Paul of Dune

home in Carthag, enough to support my wives until I could establish myself as a stonemason.” He glared at the pair of defendants. “But these men took all of my money.”

“He lost his money, yes, Mistress Alia — but he lost it fairly,” cried the pudgier of the two men.

Alia turned to the accuser for more information, and he said, “I gambled with them. We played the game of tarot dice, and they took everything from me.”

Now Alia frowned. “When one gambles, one risks losing. That is the way of it.”

“When one gambles, Mistress Alia, one knows the rules and expects fair play. But these men cheated.”

“We did no such thing!” the second defendant said.

“Just because you lost a game does not mean they cheated,” Alia pointed out.

“They cheated. I swear it on my honor, on my life… on my water!”

Alia sat back. “You say these men cheated you. They say they did not. How am I to determine who is correct?” In fact, Alia could tell. Even without truthsense she would have known that the two exceedingly nervous defendants were hiding something, while the accuser did not waver in his conviction and righteous indignation.

She sprang from her throne and trotted down the stone steps, jaunting like a little girl, intentionally, to disorient them. “I will play a game with these men. Show me the tarot dice that were used.” Reluctantly, they withdrew the cubes, and Alia squatted on the floor. “Come beside me, and we will play.” The two defendants looked extremely nervous, but they could not refuse her request.

She held the five dice in her small hand. Each face bore a different coded image that had symbolic meanings far beyond the game itself. These dice would not be noticeably weighted one way or the other, but she realized they had been altered somehow to give the owners a distinct advantage. The rules of even the basic game of tarot dice were complicated, but Alia knew them in detail. She rolled first before the men could complain: leaving face up two wands, a scythe, a star, and a water pitcher.

“An auspicious omen!” one of the men declared, as if out of habit. “Now let us place our wagers.”

Alia harbored no doubt that the first roll was designed to be positive, to lure a player into more extravagant betting. Hustlers. The two defendants shuddered, looking gray. They placed their wagers — modest ones — and then tolled, building upon the prophecy, lining up their omens. They didn’t know whether they should try to win or lose, but because Alia demanded larger and larger bets from them in front of the eager audience, they could not simply surrender. She refused to let them withdraw.

During this, their accuser stood with his arms crossed over his chest, glowering down at the play, while other audience members cheered her on, offering their advice.

Though Alia could not control the mechanics of the dice rolls, she gradually began to realize how these men were interpreting — and manipulating — the results. As for herself, she had a far more interesting means of cheating. With glimpses of prescience, Alia could determine how most of the rolls would come out. Even with the dice subtly weighted to give unexpected results, she could frequently see which dice to hold back and which ones to play, then place bold wagers accordingly. “Luck” was with her in a more concrete way than any other gambler could imagine.

The two terrified defendants could not stop the game. The audience murmured with appreciation, but not surprise, as Alia won again and again, defying the rolls that would be expected from untainted dice. Over the course of the game, the perceptive members of the crowd recognized that these men had somehow altered the pieces to their advantage, and that even so Alia was thwarting them. Her gradual swell of winnings forced them to raise their bets and put more of their personal fortunes on the line. Guards stood around the room to ensure that no one left.

Finally, both men raised their hands, sobbing. “We are ruined, Mistress Alia. You have taken all of our wealth. We have nothing more to gamble.”

“You have your lives,” she pointed out. “Now, would you care to wager them?”

“Please, no! We beg you!”

She let them squirm for a few moments, then stood up. “All right, we’ll end this game. The guards will accompany you to ensure that you pay what you owe me. Since I won so many times, I cannot claim you were cheating.” Some members of the audience chuckled at her clearly facetious statement, for the evidence of the dice had been quite plain. She turned to the accuser, meeting his troubled expression. “From my winnings, I will repay half of what you have lost — but only half. The rest goes into the Imperial treasury.” She raised her voice. “All of life is a gamble, and opponents will not always play by neat and tidy rules. If you would participate in the game, you must be prepared to lose.”

The old veteran seemed more than satisfied with her unique form of justice. The three left by separate doors, and Alia returned to her high throne….

***

A SHORT WHILE later, Alia received word that Lady Margot Fenring and her daughter had arrived at the Arrakeen Spaceport and were being escorted to the Citadel of Muad’Dib. Stilgar and Irulan had already discussed with her how best to receive their visitors.

Lady Margot did not bring a large entourage, arriving as a traveler of no particular importance on a Heighliner bound from the Bene Tleilax worlds via Richese, Junction, and a number of unremarkable planets, until reaching Dune. Stilgar guided her into the throne room, and the supplicants parted for them.

Margot Fenring was beautiful, trained to use every bit of her appearance and personal magnetism to achieve the Sisterhood’s aims. In this visit, though, Alia wondered whose aims were at play. Her own mother had made different choices. Was Lady Margot content to be a pawn for the Bene Gesserit? And how did little Marie fit into the game plan? Something to do with breeding, no doubt.

Alia looked down with a bright smile, and her eyes met the other girl’s. Marie appeared so young, though Alia knew that this was how she herself looked to strangers.

“We present ourselves to the Emperor’s throne,” Count Fenring’s wife said, bowing slightly.

Stilgar stepped up to the dais, acting as a chamberlain. He spoke to Alia out of the side of his mouth in Chakobsa, the ancient tongue of the desert, though Margot Fenring could understand him as easily as Alia could. “I don’t like this witch or her daughter.”

“You have already made your feelings plain, Stilgar.” Alia raised her voice to make sure the audience could hear her. “It will be good for me to have someone my own age at court. Princess Irulan laments that I should act as a child more often.” She stepped down to meet Marie, who stood facing her with bright and exceedingly intelligent eyes, exquisite features, and perfect manners.

“My brother is unavailable right now,” Alia said to Lady Margot. “We do not know when he will return, but I am happy to welcome you to our court. I grant our protection to you and your daughter.”

“Thank you, your Royal Eminence,” Margot said. A rather startling title to use, but Alia did not dispute it.

Alia then turned her attention back to the little girl. “I’m very pleased to have you here, Marie. We’ll have so much fun together.” She indicated the uppermost step of the dais, just below her throne. “Come, sit next to me and watch as I continue to dispense a mixture of Fremen and Atreides justice.”

4

Arrakis: Men saw great danger there, and great opportunity.

—the PRINCESS IRULAN, entry in Paul of Dune

Of all deaths, one is the most difficult. This was the death of his name, of his family honor, of everything that mattered to him as a man and a leader. The desert had made him see that.

With the face mask of his stillsuit thrown back, Paul sat alone, gazing out across the sea of dunes with the blue-blue eyes of a Fremen. The night’s coolness still clung to the shadowed pocket, but it would vanish rapidly with the awakening day. He had spent the night sitting motionless on a large flat stone, absorbing the rich aroma of