Paul of Dune

The architecture of our lives creates the landscape of history. Some of us build great and enduring fortresses, while others merely erect facades.

—THE PRINCESS IRULAN, The Manual of Muad’Dib

Ostentatious. That word came to mind, along with grandiose, extravagant, and awe-inspiring — they were all appropriate. But in the final analysis, Whitmore Bludd’s intention was to create something that literally defied words, a palatial fortress so incredible that historians would spend centuries debating how best to describe what he had accomplished here at the heart of Muad’Dib’s empire.

Even in an enclosed inspection craft that flew slowly above the construction site, Bludd needed an hour just to circumnavigate the boundaries of the stupendous main structure and its complex of buildings and gardens.

Yes, stupendous.

The citadel zone extended to the north of Arrakeen, across the suburbs to the rugged, irregular cliffs that formed a natural boundary to the north. But the project did not stop there. Bludd’s master plan took advantage of the city itself, incorporating existing temples and blocky old imperial structures throughout the various districts. When the project was complete, Muad’Dib’s palace would consume the dusty city, like a great worm swallowing a spice harvester.

However, as far as Bludd was concerned, the work would never be “complete,” because he could always think of something else to add: a new museum wing, a higher turret, a more imposing tower, an integral sculpture of polished blue metal whose plates looked like rippling water whenever the wind stroked it. Bludd did not intend ever to retire quietly to the countryside. No, this was the pinnacle of his life and achievements, something for which he would always be remembered.

As his craft hummed along the boundary of the site, the Sword-master-turned-architect stared out the curved windows. Thankfully, Korba remained silent for a change. Paul Atreides’s Fremen leader styled himself as a prominent priest as well as an important administrator, and too often he contributed capricious ideas to the citadel design. Bludd didn’t like the interference, yet he had no choice but to listen to Korba’s suggestions. Politics!

As the two men watched, gigantic suspensor cranes lifted huge girders into place, which were then overlaid with blocks of stone that had been lascut from the Shield Wall. The labor force summoned by Muad’Dib, and the sheer quantity of imported offworld materials, were beyond anything Bludd had ever imagined.

“The amount of taxes the Emperor will have to raise for this project is beyond my ability to calculate,” he muttered. No one had ever questioned a single item in the budget.

Korba just shrugged. “If Muad’Dib wishes it, then his people will pay. If they do not reach into their own pockets, the Qizarate will do it for them.”

“It was just a comment in passing,” Bludd replied. The other man had no sense of humor whatsoever.

The work teams were competing with one another for speediness of construction, with monetary rewards for their accomplishments and severe penalties for deficiencies. Anyone who showed signs of laziness or produced shoddy workmanship was publicly flogged; for the most egregious cases involving fraud or theft, the individuals were beheaded in the central plaza — an activity at which Korba excelled. To Bludd, these sorts of punishments seemed particularly unlike the original Paul Atreides, but Fremen traditions were much more severe. Paul seemed to be losing some of his humanity in the process… or at least discovering a different, darker side of it.

Bludd had intentionally styled a section of the citadel along the lines of the old Swordmaster school on faraway Ginaz. The loathsome and dishonorable Grummans had brought down the famous school as part of their feud with House Ecaz, and then expanded their vendetta to encompass House Atreides. Poor fat Rivvy Dinari, slain on the wedding day of Duke Leto and Ilesa Ecaz. Heroic Dinari. If only his fellow Swordmaster could see Bludd now!

Korba said blithely, “After analyzing your blueprints, I realigned several turrets so that they fall upon numerically significant positions. I have already given new orders to the construction crews.”

“You can’t just move one piece of it — everything fits as part of the overall architectural pattern.”

“Everything fits according to the designs of Muad’Dib. The modifications are required for religious reasons. You do not understand the necessities of orthodoxy, Bludd.”

“And you don’t know a thing about architecture.” Bludd knew that Korba would not change his mind, and he was wise enough not to call the man out in a duel. Though he was sure he could defeat Korba, he did not underestimate the influence and power of the Fedaykin leader.

As the inspection craft circled a helical tower whose framework seemed to defy gravity, Korba brooded down at the tiny workers. “Do not question my decisions, Bludd. I fought beside Muad’Dib in the desert and stood with him in sietch. I was one of his students of the Weirding Way. We spilled blood side by side, killed Harkonnens together. I was among the first to call him Usul, and I watched him slay Feyd-Rautha.”

Bludd couldn’t believe this desert fighter would try to engage in a game of one-upmanship with him. In response, he said, “I knew Paul Atreides when he was just a stripling, and I saved his life when your mother was still scraping the stink out of your swaddling clothes. Read your history, Korba — Imperial history. Rivvy Dinari got most of the credit, but I was there with him at the wedding massacre. I know the truth, and so does Paul.”

“Imperial history,” Korba sneered. “Paul Atreides. I speak of Muad’Dib, not the son of a Landsraad nobleman. His life before he came to Sietch Tabr and took the name of Usul has little relevance now.”

“You cannot know a man by half his life,” Bludd said, annoyed. “Isn’t that why Princess Irulan wrote his biography, which you all carry around like a holy textbook? If his earlier life was irrelevant, he would not have placed me in such an important position.” There, Bludd thought.

As Korba fell silent, the Swordmaster adjusted the temperature control inside the sealed vehicle. He wore formal clothing, not a dusty jumpsuit or worker’s garb. Whenever he was in public, Bludd liked to present himself with proper dress and manners. These desert ruffians could learn a great deal about style from him. Korba, on the other hand, seemed unwilling to peel off his stillsuit even for routine hygienic purposes, and here in the enclosed craft, the stench of him was like that of an unwashed beast. Bludd contemplated borrowing a set of stillsuit nose plugs just to filter the air.

He thought about his long-dead friend Dinari, sorry for his untimely death but not sorry for the memory. Although the obese Swordmaster had been killed in the War of Assassins, he had also been rewarded with great glory for what he had done. And if not for a fraction of a second of hesitation, Bludd would also be remembered as a hero during the wedding massacre, rather than an inept failure. Ilesa had died, and he should have protected her. No matter what other exploits he accomplished in subsequent years, history would never forget that he had missed his singular chance to make a legend of himself.

Instead, he would be relegated to a footnote in an entry about the early life of Muad’Dib. Irulan was writing that part of Paul’s life now, and Bludd wasn’t certain she would treat him kindly in her supposedly objective account. She’d been polite to him, so maybe he could convince her to insert a good word or two….

He straightened inside the cockpit of the inspection craft. Well, despite his earlier shame, this magnificent fortress-palace would overshadow everything else. The citadel would be his crowning achievement, his true legacy for history. It would surpass even the accomplishments of his revered ancestor Porce Bludd, who had selflessly sacrificed his fortune to save populations during the Butlerian Jihad.

“Make your suggestions for design alterations if you must, but I still have to approve them,” Bludd said. “This is my project, my design, and my citadel.”

“You forget yourself.” Korba’s voice carried a clear warning. “No matter what you say, no matter how you delude yourself, this will always be the Citadel of Muad’Dib. The Qizarate has named it so. It belongs to him, and to God. You are a mere facilitator, as are we all. Who will remember your part?”

The words stung. Previously, Bludd’s feelings toward the other man had been constrained to annoyance; now he was genuinely angry at him. “I still know what I accomplished. That is all that really matters.”

“If no one knows your name or your accomplishments, then your life is no more memorable than sand blown on the wind.” Korba chuckled, but Bludd didn’t think it was at all funny.

“And you, Korba, try to make your own mark by creating a religion around Muad’Dib? It’s all about power you can earn from the life and legend of the Emperor, isn’t it? It’s all about elevating yourself.”