The Winds of Dune

by Brian Herbert

  If she could make the Imperium strong and enduring, historians might even elevate her above the stature of Muad’Dib. For her, it was a matter of diminishing Paul’s memory in calculated ways, while brightening her own accomplishments. She would stand on his shoulders and benefit from his victories.

  In honor of her wedding day, Alia had ordered the temporary cessation of all torturings and executions. In addition, one fortunate prisoner would be exonerated each day, based upon a public drawing to be held outside the main prison, and Duncan had been giving away valuable gifts to hundreds of lucky citizens selected at random, to demonstrate Imperial largesse.

  Stepping away from the slanted dusk light on the balcony, Alia turned to see Duncan dressing in front of a mirror, putting on green uniform trousers and a black jacket that bore the red hawk crest of House Atreides. He was always precise, the result of the original Duncan’s Swordmaster training and years of military service to House Atreides.

  She closed the plaz doors behind her and activated the moisture seals, shutting off noises from the crowd outside. With a tingly feeling of anticipation, Alia put on a black velvasilk dress that had the cut of a Fremen robe, but with the materials, fittings, and resplendent jewels of a noble lady. She braided her hair with water rings and wore a white pearline necklace—the perfect combination of Fremen and Imperial elements. She also put on a satisfied smile.

  When sunset faded into darkness, multicolored lights played across the sands and the windows of the palace annex. Duncan stood at a viewing scope on one wall, and Alia joined him so that they could observe the crowd. While the couple watched from behind the walls of Alia’s high bedroom, her amazon guards marched out onto the sands and took their stations to guard the participants and guests. Enhancing the magnification, she spotted a black-robed Sayyadina, along with a Qizara priest in a yellow robe, standing in a pool of light at the crest of the dune. Everyone was waiting for her and Duncan to arrive.

  She squeezed his hand and led him to the blackplaz cubicle at the back of the room. “Shall we make our appearance?”

  The two of them stepped inside the booth. The cubicle door shut, and the golden lights of scanners and imagers bathed them. Abruptly, out in the desert, Alia seemed to be standing on the dunetop with Duncan, but they were merely solido holoprojections, unbeknownst to onlookers. Alia and her husband-to-be seemed to emerge out of nowhere, like a miracle . . . or a stage trick. No one in the audience would believe the two were not actually present. Even if an assassination attempt occurred now, neither of them was at risk.

  Alia had studied the details of the ceremony so many times that she barely noticed as the Qizara spoke in Chakobsa, following traditions as old as the Zensunni wanderers who were the forebears of the Fremen, while the Sayyadina spoke afterward in flowery ancient Galach, using words that had once been uttered by Priests of Dur in royal wedding ceremonies, before their recent fall from grace.

  The perfect projected images of Alia and Duncan uttered the responses they had memorized, received the blessings of the two officials, and kissed to a roar of approval from the population of Arrakeen. Then the two newlyweds glided off onto the sands. Miraculously leaving no footprints, they vanished into dune shadows, bound for their secret honeymoon destination.

  When it was over and the two of them stepped out of the projection booth and found themselves back in the suite, Duncan produced actual wedding rings from a pocket of his jacket. Blushing almost shyly, they slid the bands on each other’s fingers. Duncan was such a traditionalist.

  Smiling at him, feeling the warmth of genuine though unfamiliar emotions, Alia said, “It all happened so fast. I turned my head and we were married.”

  “You turned my head some time ago,” he said and folded her into his embrace.

  Wellington Yueh, the Suk doctor of House Atreides, is the most notorious traitor in the long and checkered history of the Imperium. Bronso of Ix, on the other hand, is more than a mere turncoat—he is a defiler of Muad’Dib’s memory. He does not simply betray, but rather hopes to destroy everything Muad’Dib created.

  If a million deaths were not enough to punish Yueh, as the refrain goes, how many deaths would be sufficient for Bronso?

  —The Legacy of Muad’Dib by the PRINCESS IRULAN

  In the continuing search for Bronso of Ix, Duncan Idaho’s network of disguised Mentats patrolled the streets or worked menial spaceport jobs. They observed and processed millions of faces, then ignored them. They paid no attention to other criminals, fugitives from the Jihad, or rebels who had fought against Muad’Dib but were never caught. They sought only Bronso. That was Alia’s priority.

  Gurney tried unsuccessfully to trace the treatises to their origins, and reading some of the outrageous claims made his blood boil. The Ixian had once been Paul’s friend, and now he had become a particularly malicious gadfly.

  Still, Gurney had sworn to honor Jessica’s request, no matter how odd he found it, no matter how infuriating the Ixian fugitive was. And so, to throw Duncan off the scent, he chose carefully where to focus his efforts. He “misplaced” a few particularly promising leads, while expending manpower on dubious sightings. Through the weeks of hunting, Gurney surrounded himself with a flurry of activity, conducting dozens of interrogations personally. He dispatched spies and searchers and made a great show of his determination.

  All the while, he did his best not to find Bronso.

  Thus, when the fugitive was actually apprehended at the Arrakeen Spaceport, Gurney could not have been more astonished. “Gods below, they caught him? They have him in custody?”

  The high-spirited messenger who pushed his way into their headquarters office could barely contain himself as he delivered his fresh news.

  Duncan didn’t seem surprised at all. “It was only a matter of time, effort, and manpower. Bronso Vernius is a worthy adversary, but he could never match the resources we brought to bear against him. And now we’ve stopped him. We have done what honor demanded.”

  Honor.

  “That’s . . . good, Duncan,” Gurney managed, but a weight remained on his shoulders. He had failed Lady Jessica. She had seemed so earnest, and he had done what he could. Despite Gurney’s efforts to stall and divert attention, Duncan’s men had caught Bronso.

  After Bronso’s earlier escape from a death cell, security was bound to be tighter than ever before. Gurney struggled to think of something he could do to honor his promise to Jessica. His stomach was in knots. Should he try to free the notorious prisoner? To what lengths did Jessica want him to go? If Gurney’s efforts became obvious, then questions would be asked, and Jessica’s involvement could be exposed. “Let me interrogate him in the prison. I’ll learn what we need to know.”

  The breathless messenger shook his head, but the motion did not dislodge his smile. “No interrogations are necessary. Regent Alia has sent out a summons, and already the crowds are gathering. Bronso’s guilt has been plain for years, and she will not risk another escape. We learned our lesson that first time. The Regent says there is no need for a drawn-out trial. He is to be executed swiftly, so that we can all move on to other pressing matters.”

  Gurney could not conceal a scowl. “No matter how apparent his guilt may be, the law is the law. You know as well as I that Duke Leto would never have allowed conviction and execution without due process. That’s a Harkonnen way of dealing with problems . . . not the Atreides way.”

  “Ways change,” the ghola said, his facial expression unreadable. “Those things take time, and Alia believes she has no time to spare. She’s in a hurry to be done with the man.”

  The messenger seemed much too happy. “The people already know the justice of Muad’Dib, and they are eager to have it carried out.”

  Crowds had already gathered in the central square near the sun-washed tower of Alia’s Fane. Angry bodies pressed against one another with a roar of vengeful cheers and shouts, a mounting thunderstorm of humanity. The Qizarate did not have to work hard to whip up fervor agai
nst Bronso.

  Dressed in an extraordinary black and gold outfit that made her look like a goddess, Alia sat on a shaded platform high above the masses. Beside her sat a stony-faced Jessica, whose mood Gurney could not decipher. When he and Duncan presented themselves on the high observation platform, Jessica showed no reaction, but Gurney felt sick inside. He had never failed her before. No excuses would matter now.

  Alia looked at them with a bright smile. “Ah, Duncan and Gurney—thanks to your efforts, the vile Bronso has been snared, and he’s confessed his crimes, even without coercion! He actually seems proud of what he’s done.” She steepled her fingers and looked out at the masses. “I see no reason to make this a prolonged affair. We know what the people want, and what the Imperium needs.” Alia looked at her mother as if hoping for approval, then back at Gurney and Duncan. “In the execution after the Great Surrender ceremony, the crowds tore Whitmore Bludd limb from limb. I wish you all could have seen it.” No one else seemed to share her enthusiasm.

  She sat back in her elaborate chair. “But I’ve decided to be more Fremen about the execution today. Stilgar will use his crysknife. Do you see him down there?” Gurney could make out the Naib standing alone on a platform; he wore a full stillsuit and desert robes, without any badges of office.

  Bronso’s outrageous writings were so treasonous that any government would have seen the need to cauterize the wound and proceed with the healing. But since Jessica had told Gurney not to let Bronso be captured, something else must be at stake here.

  Gurney searched her face for any signal, trying to guess what she wanted him to do. Should he suggest that Bronso might serve as a more effective tool of state if he repented and retracted his claims against Muad’Dib? He doubted Bronso would do that without protracted turmoil and torture, but at least it would cause a delay. . . .

  The crowd’s roar increased to vocal thunder as the captive was brought forward. Despite their distance from the platform, Gurney could tell by the man’s manner, the exposed facial features, and the shock of copper hair that the prisoner truly was Bronso of Ix, the son of Rhombur Vernius.

  Three Qizaras spoke in odd unison, bellowing through voice amplifiers in Galach, listing Bronso’s crimes, condemning his acts, and sentencing him to death. Gurney felt swept along by it all. He could discern no expression on the captive’s face, neither terror nor contrition; Bronso stood straight, firm in his convictions and facing his fate.

  Stilgar did not draw out the suspense, adding only a traditional Fremen curse. “May your face be forever black.” He raised the crysknife high, displayed its milky-white blade, and let the crowd cheer for a few moments.

  Then he drove it home into Bronso’s chest.

  When the blade struck, the victim spasmed as if jolted by lightning, and then fell to his knees. Stilgar withdrew the dagger, satisfied that it was an efficient killing, and Bronso fell backward to lie still at the Naib’s feet.

  The crowd let out a collective gasp, after which a resounding silence fell, as if all their heartbeats had stopped, not just the prisoner’s. Stilgar stood like a man encased in stiff body armor.

  Suddenly he recoiled, as if from a serpent. Gasping members of the audience withdrew from around the dais. Someone screamed.

  Alia shot to her feet, unable to believe her eyes.

  Bronso’s features blurred and then seemed to be erased, leaving a blank, expressionless visage, a smooth face with the requisite eyes, mouth, and nostrils . . . nothing else.

  Jessica bolted upright from her shaded seat, astonished and vaguely pleased, as far as Gurney could tell. “It’s a Face Dancer! Not Bronso at all—a Tleilaxu Face Dancer!”

  To his knowledge, Gurney had never seen one of the shape-shifters before, and certainly not in its natural state. Even viewed from a distance, the thing had a bizarre inhumanness.

  Hidden in the crowd, he was jostled by elbows and shoulders. The smell of packed human bodies and dry dust penetrated the scarf he’d wrapped around the lower half of his face. He pulled his hood farther forward to conceal his features.

  With great sadness and unrelenting defiance, Bronso of Ix watched his duplicate die before a bloodthirsty mob. As the people withdrew in horror and disgust, cheated of their true victim, he had an excuse to turn away from the dead shape-shifter—the man, his friend—who had sacrificed himself.

  Bronso had accepted many necessary and painful tasks, but he’d never before asked anyone to die for him. Sielto had seen the need, and had volunteered. Another “necessary” death. Bronso didn’t think he could have made the request alone. . . .

  Aboard the Guild Heighliner, where he had gathered with Sielto and other members of Rheinvar’s troupe, the plan had been obvious and ingenious. “They are looking for you everywhere,” said Sielto. “Therefore, it is best to let them find you.” The Face Dancer had shifted his features to mirror Bronso’s. “They will find me instead, and they will be fooled.”

  “But you’ll be executed.” He remembered with a shudder the time he had been held in the death cell. “And no one will help you escape.”

  “I am aware of that. All Face Dancers have agreed to wear your features—on cue. Immediately after my execution, ‘Bronso of Ix’ will seem to appear everywhere at once. There will be hundreds of sightings around the Imperium.”

  Bronso remained guarded. “But once Alia’s men have been fooled, they will develop tests and find ways to expose the Face Dancer im-posters.”

  Sielto shrugged. “Let them do so. After a hundred false arrests, even Alia will grow tired of chasing false trails, humiliated by being tricked time and again. You will be safe.”

  “I’ll never be safe . . . but this may give me some breathing room.” Bronso hung his head. “Sielto, I’ve known you for so many years. The time when Paul and I worked with you was so happy, until . . .” His expression fell. “I don’t want you to do this for me.”

  Wearing Bronso’s face, Sielto had remained undisturbed. “You make an error when you consider us to be individuals. I am just a Face Dancer and a Jongleur—malleable and adaptable to any circumstance, including my own execution. I was designed to play a role, my friend, and this will be my finest performance.”

  And it had been, indeed.

  Swallowed up in the angry crowd, Bronso watched it all, hardly able to bear the gruesome sight. If anything, he had underestimated the magnitude of the audience’s shocked reaction. This trick with the Face Dancer now made all these people consider Bronso to be even more the genius, even more the villain. He had fooled them again!

  It wasn’t what Bronso wanted, but it was what he needed in order to continue tearing down the myth. And that was what Paul needed. Beyond that, nothing else mattered.

  Murder? The word, the very concept itself, is not in my lexicon—at least not as it can be applied to my Imperial rule. If killings are needed, I order them. It is not a matter of legality or morality; it is one of the necessities of my position.

  —ALIA ATREIDES, in the seventh month of her Regency

  Dressed in an austere black robe so that no one would recognize her, Jessica hurried along a crowded, dusty boulevard in Arrakeen. In the early evening, yellow lights from narrow sealed windows and recessed doorways cast pools of illumination. When darkness fell, young people frequented this main thoroughfare, some doing the circuit of taverns, others attending services at countless new temples and shrines that had sprung up after Paul’s death. She made her way around the small crowds that blocked the entrances to their favorite places.

  For the past hour, she had been inside the newly renamed Temple of Muad’Dib’s Glory, and now she was on her way back to the Citadel. The temple was the grandest of several such structures that had not quite been completed before the wedding. Alia herself had chosen this particular building to be refurbished, ordering her teams of workmen to labor around the clock. It was not yet open to the public, but she had insisted that her mother see it today. Jessica doubted Paul would have wanted such an ostentati
ous temple dedicated to his memory and legend.

  The priest in charge had given her a private tour, and Jessica pretended to be impressed. At her daughter’s behest, she had given the holy man an authentic artifact of Paul—a red braid from an Atreides uniform he’d worn as a boy. The grateful priest had stammered his thanks as he held the object in its clearplaz box. He promised to place it in a secure reliquary and henceforth exhibit it inside the temple. Before sending the braid to him, however, Alia had ordered it duplicated, so that facsimiles could be sold along with other artifacts.

  On the edge of the thoroughfare ahead, Jessica saw a man running, brushing against the dry, tan buildings, while gunshots rang out. A small police ’thopter, flying low, roared around the corner of the street beyond the man, spraying projectile fire at him, thin needles that glinted in the dusk.

  Screaming people scattered in the streets and into doorways; a number of them were struck by stray or ricocheting projectiles, since most townspeople did not wear body shields. Jessica dodged into a doorway and pressed her back against the moisture seal as a spray of gunfire tore up the place where she had been walking. The hunted man ran past her, panting like a laboring engine as he fled. For an instant, he gaped at her; his eyes were large with terror, and he dodged back out into the street toward a group of people outside a drinking establishment.

  Moments later, she heard another burst of gunfire and more ’thopters. Men wearing the black-and-green uniforms of Alia’s Imperial guard ran past, shouting; some of them grinned like hunting jackals. Peering out of her meager shelter, Jessica saw the hapless man lying motionless in a widening pool of blood. Moisture wasted, flowing away on the pavement.

  Jessica moved quietly forward with a gathering crowd of onlookers. A woman knelt over the body, sobbing. “Ammas! Why have they killed my Ammas?” She stared at the appalled spectators as if they could give her answers. “My husband was just a shopkeeper. In the name of Muad’Dib, why?”