Children of Dune dc-3

by Frank Herbert

  His eyes glared with rage, but he managed a stiff bow and returned to his position at the door.

  This argument fitted neatly into the observations Jessica already had made. When he spoke of Alia, Javid’s voice carried the husky undertones of a lover; no mistaking it. The rumors no doubt were true. Alia had allowed her life to degenerate in a terrible way. Observing this, Jessica began to harbor the suspicion that Alia was a willing participant in Abomination. Was it a perverse will to self-destruction? Because surely Alia was working to destroy herself and the power base which fed on her brother’s teachings.

  Faint stirrings of unease began to grow apparent in the anteroom. The aficionados of this place would know when Alia delayed too long, and by now they’d all heard about Jessica’s peremptory dismissal of Alia’s favorite.

  Jessica sighed. She felt that her body had walked into this place with her soul creeping behind. Movements among the courtiers were so transparent! The seeking out of important people was a dance like the wind through a field of cereal stalks. The cultivated inhabitants of this place furrowed their brows and gave pragmatic rating numbers to the importance of each of their fellows. Obviously her rebuff of Javid had hurt him; few spoke to him now. But the others! Her trained eye could read the rating numbers in the satellites attending the powerful.

  They do not attend me because I am dangerous, she thought. I have the stink of someone Alia fears.

  Jessica glanced around the room, seeing eyes turn away. They were such seriously futile people that she found herself wanting to cry out against their ready-made justifications for pointless lives. Oh, if only The Preacher could see this room as it looked now!

  A fragment of a nearby conversation caught her attention. A tall, slender Priest was addressing his coterie, no doubt supplicants here under his auspices. “Often I must speak otherwise than I think,” he said. “This is called diplomacy.”

  The resultant laughter was too loud, too quickly silenced. People in the group saw that Jessica had overheard.

  My Duke would have transported such a one to the farthest available hellhole! Jessica thought. I’ve returned none too soon.

  She knew now that she’d lived on faraway Caladan in an insulated capsule which had allowed only the most blatant of Alia’s excesses to intrude. I contributed to my own dream-existence, she thought. Caladan had been something like that insulation provided by a really first-class frigate riding securely in the hold of a Guild heighliner. Only the most violent maneuvers could be felt, and those as mere softened movements.

  How seductive it is to live in peace, she thought.

  The more she saw of Alia’s court, the more sympathy Jessica felt for the words reported as coming from this blind Preacher. Yes, Paul might have said such words on seeing what had become of his realm. And Jessica wondered what Gurney had found out among the smugglers.

  Her first reaction to Arrakeen had been the right one, Jessica realized. On that first ride into the city with Javid, her attention had been caught by armored screens around dwellings, the heavily guarded pathways and alleys, the patient watchers at every turn, the tall walls and indications of deep underground places revealed by thick foundations. Arrakeen had become an ungenerous place, a contained place, unreasonable and self-righteous in its harsh outlines.

  Abruptly the anteroom’s small side door opened. A vanguard of priestess amazons spewed into the room with Alia shielded behind them, haughty and moving with a confined awareness of real and terrible power. Alia’s face was composed; no emotion betrayed itself as her gaze caught and held her mother’s. But both knew the battle had been joined.

  At Javid’s command, the giant doors into the great Hall were opened, moving with a silent and inevitable sense of hidden energies.

  Alia came to her mother’s side as the guards enfolded them.

  “Shall we go in now, mother?” Alia asked.

  “It’s high time,” Jessica said. And she thought, seeing the sense of gloating in Alia’s eyes: She thinks she can destroy me and remain unscathed! She’s mad!

  And Jessica wondered if that might not have been what Idaho had wanted. He’d sent a message, but she’d been unable to respond. Such an enigmatic message: “Danger. Must see you.” It had been written in a variant of the old Chakobsa where the particular word chosen to denote danger signified a plot.

  I’ll see him immediately when I return to Tabr, she thought.

  ***

  This is the fallacy of power: ultimately it is effective only in an absolute, a limited universe. But the basic lesson of our relativistic universe is that things change. Any power must always meet a greater power. Paul Muad’Dib taught this lesson to the Sardaukar on the Plains of Arrakeen. His descendants have yet to learn the lesson for themselves.

  —THE PREACHER AT ARRAKEEN

  The first supplicant for the morning audience was a Kadeshian trouba-dour, a pilgrim of the Hajj whose purse had been emptied by Arrakeen mercenaries. He stood on the water-green stone of the chamber floor with no air of begging about him.

  Jessica admired his boldness from where she sat with Alia atop the seven-step platform. Identical thrones had been placed here for mother and daughter, and Jessica made particular note of the fact that Alia sat on the right, the masculine position.

  As for the Kadeshian troubadour, it was obvious that Javid’s people had passed him for just this quality he now displayed, his boldness. The troubadour was expected to provide some entertainment for the courtiers of the Great Hall; it was the payment he’d make in lieu of the money he no longer possessed.

  From the report of the Priest-Advocate who now pled the troubadour’s case, the Kadeshian had retained only the clothing on his back and the baliset slung over one shoulder on a leather cord.

  “He says he was fed a dark drink,” the Advocate said, barely hiding the smile which sought to twist his lips. “If it please your Holiness, the drink left him helpless but awake while his purse was cut.”

  Jessica studied the troubadour while the Advocate droned on and on with a false subservience, his voice full of mucky morals. The Kadeshian was tall, easily two meters. He had a roving eye which showed intelligent alertness and humor. His golden hair was worn to the shoulders in the style of his planet, and there was a sense of virile strength in the broad chest and neatly tapering body which a grey Hajj robe could not conceal. His name was given as Tagir Mohandis and he was descended from merchant engineers, proud of his ancestry and himself.

  Alia finally cut off the pleading with a hand wave, spoke without turning: “The Lady Jessica will render first judgment in honor of her return to us.”

  “Thank you, daughter,” Jessica said, stating the order of ascendancy to all who heard. Daughter! So this Tagir Mohandis was part of their plan. Or was he an innocent dupe? This judgment was designed to open attack on herself, Jessica realized. It was obvious in Alia’s attitude.

  “Do you play that instrument well?” Jessica asked, indicating the nine-string baliset on the troubadour’s shoulder.

  “As well as the Great Gurney Halleck himself!” Tagir Mohandis spoke loudly for all in the hall to hear, and his words evoked an interested stir among the courtiers.

  “You seek the gift of transport money,” Jessica said. “Where would that money take you?”

  “To Salusa Secundus and Farad’n’s court,” Mohandis said. “I’ve heard he seeks troubadours and minstrels, that he supports the arts and builds a great renaissance of cultivated life around him.”

  Jessica refrained from glancing at Alia. They’d known, of course, what Mohandis would ask. She found herself enjoying this byplay. Did they think her unable to meet this thrust?

  “Will you play for your passage?” Jessica asked. “My terms are Fremen terms. If I enjoy your music, I may keep you here to smooth away my cares; if your music offends me, I may send you to toil in the desert for your passage money. If I deem your playing just right for Farad’n, who is said to be an enemy of the Atreides, then I will send you to hi
m with my blessing. Will you play on these terms, Tagir Mohandis?”

  He threw his head back in a great roaring laugh. His blond hair danced as he unslung the baliset and tuned it deftly to indicate acceptance of her challenge.

  The crowd in the chamber started to press closer, but were held back by courtiers and guards.

  Presently Mohandis strummed a note, holding the bass hum of the side strings with a fine attention to their compelling vibration. Then, lifting his voice in a mellow tenor, he sang, obviously improvising, but his touch so deft that Jessica was enthralled before she focused on his lyrics:

  You say you long for Caladan seas,

  Where once you ruled, Atreides,

  Without surcease—

  But exiles dwell in stranger-lands!

  You say ’twere bitter, men so rude,

  To sell your dreams of Shai-Hulud,

  For tasteless food—

  And exiles, dwell in stranger-lands.

  You make Arrakis grow infirm,

  Silence the passage of the worm

  And end your term—

  As exiles, dwell in stranger-lands.

  Alia! They name you Coan-Teen,

  That spirit who is never seen

  Until—

  “Enough!” Alia screamed. She pushed herself half out of her throne. “I’ll have you—”

  “Alia!” Jessica spoke just loud enough, voice pitched just right to avoid confrontation while gaining full attention. It was a masterful use of Voice and all who heard it recognized the trained powers in this demonstration. Alia sank back into her seat and Jessica noted that she showed not the slightest discomfiture.

  This, too, was anticipated, Jessica thought. How very interesting.

  “The judgment on this first one is mine,” Jessica reminded her.

  “Very well.” Alia’s words were barely audible.

  “I find this one a fitting gift for Farad’n,” Jessica said. “He has a tongue which cuts like a crysknife. Such bloodletting as that tongue can administer would be healthy for our own court, but I’d rather he ministered to House Corrino.”

  A light rippling of laughter spread through the hall.

  Alia permitted herself a snorting exhalation. “Do you know what he called me?”

  “He didn’t call you anything, daughter. He but reported that which he or anyone else could hear in the streets. There they call you Coan-Teen… .”

  “The female death-spirit who walks without feet,” Alia snarled.

  “If you put away those who report accurately, you’ll keep only those who know what you want to hear,” Jessica said, her voice sweet. “I can think of nothing more poisonous than to rot in the stink of your own reflections. ”

  Audible gasps came from those immediately below the thrones.

  Jessica focused on Mohandis, who remained silent, standing completely uncowed. He awaited whatever judgment was passed upon him as though it did not matter. Mohandis was exactly the kind of man her Duke would have chosen to have by his side in troubled times: one who acted with confidence of his own judgment, but accepted whatever befell, even death, without berating his fate. Then why had he chosen this course?

  “Why did you sing those particular words?” Jessica asked him.

  He lifted his head to speak clearly: “I’d heard that the Atreides were honorable and open-minded. I’d a thought to test it and perhaps to stay here in your service, thereby having the time to seek out those who robbed me and deal with them in my own fashion.”

  “He dares test us!” Alia muttered.

  “Why not?” Jessica asked.

  She smiled down at the troubadour to signal goodwill. He had come into this hall only because it offered him opportunity for another adventure, another passage through his universe. Jessica found herself tempted to bind him to her own entourage, but Alia’s reaction boded evil for brave Mohandis. There were also those signs which said this was the course expected of the Lady Jessica—take a brave and handsome troubadour into her service as she’d taken brave Gurney Halleck. Best Mohandis were sent on his way, though it rankled to lose such a fine specimen to Farad’n.

  “He shall go to Farad’n,” Jessica said. “See that he gets his passage money. Let his tongue draw the blood of House Corrino and see how he survives it.”

  Alia glowered at the floor, then produced a belated smile. “The wisdom of the Lady Jessica prevails,” she said, waving Mohandis away.

  That did not go the way she wanted, Jessica thought, but there were indicators in Alia’s manner that a more potent test remained.

  Another supplicant was being brought forward.

  Jessica, noting her daughter’s reaction, felt the gnawing of doubts. The lesson learned from the twins was needed here. Let Alia be Abomination, still she was one of the preborn. She could know her mother as she knew herself. It did not compute that Alia would misjudge her mother’s reactions in the matter of the troubadour. Why did Alia stage that confrontation? To distract me?

  There was no more time to reflect. The second supplicant had taken his place below the twin thrones, his Advocate at his side.

  The supplicant was a Fremen this time, an old man with the sand marks of the desert-born on his face. He was not tall, but had a wiry body and the long dishdasha usually worn over a stillsuit gave him a stately appearance. The robe was in keeping with his narrow face and beaked nose, the glaring eyes of blue-on-blue. He wore no stillsuit and seemed uncomfortable without it. The gigantic space of the Audience Hall must seem to him like the dangerous open air which robbed his flesh of its priceless moisture. Under the hood, which had been thrown partly back, he wore the knotted keffiya headdress of a Naib.

  “I am Ghadhean al-Fali,” he said, placing one foot on the steps to the thrones to signify his status above that of the mob. “I was one of Muad’Dib’s death commandos and I am here concerning a matter of the desert.”

  Alia stiffened only slightly, a small betrayal. Al-Fali’s name had been on that demand to place Jessica on the Council.

  A matter of the desert! Jessica thought.

  Ghadhean al-Fali had spoken before his Advocate could open the pleading. With that formal Fremen phrase he had placed them on notice that he brought them something of concern to all of Dune—and that he spoke with the authority of a Fedaykin who had offered his life beside that of Paul Muad’Dib. Jessica doubted that this was what Ghadhean al-Fali had told Javid or the Advocate General in seeking audience here. Her guess was confirmed as an official of the Priesthood rushed forward from the rear of the chamber waving the black cloth of intercession.

  “My Ladies!” the official called out. “Do not listen to this man! He comes under false—”

  Jessica, watching the Priest run toward them, caught a movement out of the corners of her eyes, saw Alia’s hand signaling in the old Atreides battle language: “Now!” Jessica could not determine where the signal was directed, but acted instinctively with a lurch to the left, taking throne and all. She rolled away from the crashing throne as she fell, came to her feet as she heard the sharp spat of a maula pistol … and again. But she was moving with the first sound, felt something tug at her right sleeve. She dove into the throng of supplicants and courtiers gathered below the dais. Alia, she noted, had not moved.

  Surrounded by people, Jessica stopped.

  Ghadhean al-Fali, she saw, had dodged to the other side of the dais, but the Advocate remained in his original position.

  It had all happened with the rapidity of an ambush, but everyone in the Hall knew where trained reflexes should have taken anyone caught by surprise. Alia and the Advocate stood frozen in their exposure.

  A disturbance toward the middle of the room caught Jessica’s attention and she forced a way through the throng, saw four supplicants holding the Priest official. His black cloth of intercession lay near his feet, a maula pistol exposed in its folds.

  Al-Fali thrust his way past Jessica, looked from the pistol to the Priest. The Fremen let out a cry of rage, came up
from his belt with an achag blow, the fingers of his left hand rigid. They caught the Priest in the throat and he collapsed, strangling. Without a backward glance at the man he had killed, the old Naib turned an angry face toward the dais.

  “Dalal-il ’an-nubuwwa!” al-Fali called, placing both palms against his forehead, then lowering them. “The Qadis as-Salaf will not let me be silenced! If I do not slay those who interfere, others will slay them!”

  He thinks he was the target, Jessica realized. She looked down at her sleeve, put a finger in the neat hole left by the maula pellet. Poisoned, no doubt.

  The supplicants had dropped the Priest. He lay writhing on the floor, dying with his larynx crushed. Jessica motioned to a pair of shocked courtiers standing at her left, said: “I want that man saved for questioning. If he dies, you die!” As they hesitated, peering toward the dais, she used Voice on them: “Move!”

  The pair moved.

  Jessica thrust herself to al-Fali’s side, nudged him: “You are a fool, Naib! They were after me, not you.”

  Several people around them heard her. In the immediate shocked silence, al-Fali glanced at the dais with its one toppled throne and Alia still seated on the other. The look of realization which came over his face could’ve been read by a novice.

  “Fedaykin,” Jessica said, reminding him of his old service to her family, “we who have been scorched know how to stand back to back.”

  “Trust me, My Lady,” he said, taking her meaning immediately.

  A gasp behind Jessica brought her whirling, and she felt al-Fali move to stand with his back to her. A woman in the gaudy garb of a city Fremen was straightening from beside the Priest on the floor. The two courtiers were nowhere to be seen. The woman did not even glance at Jessica, but lifted her voice in the ancient keening of her people—the call for those who serviced the deathstills, the call for them to come and gather a body’s water into the tribal cistern. It was a curiously incongruous noise coming from one dressed as this woman was. Jessica felt the persistence of the old ways even as she saw the falseness in this city woman. The creature in the gaudy dress obviously had killed the Priest to make sure he was silenced.