loyal Otheym, Tandis, Rajifiri, and Saajid. Knowing their skills and bravery, he had reserved his Fremen — a mere fraction of his fighting force — for the most difficult conquests, the bloodiest engagements.
But Korba, though also a Fedaykin, had chosen a different path to glory. Though subtle, the man’s motives were transparent to Paul: While a warrior was just a warrior, the head of a religion wielded a more sustainable power in the ever-widening circle of Muad’Dib’s influence and the increasing number of conquered or allied subjects. By fostering the development of the Qizarate, giving new and zealous priests teachings and rules to enforce, Korba created and held his own moral high ground — in the name of Muad’Dib.
In spite of the sour taste that development left in his mouth, Paul needed all of the energy that religion could provide. And he knew that he, too, had to keep up appearances.
With Chani at his side, Paul walked from table to table and looked over the model structures, focusing on the multiple domes and soaring arches. A cutaway showed where a Celestial Audience Chamber would house his primary throne. “Some of the individual chambers will be so large that kingly palaces could fit inside them. The entire complex is designed to be a vast fortified city, both to protect its inhabitants and to impress outsiders.”
The flamboyant Swordmaster used his own rapier as a pointer to show Irulan how her private gardens would be laid out, including “contemplation offices” where she could continue her writing. Paul noted the pride in the man’s demeanor as he explained his grand dream, and the Princess seemed suitably impressed.
Chani glanced sidelong at Irulan. “Perhaps such things were expected in the old Imperium, but we do not need such a place, Usul. Fremen would consider this sort of extravagance… greedy, in the manner of offworlders.”
“No extravagance is too great for Muad’Dib,” Korba insisted. “The people will settle for nothing less than the greatest work of construction in human history.”
Sadly, Paul knew that Korba was right.
Bludd cleared his throat loudly. “Those were my instructions, and that is what it shall be. From the central core, the rest of the construction will blossom like a beautiful flower in the desert.” Though they had radically conflicting personalities, Korba and Bludd were developing a grudging respect for each other during the early stages of the construction project. A common ambition and goal served as a balancing point between the men.
Paul took Chani’s hand, and said to her, “Such extravagance is necessary, Beloved. The magnificence itself is a lever that can move the most stubborn doubters and the newly converted. Through sheer size, scope, and grandeur, my new fortress must inspire awe in the hearts of everyone who experiences it — even in us, who know its inner workings and design. Especially in us, perhaps, because we have to play our parts well, and I must play mine the best of all.”
He clapped a hand on the fine fabric of the Swordmaster’s waistcoat. “You have my wholehearted approval, Bludd. Yes, this palace will be built according to your plans. With each stone laid and each tapestry hung, we will strengthen the Jihad — and hasten its conclusion. I will make public appearances on my throne and from my balconies overlooking throngs of the faithful. These places must be incomparable in their opulence.
“My private quarters, however, will be simple.” Paul gestured dismissively at the plans for the royal suite that seemed to drip ostentation. “When Chani and I retire to our chambers, there will be only those traditional amenities one might find in a sietch, articles and furnishings that typical Fremen would use. In private we shall remember our roots.”
Bludd and Korba looked at him in alarm, while Irulan came closer. “My Husband, the people expect you to live as an Emperor, not as a tribal chieftain. The entire citadel, including your living quarters, should show all humankind how great and powerful Muad’Dib is. My father’s royal wing in the old Imperial Palace could be a model for you.”
“The simplicity of a sietch is enough for us, in our private quarters,” Chani insisted, and Paul agreed, ending the discussion. His concubine had always been less comfortable in cities, in gigantic and ornate structures. “Even though he is the Emperor, Muad’Dib is still one of the people.”
14
I was destined for greatness, not to be a mere footnote in history.
The storehouse of expensive wine was part of the vast trove of spoils the armies of Muad’Dib were already bringing back to Arrakis. Whitmore Bludd found the uncatalogued cache during his work of managing the materials and overseeing the huge citadel construction project.
He perused the labels on the bottles, noting the vintages with growing admiration and amazement. He doubted the uncouth Fremen had any idea of the value of what they had found. They had piled the seized bottles without any sort of inventory list or temperature control.
These desert fanatics had no appreciation, no taste, no finesse. They would not know the difference between a crisp, delicate Caladanian white and a robust chianti from the greenhouse vineyards of IV Anbus. As he examined case after case of bottles inside the storehouse, Bludd realized he could not, in good conscience, let such a treasure go to waste.
Now, finding a rough-red table wine meant to be drunk in quantity rather than savored, he decided the Fremen might enjoy that more than anything too sophisticated. Or perhaps one of the syrupy muscats. When he came across a bottle of genuine Kirana champagne, he set it aside with the fine vintages. He couldn’t allow
For tonight, Bludd settled on an enhanced claret he had tasted years ago, when he and his fellow Swordmaster Rivvy Dinari had toasted their service to Archduke Armand Ecaz. The corpulent Dinari had considered the vintage exceptional, and Bludd had fond memories of that evening, owing more to the fellowship and the situation than to the wine’s quality. Dinari, for all his girth, claimed to have quite a discriminating palate, although he did seem to prefer both quantity
Bludd had already changed into his evening clothes: a tailored maroon jacket, a belted black tunic with ruffled collar, tight black pants, and knee-high suede boots that matched the color of the jacket. As always, his long rapier hung at his hip, a weapon that was both decorative and deadly. He hefted the case of wine, balancing it on his other hip, and walked out of the storehouse with as much grace as he could summon. If these desert fighters were capable of enjoying good things — not at all a certainty — he would endear himself to them, and they would all have a fine time swapping tales of their exploits.
In a celebratory mood, he brought the wine and his own corkscrew, as well as a case of stemmed glasses, to the Fremen barracks. Smiling, he lifted out the bottles so that he could share the vintage, but the Fremen regarded him suspiciously. They accepted Bludd as one of Muad’Dib’s special advisers and a long-time acquaintance, yet the overdressed Swordmaster did not match their notion of a warrior.
He sniffed and quickly hid his distaste for all the smells around him. As members of Paul’s elite military stationed here on Arrakeen, they had access to enough water to bathe at least once in a while!
“I have brought fine wine from the stores of Emperor Paul Atreides” — he shrugged quickly — “or Muad’Dib, if that’s what you prefer to call him. Does anyone wish to partake?” Bludd began to pour glasses and gestured for the dusty Fremen soldiers to take them, one by one. “It is tradition among Swordmasters to share a glass of good wine while we exchange our stories of battle. Having been a primary instructor at the Ginaz School, I later became one of the two highest ranking swordfighters in the Ecazi court.”
Half a dozen Fremen picked up the glasses and looked at them. One, a Fedaykin named Elias, took a gulp and made a face.
“Not like that!” Bludd snapped, losing patience. “Examine its rich color, inhale its magnificent bouquet. Take a little sip. Allow the flavors to separate on your palate. This isn’t one of your coarse spice beers.” Elias seemed offended by the rebuff, though Bludd pretended not to notice. He held up a wineglass, took a sip, and let out a long sigh. “So… the stories. Since you are so enamored of Paul-Muad’Dib, shall I tell you of the time my fellow
