The Winds of Dune (38 page)

Hidden in the crowd, he was jostled by elbows and shoulders. The smell of packed human bodies and dry dust penetrated the scarf he’d wrapped around the lower half of his face. He pulled his hood farther forward to conceal his features.

With great sadness and unrelenting defiance, Bronso of Ix watched his duplicate die before a bloodthirsty mob. As the people withdrew in horror and disgust, cheated of their true victim, he had an excuse to turn away from the dead shape-shifter—the man, his friend—who had sacrificed himself.

Bronso had accepted many necessary and painful tasks, but he’d never before asked anyone to die for him. Sielto had seen the need, and had volunteered. Another “necessary” death. Bronso didn’t think he could have made the request alone. . . .

Aboard the Guild Heighliner, where he had gathered with Sielto and other members of Rheinvar’s troupe, the plan had been obvious and ingenious. “They are looking for you everywhere,” said Sielto. “Therefore, it is best to let them find you.” The Face Dancer had shifted his features to mirror Bronso’s. “They will find me instead, and they will be fooled.”

“But you’ll be executed.” He remembered with a shudder the time he had been held in the death cell. “And no one will help you escape.”

“I am aware of that. All Face Dancers have agreed to wear your features—on cue. Immediately after my execution, ‘Bronso of Ix’ will seem to appear everywhere at once. There will be hundreds of sightings around the Imperium.”

Bronso remained guarded. “But once Alia’s men have been fooled, they will develop tests and find ways to expose the Face Dancer im-posters.”

Sielto shrugged. “Let them do so. After a hundred false arrests, even Alia will grow tired of chasing false trails, humiliated by being tricked time and again. You will be safe.”

“I’ll never be safe . . . but this may give me some breathing room.” Bronso hung his head. “Sielto, I’ve known you for so many years. The time when Paul and I worked with you was so happy, until . . .” His expression fell. “I don’t want you to do this for me.”

Wearing Bronso’s face, Sielto had remained undisturbed. “You make an error when you consider us to be individuals. I am just a Face Dancer and a Jongleur—malleable and adaptable to any circumstance, including my own execution. I was
designed
to play a role, my friend, and this will be my finest performance.”

And it had been, indeed.

Swallowed up in the angry crowd, Bronso watched it all, hardly able to bear the gruesome sight. If anything, he had underestimated the magnitude of the audience’s shocked reaction. This trick with the Face Dancer now made all these people consider Bronso to be even more the genius, even more the villain. He had fooled them again!

It wasn’t what Bronso wanted, but it was what he
needed
in order to continue tearing down the myth. And that was what Paul needed. Beyond that, nothing else mattered.

Murder? The word, the very concept itself, is not in my lexicon—at least not as it can be applied to my Imperial rule. If killings are needed, I order them. It is not a matter of legality or morality; it is one of the necessities of my position.

—
ALIA ATREIDES
, in the seventh month of her Regency

D
ressed in an austere black robe so that no one would recognize her, Jessica hurried along a crowded, dusty boulevard in Arrakeen. In the early evening, yellow lights from narrow sealed windows and recessed doorways cast pools of illumination. When darkness fell, young people frequented this main thoroughfare, some doing the circuit of taverns, others attending services at countless new temples and shrines that had sprung up after Paul’s death. She made her way around the small crowds that blocked the entrances to their favorite places.

For the past hour, she had been inside the newly renamed Temple of Muad’Dib’s Glory, and now she was on her way back to the Citadel. The temple was the grandest of several such structures that had not quite been completed before the wedding. Alia herself had chosen this particular building to be refurbished, ordering her teams of workmen to labor around the clock. It was not yet open to the public, but she had insisted that her mother see it today. Jessica doubted Paul would have wanted such an ostentatious temple dedicated to his memory and legend.

The priest in charge had given her a private tour, and Jessica pretended to be impressed. At her daughter’s behest, she had given the holy man an authentic artifact of Paul—a red braid from an Atreides
uniform he’d worn as a boy. The grateful priest had stammered his thanks as he held the object in its clearplaz box. He promised to place it in a secure reliquary and henceforth exhibit it inside the temple. Before sending the braid to him, however, Alia had ordered it duplicated, so that facsimiles could be sold along with other artifacts.

On the edge of the thoroughfare ahead, Jessica saw a man running, brushing against the dry, tan buildings, while gunshots rang out. A small police ’thopter, flying low, roared around the corner of the street beyond the man, spraying projectile fire at him, thin needles that glinted in the dusk.

Screaming people scattered in the streets and into doorways; a number of them were struck by stray or ricocheting projectiles, since most townspeople did not wear body shields. Jessica dodged into a doorway and pressed her back against the moisture seal as a spray of gunfire tore up the place where she had been walking. The hunted man ran past her, panting like a laboring engine as he fled. For an instant, he gaped at her; his eyes were large with terror, and he dodged back out into the street toward a group of people outside a drinking establishment.

Moments later, she heard another burst of gunfire and more ’thopters. Men wearing the black-and-green uniforms of Alia’s Imperial guard ran past, shouting; some of them grinned like hunting jackals. Peering out of her meager shelter, Jessica saw the hapless man lying motionless in a widening pool of blood. Moisture wasted, flowing away on the pavement.

Jessica moved quietly forward with a gathering crowd of onlookers. A woman knelt over the body, sobbing. “Ammas! Why have they killed my Ammas?” She stared at the appalled spectators as if they could give her answers. “My husband was just a shopkeeper. In the name of Muad’Dib,
why
?”

Alia’s guards quickly hauled the woman away, pushing her into the back of a groundcar that sped off.

Jessica marched angrily up to an officer who was trying to disperse the crowd around the man’s bleeding body. “I am the mother of Muad’Dib. You know me. Explain your actions.”

The man recoiled as he recognized her. “My Lady! It is not safe for you to be out by yourself. There are dangerous elements in the streets, threats against the Regent, people spreading sedition.”

“Yes, I can see how unsafe it is, particularly for that man. But you have not answered my question.”

He seemed perplexed. “Any person who speaks out against the sacred memory of Muad’Dib is subject to arrest and prosecution. Any propagandist may be in league with Bronso of Ix. We do it to honor your noble son and daughter, and . . . and the entire Atreides family, including yourself.”

“You do not commit murder to honor
me
. What was your evidence against this man?” She could still see the terrified expression on the poor victim’s face, the hopelessness. “Where is his conviction order from an Arrakeen court?”

“We were trying to arrest him, and he fled. Please, my Lady, let me escort you back to the Citadel. The Imperial Regent Alia herself can answer your questions much better than I.”

Though the smell of blood and violence clung to the guard, he was only a follower, a tool that had been used by Alia’s hand. “Yes, I would very much like to see my daughter right now.”

Alia wore a white dressing gown when she came to the door. Her dark hair was wet.
Wet
, letting the moisture simply evaporate into the dry air. Scrubbers on the walls and ceiling recaptured most of the humidity, but the lax water discipline still surprised Jessica, even here in the keep.

Standing in the open doorway, Jessica said, “I want to know why your guards shot and killed a man in the street tonight. A woman—apparently his wife—said he was just a shopkeeper, and she was taken away as well.”

“You must be referring to Ammas Kain? Yes, I signed his arrest order and followed the proper forms. He is a seditionist, promoting hatred against me, destabilizing my regime.”

Jessica crossed her arms, not softening her position. “And your evidence?”

Alia brushed a strand of wet hair away from her face. “A copy of an appalling new manifesto from Bronso was found in his smoke shop.”

“Simply finding such a document is sufficient reason to call for his execution without further investigation?” Jessica remembered how
she had seen the Wayku aboard the Heighliner discreetly depositing Bronso’s tracts in public places. “In whose court of law?”

Alia stiffened. “Mine, of course, because I
am
the law. Have you read Bronso’s most recent manifesto? Instead of limiting his venom to Paul, the new document calls me and my husband ‘the Whore and the Ghola.’ Bronso names you the ‘Mother of all Evil’ and claims you took so many secret lovers that no one can know whether Duke Leto was really Paul’s father.”

Jessica drew back in surprise and puzzlement.
Bronso
had written that? “All along, Bronso’s stated purpose has been to correct the historical record about my son and his rule. Why would he stoop to insults against you and me?”

“Why does he need any further reason? He lives to spread hatred.” Alia invited her inside the chambers, offering to share a pot of melange-laced tea. “I’m glad that you’re here with me. This will be a particularly dangerous night. Many operations are under way.”

Jessica heard alarms sounding outside. She crossed Alia’s quarters, still smelling the bathing perfumes and moisture in the air, making her way to a high window. Through the plaz pane, she saw an unusual number of aircraft flying over the city, playing their spotlights across the night sky.

“Duncan is in charge of the details,” Alia said. “I could have asked Gurney to join him, but my husband was sure he could handle it himself. He is so dedicated and loyal! Tonight, the streets of Arrakeen flow with the blood of those who hate us, and tomorrow, our city will be much cleaner.”

Jessica’s horror was tinged with amazement. As she looked at her daughter, the events seemed unreal. She realized with a further chill that Alia had sent
her
to the refurbished temple without warning her of the violence that was about to be unleashed.
Did she want me out there? In harm’s way?

Coldly, Jessica said, “Bronso wrote terrible things about your brother for years, but
Paul
never felt the need for such an extreme reaction. Why are you so sensitive?”

“Because Bronso has escalated his campaign against the Imperial government. Therefore I am escalating the response.”

“By reacting so extremely, you give his words a legitimacy they do not deserve. Just ignore Bronso’s criticisms.”

“Then I would look weak, or a fool, or both. My response is entirely appropriate.”

“I disagree.” Jessica considered using an appropriate shifting of Voice, in an attempt to bring her daughter to her knees, but that could precipitate a confrontation between them. Alia was not without her own defenses. Still, she wanted to make Alia see what she was doing. “Your father was called Leto the Just. Are you your father’s daughter, or are you something else? A changeling?”