Dune

“He’s dead—buying us a bit of time to escape.”

The she-witch alive! Gurney thought. The one I swore vengeance against, alive! And it’s obvious Duke Paul doesn’t know what manner of creature gave him birth. The evil one! Betrayed his own father to the Harkonnens!

Paul pressed past him, jumped up to the ledge. He glanced back, noted that the wounded and dead had been removed, and he thought bitterly that here was another chapter in the legend of Paul Muad’Dib. I didn’t even draw my knife, but it’ll be said of this day that I slew twenty Sardaukar by my own hand.

Gurney followed with Stilgar, stepping on ground that he did not even feel. The cavern with its yellow light of glowglobes was forced out of his thoughts by rage. The she-witch alive while those she betrayed are bones in lonesome graves. I must contrive it that Paul learns the truth about her before I slay her.

***

How often it is that the angry man rages denial of what his inner self is telling him.

—“The Collected Sayings of Muad’Dib” by the Princess Irulan

THE CROWD in the cavern assembly chamber radiated that pack feeling Jessica had sensed the day Paul killed Jamis. There was murmuring nervousness in the voices. Little cliques gathered like knots among the robes.

Jessica tucked a message cylinder beneath her robe as she emerged to the ledge from Paul’s private quarters. She felt rested after the long journey up from the south, but still rankled that Paul would not yet permit them to use the captured ornithopters.

“We do not have full control of the air,” he had said. “And we must not become dependent upon offworld fuel. Both fuel and aircraft must be gathered and saved for the day of maximum effort.”

Paul stood with a group of the younger men near the ledge. The pale light of glowglobes gave the scene a tinge of unreality. It was like a tableau, but with the added dimension of warren smells, the whispers, the sounds of shuffling feet.

She studied her son, wondering why he had not yet trotted out his surprise—Gurney Halleck. The thought of Gurney disturbed her with its memories of an easier past—days of love and beauty with Paul’s father.

Stilgar waited with a small group of his own at the other end of the ledge. There was a feeling of inevitable dignity about him, the way he stood without talking.

We must not lose that man, Jessica thought. Paul’s plan must work. Anything else would be the highest tragedy.

She strode down the ledge, passing Stilgar without a glance, stepped down into the crowd. A way was made for her as she headed toward Paul. And silence followed her.

She knew the meaning of the silence—the unspoken questions of the people, awe of the Reverend Mother.

The young men drew back from Paul as she came up to him, and she found herself momentarily dismayed by the new deference they paid him. “All men beneath your position covet your station,” went the Bene Gesserit axiom. But she found no covetousness in these faces. They were held at a distance by the religious ferment around Paul’s leadership. And she recalled another Bene Gesserit saying: “Prophets have a way of dying by violence. ”

Paul looked at her.

“It’s time,” she said, and passed the message cylinder to him.

One of Paul’s companions, bolder than the others, glanced across at Stilgar, said: “Are you going to call him out, Maud’Dib? Now’s the time for sure. They’ll think you a coward if you—”

“Who dares call me coward?” Paul demanded. His hand flashed to his crysknife hilt.

Bated silence came over the group, spreading out into the crowd.

“There’s work to do,” Paul said as the man drew back from him. Paul turned away, shouldered through the crowd to the ledge, leaped lightly up to it and faced the people.

“Do it!” someone shrieked.

Murmurs and whispers arose behind the shriek.

Paul waited for silence. It came slowly amidst scattered shufflings and coughs. When it was quiet in the cavern, Paul lifted his chin, spoke in a voice that carried to the farthest corners.

“You are tired of waiting,” Paul said.

Again, he waited while the cries of response died out.

Indeed, they are tired of waiting, Paul thought. He hefted the message cylinder, thinking of what it contained. His mother had showed it to him, explaining how it had been taken from a Harkonnen courier.

The message was explicit: Rabban was being abandoned to his own resources here on Arrakis! He could not call for help or reinforcements!

Again, Paul raised his voice: “You think it’s time I called out Stilgar and changed the leadership of the troops!” Before they could respond, Paul hurled his voice at them in anger: “Do you think the Lisan al-Gaib that stupid?”

There was stunned silence.

He’s accepting the religious mantle, Jessica thought. He must not do it!

“It’s the way!” someone shouted.

Paul spoke dryly, probing the emotional undercurrents. “Ways change.”

An angry voice lifted from a corner of the cavern: “We’ll say what’s to change!”

There were scattered shouts of agreement through the throng.

“As you wish,” Paul said.

And Jessica heard the subtle intonations as he used the powers of Voice she had taught him.

“You will say,” he agreed. “But first you will hear my say.”

Stilgar moved along the ledge, his bearded face impassive. “That is the way, too,” he said. “The voice of any Fremen may be heard in Council. Paul-Muad’Dib is a Fremen.”

“The good of the tribe, that is the most important thing, eh?” Paul asked.

Still with that flat-voiced dignity, Stilgar said: “Thus our steps are guided.”

“All right,” Paul said. “Then, who rules this troop of our tribe—and who rules all the tribes and troops through the fighting instructors we’ve trained in the weirding way?”

Paul waited, looking over the heads of the throng. No answer came.

Presently, he said: “Does Stilgar rule all this? He says himself that he does not. Do I rule? Even Stilgar does my bidding on occasion, and the sages, the wisest of the wise, listen to me and honor me in Council.”

There was shuffling silence among the crowd.

“So,” Paul said. “Does my mother rule?” He pointed down to Jessica in her black robes of office among them. “Stilgar and all the other troop leaders ask her advice in almost every major decision. You know this. But does a Reverend Mother walk the sand or lead a razzia against the Harkonnens?”

Frowns creased the foreheads of those Paul could see, but still there were angry murmurs.

This is a dangerous way to do it, Jessica thought, but she remembered the message cylinder and what it implied. And she saw Paul’s intent: Go right to the depth of their uncertainty, dispose of that, and all the rest must follow.

“No man recognizes leadership without the challenge and the combat, eh?” Paul asked.

“That’s the way!” someone shouted.

“What’s our goal?” Paul asked. “To unseat Rabban, the Harkonnen beast, and remake our world into a