Road to Dune (41 page)

“So they have chosen to run for it,” Paul said. He noted that the medics had brought a stretcher for Bannerjee, caught the eye of one of them.

“He will live, M’Lord,” the medic said. “It was a cutterray the traitor used and your knife caught the scum in time.”

“That man used his body to shield me,” Paul said. “See that he lacks for nothing.”

“Yes, M’Lord.” They went out with the stretcher.

“There are traitors among the Naibs,” Paul said. “Bikouros and Cahueit among them. And Djedida. I do not expect you will catch them, but send after them, all the same.”

Stilgar turned to obey.

“And seek out Eldis,” Paul added.

“The keeper of your prison, Sire?” Stilgar asked, turning back.

“Do you know of another Eldis?” Paul asked.

“But that one is with the party going to the desert,” Stilgar said. “He spoke of a visit to …”

“Get after them!” Paul barked.

“At once!” Stilgar hurried from the room.

Paul looked at the assembled Naibs in their rich robes. They were something far different from what they had been in the Sietch days. They stared back at him, not speaking.

In each case, Paul felt the figure of the real Fremen Naib had been blotted out under an image of an uninhibited hedonist, a man who had sampled pleasures most men could never imagine. He saw their glances straying toward the doorway where Bijaz had been taken. The keening voice of the dwarf went on and on. Some of the Naibs looked at the windows which opened into one of the Keep’s walled gardens. The glances were uneasy. They disliked buildings, these men. No exotic pleasures could change that. They felt unnatural in the confinement of space built above the ground. Give them a proper cave, one cut from the rock of Arrakis by Fremen hands, and they relaxed.

Paul scanned the faces of Hobars, Rajifiri, Tasmin, Sajid, Umbu, Legg … all of them, names so important in Fremen life that they were firmly attached to places on Dune: Umbu’s Sietch, Rajifiri’s Sink …

He focused on Rajifiri, remembering the rough and bearded commander of the Second Wave in the Battle of Arrakeen, found that Rajifiri had become an immaculate fop dressed in a Parato silk robe of exquisite cut. It was open to the waist to reveal a beautifully laundered ruff and embroidered undercoat set with glittering green gems. A purple belt held the waist, its edges studded with golden rivets. The sleeves poking through the slit armholes of the robe had been gathered into rivulet-ridges of dark green-and-black fabric.

The green-and-black said he wore the colors of and was loyal to the House of Paul Atreides. Paul wondered now if that loyalty went much below the laundered silk.

The keening of the dwarf dwindled down to silence.

Briefly, Paul explained the situation to the Naibs, watching their faces for a reaction that would betray the inner man to a trained awareness. There were too many of them to watch all at once, though, and the situation was clouded over with intense emotions, an excitement akin to that of battle. He could see that excitement kindling old patterns in the Naibs. Some of the dross from his Empire began to peel off them.

They began calling for attention, protesting their loyalty.

He silenced their sharp comments with a wave of his hand, said: “You will wait here and watch through the doorway while we go on with our questioning of the dwarf.”

As he turned to go into the other room, there was a stir off to the right. The heavy-shouldered form of Stilgar came thrusting through the press of Naibs.

“They’re being pursued, M’Lord,” he said, stopping in front of Paul. “I must say that were I the one pursued, you’d not catch me … and there are men as wise in the desert with this group.”

“You sent men who’ll think as they think?”

Stilgar raised his eyebrows.

“Sorry, Stil,” Paul said. “Of course you did. What’ll these fugitives do?”

“You know the answer to that, Sire, as well as I.”

Paul nodded. This deadly crew would have friends off-planet, friends in the Guild, in the Bene Gesserit, perhaps even in the Landsraad. His enemies off-planet, Paul knew, would do everything they could—short of exposing themselves—to dull the Emperor’s power. Getting a pack of fugitives off Arrakis would be a thing they could attempt.

“Give them two days and they’ll be gone off Arrakis,” Paul said.

“Hadn’t we better go back to questioning this human distrans?” Stilgar asked. He nodded toward the other room.

Paul turned on a heel, led the way. Bijaz sat on a low divan against the opposite wall, feet crossed beneath him, a look of repose on his large features. In spite of the apparent relaxation, there was a charismatic alertness about him that reminded Paul of an ancient idol. The guards beside Bijaz stiffened to attention. One of them came forward diffidently with a distrans recorder.

Stilgar took it, examined it, nodded to Paul.

Bijaz met Paul’s gaze, grinned. “Hai, hai,” he said. “Have you learned a lot?”

He doesn’t realize we’ve missed most of his message,
Paul thought.

“We’ll go through it again,” Paul said.

“And what’ll be gained by that?” Bijaz asked. “The message is the same.”

“We want to check its veracity,” Stilgar said.

“And who’s that big lout asking after truth?” Bijaz asked.

Stilgar stiffened, put a hand to his knife.

“Doesn’t he know the Emperor should seek victory and not truth?” Bijaz asked, tipping his head slyly to the left.

“Watch your tongue or I’ll cut it out,” Stilgar growled.

Bijaz shot a look of questioning fright at Paul. “Would you permit that, Sire?”

“What if he caught you when I wasn’t around?” Paul asked, trying to lighten the mood.

But Stilgar only shook his head sharply, said: “It’s no time for jokes, M’Lord. Let’s get on with it.”

Paul took a deep breath, said: “Jamis.”

At the key word which should have sent him back into a trance, Bijaz merely blinked, continued staring at Paul.

“Jamis,” Paul repeated.

No response.

“Why do you invoke the name of our departed comrade?” Stilgar asked.

“It’s the distrans key,” Paul said. And again: “Jamis.”

Bijaz remained alert and staring.

“Your distrans has been cleared,” Stilgar said, glancing warily around at the guardsmen. “The message is erased.”

“How was it done, Bijaz?” Paul asked, quelling a sense of frustrated rage.

“I felt head sickness when the assassin made his move against you,” Bijaz said.

“An erasure signal in the distrans recorder,” Paul said. “That means they were more than ready to slay me.” He nodded to himself, turned and in a low voice told Stilgar what Otheym had said about Otmo the Panygerist.

“A traitor?” Stilgar asked. “That one?” His brows came down in a heavy scowl. “I’ll have him on a slow knife.”

“No.” Paul shook his head. “We’ve lost the message Bijaz carried and …”

“Then we’ll get it from Otmo—the hard way if need be,” Stilgar said.

“Do you think they’re not prepared for such a thing?” Paul asked.

“Then how …”

“There are other ways to smoke out our enemies,” Paul said. “What time is it, Stil?”

“Be dawn soon.” He looked back to the faces of the Naibs crowded in the doorway. “Why, M’Lord?”

“The stone-burner,” Paul said. “Summon a Convocation of the Landsraad here, with the Naibs taking part … and a Guild Observer.”

“There’ll be no evidence the burner contained atomics, Sire,” Stilgar said. “The whole thing’s turned to slag by now and how can we show a background radiation which differs from …”

“It was a stone-burner,” Paul said. “There’s no other way to fire a stone-burner. Someone’s playing a very dangerous game. There’ll be traces of how it was brought here. It left a track as clear as a bird in mud.”

“Bird in mud, M’Lord?”

“Never mind, Stil,” Paul said. “The thing can be tracked. A Guild heighliner brought it here; that’s the important thing to remember. The Guild will have to answer to the Landsraad. Not a trade agreement will be signed or honored until …”

“The spice, M’Lord,” Stilgar said.

“Of course we’ll stop all the shipments of the spice,” Paul said. “Let’s see how they like that. When they run out of spice, not a ship will run anywhere in our universe. And we ship no spice until the culprits are handed over to us.”

“Unless they’ve a substitute,” Stilgar said.

“Not likely,” Paul said.

Bijaz began to giggle.

Paul turned toward the dwarf, noting how the creature had caught the attention of everyone in the room.

“How they’ll wish on the morrow they had no teeth,” Bijaz sputtered between giggles.

“What in the name of the worm does he mean by that?” Stilgar demanded.

“Without teeth they’ll be unable to gnash,” Bijaz said, his voice reasonable.

Even Stilgar chuckled. Paul stood silent, watchful.

“Who do you mean by
they
?” Paul asked.

“Why, Sire,” Bijaz said, “the ones who planted that stone-burner on you. Could it be they wanted you to stopple the spice?”

New Chapter:
CONSPIRACY’S END

(This dramatically changes the end of the
Dune Messiah
story.)

My enemies can always dissemble. They can always dissemble. There are limits even to an Emperor’s law.

—MUAD’DIB AND HIS LAW, STILGAR’S COMMENTARY

E
dric stared through the small, field-blocked communications hole into the adjoining cell. Ennui and a profound fatalism gripped him. The Reverend Mother paced restlessly back and forth in the confinement there, virtually ignoring a visitor.

Irulan sat on the Revered Mother’s bed, hands folded in her lap. Her blond hair had been tied in a severe knot at the neck and there was a look of bloodless austerity about her features.

“I have done precisely as I was instructed,” Irulan said. Could she flee to the children and take them?

The Reverend Mother cast a warning look toward the door where the guards stood, looked around the cell at the places where listening devices probably had been planted. She sniffed. The smell of the place annoyed her.

“It doesn’t mater what they hear now,” Irulan snapped. “If he wishes to continue ruling, he must come to me on my own terms.”

“Your terms?” the Reverend Mother inquired in a slyly insinuating tone.

“His concubine, his link to the Fremen, is no more,” Irulan said.

“You’re sure?” the Reverend Mother asked, not looking at Irulan. Something was wrong, and she could feel it with the limited oracular ability which spice addiction gave her.

“Security communications never lie,” Irulan said. “She is dead. There are two brats, but they have no status.”

“They have whatever status he gives them,” the Reverend Mother said.

As though she had not heard, Irulan said: “And he will be forced to free you. He is an astute politician, my husband. The days of the spice monopoly are numbered, and he knows it. He must give concessions, compromise. There is no way out for him.”

“Your husband,” the Reverend Mother sneered.

“He will be my husband completely now,” Irulan said, voice smug. “That is one of the concessions we will require.”

“Will we now?” the Reverend Mother asked. She caught sight of Edric’s face through the communications hole. “What say you, Guildsman?”

“The days of the spice monopoly
are
numbered,” Edric said, “but I don’t believe it’s coming out as we wished.”

“What do you see in the future?” the Reverend Mother demanded. “What’s going wrong?”

Edric shook his head. What did it matter? They could not change the thing now. Far too late for that.

“You’re supposed to be a Steersman, a living oracle,” the Reverend Mother pressed. “What do you see?”

Again, Edric shrugged. An unaccustomed sense of kindness held him silent.

“You call yourself a living oracle,” Irulan sneered, “yet you cannot know all the things I have done or will do.”

Edric bent to peer directly at her. “You should not be here, M’Lady,” he said. “The guards will pass you out of here. Go while there is still time.”

“What nonsense is this?” the Reverend Mother demanded, sensing the unspoken communication in Edric’s words.

“This is a dangerous place,” Edric said. “It is about to become even more so.”

“You prattle,” the Reverend Mother said, but her voice lacked conviction. She moved fretfully back and forth in the cell, agitated by restless stirrings of her own prescience.

“You have seen something,” Irulan accused, getting up to stare back at Edric through the hole.

The Reverend Mother pulled her away. “He has seen nothing but his own liver spots swimming on his eyes! Isn’t that true, Steersman?”

“Perhaps,” Edric agreed, the ennui again dominant.

“Well, what is it?” the Reverend Mother demanded.

“What is it?” Edric asked. He shook his head. He missed the spice-saturated air of his tank. There was a hunger in his cells that no stomach could feed.

“What have you seen?” the Reverend Mother barked.

“He is dead,” Edric said.

“Dead?” Irulan asked. “Who is dead?”

“The Atreides,” Edric said.

The Reverend Mother had come to a full stop facing the communications hole. She nodded to herself. “So that’s it,” she muttered. “So that’s how it’s to be.”

“It means he has defeated us, you know,” Edric said.

“Nonsense!” Irulan snapped. She glared at him, detesting the orange face, the spice-glazed blue of the tiny eyes.

“Clever, clever, clever …” the Reverend Mother muttered.

“It can’t be true,” Irulan said. There were tears in her eyes.

“Clever, clever …” the Reverend Mother said.

“It is true,” Edric said. “He is dead. He went into the desert to die. He has gone to Shai-Hulud, as they say in this forsaken place.”

“ … clever, clever …” the Reverend Mother said, shaking her head.

“Not clever!” Irulan stormed. She turned her glare on the Reverend Mother. “If he has done this, it’s foolish!”