God Emperor of Dune (31 page)

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Authors: Frank Herbert

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“You’re up to something,” Idaho said, striding beside her. “What is it?”

“I’ve always heard that gholas were full of questions,” Siona said. “I, too, have questions.”

“Oh?”

“What was he like in your day, the man Leto?”

“Which one?”

“Yes, I forget there were two—the grandfather and our Leto. I mean our Leto, of course.”

“He was just a child, that’s all I know.”

“The Oral History says one of his early brides came from this village.”

“Brides? I thought …”

“When he still had a manly shape. It was after the death of his sister but before he began to change into the Worm. The Oral History says the brides of Leto vanished into the maze of the Imperial Citadel, never to be seen again except as faces and voices transmitted by holo. He has not had a bride for thousands of years.”

They had arrived at a small square at the center of the village, a space about fifty meters on a side and with a low-walled pool of clear water in its center. Siona crossed to the pool’s wall and sat on the rock ledge, patting beside her for Idaho to join her there. Idaho looked around at the village first, noting how people peered out at him from behind curtained windows, how the children pointed and whispered. He turned and stood looking down at Siona.

“What is this place?”

“I’ve told you. Tell me what Muad’Dib was like.”

“He was the best friend a man could ever have.”

“So the Oral History is true, but it calls the caliphate of his heirs
The Desposyni
, and that has an evil sound.”

She’s baiting me,
Idaho thought.

He allowed himself a tight smile, wondering at Siona’s motives. She appeared to be waiting for some important event, anxious … even dreading … but with an undertone of something like elation. It was all there. Nothing she said now could be accounted as more than small talk, a way of occupying the moments until … until what?

The light sound of running feet intruded on his reverie. Idaho turned and saw a child of perhaps eight years racing toward him out of a side street. The child’s bare feet kicked up little dust geysers as he ran and there was the sound of a woman shouting, a despairing sound somewhere up the street. The runner stopped about ten paces away and stared up at Idaho with a hungering look, an intensity which Idaho found disturbing. The child appeared vaguely familiar—a boy, a stalwart figure with dark curly hair, an unfinished face but with hints of the man to be—rather high cheekbones, a flat line across the brows. He wore a faded blue singlesuit which betrayed the effects of much laundering but obviously had begun as a garment of excellent material. It had the look of punji cotton woven in a cordlock that did not permit even the frayed edges to unravel.

“You’re not my father,” the child said. Whirling away, he raced back up the street and vanished around a corner.

Idaho turned and scowled at Siona, almost afraid to ask the question:
Was that a child of my predecessor?
He knew the answer without asking—that familiar face, the genotype carried true.
Myself as a child.
Realization left him with an empty feeling, a sense of frustration.
What is my responsibility?

Siona put both hands over her face and hunched her shoulders. It had not happened at all the way she had imagined it might. She felt betrayed by her own desires for revenge. Idaho was not simply a
ghola
, something alien and unworthy of consideration. She had felt him thrown against her in the ’thopter, had seen the obvious emotions on his face. And that child …

“What happened to my predecessor?” Idaho asked. His voice came out flat and accusatory.

She lowered her hands. There was suppressed rage in his face.

“We are not certain,” she said, “but he entered the Citadel one day and never emerged.”

“That was his child?”

She nodded.

“You’re sure you did not kill my predecessor?”

“I …” She shook her head, shocked by the doubts, the latent accusation in him.

“That child, that is the reason we came here?”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

“What am I supposed to do about him?”

She shrugged, feeling soiled and guilty because of her own actions.

“What about his mother?” Idaho asked.

“She and the others live up that street.” Siona nodded in the direction the boy had gone.

“Others?”

“There is an older son … a daughter. Will you … I mean, I could arrange …”

“No! The boy was right. I’m not his father.”

“I’m sorry,” Siona whispered. “I should not have done this.”

“Why did
he
choose this place?” Idaho asked.

“The father … your …”

“My
predecessor
!”

“Because this was Irti’s home and she would not leave. That is what people said.”

“Irti … the mother?”

“Wife, by the old rite, the one from the Oral History.”

Idaho looked around at the stone fronts of the buildings which enclosed the square, the curtained windows, the narrow doors. “So he lived here?”

“When he could.”

“How did he die, Siona?”

“Truly, I do not know … but the Worm has killed others. We know that for sure!”

“How do you know it?” He centered a probing stare on her face. The intensity of it forced her to look away.

“I do not doubt the stories of my ancestors,” she said. “They are told in bits and pieces, a note here, a whispered account there, but I believe them. My father believes them, too!”

“Moneo has said nothing to me of this.”

“One thing you can say about the Atreides,” she said. “We’re loyal and that’s a fact. We keep our word.”

Idaho opened his mouth to speak, closed it without making a sound.
Of course! Siona, too, was Atreides.
The thought shook him. He had known it, but he had not accepted it. Siona was some kind of a rebel, a rebel whose actions were almost sanctioned by Leto. The limits of his permission were unclear, but Idaho sensed them.

“You must not harm her,” Leto had said. “She is to be tested.”

Idaho turned his back on Siona.

“You don’t know anything for sure,” he said. “Bits and pieces, rumors!”

Siona did not respond.

“He’s an Atreides!” Idaho said.

“He’s the Worm!” Siona said and the venom in her voice was almost palpable.

“Your damned Oral History is nothing but a bunch of ancient gossip!” Idaho accused. “Only a fool would believe it.”

“You still trust him,” she said. “That will change.”

Idaho whirled and glared at her.

“You’ve never talked to him!”

“I have. When I was a child.”

“You’re still a child. He’s all of the Atreides who were, all of them. It’s a terrible thing, but I knew those people. They were my friends.”

Siona only shook her head.

Again, Idaho turned away. He felt that he had been wrung dry of emotion. He was spiritually boneless. Without willing it, he began walking across the square and up the street where the boy had gone. Siona came running after him and fell into step, but he ignored her.

The street was narrow, enclosed by the one-story stone walls, the doors set back within arched frames, all of the doors closed. The windows were small versions of the doors. Curtains twitched as he passed.

At the first cross-street, Idaho stopped and looked to the right where the boy had gone. Two gray-haired women in long black skirts and dark green blouses stood a few paces away down the street, gossiping with their heads close together. They fell silent when they saw Idaho and stared at him with open curiosity. He returned their stare, then looked down the side-street. It was empty.

Idaho turned toward the women, passed them within a pace. They drew closer together and turned to watch him. They looked only once at Siona, then returned their attention to Idaho. Siona moved quietly beside him, an odd expression on her face.

Sadness?
he wondered.
Regret? Curiosity?

It was difficult to say. He was more curious about the doorways and windows they were passing.

“Have you ever been to Goygoa before?” Idaho asked.

“No.” Siona spoke in a subdued voice, as though afraid of it.

Why am I walking down this street?
Idaho wondered. Even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer.
This woman, this Irti: What kind of a woman would bring me to Goygoa?

The corner of a curtain on his right lifted and Idaho saw a face—the boy from the square. The curtain dropped then was flung aside to reveal a woman standing there. Idaho stared speechlessly at her face, stopped in a completed step. It was the face of a woman known only to his deepest fantasies—a soft oval with penetrating dark eyes, a full and sensuous mouth …

“Jessica,” he whispered.

“What did you say?” Siona asked.

Idaho could not answer. It was the face of Jessica resurrected out of a past he had believed gone forever, a genetic prank—Muad’Dib’s mother recreated in new flesh.

The woman closed the curtain, leaving the memory of her features in Idaho’s mind, an after-image which he knew he could never remove. She had been older than the Jessica who had shared their dangers on Dune—age-lines beside the mouth and eyes, the body a bit more full …

More motherly
, Idaho told himself. Then:
Did I ever tell her … who she resembled?

Siona tugged at his sleeve. “Do you wish to go in, to meet her?”

“No. This was a mistake.”

Idaho started to turn back the way they had come, but the door of Irti’s house was flung open. A young man emerged and closed the door behind him, turning then to confront Idaho.

Idaho guessed the youth’s age at sixteen and there was no denying the parentage—that
karakul
hair, the strong features.

“You are the new one,” the youth said. His voice had already deepened into manhood.

“Yes.” Idaho found if difficult to speak.

“Why have you come?” the youth asked.

“It was not my idea,” Idaho said. He found this easier to say, the words driven by resentment against Siona.

The youth looked at Siona. “We have had word that my father is dead.” Siona nodded.

The youth returned his attention to Idaho. “Please go away and do not return. You cause pain for my mother.”

“Of course,” Idaho said. “Please apologize to the Lady Irti for this intrusion. I was brought here against my will.”

“Who brought you?”

“The Fish Speakers,” Idaho said.

The youth nodded once, a curt movement of the head. He looked once more at Siona. “I always thought that you Fish Speakers were taught to treat your own more kindly.” With that, he turned and reentered the house, closing the door firmly behind him.

Idaho turned back the way they had come, grabbing Siona’s arm as he strode away. She stumbled, then fell into step, disengaging his grasp.

“He thought I was a Fish Speaker,” she said.

“Of course. You have the look.” He glanced at her. “Why didn’t you tell me that Irti was a Fish Speaker?”

“It didn’t seem important.”

“Oh.”

“That’s how they met.”

They came to the intersection with the street from the square. Idaho turned away from the square, striding briskly up to the end where the village merged into gardens and orchards. He felt insulated by shock, his awareness recoiling from too much that could not be assimilated.

A low wall blocked his path. He climbed over it, heard Siona follow. Trees around them were in bloom, white flowers with orange centers where dark brown insects worked. The air was full of insect buzzing and a floral scent which reminded Idaho of jungle flowers from Caladan.

He stopped when he reached the crest of a hill where he could turn and look back down at Goygoa’s rectangular neatness. The roofs were flat and black.

Siona sat down on the thick grass of the hilltop and embraced her knees.

“That was not what you intended, was it?” Idaho asked.

She shook her head and he saw that she was close to tears.

“Why do you hate him so much?” he asked.

“We have no lives of our own!”

Idaho looked down at the village. “Are there many villages like this one?”

“This is the shape of the Worm’s Empire!”

“What’s wrong with it?”