Dune

place where we may raise our families in happiness amidst an abundance of water—is this our goal?”

“Hard tasks need hard ways,” someone shouted.

“Do you smash your knife before a battle?” Paul demanded. “I say this as fact, not meaning it as boast or challenge: there isn’t a man here, Stilgar included, who could stand against me in single combat. This is Stilgar’s own admission. He knows it, so do you all.”

Again, the angry mutters lifted from the crowd.

“Many of you have been with me on the practice floor,” Paul said. “You know this isn’t idle boast. I say it because it’s fact known to us all, and I’d be foolish not to see it for myself. I began training in these ways earlier than you did and my teachers were tougher than any you’ve ever seen. How else do you think I bested Jamis at an age when your boys are still fighting only mock battles?”

He’s using the Voice well, Jessica thought, but that’s not enough with these people. They’ve good insulation against vocal control. He must catch them also with logic.

“So,” Paul said, “we come to this.” He lifted the message cylinder, removed its scrap of tape. “This was taken from a Harkonnen courier. Its authenticity is beyond question. It is addressed to Rabban. It tells him that his request for new troops is denied, that his spice harvest is far below quota, that he must wring more spice from Arrakis with the people he has.”

Stilgar moved up beside Paul.

“How many of you see what this means?” Paul asked. “Stilgar saw it immediately.”

“They’re cut off!” someone shouted.

Paul pushed message and cylinder into his sash. From his neck he took a braided shigawire cord and removed a ring from the cord, holding the ring aloft.

“This was my father’s ducal signet,” he said. “I swore never to wear it again until I was ready to lead my troops over all of Arrakis and claim it as my rightful fief.” He put the ring on his finger, clenched his fist.

Utter stillness gripped the cavern.

“Who rules here?” Paul asked. He raised his fist. “I rule here! I rule on every square inch of Arrakis! This is my ducal fief whether the Emperor says yea or nay! He gave it to my father and it comes to me through my father!”

Paul lifted himself onto his toes, settled back to his heels. He studied the crowd, feeling their temper.

Almost, he thought.

“There are men here who will hold positions of importance on Arrakis when I claim those Imperial rights which are mine,” Paul said. “Stilgar is one of those men. Not because I wish to bribe him! Not out of gratitude, though I’m one of many here who owe him life for life. No! But because he’s wise and strong. Because he governs this troop by his own intelligence and not just by rules. Do you think me stupid? Do you think I’ll cut off my right arm and leave it bloody on the floor of this cavern just to provide you with a circus?”

Paul swept a hard gaze across the throng. “Who is there here to say I’m not the rightful ruler on Arrakis? Must I prove it by leaving every Fremen tribe in the erg without a leader?”

Beside Paul, Stilgar stirred, looked at him questioningly.

“Will I subtract from our strength when we need it most?” Paul asked. “I am your ruler, and I say to you that it is time we stopped killing off our best men and started killing our real enemies—the Harkonnens!”

In one blurred motion, Stilgar had his crysknife out and pointed over the heads of the throng. “Long live Duke Paul-Muad’Dib!” he shouted.

A deafening roar filled the cavern, echoed and re-echoed. They were cheering and chanting: “Ya hya chouhada! Muad‘Dib! Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib! Ya hya chouhada!”

Jessica translated it to herself: “Long live the fighters of Muad’Dib!” The scene she and Paul and Stilgar had cooked up between them had worked as they’d planned.

The tumult died slowly.

When silence was restored, Paul faced Stilgar, said: “Kneel, Stilgar.”

Stilgar dropped to his knees on the ledge.

“Hand me your crysknife,” Paul said.

Stilgar obeyed.

This was not as we planned it, Jessica thought.

“Repeat after me, Stilgar,” Paul said, and he called up the words of investiture as he had heard his own father use them. “I, Stilgar, take this knife from the hands of my Duke.”

“I, Stilgar, take this knife from the hands of my Duke,” Stilgar said, and accepted the milky blade from Paul.

“Where my Duke commands, there shall I place this blade,” Paul said.

Stilgar repeated the words, speaking slowly and solemnly.

Remembering the source of the rite, Jessica blinked back tears, shook her head. I know the reasons for this, she thought. I shouldn’t let it stir me.

“I dedicate this blade to the cause of my Duke and the death of his enemies for as long as our blood shall flow,” Paul said.

Stilgar repeated it after him.

“Kiss the blade,” Paul ordered.

Stilgar obeyed, then, in the Fremen manner, kissed Paul’s knife arm. At a nod from Paul, he sheathed the blade, got to his feet.

A sighing whisper of awe passed through the crowd, and Jessica heard the words: “The prophecy—A Bene Gesserit shall show the way and a Reverend Mother shall see it.” And, from farther away: “She shows us through her son!”

“Stilgar leads this tribe,” Paul said. “Let no man mistake that. He commands with my voice. What he tells you, it is as though I told you.”

Wise, Jessica thought. The tribal commander must lose no face among those who should obey him.

Paul lowered his voice, said: “Stilgar, I want sandwalkers out this night and cielagos sent to summon a Council Gathering. When you’ve sent them, bring Chatt, Korba and Otheym and two other lieutenants of your own choosing. Bring them to my quarters for battle planning. We must have a victory to show the Council of Leaders when they arrive.”

Paul nodded for his mother to accompany him, led the way down off the ledge and through the throng toward the central passage and the living chambers that had been prepared there. As Paul pressed through the crowd, hands reached out to touch him. Voices called out to him.

“My knife goes where Stilgar commands it, Paul-Muad‘Dib! Let us fight soon, Paul-Muad’Dib! Let us wet our world with the blood of Harkonnens!”

Feeling the emotions of the throng, Jessica sensed the fighting edge of these people. They could not be more ready. We are taking them at the crest, she thought.

In the inner chamber, Paul motioned his mother to be seated, said: “Wait here.” And he ducked through the hangings to the side passage.

It was quiet in the chamber after Paul had gone, so quiet behind the hangings that not even the faint soughing of the wind pumps that circulated air in the sietch penetrated to where she sat.

He is going to bring Gurney Halleck here, she thought. And she wondered at the strange mingling of emotions that filled her. Gurney and his music had been a part of so many pleasant times on Caladan before the move to Arrakis. She felt that Caladan had happened to some other person. In the nearly three years since then, she had become another person. Having to confront Gurney forced a reassessment of the changes.

Paul’s coffee service, the fluted alloy of silver and jasmium that he had inherited from Jamis, rested on a low table to her right. She stared at it, thinking of how many hands had touched that metal. Chani had served Paul from it within the month.

What can his desert woman do for a Duke except serve him coffee? she asked herself. She brings him no power, no family. Paul has only one major chance—to ally himself with a powerful Great House, perhaps even with the Imperial family. There are marriagable princesses, after all, and