“Listen carefully, Feyd,” the Baron said. “Observe the plans within plans within plans.”
Feyd-Rautha nodded, thinking: This is more like it. The old monster is letting me in on secret things at last. He must really mean for me to be his heir
“There are several tangential possibilities,” Piter said. “I indicate that House Atreides will go to Arrakis. We must not, however, ignore the possibility the Duke has contracted with the Guild to remove him to a place of safety outside the System. Others in like circumstances have become renegade Houses, taking family atomics and shields and fleeing beyond the Imperium.”
“The Duke’s too proud a man for that,” the Baron said.
“It is a possibility,” Piter said. “The ultimate effect for us would be the same, however.”
“No, it would not!” the Baron growled. “I must have him dead and his line ended.”
“That’s the high probability,” Piter said. “There are certain preparations that indicate when a House is going renegade. The Duke appears to be doing none of these things.”
“So,” the Baron sighed. “Get on with it, Piter.”
“At Arrakeen,” Piter said, “the Duke and his family will occupy the Residency, lately the home of Count and Lady Fenring.”
“The Ambassador to the Smugglers,” the Baron chuckled.
“Ambassador to what?” Feyd-Rautha asked.
“Your uncle makes a joke,” Piter said. “He calls Count Fenring Ambassador to the Smugglers, indicating the Emperor’s interest in smuggling operations on Arrakis.”
Feyd-Rautha turned a puzzled stare on his uncle. “Why?”
“Don’t be dense, Feyd,” the Baron snapped. “As long as the Guild remains effectively outside Imperial control, how could it be otherwise? How else could spies and assassins move about?”
Feyd-Rautha’s mouth made a soundless “Oh-h-h-h.”
“We’ve arranged diversions at the Residency,” Piter said. “There’ll be an attempt on the life of the Atreides heir – an attempt which could succeed.”
“Piter,” the Baron rumbled, “you indicated – ”
“I indicated accidents can happen,” Piter said. “And the attempt must appear valid.”
“Ah, but the lad has such a sweet young body,” the Baron said. “Of course, he’s potentially more dangerous than the father . . . with that witch mother training him. Accursed woman! Ah, well, please continue, Piter.”
“Hawat will have divined that we have an agent planted on him,” Piter said. “The obvious suspect is Dr. Yueh, who is indeed our agent. But Hawat has investigated and found that our doctor is a Suk School graduate with Imperial Conditioning – supposedly safe enough to minister even to the Emperor. Great store is set on Imperial Conditioning. It’s assumed that ultimate conditioning cannot be removed without killing the subject. However, as someone once observed, given the right lever you can move a planet. We found the lever that moved the doctor.”
“How?” Feyd-Rautha asked. He found this a fascinating subject. Everyone knew you couldn’t subvert Imperial Conditioning!
“Another time,” the Baron said. “Continue, Piter.”
“In place of Yueh,” Piter said, “we’ll drag a most interesting suspect across Hawat’s path. The very audacity of this suspect will recommend her to Hawat’s attention.”
“Her?” Feyd-Rautha asked.
“The Lady Jessica herself,” the Baron said.
“Is it not sublime?” Piter asked. “Hawat’s mind will be so filled with this prospect it’ll impair his function as a Mentat. He may even try to kill her.” Piter frowned, then: “But I don’t think he’ll be able to carry it off.”
“You don’t want him to, eh?” the Baron asked.
“Don’t distract me,” Piter said. “While Hawat’s occupied with the Lady Jessica, we’ll divert him further with uprisings in a few garrison towns and the like. These will be put down. The Duke must believe he’s gaining a measure of security. Then, when the moment is ripe, we’ll signal Yueh and move in with our major force . . . ah . . . ”
“Go ahead, tell him all of it,” the Baron said.
“We’ll move in strengthened by two legions of Sardaukar disguised in Harkonnen livery.”
“Sardaukar!” Feyd-Rautha breathed. His mind focused on the dread Imperial troops, the killers without mercy, the soldier fanatics of the Padishah Emperor.
“You see how I trust you, Feyd,” the Baron said. “No hint of this must ever reach another Great House, else the Landsraad might unite against the Imperial House and there’d be chaos.”
“The main point,” Piter said, “is this: since House Harkonnen is being used to do the Imperial dirty work, we’ve gained a true advantage. It’s a dangerous advantage, to be sure, but if used cautiously, will bring House Harkonnen greater wealth than that of any other House in the Imperium.”
“You have no idea how much wealth is involved, Feyd,” the Baron said. “Not in your wildest imaginings. To begin, we’ll have an irrevocable directorship in the CHOAM Company.”
Feyd-Rautha nodded. Wealth was the thing. CHOAM was the key to wealth, each noble House dipping from the company’s coffers whatever it could under the power of the directorships. Those CHOAM directorships – they were the real evidence of political power in the Imperium, passing with the shifts of voting strength within the Landsraad as it balanced itself against the Emperor and his supporters.
“The Duke Leto,” Piter said, “may attempt to flee to the new Fremen scum along the desert’s edge. Or he may try to send his family into that imagined security. But that path is blocked by one of His Majesty’s agents – the planetary ecologist. You may remember him – Kynes.”
“Feyd remembers him,” the Baron said. “Get on with it.”
“You do not drool very prettily, Baron,” Piter said.
“Get on with it, I command you!” the Baron roared.
Piter shrugged. “If matters go as planned,” he said, “House Harkonnen will have a subfief on Arrakis within a Standard year. Your uncle will have dispensation of that fief. His own personal agent will rule on Arrakis.”
“More profits,” Feyd-Rautha said.
“Indeed,” the Baron said. And he thought: It’s only just. We’re the ones who tamed Arrakis . . .except for the few mongrel Fremen hiding in the skirts of the desert . . . and some tame smugglers bound to the planet almost as tightly as the native labor pool .
“And the Great Houses will know that the Baron has destroyed the Atreides,” Piter said. “They will know.”
“They will know,” the Baron breathed.
“Loveliest of all,” Piter said, “is that the Duke will know, too. He knows now. He can already feel the trap.”
“It’s true the Duke knows,” the Baron said, and his voice held a note of sadness. “He could not help but know . . . more’s the pity.”
The Baron moved out and away from the globe of Arrakis. As he emerged from the shadows, his figure took on dimension – grossly and immensely fat. And with subtle bulges beneath folds of his dark robes to reveal that all this fat was sustained partly by portable suspensors harnessed to his flesh. He might weigh two hundred Standard kilos in actuality, but his feet would carry no more than fifty of them.
“I am hungry,” the Baron rumbled, and he rubbed his protruding lips with a beringed hand, stared down at Feyd-Rautha through fat-enfolded eyes. “Send for food, my darling. We will eat before we retire.”
Thus spoke St. Alia-of-the-Knife: “The Reverend Mother must combine the seductive wiles of a courtesan with the untouchable majesty of a virgin goddess, holding these attributes in tension so long as the powers of her youth endure. For when youth and beauty have gone, she will find that the place-between, once occupied by tension, has become a wellspring of cunning and resourcefulness.”
– from “Muad’Dib, Family Commentaries” by the Princess Irulan
“Well, Jessica, what have you to say for yourself?” asked the Reverend Mother.
It was near sunset at Castle Caladan on the day of Paul’s ordeal. The two women were alone in Jessica’s morning room while Paul waited in the adjoining soundproofed Meditation Chamber.
Jessica stood facing the south windows. She saw and yet did not see the evening’s banked colors across meadow and river. She heard and yet did not hear the Reverend Mother’s question.
There had been another ordeal once – so many years ago. A skinny girl with hair the color of bronze, her body tortured by the winds of puberty, had entered the study of the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam, Proctor Superior of the Bene Gesserit school on Wallach IX. Jessica looked down at her right hand, flexed the fingers, remembering the pain, the terror, the anger.
“Poor Paul,” she whispered.
“I asked you a question, Jessica!” The old woman’s voice was snappish, demanding.
“What? Oh . . . ” Jessica tore her attention away from the past, faced the Reverend Mother, who sat with back to the stone wall between the two west windows. “What do you want me to say?”
“What do I want you to say? What do I want you to say?” The old voice carried a tone of cruel mimicry.
“So I had a son!” Jessica flared. And she knew she was being goaded into this anger deliberately.
“You were told to bear only daughters to the Atreides.”
“It meant so much to him,” Jessica pleaded.
“And you in your pride thought you could produce the Kwisatz Haderach!”
Jessica lifted her chin. “I sensed the possibility.”
“You thought only of your Duke’s desire for a son,” the old woman snapped. “And his desires don’t figure in this. An Atreides daughter could’ve been wed to a Harkonnen heir and sealed the breach. You’ve hopelessly complicated matters. We may lose both bloodlines now.”
“You’re not infallible,” Jessica said. She braved the steady stare from the old eyes.
Presently, the old woman muttered: “What’s done is done.”
“I vowed never to regret my decision,” Jessica said.
“How noble,” the Reverend Mother sneered. “No regrets. We shall see when you’re a fugitive with a price on your head and every man’s hand turned against you to seek your life and the life of your son.”
Jessica paled. “Is there no alternative?”
“Alternative? A Bene Gesserit should ask that?”
“I ask only what you see in the future with your superior abilities.”
“I see in the future what I’ve seen in the past. You well know the pattern of our affairs, Jessica. The race knows its own mortality and fears stagnation of its heredity. It’s in the bloodstream – the urge to mingle genetic strains without plan. The Imperium, the CHOAM Company, all the Great Houses, they are but bits of flotsam in the path of the flood.”
“CHOAM,” Jessica muttered. “I suppose it’s already decided how they’ll redivide the spoils of Arrakis.”
“What is CHOAM but the weather vane of our times,” the old woman said. “The Emperor and his friends now command fifty-nine point six-five per cent of the CHOAM directorship’s votes. Certainly they smell profits, and likely as others smell those same profits his voting strength will increase. This is the pattern of history, girl.”
“That’s certainly what I need right now,” Jessica said. “A review of history.”
“Don’t be facetious, girl! You know as well as I do what forces surround us. We’ve a three-point civilization: the Imperial Household balanced against the Federated Great Houses of the Landsraad, and between them, the Guild with its damnable monopoly on interstellar transport. In politics, the tripod is the most unstable of all structures. It’d be bad enough without the complication of a feudal trade culture which turns its back on most science.”
Jessica spoke bitterly: “Chips in the path of the flood – and this chip here, this is the Duke Leto, and this one’s his son, and this one’s – ”
“Oh, shut up, girl. You entered this with full knowledge of the delicate edge you walked.”
” ‘I am Bene Gesserit: I exist only to serve,’ ” Jessica quoted.
“Truth.” the old woman said. “And all we can hope for now is to prevent this from erupting into general conflagration, to salvage what we can of the key bloodlines.”
Jessica closed her eyes, feeling tears press out beneath the lids. She fought down the inner trembling, the outer trembling, the uneven breathing, the ragged pulse, the sweating of the palms. Presently, she said, “I’ll pay for my own mistake.”
“And your son will pay with you.”
“I’ll shield him as well as I’m able.”
“Shield!” the old woman snapped. “You well know the weakness there! Shield your son too much, Jessica, and he’ll not grow strong enough to fulfill any destiny.”
Jessica turned away, looked out the window at the gathering darkness. “Is it really that terrible, this planet of Arrakis?”
“Bad enough, but not all bad. The Missionaria Protectiva has been in there and softened it up somewhat.” The Reverend Mother heaved herself to her feet, straightened a fold in her gown. “Call the boy in here. I must be leaving soon.”
“Must you?”
The old woman’s voice softened. “Jessica, girl, I wish I could stand in your place and take your sufferings. But each of us must make her own path.”
“I know.”
“You’re as dear to me as any of my own daughters, but I cannot let that interfere with duty.”
“I understand . . . the necessity.”
“What you did, Jessica, and why you did it – we both know. But kindness forces me to tell you there’s little chance your lad will be the Bene Gesserit Totality. You mustn’t let yourself hope too much.”
Jessica shook tears from the corners of her eyes. It was an angry gesture. “You make me feel like a little girl again – reciting my first lesson.” She forced the words out: ” ‘Humans must never submit to animals.’ ” A dry sob shook her. In a low voice, she said: “I’ve been so lonely.”
“It should be one of the tests,” the old woman said. “Humans are almost always lonely. Now summon the boy. He’s had a long, frightening day. But he’s had time to think and remember, and I must ask the other questions about these dreams of his.”
Jessica nodded, went to the door of the Meditation Chamber, opened it. “Paul, come in now, please.”
Paul emerged with a stubborn slowness. He stared at his mother as though she were a stranger. Wariness veiled his eyes when he glanced at the Reverend Mother, but this time he nodded to her, the nod one gives an equal. He heard his mother close the door behind him.
“Young man,” the old woman said, “let’s return to this dream business.”
“What do you want?”
“Do you dream every night?”
“Not dreams worth remembering. I can remember every dream, but some are worth remembering and some aren’t.”
“How do you know the difference?”
“I just know it.”
The old woman glanced at Jessica, back to Paul. “What did you dream last night? Was it worth remembering?”
“Yes.” Paul closed his eyes. “I dreamed a cavern . . . and water . . . and a girl there – very skinny with big eyes. Her eyes are all blue, no whites in them. I talk to her and tell her about you, about seeing the Reverend Mother on Caladan.” Paul opened his eyes.
“And the thing you tell this strange girl about seeing me, did it happen today?”
Paul thought about this, then: “Yes. I tell the girl you came and put a stamp of strangeness on me.”
“Stamp of strangeness,” the old woman breathed, and again she shot a glance at Jessica, returned her attention to Paul. “Tell me truly now, Paul, do you often have dreams of things that happen afterward exactly as you dreamed them?”
“Yes. And I’ve dreamed about that girl before.”
“Oh? You know her?”
“I will know her.”
“Tell me about her.”
Again, Paul closed his eyes. “We’re in a little place in some rocks where it’s sheltered. It’s almost night, but it’s hot and I can see patches of sand out of an opening in the rocks. We’re . . . waiting for something . . . for me to go meet some people. And she’s frightened but trying to hide it from me, and I’m excited. And she says: ‘Tell me about the waters of your homeworld, Usul.’ ” Paul opened his eyes. “Isn’t that strange? My homeworld’s Caladan. I’ve never even heard of a planet called Usul.”
“Is there more to this dream?” Jessica prompted.
“Yes. But maybe she was calling me Usul,” Paul said. “I just thought of that.” Again, he closed his eyes. “She asks me to tell her about the waters. And I take her hand. And I say I’ll tell her a poem. And I tell her the poem, but I have to explain some of the words – like beach and surf and seaweed and seagulls.”
“What poem?” the Reverend Mother asked.
Paul opened his eyes. “It’s just one of Gurney Halleck’s tone poems for sad times.”
Behind Paul Jessica began to recite:
“I remember salt smoke from a beach fire
And shadows under the pines –
Solid, clean . . . fixed –
Seagulls perched at the tip of land,
White upon green . . .
And a wind comes through the pines
To sway the shadows;
The seagulls spread their wings,
Lift
And fill the sky with screeches.
And I hear the wind
Blowing across our beach,
And the surf,
And I see that our fire
Has scorched the seaweed.”
“That’s the one,” Paul said.
The old woman stared at Paul, then: “Young man, as a Proctor of the Bene Gesserit, I seek the Kwisatz Haderach, the male who truly can become one of us. Your mother sees this possibility in you, but she sees with the eyes of a mother. Possibility I see, too, but no more.”
She fell silent and Paul saw that she wanted him to speak. He waited her out.
Presently, she said: “As you will, then. You’ve depths in you; that I’ll grant.”
“May I go now?” he asked.
“Don’t you want to hear what the Reverend Mother can tell you about the Kwisatz Haderach?” Jessica asked.
“She said those who tried for it died.”
“But I can help you with a few hints at why they failed,” the Reverend Mother said.
She talks of hints , Paul thought. She doesn’t really know anything . And he said: “Hint then.”
“And be damned to me?” She smiled wryly, a crisscross of wrinkles in the old face. “Very well: ‘That which submits rules.’ ”
He felt astonishment: she was talking about such elementary things as tension within meaning. Did she think his mother had taught him nothing at all?
“That’s a hint?” he asked.
“We’re not here to bandy words or quibble over their meaning,” the old woman said. “The willow submits to the wind and prospers until one day it is many willows – a wall against the wind. This is the willow’s purpose.”
Paul stared at her. She said purpose and he felt the word buffet him, reinfecting him with terrible purpose. He experienced a sudden anger at her: fatuous old witch with her mouth full of platitudes.
“You think I could be this Kwisatz Haderach,” he said. “You talk about me, but you haven’t said one thing about what we can do to help my father. I’ve heard you talking to my mother. You talk as though my father were dead. Well, he isn’t!”
“If there were a thing to be done for him, we’d have done it,” the old woman growled. “We may be able to salvage you. Doubtful, but possible. But for your father, nothing. When you’ve learned to accept that as a fact, you’ve learned a real Bene Gesserit lesson.”
Paul saw how the words shook his mother. He glared at the old woman. How could she say such a thing about his father? What made her so sure? His mind seethed with resentment.
The Reverend Mother looked at Jessica. “You’ve been training him in the Way – I’ve seen the signs of it. I’d have done the same in your shoes and devil take the Rules.”
Jessica nodded.
“Now, I caution you,” said the old woman, “to ignore the regular order of training. His own safety requires the Voice. He already has a good start in it, but we both know how much more he needs . . . and that desperately.” She stepped close to Paul, stared down at him. “Goodbye, young human. I hope you make it. But if you don’t – well, we shall yet succeed.”
Once more she looked at Jessica. A flicker sign of understanding passed between them. Then the old woman swept from the room, her robes hissing, with not another backward glance. The room and its occupants already were shut from her thoughts.
But Jessica had caught one glimpse of the Reverend Mother’s face as she turned away. There had been tears on the seamed cheeks. The tears were more unnerving than any other word or sign that had passed between them this day.
You have read that Muad’Dib had no playmates his own age on Caladan. The dangers were too great. But Muad’Dib did have wonderful companion-teachers. There was Gurney Halleck, the troubadour-warrior. You will sing some of Gurney’s songs, as you read along in this book. There was Thufir Hawat, the old Mentat Master of Assassins, who struck fear even into the heart of the Padishah Emperor. There were Duncan Idaho, the Swordmaster of the Ginaz; Dr. Wellington Yueh, a name black in treachery but bright in knowledge; the Lady Jessica, who guided her son in the Bene Gesserit Way, and  – of course  – the Duke Leto, whose qualities as a father have long been overlooked.
– from “A Child’s History of Muad’Dib” by the Princess Irulan
Thufir Hawat slipped into the training room of Castle Caladan, closed the door softly. He stood there a moment, feeling old and tired and storm-leathered. His left leg ached where it had been slashed once in the service of the Old Duke.
Three generations of them now , he thought.
He stared across the big room bright with the light of noon pouring through the skylights, saw the boy seated with back to the door, intent on papers and charts spread across an ell table.
How many times must I tell that lad never to settle himself with his back to a door? Hawat cleared his throat.
Paul remained bent over his studies.
A cloud shadow passed over the skylights. Again, Hawat cleared his throat.
Paul straightened, spoke without turning: “I know. I’m sitting with my back to a door.”
Hawat suppressed a smile, strode across the room.
Paul looked up at the grizzled old man who stopped at a corner of the table. Hawat’s eyes were two pools of alertness in a dark and deeply seamed face.
“I heard you coming down the hall,” Paul said. “And I heard you open the door.”
“The sounds I make could be imitated.”
“I’d know the difference.”
He might at that , Hawat thought. That witch-mother of his is giving him the deep training, certainly. I wonder what her precious school thinks of that? Maybe that’s why they sent the old Proctor here – to whip our dear Lady Jessica into line .
Hawat pulled up a chair across from Paul, sat down facing the door. He did it pointedly, leaned back and studied the room. It struck him as an odd place suddenly, a stranger-place with most of its hardware already gone off to Arrakis. A training table remained, and a fencing mirror with its crystal prisms quiescent, the target dummy beside it patched and padded, looking like an ancient foot soldier maimed and battered in the wars.
There stand I , Hawat thought.
“Thufir, what’re you thinking?” Paul asked.
Hawat looked at the boy. “I was thinking we’ll all be out of here soon and likely never see the place again.”
“Does that make you sad?”
“Sad? Nonsense! Parting with friends is a sadness. A place is only a place.” He glanced at the charts on the table. ” And Arrakis is just another place.”
“Did my father send you up to test me?”
Hawat scowled – the boy had such observing ways about him. He nodded. “You’re thinking it’d have been nicer if he’d come up himself, but you must know how busy he is. He’ll be along later.”
“I’ve been studying about the storms on Arrakis.”
“The storms. I see.”
“They sound pretty bad.”
“That’s too cautious a word: bad . Those storms build up across six or seven thousand kilometers of flatlands, feed on anything that can give them a push – coriolis force, other storms, anything that has an ounce of energy in it. They can blow up to seven hundred kilometers an hour, loaded with everything loose that’s in their way – sand, dust, everything. They can eat flesh off bones and etch the bones to slivers.”
“Why don’t they have weather control?”
“Arrakis has special problems, costs are higher, and there’d be maintenance and the like. The Guild wants a dreadful high price for satellite control and your father’s House isn’t one of the big rich ones, lad. You know that.”
“Have you ever seen the Fremen?”
The lad’s mind is darting all over today , Hawat thought.
“Like as not I have seen them,” he said. “There’s little to tell them from the folk of the graben and sink. They all wear those great flowing robes. And they stink to heaven in any closed space. It’s from those suits they wear – call them ‘stillsuits’ – that reclaim the body’s own water.”
Paul swallowed, suddenly aware of the moisture in his mouth, remembering a dream of thirst. That people could want so for water they had to recycle their body moisture struck him with a feeling of desolation. “Water’s precious there,” he said.
Hawat nodded, thinking: Perhaps I’m doing it, getting across to him the importance of this planet as an enemy. It’s madness to go in there without that caution in our minds .
Paul looked up at the skylight, aware that it had begun to rain. He saw the spreading wetness on the gray meta-glass. “Water,” he said.
“You’ll learn a great concern for water,” Hawat said. “As the Duke’s son you’ll never want for it, but you’ll see the pressures of thirst all around you.”
Paul wet his lips with his tongue, thinking back to the day a week ago and the ordeal with the Reverend Mother. She, too, had said something about water starvation.
“You’ll learn about the funeral plains,” she’d said, “about the wilderness that is empty, the wasteland where nothing lives except the spice and the sandworms. You’ll stain your eyepits to reduce the sun glare. Shelter will mean a hollow out of the wind and hidden from view. You’ll ride upon your own two feet without ‘thopter or groundcar or mount.”
And Paul had been caught more by her tone – singsong and wavering – than by her words.
“When you live upon Arrakis,” she had said, “khala, the land is empty. The moons will be your friends, the sun your enemy.”
Paul had sensed his mother come up beside him away from her post guarding the door. She had looked at the Reverend Mother and asked: “Do you see no hope. Your Reverence?”
“Not for the father.” And the old woman had waved Jessica to silence, looked down at Paul. “Grave this on your memory, lad: A world is supported by four things . . .” She held up four big-knuckled fingers. “. . . the learning of the wise, the justice of the great, the prayers of the righteous and the valor of the brave. But all of these are as nothing . . .” She closed her fingers into a fist. “. . . without a ruler who knows the art of ruling. Make that the science of your tradition!”
A week had passed since that day with the Reverend Mother. Her words were only now beginning to come into full register. Now, sitting in the training room with Thufir Hawat, Paul felt a sharp pang of fear. He looked across at the Mentat’s puzzled frown.
“Where were you woolgathering that time?” Hawat asked.
“Did you meet the Reverend Mother?”
“That Truthsayer witch from the Imperium?” Hawat’s eyes quickened with interest. “I met her.”
“She . . .” Paul hesitated, found that he couldn’t tell Hawat about the ordeal. The inhibitions went deep.
“Yes? What did she?”
Paul took two deep breaths. “She said a thing.” He closed his eyes, calling up the words, and when he spoke his voice unconsciously took on some of the old woman’s tone: ” ‘You, Paul Atreides, descendant of kings, son of a Duke, you must learn to rule. It’s something none of your ancestors learned’.” Paul opened his eyes, said: “That made me angry and I said my father rules an entire planet. And she said, ‘He’s losing it.’ And I said my father was getting a richer planet. And she said. ‘He’ll lose that one, too.’ And I wanted to run and warn my father, but she said he’d already been warned – by you, by Mother, by many people.”
“True enough,” Hawat muttered.
“Then why’re we going?” Paul demanded.
“Because the Emperor ordered it. And because there’s hope in spite of what that witch-spy said. What else spouted from this ancient fountain of wisdom?”
Paul looked down at his right hand clenched into a fist beneath the table. Slowly, he willed the muscles to relax. She put some kind of hold on me , he thought. How?
“She asked me to tell her what it is to rule,” Paul said. “And I said that one commands. And she said I had some unlearning to do.”
She hit a mark there right enough , Hawat thought. He nodded for Paul to continue.
“She said a ruler must learn to persuade and not to compel. She said he must lay the best coffee hearth to attract the finest men.”
“How’d she figure your father attracted men like Duncan and Gurney?” Hawat asked.
Paul shrugged. “Then she said a good ruler has to learn his world’s language, that it’s different for every world. And I thought she meant they didn’t speak Galach on Arrakis, but she said that wasn’t it at all. She said she meant the language of the rocks and growing things, the language you don’t hear just with your ears. And I said that’s what Dr. Yueh calls the Mystery of Life.”
Hawat chuckled. “How’d that sit with her?”
“I think she got mad. She said the mystery of life isn’t a problem to solve, but a reality to experience. So I quoted the First Law of Mentat at her: ‘A process cannot be understood by stopping it. Understanding must move with the flow of the process, must join it and flow with it.’ That seemed to satisfy her.”
He seems to be getting over it , Hawat thought, but that old witch frightened him. Why did she do it?
“Thufir,” Paul said, “will Arrakis be as bad as she said?”
“Nothing could be that bad,” Hawat said and forced a smile. “Take those Fremen, for example, the renegade people of the desert. By first-approximation analysis, I can tell you there’re many, many more of them than the Imperium suspects. People live there, lad: a great many people, and . . .” Hawat put a sinewy finger beside his eye. “. . . they hate Harkonnens with a bloody passion. You must not breathe a word of this, lad. I tell you only as your father’s helper.”
“My father has told me of Salusa Secundus,” Paul said. “Do you know, Thufir, it sounds much like Arrakis . . . perhaps not quite as bad, but much like it.”
“We do not really know of Salusa Secundus today,” Hawat said. “Only what it was like long ago . . . mostly. But what is known – you’re right on that score.”
“Will the Fremen help us?”
“It’s a possibility.” Hawat stood up. “I leave today for Arrakis. Meanwhile, you take care of yourself for an old man who’s fond of you, heh? Come around here like the good lad and sit facing the door. It’s not that I think there’s any danger in the castle; it’s just a habit I want you to form.”
Paul got to his feet, moved around the table. “You’re going today?”
“Today it is, and you’ll be following tomorrow. Next time we meet it’ll be on the soil of your new world.” He gripped Paul’s right arm at the bicep. “Keep your knife arm free, heh? And your shield at full charge.” He released the arm, patted Paul’s shoulder, whirled and strode quickly to the door.
“Thufir! “Paul called.
Hawat turned, standing in the open doorway.
“Don’t sit with your back to any doors,” Paul said.
A grin spread across the seamed old face. “That I won’t, lad. Depend on it.” And he was gone, shutting the door softly behind.
Paul sat down where Hawat had been, straightened the papers. One more day here , he thought. He looked around the room. We’re leaving . The idea of departure was suddenly more real to him than it had ever been before. He recalled another thing the old woman had said about a world being the sum of many things – the people, the dirt, the growing things, the moons, the tides, the suns – the unknown sum called nature , a vague summation without any sense of the now . And he wondered: What is the now?
The door across from Paul banged open and an ugly lump of a man lurched through it preceded by a handful of weapons.
“Well, Gurney Halleck,” Paul called, “are you the new weapons master?”
Halleck kicked the door shut with one heel. “You’d rather I came to play games, I know,” he said. He glanced around the room, noting that Hawat’s men already had been over it, checking, making it safe for a duke’s heir. The subtle code signs were all around.
Paul watched the rolling, ugly man set himself back in motion, veer toward the training table with the load of weapons, saw the nine-string baliset slung over Gurney’s shoulder with the multipick woven through the strings near the head of the fingerboard.
Halleck dropped the weapons on the exercise table, lined them up – the rapiers, the bodkins, the kindjals, the slow-pellet stunners, the shield belts. The inkvine scar along his jawline writhed as he turned, casting a smile across the room.
“So you don’t even have a good morning for me, you young imp,” Halleck said. “And what barb did you sink in old Hawat? He passed me in the hall like a man running to his enemy’s funeral.”
Paul grinned. Of all his father’s men, he liked Gurney Halleck best, knew the man’s moods and deviltry, his humors , and thought of him more as a friend than as a hired sword.
Halleck swung the baliset off his shoulder, began tuning it. “If y’ won’t talk, y’ won’t,” he said.
Paul stood, advanced across the room, calling out: “Well, Gurney, do we come prepared for music when it’s fighting time?”
“So it’s sass for our elders today,” Halleck said. He tried a chord on the instrument, nodded.
“Where’s Duncan Idaho?” Paul asked. “Isn’t he supposed to be teaching me weaponry?”
” Duncan ‘s gone to lead the second wave onto Arrakis,” Halleck said. “All you have left is poor Gurney who’s fresh out of fight and spoiling for music.” He struck another chord, listened to it, smiled. “And it was decided in council that you being such a poor fighter we’d best teach you the music trade so’s you won’t waste your life entire.”
“Maybe you’d better sing me a lay then,” Paul said. “I want to be sure how not to do it.”
“Ah-h-h, hah!” Gurney laughed, and he swung into “Galacian Girls.” his multipick a blur over the strings as he sang:
“Oh-h-h, the Galacian girls
Will do it for pearls,
And the Arrakeen for water!
But if you desire dames
Like consuming flames,
Try a Caladanin daughter!”
“Not bad for such a poor hand with the pick,” Paul said, “but if my mother heard you singing a bawdy like that in the castle, she’d have your ears on the outer wall for decoration.”
Gurney pulled at his left ear. “Poor decoration, too, they having been bruised so much listening at keyholes while a young lad I know practiced some strange ditties on his baliset.”
“So you’ve forgotten what it’s like to find sand in your bed,” Paul said. He pulled a shield belt from the table, buckled it fast around his waist. “Then, let’s fight!”
Halleck’s eyes went wide in mock surprise. “So! It was your wicked hand did that deed! Guard yourself today, young master – guard yourself.” He grabbed up a rapier, laced the air with it. “I’m a hellfiend out for revenge!”
Paul lifted the companion rapier, bent it in his hands, stood in the aguile , one foot forward. He let his manner go solemn in a comic imitation of Dr. Yueh.
“What a dolt my father sends me for weaponry,” Paul intoned. “This doltish Gurney Halleck has forgotten the first lesson for a fighting man armed and shielded.” Paul snapped the force button at his waist, felt the crinkled-skin tingling of the defensive field at his forehead and down his back, heard external sounds take on characteristic shield-filtered flatness. “In shield fighting, one moves fast on defense, slow on attack,” Paul said. “Attack has the sole purpose of tricking the opponent into a misstep, setting him up for the attack sinister. The shield turns the fast blow, admits the slow kindjal!” Paul snapped up the rapier, feinted fast and whipped it back for a slow thrust timed to enter a shield’s mindless defenses.
Halleck watched the action, turned at the last minute to let the blunted blade pass his chest. “Speed, excellent,” he said. “But you were wide open for an underhanded counter with a slip-tip.”
Paul stepped back, chagrined.
