Paul Of Dune Part 17

Korba just shrugged. "If Muad'Dib wishes it, then his people will pay. If they do not reach into their own pockets, the Qizarate will do it for them."

"It was just a comment in pa.s.sing," Bludd replied. The other man had no sense of humor whatsoever.

The work teams were competing with one another for speediness of construction, with monetary rewards for their accomplishments and severe penalties for deficiencies. Anyone who showed signs of laziness or produced shoddy workmans.h.i.+p was publicly flogged; for the most egregious cases involving fraud or theft, the individuals were beheaded in the central plaza - an activity at which Korba excelled. To Bludd, these sorts of punishments seemed particularly unlike the original Paul Atreides, but Fremen traditions were much more severe. Paul seemed to be losing some of his humanity in the process... or at least discovering a different, darker side of it.

Bludd had intentionally styled a section of the citadel along the lines of the old Swordmaster school on faraway Ginaz. The loathsome and dishonorable Grummans had brought down the famous school as part of their feud with House Ecaz, and then expanded their vendetta to encompa.s.s House Atreides. Poor fat Rivvy Dinari, slain on the wedding day of Duke Leto and Ilesa Ecaz. Heroic Heroic Dinari. If only his fellow Swordmaster could see Bludd now! Dinari. If only his fellow Swordmaster could see Bludd now!

Korba said blithely, "After a.n.a.lyzing your blueprints, I realigned several turrets so that they fall upon numerically significant positions. I have already given new orders to the construction crews."

"You can't just move one piece of it - everything fits as part of the overall architectural pattern."

"Everything fits according to the designs of Muad'Dib. Muad'Dib. The modifications are required for religious reasons. You do not understand the necessities of orthodoxy, Bludd." The modifications are required for religious reasons. You do not understand the necessities of orthodoxy, Bludd."

"And you don't know a thing about architecture." Bludd knew that Korba would not change his mind, and he was wise enough not to call the man out in a duel. Though he was sure he could defeat Korba, he did not underestimate the influence and power of the Fedaykin leader.

As the inspection craft circled a helical tower whose framework seemed to defy gravity, Korba brooded down at the tiny workers. "Do not question my decisions, Bludd. I fought beside Muad'Dib in the desert and stood with him in sietch. I was one of his students of the Weirding Way. We spilled blood side by side, killed Harkonnens together. I was among the first to call him Usul, and I watched him slay Feyd-Rautha."

Bludd couldn't believe this desert fighter would try to engage in a game of one-upmans.h.i.+p with him. In response, he said, "I knew Paul Atreides when he was just a stripling, and I saved his life when your mother was still sc.r.a.ping the stink out of your swaddling clothes. Read your history, Korba - Imperial history. Rivvy Dinari got most of the credit, but I was there with him at the wedding ma.s.sacre. I know the truth, and so does Paul."

"Imperial history," Korba sneered. "Paul Atreides. I speak of history," Korba sneered. "Paul Atreides. I speak of Muad'Dib, Muad'Dib, not the son of a Landsraad n.o.bleman. His life before he came to Sietch Tabr and took the name of Usul has little relevance now." not the son of a Landsraad n.o.bleman. His life before he came to Sietch Tabr and took the name of Usul has little relevance now."

"You cannot know a man by half his life," Bludd said, annoyed. "Isn't that why Princess Irulan wrote his biography, which you all carry around like a holy textbook? If his earlier life was irrelevant, he would not have placed me in such an important position." There, There, Bludd thought. Bludd thought.

As Korba fell silent, the Swordmaster adjusted the temperature control inside the sealed vehicle. He wore formal clothing, not a dusty jumpsuit or worker's garb. Whenever he was in public, Bludd liked to present himself with proper dress and manners. These desert ruffians could learn a great deal about style from him. Korba, on the other hand, seemed unwilling to peel off his stillsuit even for routine hygienic purposes, and here in the enclosed craft, the stench of him was like that of an unwashed beast. Bludd contemplated borrowing a set of stillsuit nose plugs just to filter the air.

He thought about his long-dead friend Dinari, sorry for his untimely death but not sorry for the memory. Although the obese Swordmaster had been killed in the War of a.s.sa.s.sins, he had also been rewarded with great glory for what he had done. And if not for a fraction of a second of hesitation, Bludd Bludd would also be remembered as a hero during the wedding ma.s.sacre, rather than an inept failure. Ilesa had died, and he should have protected her. No matter what other exploits he accomplished in subsequent years, history would never forget that he had missed his singular chance to make a legend of himself. would also be remembered as a hero during the wedding ma.s.sacre, rather than an inept failure. Ilesa had died, and he should have protected her. No matter what other exploits he accomplished in subsequent years, history would never forget that he had missed his singular chance to make a legend of himself.

Instead, he would be relegated to a footnote in an entry about the early life of Muad'Dib. Irulan was writing that part of Paul's life now, and Bludd wasn't certain she would treat him kindly in her supposedly objective account. She'd been polite to him, so maybe he could convince her to insert a good word or two....

He straightened inside the c.o.c.kpit of the inspection craft. Well, despite his earlier shame, this magnificent fortress-palace would overshadow everything else. The citadel would be his crowning achievement, his true legacy for history. It would surpa.s.s even the accomplishments of his revered ancestor Porce Bludd, who had selflessly sacrificed his fortune to save populations during the Butlerian Jihad.

"Make your suggestions for design alterations if you must, but I still have to approve them," Bludd said. "This is my project, my design, and my my citadel." citadel."

"You forget yourself." Korba's voice carried a clear warning. "No matter what you say, no matter how you delude yourself, this will always be the Citadel of Muad'Dib. Muad'Dib. The Qizarate has named it so. It belongs to him, and to G.o.d. You are a mere facilitator, as are we all. Who will remember your part?" The Qizarate has named it so. It belongs to him, and to G.o.d. You are a mere facilitator, as are we all. Who will remember your part?"

The words stung. Previously, Bludd's feelings toward the other man had been constrained to annoyance; now he was genuinely angry at him. "I still know what I accomplished. That is all that really matters."

"If no one knows your name or your accomplishments, then your life is no more memorable than sand blown on the wind." Korba chuckled, but Bludd didn't think it was at all funny.

"And you, Korba, try to make your own mark by creating a religion around Muad'Dib? It's all about power you can earn from the life and legend of the Emperor, isn't it? It's all about elevating yourself."

Placing a hand over the crysknife at his waist, the Fremen growled, "Be careful what you say, man, or -"

"If you pull that blade, prepare to die," Bludd said. He pointed a long sleeve at him, which revealed bristling needle points below the wrist, ready to launch.

With a hard smile, the Fremen relaxed his hand, and looked away, out the window. "It seems we each have a stake in Muad'Dib," he said.

Your point is valid, that many of my "allies" are using the holy war as an excuse to attack rival families and resolve or inflame old feuds. You say this extravagant bloodshed has nothing to do with my rule or my decisions, but I take full responsibility nonetheless. I am accountable for each and every death.

-from Conversations with Muad'Dib Conversations with Muad'Dib by THE PRINCESS IRULAN by THE PRINCESS IRULAN

After he returned from Sietch Tabr, Paul announced he would receive visitors in the extravagant Celestial Audience Chamber, which was still not entirely completed.

Over the past few years, the temporary throne room in Shaddam's former hutment had lost its l.u.s.ter for him, so Paul decided to hold audiences in the new s.p.a.ce instead, despite the fact that Bludd was still not satisfied with all the finis.h.i.+ng touches - moldings, fine filigree, stonework, intricate sculptures, elaborately painted ceilings and walls. The Swordmaster insisted on finis.h.i.+ng some of the perfectionistic interior work himself, permitting no one to help him.

Countless alcoves were only partially filled with statuary, usually renditions of Paul or of his Atreides ancestors. Fremen tapestries above the throne depicted colorful scenes from battles of the Jihad. Bludd had announced that some of these scenes would be replicated as ceiling frescoes, encircling the base of the high dome, when it was complete.

The previous day, Paul had walked the scaffolds that were in place high above the throne, where the finest artists in the realm continued to work feverishly on their commissions. Even as he held court now, they were up there painting, voices and movements hushed reverently in the presence of Muad'Dib.

He had been shaken by the blind and suicidal devotion that those workers from Omwara had demonstrated, facing a sandstorm to show their faith. For generations, House Atreides had inspired tremendous loyalty as embodied in Gurney Halleck, Duncan Idaho, Thufir Hawat, and many others. But that loyalty had been supportive, not reckless. What had those workers accomplished accomplished by dying out there on the dunes? How had their sacrifices served Muad'Dib? by dying out there on the dunes? How had their sacrifices served Muad'Dib?

Although the ever-growing religion around him was an engine that drove the necessary force of his Jihad, it might easily slip beyond his control. Religions could be extraordinarily effective, but they could also be irresponsible... and he was at the heart of both possibilities. The people saw only him, and not the corona of consequences around his every action.

Now, dressed in a flowing brown-and-gold robe instead of the comfortable, dusty stillsuit he had worn in Sietch Tabr, Paul took his seat on the large temporary throne placed there during the construction. Eventually, he would bring in the oversized Hagal quartz seat, the legendary Lion Throne from the Corrino dynasty. For the time being, even though the throne would serve as a reminder of what he had taken from his enemies, Paul preferred not to inspire thoughts of Shaddam IV. He looked around the huge chamber as the audience took standing positions according to their rank and connections.

Wearing a loose green gown adorned with a gold-braided collar, Chani entered through a side door, followed by three Fremen women in pale gray robes designed to conceal weapons. Six-year-old Alia entered briskly in her black robe and came to a stop beside Paul's throne, as if she were herself a bodyguard.

Given the violence Thorvald's rebels often inspired, and the ridiculously low price on the heads of Muad'Dib and his family, Paul had a.s.signed powerful female guards to follow and protect Chani, Alia, and even Irulan. His mother was also due to arrive soon for a brief visit, and he would grant her the same protection. He intended to take no chances.

He thought again of the group of fanatic workers standing on the dune top, facing the deadly winds to show their devotion, proving... what? And those men were his supporters. supporters.

Hearing a commotion of shouts near the ma.s.sive entrance doors, Paul saw his Fremen guards scuffling with green-robed prisoners, captive priests from a splinter sect. The guards soon gained control of the situation, though they were forced to use stun goads. Paul watched without commenting on the rough treatment. Knowing what these priests had done, he found it difficult to restrain himself from ordering their immediate execution. That would come in time, he was sure. Some things were unforgivable.

Korba marched toward the throne along a rusty-red spice-fiber carpet that had been laid down only that morning. He had chosen to wear a clean white robe emblazoned with scarlet symbols, pointedly more extravagant than the green robes of the prisoners that the guards nudged along behind him. He no longer looked like a Fedaykin.

The five prisoners had cuts and bruises, and sunken red eyes that looked more dead than alive. Only one of the priests, tall and patrician, appeared defiant. With undisguised contempt, the guards flung the priests to the hard floor. All but one of them had the good sense to remain prostrate; a guard knocked the most rebellious one back down, using a boot kick.

With an elaborate bow, Korba stopped at the foot of the throne. "Exalted Muad'Dib, pillar of the universe, I bring you these disloyal priests of the ancient sect of Dur. They were captured trying to defile the sacred shrine of your father and steal his skull!" Eyes closed as if in prayer (a performance for the rapt audience), he formally pulled his crysknife from its sheath and stood ready with it, poised like an executioner.

Paul could barely control his fury. "Priests of Dur were once well-respected in the Imperium, presiding over ceremonies to marry and crown emperors. And now you attempt to desecrate the shrine of my father? my father? You have become grave robbers? Defilers of the dead?" You have become grave robbers? Defilers of the dead?"

Korba waited for a signal from him, but Paul hesitated, uncertain how to deal with this. The priests' actions were another example of the reckless irresponsibility of uncontrolled religion. But how to control a religion, whether his own or this ancient sect? Would tolerance and mercy help? Or was a stronger grip required? What would his father have advised?

One of the cowed priests, with a paunch that gave him the shape of a pear, struggled to his knees and looked beseechingly at Paul. Sweat ran down his brow into his eyes. "Sire, the charges against me are false and unfair. I do not even know these men - I serve in a different order! They forced me to wear these robes! I was on religious sabbatical."

"He lies," Korba said. "His so-called sabbatical was a conspiracy meeting, at which he and these others plotted your overthrow. Any oath of fealty he utters now would not be worth the wind it is written upon."

Paul glowered at the kneeling man. "I have been tolerant of religions other than my own, but I shall not tolerate the spreading of lies or conspiracies that threaten me - and I tolerate no desecration of my father, the honorable Duke Leto Atreides." He felt a great weariness settle upon him. "You and your companions must die for this."

When the guards tried to haul the paunchy man back to rejoin the others, he suddenly sagged in their arms, as if he had fainted. Korba touched the man's neck, sniffed his breath. "This one is dead." With a wolfish grin, he cast a scornful look at the other green-robed priests, then faced the crowds gathered inside the Celestial Audience Chamber. "Muad'Dib struck him dead with a glance! No one escapes the gaze of our Emperor." In the chamber, Paul heard a low chanting of his name.

The defiant, patrician-looking priest got to his feet. "An autopsy would prove that a poison-tipped weapon or dart killed that poor man. Parlor tricks!" He pushed himself two steps forward, even though the guards struggled to hold him back. "There is nothing holy about you. The Priests of Dur call you Paul Atreides the Demon!"

The chamber erupted in wild howling from the insult. "Gouge out their eyes!" a woman screamed, her voice shrill. One of the other priests whimpered, but his companions silenced him immediately.

Paul recalled the War of a.s.sa.s.sins in his childhood, the battles on Ecaz and Grumman, the bloodshed and tragedies, and he remembered the great reverence with which he and his loved ones had entombed Duke Leto's skull. My father's greatest mistake was not being harsh enough with his enemies. My father's greatest mistake was not being harsh enough with his enemies.

"All of you shall die for the crimes your misguided religion has inspired," Paul said, looking at the green-robed men and knowing Korba would make sure their deaths were long and painful. "From this day forward, I hereby remove my sanction of your reckless beliefs. All across my realm, I command that every one of your places of wors.h.i.+p be leveled. Henceforth, my Qizarate will carefully reshape your followers so that they find the proper path." He stood and turned his back to the crowds, ending the audience. "There shall be no more Priests of Dur."

THE NEXT DAY, in a private room behind the throne, Paul was pleased to welcome his visitors. Lady Jessica and Gurney Halleck were, however, a somber-faced pair. Paul accepted an embrace from his mother and then clasped hands with Gurney. The pair had arrived on the same Heighliner, and he was very glad to see them.

He let down his guard, sighing as he looked at them with deep affection. "Mother, Gurney, I have missed you both. Is everything well on Caladan? On Giedi Prime?"

Gurney looked somewhat abashed, but Jessica gave a quick reply. "No, Paul. Not on either planet."

Though Gurney was surprised at her blunt answer, he added, "I have made some progress on Giedi Prime, my Lord, but the whole planet throbs with the pain of old wounds. It will be generations before the people begin to stand on their own again."

Concerned, Paul glanced from one face to the other. "What has happened on Caladan, Mother?"

Jessica looked regal and every bit as beautiful as she must have appeared to Duke Leto. "There have been demonstrations, insults, bold criticism. Defectors from the Atreides guard took charge of Castle Caladan and holed up in it, forcing me to take shelter elsewhere until we could regain control. Entire villages have been burned."

"Defectors? From the Atreides guard?" Atreides guard?" Paul had always a.s.sumed Caladan would remain a bastion of stability, one of many coins in his pocket. He had so many other problems, in particular the increasingly violent gadfly Memnon Thorvald. He looked at Gurney. "How could this happen?" Paul had always a.s.sumed Caladan would remain a bastion of stability, one of many coins in his pocket. He had so many other problems, in particular the increasingly violent gadfly Memnon Thorvald. He looked at Gurney. "How could this happen?"

"They remember Duke Leto, my Lord. They expected you to be exactly like him."

Muad'Dib had to deal with practical matters first. "Has the disturbance been quelled?"

"Quelled but not resolved," Jessica said. "They are upset with you, Paul. You may have expected loyalty, but you've done nothing to earn it. I have been there to speak on your behalf for years, but they feel you have snubbed and abandoned them. Caladan is the Atreides home-world, but you have made no visit of state since early in the Jihad."

Paul drew a deep breath, tried to suppress his anger. "During that visit my armies conquered Kaitain. Kaitain, Kaitain, Mother! I have a war to conduct. Do the people expect me to return to Caladan for dancing and parades?" He paused, then looked more intently at her. "I left you to cany on in my place." Mother! I have a war to conduct. Do the people expect me to return to Caladan for dancing and parades?" He paused, then looked more intently at her. "I left you to cany on in my place."

"True, but I am no Duke Leto - and neither are you."

"I see." Paul tried not to sound stung. The radical Priests of Dur had attempted to desecrate the shrine of his father's skull, but now he wondered if he, as Muad'Dib, might also be desecrating the memory of Leto Atreides.

"I should return there as soon as possible to insure the peace," Jessica said, "and I would like to take Gurney with me. The people know him. Gurney the Valorous."

"Gurney has important work to do on Giedi Prime."

Jessica's eyes flashed, and her words cut like razors. "How could you think Gurney wanted wanted Giedi Prime? Do you understand so little about human nature? Every day there is a torment for him." Giedi Prime? Do you understand so little about human nature? Every day there is a torment for him."

Paul opened his eyes in surprise. "Is that true, Gurney?"

The other man seemed embarra.s.sed. "You ordered me to do a job, my Lord, so I have done my best. But in truth, there is no planet in all the Imperium that I hate more. It will always be the Harkonnen world to me."

Paul felt deeply moved. "I am sorry, old friend. I did not mean to increase your pain. You will retain your t.i.tle to Giedi Prime, and I hope that your name alone will insure that some of the reforms continue. I will give you personnel and financial resources to continue the work there, but in the meantime I grant you leave to return to Caladan, to watch out for my mother's safety."

Gurney bowed formally. "My heart is on Caladan, where I served n.o.ble House Atreides."

"Very well, my friend. You have helped my family and me in more ways than I can ever hope to repay," Paul said. "To Caladan it is. Heal the damage I have inadvertently caused by my neglect."

Later, after the meeting was concluded, Paul remained by himself in the small chamber. It was quiet in there now, so infinitely quiet....

In a shadowed corner of his mind, he worried that he had not correctly interpreted the hints of long-term prescience, that his own warriors might be precipitating a new Dark Age more grim than humanity had experienced in the frightened times after the end of the Butlerian Jihad. Beyond these walls, his holy war swept over planet after planet. His legions left broken populations and devastation in their wake, decapitated governments, and provided nothing to fill the vacuum. Somehow, he had to put the pieces back together. A problem Alexander the Great never had to face. problem Alexander the Great never had to face.

Surprises are too often unpleasant ones.

-KORBA THE PANEGYRIST, to a delegation of Qizarate missionaries

Alert for treachery, Hasimir and Margot Fenring followed the albino Tleilaxu doctor through narrow, metal-sheathed tunnels beneath the city of Thalidei. Black streaks and patches mottled the gray plates where water had trickled down and mold had formed. As Dr. Ereboam scurried through the intricate pa.s.sageways, Count Fenring thought of a white lab rat moving through a complex maze.

Fenring's persistent "persuasion" techniques had convinced Ereboam to show him what he needed to see, but the Count remained wary. He did not trust this man - not at all. At least little Marie was as safe as possible, left under the protection of Tonia Obregah-Xo, sealed in their quarters and away from any interference or counter-blackmail; the Bene Gesserit nanny would kill anyone who attempted to intrude. After years of uneasy tolerance, Fenring doubted any of the Tleilaxu would try something so bold, especially now that they had so much to gain. Marie and their would-be Kwisatz Haderach offered interesting possibilities for cooperation and synergy.

No, the danger might be directed toward him him instead, or Lady Margot. Count Fenring's instincts kept him alert for a trap or ambush, but he sensed both resignation and eagerness from Ereboam. They were going to see the supposedly successful Kwisatz Haderach candidate. instead, or Lady Margot. Count Fenring's instincts kept him alert for a trap or ambush, but he sensed both resignation and eagerness from Ereboam. They were going to see the supposedly successful Kwisatz Haderach candidate.

Although they had entered the labyrinth through a long, security-guarded stairway near Thalidei's outer walls, which fronted the deep and stinking lake, they had made so many turns that Fenring no longer had his bearings. "Are we still beneath the city, or have we gone under the lake bed?" He wiped a drip of water from his face.

Ereboam clucked. "We are in the atmosphere distribution tunnels and ventilation systems of Thalidei. Please follow. Not much farther."

A clearplaz lift in a tube carried them up into a multi-story building, ascending past floor after floor where Tleilaxu researchers bustled about, preoccupied with experimental work. When the unusual lift came to a smooth stop, its doors irised open, and Ereboam hurried them along a white-walled corridor. A pink flush of excitement enlivened his narrow white face. "This way, please. Hurry, hurry. You're going to be very impressed."

At the end of a corridor that was bathed in lemon-yellow illumination, Ereboam adjusted a security scanner, and the door slid open to reveal a gray mistiness beyond. They entered.

As his eyes adjusted, Fenring noticed that the walls were heavily padded, showing numerous rips and sc.r.a.pe marks. Squeezing Margot's hand, he sent an urgent finger signal to be alert. She positioned herself carefully close to him, coiled to strike if necessary. He detected a chemical odor in the room, a tinge of medicinals... and something rank that he could not quite identify. He felt Margot's back tense against his. She had noticed, too. An animal animal smell. smell.

Ereboam disappeared into the fog, though Fenring could hear him murmuring something reverential in a low tone. Prayers? "No need to worry," the doctor said. "This fog is specially tuned to the subject's metabolism, and has made him sleepy."

When the mist thinned, Fenring saw the albino researcher standing next to what at first appeared to be an amorphous shape on the floor. Then he realized it was a cla.s.sically proportioned human crouched over, head down, wearing a beige filmsuit that clung to his body and showed his muscles as if they had been carved by a master sculptor. One of the Twisting subjects they had seen in the laboratories? Fenring didn't think so.

The crouched figure straightened, as if unfolding his body from a chrysalis. The filmsuit hid most of his skin except for his bare hands, feet, and head. The Count noticed his wife's gaze move over the muscular form up to the strikingly handsome face, aquiline nose, and somewhat haughty pout. But Fenring could see past the physical perfection, and he was certain that Margot did as well. The mysterious man's acorn brown eyes revealed a strange inner torment.

"Meet Thallo." Ereboam's voice was filled with pride. "Our Kwisatz Haderach."

Lady Margot's green-gray eyes took on a sudden, intense interest. "From your own genetic map?"

When speaking to a female, the researcher's tone automatically became condescending. "Using sophisticated laboratory techniques instead of the unpleasant vagaries of natural human reproduction, we have achieved in only a few accelerated generations something that you Bene Gesserits could not accomplish in thousands of years."

"Hmm, that remains to be seen." Fenring walked slowly around Thallo, looking for flaws. "He looks, ahh, younger than Paul Atreides. He is what, seventeen or eighteen years old?"

Ereboam smiled. "Chronologically, Thallo is only nine, but we accelerated his physical growth. He has made a great deal of progress. In some respects he is quite polished, but in others he is somewhat raw and unrefined."

Reaching up, Ereboam smoothed the dark, wavy hair on the back of Thallo's head, a gentle, caring motion. The eyes of the strange creation grew more calm as the doctor spoke. "He is the pinnacle of Tleilaxu genetic accomplishment. Our Kwisatz Haderach possesses untapped mental and even prescient abilities that we can hardly begin to fathom."

"Can it speak?" Fenring asked.

"I can speak better than the greatest orators in history," Thallo said, in an erudite tone, with perfect diction. "I know all of the facts in every encyclopedic work in the Imperium. I am a Mentat with enhanced computational abilities. I could debate with all of you simultaneously, and defeat every argument."

Ereboam brought a rectangular biscuit out of a pocket of his smock and handed the treat to Thallo, as if he were a pet. The creature chewed, fixing a hard gaze on Count Fenring. Between bites, Thallo said, "And I wish to inform these guests that I am not an it. it. I am a human being." I am a human being."