The Winds of Dune (32 page)

When Stilgar fell silent, she continued. “Though the Fremen have sipped and collected and stolen every drop for the green transformation of Arrakis, this place in Plaster Basin has a special significance to us all. These plantings are symbols, reminders of what Chani’s grandfather and father envisioned for Dune. We now use Chani’s water to help them thrive. Green is the color of mourning, but here it is also the color of hope.”

Stilgar withdrew a demi-cup of water from the basin and walked to the nearest mesquite, whose warm multichord scent lifted like a whisper from its leaves and bark. “Chani was my friend. She was a member
of my Fremen troop, a fighter, a boon companion. She was with me when we found a boy and his mother lost in the desert. She did not know it then, but she had already lost her father Liet to the Harkonnens . . . and yet she found her true love.” He poured the water at the base of the plant, letting it soak into the thirsty roots. “The strength of a woman can be boundless. In this manner, the sacred ruh-spirit of Chani, beloved companion of Paul-Muad ’Dib, remains an eternal part of Dune.”

Jessica carried a second tiny cup of water to one of the struggling portyguls. The six hard, green fruits dangling from its branches would turn orange like a setting sun as they ripened. “Chani was my friend. She was the mother of my grandchildren, and she was my son’s true love.” It had been hard for her at first, but Jessica had indeed accepted Paul’s Fremen woman, had told him that she loved Chani herself. She drew a breath now. “Even when all of humanity shouted his name, she made Paul remember that he was human.”

Stilgar motioned for Harah to be next. His wife, normally so outspoken, sounded nervous as she spoke. Jessica could see the emotions barely held in check by her set face. “Chani was my friend, a Fremen woman and a Fremen warrior. She was—” Harah’s voice cracked. “As Usul was the base of the pillar, she was his base,
his
support.”

The hundred guests came forward in a special type of communion, doling out sips of Chani’s essence in a hushed and reverential ceremony. They took small measures of Chani’s water for the plantings, while the remainder would be poured into the communal reservoir.

“It is said that Muad’Dib will never be found, but all men will find him,” Stilgar announced as the final audience member emptied his demi-cup. “Chani’s water will never be found, yet all Fremen in the tribes will find her.”

Jessica added, “She did not wish to be deified. Chani, daughter of Liet, will be sacred to us in her own way. She needs nothing more, nor do we.”

None of the Fremen here comprehended the vastness of Muad’Dib’s empire or the underlying tangles of his Jihad, but they knew Chani, and understood what this ceremony meant for her identity as a Fremen.

When the somber gathering was over, Jessica whispered, “We did a good thing today, Stilgar.”

“Yes, and now we can go back to Arrakeen and continue as before, but I feel rejuvenated. I must confess to you, Sayyadina Jessica, that I have long experienced a desire to withdraw from the government, to make myself remote from the wider and more unpleasant realities I’ve seen . . . just as Muad’Dib withdrew from his place in history by walking off into the desert.”

“Sometimes it is a brave gesture to withdraw.” Jessica remembered how she had turned her back during the heat of the Jihad, how she would soon return to Caladan to govern the people there. “And sometimes it is braver to stay.”

He began fitting his stillsuit, twisted a noseplug into place, and brushed dust from his cloak. “I will continue to advise Regent Alia, and will watch over the children of Muad’Dib. In those duties, I shall always hold true to my Fremen self. Come, we must return to Arrakeen, before your daughter notices that we are gone.”

My loyalty has always been to House Atreides, yet the needs of the various Atreides are often contradictory—Alia, Jessica, Paul, Duke Leto, even the newborn twins. That is where loyalty and honor become complicated and depend upon good judgment.

—
GURNEY HALLECK

T
hough Bronso of Ix had been a wanted man for seven years already, Alia launched an even more vigorous hunt to find him and stop his never-ending character-assassination campaign against Paul Atreides. She felt his diatribes as personal affronts, and she wanted him captured before her wedding.

She placed Duncan Idaho in charge, with Gurney Halleck to offer any possible help—just like old times.

The ghola met with Gurney in a private room in a large and mostly empty wing of the Citadel. “Remember when we both went chasing after Rabban at the end of the military debacle on Grumman?” Gurney asked, taking a seat. “We ran him down, cornered him above a hydroelectric dam.”

Duncan looked at him without amusement. “I see you’re still testing me—it was at a waterfall in a steep canyon, not a dam. That was when I first blooded my own sword.” He narrowed his artificial eyes. “Bronso is a far more devious man than Beast Rabban, and much more elusive. You should concentrate on hunting him, not on testing my memories.”

Gurney made a low grunt. “You may have all your memories, my friend, but you don’t seem to have your old sense of humor.”

Duncan leaned forward, elbows on his knees in a surprisingly casual
gesture. “We’ve got a job to do, and Bronso will not make it easy. Over the years, he’s attempted to eliminate all images of himself from public records, and he’s been so successful that he must have had help from influential sources—the Spacing Guild, perhaps, or the Bene Gesserit.

“Paul made powerful enemies. Therefore, Bronso has allies out in the Imperium, people who agree with his assessment of Muad’Dib’s governmental excesses—disenfranchised members of the Landsraad, certainly the Guild and the Sisterhood, along with loyalists of the fallen Corrino Emperor.”

Gurney frowned, scratched his chin. “But Bronso has also mortally offended many. I can’t believe someone hasn’t turned him in by now.”

“The first time he was arrested, it did no good,” Duncan said.

“Aye, but he wouldn’t have gotten away if you or I had been in charge of security.”

Three years earlier, during the final battles of the Jihad, Bronso Vernius had been thrown into a death cell and interrogated by ruthless Qizara inquisitors. According to the sketchy records Gurney could uncover about the embarrassing incident, the priests had kept Bronso there in secret, not even informing Muad’Dib . . . yet Bronso had escaped, and continued his seditious crusade.

Given the incredible security inside Muad’Dib’s citadel, it did not seem possible that the renegade could have broken free without help—one rumor even suggested that Paul himself had a hand in it, although Gurney couldn’t imagine why he would have done that. The Qizarate had tried to cover up the debacle, but word slipped out anyway, and the legend of Bronso of Ix grew. . . .

Now, after the Ixian’s outrageous actions during Paul’s funeral, Alia offered vast rewards of spice, and blessings in the name of Muad’Dib, for Bronso’s arrest. But he was as mysterious and impossible to find as the outlaw Muad’Dib had been during his desert years. Having studied Paul so thoroughly—if only to criticize him—Bronso might be using similar techniques to elude capture.

“He couldn’t have eliminated
all
images of himself,” Gurney said. “Bronso was the heir to House Vernius. There must be Landsraad records?”

“They were either lost in the Jihad and the sacking of Kaitain, or intentionally deleted by cooperative Landsraad representatives. Paul
made few friends there, and under Alia their power is slipping even further.” Duncan fashioned a smile. “However, we’ve obtained images from the Ixian Confederation, who have no great love for him. They’re still trying to buy themselves back into Alia’s good graces. And I have a perfect memory of Bronso from when he was younger, when he was with Paul.”

“He was just a boy then. This is a lot different from the last time you and I went hunting for him.”

“But we will find him—as we did before.” Duncan drew out a crystalpad projector, called up an entry. “I followed the distribution of his new tracts. They seem to appear at random, all over the place, on world after world, involving people who have no obvious connection to each other, no political similarities, no apparent grudges against Paul. I believe Bronso has a Heighliner distribution network, using the Guild, possibly even without their knowledge.”

Gurney scowled. “On our journey here, Jessica and I saw one of his manifestos left out in a public drinking establishment. At least some of the Wayku are involved. Bronso may have thousands of converts helping him, slipping publications to random travelers who inadvertently carry them to far-flung places, like a gaze hound transports ticks.”

Duncan showed no surprise at the idea. “I’ve already developed a plan. I have recruited nine hundred trained Mentats. Each one has memorized Bronso’s appearance from the images the Ixians provided, and they keep watch for him in spaceports, in cities, anywhere he is likely to appear.”

“
Nine hundred
Mentats? Gods below, I didn’t know you could gain access to so many.”

“Nine hundred. If any one of them sees Bronso, he will be recognized and reported.” Duncan stood up as if to adjourn the meeting. “I believe we should concentrate our efforts here on Arrakis. It’s a gut feeling.”

“A gut feeling? Now there’s the old Duncan. You truly think he’s here somewhere?”

“Specifically, in Arrakeen.”

Gurney’s brow furrowed. “Why would Bronso come here? He knows it’s not safe. This would be the last place I’d expect to see him.”

“That is precisely why I believe he’s here, or soon will be. I’ve performed a detailed analysis of the movements and distributions of his publications. It fits his pattern. I can explain the Mentat derivation if you like, but it will take some time.” Duncan raised his eyebrows.

“I trust your conclusions, whether or not I understand them. Meanwhile, I’ll put the word out among my old smuggler contacts. There’s a chance Bronso might seek their aid—his grandfather Dominic had quite a network among them.”
Including me
. “We’ll find him.”

Duncan walked to the door. “Of course we will. We have resources he cannot match. And if you and I work together, no man can stand against us.”

Gurney Halleck was always pleased when Jessica asked to see him. She called for him to meet her in the underground levels of the palace; the tunnels that had once been beneath the Arrakeen Residency were now access passages to huge buried cisterns that held water for daily use by the thousands of inhabitants. She had recently returned from the desert, but had been reluctant to tell him about it.

Normally, whenever the mother of Muad’Dib moved from chamber to chamber or went out into the city, a flock of functionaries followed her, but Jessica had brushed them aside under the pretense that she needed to inspect the palace’s water supply without any interference. Gurney knew the real reason she had gone alone: She wanted a quiet, private place to speak with him.

He found her in a shadowy chamber lit by sparse glowglobes. A coolness hung in the stone-lined tunnels, and the shadows themselves seemed moist. Like music, Gurney could hear the background sounds of water dripping into the reservoirs, reclaimed moisture from the halls above.

Thanks to the long-term plans of Pardot Kynes and his son Liet, Fremen had been stockpiling enormous amounts of water for the eventual transformation of Arrakis. Even so, these huge polymer-lined reservoirs would have astonished inhabitants of the old Dune. Such a hoard proved the power and glory of Muad’Dib.