Alia’s guards quickly hauled the woman away, pushing her into the back of a groundcar that sped off.
Jessica marched angrily up to an officer who was trying to disperse the crowd around the man’s bleeding body. “I am the mother of Muad’Dib. You know me. Explain your actions.”
The man recoiled as he recognized her. “My Lady! It is not safe for you to be out by yourself. There are dangerous elements in the streets, threats against the Regent, people spreading sedition.”
“Yes, I can see how unsafe it is, particularly for that man. But you have not answered my question.”
He seemed perplexed. “Any person who speaks out against the sacred memory of Muad’Dib is subject to arrest and prosecution. Any propagandist may be in league with Bronso of Ix. We do it to honor your noble son and daughter, and . . . and the entire Atreides family, including yourself.”
“You do not commit murder to honor me. What was your evidence against this man?” She could still see the terrified expression on the poor victim’s face, the hopelessness. “Where is his conviction order from an Arrakeen court?”
“We were trying to arrest him, and he fled. Please, my Lady, let me escort you back to the Citadel. The Imperial Regent Alia herself can answer your questions much better than I.”
Though the smell of blood and violence clung to the guard, he was only a follower, a tool that had been used by Alia’s hand. “Yes, I would very much like to see my daughter right now.”
Alia wore a white dressing gown when she came to the door. Her dark hair was wet. Wet, letting the moisture simply evaporate into the dry air. Scrubbers on the walls and ceiling recaptured most of the humidity, but the lax water discipline still surprised Jessica, even here in the keep.
Standing in the open doorway, Jessica said, “I want to know why your guards shot and killed a man in the street tonight. A woman—apparently his wife—said he was just a shopkeeper, and she was taken away as well.”
“You must be referring to Ammas Kain? Yes, I signed his arrest order and followed the proper forms. He is a seditionist, promoting hatred against me, destabilizing my regime.”
Jessica crossed her arms, not softening her position. “And your evidence?”
Alia brushed a strand of wet hair away from her face. “A copy of an appalling new manifesto from Bronso was found in his smoke shop.”
“Simply finding such a document is sufficient reason to call for his execution without further investigation?” Jessica remembered how she had seen the Wayku aboard the Heighliner discreetly depositing Bronso’s tracts in public places. “In whose court of law?”
Alia stiffened. “Mine, of course, because I am the law. Have you read Bronso’s most recent manifesto? Instead of limiting his venom to Paul, the new document calls me and my husband ‘the Whore and the Ghola.’ Bronso names you the ‘Mother of all Evil’ and claims you took so many secret lovers that no one can know whether Duke Leto was really Paul’s father.”
Jessica drew back in surprise and puzzlement. Bronso had written that? “All along, Bronso’s stated purpose has been to correct the historical record about my son and his rule. Why would he stoop to insults against you and me?”
“Why does he need any further reason? He lives to spread hatred.” Alia invited her inside the chambers, offering to share a pot of melange-laced tea. “I’m glad that you’re here with me. This will be a particularly dangerous night. Many operations are under way.”
Jessica heard alarms sounding outside. She crossed Alia’s quarters, still smelling the bathing perfumes and moisture in the air, making her way to a high window. Through the plaz pane, she saw an unusual number of aircraft flying over the city, playing their spotlights across the night sky.
“Duncan is in charge of the details,” Alia said. “I could have asked Gurney to join him, but my husband was sure he could handle it himself. He is so dedicated and loyal! Tonight, the streets of Arrakeen flow with the blood of those who hate us, and tomorrow, our city will be much cleaner.”
Jessica’s horror was tinged with amazement. As she looked at her daughter, the events seemed unreal. She realized with a further chill that Alia had sent her to the refurbished temple without warning her of the violence that was about to be unleashed. Did she want me out there? In harm’s way?
Coldly, Jessica said, “Bronso wrote terrible things about your brother for years, but Paul never felt the need for such an extreme reaction. Why are you so sensitive?”
“Because Bronso has escalated his campaign against the Imperial government. Therefore I am escalating the response.”
“By reacting so extremely, you give his words a legitimacy they do not deserve. Just ignore Bronso’s criticisms.”
“Then I would look weak, or a fool, or both. My response is entirely appropriate.”
“I disagree.” Jessica considered using an appropriate shifting of Voice, in an attempt to bring her daughter to her knees, but that could precipitate a confrontation between them. Alia was not without her own defenses. Still, she wanted to make Alia see what she was doing. “Your father was called Leto the Just. Are you your father’s daughter, or are you something else? A changeling?”
With a sudden movement, Alia slapped Jessica on the face. It stung.
Jessica saw it coming, and chose not to evade the blow. Was this a petulant retribution for when she had struck Alia only weeks before? Marshalling all the calmness she could, Jessica said, “The mark of a true leader, a true human, is to find a reasonable solution to intractable problems. You have stopped bothering to try. The ripples spread wide from here, Alia. There are consequences for everything.”
“You threaten me?”
“I counsel you, and you would be wise to listen. I am only here to help you—and I won’t be here for long.” Gathering her dignity, Jessica left the room.
The hearts of all men dwell in the same wilderness.
—TIBANA, one of the leading Socratic Christians
Standing in row after row, the men looked like a sequence of images in a hall of mirrors, one Bronso Vernius after the other, each indistinguishable from the next. Dressed in identical white tunics and brown trousers, with similarly unkempt hair, they stood side by side in morning mists on the distant world of IV Anbus.
Only one of the Bronsos was real; he looked surreptitiously at the others. The Face Dancers asserted they were all the same; some still claimed to be Sielto, despite the very public execution in the Arrakeen square. Bronso didn’t think the shape-shifters even knew the difference among themselves, but that did not diminish the sick feeling he felt inside. He would never be able to wash away the nightmarish memory of Stilgar’s crysknife flashing into a body that looked indistinguishable from his own.
That was meant to be me.
After the spectacle, Face Dancers had appeared all around the Imperium, dozens of them in Arrakeen itself, providing enough diversions and distractions that the real Bronso could escape from Dune. In countless star systems, the shape-shifters would continue to take his place, and sightings of Bronso would occur on planet after planet. After much wasted time and effort, after interrogations and blood tests, all the captives would be exposed as imposters. Already, he was making Alia look foolish in her pursuit of him.
At least five additional shape-shifters had been executed, but none had revealed anything during protracted interrogation sessions. Such great and noble acts were seemingly incongruous among Face Dancers.
As Bronso thought about it, he remembered that the original Rheinvar the Magnificent had selected only the finest shape-shifters for his troupe, those who would adhere to noble Jongleur traditions. And as perfect mimics, picking up on nuances of behavior, the Face Dancers must have imitated the Master Jongleur at some point and absorbed his sense of honor.
Now Bronso was in the midst of those he could trust, humans of a different cut. He and his doppelgangers were meeting on a planet whose once-powerful civilization had long ago faded into history. The group stood together on a w
ide, flat promontory above the confluence of two rivers whose waters churned and flowed far below in the deep canyons they had cut. A sparkle of closely orbiting moons rode in the sky, visible even in daylight.
Long ago, a monastery had stood on this site, where the first Socratic Christians had gained and consolidated political power. IV Anbus was a spiritual place, a beacon for their souls, but in the distant past, unremembered enemies had killed every person on the planet and erased most evidence that their sect had ever existed; the victors had shattered the stones of the monastery buildings and tossed the fragments into the raging torrents below.
Only the evening before, Bronso and the Jongleur troupe had ventured down to the planet, which remained only sparsely inhabited after so many centuries. Bronso had made certain that several Wayku attendants and others on the ship realized who he was and where he was going. Boarding another Heighliner under an assumed identity afterward, altering his features and clothing with sophisticated Jongleur makeup and costuming, he would continue his journey, staying for a while and then moving on, as usual.
Striding to the front of the group, the Face Dancer replica of Rheinvar the Magnificent scrutinized the identical Bronsos. The Jongleur leader scratched his head and muttered to himself, unable to identify the real Ixian among the imitators. Finally he said in a booming voice, “Even to a Face Dancer of my perceptive abilities, your voices, eyes, and mannerisms reveal nothing.”
All of the Bronsos smiled, in unison.
Despite regent Alia’s strict prohibitions against anyone possessing or even reading Bronso’s inflammatory publications, the new manifesto was widely distributed and discussed. The extreme writing was more insulting and hateful than anything he had published before.
The problem was, Bronso hadn’t written it.
When he read the provocative insults against Alia, Duncan, and even Lady Jessica, Bronso simply stared in disbelief. Even Ennzyn, who brought him a copy while the Heighliner was en route to its next destination, assumed that it was genuinely one of the Ixian’s writings. Wanting to help, the Wayku had surreptitiously spread it to a wider audience, as usual.
But it was a forgery. Bronso found that extremely disturbing.
He wondered if the author could possibly be Irulan. The Corrino princess had spread plenty of her own falsehoods, but nothing in her writing—especially the recent insipid and glorified “revisions” to history—had contained this sort of maliciousness. Even his most critical analyses of Paul Atreides had never been so boorish and rude, had never contained such vehement and personal attacks.
Sealed in a small inner stateroom, he pored over the alarming counterfeit manifesto, searching for clues. The words sounded as if they’d been written by a madman. No wonder Regent Alia had ordered her guards to hunt him down at all costs and had increased the bounty on his head. No wonder the people were growing more unified against him in common disgust.
A chill went down his back as the answer dawned on him. Alia herself had the most to gain from such invective! If she had not written it with her own hand, one of her agents must have compiled it. And the Regent had the ability to distribute many, many copies.
Anger clenched his muscles. Of course, Alia did not know that he was the one who’d sent Lady Jessica the covert recordings of the priest Isbar’s assassination plan. Bronso had many secret surveillance devices planted in strategic places in the temples and in the Citadel of Muad’Dib itself. He had saved Alia’s life, even if she didn’t realize that he was her benefactor.
And now she had done this to him!
The sole purpose of his writings was to provide the unvarnished truth about Paul-Muad’Dib, exaggerating his weaknesses to make up for the fictions that were being written about him by starry-eyed Irulan. The pendulum had to swing both directions. Trying to set the record straight, Bronso had already sacrificed his wealth and noble title, risking his life for years on the run.
And now Alia was publishing lies—under his name.
Writing feverishly, he began to compose another manifesto to refute the forged document and deny responsibility for it. He could not allow such lies to go unchallenged.
There comes a time when every relationship is tested, and the true strength of the bond is determined.
—from The Wisdom of Muad’Dib by the PRINCESS IRULAN
Weary after a long day, Irulan entered the northwest wing of the great citadel, interested only in reaching her private quarters. She carried a ridulian crystal recorder under one arm, which she had used to collect information from people on the streets of Arrakeen. How strange for the eldest daughter of Shaddam IV, the lawful wife of Emperor Muad’Dib, to be employed as a gatherer of data, a survey taker. Alia had given her the capricious, nonsensical instructions; Irulan didn’t understand what she really wanted.
Even while Paul still lived, Irulan’s role had been unclear, her assignments beneath her abilities. The eldest daughter of Shaddam Corrino, relegated to a mere chronicler . . . but even that was preferable to performing such menial work. Did Alia intend to demean her?
Pursuant to the Regent’s instructions, Irulan and an entourage of guards and functionaries had gone out into the city on a special assignment to interview common people. “I want honest opinions, candid responses,” Alia had said, obviously knowing she would get no such thing. Considering the recent purges—not to mention the intimidating amazon guards at the Princess’s side—no one would voice criticisms of the Regency. Over the course of the day, Irulan had collected thousands of glowing responses. Exactly what Alia wanted. But why?
Irulan had never been averse to manipulating answers herself. No matter what Jessica had told her, she felt obligated to continue building the myth of Muad’Dib, developing and revising his history in order to cement his place as prophet, the Kwisatz Haderach, the Lisan al-Gaib. By extension, that strengthened the legitimacy of Alia’s rule. There could be no doubt in the minds of the people, no questions. That was why Bronso posed such a threat.
Irulan feared what would happen when the twins grew older. What if Alia began to scheme against little Leto and Ghanima? As Paul’s wife, albeit not the mother of his children, she would continue to watch over the babies, help Harah to raise them, and guard them if necessary.
All the while, her father remained in exile on Salusa Secundus with Count Hasimir Fenring. The fallen Emperor Shaddam had been strangely silent since the “accident” had killed his ambassador Rivato just after Paul’s death, but she knew her father—and Fenring—very well: Sensing weakness, they would be like wolves sniffing at Muad’Dib’s wounded Empire. She wondered what her father would do next.
Walking along hallways of polished stone, she passed priceless paintings, statuary, and sealed bookcases containing ancient illuminated manuscripts. After a lifetime of familiarity with ostentatious trappings, both on Kaitain and here, she barely noticed the finery anymore.
But inside her own inner rooms, she sensed that something was not right.
With the door to the hallway still open behind her, she paused, her senses heightened from her years of Bene Gesserit schooling. She detected peculiar odors, things a bit out of place, heavy tables moved slightly, a sheaf of documents in a different position, the jewelry case visible through the doorway to her sleeping chamber open just a crack.
It was ridiculous to think that a burglar had broken into her chambers deep inside the Citadel. A quick inspection revealed that nothing had been taken. But objects had been moved around. Why? Had the intruder been searching for something?
Suddenly, she understood why the Regent had sent her on an unusual, and pointless, assignment all day. Alia wanted me away from my rooms.
Irulan checked a cleverly concealed sliding wall compartment, confirmed that her private journals had not been disturbed. On impulse, she went back to her jewelry case and took out a strand of varnished reefpearls that she had received as a gift during a party game in the Arrakeen royal court.
She remembered that celebratory nigh
t, an intentional throwback to the early years of Paul’s reign. Clinging to their former glory, despite the ongoing destruction of the Jihad, Landsraad members had been invited to an especially lavish celebration intended to resemble similar parties back on old Kaitain. Paul had been much too busy for such court games.
As the highlight of the evening, the participants opened random packages provided by the organizer, a bubbly woman who had once been a countess but had lost most of her fortune in a scandal that had nothing to do with the Jihad.
Casually, Irulan had selected an item from the assortment of gifts arrayed on tables around the room—just a light amusement for all—but when she opened her package, Irulan had immediately seen that her gift was unusual. The reefpearls appeared to be genuine, which she’d confirmed afterward through a wizened old jeweler. The jeweler had noticed something else on the necklace, which he showed to her under a magnifying lens: an unmistakable hawk crest etched into the golden clasp. “It appears to be an authentic Atreides heirloom, Highness.”
Later, Irulan had walked into Paul’s private study and interrupted a meeting with Stilgar, freshly returned from an offworld military mission. While the Fremen commander watched, looking at her sourly as he often did, Irulan had handed the reefpearls to Paul. “I believe this keepsake belongs to you, my Husband, not to me.”
“I am Muad’Dib now. Atreides heirlooms are no longer important to me.” With a casual motion Paul had tossed the reefpearls back to her. “Keep them yourself, or send them to my mother on Caladan, as you like.” The Princess had gone away with the necklace, questions churning through her mind. . . .
Now, as she held the strand of pearls up to the light from an overhead glowglobe, Irulan looked through a handheld magnifier and found the minuscule hawk crest, as expected. But something wasn’t right. Laying out the reefpearls, she looked at them under a focusing lens. Previously, the second pearl from the clasp had been distinguished by a barely perceptible scratch that the jeweler pointed out to her. Now she could not locate it. Her heart racing, Irulan looked again, increasing the magnification just to verify her suspicions.
The Winds of Dune Page 24
