“A constitution,” Chani murmured.
Paul glanced at her, back to Stilgar. Thus the Jihad falters, Paul thought, but not soon enough to save me. The thought produced emotional tensions. He remembered his earliest visions of the Jihad-to-be, the terror and revulsion he’d experienced. Now, of course, he knew visions of greater terrors. He had lived with the real violence. He had seen his Fremen, charged with mystical strength, sweep all before them in the religious war. The Jihad gained a new perspective. It was finite, of course, a brief spasm when measured against eternity, but beyond lay horrors to overshadow anything in the past.
All in my name, Paul thought.
“Perhaps they could be given the form of a constitution,” Chani suggested. “It needn’t be actual.”
“Deceit is a tool of statecraft,” Irulan agreed.
“There are limits to power, as those who put their hopes in a constitution always discover,” Paul said.
Korba straightened from his reverent pose. “M’Lord?”
“Yes?” And Paul thought, Here now! Here’s one who may harbor secret sympathies for an imagined rule of Law.
“We could begin with a religious constitution,” Korba said, “something for the faithful who—”
“No!” Paul snapped. “We will make this an Order in Council. Are you recording this, Irulan?”
“Yes, m’Lord,” Irulan said, voice frigid with dislike for the menial role he forced upon her.
“Constitutions become the ultimate tyranny,” Paul said. “They’re organized power on such a scale as to be overwhelming. The constitution is social power mobilized and it has no conscience. It can crush the highest and the lowest, removing all dignity and individuality. It has an unstable balance point and no limitations. I, however, have limitations. In my desire to provide an ultimate protection for my people, I forbid a constitution. Order in Council, this date, etcetera, etcetera.”
“What of the Ixian concern about the tax, m’Lord?” Stilgar asked.
Paul forced his attention away from the brooding, angry look on Korba’s face, said: “You’ve a proposal, Stil?”
“We must have control of taxes, Sire.”
“Our price to the Guild for my signature on the Tupile Treaty,” Paul said, “is the submission of the Ixian Confederacy to our tax. The Confederacy cannot trade without Guild transport. They’ll pay.”
“Very good, m’Lord.” Stilgar produced another folder, cleared his throat. “The Qizarate’s report on Salusa Secundus. Irulan’s father has been putting his legions through landing maneuvers.”
Irulan found something of interest in the palm of her left hand. A pulse throbbed at her neck.
“Irulan,” Paul asked, “do you persist in arguing that your father’s one legion is nothing more than a toy?”
“What could he do with only one legion?” she asked. She stared at him out of slitted eyes.
“He could get himself killed,” Chani said.
Paul nodded. “And I’d be blamed.”
“I know a few commanders in the Jihad,” Alia said, “who’d pounce if they learned of this.”
“But it’s only his police force!” Irulan protested.
“Then they have no need for landing maneuvers,” Paul said. “I suggest that your next little note to your father contain a frank and direct discussion of my views about his delicate position.”
She lowered her gaze. “Yes, m’Lord. I hope that will be the end of it. My father would make a good martyr.”
“Mmmmmmm,” Paul said. “My sister wouldn’t send a message to those commanders she mentioned unless I ordered it.”
“An attack on my father carries dangers other than the obvious military ones,” Irulan said. “People are beginning to look back on his reign with a certain nostalgia.”
“You’ll go too far one day,” Chani said in her deadly serious Fremen voice.
“Enough!” Paul ordered.
He weighed Irulan’s revelation about public nostalgia—ah, now! that’d carried a note of truth. Once more, Irulan had proved her worth.
“The Bene Gesserit send a formal supplication,” Stilgar said, presenting another folder. “They wish to consult you about the preservation of your bloodline.”
Chani glanced sideways at the folder as though it contained a deadly device.
“Send the Sisterhood the usual excuses,” Paul said.
“Must we?” Irulan demanded.
“Perhaps … this is the time to discuss it,” Chani said.
Paul shook his head sharply. They couldn’t know that this was part of the price he had not yet decided to pay.
But Chani wasn’t to be stopped. “I have been to the prayer wall of Sietch Tabr where I was born,” she said. “I have submitted to doctors. I have knelt in the desert and sent my thoughts into the depths where dwells Shai-hulud. Yet”—she shrugged—“nothing avails.”
Science and superstition, all have failed her, Paul thought. Do I fail her, too, by not telling her what bearing an heir to House Atreides will precipitate? He looked up to find an expression of pity in Alia’s eyes. The idea of pity from his sister repelled him. Had she, too, seen that terrifying future?
“My Lord must know the dangers to his realm when he has no heir,” Irulan said, using her Bene Gesserit powers of voice with an oily persuasiveness. “These things are naturally difficult to discuss, but they must be brought into the open. An Emperor is more than a man. His figure leads the realm. Should he die without an heir, civil strife must follow. As you love your people, you cannot leave them thus?”
Paul pushed himself away from the table, strode to the balcony windows. A wind was flattening the smoke of the city’s fires out there. The sky presented a darkening silver-blue softened by the evening fall of dust from the Shield Wall. He stared southward at the escarpment which protected his northern lands from the coriolis wind, and he wondered why his own peace of mind could find no such shield.
The Council sat silently waiting behind him, aware of how close to rage he was.
Paul sensed time rushing upon him. He tried to force himself into a tranquility of many balances where he might shape a new future.
Disengage … disengage … disengage, he thought. What would happen if he took Chani, just picked up and left with her, sought sanctuary on Tupile? His name would remain behind. The Jihad would find new and more terrible centers upon which to turn. He’d be blamed for that, too. He felt suddenly fearful that in reaching for any new thing he might let fall what was most precious, that even the slightest noise from him might send the universe crashing back, receding until he never could recapture any piece of it.
Below him, the square had become the setting for a band of pilgrims in the green and white of the hajj. They wended their way like a disjointed snake behind a striding Arrakeen guide. They reminded Paul that his reception hall would be packed with supplicants by now. Pilgrims! Their exercise in homelessness had become a disgusting source of wealth for his Imperium. The hajj filled the space-ways with religious tramps. They came and they came and they came.
How did I set this in motion? he asked himself.
It had, of course, set itself in motion. It was in the genes which might labor for centuries to achieve this brief spasm.
Driven by that deepest religious instinct, the people came, seeking their resurrection. The pilgrimage ended here—“Arrakis, the place of rebirth, the place to die.”
Snide old Fremen said he wanted the pilgrims for their water.
What was it the pilgrims really sought? Paul wondered. They said they came to a holy place. But they must know the universe contained no Eden-source, no Tupile for the soul. They called Arrakis the place of the unknown where all mysteries were explained. This was a link between their universe and the next. And the frightening thing was that they appeared to go away satisfied.
What do they find here? Paul asked himself.
Often in their religious ecstasy, they filled the streets with screeching like some odd aviar
y. In fact, the Fremen called them “passage birds.” And the few who died here were “winged souls.”
With a sigh, Paul thought how each new planet his legions subjugated opened new sources of pilgrims. They came out of gratitude for “the peace of Muad’dib.”
Everywhere there is peace, Paul thought. Everywhere … except in the heart of Muad’dib.
He felt that some element of himself lay immersed in frosty hoar darkness without end. His prescient power had tampered with the image of the universe held by all mankind. He had shaken the safe cosmos and replaced security with his Jihad. He had out-fought and out-thought and out-predicted the universe of men, but a certainty filled him that this universe still eluded him.
This planet beneath him which he had commanded be remade from desert into a water-rich paradise, it was alive. It had a pulse as dynamic as that of any human. It fought him, resisted, slipped away from his commands …
A hand crept into Paul’s. He looked down to see Chani peering up at him, concern in her eyes. Those eyes drank him, and she whispered: “Please, love, do not battle with your ruh-self.” An outpouring of emotion swept upward from her hand, buoyed him.
“Sihaya,” he whispered.
“We must go to the desert soon,” she said in a low voice.
He squeezed her hand, released it, returned to the table where he remained standing.
Chani took her seat.
Irulan stared at the papers in front of Stilgar, her mouth a tight line.
“Irulan proposes herself as mother of the Imperial heir,” Paul said. He glanced at Chani, back to Irulan, who refused to meet his gaze. “We all know she holds no love for me.”
Irulan went very still.
“I know the political arguments,” Paul said. “It’s the human arguments which concern me. I think if the Princess Consort were not bound by the commands of the Bene Gesserit, if she did not seek this out of desires for personal power, my reaction might be very different. As matters stand, though, I reject this proposal.”
Irulan took a deep, shaky breath.
Paul, resuming his seat, thought he had never seen her under such poor control. Leaning toward her, he said: “Irulan, I am truly sorry.”
She lifted her chin, a look of pure fury in her eyes. “I don’t want your pity!” she hissed. And turning to Stilgar: “Is there more that’s urgent and dire?”
Holding his gaze firmly on Paul, Stilgar said: “One more matter, m’Lord. The Guild again proposes a formal embassy here on Arrakis.”
“One of the deep-space kind?” Korba asked, his voice full of fanatic loathing.
“Presumably,” Stilgar said.
“A matter to be considered with the utmost care, m’Lord,” Korba warned. “The Council of Naibs would not like it, an actual Guildsman here on Arrakis. They contaminate the very ground they touch.”
“They live in tanks and don’t touch the ground,” Paul said, letting his voice reveal irritation.
“The Naibs might take matters into their own hands, m’Lord,” Korba said.
Paul glared at him.
“They are Fremen, after all, m’Lord,” Korba insisted. “We well remember how the Guild brought those who oppressed us. We have not forgotten the way they blackmailed a spice ransom from us to keep our secrets from our enemies. They drained us of every—”
“Enough!” Paul snapped. “Do you think I have forgotten?”
As though he had just awakened to the import of his own words, Korba stuttered unintelligibly, then: “M’lord, forgive me. I did not mean to imply you are not Fremen. I did not …”
“They’ll send a Steersman,” Paul said. “It isn’t likely a Steersman would come here if he could see danger in it.”
Her mouth dry with sudden fear, Irulan said: “You’ve … seen a Steersman come here?”
“Of course I haven’t seen a Steersman,” Paul said, mimicking her tone. “But I can see where one’s been and where one’s going. Let them send us a Steersman. Perhaps I have a use for such a one.”
“So ordered,” Stilgar said.
And Irulan, hiding a smile behind her hand, thought: It’s true then. Our Emperor cannot see a Steersman. They are mutually blind. The conspiracy is hidden.
***
Once more the drama begins.
—THE EMPEROR PAUL MUAD’DIB ON HIS ASCENSION TO THE LION THRONE
Alia peered down from her spy window into the great reception hall to watch the advance of the Guild entourage.
The sharply silver light of noon poured through clerestory windows onto a floor worked in green, blue and eggshell tiles to simulate a bayou with water plants and, here and there, a splash of exotic color to indicate bird or animal.
Guildsmen moved across the tile pattern like hunters stalking their prey in a strange jungle. They formed a moving design of gray robes, black robes, orange robes—all arrayed in a deceptively random way around the transparent tank where the Steersman-Ambassador swam in his orange gas. The tank slid on its supporting field, towed by two gray-robed attendants, like a rectangular ship being warped into its dock.
Directly beneath her, Paul sat on the Lion Throne on its raised dais. He wore the new formal crown with its fish and fist emblems. The jeweled golden robes of state covered his body. The shimmering of a personal shield surrounded him. Two wings of bodyguards fanned out on both sides along the dais and down the steps. Stilgar stood two steps below Paul’s right hand in a white robe with a yellow rope for a belt.
Sibling empathy told her that Paul seethed with the same agitation she was experiencing, although she doubted another could detect it. His attention remained on an orange-robed attendant whose blindly staring metal eyes looked neither to right nor to left. This attendant walked at the right front corner of the Ambassador’s troupe like a military outrider. A rather flat face beneath curly black hair, such of his figure as could be seen beneath the orange robe, every gesture shouted a familiar identity.
It was Duncan Idaho.
It could not be Duncan Idaho, yet it was.
Captive memories absorbed in the womb during the moment of her mother’s spice change identified this man for Alia by a rihani deci pherment which cut through all camouflage. Paul was seeing him, she knew, out of countless personal experiences, out of gratitudes and youthful sharing.
It was Duncan.
Alia shuddered. There could be only one answer: this was a Tleilaxu ghola, a being reconstructed from the dead flesh of the original. That original had perished saving Paul. This could only be a product of the axolotl tanks.
The ghola walked with the cock-footed alertness of a master swordsman. He came to a halt as the Ambassador’s tank glided to a stop ten paces from the steps of the dais.
In the Bene Gesserit way she could not escape, Alia read Paul’s disquiet. He no longer looked at the figure out of his past. Not looking, his whole being stared. Muscles strained against restrictions as he nodded to the Guild Ambassador, said: “I am told your name is Edric. We welcome you to our Court in the hope this will bring new understanding between us.”
The Steersman assumed a sybaritic reclining pose in his orange gas, popped a melange capsule into his mouth before meeting Paul’s gaze. The tiny transducer orbiting a corner of the Guildsman’s tank reproduced a coughing sound, then the rasping, uninvolved voice: “I abase myself before my Emperor and beg leave to present my credentials and offer a small gift.”
An aide passed a scroll up to Stilgar, who studied it, scowling, then nodded to Paul. Both Stilgar and Paul turned then toward the ghola standing patiently below the dais.
“Indeed my Emperor has discerned the gift,” Edric said.
“We are pleased to accept your credentials,” Paul said. “Explain the gift.”
Edric rolled in the tank, bringing his attention to bear on the ghola. “This is a man called Hayt,” he said, spelling the name. “According to our investigators, he has a most curious history. He was killed here on Arrakis … a grievous head-wound which required man
y months of regrowth. The body was sold to the Bene Tleilax as that of a master swordsman, an adept of the Ginaz School. It came to our attention that this must be Duncan Idaho, the trusted retainer of your household. We bought him as a gift befitting an Emperor.” Edric peered up at Paul. “Is it not Idaho, Sire?”
Restraint and caution gripped Paul’s voice. “He has the aspect of Idaho.”
Does Paul see something I don’t? Alia wondered. No! It’s Duncan! The man called Hayt stood impassively, metal eyes fixed straight ahead, body relaxed. No sign escaped him to indicate he knew himself to be the object of discussion.
“According to our best knowledge, it’s Idaho,” Edric said.
“He’s called Hayt now,” Paul said. “A curious name.”
“Sire, there’s no divining how or why the Tleilaxu bestow names,” Edric said. “But names can be changed. The Tleilaxu name is of little importance.”
This is a Tleilaxu thing, Paul thought. There’s the problem. The Bene Tleilax held little attachment to phenomenal nature. Good and evil carried strange meanings in their philosophy. What might they have incorporated in Idaho’s flesh—out of design or whim?
Paul glanced at Stilgar, noted the Fremen’s superstitious awe. It was an emotion echoed all through his Fremen guard. Stilgar’s mind would be speculating about the loathsome habits of Guildsmen, of Tleilaxu and of gholas.
Turning toward the ghola, Paul said: “Hayt, is that your only name?”
A serene smile spread over the ghola’s dark features. The metal eyes lifted, centered on Paul, but maintained their mechanical stare. “That is how I am called, my Lord: Hayt.”
In her dark spy hole, Alia trembled. It was Idaho’s voice, a quality of sound so precise she sensed its imprint upon her cells.
“May it please my Lord,” the ghola added, “if I say his voice gives me pleasure. This is a sign, say the Bene Tleilax, that I have heard the voice … before.”
“But you don’t know this for sure,” Paul said.
“I know nothing of my past for sure, my Lord. It was explained that I can have no memory of my former life. All that remains from before is the pattern set by the genes. There are, however, niches into which once-familiar things may fit. There are voices, places, foods, faces, sounds, actions—a sword in my hand, the controls of a ’thopter …”
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