Children of Dune dc-3

by Frank Herbert

  “Welcome home, My Lady. It’s always a pleasure to see direct and effective action.”

  Jessica allowed herself a tiny smile. “Close the port, Stil. No one leaves until we’ve questioned those we took.”

  “It’s already done, My Lady,” Stilgar said. “Gurney’s man and I planned this together.”

  “Those were your men, then, the ones who helped.”

  “Some of them, My Lady.”

  She read the hidden reservations, nodded. “You studied me pretty well in those old days, Stil.”

  “As you once were at pains to tell me, My Lady, one observes the survivors and learns from them.”

  Alia stepped forward then and Stilgar stood aside while Jessica confronted her daughter.

  Knowing there was no way to hide what she had learned, Jessica did not even try concealment. Alia could read the minutiae when she needed, could read as well as any adept of the Sisterhood. She would already know by Jessica’s behavior what had been seen and interpreted. They were enemies for whom the word mortal touched only the surface.

  Alia chose anger as the easiest and most proper reaction.

  “How dare you plan an action such as this without consulting me?” she demanded, pushing her face close to Jessica’s.

  Jessica spoke mildly: “As you’ve just heard, Gurney didn’t even let me in on the whole plan. It was thought …”

  “And you, Stilgar!” Alia said, rounding on him. “To whom are you loyal?”

  “My oath is to Muad’Dib’s children,” Stilgar said, speaking stiffly. “We have removed a threat to them.”

  “And why doesn’t that fill you with joy … daughter?” Jessica asked.

  Alia blinked, glanced once at her mother, suppressed the inner tempest, and even managed a straight-toothed smile. “I am filled with joy … mother,” she said. And to her own surprise, Alia found that she was happy, experiencing a terrible delight that it was all out in the open at last between herself and her mother. The moment she had dreaded was past and the power balance had not really been changed. “We will discuss this in more detail at a more convenient time,” Alia said, speaking both to her mother and Stilgar.

  “But of course,” Jessica said, turning with a movement of dismissal to face the Princess Irulan.

  For a few brief heartbeats, Jessica and the Princess stood silently studying each other—two Bene Gesserits who had broken with the Sisterhood for the same reason: love … both of them for love of men who now were dead. This Princess had loved Paul in vain, becoming his wife but not his mate. And now she lived only for the children given to Paul by his Fremen concubine, Chani.

  Jessica spoke first: “Where are my grandchildren?”

  “At Sietch Tabr.”

  “Too dangerous for them here; I understand.”

  Irulan permitted herself a faint nod. She had observed the interchange between Jessica and Alia, but put upon it an interpretation for which Alia had prepared her. “Jessica has returned to the Sisterhood and we both know they have plans for Paul’s children.” Irulan had never been the most accomplished adept in the Bene Gesserit—valuable more for the fact that she was a daughter of Shaddam IV than for any other reason; often too proud to exert herself in extending her capabilities. Now she chose sides with an abruptness which did no credit to her training.

  “Really, Jessica,” Irulan said, “the Royal Council should have been consulted. It was wrong of you to work only through—”

  “Am I to believe none of you trust Stilgar?” Jessica asked.

  Irulan possessed the wit to realize there could be no answer to such a question. She was glad that the priestly delegates, unable to contain their impatience any longer, pressed forward. She exchanged a glance with Alia, thinking: Jessica’s as haughty and certain of herself as ever! A Bene Gesserit axiom arose unbidden in her mind, though: “The haughty do but build castle walls behind which they try to hide their doubts and fears.” Could that be true of Jessica? Surely not. Then it must be a pose. But for what purpose? The question disturbed Irulan.

  The priests were noisy in their possession of Muad’Dib’s mother. Some only touched her arms, but most bowed low and spoke greetings. At last the leaders of the delegation took their turn with the Most Holy Reverend Mother, accepting the ordained role—“The first shall be last”—with practiced smiles, telling her that the official Lustration ceremony awaited her at the Keep, Paul’s old fortress-stronghold.

  Jessica studied the pair, finding them repellent. One was called Javid, a young man of surly features and round cheeks, shadowed eyes which could not hide the suspicions lurking in their depths. The other was Zebataleph, second son of a Naib she’d known in her Fremen days, as he was quick to remind her. He was easily classified: jollity linked with ruthlessness, a thin face with blond beard, an air about him of secret excitements and powerful knowledge. Javid she judged far more dangerous of the two, a man of private counsel, simultaneously magnetic and—she could find no other word—repellent. She found his accents strange, full of old Fremen pronunciations, as though he’d come from some isolated pocket of his people.

  “Tell me, Javid,” she said, “whence come you?”

  “I am but a simple Fremen of the desert,” he said, every syllable giving the lie to the statement.

  Zebataleph intruded with an offensive deference, almost mocking: “We have much to discuss of the old days, My Lady. I was one of the first, you know, to recognize the holy nature of your son’s mission.”

  “But you weren’t one of his Fedaykin,” she said.

  “No, My Lady. I possessed a more philosophic bent; I studied for the priesthood.”

  And insured the preservation of your skin, she thought.

  Javid said: “They await us at the Keep, My Lady.”

  Again she found the strangeness of his accent an open question demanding an answer. “Who awaits us?” she asked.

  “The Convocation of the Faith, all those who keep bright the name and the deeds of your holy son,” Javid said.

  Jessica glanced around her, saw Alia smiling at Javid, asked: “Is this man one of your appointees, daughter?”

  Alia nodded. “A man destined for great deeds.”

  But Jessica saw that Javid had no pleasure in this attention, marked him for Gurney’s special study. And there came Gurney with five trusted men, signaling that they had the suspicious laggards under interrogation. He walked with the rolling stride of a powerful man, glance flicking left, right, all around, every muscle flowing through the relaxed alertness she had taught him out of the Bene Gesserit prana-bindu manual. He was an ugly lump of trained reflexes, a killer, and altogether terrifying to some, but Jessica loved him and prized him above all other living men. The scar of an inkvine whip rippled along his jaw, giving him a sinister appearance, but a smile softened his face as he saw Stilgar.

  “Well done, Stil,” he said. And they gripped arms in the Fremen fashion.

  “The Lustration,” Javid said, touching Jessica’s arm.

  Jessica drew back, chose her words carefully in the controlled power of Voice, her tone and delivery calculated for a precise emotional effect upon Javid and Zebataleph: “I returned to Dune to see my grandchildren. Must we take time for this priestly nonsense?”

  Zebataleph reacted with shock, his mouth dropping open, eyes alarmed, glancing about at those who had heard. The eyes marked each listener. Priestly nonsense! What effect would such words have, coming from the mother of their messiah?

  Javid, however, confirmed Jessica’s assessment. His mouth hardened, then smiled. The eyes did not smile, nor did they waver to mark the listeners. Javid already knew each member of this party. He had an earshot map of those who would be watched with special care from this point onward. Only seconds later, Javid stopped smiling with an abruptness which said he knew how he had betrayed himself. Javid had not failed to do his home-work: he knew the observational powers possessed by the Lady Jessica. A short, jerking nod of his head acknowledged those powers.

/>   In a lightning flash of mentation, Jessica weighed the necessities. A subtle hand signal to Gurney would bring Javid’s death. It could be done here for effect, or in quiet later, and be made to appear an accident.

  She thought: When we try to conceal our innermost drives, the entire being screams betrayal. Bene Gesserit training turned upon this revelation—raising the adepts above it and teaching them to read the open flesh of others. She saw Javid’s intelligence as valuable, a temporary weight in the balance. If he could be won over, he could be the link she needed, the line into the Arrakeen priesthood. And he was Alia’s man.

  Jessica said: “My official party must remain small. We have room for one addition, however. Javid, you will join us. Zebataleph, I am sorry. And, Javid … I will attend this—this ceremony—if you insist.”

  Javid allowed himself a deep breath and a low-voiced “As Muad’Dib’s mother commands.” He glanced to Alia, to Zebataleph, back to Jessica. “It pains me to delay the reunion with your grandchildren, but there are, ahhh, reasons of state …”

  Jessica thought: Good. He’s a businessman above all else. Once we’ve determined the proper coinage, we’ll buy him. And she found herself enjoying the fact that he insisted on his precious ceremony. This little victory would give him power with his fellows, and they both knew it. Accepting his Lustration could be a down payment on later services.

  “I presume you’ve arranged transportation,” she said.

  ***

  I give you the desert chameleon, whose ability to blend itself into the background tells you all you need to know about the roots of ecology and the foundations of a personal identity.

  —BOOK OF DIATRIBES FROM THE HAYT CHRONICLE

  Leto sat playing a small baliset which had been sent to him on his fifth birthday by that consummate artist of the instrument, Gurney Halleck. In four years of practice, Leto had achieved a certain fluency, although the two bass side strings still gave him trouble. He had found the baliset soothing, however, for particular feelings of upset—a fact which had not escaped Ghanima. He sat now in twilight on a rock shelf at the southernmost extremity of the craggy outcropping which sheltered Sietch Tabr. Softly he strummed the baliset.

  Ghanima stood behind him, her small figure radiating protest. She had not wanted to come here into the open after learning from Stilgar that their grandmother was delayed in Arrakeen. She particularly objected to coming here with nightfall near. Attempting to hurry her brother, she asked: “Well, what is it?”

  For an answer, he began another tune.

  For the first time since accepting the gift, Leto felt intensely aware that this baliset had originated with a master craftsman on Caladan. He possessed inherited memories which could inflict him with profound nostalgia for that beautiful planet where House Atreides had ruled. Leto had but to relax his inner barriers in the presence of this music and he would hear memories from those times when Gurney had employed the baliset to beguile his friend and charge, Paul Atreides. With the baliset sounding in his own hands, Leto felt himself more and more dominated by his father’s psychical presence. Still he played, relating more strongly to the instrument with every second that passed. He sensed the absolute idealized summation within himself which knew how to play this baliset, though nine-year-old muscles had not yet been conditioned to that inner awareness.

  Ghanima tapped her foot impatiently, unaware that she matched the rhythm of her brother’s playing.

  Setting his mouth in a grimace of concentration, Leto broke from the familiar music and tried a song more ancient than any even Gurney had played. It had been old when Fremen migrated to their fifth planet. The words echoed a Zensunni theme, and he heard them in his memory while his fingers elicited a faltering version of the tune.

  Nature’s beauteous form

  Contains a lovely essence

  Called by some—decay.

  By this lovely presence

  New life finds its way.

  Tears shed silently

  Are but water of the soul:

  They bring new life

  To the pain of being—

  A separation from that seeing

  Which death makes whole.

  Ghanima spoke behind him as he strummed the final note. “There’s a mucky old song. Why that one?”

  “Because it fits.”

  “Will you play it for Gurney?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “He’ll call it moody nonsense.”

  “I know.”

  Leto peered back over his shoulder at Ghanima. There was no surprise in him that she knew the song and its lyrics, but he felt a sudden onset of awe at the singleness of their twinned lives. One of them could die and yet remain alive in the other’s consciousness, every shared memory intact; they were that close. He found himself frightened by the timeless web of that closeness, broke his gaze away from her. The web contained gaps, he knew. His fear arose from the newest of those gaps. He felt their lives beginning to separate and wondered: How can I tell her of this thing which has happened only to me?

  He peered out over the desert, seeing the deep shadows behind the barachans—those high, crescent-shaped migratory dunes which moved like waves around Arrakis. This was Kedem, the inner desert, and its dunes were rarely marked these days by the irregularities of a giant worm’s progress. Sunset drew bloody streaks over the dunes, imparting a fiery light to the shadow edges. A hawk falling from the crimson sky captured his awareness as it captured a rock partridge in flight.

  Directly beneath him on the desert floor plants grew in a profusion of greens, watered by a qanat which flowed partly in the open, partly in covered tunnels. The water came from giant windtrap collectors behind him on the highest point of rock. The green flag of the Atreides flew openly there.

  Water and green.

  The new symbols of Arrakis: water and green.

  A diamond-shaped oasis of planted dunes spread beneath his high perch, focusing his attention into sharp Fremen awareness. The bell call of a nightbird came from the cliff below him, and it amplified the sensation that he lived this moment out of a wild past.

  Nous avons changé tout cela, he thought, falling easily into one of the ancient tongues which he and Ghanima employed in private. “We have altered all of that.” He sighed. Oublier je ne puis. “I cannot forget.”

  Beyond the oasis, he could see in this failing light the land Fremen called “The Emptiness”—the land where nothing grows, the land never fertile. Water and the great ecological plan were changing that. There were places now on Arrakis where one could see the plush green velvet of forested hills. Forests on Arrakis! Some in the new generation found it difficult to imagine dunes beneath those undulant green hills. To such young eyes there was no shock value in seeing the flat foliage of rain trees. But Leto found himself thinking now in the Old Fremen manner, wary of change, fearful in the presence of the new.

  He said: “The children tell me they seldom find sandtrout here near the surface anymore.”

  “What’s that supposed to indicate?” Ghanima asked. There was petulance in her tone.

  “Things are beginning to change very swiftly,” he said.

  Again the bird chimed in the cliff, and night fell upon the desert as the hawk had fallen upon the partridge. Night often subjected him to an assault of memories—all of those inner lives clamoring for their moment. Ghanima didn’t object to this phenomenon in quite the way he did. She knew his disquiet, though, and he felt her hand touch his shoulder in sympathy.

  He struck an angry chord from the baliset.

  How could he tell her what was happening to him?

  Within his head were wars, uncounted lives parceling out their ancient memories: violent accidents, love’s languor, the colors of many places and many faces … the buried sorrows and leaping joys of multitudes. He heard elegies to springs on planets which no longer existed, green dances and firelight, wails and halloos, a harvest of conversations without number.

  Their assault was har
dest to bear at nightfall in the open.

  “Shouldn’t we be going in?” she asked.

  He shook his head, and she felt the movement, realizing at last that his troubles went deeper than she had suspected.

  Why do I so often greet the night out here? he asked himself. He did not feel Ghanima withdraw her hand.

  “You know why you torment yourself this way,” she said.

  He heard the gentle chiding in her voice. Yes, he knew. The answer lay there in his awareness, obvious: Because that great known-unknown within moves me like a wave. He felt the cresting of his past as though he rode a surfboard. He had his father’s time-spread memories of prescience superimposed upon everything else, yet he wanted all of those pasts. He wanted them. And they were so very dangerous. He knew that completely now with this new thing which he would have to tell Ghanima.

  The desert was beginning to glow under the rising light of First Moon. He stared out at the false immobility of sand furls reaching into infinity. To his left, in the near distance, lay The Attendant, a rock outcropping which sandblast winds had reduced to a low, sinuous shape like a dark worm striking through the dunes. Someday the rock beneath him would be cut down to such a shape and Sietch Tabr would be no more, except in the memories of someone like himself. He did not doubt that there would be someone like himself.

  “Why’re you staring at The Attendant?” Ghanima asked.

  He shrugged. In defiance of their guardians’ orders, he and Ghanima often went to The Attendant. They had discovered a secret hiding place there, and Leto knew now why that place lured them.

  Beneath him, its distance foreshortened by darkness, an open stretch of qanat gleamed in moonlight; its surface rippled with movements of predator fish which Fremen always planted in their stored water to keep out the sandtrout.