“Ahh, and if that Harkonnen pup had fought better, none of us would be here. Not that Shaddam would have continued to be anything but an unremarkable ruler.”
“At least the Imperium would be stable and not torn apart by Muad’Dib’s growing Jihad,” Garon said quietly.
And Feyd would still be alive… Marie’s true father. But few people knew that.
‘“Honor and the legion,’” Fenring said pensively. It was a Sardaukar motto.
“Precisely. A Sardaukar never dishonors himself, even though Shaddam has brought dishonor upon us. He remains oblivious to how much resentment his remaining Sardaukar feel toward him.”
A smile worked its way across Fenring’s narrow face. “Entire library planets could be filled with the things Shaddam doesn’t know.”
Garon finally took a sip of tea. “His foolishness has cost both of us. A man never gets over losing his son, or his honor.”
“And now you are torn by your oath as a Sardaukar, your duty to serve the Corrinos, and your memories of your son.”
“You understand me too well.”
“If you and I had made the decisions, ahhh, we might have prevented the rise of Muad’Dib. But there are still things we can do, hmm? We have an opportunity here, you and I. If he were removed from the equation, being clever and resourceful, we could easily manipulate the ensuing turmoil to our own ends.”
The old Bashar studied Fenring. “You suggest that we work together? You will return to Salusa Secundus, then?”
Fenring stared at the jewel-handled knife. “Tell the Emperor that while I appreciate his offer, my answer must be no, for the time being. I have other… opportunities here, and I intend to pursue them.”
“Shaddam will be angry that I have failed in my mission.”
“Hmm, then leave open the possibility that I might change my mind. Keep him on nice, sharp tenterhooks. To maintain that illusion, I’ll keep his gift of the knife. I know the way he thinks. He will, ahhh, believe that I owe him a favor in return. In the meantime, my darling little daughter requires a great deal of shaping and instruction.”
“And what significance does this daughter hold?”
Sardaukar had such a tendency to see everything in black-and-white terms! “She has a great deal of significance, my dear Bashar. What if we were to bypass the fool on Salusa and find a way to overthrow Paul- Muad’Dib ourselves?”
Garon sat back in his chair, struggling not to show his shock. “Harsh times require harsh actions.”
Fenring pressed his point. “Shaddam’s failings as an Emperor left the people so eager to replace him that a violent upstart such as Muad’Dib could step into the vacuum, bolstered by his fanatics. Now, however, it’s becoming clear that Muad’Dib may be worse than Shaddam ever was — and we need to stop the slaughter any way we can, and establish a new order.”
Garon inhaled a long, deep breath, and nodded. “We must take the course of honor. In doing so, we can reverse a great wrong that is being committed against humanity. We are honor-bound to make the effort.”
Fenring extended his hand across the table, and Garon grasped it firmly. Personally, the Count didn’t care
13
The boundaries of an empire are vast, but a truly effective government extends no farther than a planet, a continent, or even a village. People have difficulty seeing farther than their nearest horizon.
He stood on the balcony, a lonely figure. Late at night, the lights of Arakeen were low and a rising First Moon cast long shadows across the burgeoning city to the desert escarpments beyond. High on the ridge line, a delta of sand creased the broad expanse of the Shield Wall, where Paul had shattered the barrier with atomics to allow attacking sandworms into the basin. The Shield Wall was a natural object that had been blasted in battle by a mere man. A
The people did not see him as such. The young Emperor returned to bed but lay awake, restless. Countless military campaigns remained to be fought across the galaxy, and Paul-Muad’Dib was their inspiration on the path to eternal glory. Fremen would not let themselves see any frailties in their messiah.
Sometimes his prescient visions were only general impressions, other times vivid images and specific scenes. The Jihad itself had always been like a high mountain range across his life’s path — unavoidable, dangerous. He had tried to deny it initially, but then he had forged ahead, facing the difficulties, the treacherous cliffs, the unexpected storms. He was the guide for the human race, wanting to lead them through safe passes, but knowing he could not avoid every avalanche, flash flood, rockfall, or lightning strike. Race consciousness demanded otherwise.
His own terrible purpose demanded otherwise. No matter what choices he made, a great many would still perish before they reached the promised land beyond.
Paul envisioned an energy-force of pomp, ostentation, and bureaucracy that would grow around him. The signs were already apparent. At first, this would wear the guise of a powerful and necessary machine, but it would eventually metastasize and grow like a cancer. For a time, he knew he must accept the malignancy because it would fuel the Jihad.
Already, Dune was the hub of the new universe. Millions and millions of pilgrims would come here on hajj. Important decisions would be made on this hallowed ground, and from here Muad’Dib’s legions would continue to be dispatched to the farthest reaches in order to enforce his wishes.
From Arrakeen, the newly planned Citadel of Muad’Dib would radiate light all across the galaxy. His palace would be enormous and breathtaking. The people, and history, demanded it.
Old neighborhoods and disjointed slums had already been razed to make room for the colossal structure. After dawn that day, construction was slated to begin.
THE OLD ARRAKEEN Residency would form the core of the huge building, but before long the new palace would swallow all external traces of the original home of House Atreides on Arrakis, once also the long-term base of Count Fenring and Lady Margot. Paul stood with an intense Korba and an exuberant Whitmore Bludd inside a vaulted chamber, watching the reactions of both Chani and Irulan.
Swordmaster Bludd proudly displayed shimmering projection models of the buildings, gardens, and avenues of the future Citadel of Muad’Dib. The plans alone were large enough to fill much of the room. Projection technicians busily put finishing touches on some of the models, monitored by the watchful eyes of assistant architects.
Bludd had done a remarkable job of balancing the wishes and ideas of so many people, while maintaining his personal vision for “humanity’s greatest architectural triumph.” For many years already, he had served as a de facto manager of all of Archduke Ecaz’s holdings, and now he would coordinate the armies of workers, the flow of materials, and the budget (though even the poorest waifs sleeping on the dry streets of Arrakeen willingly offered their last coins to Muad’Dib).
Speaking on behalf of the Qizarate, Korba provided input on four immense temples that would be constructed on the grounds and connected to the main citadel complex blossoming around the old mansion. Even before the first great walls had been raised, he insisted on ornamenting the city-sized structure with religious statuary and various objects of a spiritual nature. “Every facet of the citadel must enlarge the persona and legend of the Emperor Muad’Dib, elevating him to his appropriate stature.”
Glancing at Korba, Paul thought of his remaining Fedaykin, remembering the purity of their devotion. Back when the battles had been straightforward and the enemies clearly identified — Harkonnens, Sardaukar — they had sworn their lives to defend him. Many of those elite fighters were even now engaged in battles of the Jihad — the
