Dune (8 page)

“Don’t the Harkonnens know about the Fremen?”

“The Harkonnens sneered at the Fremen, hunted them for sport, never even
bothered trying to count them. We know the Harkonnen policy with planetary
populations — spend as little as possible to maintain them.”

The metallic threads in the hawk symbol above his father’s breast glistened
as the Duke shifted his position. “You see?”

“We’re negotiating with the Fremen right now,” Paul said.

“I sent a mission headed by Duncan Idaho,” the Duke said. “A proud and
ruthless man, Duncan, but fond of the truth. I think the Fremen will admire him.
If we’re lucky, they may judge us by him: Duncan, the moral.”

“Duncan, the moral,” Paul said, “and Gurney the valorous.”

“You name them well,” the Duke said.

And Paul thought: Gurney’s one of those the Reverend Mother meant, a
supporter of worlds — “ . . . the valor of the brave.”

“Gurney tells me you did well in weapons today,” the Duke said.

“That isn’t what he told me.”

The Duke laughed aloud. “I figured Gurney to be sparse with his praise. He
says you have a nicety of awareness — in his own words — of the difference
between a blade’s edge and its tip.”

“Gurney says there’s no artistry in killing with the tip, that it should be
done with the edge.”

“Gurney’s a romantic,” the Duke growled. This talk of killing suddenly
disturbed him, coming from his son. “I’d sooner you never had to kill . . . but
if the need arises, you do it however you can — tip or edge.” He looked up at
the skylight, on which the rain was drumming.

Seeing the direction of his father’s stare, Paul thought of the wet skies
out there — a thing never to be seen on Arrakis from all accounts — and this
thought of skies put him in mind of the space beyond. “Are the Guild ships
really big?” he asked.

The Duke looked at him. “This will be your first time off planet,” he said.
“Yes, they’re big. We’ll be riding a Heighliner because it’s a long trip. A
Heighliner is truly big. Its hold will tuck all our frigates and transports into
a little corner — we’ll be just a small part of the ship’s manifest.”

“And we won’t be able to leave our frigates?”
“That’s part of the price you pay for Guild Security. There could be
Harkonnen ships right alongside us and we’d have nothing to fear from them. The
Harkonnens know better than to endanger their shipping privileges.”

“I’m going to watch our screens and try to see a Guildsman.”

“You won’t. Not even their agents ever see a Guildsman. The Guild’s as
jealous of its privacy as it is of its monopoly. Don’t do anything to endanger
our shipping privileges, Paul.”

“Do you think they hide because they’ve mutated and don’t look . . . human
anymore?”

“Who knows?” The Duke shrugged. “It’s a mystery we’re not likely to solve.
We’ve more immediate problems — among them: you.”

“Me?”

“Your mother wanted me to be the one to tell you, Son. You see, you may have
Mentat capabilities.”

Paul stared at his father, unable to speak for a moment, then: “A Mentat?
Me? But I . . . ”

“Hawat agrees, Son. It’s true.”

“But I thought Mentat training had to start during infancy and the subject
couldn’t be told because it might inhibit the early . . . ” He broke off, all
his past circumstances coming to focus in one flashing computation. “I see,” he
said.

“A day comes,” the Duke said, “when the potential Mentat must learn what’s
being done. It may no longer be done to him. The Mentat has to share in the
choice of whether to continue or abandon the training. Some can continue; some
are incapable of it. Only the potential Mentat can tell this for sure about
himself.”

Paul rubbed his chin. All the special training from Hawat and his mother —
the mnemonics, the focusing of awareness, the muscle control and sharpening of
sensitivities, the study of languages and nuances of voices — all of it clicked
into a new kind of understanding in his mind.

“You’ll be the Duke someday, Son,” his father said. “A Mentat Duke would be
formidable indeed. Can you decide now . . . or do you need more time?”

There was no hesitation in his answer. “I’ll go on with the training.”

“Formidable indeed,” the Duke murmured, and Paul saw the proud smile on his
father’s face. The smile shocked Paul: it had a skull look on the Duke’s narrow
features. Paul closed his eyes, feeling the terrible purpose reawaken within
him. Perhaps being a Mentat is terrible purpose, he thought.

But even as he focused on this thought, his new awareness denied it.

= = = = = =

With the Lady Jessica and Arrakis, the Bene Gesserit system of sowing implant-
legends through the Missionaria Protectiva came to its full fruition. The wisdom
of seeding the known universe with a prophecy pattern for the protection of B.G.
personnel has long been appreciated, but never have we seen a condition-?ut-
extremis with more ideal mating of person and preparation. The prophetic legends
had taken on Arrakis even to the extent of adopted labels (including Reverend
Mother, canto and respondu, and most of the Shari-?a panoplia propheticus). And
it is generally accepted now that the Lady Jessica’s latent abilities were
grossly underestimated.
-from “Analysis: The Arrakeen Crisis” by the Princess Irulan [Private
circulation: B.G. file number AR-81088587]

All around the Lady Jessica — piled in corners of the Arrakeen great hall,
mounded in the open spaces — stood the packaged freight of their lives: boxes,
trunks, cartons, cases — some partly unpacked. She could hear the cargo
handlers from the Guild shuttle depositing another load in the entry.
Jessica stood in the center of the hall. She moved in a slow turn, looking
up and around at shadowed carvings, crannies and deeply recessed windows. This
giant anachronism of a room reminded her of the Sisters’ Hall at her Bene
Gesserit school. But at the school the effect had been of warmth. Here, all was
bleak stone.

Some architect had reached far back into history for these buttressed walls
and dark hangings, she thought. The arched ceiling stood two stories above her
with great crossbeams she felt sure had been shipped here to Arrakis across
space at monstrous cost. No planet of this system grew trees to make such beams
– unless the beams were imitation wood.

She thought not.

This had been the government mansion in the days of the Old Empire. Costs
had been of less importance then. It had been before the Harkonnens and their
new megalopolis of Carthag — a cheap and brassy place some two hundred
kilometers northeast across the Broken Land. Leto had been wise to choose this
place for his seat of government. The name, Arrakeen, had a good sound, filled
with tradition. And this was a smaller city, easier to sterilize and defend.

Again there came the clatter of boxes being unloaded in the entry. Jessica
sighed.

Against a carton to her right stood the painting of the Duke’s father.
Wrapping twine hung from it like a frayed decoration. A piece of the twine was
still clutched in Jessica’s left hand. Beside the painting lay a black bull’s
head mounted on a polished board. The head was a dark island in a sea of wadded
paper. Its plaque lay flat on the floor, and the bull’s shiny muzzle pointed at
the ceiling as though the beast were ready to bellow a challenge into this
echoing room.

Jessica wondered what compulsion had brought her to uncover those two things
first — the head and the painting. She knew there was something symbolic in the
action. Not since the day when the Duke’s buyers had taken her from the school
had she felt this frightened and unsure of herself.

The head and the picture.

They heightened her feelings of confusion. She shuddered, glanced at the
slit windows high overhead. It was still early afternoon here, and in these
latitudes the sky looked black and cold — so much darker than the warm blue of
Caladan. A pang of homesickness throbbed through her.

So far away, Caladan.

“Here we are!”

The voice was Duke Leto’s.

She whirled, saw him striding from the arched passage to the dining hall.
His black working uniform with red armorial hawk crest at the breast looked
dusty and rumpled.

“I thought you might have lost yourself in this hideous place,” he said.

“It is a cold house,” she said. She looked at his tallness, at the dark skin
that made her think of olive groves and golden sun on blue waters. There was
woodsmoke in the gray of his eyes, but the face was predatory: thin, full of
sharp angles and planes.

A sudden fear of him tightened her breast. He had become such a savage,
driving person since the decision to bow to the Emperor’s command.

“The whole city feels cold,” she said.

“It’s a dirty, dusty little garrison town,” he agreed. “But we’ll change
that.” He looked around the hall. “These are public rooms for state occasions.
I’ve just glanced at some of the family apartments in the south wing. They’re
much nicer.” He stepped closer, touched her arm, admiring her stateliness.

And again, he wondered at her unknown ancestry — a renegade House, perhaps?
Some black-?barred royalty? She looked more regal than the Emperor’s own blood.

Under the pressure of his stare, she turned half away, exposing her profile.
And he realized there was no single and precise thing that brought her beauty to
focus. The face was oval under a cap of hair the color of polished bronze. Her
eyes were set wide, as green and clear as the morning skies of Caladan. The nose
was small, the mouth wide and generous. Her figure was good but scant: tall and
with its curves gone to slimness.

He remembered that the lay sisters at the school had called her skinny, so
his buyers had told him. But that description oversimplified. She had brought a
regal beauty back into the Atreides line. He was glad that Paul favored her.

“Where’s Paul?” he asked.

“Someplace around the house taking his lessons with Yueh.”

“Probably in the south wing,” he said. “I thought I heard Yueh’s voice, but
I couldn’t take time to look.” He glanced down at her, hesitating. “I came here
only to hang the key of Caladan Castle in the dining hall.”

She caught her breath, stopped the impulse to reach out to him. Hanging the
key — there was finality in that action. But this was not the time or place for
comforting. “I saw our banner over the house as we came in,” she said.

He glanced at the painting of his father. “Where were you going to hang
that?”

“Somewhere in here.”

“No.” The word rang flat and final, telling her she could use trickery to
persuade, but open argument was useless. Still, she had to try, even if the
gesture served only to remind herself that she would not trick him.

“My Lord,” she said, “if you’d only . . . ”

“The answer remains no. I indulge you shamefully in most things, not in
this. I’ve just come from the dining hall where there are –”

“My Lord! Please.”

“The choice is between your digestion and my ancestral dignity, my dear,” he
said. “They will hang in the dining hall.”

She sighed. “Yes, my Lord.”

“You may resume your custom of dining in your rooms whenever possible. I
shall expect you at your proper position only on formal occasions.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“And don’t go all cold and formal on me! Be thankful that I never married
you, my dear. Then it’d be your duty to join me at table for every meal.”

She held her face immobile, nodded.

“Hawat already has our own poison snooper over the dining table,” he said.
“There’s a portable in your room.”

“You anticipated this . . . disagreement,” she said.

“My dear, I think also of your comfort. I’ve engaged servants. They’re
locals, but Hawat has cleared them — they’re Fremen all. They’ll do until our
own people can be released from their other duties.”

“Can anyone from this place be truly safe?”

“Anyone who hates Harkonnens. You may even want to keep the head
housekeeper: the Shadout Mapes.”

“Shadout,” Jessica said. “A Fremen title?”

“I’m told it means ‘well-?dipper,’ a meaning with rather important overtones
here. She may not strike you as a servant type, although Hawat speaks highly of
her on the basis of Duncan’s report. They’re convinced she wants to serve —
specifically that she wants to serve you.”

“Me?”

“The Fremen have learned that you’re Bene Gesserit,” he said. “There are
legends here about the Bene Gesserit.”

The Missionaria Protectiva, Jessica thought. No place escapes them.

“Does this mean Duncan was successful?” she asked. “Will the Fremen be our
allies?”

“There’s nothing definite,” he said. “They wish to observe us for a while,
Duncan believes. They did, however, promise to stop raiding our outlying
villages during a truce period. That’s a more important gain than it might seem.
Hawat tells me the Fremen were a deep thorn in the Harkonnen side, that the
extent of their ravages was a carefully guarded secret. It wouldn’t have helped
for the Emperor to learn the ineffectiveness of the Harkonnen military.“

”A Fremen housekeeper,“ Jessica mused, returning to the subject of the
Shadout Mapes. ”She’ll have the all-?blue eyes.“

”Don’t let the appearance of these people deceive you,“ he said. ”There’s a
deep strength and healthy vitality in them. I think they’ll be everything we
need.“

”It’s a dangerous gamble,“ she said.

”Let’s not go into that again,“ he said.

She forced a smile. ”We are committed, no doubt of that.“ She went through
the quick regimen of calmness — the two deep breaths, the ritual thought, then:
”When I assign rooms, is there anything special I should reserve for you?“

”You must teach me someday how you do that,“ he said, ”the way you thrust
your worries aside and turn to practical matters. It must be a Bene Gesserit
thing.“