Dune (26 page)

He scowled, pushing himself back in the chair.

“Whatever rumors you’ve heard about our schools,” she said, “the truth is
far greater. If I wished to destroy the Duke . . . or you, or any other person
within my reach, you could not stop me.”

And she thought: Why do I let pride drive such words out of me? This is not
the way I was trained. This is not how I must shock him.

Hawat slipped a hand beneath his tunic where he kept a tiny projector of
poison darts. She wears no shield, he thought. Is this just a brag she makes? I
could slay her now . . . but, ah-?h-?h-?h, the consequences if I’m wrong.

Jessica saw the gesture toward his pocket, said: “Let us pray violence shall
never be necessary between us.”

“A worthy prayer,” he agreed.

“Meanwhile, the sickness spreads among us,” she said. “I must ask you again:
Isn’t it more reasonable to suppose the Harkonnens have planted this suspicion
to pit the two of us against each other?”

“We appear to’ve returned to stalemate,” he said.

She sighed, thinking: He’s almost ready for it.

“The Duke and I are father and mother surrogates to our people,” she said.
“The position–”

“He hasn’t married you,” Hawat said.

She forced herself to calmness, thinking: A good riposte, that.

“But he’ll not marry anyone else,” she said. “Not as long as I live. And we
are surrogates, as I’ve said. To break up this natural order in our affairs, to
disturb, disrupt, and confuse us–which target offers itself most enticingly to
the Harkonnens?”

He sensed the direction she was taking, and his brows drew down in a
lowering scowl.

“The Duke?” she asked. “Attractive target, yes, but no one with the possible
exception of Paul is better guarded. Me? I tempt them, surely, but they must
know the Bene Gesserit make difficult targets. And there’s a better target, one
whose duties create, necessarily, a monstrous blind spot. One to whom suspicion
is as natural as breathing. One who builds his entire life on innuendo and
mystery.” She darted her right hand toward him. “You!”

Hawat started to leap from his chair.

“I have not dismissed you, Thufir!” she flared.

The old Mentat almost fell back into the chair, so quickly did his muscles
betray him.

She smiled without mirth.

“Now you know something of the real training they give us,” she said.

Hawat tried to swallow in a dry throat. Her command had been regal,
preemptory–uttered in a tone and manner he had found completely irresistible.
His body had obeyed her before he could think about it. Nothing could have
prevented his response–not logic, not passionate anger . . . nothing. To do
what she had done spoke of a sensitive, intimate knowledge of the person thus
commanded, a depth of control he had not dreamed possible.

“I have said to you before that we should understand each other,” she said.
“I meant you should understand me. I already understand you. And I tell you now
that your loyalty to the Duke is all that guarantees your safety with me.”

He stared at her, wet his lips with his tongue.

“If I desired a puppet, the Duke would marry me,” she said. “He might even
think he did it of his own free will.”

Hawat lowered his head, looked upward through his sparse lashes. Only the
most rigid control kept him from calling the guard. Control . . . and the
suspicion now that woman might not permit it. His skin crawled with the memory
of how she had controlled him. In the moment of hesitation, she could have drawn
a weapon and killed him!
Does every human have this blind spot? he wondered. Can any of us be ordered
into action before he can resist? The idea staggered him. Who could stop a
person with such power?

“You’ve glimpsed the fist within the Bene Gesserit glove,” she said. “Few
glimpse it and live. And what I did was a relatively simple thing for us. You’ve
not seen my entire arsenal. Think on that,”

“Why aren’t you out destroying the Duke’s enemies?” he asked.

“What would you have me destroy?” she asked. “Would you have me make a
weakling of our Duke, have him forever leaning on me?”

“But, with such power . . . ”

“Power’s a two-?edged sword, Thufir,” she said; “You think: ‘How easy for her
to shape a human tool to thrust into an enemy’s vitals.’ True, Thufir; even into
your vitals. Yet, what would I accomplish? If enough of us Bene Gesserit did
this, wouldn’t it make all Bene Gesserit suspect? We don’t want that, Thufir. We
do not wish to destroy ourselves.” She nodded. “We truly exist only to serve.”

“I cannot answer you,” he said. “You know I cannot answer.”

“You’ll say nothing about what has happened here to anyone,” she said. “I
know you, Thufir.”

“My Lady . . . ” Again the old man tried to swallow in a dry throat.

And he thought: She has great powers, yes. But would these not make her an
even more formidable tool for the Harkonnens?

“The Duke could be destroyed as quickly by his friends as by his enemies,”
she said. “I trust now you’ll get to the bottom of this suspicion and remove
it.”

“If it proves baseless,” he said.

“If,” she sneered.

“If,” he said.

“You are tenacious,” she said.

“Cautious,” he said, “and aware of the error factor.”

“Then I’ll pose another question for you: What does it mean to you that you
stand before another human, that you are bound and helpless and the other human
holds a knife at your throat–yet this other human refrains from killing you,
frees you from your bonds and gives you the knife to use as you will?”

She lifted herself out of the chair, turned her back on him. “You may go
now, Thufir.”

The old Mentat arose, hesitated, hand creeping toward the deadly weapon
beneath his tunic. He was reminded of the bull ring and of the Duke’s father
(who’d been brave, no matter what his other failings) and one day of the corrida
long ago: The fierce black beast had stood there, head bowed, immobilized and
confused. The Old Duke had turned his back on the horns, cape thrown
flamboyantly over one arm, while cheers rained down from the stands.

I am the bull and she the matador, Hawat thought. He withdrew his hand from
the weapon, glanced at the sweat glistening in his empty palm.

And he knew that whatever the facts proved to be in the end, he would never
forget this moment nor lose this sense of supreme admiration for the Lady
Jessica.

Quietly, he turned and left the room.

Jessica lowered her gaze from the reflection in the windows, turned, and
stared at the closed door.

“Now we’ll see some proper action,” she whispered.

= = = = = =

Do you wrestle with dreams?
Do you contend with shadows?
Do you move in a kind of sleep?
Time has slipped away.
Your life is stolen.
You tarried with trifles,
Victim of your folly.
-Dirge for Jamis on the Funeral Plain, from “Songs of Muad’Dib” by the Princess
Irulan

Leto stood in the foyer of his house, studying a note by the light of a
single suspensor lamp. Dawn was yet a few hours away, and he felt his tiredness.
A Fremen messenger had brought the note to the outer guard just now as the Duke
arrived from his command post.

The note read: “A column of smoke by day, a pillar of fire by night.”

There was no signature.

What does it mean? he wondered.

The messenger had gone without waiting for an answer and before he could be
questioned. He had slipped into the night like some smoky shadow.

Leto pushed the paper into a tunic pocket, thinking to show it to Hawat
later. He brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, took a sighing breath. The
anti-?fatigue pills were beginning to wear thin. It had been a long two days
since the dinner party and longer than that since he had slept.

On top of all the military problems, there’d been the disquieting session
with Hawat, the report on his meeting with Jessica.

Should I waken Jessica? he wondered. There’s no reason to play the secrecy
game with her any longer. Or is there?

Blast and damn that Duncan Idaho!

He shook his head. No, not Duncan. I was wrong not to take Jessica into my
confidence from the first. I must do it now, before more damage is done.

The decision made him feel better, and he hurried from the foyer through the
Great Hall and down the passages toward the family wing.

At the turn where the passages split to the service area, he paused. A
strange mewling came from somewhere down the service passage. Leto put his left
hand to the switch on his shield belt, slipped his kindjal into his right hand.
The knife conveyed a sense of reassurance. That strange sound had sent a chill
through him.

Softly, the Duke moved down the service passage, cursing the inadequate
illumination. The smallest of suspensors had been spaced about eight meters
apart along here and tuned to their dimmest level. The dark stone walls
swallowed the light.

A dull blob stretching across the floor appeared out of the gloom ahead.

Leto hesitated, almost activated his shield, but refrained because that
would limit his movements, his hearing . . . and because the captured shipment
of lasguns had left him filled with doubts.

Silently, he moved toward the grey blob, saw that it was a human figure, a
man face down on the stone. Leto turned him over with a foot, knife poised, bent
close in the dim light to see the face. It was the smuggler, Tuek, a wet stain
down his chest. The dead eyes stared with empty darkness. Leto touched the
stain–warm.

How could this man be dead here? Leto asked himself. Who killed him?

The mewling sound was louder here. It came from ahead and down the side
passage to the central room where they had installed the main shield generator
for the house.

Hand on belt switch, kindjal poised, the Duke skirted the body, slipped down
the passage and peered around the corner toward the shield generator room.

Another grey blob lay stretched on the floor a few paces away, and he saw at
once this was the source of the noise. The shape crawled toward him with painful
slowness, gasping, mumbling.

Leto stilled his sudden constriction of fear, darted down the passage,
crouched beside the crawling figure. It was Mapes, the Fremen housekeeper, her
hair tumbled around her face, clothing disarrayed. A dull shininess of dark
stain spread from her back along her side. He touched her shoulder and she
lifted herself on her elbows, head tipped up to peer at him, the eyes black-
shadowed emptiness.

“S’you,” she gasped. “Killed . . . guard . . . sent . . . get . . . Tuek . .
. escape . . . m’Lady . . . you . . . you . . . here . . . no . . . ” She
flopped forward, her head thumping against the stone.

Leto felt for pulse at the temples. There was none. He looked at the stain:
she’d been stabbed in the back. Who? His mind raced. Did she mean someone had
killed a guard? And Tuek–had Jessica sent for him? Why?

He started to stand up. A sixth sense warned him. He flashed a hand toward
the shield switch–too late. A numbing shock slammed his arm aside. He felt pain
there, saw a dart protruding from the sleeve, sensed paralysis spreading from it
up his arm. It took an agonizing effort to lift his head and look down the
passage.

Yueh stood in the open door of the generator room. His face reflected yellow
from the light of a single, brighter suspensor above the door. There was
stillness from the room behind him–no sound of generators.

Yueh! Leto thought. He’s sabotaged the house generators! We ‘re wide open!

Yueh began walking toward him, pocketing a dartgun.

Leto found he could still speak, gasped: “Yueh! How?” Then the paralysis
reached his legs and he slid to the floor with his back propped against the
stone wall.

Yueh’s face carried a look of sadness as he bent over, touched Leto’s
forehead. The Duke found he could feel the touch, but it was remote . . . dull.

“The drug on the dart is selective,” Yueh said “You can speak, but I’d
advise against it.” He glanced down the hall, and again bent over Leto, pulled
out the dart, tossed it aside. The sound of the dart clattering on the stones
was faint and distant to the Duke’s ears.

It can’t be Yueh, Leto thought. He’s conditioned.

“How?” Leto whispered.

“I’m sorry, my dear Duke, but there are things which will make greater
demands than this.” He touched the diamond tattoo on his forehead. “I find it
very strange, myself–an override on my pyretic conscience–but I wish to kill a
man. Yes, I actually wish it. I will stop at nothing to do it.”

He looked down at the Duke. “Oh, not you, my dear Duke. The Baron Harkonnen.
I wish to kill the Baron.”

“Bar . . . on Har . . . ”

“Be quiet, please, my poor Duke. You haven’t much time. That peg tooth I put
in your mouth after the tumble at Narcal–that tooth must be replaced, in a
moment, I’ll render you unconscious and replace that tooth.” He opened his hand,
stared at something in it. “An exact duplicate, its core shaped most exquisitely
like a nerve. It’ll escape the usual detectors, even a fast scanning. But if you
bite down hard on it, the cover crushes. Then, when you expel your breath
sharply, you fill the air around you with a poison gas–most deadly.”

Leto stared up at Yueh, seeing madness in the man’s eyes, the perspiration
along brown and chin.

“You were dead anyway, my poor Duke,” Yueh said. “But you will get close to
the Baron before you die. He’ll believe you’re stupefied by drugs beyond any
dying effort to attack him. And you will be drugged–and tied. But attack can
take strange forms. And you will remember the tooth. The tooth, Duke Leto
Atreides. You will remember the tooth.”

The old doctor leaned closer and closer until his face and drooping mustache
dominated Leto’s narrowing vision.

“The tooth,” Yueh muttered.

“Why?” Leto whispered.
Yueh lowered himself to one knee beside the Duke. “I made a shaitan’s
bargain with the Baron. And I must be certain he has fulfilled his half of it.
When I see him, I’ll know. When I look at the Baron, then I will know. But I’ll
never enter his presence without the price. You’re the price, my poor Duke. And
I’ll know when I see him. My poor Wanna taught me many things, and one is to see
certainty of truth when the stress is great. I cannot do it always, but when I
see the Baron–then, I will know.”