up the worm’s pebbly side.
This was only a medium-sized sandworm. It would serve him well enough, without being impressive, though he was sure the observers would describe it as the greatest ever seen on Dune. Without a backward glance, paying no heed to the cheers and praise, Paul scrambled onto the beast’s back. He inserted the spreaders in a practiced manner, opened the worm segments to the sensitive flesh beneath, and struck the worm’s head with his goad. Anchoring himself with his ropes, he turned the beast and raced out onto the open dunes, spraying sand and dust.
He was comforted by the solitude and heat, and the odors of sulfur and cinnamon that clung to the creature. As the worm raced off, Paul’s conscience came clamoring after him, even into the deepest desert. Kilometers rushed past, but Paul Atreides could not leave his demons behind.
3
People fear me. I never wanted to be feared.
—ST. ALIA OF THE KNIFE
After her brother went into the deep desert, Alia sat on a throne that was much too large for her. Because of her small size and innocent appearance, she embodied a dramatic contradiction — generations of wisdom and a stern hand of justice wrapped up in an unprepossessing form.
The people viewed Muad’Dib as a godlike figure, but they spared some of their religious awe for Alia, too. Supplicants came before her without knowing which of her many moods they might face, aware that they were taking a risk.
Two legates from the recently surrendered world of Alahir arrived in stiff and formal uniforms that looked impossibly hot and monstrously uncomfortable, designed for the airy coolness of their planet rather than the dry heat of Dune. They brought gifts and pleaded for an audience with the Holy Emperor Muad’Dib. After being told he was unavailable, they walked uncertainly to present themselves to his sister Alia instead. When the two men glimpsed the little girl on the throne they grew indignant, assuming this was some insult to their world and their leader. “We have traveled on a Guild Heighliner across many star systems to see the Emperor.”
Alia did not move from her throne. “I speak for my brother. You will see me, or you will see no one.”
The lead Alahir ambassador had a long slender neck and a high piping voice. “But we have sworn our loyalty. We are faithful subjects of His Holiness. It is our right to see him.”
With a gesture and few terse words, Alia sent the men away under heavy Fremen guard. Despite their protestations, they were escorted back to their frigate and taken up to the Heighliner. By her command, they would make the long journey back to their planet before they would be allowed to turn around and make the journey all over again, this time with more humility. She dispatched a dour Fremen guard to accompany them and make certain the two actually returned home and set foot on Alahir.
Some observers in the crowded audience chuckled at her heavy-handed treatment of the men. Others, seeing her stern and uncompromising mood, slinked away without airing their grievances. At one time, Alia might have had guards follow those men to determine what they had been about, but now she presumed they had simply realized that their cases were weak or frivolous. She wished many more of them would melt away like that and solve their own problems — exactly as her brother wished.
The next supplicant was a tired-looking man whose face showed the deep, sunburned creases of a hard life. His entire body seemed to be a callus, yet he wore pride and self-esteem like armor. Though not neatly barbered, he kept his hair combed and tied back. His garments were poor, but had been meticulously mended; only Alia’s sharp eye noted the signs of wear. This was not a careless man.
He was the accuser, and the two defendants in his case looked much more careless and sloppy, though they wore finer clothes and scented their bodies with oils and colognes. The weathered-looking man stepped forward and gave a salute from the Jihad, as if Alia were actually Paul. She liked that.
“I fought faithfully in Muad’Dib’s Jihad,” he said. “I stood on the battlefields of five planets, including Ehknot. My commander discharged me with honors and provided me with a pension. That should have been enough for a home in Carthag, enough to support my wives until I could establish myself as a stonemason.” He glared at the pair of defendants. “But these men took all of my money.”
“He lost his money, yes, Mistress Alia — but he lost it fairly,” cried the pudgier of the two men.
Alia turned to the accuser for more information, and he said, “I gambled with them. We played the game of tarot dice, and they took everything from me.”
Now Alia frowned. “When one gambles, one risks losing. That is the way of it.”
“When one gambles, Mistress Alia, one knows the rules and expects fair play. But these men cheated.”
“We did no such thing!” the second defendant said.
“Just because you lost a game does not mean they cheated,” Alia pointed out.
“They cheated. I swear it on my honor, on my life… on my water!”
Alia sat back. “You say these men cheated you. They say they did not. How am I to determine who is correct?” In fact, Alia could tell. Even without truthsense she would have known that the two exceedingly nervous defendants were hiding something, while the accuser did not waver in his conviction and righteous indignation.
She sprang from her throne and trotted down the stone steps, jaunting like a little girl, intentionally, to disorient them. “I will play a game with these men. Show me the tarot dice that were used.” Reluctantly, they withdrew the cubes, and Alia squatted on the floor. “Come beside me, and we will play.” The two defendants looked extremely nervous, but they could not refuse her request.
She held the five dice in her small hand. Each face bore a different coded image that had symbolic meanings far beyond the game itself. These dice would not be noticeably weighted one way or the other, but she realized they had been altered somehow to give the owners a distinct advantage. The rules of even the basic game of tarot dice were complicated, but Alia knew them in detail. She rolled first before the men could complain: leaving face up two wands, a scythe, a star, and a water pitcher.
“An auspicious omen!” one of the men declared, as if out of habit. “Now let us place our wagers.”
Alia harbored no doubt that the first roll was designed to be positive, to lure a player into more extravagant betting. Hustlers. The two defendants shuddered, looking gray. They placed th
eir wagers — modest ones — and then tolled, building upon the prophecy, lining up their omens. They didn’t know whether they should try to win or lose, but because Alia demanded larger and larger bets from them in front of the eager audience, they could not simply surrender. She refused to let them withdraw.
During this, their accuser stood with his arms crossed over his chest, glowering down at the play, while other audience members cheered her on, offering their advice.
Though Alia could not control the mechanics of the dice rolls, she gradually began to realize how these men were interpreting — and manipulating — the results. As for herself, she had a far more interesting means of cheating. With glimpses of prescience, Alia could determine how most of the rolls would come out. Even with the dice subtly weighted to give unexpected results, she could frequently see which dice to hold back and which ones to play, then place bold wagers accordingly. “Luck” was with her in a more concrete way than any other gambler could imagine.
The two terrified defendants could not stop the game. The audience murmured with appreciation, but not surprise, as Alia won again and again, defying the rolls that would be expected from untainted dice. Over the course of the game, the perceptive members of the crowd recognized that these men had somehow altered the pieces to their advantage, and that even so Alia was thwarting them. Her gradual swell of winnings forced them to raise their bets and put more of their personal fortunes on the line. Guards stood around the room to ensure that no one left.
Finally, both men raised their hands, sobbing. “We are ruined, Mistress Alia. You have taken all of our wealth. We have nothing more to gamble.”
“You have your lives,” she pointed out. “Now, would you care to wager them?”
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