As Jessica continued to tell her story in the Princess’s private wing of the Citadel, Irulan looked at her with obvious impatience and skepticism. “Paul told you all these things?”
“Yes, he did. He felt it was important for me to understand, just as it’s important for you. Otherwise you can’t write the truth.”
“I admit it’s interesting, but I still don’t see the point of all this, or why you considered it so urgent to tell me. I’ve already had enough trouble with Fremen traditionalists who believe that your son’s past has no bearing, that before he became Muad’Dib, there was nothing worth remembering.” A flush infused her smooth cheeks. “Paul said it himself after his first sandworm ride, and the Fremen quote it often—‘And I am a Fremen born this day on the Habbanya erg. I have had no life before this day. I was as a child until this day.’ ”
Jessica pressed her lips together into a thin line. “Paul said many things to the Fremen, but he did not come to Arrakis as a newborn. Without the first fifteen years of his life, he could never have become Muad’Dib.”
Irulan turned her back and toyed with a ringlet of her golden hair as an idea occurred to her. “I’ve been considering adding a companion volume to my biographies, one tailored to a younger audience. A Child’s History of Muad’Dib, perhaps. Alia says that it’s necessary to indoctrinate the youth, so that children grow to revere and respect the memory of Muad’Dib.” Disapproval hung heavy in her words. “Yes, the adventure of Paul and Bronso could be included in that book . . . and it is entertaining. It’s good to see Paul doing heroic things, acting as a dedicated and honorable friend.” She frowned. “But I don’t see how it’s relevant to the Imperial Regency that is the legacy of Paul’s government and his Jihad. That is what’s important.”
Jessica lifted her chin and lowered her voice to a whisper, suddenly worried again that unseen spies might be recording their conversation. “Haven’t you understood what I just told you? Where do you think Paul learned how to manipulate populations, to cast the power of his personality across large crowds? He applied Jongleur techniques not just to an audience for a performance, but to the Fremen, and then to the population of the entire Imperium!”
“But—”
Lady Jessica lifted a finger to emphasize her point. “And now it appears that Bronso of Ix is applying his own experience to spread the opposite message.” Despite Irulan’s obvious surprise, Jessica pressed on. “Be patient. Listen to the rest of the story.”
Our most effective costumes are the assumptions and preconceptions the audience has about us.
—RHEINVAR THE MAGNIFICENT
Two days later, after the grand final performance, the Chusuk audience dwindled away from the theater into the night. Rheinvar did not take time to socialize with prominent baliset craftsmen or members of the various harmonywood leagues. Immediately after the performance was over, the troupe leader became a stern taskmaster. “Time to go—not a minute to waste. We’ve got new venues to play, new planets to visit, but we can’t get there until we leave here.”
Still wearing his glittering white jacket and top hat, Rheinvar directed Paul and Bronso to help tear down the props and holoprojectors, secure the animals, pack up the costumes, and load suspensor pallets for delivery to the spaceport. He had paid a substantial bribe to hold the last cargo shuttle of the evening, so they could make the Heighliner in orbit before it departed in a few hours.
Stepping out of the way as six large men slid a heavy cage onto a wide flatbed, Paul asked Bronso, “Have you seen Sielto? Or any of the Face Dancers since the performance?”
“How can you tell, one way or the other? They could be any of these people.”
Paul didn’t think so. “By now I recognize the other workers, for the most part. I haven’t seen the dancers since they took their bows and ran back into the tent.”
“Maybe Rheinvar gave them another job to do.”
The troupe leader shouted at the two boys. “Hurry up! Chat all you want aboard the Heighliner, but if we don’t make that cargo shuttle by departure time, the pilot charges me a hundred solaris for every extra minute. I’ll take it out of your wages!”
“You’re not even paying us wages,” Bronso countered.
“Then I’ll find some other way to take it out of you!”
The boys hustled to their tasks, though they kept an eye out for the Face Dancers. When the last groundcars and wheeled platforms were loaded, boxes and packs piled high, Paul and Bronso scrambled to the top of one carrier stack and rode there as a wheeled engine pulled them out to the Sonance spaceport. A dirty old cargo ship waited for them there, bathed in white launching lights. Small figures scurried about, stowing the last of the troupe’s belongings.
But Paul still hadn’t seen any sign of Sielto, and they were about to depart. He followed Rheinvar up the boarding ramp behind the last of the suspensor platforms. “Excuse me, sir. The Face Dancers . . .”
Bronso added, “If they don’t get here in time, we won’t have much of a performance troupe left.”
Rheinvar didn’t seem the least bit troubled as he ducked inside the ship. “They have their own schedules. Don’t worry—they’re professionals.”
Taking one last glance at the edge of the illuminated spaceport, Paul spotted a group of identical men running toward the ship at a distance-eating pace. They burst into the light of the landing field and raced across the armorpave surface.
The shuttle’s engines began to hum and throb as the pilot completed his systems check, and a hiss of exhaust gases spat from outflow pipes. Paul paused at the hatch, motioning for the group to hurry, and all the Face Dancers ran up the ramp, unruffled. Bronso looked at them as they passed. “I can’t tell which one’s Sielto, but he must be among them.”
“I am the one you call Sielto.” The speaker stopped while the other shape-shifters passed without pause, disappearing into the cargo vessel’s gloomy interior. Two of them smelled of thick smoke.
A sheen of sweat glistened on Sielto’s pale skin; Paul noticed that his hands were covered with blood, and spatters of scarlet ran up his sleeves. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“It is not my blood.”
When the cargo ramp retracted, the hatch door automatically closed, forcing them to retreat into the ship. The rest of the Face Dancers had already vanished into the corridors without bothering to speak to the boys; only Sielto lingered. “We had another performance, you see—an obligation to fulfill.”
Seeing the blood, smelling the smoke, putting the pieces together, Bronso blurted the conclusion that Paul had hesitated to voice: “You murdered someone, didn’t you?”
Sielto’s expression remained bland. “By the professional definition under which we operate, a necessary assassination is not murder. It is merely a political tool.”
The deck began to rumble, and Paul caught the bulkhead for support. Unlike passenger transports, where everyone had to find safe and comfortable seats and buckle themselves into restraints, the cargo ship didn’t bother with such niceties. As the vessel lurched off the ground, Paul focused on what Sielto had said. “Political tool? What’s a ‘necessary’ assassination? You . . . you’re a Tleilaxu Face Dancer—I thought you had no political interests.”
“Correct, we have no political interests of our own. We are actors playing roles. We perform services.”
“They’re hired assassins,” Bronso said with a wry smile. “Mercenaries.”
“Performers,” Sielto corrected. “You might say that we are playing our roles as assassins—real-life roles. There is always a need to eliminate troublesome people, and we simply fill that need.”
“But whom did you kill? Who hired you, and why?” Paul asked.
“Ah, I cannot reveal any names or details. The reasons for the assignment are irrelevant, and we don’t take sides.”
Sielto showed neither conscience nor regret for having killed, and his revelations deeply disturbed Paul. His own grandfather, Duke Paulus, had been assassinated i
n the bull ring on Caladan. Paul also remembered the traumatic attacks by Viscount Hundro Moritani during his father’s wedding ceremony, and the subsequent War of Assassins that caused so much bloodshed for Ecaz, Caladan, and Grumman. “Assassination isn’t just a political tool—it’s a bludgeon, not a precise instrument. There’s too much collateral damage.”
“Nevertheless, it is part of the Landsraad system. The practice has been condoned, at least implicitly, for countless generations.” Sielto flexed his sticky fingers and regarded the mess as he walked down the shuttle’s narrow corridor toward the crew quarters. “If you wish to do away with assassinations, young man, you’ll have to change the face of the Imperium.”
Paul raised his chin. “Perhaps one day I will.”
It is said that one can neither play nor hear the true beauty of music without first having experienced considerable pain. Alas, that may be why I find music to be so sweet.
—GURNEY HALLECK, Unfinished Songs
Though they took the swiftest passage from Ix, Gurney Halleck and Duncan Idaho arrived on Chusuk three days too late to intercept the Jongleur troupe.
When the Heighliner reached orbit, the planet was in a state of upheaval. Sonance Spaceport had been locked down for two days, and new security mea sures delayed their transport to the surface by six hours. Something big had happened down there.
Before being allowed to board a shuttle, each passenger underwent intense Guild questioning about their business on Chusuk. Since Duncan and Gurney had letters of marque from Duke Atreides and Earl Vernius, they passed with comparative ease; other travelers, though, suffered indignities, and several simply returned to their staterooms to wait for the next planetfall.
“Gods below, is it a revolution?” No one would answer Gurney.
“One fundamental principle every Swordmaster learns is that security should be proactive, not reactive,” Duncan said. “Unfortunately, most governments don’t realize that until it’s too late.”
When the two men finally reached the capital city, anxious to find Paul and Bronso, they observed numerous paramilitary operations, with competing militias that enforced security for different family leagues. The rival harmonywood growers regarded each other with as much suspicion as they did offworlders. In the distant fields and arbors surrounding the capital city, crooked plumes of black smoke marked scattered cropland fires. Half of the harvest was in flames.
The news was everywhere, some accounts more titillating than others: Three nights before, Ombar Ollic and all the members of his family had been murdered in their homes. The Ollic League arbors had been set afire, destroying most of the Genetically modified harmonywood. Recriminations were numerous, but evidence minimal. Almost every family league had much to gain by removing the fast-growing clonewood from the market. Fingers were pointed, and the leagues began attacking each other.
Not interested in local politics, Gurney asked about the Jongleur troupe. Many people had attended the recent performance, but when Duncan displayed images of Paul and Bronso, no one recognized the boys, although a few said the pair might have been among the troupe as ragamuffin stage workers.
Gurney pressed one middle-aged woman who headed toward the town market with three children in tow. “Do you know where the troupe went after the performance? Are they still on Chusuk?”
She hurried away, leery of strangers. “Who cares about entertainment when such a heinous crime happened right under our noses?” Her children stared over their shoulders at the two men as she yanked them along.
While Duncan left to talk to the spaceport master about how many vessels had departed from Chusuk in recent days, Gurney surveyed the rows of workshops that lined the narrow, winding streets of the old town. Noblemen might not notice minor stagehands in a traveling show, but craftsmen paid more attention to details. Someone here might have seen something.
As Gurney strode down the streets, a sound like stringed songbirds filled the air, a clash of different melodies played all at once. He heard it drifting through open doorways, saw street musicians performing.
He smelled fine sawdust and the clinging odor of sweet shellac. One baliset maker used tuning pegs carved from obsidian; another advertised strings of silk braided around a thin thread of precious metal. A flamboyantly dressed man boasted that his frets and cavilers were made of human bone, authentic splinters from the skeleton of a great musician who had offered his body for such a remarkable purpose so that he could keep creating music long after his death.
Walking along, Gurney listened with appreciative nods, but he did not buy. Vendors could see that he was no idle curiosity seeker, though, and suggested that he try their balisets himself. They demonstrated the purported superior qualities of their harmonywood strains, how the resonance and purity of tone could not be matched. Testing the instruments, Gurney wrung beautiful melodies from some, jarring off-key tunes from others.
When he raised the subject of the recent Jongleur show, their attitudes changed swiftly. “Well, some Jongleurs may know how to play music, but that doesn’t make them musicians,” drawled one baliset maker. “They’re just actors, manipulating their audiences. House Jongleur should have remained in exile. I don’t know why Emperor Shaddam lets them keep performing, after that assassination attempt by his half brother, oh, a dozen years ago.”
Gurney recalled that Tyros Reffa’s foiled strike against Shaddam IV had occurred during a Jongleur performance. And now the entire Ollic League had been murdered. “Assassinations seem to accompany Jongleur shows.”
And Paul was in a Jongleur troupe?
One street in particular was in turmoil. Instrument-makers’ stalls were shuttered. Only one shop had open awnings and wares spread out on display, but the pieces carried excessive prices. The proprietor was tall and thin with an oddly puffy face. “These balisets are made from the clonewood grown by the Ollic League! Exquisite wood with perfect resonance.”
“I’ve heard the opposite claims from many other merchants today,” Gurney said.
“I don’t doubt it, good sir.” He leaned over the wooden display table, lowering his voice. “But ask yourself—if Ollic clonewood wasn’t so superior, why did someone burn their arbors and murder the whole family?”
Gurney hefted one of the instruments and ran his fingers across the strings. The man had a point. He set the wheel in motion so that the gyroscopic tone cylinder made the wood vibrate. When he began to use the multipick, music seemed to flow out of his fingers. He had played nine-string models before, but it wasn’t his usual instrument.
“Nine strings are what you need, my friend. One for each note of an octave, and another to enhance.”
Gurney’s fingers strummed a beautiful chord. The wood certainly seemed equivalent, and perhaps even superior, to the instruments he’d tested in the past hour. “My baliset is old and in need of repair. It’s my fourth one.”
“You’re hard on your instruments.”
“Life’s been hard on me.” His fingers kept playing, then he plucked out a more ambitious tune. The sound was pleasing.
The craftsman saw Gurney forming an attachment to the instrument. “They say balisets choose their players, not the other way around.”
Setting the instrument back on the table, Gurney reached into his pocket and displayed the images of Paul and Bronso. “To be honest, I’m not just in the market for a baliset. I’m searching for these two young men. One is the son of my master.” He stroked the curve of the baliset enticingly. “I’d be in a position to reward you with a sale and a generous bonus, if you help me find them.”
The craftsman looked at the images, but shook his head. “Everyone around here has an apprentice. They all look the same to me.”
“These boys weren’t apprentices. They’re with a Jongleur troupe.”
“Oh yes, I heard about their performance. The same night Master Ombar Ollic was killed.” Seeing another passerby, he lifted a chunk of his polished wood and called out, “Balisets made with Ollic clonewood!
Now’s your last chance—with the Ollics killed and their arbors burned, these will be the only such instruments ever made.” As the passerby continued on his way, uninterested, the vendor lowered his voice once more to Gurney, conspiratorial now. “Hence the reason for the high prices. These instruments are sure to become a rarity, my friend. You may never be able to buy another baliset like it.”
While the craftsman regarded the image of the boys again, Gurney continued to caress the instrument. “And does the Jongleur troupe have any other performances scheduled here?”
“Oh, they’re long gone from Chusuk. After the murders, nobody’s in the mood around here to see Jongleurs.”
Gurney furrowed his brow. He would have to find out which ships left that particular night before the murders were discovered, since Chusuk security had locked down the spaceports immediately afterward. How could Paul and Bronso be involved with assassins?
“I’ll buy the baliset.” Though he had no idea where the Jongleur troupe would go next, at least the music would keep him company during their travels.
Inside the business offices of House Vernius, Rhombur seemed deflated and unsure of what to do. Jessica and Leto remained with him, waiting. After more than a month of intense searching for the boys, every lead had gone nowhere; every sighting proved false; every rumor was just that. Jessica felt her hopes slipping as time passed. Paul had still sent no message, no signal of any kind.
Accompanied by a silent aide, Bolig Avati bustled over to the Grand Palais, carrying a sheaf of papers, the Technocrat Council’s weekly report to Earl Vernius. A supercilious man, Jessica thought; Avati’s body language suggested that he didn’t think Rhombur needed to be consulted about anything. “We have been managing everything in your time of difficulty, my Lord. Please attend to these documents as soon as possible, so as not to impede the progress of new developments.” As an afterthought, he turned. “Oh, yes, a message cylinder arrived this morning, a communiqué from two House Atreides men.” He waved a hand casually, and his aide stepped forth to present a cylinder.
The Winds of Dune Page 15
