15
The most important battles are always waged inside a leader’s mind. This is the true proving ground of command.
Wearing shackles and flanked by four burly guards, Count Fenring stood at the foot of the Lion Throne. His once-fine trousers and coat were wrinkled and soiled, while his white silk shirt was torn and still bloody from the attack on Paul.
Paul had recovered miraculously — at least he had made it appear so. Already Irulan was working on the story that would add to the mythology of his life, and the people would believe it wholeheartedly, expecting nothing less from Muad’Dib. It would all be part of the growing legend. Princess Irulan now sat beside Paul’s throne with a writing tablet on her lap, but eyewitness accounts of the events had already gotten out.
Consuming great quantities of melange, he had found the energy to appear in court the following morning, where he sat on his throne and made pronouncements — all to prove that Muad’Dib still had the strength to guide his holy empire. Through prescience and plain common sense, Paul knew the havoc that would result if his followers decided to seek unbridled vengeance on anyone they could think of.
Paul knew he had to remain alive, not just for his own sake, but for the future of humanity. Paul remembered who he had been when he killed Feyd-Rautha here in a much different version of this room — a determined young man with victory in his hand and an empire at his feet. He had accepted his mantle of supreme command then, despite knowing the dark and dangerous slope that lay ahead of him. No one else could have guessed the full extent of what Paul-Muad’Dib would become. No one, not his mother, nor Gurney, nor Shaddam. Not even Chani, who understood him best.
From the beginning of his rule, Paul could have given the Imperium a glorious but temporary prosperity. Or he could have chosen ultimately to be seen as a ruthless tyrant. He could have made certain decisions to eliminate turmoil for the immediate future, to foster peace, to administer the government in such a way that all his subjects would love him. Had he handled it differently, history would have painted a favorable portrait of him… for a few generations, maybe even for millennia.
But that way was a dead end.
In his heart, he would much rather have lived in peace with Chani. Given different choices, he could have been like Duke Leto Atreides, beloved by all, fair to all, wise and honored for who he truly was. Instead, obeying no one but himself and the guidance of his prescience, he had sacrificed his personal happiness and the present to save the future. Thus Paul became not what he wanted to be, but what he
As Muad’Dib, he had taken the guilt upon himself by allowing the sacrifice of billions in order to save trillions. And only he fully understood it. He could not place the blame for this on anyone else, and so he accepted the burden and steeled himself to continue doing what needed to be done.
Now he sat in judgment over Count Hasimir Fenring, boon companion of the fallen Emperor Shaddam IV. This man had tried to kill him.
“Ah, hm-m-m-m, I suppose this means you will not be offering me your finest wine again?” Fenring infused his words with bravado and impertinent humor, but his demeanor betrayed uncertainty. His large eyes flicked from side to side, taking in the Fedaykin guards, Stilgar, and the bloodthirsty Chani. He seemed to be wondering which one of them would deal the death blow that was sure to come.
For a moment Fenring focused on Alia, who was seated on the edge of the dais in a black robe. She looked like a tiny executioner, awaiting the command from her brother. She casually kicked her dangling feet. It was a childlike pose like the one she had struck when Shaddam IV sat on this same throne, just before she surprised and killed the Baron Harkonnen.
In a way, she looked somewhat like dear Marie….
“Here on Dune, water is more precious than wine,” Paul said. At a small ornate table beside the Hagal quartz throne, he removed the stopper from a jewel-encrusted ewer. He poured himself a small goblet and another for Fenring. Chani took the cup to the prisoner.
Eyeing it suspiciously, Fenring lifted his heavily shackled hands and accepted the goblet with brave resignation. “So, you’ve decided on poison, hmm-m?” He sniffed the contents.
Paul sipped from his own cup. “It is pure water.” He took another drink to demonstrate.
“It is well known that Muad’Dib can, ahh, convert poisons. This is a trick, isn’t it?”
“No poison — on my honor.
Alia poured herself a goblet and quaffed it with obvious relish.
Fenring scowled down at the liquid in his cup. “I served for many years here on Arrakis, so I know the value of water.” He drank from the goblet, then rudely let it clatter to the floor.
Paul took another sip. “That was the water distilled from Marie’s body. I wanted you to share it with me.” He casually poured the rest of the liquid on the dais and set aside the goblet, upended.
Doubling over with sudden nausea, the Count shuddered, then jerked at his shackles as if reaching for a weapon he didn’t have.
Now Lady Margot Fenring was brought into the chamber to stand beside her husband, with Korba and Stilgar behind her. The Count instantly showed worry, as if his wife’s fate concerned him more than his own. In a traditional Bene Gesserit black robe, Lady Margot still projected the hauteur of a noblewoman, despite the lack of opportunity to groom herself.
At a gesture from Paul, Alia sprang off the dais and stood in front of Marie’s mother, who gazed down at her with a stony expression. His sister held a long needle in her hand, the deadly gom jabbar. Margot Fenring stiffened, but Alia did not strike. Not yet.
Showing no weakness despite his injuries, remembering how the one-armed Archduke Armand Ecaz had insisted on going to war against Grumman after the wedding-day massacre, Paul rose from the throne and stepped down from the dais onto the polished floor. His motions were slow, deliberate, and charged with lethal intent. He stood directly in front of Fenring.
The Emperor drew his own crysknife and pointed its tip at the Count. The guards moved aside, and Fenring went rigid, every muscle in his body petrified. He stared beyond Paul, as if seeing the death that awaited him there.
“Please do not kill him,” Lady Margot said.
“We die regardless,” Count Fenring said, half to her and half to Paul. “The mob would tear us to pieces anyway, as they did to Swordmaster Bludd.” Now, shaking slightly, he looked at Paul. “Would it help if I were to fall to my knees and plead for you to spare her? She did save your life years ago, by warning you and your mother of Harkonnen treachery.”
“Your own treachery erased that water burden,” Stilgar interjected sharply.
Fenring acted as if he did not hear the naib. “If pleading would help, I’d abase myself in any manner to save the life of my Lady.”
Without answering, Paul circled the Count slowly, considering where to strike the mortal blow.
“You know I am more guilty than she is,” Fenring continued, babbling uncharacteristically. “I did not act out of loyalty to Shaddam, nor was this any Bene Gesserit scheme that my wife encouraged. I speak truly when I say I despise Shaddam, because his foolishness shattered any obligations I once had toward him. He removed any chance for the Imperium to be strong and stable. Imagine the scope of his failure — Shaddam’s rule was so hateful and corrupt that many people prefer even the fanaticism of your followers!”
Paul smiled savagely, but said nothing. He kept circling, pausing, and then continuing.
“It was not a personal thing, ahhh, I assure you. My hatred for you and your rule is purely logical. I needed to excise a particularly aggressive form of cancer for the sake of human civilization. With Muad’Dib removed from the equation, then Marie, myself, or a puppet might have had a chance to restore stability and grandeur.”
Finally, Paul said, “You knew Marie had little or no chance of success, but sacrificed her with the knowledge that you might have a moment of opportunity while feigning grief over her death.”
