“And how many Great Houses will we face under this new alliance?” Idaho asked. “Money is collecting in strange places!”
“The fringes?” Irulan asked.
Idaho shrugged. It was an unanswerable question. All of them suspected that one day the Tleilaxu or technological tinkerers on the Imperial fringes would nullify the Holtzmann Effect. On that day, shields would be useless. The whole precarious balance which maintained planetary feudatories would collapse.
Alia refused to consider that possibility. “We’ll ride with what we have,” she said. “And what we have is a certain knowledge throughout the CHOAM directorate that we can destroy the spice if they force us to it. They won’t risk that.”
“Back to CHOAM again,” Irulan said.
“Unless someone has managed to duplicate the sandtrout-sandworm cycle on another planet,” Idaho said. He looked speculatively at Irulan, excited by this question. “Salusa Secundus?”
“My contacts there remain reliable,” Irulan said. “Not Salusa.”
“Then my answer stands,” Alia said, staring at Idaho. “We ride with what we have.”
My move, Idaho thought. He said: “Why’d you drag me away from important work? You could’ve worked this out yourself.”
“Don’t take that tone with me!” Alia snapped.
Idaho’s eyes went wide. For an instant, he’d seen the alien on Alia’s face, and it was a disconcerting sight. He turned his attention to Irulan, but she had not seen—or gave that appearance.
“I don’t need an elementary education,” Alia said, her voice still edged with alien anger.
Idaho managed a rueful smile, but his breast ached.
“We never get far from wealth and all of its masks when we deal with power,” Irulan drawled. “Paul was a social mutation and, as such, we have to remember that he shifted the old balance of wealth.”
“Such mutations are not irreversible,” Alia said, turning away from them as though she’d not exposed her terrible difference. “Wherever there’s wealth in this empire, they know this.”
“They also know,” Irulan said, “that there are three people who could perpetuate that mutation: the twins and …” She pointed at Alia.
Are they insane, this pair? Idaho wondered.
“They will try to assassinate me!” Alia rasped.
And Idaho sat in shocked silence, his mentat awareness whirling. Assassinate Alia? Why? They could discredit her too easily. They could cut her out of the Fremen pack and hunt her down at will. But the twins, now … He knew he was not in the proper mentat calm for such an assessment, but he had to try. He had to be as precise as possible. At the same time, he knew that precise thinking contained undigested absolutes. Nature was not precise. The universe was not precise when reduced to his scale; it was vague and fuzzy, full of unexpected movements and changes. Humankind as a whole had to be entered into this computation as a natural phenomenon. And the whole process of precise analysis represented a chopping off, a remove from the ongoing current of the universe. He had to get at that current, see it in motion.
“We were right to focus on CHOAM and the Landsraad,” Irulan drawled. “And Duncan’s suggestion offers a first line of inquiry for—”
“Money as a translation of energy can’t be separated from the energy it expresses,” Alia said. “We all know this. But we have to answer three specific questions: When? Using what weapons? Where?”
The twins … the twins, Idaho thought. It’s the twins who’re in danger, not Alia.
“You’re not interested in who or how?” Irulan asked.
“If House Corrino or CHOAM or any other group employs human instruments on this planet,” Alia said, “we stand a better than sixty percent chance of finding them before they act. Knowing when they’ll act and where gives us a bigger leverage on those odds. How? That’s just asking what weapons?”
Why can’t they see it as I see it? Idaho wondered.
“All right,” Irulan said. “When?”
“When attention is focused on someone else,” Alia said.
“Attention was focused on your mother at the Convocation,” Irulan said. “There was no attempt.”
“Wrong place,” Alia said.
What is she doing? Idaho wondered.
“Where, then?” Irulan asked.
“Right here in the Keep,” Alia said. “It’s the place where I’d feel most secure and least on my guard.”
“What weapons?” Irulan asked.
“Conventional—something a Fremen might have on his person: poisoned crysknife, maula pistol, a—”
“They’ve not tried a hunter-seeker in a long while,” Irulan said.
“Wouldn’t work in a crowd,” Alia said. “There’ll have to be a crowd.”
“Biological weapon?” Irulan asked.
“An infectious agent?” Alia asked, not masking her incredulity. How could Irulan think an infectious agent would succeed against the immunological barriers which protected an Atreides?
“I was thinking more in the line of some animal,” Irulan said. “A small pet, say, trained to bite a specific victim, inflicting a poison with its bite.”
“The House ferrets will prevent that,” Alia said.
“One of them, then?” Irulan asked.
“Couldn’t be done. The House ferrets would reject an outsider, kill it. You know that.”
“I was just exploring possibilities in the hope that—”
“I’ll alert my guards,” Alia said.
As Alia said guards, Idaho put a hand over his Tleilaxu eyes, trying to prevent the demanding involvement which swept over him. It was Rhajia, the movement of Infinity as expressed by Life, the latent cup of total immersion in mentat awareness which lay in wait for every mentat. It threw his awareness onto the universe like a net, falling, defining the shapes within it. He saw the twins crouching in darkness while giant claws raked the air about them.
“No,” he whispered.
“What?” Alia looked at him as though surprised to find him still there.
He took his hand from his eyes.
“The garments that House Corrino sent?” he asked. “Have they been sent on to the twins?”
“Of course,” Irulan said. “They’re perfectly safe.”
“No one’s going to try for the twins at Sietch Tabr,” Alia said. “Not with all of those Stilgar-trained guards around.”
Idaho stared at her. He had no particular datum to reinforce an argument based on mentat computation, but he knew. He knew. This thing he’d experienced came very close to the visionary power which Paul had known. Neither Irulan nor Alia would believe it, coming from him.
“I’d like to alert the port authorities against allowing the importation of any outside animals,” he said.
“You’re not taking Irulan’s suggestion seriously,” Alia protested.
“Why take any chances?” he asked.
“Tell that to the smugglers,” Alia said. “I’ll put my dependence on the House ferrets.”
Idaho shook his head. What could House ferrets do against claws the size of those he envisioned? But Alia was right. Bribes in the right places, one acquiescent Guild navigator, and anyplace in the Empty Quarter became a landing port. The Guild would resist a front position in any attack on House Atreides, but if the price were high enough … Well, the Guild could only be thought of as something like a geological barrier which made attacks difficult, but not impossible. They could always protest that they were just “a transportation agency.” How could they know to what use a particular cargo would be put?
Alia broke the silence with a purely Fremen gesture, a raised fist with thumb horizontal. She accompanied the gesture with a traditional expletive which meant, “I give Typhoon Conflict.” She obviously saw herself as the only logical target for assassins, and the gesture protested a universe full of undigested threats. She was saying she would hurl the death wind at anyone who attacked her.
Idaho felt the hopelessness of any protes
t. He saw that she no longer suspected him. He was going back to Tabr and she expected a perfectly executed abduction of the Lady Jessica. He lifted himself from the divan in an adrenalin surge of anger, thinking: If only Alia were the target! If only assassins could get to her! For an instant, he rested his hand on his own knife, but it was not in him to do this. Far better, though, that she die a martyr than live to be discredited and hounded into a sandy grave.
“Yes,” Alia said, misinterpreting his expression as concern for her. “You’d best hurry back to Tabr.” And she thought: How foolish of me to suspect Duncan! He’s mine, not Jessica’s! It had been the demand from the tribes that’d upset her, Alia thought. She waved an airy goodbye to Idaho as he left.
Idaho left the Council Chamber feeling hopeless. Not only was Alia blind with her alien possession, but she became more insane with each crisis. She’d already passed her danger point and was doomed. But what could be done for the twins? Whom could he convince? Stilgar? And what could Stilgar do that he wasn’t already doing?
The Lady Jessica, then?
Yes, he’d explore that possibility—but she, too, might be far gone in plotting with her Sisterhood. He carried few illusions about that Atreides concubine. She might do anything at the command of the Bene Gesserits—even turn against her own grandchildren.
***
Good government never depends upon laws, but upon the personal qualities of those who govern. The machinery of government is always subordinate to the will of those who administer that machinery. The most important element of government, therefore, is the method of choosing leaders.
—LAW AND GOVERNANCE THE SPACING GUILD MANUAL
Why does Alia wish me to share the morning audience? Jessica wondered. They’ve not voted me back into the Council.
Jessica stood in the anteroom to the Keep’s Great Hall. The anteroom itself would have been a great hall anywhere other than Arrakis. Following the Atreides lead, buildings in Arrakeen had become ever more gigantic as wealth and power concentrated, and this room epitomized her misgivings. She did not like this anteroom with its tiled floor depicting her son’s victory over Shaddam IV.
She caught a reflection of her own face in the polished plasteel door which led into the Great Hall. Returning to Dune forced such comparisons upon her, and Jessica noted only the signs of aging in her own features: the oval face had developed tiny lines and the eyes were more brittle in their indigo reflection. She could remember when there had been white around the blue of her eyes. Only the careful ministrations of a professional dresser maintained the polished bronze of her hair. Her nose remained small, mouth generous, and her body was still slender, but even the Bene Gesserit-trained muscles had a tendency toward slowing with the passage of time. Some might not note this and say: “You haven’t changed a bit!” But the Sisterhood’s training was a two-edged sword; small changes seldom escaped the notice of people thus trained.
And the lack of small changes in Alia had not escaped Jessica’s notice.
Javid, the master of Alia’s appointments, stood at the great door, being very official this morning. He was a robed genie with a cynical smile on his round face. Javid struck Jessica as a paradox: a well-fed Fremen. Noting her attention upon him, Javid smiled knowingly, shrugged. His attendance in Jessica’s entourage had been short, as he’d known it would be. He hated Atreides, but he was Alia’s man in more ways than one, if the rumors were to be believed.
Jessica saw the shrug, thought: This is the age of the shrug. He knows I’ve heard all the stories about him and he doesn’t care. Our civilization could well die of indifference within it before succumbing to external attack.
The guards Gurney had assigned her before leaving for the smugglers and the desert hadn’t liked her coming here without their attendance. But Jessica felt oddly safe. Let someone make a martyr of her in this place; Alia wouldn’t survive it. Alia would know that.
When Jessica failed to respond to his shrug and smile, Javid coughed, a belching disturbance of his larynx which could only have been achieved with practice. It was like a secret language. It said: “We understand the nonsense of all this pomp, My Lady. Isn’t it wonderful what humans can be made to believe!”
Wonderful! Jessica agreed, but her face gave no indication of the thought.
The anteroom was quite full now, all of the morning’s permitted supplicants having received their right of entrance from Javid’s people. The outer doors had been closed. Supplicants and attendants kept a polite distance from Jessica, but observed that she wore the formal black aba of a Fremen Reverend Mother. This would raise many questions. No mark of Muad’Dib’s priesthood could be seen on her person. Conversations hummed as the people divided their attention between Jessica and the small side door through which Alia would come to lead them into the Great Hall. It was obvious to Jessica that the old pattern which defined where the Regency’s powers lay had been shaken.
I did that just by coming here, she thought. But I came because Alia invited me.
Reading the signs of disturbance, Jessica realized Alia was deliberately prolonging this moment, allowing the subtle currents to run their course here. Alia would be watching from a spy hole, of course. Few subtleties of Alia’s behavior escaped Jessica, and she felt with each passing minute how right she’d been to accept the mission which the Sisterhood had pressed upon her.
“Matters cannot be allowed to continue in this way,” the leader of the Bene Gesserit delegation had argued. “Surely the signs of decay have not escaped you—you of all people! We know why you left us, but we know also how you were trained. Nothing was stinted in your education. You are an adept of the Panoplia Prophetica and you must know when the souring of a powerful religion threatens us all.”
Jessica had pursed her lips in thought while staring out a window at the soft signs of spring at Castle Caladan. She did not like to direct her thinking in such a logical fashion. One of the first lessons of the Sisterhood had been to reserve an attitude of questioning distrust for anything which came in the guise of logic. But the members of the delegation had known that, too.
How moist the air had been that morning, Jessica thought, looking around Alia’s anteroom. How fresh and moist. Here there was a sweaty dampness to the air which evoked a sense of uneasiness in Jessica, and she thought: I’ve reverted to Fremen ways. The air was too moist in this sietch-above-ground. What was wrong with the Master of the Stills? Paul would never have permitted such laxness.
She noted that Javid, his shiny face alert and composed, appeared not to have noticed the fault of dampness in the anteroom’s air. Bad training for one born on Arrakis.
The members of the Bene Gesserit delegation had wanted to know if she required proofs of their allegations. She’d given them an angry answer out of their own manuals: “All proofs inevitably lead to propositions which have no proof! All things are known because we want to believe in them.”
“But we have submitted these questions to mentats,” the delegation’s leader had protested.
Jessica had stared at the woman, astonished. “I marvel that you have reached your present station and not yet learned the limits of mentats,” Jessica had said.
At which the delegation had relaxed. Apparently it had all been a test, and she had passed. They’d feared, of course, that she had lost all touch with those balancing abilities which were at the core of Bene Gesserit training.
Now Jessica became softly alert as Javid left his door station and approached her. He bowed. “My Lady. It occurred to me that you might not’ve heard the latest exploit of The Preacher.”
“I get daily reports on everything which occurs here,” Jessica said. Let him take that back to Alia!
Javid smiled. “Then you know he rails against your family. Only last night, he preached in the south suburb and no one dared touch him. You know why, of course.”
“Because they think he’s my son come back to them,” Jessica said, her voice bored.
“This question has not
yet been put to the mentat Idaho,” Javid said. “Perhaps that should be done and the thing settled.”
Jessica thought: Here’s one who truly doesn’t know a mentat’s limits, although he dares put horns on one—in his dreams if not in fact.
“Mentats share the fallibilities of those who use them,” she said. “The human mind, as is the case with the mind of any animal, is a resonator. It responds to resonances in the environment. The mentat has learned to extend his awareness across many parallel loops of causality and to proceed along those loops for long chains of consequences.” Let him chew on that!
“This Preacher doesn’t disturb you, then?” Javid asked, his voice abruptly formal and portentous.
“I find him a healthy sign,” she said. “I don’t want him bothered.”
Javid clearly had not expected that blunt a response. He tried to smile, failed. Then: “The ruling Council of the church which deifies thy son will, of course, bow to your wishes if you insist. But certainly some explanation—”
“Perhaps you’d rather I explained how I fit into your schemes,” she said.
Javid stared at her narrowly. “Madame, I see no logical reason why thou refusest to denounce this Preacher. He cannot be thy son. I make a reasonable request: denounce him.”
This is a set piece, Jessica thought. Alia put him up to it.
She said: “No.”
“But he defiles the name of thy son! He preaches abominable things, cries out against thy holy daughter. He incites the populace against us. When asked, he said that even thou possessest the nature of evil and that thy—”
“Enough of this nonsense!” Jessica said. “Tell Alia that I refuse. I’ve heard nothing but tales of this Preacher since returning. He bores me.”
“Does it bore thee, Madame, to learn that in his latest defilement he has said that thou wilt not turn against him? And here, clearly, thou—”
“Evil as I am, I still won’t denounce him,” she said.
“It is no joking matter, Madame!”
Jessica waved him away angrily. “Begone!” She spoke with sufficient carrying power that others heard, forcing him to obey.
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