Frank Herbert - Dune Book 5 - Heretics of Dune

by Frank Herbert

  "When the Harkonnens kept their heads down or lost them. Still, I will admit the possibility."

  "Records could have been lost," Burzmali said.

  "Not by us or the other governments that survived. What prompts this line of speculation?"

  "Patrin."

  "Ahhhhh."

  He spoke quickly: "If such a thing were discovered, a Gammu native might know about it."

  "How many of them would know? Do you think they could have kept such a secret for . . . Yes! I see what you mean. If it were a secret of Patrin's family . . .

  "I have not dared question any of them about it."

  "Of course not! But where would you look . . . without alerting . . .

  "That place on the mountain where the no-ship marks were left."

  "It would require you to go there in person!"

  "Very hard to conceal from spies," he agreed. "Unless I went with a very small force and seemingly on another purpose."

  "What other purpose?"

  "To place a funeral marker in memory of my old Bashar."

  "Suggesting that we know he is dead? Yes!"

  "You've already asked the Tleilaxu to replace our ghola."

  "That was a simple precaution and does not bear on . . . Burzmali, this is extremely dangerous. I doubt we can mislead the kinds of people who will observe you on Gammu."

  "The mourning of myself and the people I take with me will be dramatic and believable."

  "The believable does not necessarily convince a wary observer."

  "Do you not trust my loyalty and the loyalty of the people I will take with me?"

  Taraza pursed her lips in thought. She reminded herself that fixed loyalty was a thing they had learned to improve upon from the Atreides pattern. How to produce people who command the utmost devotion. Burzmali and Teg both were fine examples.

  "It might work," Taraza agreed. She stared speculatively at Burzmali. Teg's favorite student could be right!

  "Then I'll go," Burzmali said. He turned to leave.

  "One moment," Taraza said.

  Burzmali turned. "You will saturate yourselves with shere, all of you. And if you're captured by Face Dancers -- these new ones! -- you must burn your own heads or shatter them completely. Take the necessary precautions."

  The suddenly sobered expression on Burzmali's face reassured Taraza. He had been proud of himself for a moment there. Better to dampen his pride. No need for him to be reckless.

  We have long known that the objects of our palpable sense experiences can be influenced by choice -- both conscious choice and unconscious. This is a demonstrated fact that does not require that we believe some force within us reaches out and touches the universe. I address a pragmatic relationship between belief and what we identify as "real." All of our judgments carry a heavy burden of ancestral beliefs to which we of the Bene Gesserit tend to be more susceptible than most. It is not enough that we are aware of this and guard against it. Alternative interpretations must always receive our attention.

  -Mother Superior Taraza: Argument in Council

  "God will judge us here," Waff gloated.

  He had been doing that at unpredictable moments all during this long ride across the desert. Sheeana appeared not to notice but Waff's voice and comments had begun to wear on Odrade. The Rakian sun had moved far down to the west but the worm that carried them appeared untiring in its drive across the ancient Sareer toward the remnant mounds of the Tyrant's barrier wall.

  Why this direction? Odrade wondered.

  No answer satisfied. The fanaticism and renewed danger from Waff, though, demanded immediate response. She called up the cant of the Shariat that she knew drove him.

  "Let God do the judging and not men."

  Waff scowled at the taunting note in her voice. He looked at the horizon ahead and then up at the 'thopters, which kept pace with them.

  "Men must do God's work," he muttered.

  Odrade did not answer. Waff had been deflected into his doubts and now would be asking himself: Did these Bene Gesserit witches really share the Great Belief?

  Her thoughts dove back into the unanswered questions, tumbling through all she knew about the worms of Rakis. Personal memories and Other Memories wove a mad montage. She could visualize robed Fremen atop a worm even larger than this one, each rider leaning back against a long hooked pole that dug into a worm's rings as her hands now gripped this one. She felt the wind against her cheeks, the robe whipping against her shanks. This ride and others merged into a long familiarity.

  It has been a long time since an Atreides rode this way.

  Was there a clue to their destination back in Dar-es-Balat? How could there be? But it had been so hot and her mind had been questing forward to what might happen on this venture into the desert. She had not been as alert as she might have been.

  In common with every other community on Rakis, Dar-es-Balat pulled inward from its edges during the heat of the early afternoon. Odrade recalled the chafing of her new stillsuit while she waited in a building's shadows near the western limits of Dar-es-Balat. She waited for the separate escorts to bring Sheeana and Waff from the safe houses where Odrade had installed them.

  What a tempting target she had made. But they had to be certain of Rakian compliance. The Bene Gesserit escorts delayed deliberately.

  "Shaitan likes the heat," Sheeana had said.

  Rakians hid from the heat but the worms came out then. Was that a significant fact, revealing the reason for this worm to take them in a particular direction?

  My mind is bouncing around like a child's ball!

  What did it signify that Rakians hid from the sun while a little Tleilaxu, a Reverend Mother, and a wild young girl went coursing across the desert atop a worm? It was an ancient pattern on Rakis. Nothing surprising about it at all. The ancient Fremen had been mostly nocturnal, though. Their modern descendants depended more on shade to protect them from the hottest sunlight.

  How safe the priests felt behind their guardian moats!

  Every resident of a Rakian urban center knew the qanat was out there, water running slick in shadowed darkness, trickles diverted to feed the narrow canals whose evaporation was recaptured in the windtraps.

  "Our prayers protect us," they said, but they knew very well what really protected them.

  "His holy presence is seen in the desert."

  The Holy Worm.

  The Divided God.

  Odrade looked down at the worm rings in front of her. And here he is!

  She thought of the priests among the watchers in the 'thopters overhead. How they loved to spy on others! She had felt them watching her back in Dar-es-Balat while she awaited the arrival of Sheeana and Waff. Eyes behind the high grills of hidden balconies. Eyes peering through slits in thick walls. Eyes concealed behind mirror-plaz or staring out from shadowed places.

  Odrade had forced herself to ignore the dangers while she marked the passage of time by the movement of the shadow line on a wall above her: a sure clock in this land where few kept other than suntime.

  Tensions had built, amplified by the need to appear unconcerned. Would they attack? Would they dare, knowing that she had taken her own precautions? How angry were the priests at being forced to join the Tleilaxu in this secret triumvirate? Her Reverend Mother advisors from the Keep had not liked this dangerous baiting of the priests.

  "Let one of us be the bait!"

  Odrade had been adamant: "They would not believe it. Suspicions would keep them away. Besides, they are sure to send Albertus."

  So Odrade had waited in the Dar-es-Balat courtyard, green-shadowed in the depths where she stood looking upward at the sunline six stories overhead -- past lacy balustrades at each balconied level: green plants, brilliant red, orange, and blue flowers, a rectangle of silvery sky above the tiers.

  And the hidden eyes.

  Motion at the wide street door to her right! A single figure in priestly gold, purple, and white let himself into the courtyard. She studied him
, looking for signs that the Tleilaxu might have extended their sway by another Face Dancer mimic. But this was a man, a priest she recognized: Albertus, the senior of Dar-es-Balat.

  Just as we expected.

  Albertus moved through the wide atrium and across the courtyard toward her, walking with careful dignity. Were there dangerous portents in him? Would he signal his assassins? She glanced upward at the tiered balconies: little flickering motions at the higher levels. The approaching priest was not alone.

  But neither am I!

  Albertus came to a stop two paces from Odrade and looked up at her from where he had kept his attention -- on the intricate gold and purple designs of the courtyard's tiled floor.

  He has weak bones, Odrade thought.

  She gave no sign of recognition. Albertus was one of those who knew that his High Priest had been replaced by a Face Dancer mimic.

  Albertus cleared his throat and took a trembling breath.

  Weak bones! Weak flesh!

  While the thought amused Odrade, it did not reduce her wariness. Reverend Mothers always noted that sort of thing. You looked for the marks of the breeding. Such selectivity as existed in the ancestry of Albertus carried flaws, elementals that the Sisterhood would try to correct in his descendants if it ever appeared worthwhile to breed him. This would be considered, of course. Albertus had risen to a position of power, doing it quietly but definitely, and it must be determined whether that implied valuable genetic material. Albertus had been poorly educated, though. A first-year acolyte could have handled him. Conditioning among the Rakian priesthood had degenerated badly since the old Fish Speaker days.

  "Why are you here?" Odrade demanded, making it as much an accusation as a question.

  Albertus trembled. "I bring a message from your people, Reverend Mother."

  "Then say it!"

  "There has been a slight delay, something about the route here being known by too many."

  That, at least, was the story they had agreed to tell the priests. But the other things on the face of Albertus were easy to read. Secrets shared with him were dangerously close to exposure.

  "I almost wish I had ordered you killed," Odrade said.

  Albertus recoiled two full paces. His eyes went vacant, as though he had died right there in front of her. She recognized the reaction. Albertus had entered that fully revelatory phase where fear gripped his scrotum. He knew that this terrible Reverend Mother Odrade might pass a death sentence upon him quite casually or kill him with her own hands. Nothing he said or did would escape her awful scrutiny.

  "You have been considering whether to kill me and destroy our Keep at Keen," Odrade accused.

  Albertus trembled violently. "Why do you say such things, Reverend Mother?" There was a revealing whine in his voice.

  "Don't try to deny it," she said. "I wonder how many have found you as easy to read as I do? You are supposed to be a keeper of secrets. You are not supposed to be walking around with all of our secrets written on your face!"

  Albertus fell to his knees. She thought he would grovel.

  "But your own people sent me!"

  "And you were only too happy to come and decide whether it might be possible to kill me."

  "Why would we --"

  "Silence! You do not like it that we control Sheeana. You are fearful of the Tleilaxu. Matters have been taken from your priestly hands and things have been set in motion that terrify you."

  "Reverend Mother! What are we to do? What are we to do?"

  "You will obey us! More than that, you will obey Sheeana! You fear what we venture this day? You have greater things to fear!"

  She shook her head in mock dismay, knowing the effect all of this was having on poor Albertus. He cringed beneath the weight of her anger.

  "On your feet!" she ordered. "And remember that you are a priest and the truth is demanded of you!"

  Albertus stumbled to his feet and kept his head bowed. She could see his body responding to the decision that he abandon subterfuge. What a trial that must be for him! Dutiful to the Reverend Mother who so obviously read his heart, now he must be dutiful to his religion. He must confront the ultimate paradox of all religions:

  God knows!

  "You hide nothing from me, nothing from Sheeana, and nothing from God," Odrade said.

  "Forgive me, Reverend Mother."

  "Forgive you? It is not in my power to forgive you nor should you ask it of me. You are a priest!"

  He lifted his gaze to Odrade's angry face.

  The paradox was upon him completely now. God was surely here! But God was usually a long way away and confrontations could be put off. Tomorrow was another day of life. Surely it was. And it was acceptable if you permitted yourself a few small sins, perhaps a lie or two. For the time being only. And maybe a big sin if temptations were great. Gods were supposed to be more understanding of great sinners. There would be time to make amends.

  Odrade stared at Albertus with the analyzing eye of the Missionaria Protectiva.

  Ahhh, Albertus, she thought. But now you stand in the presence of a fellow human who knows all of the things you believed were secrets between you and your god.

  For Albertus, his present situation could be little different from death and that ultimate submission to the final judgment of his god. That surely described the unconscious setting for the way Albertus let his will power crumble now. All of his religious fears had been called up and were focused on a Reverend Mother.

  In her driest tones, not even compelling him with Voice, Odrade said: "I want this farce ended immediately."

  Albertus tried to swallow. He knew he could not lie. He might know a remote capability of lying but that was useless. Submissively, he looked up at Odrade's forehead where the line of her stillsuit cap had been drawn tightly across her brow. He spoke in little more than a whisper:

  "Reverend Mother, it is only that we feel deprived. You and the Tleilaxu go into the desert with our Sheeana. Both of you will learn from her and . . ." His shoulders sagged. "Why do you take the Tleilaxu?"

  "Sheeana wishes it," Odrade lied.

  Albertus opened his mouth and closed it without speaking. She could see acceptance flood through him.

  "You will return to your fellows with my warning," Odrade said. "The survival of Rakis and of your priesthood depend utterly on how well you obey me. You will not hinder us in the slightest! And as to these puerile plots against us -- Sheeana reveals to us your every evil thought!"

  Albertus surprised her then. He shook his head and emitted a dry chuckle. Odrade already had noted that many of these priests enjoyed discomfiture but had not suspected that they might find amusement in their own failures.

  "I find your laughter shallow," she said.

  Albertus shrugged and restored some of his facial mask. Odrade had seen several such masks on him. Facades! He wore them in layers. And far down under all of that defensiveness lay the someone who cared, the one she had exposed here so briefly. These priests had a dangerous way of falling into florid explanations, though, when taxed too heavily with questions.

  I must restore the one who cares, Odrade thought. She cut him off as he started to speak.

  "No more! You will wait upon me when I return from the desert. For now, you are my messenger. Carry my message accurately and you will win a greater reward than you have ever imagined. Fail and you will suffer the agonies of Shaitan!"

  Odrade watched Albertus scurry out of the courtyard, shoulders hunched, his head thrust forward as though he could not get his mouth within speaking distance of his peers soon enough.

  On the whole, she thought, it had gone well. A calculated risk and very dangerous to her personally. She was sure there had been assassins on the balconies above her waiting for a signal from Albertus. And now, the fear he carried back with him was a thing the Bene Gesserit understood intimately through millennia of manipulations. As contagiously virulent as any plague. The teaching Sisters called it "a directed hysteria." It had been directed
(aimed was more accurate) at the heart of the Rakian priesthood. It could be relied upon, especially with the reinforcement that now would be set in motion. The priests would submit. Only the few immune heretics were to be feared now.

  This is the awe-inspiring universe of magic: There are no atoms, only waves and motions all around. Here, you discard all belief in barriers to understanding. You put aside understanding itself. This universe cannot be seen, cannot be heard, cannot be detected in any way by fixed perceptions. It is the ultimate void where no preordained screens occur upon which forms may be projected. You have only one awareness here -- the screen of the magi: Imagination! Here, you learn what it is to be human. You are a creator of order, of beautiful shapes and systems, an organizer of chaos.