Dune

We do not teach history; we recreate the experience. We follow the chain of consequences—the tracks of the beast in its forest. Look behind our words and you see the broad sweep of social behavior that no historian has ever touched.

—BENE GESSERIT PANOPLIA PROPHETICUS

Scytale whistled while he walked down the corridor fronting his quarters, taking his afternoon exercise. Down and back. Whistling.

Get them accustomed to me whistling.

As he whistled, he composed a ditty to go with the sound: “Tleilaxu sperm does not talk.” Over and over, the words rolled in his mind. They could not use his cells to bridge the genetic gap and learn his secrets.

They must come to me with gifts.

Odrade had stopped by to see him earlier “on my way to confer with Murbella.” She mentioned the captive Honored Matre to him frequently. There was a purpose but he had no idea what it might be. Threat? Always possible. It would be revealed eventually.

“I hope you are not fearful,” Odrade had said.

They had been standing at his food slot while he waited for lunch to appear. The menu was never quite to his liking but acceptable. Today, he had asked for seafood. No telling what form it would take.

“Fearful? Of you? Ahhh, dear Mother Superior, I am priceless to you alive. Why should I fear?”

“My Council reserves judgment on your latest requests.”

I expected that.

“It’s a mistake to hobble me,” he said. “Limits your choices. Weakens you.”

Those words had taken several days of planning for him to compose. He waited for their effect.

“It depends on how one intends to employ the tool, Master Scytale. Some tools break when you don’t use them properly.”

Damn you, witch!

He smiled, showing his sharp canines. “Testing to extinction, Mother Superior?”

She made one of her rare sallies into humor. “Do you really expect me to strengthen you? For what do you bargain now, Scytale?”

So I’m no longer Master Scytale. Strike her with the flat of the blade!

“You Scatter your Sisters, hoping some will escape destruction. What are the economic consequences of your hysterical reaction?”

Consequences! They always talk about consequences.

“We trade for time, Scytale.” Very solemn.

He gave this a silent moment of reflection. The comeyes were watching them. Never forget it! Economics, witch! Who and what do we buy and sell? This alcove by the food slot was a strange place for bargaining, he thought. Bad management of the economy. The management hustle, the planning and strategy session, should occur behind closed doors, in high rooms with views that did not distract the occupants from the business at hand.

The serial memories of his many lives would not accept that. Necessity. Humans conduct their merchant affairs wherever they can—on the decks of sailing ships, in tawdry streets full of bustling clerks, in the spacious halls of a traditional bourse with information flowing above their heads for all to see.

Planning and strategy might come from those high rooms but the evidence of it was like the common information of the bourse—there for all to see.

So let the comeyes watch.

“What are your intentions toward me, Mother Superior?”

“To keep you alive and strong.”

Careful, careful.

“But not give me a free hand.”

“Scytale! You speak of economics and then want something free?”

“But my strength is important to you?”

“Believe it!”

“I do not trust you.”

The food slot took that moment to disgorge his lunch: a white fish sauteed in a delicate sauce. He smelled herbs. Water in a tall glass, faint aroma of melange. A green salad. One of their better efforts. He felt himself salivating.

“Enjoy your lunch, Master Scytale. There is nothing in it to harm you. Is that not a measure of trust?”

When he did not respond, she said: “What does trust have to do with our bargaining?”

What game is she playing now?

“You tell me what you intend for Honored Matres but you do not say what you intend for me.” He knew he sounded plaintive. Unavoidable.

“I intend to make the Honored Matres aware of their mortality.”

“As you do with me!”

Was that satisfaction in her eyes?

“Scytale.” How soft her voice. “People thus made aware truly listen. They hear you.” She glanced at his tray. “Would you like something special?”

He drew himself up as best he could. “A small stimulant drink. It helps when I must think.”

“Of course. I’ll see that it’s sent down at once.” She turned her attention out of the alcove toward the main room of his quarters. He watched where she paused, her gaze shifting from place to place, item to item.

Everything in its place, witch. I am not an animal in its cave. Things must be convenient, where I can find them without thinking. Yes, those are stimpens beside my chair. So I use ’pens. But I avoid alcohol. You notice?

The stimulant, when it came, tasted of a bitter herb he was a moment identifying. Casmine. A genetically modified blood strengthener from the Gammu pharmacopoeia.

Did she intend to remind him of Gammu? They were so devious, these witches!

Poking fun at him over the question of economics. He felt the sting of this as he turned at the end of his corridor and continued his exercise in a brisk walk back to his quarters. What glue had actually held the Old Empire together? Many things, some small and some large, but mostly economic. Lines of connection thought of often as conveniences. And what kept them from blasting one another out of existence? The Great Convention. “You blast anyone and we unite to blast you.”

He stopped outside his door, brought up short by a thought.

Was that it? How could punishment be enough to stop the greedy powindah? Did it come down to a glue composed of intangibles? The censure of your peers? But what if your peers balked at no obscenity? You could do anything. And that said something about Honored Matres. It certainly did.

He longed for a sagra chamber in which to bare his soul.

The Yaghist is gone! Am I the last Masheikh?

His chest felt empty. It was an effort to breathe. Perhaps it would be best to bargain more openly with the women of Shaitan.

No! That is Shaitan himself tempting me!

He entered his chambers in a chastened mood.

I must make them pay. Make them pay dearly. Dearly, dearly, dearly. Each dearly accompanied a step toward his chair. When he sat, his right hand reached out automatically for a ’pen. Soon, he felt his mind driving at speed, thoughts pouring through in marvelous array.

They do not guess how well I know the Ixian ship. It’s here in my head.

He spent the next hour deciding how he would record these moments when it came time to tell his fellows how he had triumphed over the powindah. With God’s help!

They would be glittering words, filled with drama and the tensions of his testing. History, after all, was always written by the victors.