The Winds of Dune (44 page)

“Corrino neglect, you mean?” Shaddam asked, with a glare.

“All Great Houses were to blame, not just yours.”

Like a serpent about to strike, Fenring leaned forward, folded his hands together. “Ahhhh, hmmm, can you explain to us how these continuing massacres by jihadis benefit mankind, in either the short or long run? How many planets has your son sterilized now? Is it three or four? How many more does he intend to destroy?”

“Emperor Muad’Dib makes his difficult decisions according to the harsh necessities of his rule,” Irulan interrupted, “as you well know, Father. We are not privy to all of his reasons.”

Around the table, no one was eating. All were listening to the conversation, even young Farad’n Corrino.

Count Fenring shrugged his shoulders. “Even so, do you all remain convinced that Muad’Dib’s work is necessary? Tell us, for we are eager to hear your answer. How is the sterilization of planets and the slaughter of populations
helpful
to humanity in any way? Explain this to us, please, hmmm?”

“Muad’Dib sees things that others cannot. His vision extends far into the future,” Chani said.

The plates were taken away, hardly touched, and the next course arrived—small roasted squabs in a bitter citrus sauce, garnished with spears of fresh flowers. Pressed for a definite answer, Jessica used one of her common refrains, even though it had not sounded convincing to her for a long while.

“My son understands the pitfalls that await all of us. He once told me that the only way to lead humanity forward is to build bridges across those pitfalls. I believe in him. If he has determined that continuing violence is necessary, then I trust him implicitly.”

Wensicia made a sarcastic noise. “She sounds like one of the fanatics herself. All three of them do.” Her venomous glare was directed toward Irulan, who ignored her.

Shaddam gave a rude snort, then caught himself and wiped his
mouth with his napkin, pretending that the sound had been no more than an unpleasant belch. “Paul Atreides implies he has good reasons, but won’t reveal them? Know this, all of you—a man on the Imperial throne can
say
anything he likes and expect others to believe him. That is what followers do. They
believe
. I know—I took advantage of that fact myself, many times.”

The day the flesh shapes and the flesh the day shapes.

—
DUKE LETO ATREIDES

W
hile the Duchess was away from Caladan, an old woman struggled up the steps of the Cala City town hall, refusing the assistance offered by two kindly onlookers. She muttered at them with enough sourness that the two gave her a wide berth. The mood of the gathered people was already stormy, which fit the weather outside. In the past hour it had rained heavily, leaving the streets wet and the buildings dripping.

She ascended the laid-stone stairs, step by painful step. A tall man in a formal suit held the door open for her, and she moved past him with a grunt of appreciation. To anyone watching, the climb had taken its toll on her, and she needed a place to sit down, but she concealed her strength. She had arrived early enough to secure an aisle seat in the front row, where the most people would notice her.

So far, her performance was quite convincing. No one would suspect that Gaius Helen Mohiam was a Reverend Mother of the Bene Gesserit.

Her bird-bright eyes took in the surroundings. This was an old government structure, with frescoes painted on the walls depicting the exploits of famous Atreides dukes. In one of the newer paintings, she recognized Paulus in his matador outfit, facing a huge Salusan bull.

Paul Atreides, the reckless, out-of-control Kwisatz Haderach, had become a Salusan bull in the political arena, rampaging and goring Imperial traditions. In only a handful of years, Muad’Dib had single-handedly stripped the Bene Gesserit of their power and influence, heaping scorn on them and sending them running back to Wallach IX . . . not in defeat, but to regroup. Mohiam knew with every fiber of her being that the Sisterhood had to remove Paul and hope that his successor could be more easily controlled.

He is my grandson,
she thought bitterly. How she wished she’d never been a part of the Bene Gesserit breeding chain that led to such a monster. After what he had done, Mohiam found him to be even more loathsome than Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, who had gotten her pregnant in the first place. Now, she deeply regretted not killing her grandson when she’d had the chance. There had been numerous opportunities, including one shortly after his birth, when she killed the original Piter de Vries and saved the baby.

That was a mistake.

But a Bene Gesserit was capable of looking at the broader picture of history. Mistakes could be corrected. And she was intent on doing so now.

As she sat in the town hall, exaggerating her discomfort with sounds and sighs and restless shiftings, townspeople continued to stream into the hall. Mayor Horvu appeared on the stage, fiddled with something on the podium, then looked at the agenda with a preoccupied muttering. All around her, the noise level increased to a loud, buzzing murmur—a decidedly angry murmur, because of the Imperial edict that changed the name of their planet.

Patience
. Mohiam concealed her smile.

She remembered another opportunity to kill Paul Atreides, and again she had failed to act. When he was but a teenager, wide-eyed and earnest, she had held the poisoned gom jabbar to his neck, testing him with the agony box. Just a little jab then, and none of the ensuing horrors would have happened, hundreds of billions dead in his name, four planets sterilized and no doubt more on the planning sheets, all of human civilization reeling from an onslaught of fanaticism. One little jab of a needle.. . .

Another mistake. A big one.

She vowed not to make another one, though Mohiam doubted if she would ever get close to Paul again, because of the political machinery of his empire and his religion all around her. Paul’s stinging words that day after his victory against the Emperor lingered in her memory:
“I think it better punishment that you live out your years never able to touch me or bend me to a single thing your scheming desires.”

Instead, the Sisterhood would have to carry the battle into a different arena, one at which they were masters. They would use individual populations as weapons. And what better weapon to turn against the Atreides than the people of Caladan? Though explicitly forbidden from traveling to Arrakis, she had quietly made her way here.

Now, in disguise among the locals, she had all of the necessary identity documents, contact lenses to cover her spice-addicted blue-in-blue eyes, overlaid fingerprints, altered facial features—she would fool anyone. Mohiam had worried that Lady Jessica or Gurney Halleck might recognize her, but the Duchess of Caladan had departed on an errand for her son to Salusa Secundus, and Earl Halleck was at his rural estate.
All the better
. No one else on this planet would know her.

The Sisterhood’s campaign to undermine Paul-Muad’Dib would begin here. She would stir up the anthill and watch what scurried out. Paul had already slighted the people of Caladan and lost their respect. He had turned his back on them,
offended
them with his proclamation to rename their world as “Chisra Sala Muad’Dib.” A ridiculous mouthful. Mohiam couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity.

The local mayor called the town hall meeting to order, coming forward on bird-thin legs that did not seem capable of supporting his potbelly. He seemed avuncular, well-liked. “We all know why we’re here today.” His rheumy eyes scanned the crowd. “We cannot let some distant bureaucrat rename our world. The question is, what are we going to do about it?”

The audience roared their unfocused outrage, years of uneasiness and dissatisfaction with the pilgrim mobs, blundering offworlders, the intrusion of outside events that should have remained safely far away.

“Caladan is Caladan.”

“This is our planet, our people.”

Horvu shouted into the voice pickup at the podium. “So then, what if we propose ‘Muad’Dib’s Caladan’ as a compromise?”

“What if we find a new mayor?” a woman called in response. The crowd laughed.

One man was particularly vehement. “Desert fanatics do not decide our daily lives. What do grubby, dirty people know about the sea and the tides, the fish harvest, the thunderclouds and storms? Hah, they’ve never even seen rain! What do they know of our needs? A Fremen wouldn’t survive a week on the high seas.”

“We have nothing to do with Muad’Dib’s Empire,” said another man. “I don’t know this ‘Muad’Dib’—I know only Paul Atreides, who should be our Duke.”

“Let’s build up our army and fight them!” a woman cried in a shrill voice.

Mohiam watched the interchange with great interest, but the last comment was so absurd that some of the shouts died down. The mayor shook his head, looking sad. “No, no, none of that. We cannot stand up to Muad’Dib’s vast military—you all know that.”

“Then don’t fight them.” Mohiam struggled to her feet and turned toward the audience. “We don’t want war. We want to be left alone. As many of you have said, Caladan is not part of this endless, bloody Jihad, and we should declare our
indepen dence
. Paul Atreides is our lawful Duke, not this man who calls himself by a foreign name. Caladan isn’t part of this struggle. We never wanted a part of it. We never invited these crazed pilgrims who sweep like locusts into our towns. We just want things back the way they were.”

Mohiam heard bits of conversation around her. “Independence . . . Independence! Wouldn’t it be wonderful?”

Independence
. The word was like a fresh sea breeze curling through the town hall. The people naively thought that this new idea would not require them to take up arms and go against screaming Fedaykin killers.

The mayor raised a bony hand in an attempt to silence the crowd. “We are not here to discuss rebellion. I will have no part in that.”

“Then you are in the wrong place,” Mohiam said, very pleased with the discussion. “I am old and I have seen much. I was once a house servant for Old Duke Paulus, back when Atreides honor and human dignity still meant something. After he died, I withdrew inland where I have led a quiet life. Many of you may have seen me over the years, but probably didn’t notice me.” A planted idea, and the listeners would ponder
and decide that, yes, they might have seen her in the town from time to time.

“What happened to Atreides honor? We just want a measure of respect. Enough of this folly. Either stand up to those priests or become doormats for them. Do not lose your backbone! If Paul Atreides bears any love for Caladan—and I believe he must—then surely he will accept the will of the people. We mean him no harm, but we must retain our identity. For the people of Caladan!” Her eyes scanned the crowd one last time. “Or would you rather be forever known as the people of
Chisra Sala Muad’Dib
?” She practically spat the name.

It was time to make her exit. The audience muttered, then began to cheer Mohiam as she worked her way down the aisle and back to the outer doors, the stone steps, and the damp night outside. She had barely needed to use Voice at all. . . .

As she departed, she heard Mayor Horvu changing his tune, enthusiastically accepting her suggestions as a reasonable compromise. Oblivious to her manipulations, he would carry the torch from here, and in later days no one would be able to name her, nor would they find her. Horvu would now lead them in increasingly dangerous directions. By the time Jessica came home from Salusa Secundus, the groundswell would be uncontrollable.

Mayor Horvu and all these people were mere cannon fodder in this new political battle, and Reverend Mother Mohiam felt no guilt about it. The entire Imperium was a large game of chess, and she was privileged to move some of the key pieces, never forgetting the line between the player and her pawns.

With a brisk step she walked into the drizzle, no longer showing signs of extreme age.
Sometimes it is so challenging to be human,
she thought.