Paul of Dune

Emperor Muad’Dib

10,194 AG

One Year After the Fall of Shaddam IV

1

A serene ocean of sane stretched as far as the eye could see, silent and still, carrying the potential for terrible storms. Arrakis — the sacred world Dune — was becoming the eye of a galactic hurricane, a bloody Jihad that would rage across the planets of the crumbling Imperium. Paul Atreides had foreseen this, and now he had set it in motion.

Since the overthrow of Shaddam IV a year ago, millions of converts had joined Paul’s armies in addition to his own Fremen warriors, all of whom had pledged their lives to him. Led by his fanatical Fedaykin and other trusted officers, his holy warriors had already begun to fan out from staging areas, bound for specific star systems and targets. Just that morning, Paul had sent Stilgar and his legion off with a rousing speech that included the words, “‘I bestow strength on you, my warriors. Go now and perform my holy bidding.’” It was one of his favorite passages from the Orange Catholic Bible.

Afterward, in the heat of the afternoon, he had taken himself far from the bedlam of the city of Arrakeen, from the agitated troops and the fawning clamor of worshippers. Here in the isolated mountains, Paul required no Fremen guide. The high desert was silent and pure, giving him an illusion of peace. His beloved Chani accompanied him, along with his mother, Jessica, and his little sister. Not quite four years old, Alia was vastly more than a child, pre-born with all the memories and knowledge of a Reverend Mother.

As Paul and his companions ascended the stark brown mountains to Harg Pass, he tried to cling to a feeling of serene inevitability. The desert made him feel small and humble, in sharp contrast to being cheered as a messiah. He prized each quiet moment away from the devoted followers who chanted, “Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib!” whenever they glimpsed him. Before long, when news of the military victories started streaming in, it would get even worse. But that could not be avoided. Eventually, he would be swept along by the Jihad. He had already charted its course, like a great navigator of humanity.

War was one of the tools at his disposal. Now that he had exiled the Padishah Emperor to Salusa Secundus, Paul had to consolidate his power among the members of the Landsraad. He had sent his diplomats to negotiate with some of the noble Houses, while dispatching his most fanatical fighters against the defiant families. A number of lords would not lay down their arms and vowed to put up fierce resistance, claiming either that they would not follow a rebel or that they’d had enough of emperors altogether. Regardless, the armies of Muad’Dib would sweep over them and continue onward. Though Paul sought to reduce and even eliminate the violence, he suspected that the bloody reality would prove far worse than any prescient vision.

And his visions had been frightening.

Centuries of decadence and mismanagement had filled the Imperium with deadwood — tinder that would allow his firestorm to spread with startling speed. In a more civilized time, problems between Houses had been settled with an old-fashioned War of Assassins, but that solution seemed quaint and gentlemanly now, no longer plausible. Faced with the tide of religious fervor approaching their worlds, some leaders would simply surrender, rather than try to stand against the invincible onslaught.

But not all of them would be that sensible….

On their trek, Paul and his three companions wore new stillsuits covered by mottled cloaks to camouflage them in the desert. Though the garments looked well worn, they were actually finer than any Paul had used when he’d lived as a fugitive among the Fremen. Their makers claimed that these durable offworld imports were superior to the simpler versions that had traditionally been made in hidden sietches.

The manufacturers mean well, he thought. They do it to show their support for me, without realizing the implied criticism in their “improvements”.

After selecting the perfect position high on the ridge, a small natural amphitheater guarded by tall rocks, Paul set down his pack. He uncinched the straps and pulled aside the cushioning folds of velvatin cloth with a reverence comparable to what he saw in the faces of his most devout followers.

In respectful silence he removed the clean, ivory-colored skull and several broken bone fragments — two ribs, an ulna, and a femur that had been brutally snapped in two, all of which the Fremen had preserved for years after the fall of Arrakeen to the Harkonnens. These were the remains of Duke Leto Atreides.

He saw nothing of his warm and wise father in the bones, yet they constituted an important symbol. Paul understood the value and necessity of symbols. “This shrine is long overdue.”

“I have already built a shrine to Leto in my mind,” Jessica said, “but it will be good to lay him to rest.”

Kneeling beside Paul, Chani helped him clear a spot among the large boulders, some of which had just begun to show a mottling of lichen. “We should keep this place a secret, Usul. Leave no marker, give no directions. We must protect your father’s resting place.”

“The mobs will not be kept at a distance,” Jessica said in a resentful tone. She shook her head. “No matter what we do, tourists will find their way here. It will be a circus, with guides wearing false Fremen clothing. Souvenir vendors will chip off flakes of rock, and countless charlatans will sell splinters of bone fragments, claiming that the objects come from Leto’s body.”

Chani looked both disturbed and awed. “Usul, have you foreseen this?” Here, away from the crowds, she used his private sietch name.

“History has foretold it,” Jessica answered for him, “time and time again.”

“And it must be done, to build the appropriate legend.” Alia spoke sternly to her mother. “The Bene Gesserit planned to use my brother in this way for their own purposes. Now he creates the legends himself, for his own purposes.”

Paul had already weighed the options. Some pilgrims would come here out of sincere devotion, while others would make the journey simply to boast that they had done it. Either way, they would come. He knew it would be folly to stop them, so he had to find another solution. “I will have my Fedaykin mount a round-the-clock vigil. No one will desecrate this shrine.”

He arranged the bones and carefully set the skull atop them, tilting it upward a little so that the hollow, empty sockets could look toward the cloudless blue sky.

“Alia is right, Mother,” Paul said, not looking at either his sister or Jessica. “While we manage the business of war, we are also in the business of creating a myth. It is the only way we can accomplish what is necessary. Mere appeals to logic and common sense are not enough to sway the vast population of humankind. Irulan is uniquely talented in that area, as she has already demonstrated by the popularity of her history of my ascension to power.”

“You are cynical, Usul.” Chani sounded disturbed at the reminder that Paul’s wife, in name only, served any useful function at all.

“My brother is pragmatic,” Alia countered.

Paul stared for a long moment at the skull, imagining the face of his father: the aquiline nose, gray eyes, and an expression that could shift from anger toward his enemies to unmatched love for his son or Jessica. I learned so much from you, Father. You taught me honor and leadership. I only hope you taught me enough. What he knew he must face in the coming years would go far beyond the greatest crises Duke Leto had ever confronted. Would the lessons apply on such a grand scale?

Paul picked up a large rock and placed it in front of the skull, beginning the cairn. Then he gestured for his mother to set the second stone, which she did. In turn, Alia contributed to the pile, sounding wistful. “I miss my father. He loved us enough to die for us.”

“It’s too bad you never actually knew him,” Chani said quietly, placing her first rock on the cairn.

“Oh, but I did,” Alia said. “My pre-born memories encompass a trip my mother and father took to the Caladan wilderness after little Victor was killed. That was where Paul was conceived.” Alia often made eerie, unsettling comments. The lives crammed into her mind stretched far. She looked up at her mother. “You even caught a glimpse of the Caladan primitives then.”

“I remember,” Jessica said.

Paul continued piling stones. As soon as the cairn completely covered his father’s bones, he stepped back to share a poignant, solitary moment with those who had loved Leto best.

Finally, Paul touched the communicator stud on the collar of his stillsuit. “Korba, we are ready for you now.”

Almost immediately, loud engines shattered the searing calm of the desert. Two ‘thopters bearing the green-and-white Imperial crest of Emperor Muad’Dib rose from behind the sheer ridge and dipped their wings. The lead ‘thopter was flown by the leader of Paul’s Fedaykin, Korba, a man who displayed his allegiance with religious fervor. Yet he was more than a mere sycophant — Korba was much too smart for that. All of his actions had carefully calculated consequences.

Behind the small fliers came a train of heavy-lift vehicles, with polished stone blocks dangling by suspensors beneath their bellies. The stone blocks, carved by artisans in Arrakeen, were embellished with intricate images that, when assembled, would make a continuous frieze of great events in the life of Duke Leto Atreides.

Now that the respectful communication silence had been broken, squad commanders barked orders to their teams of laborers, calling them to begin their work at the new sacred site.

Silent and stoic, Jessica stared at the small cairn of rocks as if burning Leto’s shrine into her memory, rather than the monstrosity that was about to take shape.

The echoing noise of machinery reflected back upon the amphitheater of rocks. Korba landed his ‘thopter and emerged, reveling in the grandiose production and proud of what he had arranged. He looked at the handmade pile of rocks and seemed to think it quaint. “Muad’Dib, we will create a proper monument here, worthy of your father. All must stand in awe of our Emperor and everyone who has been close to you.”

“Yes, they must,” Paul said, doubting that his Fedaykin commander would notice the wryness in his tone. Korba had become quite a student of what he called “religious momentum.”

The work teams threw themselves into the job like gaze hounds attacking prey. Since the haulers had no room to land in the small natural bowl at the top of the pass, the pilots disengaged their suspensor tethers and deposited the carved blocks on a flat, stony area, then retreated into the air. Paul’s advisers had designed the shrine memorial by committee and distributed the blueprints to all crew chiefs. The substantial pyramid would symbolize the foundation that Duke Leto had been in the life of Muad’Dib.

At the moment, though, as Paul considered this ostentatious memorial, he could think only of the dichotomy between his private feelings and his public image. Although he could not abdicate his role in the ever-growing machinery of government and religion around him, only a very few loved ones saw the real Paul. And even with this select group, he could not share everything.

Jessica stepped back and looked at him. Clearly, she had made up her mind about something. “I feel I am done here on Arrakis, Paul. It is time for me to depart.”

“Where will you go?” Chani asked, as if she could not imagine a more preferable place to be.

“Caladan. I have been too long away from home.”

Paul felt a yearning in his own heart. Caladan had already accepted his rule, but he had not returned there since House Atreides had come to Arrakis. He looked at his mother, the stately, green-eyed beauty who had so captivated his gallant father. Though Paul was Emperor of the Known Universe, he should have realized the simple fact himself. “You are right, Mother. Caladan is part of my empire as well. I shall accompany you.”

2

These Fremen recruits from the deep desert had never seen such a large tank of water in their lives, and rarely one so sloppily open to the air. Back on Caladan, this would have served as no more than a village pool, and a lackluster one at that. But here, as Gurney’s fledgling commandos stared at the rippling surface and smelled the raw moisture evaporating wastefully, they viewed it with superstitious awe.

“You will jump in, one by one,” he said in his loud, gruff voice. “Submerge yourselves. Get your heads wet. Before you’re finished here today, I want you to swim to the other side.”

Swim. The very idea was foreign to them. Several muttered uneasily. “Muad’Dib has commanded it,” said one rail-thin young soldier named Enno. “Therefore, we shall do it.”

Yes, Gurney thought. Paul had merely to suggest a thing, and it happened. In other circumstances it might have seemed gratifying, even amusing. These Fremen soldiers would throw themselves out of a spaceship airlock or walk barefoot into a Coriolis storm, if Muad’Dib commanded them to do so.

With his blue, glass-splinter eyes, he surveyed the lines of fresh fighters. More volunteers arrived from the desert every day; it seemed the sietches were manufacturing recruits out in the bled. Many planets in the galaxy still did not know what they would be facing.

These unruly young men were far different from the disciplined Atreides soldiers he remembered so well. Their wild fighting style was a far cry from the military precision of a Great House, but they were still damned good warriors. This “desert rabble” had overthrown Beast Rabban and ended the rule of House Harkonnen here on Dune, along with the defeat of Emperor Shaddam Corrino and his powerful Sardaukar troops.

“That water is only three meters deep, and ten across.” Gurney paced along the edge of the pool. “But on other planets, you may encounter oceans or lakes that are hundreds of meters deep. You must be ready for anything.”

“Hundreds of meters! How could we survive that?” asked a dusty young recruit.

“The trick is to swim on top of the water.”

The hard-eyed Fremen recruits did not respond to his humor.

“Does Muad’Dib not say that ‘God created Arrakis to train the faithful’?” Gurney quoted. “So, prepare yourselves.”

“Muad’Dib,” the men said in a reverent tone. “Muad’Dib!”

Paul had ordered the pool constructed so that his desert fighters could train for inevitable water battles on distant worlds. Not every watery planet would be as accepting of his rule as Caladan had been. Some in Arrakeen saw the training pool as a display of Muad’Dib’s largesse, while others considered it an extravagant waste of moisture. Gurney understood it as a military necessity.

“We studied the information Muad’Dib provided,” said Enno. “We took every word to heart. The words showed us how to swim.”

Gurney was sure that each of these men had pored over the instruction manual with the intensity of a priest studying a religious text. “And does reading a filmbook manual on sandworms make one a wormrider?”

The absurdity of the question finally made the intense Fremen chuckle. Both eager and hesitant, the group reached the edge of the deep pool. The very thought of being immersed in water was enough to terrify them more than facing any enemy on the battlefield.

Gurney reached into the pocket of his stillsuit and withdrew a gold coin, one of the old Imperial Solaris that featured the haughty face of Shaddam IV. He held it up so that its golden hue glinted in the light. “The first one of you to retrieve this coin from the bottom of that pool will receive a special blessing from Muad’Dib.”

Any other army would have competed to win an increase in pay, a promotion in rank, or an extra bit of furlough. The Fremen didn’t care about such things. But they would push themselves to the limit for a blessing from Paul.

Gurney tossed the solari coin. It twinkled in the sunlight and dropped into the water near the center of the pool, where it continued to flash like a little fish as it sank to the bottom. A depth of three meters would not challenge a good swimmer, but he doubted any of these dry-desert Fremen would be able to retrieve it. He was interested in testing the mettle of the men, however; he wanted to see which ones would try the hardest.

“And God said, ‘They shall show their faith by their actions,’” Gurney intoned. “‘The first in my eyes shall be first in my heart.’” He looked at them and finally barked, “What are you waiting for? This isn’t a buffet line!”

He nudged the first man on the edge, and the Fremen toppled into the water with a splash, coughed, and thrashed his arms repeatedly, going under and rising to the surface again.

“Swim, man! You look like you’re having a grand mal seizure.”

The fighter splashed, stroked, and struggled until he pulled away from the edge.

Gurney pushed two more Fremen in. “Your comrade is in trouble. He may be drowning — why aren’t you helping him?”

Another pair plunged into the water; finally, Enno jumped in of his own volition. Having watched the others, he panicked less and stroked more. Gurney was pleased to see that he was the first to make it to the opposite side of the pool. Within an hour, most of the desert recruits were swimming, or at least floating. A few clung shivering to the side, refusing to let go. He would have to reassign or dismiss them. The Fremen, bred for desert warfare, had achieved incomparable victories on Dune, but as soldiers in Paul’s widening conflict, they would have to fight in many environments. He could not rely on men who would become paralyzed in an unexpected situation. Swimming might be the least of the ordeals they would have to face.

Several of the trainees bobbed underwater, trying to get to the coin that glinted tantalizingly at the bottom, three meters below, like a patch of spice out in the open sand. But no one came close to reaching it. Gurney supposed he would have to swim down there and retrieve it himself.

Then Enno stroked back across the pool, dove down, and swam deep, but not quite deep enough.

Still not there, but not bad, Gurney thought.

The man came back up, gasping, then dunked under again, refusing to give up.

Amid the din of splashing and shouting, Gurney heard the hum of ships landing in the Arrakeen spaceport: hundreds of military-grade gliders, expanded troop transports, and bumblebee-like cargo ships loaded with military supplies to feed Paul’s armies. If they wanted spice for their navigators, the Spacing Guild had no choice but to supply Muad’Dib with the vessels he needed. Gurney had to crew them with fighters, and the best men came from Arrakis. Everyone in the Imperium would soon know that.

Suddenly he noted a change in the cries and splashing sounds from the pool. The Fremen were calling for help. Gurney saw a body floating face-down, bobbing in the water. Enno. “Bring him here, lads, now!”

But the Fremen could barely keep themselves afloat. One man grabbed Enno’s body; another tugged at his arm, but succeeded only in ducking his head under deeper.

“Roll him over, you fools, so he can breathe!”

Seeing how clumsy they were, Gurney dove in. The warm water was a shock to his parched skin. He stroked quickly out to the knot of men and shoved them aside. Grabbing Enno by the back of his collar, he pulled the young man up, flipped him over, and paddled with him back to the edge of the pool.

“Call for a medic. Now!” Gurney shouted, spitting water out of his mouth.

Enno was completely limp, not breathing. His lips were pale blue, his skin clammy, his eyes closed. With a surge of adrenaline strength, Gurney hauled the dripping man up over the edge of the pool and onto the sun-warmed paving tiles. Water streamed away from him, drying quickly.

Gurney knew what to do and did not wait for help to arrive. He pumped Enno’s legs and used standard resuscitation procedures as familiar to anyone from Caladan as a stillsuit was to a Fremen. Seeing their comrade’s mishap, the remaining recruits scrambled pell-mell out of the water.

By the time a puffy-eyed military medic arrived with his kit, Gurney’s emergency measures had already brought the young man around. Enno coughed, then rolled over to vomit some of the water he had swallowed. The doctor, after nodding respectfully to Gurney, gave Enno a stimulant and wrapped him with a blanket to keep him from going into shock.

Enno eventually pushed the blanket away and forced himself to sit up. He looked around with glazed eyes. Grinning weakly, he raised a hand and opened his tightly clenched fist to reveal the water-slick gold coin in his palm. “As you ordered, Commander.” He touched his dripping hair with wonder. “Am I alive?”

“You are now” Gurney said. “You’ve been revived.”

“I died… from too much water. Truly, I am blessed with abundance!”

The Fremen recruits began to mutter and whisper with a clear undertone of awe. A drowned Fremen!

Their reaction made Gurney uneasy. These spiritual people were as incomprehensible as they were admirable. Many splinter groups followed Muad’Dib’s religion by borrowing tenets from Fremen mysticism; others participated in water-worshipping cults. Upon learning of this drowning incident, Paul’s bureaucratic priesthood, the Qizarate, could very well choose to make Enno into an inspirational figure.

The trainees stood around the pool, dripping, as though they had all been baptized. They seemed more determined than ever. Gurney knew he’d have no trouble loading the Guild ship with eager, inspired fighters like the best of these men.

The Fremen were ready to set forth and shed blood in the name of Muad’Dib.

3

Shortly after the overthrow of the Padishah Emperor, the armies of Muad’Dib had begun to spread out from Dune like echoes of thunder. Heavily armed legions traveled from one rebellious system to the next, spreading the Truth, consolidating the Imperium for Muad’Dib.

As part of the initial surrender terms, Muad’Dib had appointed Stilgar governor of Arrakis and promised him an additional title as Minister of State, but the Fremen naib had no use for such designations or for the duties associated with them. He was a man of the desert — a leader of brave Fremen warriors, not a soft functionary who sat at a desk.

Aboard a heavily loaded military frigate, Stilgar and the legion under his command were headed for the most important battlefield on his list of assignments. He’d been ordered to take over Kaitain, once the long-standing capital of the Corrino Imperium. Excitement and anticipation flowed through him. This would be the greatest razzia raid in Fremen history.

The tall, rugged man sat at a wide windowport, staring into the Heighliner’s cavernous bay, where row after row of armored frigates hung in separate cradles waiting to be deployed. The immensity of the ship made Stilgar feel small, yet it reinforced his belief in the greatness of Muad’Dib.

Until recently, he had never been off-planet, and he felt both the thrill and fear of exploring the unknown. The great distances he had traveled by sandworm across Dune’s Tanzerouft wasteland were as nothing compared to the sheer vastness separating the stars.

He had seen so many new things since helping assemble the fighters for the Jihad that unusual and astonishing sights seemed almost commonplace. He had learned that most inhabited worlds possessed far more water than Dune, and that their populations were much softer than the Fremen. Stilgar had delivered speeches, inspired men, recruited them for the holy war. Now his best Fremen fighters would seize Kaitain, the jewel in the crown of the fallen Corrino Imperium.

He took a sip of water… not because he was thirsty, but because it was there. How long have I taken water for granted? When did I start drinking water because it is a thing to do, rather than a thing for survival?

For days now, military frigates had been shuttling up to orbital space from the surface of Dune, locking into cradles within the Heighliner’s hold, preparing for departure. Such a battle could not be commenced without thorough, time-consuming preparations. Once the Guild ship was fully loaded, though, the actual foldspace journey would be brief.

Stilgar descended to the open cargo deck of the frigate. Although these military ships had many individual cabins for passengers, his Fremen fighters chose to eat and sleep in the cavelike atmosphere of the large, metal-walled bay. The Fremen soldiers still considered the ship’s standard amenities to be luxuries: ready food supplies, spacious quarters, plentiful water even for bathing, moist air that made stillsuits unnecessary.

Stilgar leaned against a bulkhead and surveyed his people, smelling the familiar odors of spice coffee, food, and close human bodies. Even here in a metal ship in space, he and his men tried to re-create some of the comforting familiarity of sietch life. He scratched his dark beard and looked at the Fremen commandos, who were so anxious to fight that they needed no rousing speech from him.

Many sat reading copies of Irulan’s book, The Life of Muad’Dib, Volume 1, a record of how Paul Atreides had left Caladan to go to Dune, how the evil Harkonnens had killed his father and destroyed his home, how he and his mother had run into the desert to the Fremen, and how he had eventually emerged to become the living legend, Paul-Muad’Dib.

Printed on cheap but durable spice paper, copies of the book were given freely to any citizen who asked, and were included as part of any new soldier’s kit. Irulan had started writing the chronicle even before her father had gone into exile on Salusa Secundus.

Stilgar could not quite fathom the woman’s motives in writing such a story, since he could see she had gotten some of the details wrong, but neither could he deny the effectiveness of the book. Whether propaganda or inspirational religious text, the story of the most powerful man in the galaxy was spreading throughout the planets of the Imperium.

Two young men saw Stilgar and ran up, calling his name. “Will we be departing soon?” asked the younger, who had cowlicks of thick, dark hair that stuck out in all directions.

“Is it true we are going to Kaitain?” The older boy had recently undergone a growth spurt and stood taller than his half brother. These were the sons of Jamis — Orlop and Kaleff — young men who had become the responsibility of Paul Atreides when he killed their father in a knife duel. The two of them held no grudge, and they idolized Paul.

“We fight for Muad’Dib wherever the Jihad takes us.” Stilgar had checked the schedule and knew the Heighliner was due to depart within the hour.

The siblings could barely contain themselves. Around Stilgar, the chatter of gathered fighters on the cargo deck took on a different tone, as he felt a vibration through the hull of the immense Heighliner. The foldspace engines were powering up. Remembering so many raids against the Harkonnens, followed by the adrenaline glow of victory over Shaddam IV, was better than any dose of spice.

In a rush of excitement, Stilgar raised his bearded chin and shouted, “On to Kaitain!”

The fighters cheered resoundingly and stomped their feet on the deck plates, causing so much ruckus that he almost didn’t feel the shifting as space folded around him.

THE GUILD VESSEL disgorged thousands of military frigates onto the pampered world that had been the Imperium’s capital for thousands of years. Kaitain could not possibly withstand the onslaught. The warriors of Muad’Dib knew little about Imperial history, and did not revere the museums and monuments to legendary figures: Faykan Butler, Crown Prince Raphael Corrino, Hassik Corrino III. Kaitain had remained in flux since Shaddam’s defeat and exile; noble families of the Landsraad either flooded in to fill the local power vacuum or packed up their embassies and escaped to safer worlds. Those who remained behind tried to claim neutrality, but the Fremen soldiers did not follow the same rules.

Filled with passion and determination, Stilgar led his men into battle on the streets of the former capital. With his sword in one hand and crysknife in the other, Stilgar ran ahead of the troops in the opening encounter, shouting, “Long live Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib!”

Although this world should have been the most fortified and well-defended of all that now faced the storm of the Jihad, Imperial security was predicated upon family ties and alliances, marriages, treaties, taxes, and penalties. The Rule of Law. All of that meant nothing to the Fremen armies. Kaitain’s security troops — a mere handful of Sardaukar no longer duty bound to protect a defeated Emperor — lacked cohesiveness. The Landsraad nobles were too shocked and astonished to put up a real fight.

Commandos raced through the streets, screaming the name of their young Emperor. At their head, Stilgar watched the grinning sons of Jamis rush forward to demonstrate their prowess and spatter themselves with blood. This planet would be a highly significant conquest, an important piece in the high-stakes political game of the Imperium. Yes, Muad’Dib would be pleased.

Leading his men farther into the carnage, Stilgar shouted in the Fremen tongue, “Ya hya chouhada! Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib! Ya hya chouhada!”

Yet Stilgar drew little satisfaction from the actual battle as he and his Fremen swept so easily over their opponents. These civilized people of the Landsraad were not, after all, very good fighters.

4

Leaving behind the violent Jihad he had spawned, Paul looked forward to returning to Caladan, a place bright with memories. Knowing the battles that were even now being launched across the Imperium, and aware through prescience of how much worse they would become, Paul decided that this short visit would renew him.

Caladan… the seas, the windswept coast, the fishing villages, the stone towers of the ancient family castle. He paused halfway down the frigate’s ramp in the Cala City spaceport, closed his eyes, and drew a long, slow breath. He could smell the salt air, the iodine of drying kelp, the ripening sourness of fish, and the moisture of sea spray and rain. All so familiar. This had once been home. How could he have forgotten so quickly? A smile touched his face.

As he recalled the shrine he had commissioned for his father’s skull, he now wondered if Duke Leto might have preferred to be interred here instead, on the planet that had been home to House Atreides for twenty-six generations.

But I wanted him close to me. On Dune.

On the surface this world seemed completely unchanged since his family’s departure, but as he stepped away from the ship Paul realized that he himself had changed. He had left as a boy of fifteen, the son of a beloved Duke. Now he returned, only a few years later, as the Holy Emperor Muad’Dib, with millions of fighters ready to kill — and die — for him.

Jessica placed her hand on his shoulder. “Yes, Paul. We’re home.”

He shook his head, kept his voice low. “Much as I love this place, Dune is my home now.” Paul could not go back to the past, no matter how comfortable it might be. “Caladan is no longer my entire universe, but a speck in a vast empire that I have to rule. Thousands of planets are depending on me.”

Jessica rebuked him, using an edge of Voice. “Your father was Duke Leto Atreides, and these were his people. You may control an Imperium, but Caladan is still your homeworld, and its people are still your family as surely as I am.”

He knew she was right. Paul found a smile, a real one this time. “Thank you for reminding me when I needed it.” He feared that his preoccupation might grow worse as he faced further crises. Shaddam IV had treated many of his planets with disdain, seeing them only as names in a catalogue or numbers on star charts. Paul could not let himself fall into the same trap. “Every fishing boat on Caladan needs its anchor.”

The crowds of locals at the edge of the spaceport cheered when they saw the pair step forward. Paul scanned the hundreds of faces: men in dungarees and striped shirts, fishwives, net-weavers, boat-builders. They had not burdened themselves with ridiculous court finery, nor were they attempting to put on haughty airs.

“Paul Atreides has returned!”

“It’s our Duke!”

“Welcome, Lady Jessica!”

His personal Fedaykin guards accompanied him, led by a man named Chatt the Leaper. They stood close by Paul, ever alert for assassins in the crowd. His fighters were uneasy in this strange place that smelled of fish and kelp, with its cottony clouds, fog clinging to the headlands, and crashing surf.

Absorbing the resounding welcome of the people, Paul couldn’t help feeling excitement, as well as pangs for the halcyon life he might have led if he’d remained here, comfortably accepting the duties of Duke when the time came. Memories from his childhood came rushing back — peaceful days spent fishing with his father, trips to the back country the two of them had made, and hiding with Duncan in the jungles during the terrible War of Assassins that had embroiled Atreides and Ecaz against House Moritani. But even the violence of that conflict paled in comparison with Paul’s Jihad, where the scope and scale of carnage would be exponentially greater, and the stakes infinitely higher.

“We should have brought Gurney with us,” Jessica said, interrupting his thoughts. “It would do him good to come back to Caladan. He belongs here.”

Paul knew she was right, but he could not afford to surrender the services of such an unquestionably loyal and skilled officer. “He is doing vital work for me, Mother.”

Officially, Gurney had been granted an earldom on Caladan as part of Shaddam’s surrender terms, but Paul had given Gurney no chance to settle here. Not yet. In the interim, Gurney had assigned planetary management to the representative of a minor noble family from Ecaz, Prince Xidd Orleaq. Until the Jihad was over, Paul would have to keep Gurney, Stilgar, and the best Fremen out on the front lines.

The pudgy, red-faced Prince Orleaq greeted Paul and Jessica, shaking hands vigorously with each of them. To Paul he seemed energetic and dedicated, and reports on the nobleman were good, though the people of Caladan had been slow to warm to him. He might be efficient enough, but he would always be an outsider to them. “We have made the castle ready for you both — your old quarters restored to the way they were, as best we could manage. My own family is living there, since we’re the provisional government, but we know we’re only stewards. Would you like us to vacate the castle for you while you are here?”

“Not necessary. The rooms you arranged will be sufficient — I cannot remain here long. My mother… has not entirely decided what she will do.”

“I may stay a bit longer,” Jessica said.

Orleaq looked from one to the other. “We’ll be ready for you either way.” He raised his voice to the crowd, who took his teasing good-naturedly. “Make sure you’ve tidied everything up! On the morrow, Duke Paul Atreides will tour the village. Perhaps we could talk him into spending an afternoon in his great chair, listening to your concerns as his father used to do. Maybe we can even stage a bullfight in the arena? It has been empty for too long.” As if just remembering that the Old Duke had been killed by a Salusan bull in the arena, Orleaq flushed scarlet. “We can find plenty to keep him occupied here.”

The crowd whistled and applauded, while Paul raised his hand to them, feeling somewhat ill at ease. “Please, please — my schedule has not yet been set.” Already feeling the call of his responsibilities, he wondered what difficulties Alia and Chani might be facing as they managed the government in Arrakeen in his absence. Even though the people of Caladan were right here in front of him, his thoughts raced to distant star systems, where worlds would eventually — sometimes painfully — fall under his banner. “I will stay here as long as I am able.”

The people cheered again, as if he’d said something important, and Orleaq hurried them toward a luxurious groundcar that would take the noble visitors and their entourage up to the ancestral castle on the cliffs above the sea. Sitting across from Paul in the rear passenger compartment of the vehicle, Chatt the Leaper looked extremely suspicious of the Caladanians, until Paul signaled for him to relax slightly. The young ruler remembered learning that Old Duke Paulus had insisted that he need not fear his people because they loved him, but many conspirators already wanted to kill Muad’Dib. Even this planet wasn’t necessarily safe for him. And assassins had come after Paul in Castle Caladan before, a long time ago….

“You are everything to the citizens of Caladan, Sire,” Orleaq said. “They loved Duke Leto, and they remember you as a boy. You are one of their own, and now you have become the Emperor and married Shaddam’s daughter.” He grinned. “Just like a fairy tale. Sire, is it true that you’re going to make Caladan your new capital world instead of Arrakis or Kaitain? The people would be so honored.”

Paul knew he could have no capital other than Dune, but his mother broke in before he could say anything. “Rumors are just rumors. Paul has made no… firm decision.”

“I now serve in a capacity that goes beyond the Duke of Caladan,” Paul said in a somewhat apologetic tone, looking out the window at the crowd as the long vehicle passed them. “The first battles for the Jihad are raging on at least thirty planets. I could be called away at any time.”

“Of course, Sire. We all understand that you are the Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib, a man with much greater responsibilities than one world.” But Orleaq didn’t sound as if he understood at all. “Still, they know you have fond memories of them. If you establish your Imperial capital here, think of what it can do for Caladan.”

“Muad’Dib has visited your world,” Chatt the Leaper said in a gruff voice. “You have already been touched by greatness.”

THAT EVENING IN the familiar old castle, Paul did enjoy sleeping in his boyhood room again. On the wall hung a magnificent quilt, hand-stitched in squares by representatives of local villages; Paul remembered that it had been a gift to Duke Leto, but he could not recall the occasion it commemorated.

“I should have brought Chani with me,” he murmured to himself. But she had not wanted to leave Dune. Perhaps one day, though…

In an unguarded moment when he allowed himself to forget about the Jihad, he imagined what it would be like to retire on Caladan and walk with Chani along the ocean cliffs, seeing the spray like tiny diamonds on her brown cheeks and forehead. The two of them could dress in ordinary clothing and spend their time in uncomplicated happiness, strolling through the gardens and fishing villages. As he drifted off to sleep thinking of that unlikely dream, his fatigued mind convinced him it might be possible. But not for many years. His erratic prescience did not tend to show him peaceful, noncritical moments.

When he arose the next day, Paul found the castle’s main reception hall bedecked with flowers and ribbons, the stone-block walls papered with notes, letters, and drawings. To welcome him, the joyful people had brought presents — colored shells, large reefpearls floating in oil, dried flowers, and baskets of fresh fish. The simple locals meant well, lining up outside in the courtyard, through the gates, and partway down the hill just for a chance to see him.

But already, he felt restless.

His mother was up and watching the activities, having greeted the throngs outside the main gates. “They have been waiting a long time to have their Duke back. They want Paul Atreides. When you return to being the Emperor Muad’Dib, who will fill that role? Do not just abandon these people, Paul. They are worth a great deal to you.”

Paul picked up one of the handwritten letters, perused a message from a young woman who remembered having met him in the village years ago, when he’d been walking with Duke Leto. She said that at the time she’d been carrying a banner of silver and blue ribbons. Hearing this, the Emperor looked up at his mother. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember her.”

“She certainly remembers you, Paul. Even the smallest things you do have an effect on these people.”

“On all people.” Paul could never completely escape his violent visions of the Jihad’s horrific fallout, how difficult it would be to control the monster that would have been unleashed with or without him. The only true path to survival of the human species lay as narrow as a razor, and slippery with blood.

“So now you are too important for Caladan?” Her remark stung him. Could she not see that was exactly the case? The more excitement he witnessed among these people, the more uncomfortable he felt here.

Prince Orleaq rushed them through an extravagant breakfast, eager to take Paul on a procession through the village. The nominal leader of Caladan finished his meal, then wiped his mouth with a lace napkin. “You must be anxious to revisit the places you miss so much, Sire. Everything has been prepared specially for your visit.”

Paul walked outside with his mother and the others. As he made his way through the harbor town, he could not brush aside the odd and overwhelming sensation that he no longer belonged here. The air was damp and clammy, every breath sodden with moisture. As much as he cherished his boyhood home, it now seemed, in its own way, as alien as Fremen civilization had ever been.

He felt simultaneously connected to, and entirely separate from, these people — his people. He was no longer a man of one world — or even two. He was Emperor of thousands. The conversations around him about fishing, Duke Leto, the upcoming storm season, Old Duke Paulus and his spectacular bullfights… all seemed small and lacking in perspective. He found his thoughts drawn to the initial military campaigns he knew were taking place across the Imperium. What was Gurney doing now? And Stilgar? What if Alia and Chani needed him for pressing matters of state? What business did he have leaving Dune at such an early stage of this war?

In one of his first acts as Emperor, he had increased taxes and levies on any world that did not immediately accept his rule, and many had swiftly pledged themselves to him, if only for economic reasons. Paul was convinced that this bit of monetary coercion would save many lives by preventing unnecessary battles. But much of the fighting could not be avoided, and he could not escape his responsibilities, even here on his boyhood world.

That evening, watching from a viewing platform where he stood with his mother, along with Prince Orleaq and other local dignitaries, Paul could hardly focus on the Caladanian dancers who performed for him in their colorful costumes. He felt detached from his roots, like a tree that had been moved across the galaxy and replanted somewhere else. Plants did not grow as easily on Dune as on Caladan, but the desert world was where he needed to be, where he thrived. He had not expected to feel like this.

Abruptly, a messenger arrived from the Cala City spaceport on a fast groundcycle. Seeing the flushed courier and the armband she wore, Paul motioned for Chatt the Leaper to let her pass.

The villagers were slow to react to the interruption. The dancers faltered, then stood to the side of the stage, waiting to resume their performance. Orleaq looked concerned. Paul was intent only on the courier’s message. Urgent news was rarely good news.

The courier spoke in a breathless voice. “Emperor Muad’Dib, I bear a battlefield message from Stilgar. We felt the news important enough to divert a Heighliner in order to inform you as soon as possible.”

Orleaq spluttered. “You diverted a whole Heighliner just to bring a message?”

A thousand scenarios thundered through Paul’s mind. Had something terrible happened to Stilgar? “Speak your words.” His prescience had not warned him of any immediate disaster.

“Stilgar bade me to say this to you, ‘Usul, I did as you requested. Your armies have captured Kaitain, and I shall await you in the palace of the fallen Emperor.’”

Unable to contain his joy, Paul stood and shouted to the crowd. “Kaitain is ours!”

In response to his excitement, an uncertain wave of applause passed through the crowd. Jessica stepped closer to him. “I take it you will be leaving then?”

“I have to.” He couldn’t stop smiling. “Mother — it is Kaitain!”

Unsettled, Orleaq raised his hands, gesturing toward the dancers. “But, Sire, all the fishing boats are festooned for tomorrow’s regatta, and we thought you’d want to place a wreath at the statues of Old Duke Paulus and young Victor.”

“Please forgive me. I cannot stay.” When he saw the crestfallen expression on the man’s face, he added, “I’m sorry.” He raised his voice so the whole crowd could hear. “People of Caladan — I know you wanted your Duke back, but I’m afraid I can’t fill that role for you now. Instead, as your Emperor as well as your Duke, I give you my mother to watch over Caladan, to guide this world in my name.” He smiled at his solution. “She will be your new Duchess. I formally install her in that role.”

Jessica kept her voice much lower than his. “Thank you, Paul.” The people applauded, somewhat uncertainly at first and then with growing enthusiasm as she stepped forward to deliver an impromptu speech.

While his mother occupied the spectators, Paul quickly turned to the courier, whispering, “Is the Heighliner ready to depart?”

“The Navigator awaits your command, Muad’Dib.”

“I shall leave within the hour. First, send word to Arrakeen instructing Irulan to meet me on Kaitain. Her presence is required.” The courier rushed off to make the arrangements, and Paul turned toward a crestfallen Orleaq.

“Have we displeased you, Sire?” the nobleman asked, his voice cracking. “We expected you to stay a little while longer.”

“I cannot.” Paul knew that the Atreides part of him would always cling to Caladan, while his heart resided on Dune, and the part of him that was Muad’Dib would sweep across the entire galaxy.

5

The Guild delegation had arrived, and the three men were making their way through the fanmetal hutment that had been designated the temporary Imperial Audience Chamber. The haughty Guildsmen seemed irritated after being detained at each of the guard checkpoints, but they would have to follow protocol and security if they wanted an audience with Emperor Muad’Dib.

Standing beside the throne with all the erectness and poise befitting her position, a cool, blonde-haired Princess Irulan watched the trio enter the great metal-walled chamber. The men looked dignified in their gray uniforms, the sleeves of which displayed the Spacing Guild’s analemma sigil of infinity. In single file from shortest to tallest, each of the men had slightly odd features, offset from the norm of humanity.

The short one at the front had an oversized head, the left side of which was covered with a barbed metal plate, and half a head of ragged orange hair flowed back as he walked. The second man was exceedingly thin with a narrow face that bore the scars of reconstruction, while the tallest one at the rear turned his metal eyes nervously in all directions. Irulan noted the abrupt change when the Guilds-men simultaneously saw little Alia waiting on the impressive throne itself.

Wrapped in a cloak of his own importance, Korba stood at the foot of Paul’s throne like a guardian. He had embellished his traditional stillsuit and robes with marks of rank, and mysterious religious symbols drawn from archaic Muadru designs. Irulan doubted that Korba expected anyone to spot the influence, but with her Bene Gesserit training she had easily noticed what he was doing. The logical part of her mind saw the purpose of Korba’s obvious plan.

There is more power in religion than in being a glorified bodyguard, she thought.

Perhaps she should have created a similar role for herself.

As the eldest daughter of Shaddam Corrino IV, Irulan had always known that one day she would marry for political and economic reasons. The Emperor and the Bene Gesserit had groomed her for that duty, and she had willingly accepted it, even offering herself as a solution when Paul had faced her father after the Battle of Arrakeen.

While she had never expected Paul Atreides to fall in love with her, she had counted on conceiving his child. The Bene Gesserit Sisterhood demanded it for their breeding program. But Paul would not touch her, and by placing Irulan in a position clearly subordinate to Alia and Chani, he sent a message to everyone at court.

Now Irulan performed a barely perceptible Bene Gesserit breathing exercise, to ease her tension. She had stopped feeling the irony that Muad’Dib had made his initial audience chamber out of the massive hutment that her father had transported to Arrakis for his disastrous military strike. The days of Corrino glory were gone, and she had been relegated to this comparatively minor role, her own form of exile.

I am but a pawn on the Imperial chessboard.

Many people crowded the chamber — CHOAM functionaries, minor nobles hoping to increase their standing through public support of Muad’Dib, rich water sellers, former smugglers who now considered themselves respectable, as well as other visitors seeking an audience with Muad’Dib. Today, though, with Paul away on Caladan, they would see his sister Alia instead. The deceptively small girl in a four-year-old body perched like a bird on the translucent green throne that had once held Shaddam IV.

In a high royal chair beside Alia sat the red-haired Chani, opposite from where Irulan stood, with no throne of her own. Though Irulan was the Emperor’s wife, Paul had never consummated their marriage, and said he never would, because his Fremen concubine held all of his affections. With the avenue of mate and potential mother cut off from her, Irulan struggled to define her own role.

“We have an audience to see Emperor Muad’Dib,” said the shortest Guildsman. “We have journeyed from Junction.”

“Today, Alia speaks for Muad’Dib,” Chani said, then waited.

Discomfited, the second Guildsman said, “This is Ertun and I am Loyxo. We have come on behalf of the Spacing Guild to request an increased allotment of spice.”

“And who is the tall one?” Alia looked past the others.

“Crozeed,” he said, bowing slightly.

“Very well, I shall speak to Crozeed, since he at least has the good sense not to speak out of turn.”

Crozeed’s eyes glittered. “As my companion said, if the Guild is to function properly in support of Muad’Dib’s conquests, we will require more spice.”

“Interesting that the Guild never requests less spice,” Chani said.

Alia added, “My brother has already been generous with you. We all must make sacrifices in support of the greater good.”

“He has commandeered many of our Heighliners and Navigators for his war effort,” interjected Ertun. “The Guild needs those ships to conduct business throughout the worlds of the Imperium. CHOAM has already reported drastically reduced profits.”

“We are in the midst of a war,” Irulan pointed out, even though the little girl could well have said it herself. “What is your business worth if you have no spice to fuel the prescience of your Navigators?”

“We do not wish to displease Muad’Dib.” Loyxo brushed orange hair out of one of his eyes. “We merely state our needs.”

“Pray, then, that his Jihad is swiftly completed,” Alia said.

“Tell us how we might please the Emperor,” Ertun said.

Alia pondered the question as if receiving a telepathic message from her brother. “The divine Muad’Dib will increase the Guild’s spice allotment by three percent per annum if you contribute another two hundred ships to his Jihad.”

“Two hundred Heighliners!” Crozeed said. “So many?”

“The sooner my brother consolidates his rule, the sooner you can have your precious monopoly back.”

“How do we know he will not be defeated?” Loyxo asked.

Alia glared at him. “Ask your Navigators to look into their prescience to see if Muad’Dib rules the future.”

“They have looked,” Ertun said, “but there is too much chaos around him.”

“Then help him reduce the chaos. Help him put everything in order, and he will be eternally grateful. Muad’Dib’s generosity — like his rage against his enemies — knows no bounds. Do you wish to be in the same category as the foolish houses who dare oppose us?”

“We are not the Emperor’s enemies,” Ertun insisted. “The Spacing Guild’s constant neutrality is our safety net.”

“There is no safety for you in such a position,” Alia said. The words were terse, weighted. “Understand this, and understand it well. All those who do not openly support Muad’Dib may be considered his enemies.” The girl made a gesture of dismissal. “This audience is concluded. Others have waited long to speak with me. The Spacing Guild shall have its increased spice only after the ships are delivered.”

After the three dissatisfied representatives marched awkwardly out of the chamber, an aged bald man with a high forehead entered, accompanied by a female attendant. The man’s steps were halting, and he used his sonic staff as a walking stick instead of an instrument of state.

Surprised, Irulan caught her breath. Though she had not seen him in years, she recognized her father’s Court Chamberlain, Beely Ridondo. At one time Ridondo had been a person of considerable influence, managing Landsraad and palace schedules for the Padishah Emperor. Ridondo had gone into exile on Salusa Secundus with Shaddam IV, but now he had come here.

Maybe she should give Ridondo an inscribed copy of her book… or would that only enrage her father?

As the chamberlain neared the throne, clicking his ornate cane on the blood-red marble floor, Irulan noticed that the years had not been kind to him. His white-and-gold suit was dusty and slightly wrinkled on the sleeves; at one time he would never have gone to an Imperial function looking anything other than immaculate. Leaving his attendant behind, the man stopped in front of the throne. After a long and awkward silence, Ridondo spoke, “I am waiting to be announced.”

“You may announce yourself.” Alia’s voice was high-pitched. “As Shaddam’s chamberlain, you have sufficient experience.”

Irulan could see his indignation. “I bring an important message from his Excellency Shaddam Corrino, and I demand to be treated with respect.”

Taking a half step forward, Korba put a hand to the crysknife at his waist, acting the good Fedaykin again, but at a gesture from Alia he relaxed.

The girl looked bored. “I shall announce you. Comes now Beely Ridondo, personal chamberlain to the exiled Emperor.” She gazed at him with Fremen-blue eyes out of an oval face that was just beginning to lose its baby fat.

Ridondo turned to Irulan, as if hoping for a better reception from her. “Your father will be pleased to know you are well, Princess. Is that still your proper title?”

“Princess will do.” Empress Irulan would have been more fitting, but she did not expect that. “Please state your business.”

Gathering himself to his full height, Ridondo stood free of the sonic staff. “I speak the words of the Padishah Emperor, and he —”

Chani cut him off. “The former Padishah Emperor.”

Alia said, “Very well, what does Shaddam have to say?”

Pausing only a moment to recover, he said, “With respect, my… Lady… when Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib exiled the Padishah Emperor to Salusa Secundus, he promised that the world would be improved. Shaddam IV inquires when such measures will begin. We live in squalor, at the mercy of a harsh environment.”

Irulan knew that the very severity of Salusa’s landscape had been a fine catalyst for toughening the pool of men from which her father drew his Sardaukar. By softening that training ground through terraforming, Paul meant to soften the former Emperor’s potential soldiers as well. Apparently Shaddam did not see the virtues of such extreme hardships now that he, his remaining family, his retainers, and a small police force of Sardaukar had been exiled there.

“We’ve been preoccupied with our Jihad,” Alia said. “Shaddam will need to be patient. A bit of discomfort will not harm him.”

The chamberlain did not back away. “The Emperor promised us! Here are Muad’Dib’s exact words, spoken when he sentenced Shaddam Corrino to exile: ‘I will ease the harshness of the place with all the powers at my disposal. It shall become a garden world, full of gentle things.’ He does not appear to be using all the powers at his disposal. Does Paul-Muad’Dib break his word?”

Just then Korba leaped forward, sliding his crysknife from its sheath. Irulan shouted, trying to stop him, but the Fremen leader did not listen to her. Neither Alia nor Chani spoke a word as Korba slit the chamberlain’s throat before the old man could raise his sonic staff to defend himself.

The crowd blocked the female aide from escaping, and Korba stalked forward, clearly intending to dispatch her as well, but Alia stopped him. “Enough, Korba.” Alia stood from the throne and gazed down at the chamberlain’s fallen body. A widening pool of blood spilled out onto the impermeable polished stones, where it could be collected and reclaimed.

The Fedaykin commander lifted his chin. “Forgive me, Lady Alia. My enthusiasm to defend the honor of Muad’Dib knows no bounds.” He uttered a quick prayer, and some members of the audience echoed his words.

Irulan stared in horror at the dead chamberlain, then slowly turned to glare at Alia and Chani. “He came here as an ambassador, bearing a message from the former Emperor. He had diplomatic immunity and should not have been harmed!”

“This is not the old Imperium, Irulan,” Alia said, then raised her voice. “Send the aide safely back to Salusa Secundus. She can tell Shaddam and his family that Emperor Muad’Dib will send terraforming experts and machinery as soon as they become available.”

The crowd chanted, “Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib!”

With a feral gaze, obviously in a mood for more killing, Korba glanced at Irulan, but only for a moment before wiping his knife and resheathing it. Unafraid, but sickened by the bloodshed, the Princess stared at him defiantly. Given her Bene Gesserit training, he would not have had such an easy time dispatching her.

Servants hurried forward to whisk away Ridondo’s body and mop up the blood. Alia sat back on her throne. “Now, who wishes to be announced next?”

No one stepped forward.

6

The shuttle from the Heighliner set down on Kaitain. From the viewing lounge of the craft, Paul watched the hordes of victorious Fedaykin commandos presenting themselves on the landing field. He could hear the din even over the engines. In a perverse dichotomy, the screaming crowds and cheering soldiers at the spaceport only reinforced the feeling that he was alone.

On Caladan he had briefly hoped to feel like one of the common people again — as his father had always insisted a Duke should be — only to be reminded that he was irrevocably different. As it must be. He was no longer simply Paul Atreides. He was Muad’Dib, a role he had assumed so easily and perfectly that he was not always entirely certain which was the mask and which was his real personality.

Wearing an implacable expression, he took a deep breath and flung his long faux-stillsuit cape behind his shoulder. He moved with Imperial grace down the ramp to stand before the cheering mob. The Fedaykin closed ranks around him to form an extravagant escort. A conquering hero.

The resounding wave of shouts and cheers nearly pushed him backward. He understood how tyrants could allow themselves to feel infallible, buoyed by a swell of overconfidence. He was acutely aware that with a word, he could command all of these fighters to slaughter every man, woman, and child on Kaitain. That troubled him.

In his childhood studies, he had seen countless images of the glorious capital, but now he noticed a dark stain of smoke across the sky. The towering white buildings had been gutted by fire, majestic monuments toppled, government halls and lavish private residences ransacked. From ancient history, Paul was reminded of barbarians sacking Rome, ending one of humanity’s first titanic empires and bringing about the start of centuries of Dark Ages. His detractors were saying that about his own regime, but he was doing only what was necessary.

Stilgar presented himself to his commander in a stained and battle-scuffed uniform. Marks that must have been dried blood showed prominently on his sleeves and chest. A wound on the naib’s left arm had been bound and dressed with a colorful, expensive scarf that might have been torn from a rich noble, but Stilgar used it as a gaudy rag. “Kaitain has fallen, Usul. Your Jihad is an unstoppable storm.”

Paul gazed out across the war-torn former capital. “Who can stop a storm from the desert?”

Even before launching his Jihad, Paul had known there would be far too many battlefields for a single commander to oversee. How he wished Duncan were still alive to participate in a succession of precise military strikes with Stilgar, Gurney Halleck, and even several flinty-eyed Sardaukar commanders, who had shifted their loyalty to the man who had conquered them. In the wake of their astonishing defeat on the plain of Arrakeen, Shaddam’s elite soldiers had been shaken to the core, and many had transferred their loyalty to the only military commander who had ever bested them. Though Sardaukar fervor did not spring from religious passion, it was fanaticism nevertheless. And useful. Wisely, though, Paul had not asked any of the Sardaukar to participate in the sacking of Kaitain.

“When will Irulan arrive?” Paul asked Stilgar. “Did she receive my summons?”

“The Guild informs me that another Heighliner is bringing her within the day.” His voice carried an unmistakable note of distaste. “Although why you want her I cannot imagine. Chani is bound to be incensed.”

“I do not want Irulan, Stil, but she is necessary, especially here. You’ll see.”

Stilgar was joined by Orlop and Kaleff, the sons of Jamis. “Let us show you, Usul!” said Orlop, who had always been the more talkative brother. “This planet is full of miracles and treasure. Have you ever seen the like?”

Paul didn’t want to dampen the boys’ enthusiasm by telling them he had seen so many things, both wondrous and horrible, that his eyes were weary. “All right, show me what has gotten you so excited.”

In the center of the once-magnificent city, Fremen warriors had torn down Landsraad banners and smashed the stained-glass crests of noble houses. As conquerors, the soldiers had chased the terrified citizens, taking some prisoner, killing others. It had been a wild blood orgy, and though violent, was reminiscent of the spice orgy a Sayyadina would host when Fremen felt the need to celebrate in their sietches. Looking around, Paul knew that trying to control these victory celebrations would only make matters worse in the long run. It was a price he had to accept, and the worst was already over….

He had his own advisers, though he longed for the wise counsel of Duke Leto, Thufir Hawat, or Duncan Idaho… all long dead. He was sure Duke Leto would have disapproved of what had happened here. Nevertheless, Paul had learned to make his own decisions. I have created a universe in which the old rules do not apply. A new paradigm. I am sorry, Father.

Paul saw the damage done to the Landsraad Hall, the museums, and the off-planet embassies. The old domed rock garden erected by House Thorvald as a wedding gift to Emperor Shaddam had been blown up, and now lay in a pile of wreckage. Paul couldn’t conceive what his fighters had been trying to accomplish. It was destruction for its own sake.

In the public square seven garroted men with cords still tied around their purple throats had been strung upside down to dangle like macabre trophies in an arbor. Judging by their fine clothes, they were noble leaders who had not surrendered with sufficient promptness. Paul felt a dark twinge of anger; such lynchings would make his job of forging alliances, or at least a peace, with the Landsraad even more difficult.

A group of yelling, laughing Fremen came running out of the Landsraad Hall, carrying long pennants. He recognized the varied colors of House Ecaz, House Richese, and House Tonkin. The Fremen didn’t know any of the historically great families, nor did they care. As far as they were concerned, the Landsraad itself had teetered, fallen, and splintered into disarray.

“Not even Shaddam would want this place back now,” Paul muttered to himself.

Fremen carried makeshift baskets and satchels full of booty. In the melee, they’d discarded priceless historical artifacts. Four muscular warriors had thrown themselves into a wide, shallow fountain adorned with statuary and dancing jets of water. They drank water until they were sick and splashed in the pool as if they had finally found paradise.

Kaleff came running up, his face sticky with juice. Cradled in his arm, he held half a dozen perfectly round portyguls, an orange fruit with a hard rind and sweet flesh. “Usul, we found an orchard out in the open — trees just standing there, lush and green and full of fruit… fruit for the taking! Here, would you like one?” He extended the oranges.

Paul accepted one, bit through its bitter rind, and squeezed the crisp citrus juice into his throat. He supposed these were Emperor Shaddam’s portyguls, and that made the fruit taste even sweeter.

WHEN THE SECOND Heighliner arrived, bringing an icily reticent Irulan, Paul asked for her to be brought to him at the steps of the old Imperial Palace. He had guessed she would be very shaken to come here and see this. But he needed her.

Shaddam’s daughter wore a gown of rich blue in a style that had once been the height of Imperial fashion. Her golden hair was done up in ringlets that draped down her long neck. She had performed her duties with considerable grace after her father’s defeat; she was not hungry for power herself, but she was intelligent enough to see and acknowledge the new realities.

At first, Irulan seemed to think that her Bene Gesserit seduction techniques would let her slip easily into Paul’s bed and produce an heir binding the Corrino and Atreides bloodlines — almost certainly at the orders of the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood. But thus far in his reign he had been immune to her tricks. Chani possessed all of his heart and all of his love.

Thwarted in her primary goal, Irulan followed instead the basic tenet of the Sisterhood: adapt or die. Thus she had worked to find a new function for herself in the government, and quickly achieved her own fame by publishing The Life of Muad’Dib, Volume 1. It was rapidly written, swiftly published and distributed, and wildly popular. Most of Paul’s Fremen warriors carried well-read copies of her book.

Here, at the downfall of Kaitain, however, the Princess could play a more traditional role.

Crowds followed him everywhere, expecting him to issue some profound announcement at any moment. They had already gathered in front of the Palace.

Perfectly regal and requiring no escort, Irulan came up the polished steps from the plaza level to where Paul stood at the first landing. Stilgar remained at the base of the waterfall of stairs, looking up toward the royal pair. With all the Imperial pride she could manage, Irulan took her place at Paul’s side, dutifully slipping her arm through his. “You summoned me, my Husband?” She seemed exceedingly wary, angry at the destruction she saw around her.

“I needed you here. This is likely to be the last time you will see Kaitain.”

“This is no longer my Kaitain.” She looked around the Palace, clearly unable to reconcile what she saw with what she remembered. “This is a raped and pillaged corpse of what was once the grandest of cities. It will never be the same.”

Paul could not deny her statement. “Wherever Muad’Dib goes, nothing is the same again. Didn’t you write that in your book?”

“I wrote the story you told me. As I interpreted it, of course.”

He gestured toward the crowd. “And here is more of the tale.”

As a special honor, Paul had already given instructions to Kaleff and Orlop, and at his signal they trotted up the stairs, streaming the long banners of his fighting forces: green-and-white, green-and-black. Paul stared out at the sea of faces as the shouts rose to a deafening tumult, then diminished to an anticipatory silence.

“This is Kaitain, and I am the Emperor.” He clasped Irulan’s hand, and she stared stonily ahead. They both knew the reason she had to be there. “But I am much more than the successor to the Padishah Emperor, Shaddam Corrino IV. I am Muad’Dib, and I am unlike any force the galaxy has ever seen.”

Behind them, fire began to catch hold inside the Imperial Palace. Pursuant to his orders, loyal fighters had set blazes at dozens of flashpoints inside the great structure. He had seen this in his visions, and had fought against it, but he had also seen the obligation, the powerful tool of the symbolism here. These fires, at least, would burn out quickly.

Most of the noble Houses had no love for Shaddam and his excesses. Now they would be terrified of Paul-Muad’Dib. The sacking of Kaitain should be enough to shock the rest of the Landsraad into submission, to stop the need for the Jihad before it spread further. He sighed, because his terrifying visions had told him that nothing could stop the full multi-planet iteration of the fanatical war that he had set in motion. He could only make a limited number of choices that would prove most beneficial in the long, long run.

Oh, the immensity of the burden on his shoulders! Only he could see through the curtains of bloodshed, pain, and sorrow. How humanity would hate him… but at least they would survive to hate him.

The crowds watched in awe as flames began to consume the giant Palace. The conflagration grew in force and brilliance, so that Paul stood looking on from the edge of an inferno.

Beside him, Irulan trembled. “I shall never forgive you for this, Paul Atreides. The Corrinos will never forgive you.” She said more, but her words were drowned out by the background roar of the crowd and the crackling of the growing fire.

He leaned close and said with great sorrow, “I did not ask for anyone’s forgiveness.” Then Muad’Dib turned to the crowd again and shouted as the fire grew more intense. “This Palace was a symbol of the old regime. Like everything else about the decadent old Imperium, it must be swept aside. Kaitain is no longer the capital. Dune is our capital now. And in Arrakeen I command that a new Palace be built, one to dwarf the grandest works of all previous rulers.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the legacy of Shaddam IV going up in fire and smoke. The construction of his own new palace would require great sacrifices, an unparalleled workforce, and unimaginable wealth.

Even so, he had no doubt whatsoever that his grand vision would be accomplished.

7

Shaddam Corrino glared at the face that looked back at him from the gold-framed mirror, noting the clear signs of age beyond his actual years. His father, the vulturish Elrood IX, had been 157 years old when Shaddam and Fenring had finally poisoned him. I am less than half that old!

Age implied weakness. Only a few years ago, there might have been some gray hairs mixed with the red, though not enough for him to notice. But since his exile to this dismal world, the gray had become much more prominent. Perhaps it was caused by some taint in the air or water. He had considered coloring his hair, but could not decide whether that would make him appear stronger, or merely vain.

Back when he was the Padishah Emperor, Shaddam had prided himself on his youthful appearance and energy; he’d had many court concubines and several disappointing wives since the death of Anirul. But, sadly, all of that was gone, and he felt as if most of the life had been sucked out of him. Now, simply seeing the lines on his face made him feel tired. Even melange could not prolong his life forever, perhaps not even long enough for him to regain the Lion Throne. Nevertheless, four of his daughters had accompanied him into exile, and they would bear grandchildren for him, even if Irulan did not. One way or another, the Corrino line would endure.

An Atreides upstart dares to call himself Emperor!

He feared that Irulan had become one of them, though he could not be certain of her role. Was she an insider who could help him, or a willing participant who had betrayed her father? Was she a hostage? Why would she not improve the lot of her own family? And that damnable book she had written, glorifying the “heroic” life of Paul-Muad’Dib Atreides! Even the witches were in an uproar over that.

No matter. He could not imagine that the usurper’s government would endure, based as it was on religious nonsense and primitive fanaticism. The Landsraad wouldn’t stand for it, and though many noblemen already cowered, the rest would stand together. Soon enough, they would call him back to the throne to restore order. More than ten thousand years of history and eighty-one Corrino emperors since the end of the Butlerian Jihad, a galactic Imperium spanning uncounted star systems… now being overrun by unsophisticated desert people who still called themselves tribes! It sickened him. From Golden Age to Dark Age in a single reign.

And here am I, ruling a world nobody wants.

Shaddam left the mirror and its disappointing image, going instead to a large faux window, with a view transmitted from external imagers. The Salusan sky was sickly orange, dotted with the dark shapes of carrion birds that were constantly on the alert for scant prey.

Weather-control satellites should have improved the conditions in this particular region of the planet, but weather control was not consistent. At the beginning of the brief growing season, when plants and trees started to offer a splash of greenery, the satellites had gone offline. By the time they were repaired, horrible storms had wiped out the plantings and made ongoing construction work nearly impossible.

During his former reign, Shaddam had kept this planet harsh for his own reasons. Salusa Secundus had been the Corrino prison world, a desolate place where malcontents and convicts were sorted by the rigors of survival. In those days, more than 60 percent of them had died, while the stronger ones had become candidates for his elite terror troops, the supposedly invincible Sardaukar. Unlike the unprepared prisoners dumped here, though, Shaddam had amenities, supplies, servants, family, and even a contingent of loyal soldiers. But Salusa was still his prison.

Far from expediting the reclamation of this world, as he had promised, Paul Atreides seemed to be shutting down the systems. Did he hope to leave Shaddam with a dwindling pool of potential soldiers from the hard-bitten survivors of the prison population… or did he only want the shamed Emperor to suffer for a few years?

Shaddam had just learned that his long-devoted chamberlain Beely Ridondo had been executed at Muad’Dib’s court simply for asking that the fanatical new Emperor keep his word. Shaddam had not expected the gambit to succeed, since he no longer believed the usurper had any honor. Even when the Fremen rabble had stormed his hutment on the Arrakeen plain, forcing the Padishah Emperor to entertain terms of surrender, the upstart had asserted that “Muad’Dib” was not bound by the same promises made by “Paul Atreides” — as if they were two different men!

How convenient.

And now his reports also said that Fremen fanatics had conquered Kaitain. Barbarians were sacking his beautiful capital world!

Am I really expected to be content here while the whole galaxy goes mad?

Worse, edicts constantly arrived, words couched in terms from the mockery of a religion that had formed around Muad’Dib, all signed by a self-important functionary named Korba.

A Fremen commander gives me orders!

It was an outrage. After a taste of Muad’Dib’s appalling bloodshed, the people would welcome Shaddam’s return with songs and roses. Utilizing intrigue, kanly, or outright assassination, he vowed to dispatch his enemies, one by one. But so far he had seen no opportunities.

In the past year, Shaddam had taken steps to outsmart his distant captors. Among the hardened prison population, his Sardaukar commanders had located men with mechanical and inventive skills. He had put those men to work constructing a new city that could withstand the vagaries of the hostile weather. Some were hardened criminals — murderers, smugglers, thieves — but others had been put on the planet for political reasons, some by House Corrino, many more by Muad’Dib. The men, caring only that they were being offered better living conditions, were happy to work for Shaddam now.

Ringing the site of his new capital city were three huge piles of refuse and construction debris, each higher than his tallest makeshift buildings. He had ordered scavenging teams to reclaim materials from all over the planet, to seize them from other prison camps and a few ancient but sturdy ruins that had survived the long-ago atomic attack. But the recovery operation had produced pitiful results.

The city’s great dome was not sealed yet, but eventually plants would grow inside a controlled environment. With the hodgepodge of construction activities, he felt like the manager of a large junkyard, salvaging parts to build a shantytown. Even his best efforts had resulted in nothing more than a pale imitation of the great Imperial Palace on Kaitain.

His private residence was a fortified structure inside a domed city that was continuously under construction. Through the supposed generosity of Muad’Dib, the residence was opulently furnished with Corrino antiques, handmade Kaitain rugs, and other articles moved from his Imperial Palace. Precious family heirlooms — a mocking reminder of the things he had lost. He had all of his royal clothing, even his personal weapons. Oddly, and perhaps as a slap in the face, his “benefactors” had even sent him a container full of his childhood toys, including a stuffed Salusan bull.

Several separate but connectable keeps housed his family members and the top advisers who had accompanied him into exile. Shaddam’s private keep was substantially different from the others. By far the largest, it had its own suspensor system that actually enabled the structure to fly out over the barren landscape of Salusa, where he could observe conditions firsthand. At least it gave him the illusion of mobility.

An Emperor should not have to scrounge for survival. He touched a fingerpad on the wall to replace the false window with shifting images of Kaitain — electronic artwork that he had been permitted to keep. They are so kind to me.

He turned to see an officer in the doorway dressed in Sardaukar gray with silver and gold trim. An elderly but powerfully built man, the colonel-bashar held his black helmet in one hand and saluted with the other. His face was craggy and weathered, as if sculpted on Salusa, where he had trained and served for so many years. “You summoned me, Sire?”

Shaddam was glad to see one of his steadfastly loyal commanders. “Yes, Bashar Garon. I have an important task for you.”

Zum Garon had once led all of Shaddam’s Sardaukar legions, but now only a portion of the once-glorious fighting force remained — the few thousand Sardaukar that Paul Atreides had allowed him to keep. Garon’s mouth twitched as he waited for his master to continue.

Shaddam went to a bureau from which he retrieved an ornate knife with a gold handle inset with jewels. “The tyrant Muad’Dib and his fanatics ignore the rules of diplomacy and decency. Those of us who stand for civilization and stability must put aside our differences. I cannot do this all by myself.” He tapped the flat of the blade against his palm, then handed the weapon to the bashar, hilt first. “Find my dear friend Hasimir Fenring and tell him how sorely I need his help now. He left us only months ago, so he cannot have entrenched himself elsewhere. Give him this blade as a gift from me. He will understand the significance.”

Garon took the knife. Behind his stony façade, the Sardaukar commander often seemed to be holding back a flood of emotions.

Shaddam added, “I have not spoken with him since he departed from his exile here — unlike me, he was here on a voluntary basis. I want you to ask about his dear wife and their child. Why, the baby would be almost three years old by now! And be sure to remind him that my daughter Wensicia just married his cousin, Dalak Zor-Fenring. My friend might not know that yet.”

He forced a smile, tried to swallow the bitterness in his throat. So many little defeats! With no other betrothal prospects in exile, Shaddam had arranged for his own middle daughter Wensicia to marry Hasimir Fenring’s cousin after the Count had left. He secretly hoped that his boyhood companion would look upon this favorably and return to his side. How he missed Fenring! Despite their falling-out, Shaddam was sure that their long friendship would outweigh the wounds. Corrino and Fenring had been inextricably twined for most of their lives. Soon enough, he hoped, a grandchild would be on the way, to strengthen the ties.

Garon cleared his throat. “Count Fenring may not be easy to locate, Sire.”

“Since when does a Sardaukar commander flinch from a difficult task?”

“Never, Sire. I will do my best.”

8

Count Hasimir Fenring had encountered many unusual races in his work for Shaddam IV, but the Bene Tleilax pushed the very definition of humanity. Through genetic manipulation, the ruling caste of Tleilaxu Masters had intentionally adopted strange physical characteristics — probative little eyes, sharp teeth, and a furtive way of moving about, as if constantly on the alert for predators. Other members of their race were taller and looked like ordinary people, but in their topsy-turvy society, the rodent-men were the highest of the Tleilaxu castes.

And now he and his family had made a home among them.

Feeling out of place and trying to ignore it, the Count and his wife, Margot, strolled along a lakeshore walk in the city of Thalidei, where the Tleilaxu Masters had allowed them to stay. Beyond rooftops, he saw the high, fortified wall that encircled the industrial complex that had been built at the edge of a dead and noisome lake, almost an inland sea. For these people, the pollution, the mix of chemicals, the unusual organic reactions were all seen as possibilities, an experimental brew that yielded interesting compounds to be harvested and tested.

Unlike the sacred city of Bandalong, outsiders were permitted here, though the Tleilaxu still took considerable measures to isolate the Fenrings. Security scanning devices were visible in front of many smooth-walled structures, bathing entryways in pearlescent light and blocking the passage of infidels. Some of the most important Tleilaxu programs were carried on in Thalidei, including the sophisticated and mysterious process of Twisting certain Mentat candidates. Sooner or later, Fenring had vowed to see the details for himself.

Only a month after Paul Atreides sent the deposed Emperor to Salusa Secundus, Fenring realized that he could not bear to share exile with Shaddam and his dismal, complaining moods. The two had quarreled constantly, and so the Count had made arrangements to leave. If forced to stay longer, he feared he might have killed his long-time friend, and that was one murder he did not particularly want to commit.

Since Muad’Dib’s exile order did not directly relate to him, Fenring had easily slipped away from Salusa. He had been able to move from planet to planet in disguise as he wished, though he had openly admitted his identity to the Tleilaxu, with whom he had previously worked. Margot had a precious little daughter, and Salusa Secundus was not a good place to raise her. Instead, the Count had chosen Tleilax as an unexpected location to go to ground — a comparatively safe, unobtrusive place to train and school their daughter, out of view. The Tleilaxu were annoying enough, but they did know how to keep secrets. They certainly had plenty of their own.

Fenring had called in many favors, hinted at dangerous knowledge he had acquired in his previous dealings with the Tleilaxu — which would be widely released if any harm came to him. With only a little grumbling, the Tleilaxu had allowed the Fenrings to stay, and the family planned to remain for several years. But they did not really fit in. They were powindah.

“Look at those men standing on street corners doing nothing,” Margot said in a low tone. “Where are the women?”

“Those are upper-caste men,” Fenring said. “They consider themselves, hmmm, entitled to do nothing, although I would find that rather dull.”

“I’ve never seen even lower-caste women or female children here.” Lady Margot looked around with her piercing gaze. They both had their suspicions that the Tleilaxu held their females as slaves or experiments.

“Without question, my dear, you are, hmmm, the most beautiful woman in Thalidei.”

“You embarrass me, my love.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and moved on, ever alert. Margot always kept herself well armed with hidden weapons and in prime fighting condition; they never allowed their young daughter to be unguarded even for a moment.

In their relationship, the couple depended on each other greatly, but did not trespass into each other’s private territory. Fenring had even accepted the necessity of Margot conceiving a child by Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. Just business. When he’d chosen to marry a Reverend Mother decades ago, he had acknowledged certain things as a matter of course.

Little Marie was back in their flat now, several blocks away, looked after by a talented woman Margot had acquired from the Sisterhood — an acolyte named Tonia Obregah-Xo who served as nanny, tutor, and devoted bodyguard to the child. Though Fenring was sure the Bene Gesserit nanny was also a spy, sending reports on little Marie’s progress back to Wallach IX, he was also certain that the watchful Obregah-Xo would defend the girl with her life. The Sisterhood wanted her bloodline for their own uses.

The breeze turned, driving some of the polluted lake’s stench back out onto the rank water. Fishing trawlers dredged the sediment, hauling up interesting mutations of the few species of marine life that had survived in such a contaminated environment. Every once in a while, large tentacles could be seen rising out of the water, far from shore, but none of the Tleilaxu boats ventured into such deep waters, and the mysterious creature had never been caught or catalogued.

Factory lines delivered fresh slime from the lake bottom into holding pools and separation tanks, in which bodysuited lower-caste Tleilaxu waded, sampling the chemical compositions. Black gulls circled around, screaming at the mess. Cranes hoisted algae-covered screens from growth solutions steeped in the shallows.

He and Lady Margot came within view of a white building eight stories tall — eight, a sacred number to this superstitious race. “Hmmm, at first, Master Ereboam refused to let me bring you here, my dear, but he finally assented. He even decided to show us something special.”

“Perhaps I should have worn an opera dress for the occasion,” she said with clear sarcasm.

“Be sweet, Margot. I know you can do it. Don’t insult our host.”

“I haven’t yet.” She manufactured a smile. “But there’s a first time for everything.” She took him by the arm and they walked toward the building.

The Tleilaxu doctor waited for them by the security field of the arched main doorway of the facility. The pockets of his traditional white laboratory smock bulged, as if filled with secrets. With milky white skin and hair and a pointed white goatee, Master Ereboam was a startling albino in a race that was commonly gray-skinned and black-haired — an unsettling hereditary accident among genetic experts.

Ereboam called out in a cheerful voice. “My spotters say you took the long way here. An alleyway connector would have reduced your walk by at least five minutes.”

“I don’t like alleys,” Fenring said. Too many shadows and places for an ambush.

“Very well, I accept your apology.” He patted Fenring on the back in a manner uncharacteristic of the normally reserved Tleilaxu. Ignoring Margot entirely, as he invariably did, Dr. Ereboam led the two of them through the security field, down a hallway, and into a windowless room where thirty tall, slender men stood with their backs turned. All wore body filmsuits, in accordance with the typical Tleilaxu prudishness; Fenring doubted if the Masters ever looked at themselves naked.

In unison, the men all faced forward, and Fenring chuckled, as did Margot. Though of varying ages, every one of them looked identical — all duplicates of the Baron Harkonnen’s Twisted Mentat Piter de Vries, staring ahead with eyes set in narrow-featured faces.

The original de Vries had been killed on Kaitain by the witch Mohiam. Afterward, the Baron had been served by a ghola of the Mentat, who had purportedly died on Arrakis along with the captive Duke Leto Atreides in a mysterious release of poison gas.

“Gholas?” Fenring asked. “Why are there so many of them?”

“Baron Vladimir Harkonnen had a standing order for us to keep several ready for delivery. The growth and Twisting process takes a good deal of time.”

“The Baron has been dead for a year,” Margot pointed out.

Ereboam frowned at her, then deigned to answer. “Yes, and they are therefore no longer commercially viable. We contacted other noble houses to try to market them elsewhere, but the Baron managed to taint the reputation of this one. Such a waste of time and resources, and now this line has been discontinued. At least they can serve as experimental subjects for a new nerve poison. Observe. That is why I’ve brought you here.”

In unison, the de Vries gholas took on identical expressions of agony and clutched at their heads. As if choreographed, they fell writhing to the floor one by one, with the degree of their reactions depending on the strength of the poison to which they’d been exposed. They all began babbling long strings of prime numbers and tables of useless facts. Fenring exchanged a quizzical glance with his wife.

“The new poison is a marketable assassination tool,” Ereboam said. “How delightful; their thoughts are detonating inside their brains. Soon they will all go insane, but that is a mere side effect, however interesting it may be. Death is our primary goal with this substance.”

Thick blood and mucous began running out of the mouths, ears, and nostrils. Some of the victims screamed, while others whimpered.

“Because they are all virtually identical,” Ereboam continued, “these discontinued gholas provide an opportunity for us to test various potencies of the neurotoxin. A controlled experiment.”

“This is barbaric,” Margot said, not bothering to keep her voice down.

“Barbaric?” Ereboam said. “Compared to what Muad’Dib has set loose on the universe, this is nothing.”

Count Fenring nodded, realizing that the Tleilaxu man was making some sense — in his own twisted way.

9

It was a matter of simple mathematics, and the numbers did not add up.

For years before it happened, Paul had experienced visions of his Jihad, a storm of armed and fanatical Fremen sweeping across star systems, planting the banners of Muad’Dib and slaughtering any populations that resisted. Though history would paint a dark picture of his rule, Paul could see beyond the next sand dune in the wasteland of time, to the next, and the next. He knew that his Jihad would be but a flurry compared with the titanic upheavals that lay ahead in the path of human destiny, upheavals that would be far more deadly if he failed now.

While still on Kaitain, having dispatched the Fremen warriors to other battlefields and summoned cleanup and reconstruction crews to cement the occupation of the former Imperial capital, he considered his next move. Although he missed Chani greatly, he had vital work to do here.

To win this Jihad he would have to lay down a new, enduring rule. He had to derail humanity and its politics from the rut into which it had allowed itself to fall. No, not a rut, he decided. A death spiral.

But the numbers…

On the entire planet of Arrakis, Paul knew there were perhaps ten million Fremen scattered among numerous sietches. Ten million, half of whom were men, of which perhaps a third could be called upon to act as warriors in his Jihad. Less than two million fighters… and he knew from his dreams, his calculations, and cold logic that he would have to conquer — maybe even slaughter — countless populations before this war was over.

Even with all the faithful, though, he simply did not have enough fighters to make this a strictly military conquest. His soldiers, no matter how dedicated, couldn’t possibly kill everyone who disagreed with him. Besides, he had no desire to be the emperor of a galaxywide charnel house.

Though Paul’s prescience told him he had to win many victories, he hoped to prevail on most leaders of the Imperium with subtlety and intelligence, using sophisticated means of persuasion. His mother had already begun to make overtures for him. He had to demonstrate that surrender to and alliance with Muad’Dib was a smart decision, the best alternative. The only alternative. But in order to accomplish that, he needed to employ the Paul Atreides side of his brain, rather than the raw Fremen side of Muad’Dib. Through all available means, he needed to control what remained of the Landsraad. He needed to gather allies.

While his initial instinct was to return to Arrakeen and summon the members of the most important noble Houses, Paul decided that could send the wrong signal, because seeing him there the noblemen might consider him a piratical leader of desert bandits. On Dune, Paul was surrounded by a groundswell of fanaticism, the resolute loyalty that was simply not understandable to anyone who did not grasp the power of blind religious devotion. After years of complacency under the secular Corrino Imperium, many Landsraad members had paid little attention to religion, viewing the Orange Catholic Bible as nothing more than a document of deep historical interest but without true passion.

Even if Paul called in old family alliances and recruited the political friends of his father, it was not likely to be enough. Paul’s jihadis might even kill some of the recalcitrant nobles, showing them a different kind of passion that even Paul might not be able to stop. There were potential second- and third-level consequences that he did not like, and he knew his prescience would not show him every possible pitfall.

So, the Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib made plans to summon them to Kaitain. A familiar place, and a symbol of how much he had already conquered in so short a time.

With the Imperial Palace torched and the marvelous city ransacked, he dispatched urgent protocol teams to prepare for the event. They cleaned the gutted Landsraad Hall of Oratory and rehung the banners of all the Houses who had agreed to attend.

Paul selected the invited representatives carefully. Duke Leto had been quite popular among important families, so much that he had unwittingly sparked Shaddam’s jealousy — a resentment that had led to the Duke’s political entrapment and murder on Arrakis. But even all of his father’s friends would not be enough. He would also need to rely on the numerous planetary rulers who bore their own enmity toward Shaddam IV — and there were many of those from which to choose. When the guest list was set, his subordinates arranged Guild passage to bring the invited Landsraad representatives to Kaitain. For the event, Muad’Dib had personally guaranteed their safety and offered them incentives.

While Paul waited for the delegates to arrive, Fedaykin guards swept the former Imperial city. They rooted out any “suspicious” people and locked them up, all in the name of ensuring the safety of the Emperor. Paul had an unsettling realization that his own people were resorting to tactics quite similar to those the Harkonnens had used, but he also understood the very real threat posed by assassins and conspirators. He had to allow some excesses for the greater good, though he doubted his explanations would comfort the families of those innocents who fell victim to Fremen zeal….

On the day of the first official Landsraad meeting in his new reign, Paul stepped onto the central speaking podium and looked out at the anxious and angry faces of the gathered nobles. Brilliant Atreides banners hung on either side of him. Instead of his stillsuit and Fremen robe, he chose to wear an old-design black House Atreides uniform with a red hawk crest prominent on the right breast. His hair had been trimmed, and he had been washed and groomed so that he looked like the proud and dignified son of a noble Duke.

But he could not bleach the blue from his eyes or mask the dark tan of his skin, the weathered creases from windblown dust, the leanness of a face that had adjusted to a much lower water content.

More than sixty noble Houses had sent representatives, and he spotted familiar faces. He noted the old one-armed Archduke Armand Ecaz, who had no legal heir, and whose holdings were primarily managed by his Swordmaster. Also a lead administrator of the technocrats of Ix (Paul was not surprised that the son of House Vernius had not come in person, considering their past). In addition, he picked out O’Garee of Hagal, Sor of IV Anbus, Thorvald of Ipyr, Kalar of Ilthamont, Olin of Risp VII, and others.

Even though his loyal Fremen guards were in evidence in the Hall of Oratory, Paul faced the Landsraad members alone. When he spoke, he raised his voice, pitching his tone to use not only the powers his mother had taught him, but also his intimate knowledge of the nuances of command from his experience in leading Fremen tribes and Atreides soldiers. He owed much to Gurney Halleck, Duncan Idaho, Thufir Hawat, and, most of all, to his father. Paul had to remind these men that he was Duke Leto’s son.

“The Padishah Emperor was defeated,” he said, pausing for a moment to let them wonder what he would say next. “Defeated by his own arrogance, by the overconfidence of his Sardaukar, and by the spider web of political machinations that trapped him in much the same way he intended to trap House Atreides.” Another pause, scanning the faces in the assemblage to look for emotion, for anger. He saw some of that, but more fear. “Most of you knew my father, Duke Leto. He instilled in me the principles of honor and leadership, which I intend to maintain on the Imperial throne — if you will let me.”

Paul let his gaze rest on a diminished-looking Armand Ecaz sitting stonily in his chair. Several noblemen and dignitaries were taking notes, and still more leaned forward curiously, waiting to see how they could benefit from the situation.

“As Shaddam had no legal sons, and I have taken his eldest daughter Irulan as my wife, I am the legitimate heir to the Lion Throne. But my rule is not a mere continuation of Corrino rule. We have all learned our lesson from that! Some have seen this transition of power as a time of turmoil, but you can help me establish stability again.”

“Stability?” shouted a man from a high tier. “Not much stability left, thanks to you!” Paul saw that the outspoken man had long gray-blond hair tied back behind his shoulders, a leonine frosty beard, and piercing pale blue eyes. He recognized Earl Memnon Thorvald, the bitter brother of one of Shaddam’s later wives. Paul had invited him, thinking that Thorvald might hold enough of a grudge against the Corrinos to make him an ally. Now though, the Earl’s palpable anger made it clear that he was in another category. Paul might have to isolate him.

“You may speak freely, Earl Thorvald!” Paul shouted to the upper tier. “Though few noble leaders will agree with you.”

Showing surprise at the invitation, Thorvald nonetheless obliged. “Your Fremen armies are like packs of wild wolves. We can all see what they’ve done to Kaitain. They burned the Imperial Palace — and you allowed it!” He gestured. “You call this establishing a rule of stability?”

“Call it the price of war — a war I never sought.” Paul spread his hands across the podium. “We can stop the bloodshed immediately. Your holdings will be safe and protected if you sign an alliance with me. You know the law is on my side, as is the power base. And,” he added, bringing out his most powerful card, “I control the spice. The Spacing Guild and CHOAM are behind me.”

Thorvald’s anger only intensified. “So, our choice is between bloody instability and bowing to religious tyranny?”

Bolig Avati, the lead administrator of the Ixian technocrats, rose to his feet and spoke in a firm voice. “If we agree to your proposed alliance, Paul Atreides, must we worship you as a god? Some of us have outgrown the need for false and convenient deities.”

The Hall filled with angry muttering, some of it directed at the dissenters, some disturbingly in agreement with them. More leaders agreed with Thorvald than Paul anticipated.

Raising his voice over the mounting commotion, Paul said, “My best fighters were bred in the harsh deserts of Arrakis. They fought the ruthless Harkonnens and the Emperor’s Sardaukar. What they have seen of Imperial justice has not benefited them. But if you join me, my Jihad armies will not touch your worlds. One day when there is no enemy left to fight, there will be no more need for a powerful central army.”

He drew a breath, let his expression become sterner. “If my words do not convince you, then I have the option of applying additional incentives — embargoes, monetary levies, even blockades. I have already declared a heavy tariff on any Guild flights servicing worlds that refuse to acknowledge my rule.” As the muttering increased, he made his voice even louder. “I have not yet imposed a complete moratorium on transportation to those planets, but I retain that as an option. I much prefer cooperation to coercion, but I mean to put a speedy end to this wasteful conflict, regardless.”

“From the beginning you planned to become a tyrant, didn’t you?” Thorvald shouted, resting his large hands on the balcony rail of the high tier. “I have had my fill of emperors. The galaxy has had its fill of them. My planet will do just fine without your raving fanatics or benevolent boot heel. The Landsraad made a mistake by allowing House Corrino to rule much too long! And we still haven’t learned our lesson.” He called over his shoulder as he stormed out. “I only hope the rest of you awaken from your semuta trance soon enough.”

Fedaykin guards moved to intercept Thorvald, but Paul signaled them to stop. This was a delicate time. He realized now that he could not, by any means, change the mind of Memnon Thorvald, and if he applied force inappropriately and acted as a bully, he would lose many of these others as well.

“I am glad this occurred,” Paul said, intending to surprise his audience. “I cannot pretend not to be disappointed that Earl Thorvald spurned my offer, but I am glad the rest of you have heard me out, and have decided to be rational.” He glanced from one Atreides banner to the other hanging beside his podium, before turning again to the audience. “You understand my terms.”

10

A month after returning from the conquest of Kaitain and his meeting with the Landsraad representatives, Paul stood at the edge of the plains of Arrakeen, looking out on the site of his most important military victory. Stilgar had joined him for the upcoming victory ceremony here, after which they would meet with other military advisers to discuss the most effective uses for the elite Fremen warriors. Gurney Halleck had already taken an enthusiastic regiment of fighters to Galacia, but there were many more conquests to plan. And Paul knew the Jihad was just beginning.

He had demanded and obtained records from the Spacing Guild, notations of thousands of planetary systems, so many worlds that only a Mentat could remember them all. He also had full CHOAM company records, since he controlled the majority share, with his Directorship overshadowing all the others combined.

He doubted if Shaddam IV had ever truly grasped the size of his own Imperium, the wealth and territory over which he supposedly ruled. Paul was certain that the Guild and CHOAM kept some profits hidden; whole planets not marked on any charts, their locations known only to the best Steersmen, were used as hiding places for weapons caches, perhaps even stockpiles of confiscated family atomics. All of these planets had to be encompassed in the government of Muad’Dib.

The Battle of Arrakeen now seemed minuscule in comparison with the subsequent clashes that were being fought in Paul’s name. Many thousands had died here, yes, but that was the merest fraction of the numbers that were perishing in ongoing fights across the galaxy.

Even so, the significance of the victory on this battlefield had been tremendous, and pivotal. Here, the notorious Baron Harkonnen had perished. Here, the Sardaukar had suffered their first defeat in history. Here, a proud Corrino Emperor had surrendered.

Now the unrelenting sun hung directly overhead, heating the sandy and rocky slopes below, where another crowd had gathered to see Muad’Dib. The observers wore stillsuits, most of which were fitted in the traditional Fremen style, unlike the replicas sold to pilgrims. Water and souvenir vendors worked the noisy crowd, calling out as they hawked their wares. Colorful banners fluttered in a hot breeze. Everyone waited for him to address the multitudes.

Paul said quietly to Stilgar, who stood like a weathered rock, “The lines of good and evil were clearly drawn when we fought on the plains of Arrakeen, Stil. We knew where we stood against the allied Houses, and used the moral high ground to rally and inspire our fighters. But so many are already dead in my Jihad, many of them innocents. In time, they will say I was worse than the Corrinos and Harkonnens ever were.”

Stilgar looked scandalized, his convictions unshaken even after what he had seen in the sacking of Kaitain. “Usul! We use violence only to cleanse, to wash away evil and save lives. Many more would die if not for your Jihad. You know this. Your prescience has told you so.”

“It is as you say, but I worry that there is something I have not considered, another path I should have chosen instead. I cannot merely accept anything. I must keep searching.”

“In dreams?”

“With conscious prescience, too, and Mentat logic. But everything guides me back to the same path.” “Then there is no other path, Usul.”

Paul smiled at the statement. If only he could be as utterly certain as Stilgar was; the naib had always been a man of absolutes.

When it was time to speak to the crowd, Paul mounted the steps of the immense monument that had been erected in his honor, a life-size replica of a sandworm sculpted by a renowned — and enthusiastically converted — sculptor from Chusuk. Plaques around its base carried the names of every world that had surrendered to Muad’Dib so far. There were many more blank plaques in anticipation of more victories.

Right now, a performance was required. Carrying a maker hook, though only as a prop, Paul mounted steps on the side of the gray plastone beast whose eyeless head turned toward the basin below and the sprawling city of Arrakeen. With his own symbolic maker hook, Stilgar followed.

When the two stood side by side atop the head of the replica worm, they secured their hooks into sculpted rings and posed as if they were again riding the behemoth to victory. Behind them on the back of the statue, real Fremen soldiers stood in similar postures. The soldiers’ cheers were echoed by the crowd in a growing sonic tumult that could be heard all the way to the city.

Years ago, when preparing his son for dangers on Arrakis, Duke Leto had advised him to capitalize on the local superstition that Paul might be the long-awaited Mahdi, the Lisan-al-Gaib. But only if he had to. Now, he had done that to an extent that went far beyond anything his father had ever anticipated.

Paul’s voice boomed out, transmitted by speakers on the worm. “I come here today in all humility to honor those Fremen and Atreides soldiers who died on the Shield Wall and in the basin below, fighting to free us from tyranny.” The crowd let out a huge roar of approval, but he raised his hands to quiet them. “Know this from the lips of Muad’Dib. We have won the opening battles of the Jihad, but there are many more to be fought.”

The holy war was becoming a living organism with its own momentum, and he had been its catalyst. Paul knew there were also moral battles to be won, challenges that promised no clear victors and losers, only murky results. One day when this phase of the Jihad was complete, there would be time for reflection, a time for the people to recognize his failings and weaknesses as a ruler, that he was not a god. That would be the beginning of understanding… but it would take a very long time.

Finished with the ceremonial requirements, Paul and Stilgar climbed back down the steps. The bearded Fremen reported good news. “Muad’Dib, as you expected and hoped, Ecaz surrendered to us immediately without any bloodshed. Your address to the Landsraad reminded the old Archduke of his loyalties and obligations to House Atreides. He has sent his representative to deliver his fealty in person. The delegate claims he knew you when you were but a boy.”

Curious, Paul looked to where a rangy man stood at the base of the statue, dressed in the fashion of a Swordmaster, with embellished decorations, epaulets, and billowing lavender pantaloons that made him appear to be a dandy. The man seemed familiar, especially when he removed his feathered, broad-brimmed hat and bowed with a flourish. “Muad’Dib may not remember me… but Paul Atreides should.”

Now he recognized the balding Whitmore Bludd, a man with a purple birthmark on his forehead. He was one of the most capable fighters in the history of Ginaz. Duncan Idaho had studied under him, and Bludd had served as a ronin for House Ecaz for many years. “Swordmaster Bludd! How could I forget you from my father’s War of Assassins against Grumman?”

“Ah, those were magnificent, heroic days.” The foppish man unrolled a signed surrender parchment. “Ecaz has always supported the Atreides. We owe you a debt of honor, and blood. Of course, we accept you as the new Emperor.”

Forsaking formalities, Paul threw his arms around the Swordmaster (much to the horror of the guards), and said, “You helped us. You defended us.”

Blushing, Bludd stepped back and said, “I insist it was the other way around, my Lord. Sadly, I am all that remains of a once-great House, just an old warrior with my glory days confined to memory. The recent trip to Kaitain proved a bit too much for the Archduke, and he has retired to his home.” Next, Bludd extended a small ornamental box. “However, I brought a gift for you from Ecaz, as a token of my allegiance.”

“The box has already been inspected, Usul,” Stilgar said quietly.

Paul lifted the lid and saw a pinkish seashell fragment the size of his own hand. Smiling, Bludd explained, “The remains of a conch shell from Mother Earth. See how light dances across the surface. Archduke Armand owned it for years — now it is yours.”

Paul ran a hand over the smooth, pearly luster. The touch gave him an odd but pleasing sensation that he was in contact with an article from the birthworld of humanity. He handed the box to a nearby Fedaykin guard. “Have this delivered to my apartments.”

Bludd spoke in a conversational, relaxed tone, “It’s frightfully hot on this planet. Fortunately, I’m not a man who perspires much, or I’d be drained to the last drop.”

“This is Dune, Swordmaster. From now on, you would be wise to wear a stillsuit,” Paul said. Undeniably, Bludd was a dandy, but Paul had always admired the man anyway, not only for his fighting skills and loyalty, but for his organizational talents. Interesting possibilities rolled through the Emperor’s mind.

In the past weeks, he had begun to accumulate the manpower and resources he needed for the construction of his huge new palace. While Korba had expressed an interest in guiding the project “for the glory and legend of Muad’Dib,” Paul wasn’t entirely sure that the zealous Fedaykin had the large-scale management skills or construction experience to oversee such a mammoth project. But Whitmore Bludd, in spite of his extravagant tastes, was a no-nonsense man and quite talented. He had a knack for getting things done. Duncan Idaho had always spoken highly of him.

“I would like you to remain here with us, Swordmaster Bludd. I can use someone with your talents to oversee a construction project far superior to anything the Corrinos ever built.” He explained briefly what he desired for his new Palace, then said, “I want your vision and your dedication.”

Bludd took a step backward in comical astonishment. “You would entrust me with such a fabulous undertaking, my Lord? Of course I accept the challenge! Why, I will create a citadel so grand it will strike even God himself with awe!”

“I think that’ll be just about good enough for Korba,” Paul said with a wry smile.

11

In quieter times, Gurney had often played ballads about Galacia’s beautiful and supposedly wanton women, but he had never before visited the small, cool world. Until now. Unfortunately, he saw more carnage than beauty. Part of it was his own fault, for promoting Enno too quickly to the rank of lieutenant — after the young soldier’s near-drowning in the practice pool.

In his new position, Enno showed a proclivity for issuing orders, demanding that the fighters carry out what he saw as Muad’Dib’s vision. Since his return from the dead, Enno believed that he had a holy purpose. His presence and charisma had visibly increased, and his Fremen comrades viewed him with awe. This proved to be a problem for Gurney.

After the battle frigates landed on Galacia, warriors ran through the streets of the village and marketplace that surrounded the colonnaded villa of Lord Colus, the planet’s Landsraad representative. With the soldiers of Muad’Dib coming toward them like D-wolves, the villagers barricaded themselves inside their homes. A few foolhardy souls stood with makeshift weapons, trying to defend their families, but the Fremen dealt harshly with any perceived resistance.

Though Gurney was technically in charge, his control over these fighters became tenuous once they scented blood. The men took great glee in planting green-and-white banners while tearing down and defacing any signs of the ruling house of Galacia. He waded among the soldiers, using his best stage voice to command them to restrain themselves.

One Fremen soldier repeatedly pummeled the bloodied mouth of a woman who wouldn’t stop screaming. Her husband lay dead on the floor next to her, his throat slashed by a crysknife. Gurney grabbed the brutal soldier by the back of his collar and swung his head against the doorframe, cracking his skull with a sickening sound. The woman looked up at Gurney and, instead of showing any gratitude, screamed again, spraying blood from her broken teeth. Then she ran into the house and barricaded the door.

Gurney’s face was red, the inkvine scar pulsing dark on his jawline. This was the sort of thing Harkonnen troops had done during their slave-gathering parties, going from village to village and brutalizing the people.

“Form ranks!” he bellowed. “Give the Galacians a chance to surrender, by the Seven Hells!”

“They are resisting us, Commander Halleck,” Enno said with maddening calm. “We must show them they have no hope. They shall know the despair that Muad’Dib brings to all who stand against him.”

The fighters had begun to set fire to any home whose inhabitants dared to bar the doors and windows against the invading army. The people inside would be roasted alive. Gurney heard the shrieks and saw the animal wildness of the unfettered army.

Though he had trained them himself, Gurney was infuriated by their ferocity. It was all so unnecessary! But if he pushed too hard against their wild frenzy, he feared that they might turn against him, labeling him a heretic and a traitor to Muad’Dib.

This type of warfare bore no semblance of the code of morality and integrity that Duke Leto Atreides had demanded of his followers. How could Paul allow this to happen?

The jihadis had moved through the village, all the way up a central hill to the governmental villa. Lord Colus had barricaded himself inside his arched home and stationed household guards at every door. From within the villa, his private army could hold off an invading force, though not for long. Even the besieged nobleman seemed to realize that. Gurney moved to take charge of the situation before the mob could do further damage.

The nobleman’s guards did not fire their weapons, but simply maintained defensive positions. Colus had taken down the pennants bearing the gold-and-red family crest of his house. When he raised the surrender flag, the Fremen howled and cheered and raced toward the barricaded entrance. But the gates would not open, no matter how hard the soldiers pounded against them.

Lord Colus stepped out onto a high balcony. It was dusk, and the fires in the village tinged the sky orange as the air filled with rising smoke. The nobleman’s face was deeply lined; his thick gray hair was long enough to fall between his shoulder blades, secured in a tight braid. He looked weary and distraught. “I would offer my surrender, but never to animals! You have massacred my people and the village is on fire. For what? They were no threat to you.”

“Surrender to us, and we will stop fighting,” Enno called, grinning at Gurney. The young officer’s uniform hung loosely on his rail-thin body.

“You, I do not trust! I will surrender only to the honorable Gurney Halleck. I see him there among you! I demand terms. The forms must be obeyed!”

Gurney pushed his way forward. “I am Halleck, and I accept your surrender.” He turned to the Fremen. “The forms must be obeyed. Stop the bloodshed. This planet is ours, our victory already won. Go put out those fires!”

“Old Imperial rules mean nothing to us, Commander Halleck,” Enno grumbled.

“It is the will of Muad’Dib.” Let them chew on that! Gurney strode up to the gates, and Lord Colus’s guards lifted the bars to open the doorway. The Atreides veteran stepped through the looming arch, and the proud nobleman came down to greet him.

But Fremen soldiers rushed in around Gurney, and he couldn’t stop the tide. They flocked into the fortified villa, seized Galacian guards, and grabbed Lord Colus. The nobleman appeared saddened, but clung to his dignity as he was taken away.

BY THE FOLLOWING day, the fires had been quelled and the villagers subdued, and the Fremen soldiers had temporarily taken over whatever dwellings they desired. These determined desert warriors knew how to fight, but they did not know how to govern or rebuild.

Gurney had spent a sleepless night staring up at the rough ceiling of one of the outbuildings of the estate, considering what to do. It would be best for the people of Galacia if he led the Fremen to another battlefield as soon as possible, rather than allowing the conquerors to remain here and make things worse. This defeated world would cause no further trouble for Paul’s government. Gurney doubted they would have caused any in the first place….

Gurney emerged from his borrowed bedchamber in the dawn light only to stare in disbelief at the severed head of Lord Colus, which was planted on a post in front of the mansion. The expression on the dead nobleman’s face looked more like disappointment than fear. His eyes stared out on a world he no longer inhabited.

Appalled and revolted, yet strangely unsurprised, Gurney stepped forward with sad resignation. His muscles bunching, his fists clenching, the loyal Atreides retainer stared up at Lord Colus’s slack face. “I am sorry — this was never what I intended.” He intoned a verse from the Orange Catholic Bible, posing an age-old question: “‘Who is worse, the liar or the fool who believes him?’”

He had given his word to Lord Colus, who had trusted in the value of a promise made by Gurney Halleck. Now, Gurney’s revulsion turned toward himself. I am not a man to make excuses, certainly not for my own actions. I am in command of these soldiers. I serve Paul of House Atreides.

The Atreides considered an “honor debt” as binding as any Fremen viewed a water debt to be. His lieutenant Enno had brought dishonor to his regiment and its commander; he had made Gurney into a liar. This is my responsibility.

In previous engagements, he had seen the blind and stubborn fury of the Jihad troops. Spurning accepted codes of warfare, they charged ahead with only vague goals and a hunger for destruction. Like maddened Salusan bulls, they stampeded any perceived enemy. Paul’s most vehement supporters never stopped to think beyond rationalizing that their actions were in concert with Muad’Dib’s wishes. Trying to stop them would be like trying to stop moving dunes in a powerful sandstorm….

Gurney’s brows drew together, and his expression became terrible to behold. He refused to salve his conscience with a weak explanation that he was not, after all, expected to control fanatics.

He was the commander; they were his soldiers.

And soldiers must follow orders. Enno and the Fremen had heard his explicit orders. They could not feign confusion or pretend to have misunderstood his promise. Enno had committed mutiny. He had defied the clear instructions of his superior officer.

Not even turning to see who might be listening, Gurney roared a command in a voice that had once filled noisy halls with song. “Bring me Enno — immediately! And put him in chains!” Though he did not stop looking at the head of Lord Colus, he heard several Fremen scurry off into the growing daylight in response to his instructions.

As a leader of Fremen regiments, Gurney Halleck kept a crysknife sheathed at his waist, but he did not reach for it. Instead, he drew a different blade, a well-worn kindjal with an Atreides hawk worked into the hilt. Because this was a matter of honor, an Atreides knife would work best.

Eventually, four Fremen soldiers escorted Enno to him. As he walked along, the young man looked aloof and proud, his eyes shining with conviction. Though two soldiers held Enno’s arms, the prisoner was not shackled, as Gurney had ordered. The shades of Thufir Hawat and Duncan Idaho must be laughing at him now for letting his troops slip out of his control.

“Why is this man not in chains? Were my instructions not clear?” he shouted, and the Fremen soldiers flinched, taking offense at his tone. Two of them let their hands stray toward their own crysknives. Gurney stepped toward them, his inkvine scar darkening on his face. “I am your commanding officer! Muad’Dib gave you orders — orders on your lives, damn you! — to follow my instructions. I act in the name of Muad’Dib. Who are you to question me?”

Enno, though, was the main problem, and Gurney would deal with the other insubordination later. Pointing at the grisly trophy atop the gatepost, he demanded, “Did I not accept this man’s surrender? Did I not grant him terms?”

“You did, Commander Halleck. But —”

“There is no ‘but’ in a command! You are a subordinate officer, and you have defied my orders. Therefore you have defied the orders of Muad’Dib.”

While the Fremen onlookers muttered at this, Enno retorted with great confidence, as if he were being tested. “Muad’Dib knows he must appear to be merciful. Muad’Dib knows he must show the people that he can be lenient and loving.” His voice hardened. “But Muad’Dib’s fighters know what is truly in his heart — that those who are unbelievers must fall under the scythe of his punishment. By promising mercy to Lord Colus, Commander Halleck, you may have spoken on the Emperor’s behalf… but all soldiers of Muad’Dib understand what we must do to infidels. Colus resisted, and he ordered his people to resist. He was a dark force trying to eclipse the light of the Lisan-al-Gaib.” He looked up at the severed head on the spike and nodded with plain satisfaction. “I did what was necessary, as you well know.”

Gurney barely kept his fury in check. “What I know is that you defied me. The penalty for disobeying my orders is death. Kneel.”

Enno’s eyes flashed. He raised his chin in one more gesture of defiance. “I only did the will of Muad’Dib.”

“Kneel!” When Enno did not immediately obey, Gurney motioned to the four escort soldiers who, after the briefest hesitation, pushed down on Enno’s shoulders, forcing him to his knees. Gurney took the Atreides kindjal and assumed a fighting stance with it.

“I was doing the will of Muad’Dib,” Enno intoned, like a prayer.

“He was doing the will of Muad’Dib,” one of the soldiers said. But he and his companions stepped back, out of the way.

Before events could slip out of his control again, Gurney slashed sideways with the razor-edged knife. The blade bit deep, tearing across Enno’s throat, severing the jugular and the carotid, sawing through the windpipe.

Normally, a red spray would have sprouted from the larynx like the tail of a flamebird, but the thick blood and the rapid coagulation in the Fremen genes slowed the flow somewhat, so that crimson merely bubbled and poured out, spilling across Enno’s chest and the Galacian ground. Although the defiant man twitched and gurgled, his gaze never left Gurney’s until he collapsed.

As the Fremen soldiers stared at what he had done, Gurney felt a thousandfold increase in his own personal danger. So be it. He could not permit such a lack of discipline to go unpunished. He stood, looking for a moment at the blood on the kindjal and on his hand, then turned to the surprised and angry-looking men. One muttered, “He was only doing the will of —”

“I am the will of Muad’Dib!” Gurney scowled down at the body, then looked up at the trophy on the post. “Take away Lord Colus’s head and see that his people have it for a proper burial. As for Enno, you may carry his body and his water back to Dune, but his head remains here.” He pointed. “On the spike.”

From the uneasy muttering, Gurney knew that the superstitious Fremen would fear that an angry ghost might follow them. Gurney looked directly at the corpse as he spoke. “And if Enno’s shade has something to say to me, then he can follow me as he wishes. You men are merely following my orders, as every soldier is required to do.”

He stalked off, but the disgust and dismay in the pit of his stomach only increased. He suspected that the Fremen would portray Enno as a martyr, a man not only blessed because he had drowned and come back to life, but also a veritable holy man who had disobeyed his non-Fremen commander in order to do what Muad’Dib would have wanted.

Gurney knew Paul Atreides well, however, and knew the young Emperor was not nearly so bloodthirsty and vicious as his followers believed him to be. Not in his heart, anyway.

Gurney fervently prayed that he was not wrong in his own heart.

12

A military officer arrived unexpectedly at Tleilax, announcing that he was on the “business of the Emperor” and demanding to see Count Hasimir Fenring.

Fenring did not like surprises. Agitated, he rode in a tubecar that sped away from the noxious expanse of the dead lake and across the plain from Thalidei to the isolated spaceport where the visitor had been allowed to land. What could this possibly mean? He had taken great pains to keep his location a secret, but there seemed no limit to the reach and influence of Muad’Dib.

He arrived at a high, one-story structure built of black plasmeld that was fronted with an array of tinted windows. With its curved surfaces and organic shape, the building looked like something that a worm might have excreted.

He entered the lobby, and two lower-caste Tleilaxu guided him across the glistening black floor. His escorts seemed just as displeased by the unannounced visitor. In the small and stuffy cafeteria, Fenring was surprised to see a familiar, craggy-faced man. It had been years since they’d seen each other, and it took him a moment to recall the correct name. “Bashar Zum Garon?”

The officer rose from a table where he had been drinking an oily-looking beverage. “You are a difficult person to locate, Count Fenring.”

“Hmm-ahhh, intentionally so. But I should know not to underestimate the resourcefulness of a Sardaukar officer.”

“No, you should not. I come at the request of Emperor Shaddam.” “Hmm-m-m, not the Emperor I expected. How did you find me?”

“Shaddam ordered it.”

“And a loyal Sardaukar always follows orders, hmmm? You are still in charge of Shaddam’s personal guard?”

“What little is left of it, barely more than a police force.” Garon did not look happy. “I commanded the most powerful military force in the Imperium, until Muad’Dib and his fanatical Fedaykin defeated us. Now I am the glorified equivalent of a security guard.” He regained his composure but not before Fenring saw the swift, sharp flicker of hatred there. “Sit with me. The Tleilaxu tea is palatable.”

“I know the stuff well.” Fenring had grown to loathe its faint licorice undertaste almost as much as he loathed the aftertaste of all his dealings with Shaddam. Time and again, the Emperor had stumbled into traps of his own making — and time and again, Fenring had used his resources and wiles to repair the damage. Even after the original Arrakis Affair, when the Harkonnens and the Sardaukar troops should have wiped out House Atreides, Fenring had spent more than a billion Solaris on gifts, slave women, spice bribes, and tokens of rank. Squandered money and resources. Now, though, his former friend had fallen into a pit so deep he could never claw his way out.

Fenring slid into a hard plasmeld chair that was too low to the floor, designed for the shorter Tleilaxu Masters. He waited for the Bashar to explain his business. Only one other cafeteria table was occupied, by a Tleilaxu man who ate stew in a rapid and messy fashion.

Garon stirred his tea, but didn’t drink. “I spent many years in Imperial service. Then, after the death of my son Cando defending Shaddam’s amal project…” His voice trailed off, but he regained his composure. “After that, I voluntarily stripped off all marks of my former rank and departed from Kaitain, expecting never to return. For a time I retired to my estate on Balut, but that didn’t last long before Muad’Dib ordered me back into service and assigned me to Shaddam. It seems that the former Padishah Emperor was insisting that I take charge of security in his exile. Not only did he kill my son, but he foolishly led the Sardaukar to suffer their first-ever military defeat.”

The Count clearly remembered the catastrophic end of the amal project, “Your son died valiantly in the defense of Ix. He showed great courage leading a Sardaukar charge against overwhelming odds.”

“My son died trying to protect an idiotic, greedy attempt to develop and monopolize artificial spice.”

“Hmm-ahh, and does Shaddam know you feel this way?”

“He does not. If I had my son’s courage, I would tell him so. Shaddam says he has fond memories of my flawless loyalty.” Garon cleared his throat, changed the subject, but the bitter tone remained in his voice. “Regardless, he sent me to find you and deliver a message. Shaddam wishes you to know that he still holds you in the highest esteem. He reminds you that he allowed his Imperial daughter Wensicia to marry your cousin Dalak.”

“Yes, I know.” He thought back, trying to remember his cousin. “I haven’t seen Dalak since he was a boy. I believe I taught him some fighting techniques, even spent some time counseling him about the politics of the Imperium. A good boy. Not the brightest student, but he showed some promise.”

Shaddam had allowed his third daughter to marry him? A true sign of desperation, obviously intended to influence Fenring. Did that mean there might soon be a Corrino heir with Fenring blood? He darkened. “I do not like to be manipulated.”

“No one does. Even so, Shaddam begs you to return to him. He needs your counsel and friendship.”

Fenring did not doubt what Shaddam must have in mind. The Count resented the fallen Emperor for his insistence on ill-advised plans as much as Bashar Garon did. Shaddam has a dangerous sort of intelligence that leads him to believe he is much smarter than he actually is. This causes him to make serious mistakes.

Garon drew an ornate, jewel-handled knife from his sleeve. Fenring’s muscles tightened. Has he been sent to assassinate me? He placed his hand over the concealed needle launcher in his sleeve.

But the Bashar just slid the knife across the table, jeweled hilt first. “This is yours now, a gift from your boyhood friend. He said you would recognize it, know its significance.”

“Yes, I am familiar with this.” The Count turned it over to examine the sharp edge of the blade. “Shaddam presented it to Duke Leto at the Trial By Forfeiture, and later the Duke gave it back to him.”

“More importantly, it is the knife with which Feyd Rautha-Harkonnen dueled Muad’Dib.”

“Ahh, and if that Harkonnen pup had fought better, none of us would be here. Not that Shaddam would have continued to be anything but an unremarkable ruler.”

“At least the Imperium would be stable and not torn apart by Muad’Dib’s growing Jihad,” Garon said quietly.

And Feyd would still be alive… Marie’s true father. But few people knew that.

‘“Honor and the legion,’” Fenring said pensively. It was a Sardaukar motto.

“Precisely. A Sardaukar never dishonors himself, even though Shaddam has brought dishonor upon us. He remains oblivious to how much resentment his remaining Sardaukar feel toward him.”

A smile worked its way across Fenring’s narrow face. “Entire library planets could be filled with the things Shaddam doesn’t know.”

Garon finally took a sip of tea. “His foolishness has cost both of us. A man never gets over losing his son, or his honor.”

“And now you are torn by your oath as a Sardaukar, your duty to serve the Corrinos, and your memories of your son.”

“You understand me too well.”

“If you and I had made the decisions, ahhh, we might have prevented the rise of Muad’Dib. But there are still things we can do, hmm? We have an opportunity here, you and I. If he were removed from the equation, being clever and resourceful, we could easily manipulate the ensuing turmoil to our own ends.”

The old Bashar studied Fenring. “You suggest that we work together? You will return to Salusa Secundus, then?”

Fenring stared at the jewel-handled knife. “Tell the Emperor that while I appreciate his offer, my answer must be no, for the time being. I have other… opportunities here, and I intend to pursue them.”

“Shaddam will be angry that I have failed in my mission.”

“Hmm, then leave open the possibility that I might change my mind. Keep him on nice, sharp tenterhooks. To maintain that illusion, I’ll keep his gift of the knife. I know the way he thinks. He will, ahhh, believe that I owe him a favor in return. In the meantime, my darling little daughter requires a great deal of shaping and instruction.”

“And what significance does this daughter hold?”

Sardaukar had such a tendency to see everything in black-and-white terms! “She has a great deal of significance, my dear Bashar. What if we were to bypass the fool on Salusa and find a way to overthrow Paul-Muad’Dib ourselves?”

Garon sat back in his chair, struggling not to show his shock. “Harsh times require harsh actions.”

Fenring pressed his point. “Shaddam’s failings as an Emperor left the people so eager to replace him that a violent upstart such as Muad’Dib could step into the vacuum, bolstered by his fanatics. Now, however, it’s becoming clear that Muad’Dib may be worse than Shaddam ever was — and we need to stop the slaughter any way we can, and establish a new order.”

Garon inhaled a long, deep breath, and nodded. “We must take the course of honor. In doing so, we can reverse a great wrong that is being committed against humanity. We are honor-bound to make the effort.”

Fenring extended his hand across the table, and Garon grasped it firmly. Personally, the Count didn’t care that much about honor, but this old soldier certainly did. It was both Bashar Zum Garon’s strength, and his weakness. It only remained for Fenring to work out the details and put a plan into action.

13

He stood on the balcony, a lonely figure. Late at night, the lights of Arakeen were low and a rising First Moon cast long shadows across the burgeoning city to the desert escarpments beyond. High on the ridge line, a delta of sand creased the broad expanse of the Shield Wall, where Paul had shattered the barrier with atomics to allow attacking sandworms into the basin. The Shield Wall was a natural object that had been blasted in battle by a mere man. A mere man.

The people did not see him as such. The young Emperor returned to bed but lay awake, restless. Countless military campaigns remained to be fought across the galaxy, and Paul-Muad’Dib was their inspiration on the path to eternal glory. Fremen would not let themselves see any frailties in their messiah.

Sometimes his prescient visions were only general impressions, other times vivid images and specific scenes. The Jihad itself had always been like a high mountain range across his life’s path — unavoidable, dangerous. He had tried to deny it initially, but then he had forged ahead, facing the difficulties, the treacherous cliffs, the unexpected storms. He was the guide for the human race, wanting to lead them through safe passes, but knowing he could not avoid every avalanche, flash flood, rockfall, or lightning strike. Race consciousness demanded otherwise.

His own terrible purpose demanded otherwise. No matter what choices he made, a great many would still perish before they reached the promised land beyond.

Paul envisioned an energy-force of pomp, ostentation, and bureaucracy that would grow around him. The signs were already apparent. At first, this would wear the guise of a powerful and necessary machine, but it would eventually metastasize and grow like a cancer. For a time, he knew he must accept the malignancy because it would fuel the Jihad.

Already, Dune was the hub of the new universe. Millions and millions of pilgrims would come here on hajj. Important decisions would be made on this hallowed ground, and from here Muad’Dib’s legions would continue to be dispatched to the farthest reaches in order to enforce his wishes.

From Arrakeen, the newly planned Citadel of Muad’Dib would radiate light all across the galaxy. His palace would be enormous and breathtaking. The people, and history, demanded it.

Old neighborhoods and disjointed slums had already been razed to make room for the colossal structure. After dawn that day, construction was slated to begin.

THE OLD ARRAKEEN Residency would form the core of the huge building, but before long the new palace would swallow all external traces of the original home of House Atreides on Arrakis, once also the long-term base of Count Fenring and Lady Margot. Paul stood with an intense Korba and an exuberant Whitmore Bludd inside a vaulted chamber, watching the reactions of both Chani and Irulan.

Swordmaster Bludd proudly displayed shimmering projection models of the buildings, gardens, and avenues of the future Citadel of Muad’Dib. The plans alone were large enough to fill much of the room. Projection technicians busily put finishing touches on some of the models, monitored by the watchful eyes of assistant architects.

Bludd had done a remarkable job of balancing the wishes and ideas of so many people, while maintaining his personal vision for “humanity’s greatest architectural triumph.” For many years already, he had served as a de facto manager of all of Archduke Ecaz’s holdings, and now he would coordinate the armies of workers, the flow of materials, and the budget (though even the poorest waifs sleeping on the dry streets of Arrakeen willingly offered their last coins to Muad’Dib).

Speaking on behalf of the Qizarate, Korba provided input on four immense temples that would be constructed on the grounds and connected to the main citadel complex blossoming around the old mansion. Even before the first great walls had been raised, he insisted on ornamenting the city-sized structure with religious statuary and various objects of a spiritual nature. “Every facet of the citadel must enlarge the persona and legend of the Emperor Muad’Dib, elevating him to his appropriate stature.”

Glancing at Korba, Paul thought of his remaining Fedaykin, remembering the purity of their devotion. Back when the battles had been straightforward and the enemies clearly identified — Harkonnens, Sardaukar — they had sworn their lives to defend him. Many of those elite fighters were even now engaged in battles of the Jihad — the loyal Otheym, Tandis, Rajifiri, and Saajid. Knowing their skills and bravery, he had reserved his Fremen — a mere fraction of his fighting force — for the most difficult conquests, the bloodiest engagements.

But Korba, though also a Fedaykin, had chosen a different path to glory. Though subtle, the man’s motives were transparent to Paul: While a warrior was just a warrior, the head of a religion wielded a more sustainable power in the ever-widening circle of Muad’Dib’s influence and the increasing number of conquered or allied subjects. By fostering the development of the Qizarate, giving new and zealous priests teachings and rules to enforce, Korba created and held his own moral high ground — in the name of Muad’Dib.

In spite of the sour taste that development left in his mouth, Paul needed all of the energy that religion could provide. And he knew that he, too, had to keep up appearances.

With Chani at his side, Paul walked from table to table and looked over the model structures, focusing on the multiple domes and soaring arches. A cutaway showed where a Celestial Audience Chamber would house his primary throne. “Some of the individual chambers will be so large that kingly palaces could fit inside them. The entire complex is designed to be a vast fortified city, both to protect its inhabitants and to impress outsiders.”

The flamboyant Swordmaster used his own rapier as a pointer to show Irulan how her private gardens would be laid out, including “contemplation offices” where she could continue her writing. Paul noted the pride in the man’s demeanor as he explained his grand dream, and the Princess seemed suitably impressed.

Chani glanced sidelong at Irulan. “Perhaps such things were expected in the old Imperium, but we do not need such a place, Usul. Fremen would consider this sort of extravagance… greedy, in the manner of offworlders.”

“No extravagance is too great for Muad’Dib,” Korba insisted. “The people will settle for nothing less than the greatest work of construction in human history.”

Sadly, Paul knew that Korba was right.

Bludd cleared his throat loudly. “Those were my instructions, and that is what it shall be. From the central core, the rest of the construction will blossom like a beautiful flower in the desert.” Though they had radically conflicting personalities, Korba and Bludd were developing a grudging respect for each other during the early stages of the construction project. A common ambition and goal served as a balancing point between the men.

Paul took Chani’s hand, and said to her, “Such extravagance is necessary, Beloved. The magnificence itself is a lever that can move the most stubborn doubters and the newly converted. Through sheer size, scope, and grandeur, my new fortress must inspire awe in the hearts of everyone who experiences it — even in us, who know its inner workings and design. Especially in us, perhaps, because we have to play our parts well, and I must play mine the best of all.”

He clapped a hand on the fine fabric of the Swordmaster’s waistcoat. “You have my wholehearted approval, Bludd. Yes, this palace will be built according to your plans. With each stone laid and each tapestry hung, we will strengthen the Jihad — and hasten its conclusion. I will make public appearances on my throne and from my balconies overlooking throngs of the faithful. These places must be incomparable in their opulence.

“My private quarters, however, will be simple.” Paul gestured dismissively at the plans for the royal suite that seemed to drip ostentation. “When Chani and I retire to our chambers, there will be only those traditional amenities one might find in a sietch, articles and furnishings that typical Fremen would use. In private we shall remember our roots.”

Bludd and Korba looked at him in alarm, while Irulan came closer. “My Husband, the people expect you to live as an Emperor, not as a tribal chieftain. The entire citadel, including your living quarters, should show all humankind how great and powerful Muad’Dib is. My father’s royal wing in the old Imperial Palace could be a model for you.”

“The simplicity of a sietch is enough for us, in our private quarters,” Chani insisted, and Paul agreed, ending the discussion. His concubine had always been less comfortable in cities, in gigantic and ornate structures. “Even though he is the Emperor, Muad’Dib is still one of the people.”

Yes, he thought. My father would have liked the sound of that.

14

The storehouse of expensive wine was part of the vast trove of spoils the armies of Muad’Dib were already bringing back to Arrakis. Whitmore Bludd found the uncatalogued cache during his work of managing the materials and overseeing the huge citadel construction project.

He perused the labels on the bottles, noting the vintages with growing admiration and amazement. He doubted the uncouth Fremen had any idea of the value of what they had found. They had piled the seized bottles without any sort of inventory list or temperature control.

These desert fanatics had no appreciation, no taste, no finesse. They would not know the difference between a crisp, delicate Caladanian white and a robust chianti from the greenhouse vineyards of IV Anbus. As he examined case after case of bottles inside the storehouse, Bludd realized he could not, in good conscience, let such a treasure go to waste.

Now, finding a rough-red table wine meant to be drunk in quantity rather than savored, he decided the Fremen might enjoy that more than anything too sophisticated. Or perhaps one of the syrupy muscats. When he came across a bottle of genuine Kirana champagne, he set it aside with the fine vintages. He couldn’t allow that to be wasted on a desert rat’s unsophisticated palate!

For tonight, Bludd settled on an enhanced claret he had tasted years ago, when he and his fellow Swordmaster Rivvy Dinari had toasted their service to Archduke Armand Ecaz. The corpulent Dinari had considered the vintage exceptional, and Bludd had fond memories of that evening, owing more to the fellowship and the situation than to the wine’s quality. Dinari, for all his girth, claimed to have quite a discriminating palate, although he did seem to prefer both quantity and quality.

Bludd had already changed into his evening clothes: a tailored maroon jacket, a belted black tunic with ruffled collar, tight black pants, and knee-high suede boots that matched the color of the jacket. As always, his long rapier hung at his hip, a weapon that was both decorative and deadly. He hefted the case of wine, balancing it on his other hip, and walked out of the storehouse with as much grace as he could summon. If these desert fighters were capable of enjoying good things — not at all a certainty — he would endear himself to them, and they would all have a fine time swapping tales of their exploits.

In a celebratory mood, he brought the wine and his own corkscrew, as well as a case of stemmed glasses, to the Fremen barracks. Smiling, he lifted out the bottles so that he could share the vintage, but the Fremen regarded him suspiciously. They accepted Bludd as one of Muad’Dib’s special advisers and a long-time acquaintance, yet the overdressed Swordmaster did not match their notion of a warrior.

He sniffed and quickly hid his distaste for all the smells around him. As members of Paul’s elite military stationed here on Arrakeen, they had access to enough water to bathe at least once in a while!

“I have brought fine wine from the stores of Emperor Paul Atreides” — he shrugged quickly — “or Muad’Dib, if that’s what you prefer to call him. Does anyone wish to partake?” Bludd began to pour glasses and gestured for the dusty Fremen soldiers to take them, one by one. “It is tradition among Swordmasters to share a glass of good wine while we exchange our stories of battle. Having been a primary instructor at the Ginaz School, I later became one of the two highest ranking swordfighters in the Ecazi court.”

Half a dozen Fremen picked up the glasses and looked at them. One, a Fedaykin named Elias, took a gulp and made a face.

“Not like that!” Bludd snapped, losing patience. “Examine its rich color, inhale its magnificent bouquet. Take a little sip. Allow the flavors to separate on your palate. This isn’t one of your coarse spice beers.” Elias seemed offended by the rebuff, though Bludd pretended not to notice. He held up a wineglass, took a sip, and let out a long sigh. “So… the stories. Since you are so enamored of Paul-Muad’Dib, shall I tell you of the time my fellow Swordmasters Rivvy Dinari, Duncan Idaho, and I went with young Paul Atreides — I believe he was twelve years old then — down into the jungles of Ginaz, where we were attacked by giant caterpillars —”

“We know all about Duncan Idaho,” one of the Fremen interrupted. “He died saving Muad’Dib during his flight from the Harkonnens. That was how he and his mother came to be among us.”

“So Paul’s told you this story, then?” Bludd looked around, but could not find any answers on the faces.

“We have read the book by Princess Irulan,” replied one of the men. The others murmured solemn assent.

Bludd had read the book as well and felt that Irulan had left out a great many important things, even suggesting that Paul had never been away from the planet Caladan before coming to Arrakis, ignoring all of his exploits on Ecaz! That and other errors. Bludd had already spoken to the Princess about them.

The Fremen were drinking the wine, though obviously out of a sense of obligation rather than enjoyment. Bludd tried again, suggesting another story that Irulan had not included in her original chronicle. “Or shall I tell you how the War of Assassins began in Castle Caladan, with a heinous attack by the Grummans? Several people died, including —” He sniffed, drew a breath. “Perhaps I shall not tell that story, either.”

Bludd expected some of them to brag about their own exploits and tell their tall tales. But these Fremen were a dour bunch.

“This wine tastes like unfiltered urine,” growled Elias, whom Bludd had offended. “If we run it through a reclamation unit, at least we can get the water back.”

“My dear sir, this is a fine and expensive vintage. I am not surprised, however, that you cannot taste —”

Elias drew his crysknife, and the others fell immediately still. “You insult me!”

Bludd looked around, made a bored sigh. “Now, what?” “It is a matter of honor,” said one of the other men.

“You really don’t want to do this, my good sir,” Bludd said. “Draw your blade!” Elias held his crysknife and took up a fighting stance.

With utmost calmness, Bludd slid the rapier from his belt. “Have I not made it quite clear that I am an accomplished Swordmaster of Ginaz? Your wormtooth dagger is pretty, but I have four times the reach.” He flicked the rapier in the air for good measure.

“Are you a coward, then?”

“In a word… no.” Bludd straightened his jacket, plucked at his black ruffles. “En garde, if you insist.”

Elias lunged with the crysknife, to shouts and catcalls from his comrades. Though Bludd was dressed in fine clothes, the well-fitting garments gave him perfect ease of movement. He melted away from the man’s vicious thrust. Then in a flash, he circled around and pricked the Fremen’s shoulder.

“There, first blood is mine. Do you yield?”

The Fremen spectators chuckled. “Bad Bludd brags more than he fights! Bad Bludd!”

“My, what a feeble play on words.” His voice dripped sarcasm.

The angry Fremen fighter slashed and lunged again with surprising speed. Elias tossed the knife to his other hand and struck. Ah, so he could fight with either hand, a useful skill! Bludd parried, scissored his blade in the air, twirled, and pricked the man’s other shoulder. “You are fortunate that I have decided to restrain myself.”

Bludd toyed with him for several more minutes, showing off, making sweeping, grandiose moves of the type he had taught his students never to risk using. Showmanship was one thing, but victory was paramount. It did no good to have fine form if your opponent lopped off your head.

But this opponent did not seem to weaken or tire and continued with a relentless, though pedestrian, style of fighting. When Bludd realized he was starting to grow tired himself, he decided to put an end to the silly dance. He had heard how easily Fremen pride could be wounded, and did not want this man to hold a simmering blood vendetta against him. He had to give him a way to save face.

Driving forward with a flurry of intricate sword work, Bludd flailed his flexible blade so that it dizzied Elias. Then Bludd intentionally stepped in too close. He had observed the man’s style and knew how he would react. When he gave the Fremen an opportunity, just a hint of one, the crysknife flashed and cut a shallow gouge in the meat of Bludd’s upper left arm. There, now the man could be satisfied that he too had drawn blood. Elias responded with a feral grin.

“That’s enough, then.” Bludd drove the flat of his blade down hard on the back of the Fremen’s knife hand, forcing the fingers to release the handle. The wormtooth dagger dropped to the floor of the barracks.

One of the other Fremen soldiers stepped forward and kicked the crysknife beyond Elias’s reach. “He beat you fairly, Elias, but you drew blood as well.”

The Fremen looked bewildered and still angry. Another soldier added in a low voice, “Muad’Dib has commanded us to have no tribal rivalries.”

“This peacock is of no Fremen tribe,” Elias said.

“Muad’Dib wants his soldiers to fight the enemy, not each other.”

“And fine advice that is.” Bludd sheathed his rapier, picked up one of the unopened bottles of wine, and took it with him as he left the barracks. “Next time, perhaps I will just bring spice beer.”

15

Lady Margot Fenring rode beside her young daughter in the rear compartment of a groundcar as it negotiated the winding streets of Thalidei. Lady Margot had ordered the driver to take them to one of the dockside public markets. She rarely went anywhere without her husband, but little Marie needed time away from her ever-watchful Bene Gesserit nanny and tutor. Though Margot could easily have defeated scores of Tleilaxu men, she was forbidden to travel without an escort, for her own “safety.”

Little Marie sat high on a thick cushion designed for a Tleilaxu Master. She drank in the details outside, her wide eyes filled with curious questions, but the girl was already wise enough to look for her own answers. The Fenrings had developed plans for the unique girl, determined to see to it that Marie was equipped with a breadth of experiences and abilities. She had to be prepared and armed for her destiny.

The worker-caste Tleilaxu driver assigned to them expertly avoided hitting diminutive Masters who haughtily walked out into the street without looking. Clearly uncomfortable around females, the driver did not speak to his passengers; he may even have received instructions to ignore them. Unlike all other vehicles around the city, the one in which Margot and her daughter rode had dark-tinted windows, as if the Tleilaxu did not want a female to be seen out in the open.

When traveling with her husband, Margot was treated quite differently, accepted grudgingly if not welcomed. When she went out without him, though, the Tleilaxu seemed offended by her flagrant actions. She didn’t care this time. Let them be offended. She’d lost count of the pinpricks of displeasure her reluctant hosts had inflicted on her. Margot had grown to loathe the bigoted high-caste men, but as an adept Bene Gesserit, she’d also learned to hide her true feelings.

The young towhead smiled up at her, then gazed out the low tinted window on her left, oblivious to her mother’s concerns. Like Margot, she wore a long black dress, but she had pale blue eyes instead of gray-green. Feyd’s color, Margot remembered, though her eyes are not so sullen as his.

The Harkonnen na-Baron had been an adequate lover, though not as skilled as he should have been, considering his repertoire of pleasure women. In light of later events, it was clear that Feyd was also not as skilled a fighter as he believed himself to be. Nevertheless, Margot had collected his seed and allowed herself to conceive a daughter as the Sisterhood had instructed her to do. Such perfect genetics from generations of Bene Gesserit coaxing human genetic stock. Yes, little Marie was indeed special.

During the year that the Fenrings had spent on Tleilax, Lady Margot had remained in touch with the Sisterhood, exchanging clandestine messages by letter or embedded in objects that were transported by courier between here and Wallach IX. She had no doubt that the nanny Obregah-Xo also sent secret reports.

Despite the Mother Superior’s personal interest in this daughter of Feyd-Rautha, Margot had plans of her own. She did not intend to let the girl become a mere pawn of the Bene Gesserit. Since the arrival of Muad’Dib — a Kwisatz Haderach that the Sisterhood could not control — and his Abomination sister Alia, Margot Fenring had begun to lose faith in the overly complex and insufficiently successful schemes of the Bene Gesserit.

She and Hasimir had too many other ideas.

Lady Margot smiled at her daughter. The child had a bright and inquisitive mind, and learned quickly. Thanks to her mother’s teachings, as well as those of Count Fenring and Obregah-Xo, the girl had already mastered Bene Gesserit skills that were far beyond her years.

The vehicle drove past a bustling marketplace of tents and shacks that extended out onto the docks, with vendors selling foods and personal articles. “Driver, stop. We would like to explore the market.”

“It is forbidden,” the driver gruffly answered, which only served to make Lady Margot more determined.

“Nevertheless, we will get out here and walk.”

“I am only authorized to drive you around the city.”

Margot had had enough of Tleilaxu secrets and restrictions. She spoke with the full force of Voice. “You will stop the vehicle and do as I command.”

The driver jerked involuntarily, then pulled the groundcar over to the nearest clustered market stalls.

“You will wait for us here as we observe the vendors and their wares.”

Although the driver sat shuddering and almost immobile, he fumbled with a small compartment beside his seat. Sweating with the effort, yet persistent, he produced a tiny black ball, which he squeezed in his palm. It seemed to sprout into two black scarves, one large and one small. “You must cover yourselves. Each of you. Dress as man and boy.”

Amazed that the driver had the strength for such independent thought while under the influence of Voice, Margot took the scarves and quickly wrapped one around her head in a fashion she had seen some of the middle-caste males wear. Without hesitation, Marie secured a scarf over her own face and tied it behind her neck. “I like dress up.”

Margot and her daughter climbed out of the groundcar. Numerous byways extended away from the main pedestrian thoroughfares, and Margot wandered one way and another, mentally keeping track of where they were. Even with the head wrap, she knew that her height, offworld clothing, and complexion would make her stand out. Little Marie didn’t seem to notice the men who stared at them.

Although the noisy market had been bustling before they entered, full of exotic smells of cooking food, spiced slig, and pickled vat-vegetables, Lady Margot noticed that she and Marie moved in a pocket of silence. Vendors and customers grew quiet when they saw the pair.

One of Lady Margot’s pastimes since coming to this planet was studying the variety of exotic Tleilaxu poisons. In addition to their biological expertise, the Bene Tleilax excelled in tailoring toxic chemicals that could kill or paralyze in numerous ways. The market was a veritable buffet of these useful substances. Some of them were effective contact paralytics, while others required unique delivery techniques, since standard poison snoopers could detect deadly substances in food or drink. In displays arrayed before her, Margot admired glittering gems that were chemically impregnated with neurotoxins, to be released under specific circumstances. She saw innocuous-looking fabrics whose fibers — upon being stretched or heated — would shift their long-chain-polymer structures into lethal poison molecules. Yes, the Tleilaxu had interesting toys.

Stopping at a counter, the little girl studied an array of dolls that were on display. All of the figurines were male, but they represented a variety of human species wearing traditional costumes of different worlds. Marie pointed out one that looked like a youthful Paul Atreides, an idealized version of Muad’Dib as a boy. “I want that one,” she said.

The clerk scowled but quoted a low price, apparently anxious to move them along as quickly as possible. After a few Solaris exchanged hands, Lady Margot handed the doll to her daughter, but the child promptly gave it back.

“This is my gift to you, Mother,” she said. “I don’t play with dolls.”

Margot took the doll with a smile and nudged her daughter around. “We should get back to the driver.” She had pressed the issue, and likely the Tleilaxu officials had already sent a scolding message to Count Fenring. She led the way back to the vehicle with an unerring sense of direction. The driver had waited for them, perspiring uneasily.

All the way home in the groundcar, little Marie was bursting with excitement and couldn’t wait to describe to her father what they had done. To Lady Margot, that made the expedition worthwhile.

16

In Arrakeen the sounds of construction were as constant as the sighing desert wind and the whispering sand. The citadel complex had begun on the outskirts of the city, which was already populated by millions of pilgrims and those that preyed upon them. When completed, the palace would extend across the suburbs to the cliffside on the north, where many hastily erected homes had been built using raw materials from the wrecks of Shaddam’s warships.

Within the partially remodeled Arrakeen Residency, Paul met with his advisers before the day’s heat grew too oppressive. He selected a purportedly small conference room, a place where the stone walls were close enough to make him feel some sense of privacy. He called it “a comfortable place for uncomfortable discussions.”

He chose his advisers less for their political clout or pedigrees, than because he trusted their abilities. Alia and Chani were there, and Irulan insisted on being a part of the discussions. Though Paul didn’t entirely trust her loyalties, he did value her intelligence, both as a Bene Gesserit and as the fallen Emperor’s eldest daughter. She could indeed contribute much.

Korba also joined them, as well as Chatt the Leaper, another Fedaykin whose resolve could never be questioned. After the Spacing Guild’s delegation to Alia while he was away at Caladan and Kaitain, Paul had given Chatt the task of dealing with their frequent demands, pleas, and complaints. While some Guild representatives had hoped to wheedle concessions from a spokesman, Chatt merely delivered the wishes of Muad’Dib and refused to bend a millimeter. Paul wished he had more negotiators like that.

Servants brought small cups of bitter spice coffee. With the spoils and offerings that were continually delivered to Dune, Muad’Dib and his inner circle never lacked for water. He called the meeting to order by taking his seat.

“I have drawn up an agenda, Usul,” Korba said, straightening in his seat. He often used Paul’s familiar name from Sietch Tabr to emphasize his own closeness to the Emperor. He spread sheets of instroy paper on the tabletop as if they were sacred documents. He could have used common spice paper, but instead Korba had selected a medium that implied permanence and importance. Paul thought that the man would probably seal the sheets as holy relics.

A Fremen with a written meeting agenda. The very idea was absurd. “We have many matters to discuss, Korba. Agendas lock us into a foolishly rigid structure.” Paul could not keep the curt tone from his voice. The inevitable bureaucracy sank its roots deeper.

“I merely attempted to organize the topics into an efficient order, Usul. Your time has infinite value.”

Alia piped up. “My brother can organize as he wishes. Do you claim to be better at it than he is?”

Paul saw Korba’s muscles bunch. If Alia’s words had not been tempered by her child’s form, his Fremen pride might have caused him to draw his crysknife — as he did too often already.

“What is the first item you wish us to discuss, Beloved?” Chani said, shifting the conversation. Chatt the Leaper sat in silence, listening to every word that Muad’Dib said and, to a lesser extent, the rest of the conversation. Irulan was obviously engaged in the meeting, waiting for a chance to participate.

“I wish to discuss the growth of Arrakeen,” Paul said, “and I need candid answers. As world after world swears allegiance to me, the city’s population increases much faster than our infrastructure can accommodate. Pilgrims, refugees, and all sorts of displaced people arrive on Dune every day, and the limited resources cannot support them.”

“They do not bring enough of their own water,” Alia said.

Korba made a grunt of agreement. “In the old days, Fremen tribes had to place thousands of windtraps, install catchbasins, and glean every drop of dew just so we could survive. Now too many outworlders bring their bodies and their mouths, without a way to support themselves and without knowledge of the desert, either.”

Chani agreed. “They buy costume stillsuits from charlatans. They believe they can simply purchase water whenever they need it, or that it will fall from the sky as it does on their own worlds. Fremen tradition would say they deserve to die and give up their body’s water to more intelligent people.”

Irulan spoke up. “Many temporary settlements have been erected up on the Shield Wall, despite the residual radiation from your atomics.”

“They do so without permits,” Korba said.

“Nevertheless, they do it,” Paul said. “A lack of permits means nothing to the desperate and determined.”

“Radiation is not the only danger,” Irulan went on. “I read the weekly reports. Every day bodies are dragged away. People are murdered and robbed, and who can say how many more corpses are never found? We know of gangs who steal the living and the dead for their water.”

Paul, though, was not surprised to hear the news. “Under the circumstances, it is to be expected.”

After glancing at his agenda, Korba presented a tally of melange export shipments. As the Empire expanded, so did Paul’s need for a stronger goad to use against the Guild and CHOAM, so he had asked for increased spice production from the desert. And whatever Muad’Dib wished, Muad’Dib received.

Next, he reviewed reports from the latest battlefields of the Jihad. Many of the Landsraad nobles who had allied themselves with him helped to spread his banners to other worlds, to subdue those planets that still resisted. But he noted a surprising pattern: few of the worlds being “conquered” were genuine threats to his reign. Rather, the friendly nobles had a tendency to choose targets based on bygone feuds and family hatreds, using the violent Jihad as an excuse to settle old grudges. Paul had seen this, but knew that these unfortunate and unconscionable excesses added fuel to build the necessary flames higher.

Listening to the succession of victories, the offhanded recitation of casualty figures, Irulan warned, “Before long, the people will cry out for the days of my father’s rule.”

“Chaos always brings regrets,” Paul said. Including my own. “We will have peace once the deadwood is removed from the old and decayed Imperium. I cannot say, though, how long that will take.”

Irulan retorted, “I see how your own government is shaping up, Emperor Paul Atreides. Do you truly believe your methods can yield something superior to the Corrino Imperium? With only a few interruptions, my bloodline ruled humanity for ten thousand years. Do you imagine that yours will do the same?”

Korba shot to his feet, spouting a phrase his Qizarate chanted in the streets. “Muad’Dib will endure forever!”

“Oh, enough, Korba,” Paul said wearily. “Use your maxims for the crowds, not here in private counsel.”

The Fedaykin leader collapsed backward into his chair as if deflated by Paul’s words.

Paul leaned forward, looking for cracks in the usual Bene Gesserit reserve. “Continue, Irulan. I find this interesting.”

She drew her rosebud lips together, pleased and surprised to be taken seriously. “You claim the best of intentions, but in many ways you have become too Fremen to rule an interplanetary empire. Rulership requires finesse. Once established, political alliances do not remain static. You must monitor and tend to your allies among the noble families and their respective planets. That is why Earl Thorvald has been adept at gathering supporters to resist you. After he walked out of the Landsraad Hall in Kaitain, he began to build his own alliances, and many see him as their only viable alternative. You have embraced brute force, while he uses intricate bureaucratic machinery.”

“His little rebellion consists mainly of making bold pronouncements and then hiding,” Paul pointed out.

“So far.” She shook her head. “I will be proven right on this. Fremen simplicity and crude violence will never master the Imperium.”

“I am also the son of a noble Duke, Irulan. I can balance both sides and draw from each as necessary. I am Paul Atreides and Paul-Muad’Dib.”

The Princess met him with a sharp gaze. “And how much do you use of what your father taught you? I see no advantage in what you are creating: A fanatically united populace under a charismatic leader, following dogma instead of a bill of rights. You have thrown out the complex — and yes, inefficient — bureaucracy of the Landsraad. But you cannot replace it with anarchy! We need a safety net of laws and procedures, a uniform code by which decisions on all planets are made. And yet, you seek to do away with everything that preceded you!”

“Do you suggest that I let my administration grow into a bloated behemoth that wallows in its own self-important rules?”

“That is what a government is, Husband — as you well know.”

Giving Irulan a dangerous look, Chani started to get up, but Paul stopped her by raising his hand. He kept his own annoyance under tight control. “After defeating so many planetary rulers, I will not lose my Empire to bureaucrats.”

“Your target should not be bureaucracy, but efficiency,” Irulan insisted. “Appoint good leaders and competent administrators — people who value achieving an end result over maintaining the status quo or cementing their own importance. Any man who can delay the processing of a form has power over all those who need that form.”

Paul was glad that he’d seen the value of letting the Princess attend this meeting. Of all perspectives in his new Empire, hers was unique, but Irulan had to be kept on a short leash.

Though his mother had not been gone for long, perhaps he needed to bring her back from Caladan. She could fill an important position in his central government. Yet another strong woman in his inner circle.

“You can trust me to follow your wishes, Usul,” Korba said.

“And me,” added Chatt, the first words he had spoken in the meeting.

“And me.” Bitterness edged Irulan’s voice. “I know you do not value me as wife or mate, but you cannot fail to recognize my talent in the field of diplomacy.”

“Oh, I recognize much in you, Irulan. Your skills, like your loyalties, are many, but I will not risk giving you too much power. As daughter of a Padishah Emperor, trained by the Bene Gesserit, you know why.”

Irulan responded with cool annoyance. “Then what would you have me do with all my skills? Shall I simply be an ornament in my husband’s court, like one of the newly planted date palms?”

Paul considered. “I am familiar with your interests, and your usefulness. Your initial book of my life, incomplete and somewhat inaccurate as it is, has proved immensely popular and effective. I shall make you my official biographer.”

17

As a Princess of the old Imperium, Irulan had been instructed in the esoterica of social protocol, how to sit prettily at court functions and perform musical pieces and recitations. She had been encouraged to write poetry about meaningless things that would amuse well-bred people with shallow interests.

In addition, she was Bene Gesserit trained, as were all her sisters. She had much more to offer, and Irulan did not intend to write lack-witted poetry. She was in a remarkable position to chronicle this increasingly chaotic period in human history. Her credentials were unimpeachable as the wife of Muad’Dib and daughter of Shaddam IV.

Expanding on The Life of Muad’Dib, she intended to explore tributaries to the river of his remarkable life. In the process, she would again see the need to alter a few details here and there, though few would realize it as long as she got the gist of the story right. Paul’s propagandists and deluded religious followers remained blithely unaware of the blinders they wore, of the dark forms they refused to see.

They revered her initial, rushed chronicle as if it were scripture, though she herself could clearly see its limitations. Her recent conversations with Swordmaster Bludd had revealed that even Paul had left out large parts when recounting his younger years, but she did not intend to change what she’d already written. On the contrary, each of her works about Paul would stand on its own, without further editing. They were stepping stones out into the water, complete with rough edges and flaws.

Irulan smiled as she sat on a hard plaz seat next to a fountain that, though dry, nevertheless emitted the soothing sounds of rushing water. She had all the inspiration she needed for her writing. Though he often seemed to ignore Irulan’s counsel, Paul now included her in many of his meetings.

In recent days, he had been consumed by an unexpected defeat of his Jihad forces. A Heighliner full of his soldiers, drunk on a succession of uncontested victories, had arrived at the planet Ipyr expecting to accept the surrender of another noble lord. But they had underestimated the resolve of Earl Memnon Thorvald.

There on his home world, Thorvald had gathered the military resources of eleven different planets that were also impending targets for the Jihad. He had unified those lords into a fierce resistance, a bastion of the old Imperium. They had thrown their allied armies against Muad’Dib’s soldiers with surprising and resounding force.

The fact that Paul had not seen this with his prescient vision astonished his followers. But to Paul, the shocking military turnabout suggested that the rebellious Earl’s detailed plotting with the eleven lords must have taken place in the blurring proximity of a powerful Navigator. By managing to keep their plans secret, they had scored a surprising victory.

The faithful could not bring themselves to accept that their supposedly infallible Muad’Dib had made a mistake. Instead, they regarded the defeat as a sign that their hubris and overconfidence had displeased God, and that they must now fight harder to redeem themselves.

Leaving the wreckage of the Jihad battle group on Ipyr, Earl Thorvald and his allies had vanished to some other hideout, blown on the stellar winds. Some said the rebels were hiding on a planet that was shielded by the Guild, although every representative that Paul interrogated — to extremes if necessary — denied any knowledge or complicity.

Irulan took careful notes, realizing that this unaccustomed defeat, and Paul’s reaction to it, made interesting material for an exhaustive biography. She also set herself to learn more about Paul Atreides, son of Duke Leto, grandson of Old Duke Paulus. His genealogy and the traditions surrounding noble House Atreides contained important elements of his character, yet Paul had taken a radically different path from his father.

Invoking the holy name of Muad’Dib, the Corrino princess was able to gather stories from those who had known Paul in his younger years, though many of the accounts were obviously inflated. She wrote down the tall tales anyway and focused on finding kernels of truth.

She had just received numerous documents from Caladan, including a long letter from Lady Jessica herself. The few remaining technocratic functionaries that had served House Vernius on Ix submitted old records of Prince Rhombur’s friendship with Duke Leto and the Ixian nobleman’s memories of young Paul.

Because of Paul’s part in the Kwisatz Haderach program, the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood on Wallach IX had closely monitored his youth. The old Reverend Mother Mohiam was no friend of Paul’s, but she respected Irulan and turned over many documents, hoping that the Princess would use them against “that upstart Emperor.”

Irulan absorbed it all and quickly realized that her project could grow into an incredible undertaking, one that would receive such scrutiny as no other book had — not even the Orange Catholic Bible during the Council of Ecumenical Translators. The thought did not intimidate her. Her initial effort had already proved the potential in what she could write.

And Paul knew precisely what she was doing.

Though he had denied her a prominent position in his government, Irulan adopted her new purpose with enthusiasm rather than disappointment. Whatever she published would literally become history, read by schoolchildren on thousands of worlds.

It seemed that was what her husband really wanted from her after all….

One morning she went to Paul’s Imperial office to talk with him, holding a copy of the first volume in The Life of Muad’Dib. She dropped the deep blue book on his desktop, a plane of polished Elaccan bloodwood. “Exactly how much is missing from this story? I’ve been talking with Bludd. In your accounts of your life, you left out vital details.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Your publication has defined my life’s story.”

“You told me you had never left Caladan before your House moved to Arrakis. Whole parts of your youth have been left out.”

“Painful parts.” He frowned at her. “But, more importantly, irrelevant parts. We’ve streamlined the story for mass consumption, such as when you wrote that I was born on Caladan and not Kaitain. It sounds better that way, doesn’t it? We eliminated unnecessary complications, cut off unnecessary questions and explanations.”

She could not hide her frustration. “Sometimes the truth is complicated.”

“Yes, it is.”

“But if I tell a part of the story that directly contradicts what has been published before —”

“If you write it, they will believe it. Trust me.”