1
Some leaders create great works in order to be remembered; others need to destroy so that they can make their mark on history. But I — I will do both.
Whitmore Bludd — architect and Swordmaster — stood admiring the detailed projection model, as if he himself couldn’t believe what he had accomplished. He smiled at Paul. “Your magnificent citadel will never be completed, my Lord, and that is by design. Your followers will see the palace as a symbol that
On the solido hologram that covered a conference-room table, the main part of the immense fortress, already as large as a small city and centered on the old Arrakeen Residency, looked solid and tangible; semitransparent extensions marked new structures that Bludd still wished to build. He had proposed additions that would be the size of districts, towers so high that they would experience their own weather patterns, and labyrinthine corridors that (some quipped) would require a Guild Navigator to explore.
Paul frowned skeptically. “Master Bludd, the cost of constructing such a thing would bankrupt CHOAM. Do you think the financial resources of my Empire are infinite?”
The Swordmaster smiled at him again. “Why yes, my Lord, I do. I present this model not to ask for more money or workers, but to suggest a spectacular celebration, a… grand opening of sorts.” He activated the holo- controls, and all of his proposed additions dissolved, leaving only the actual structure. “Think of it as a gala celebration. Representatives from every world conquered in your Jihad will come here to demonstrate their obedience.”
Chani and Korba were both in the room; their brows furrowed as they tried to digest the foppish man’s proposal and its implications. Alia sat at the end of the table, and the holographic image dwarfed her small body. “I think you merely wish to show off your work, Swordmaster,” she said.
Bludd seemed embarrassed. “As always, child, you have a talent for cutting to the heart of the matter.” He spread his hands in a deprecating gesture. “Naturally, I am proud of my work. Can you think of a better way to cement my place in history? Long after I am gone, I would like to be remembered in the company not just of my old friends Rivvy Dinari and Duncan Idaho, but also my famous ancestor, Porce Bludd, maybe even Jool Noret, the founder of the Ginaz School.”
Korba said in a low voice, “Security will be extremely difficult with all those planetary governors and Landsraad representatives here. Many of them despise you, Usul.”
Paul wished Stilgar could have been here, but the naib was leading a force of Fremen, chasing down another group of Thorvald’s persistent followers. Paul frowned at Korba. “Do you say that protecting me is not possible in such a situation?”
Now Korba seemed offended. “Of course not, Usul.”
Bludd asked, “With your prescience, could you not identify and eliminate any danger?”
Paul sighed. With every battle, every crisis, every failure (that his faithful viewed as “tests” rather than mistakes), he could not help but be reminded of how uncertain his knowledge was. Year by year, as the Jihad worsened and he saw no end in sight, he doggedly stuck to the path that had once seemed terrible but clear.
In recent days he’d experienced a recurring dream that baffled him, a vivid image of a leaping fish carved of wood over thick brown waves, also of wood. A symbol of his childhood on Caladan, now turned false? Was he the fish? He had no idea what the dream meant.
“My visions are imperfect and incomplete, Whitmore. I can see the great swell of dunes in the desert, but I do not always know the movement of individual grains of sand.”
Even so, as soon as Bludd had suggested the festival, Paul had sensed a tumultuous and chaotic clash of futures, many of which held grave danger for him. Some possibilities even offered a path to martyrdom. But he knew that, whatever the cost, humanity must survive for an even more incredible battle to come in the far future. While looking so far ahead, though, he had to beware that he did not fall into a pit at his feet.
The very fact that so many people believed in him and prayed to him, that they believed Muad’Dib saw all and knew all, paradoxically muddled his ability to perceive the workings of the future. But the future was always there in front of him, alternately veiled or exposed in fine detail. Wherever his destiny led him, he could not escape it. The path he would take was, and would be, determined by both Fate and his own actions.
He made his decision. “Yes, it is time to announce my victories and give the weary people something to celebrate. Send for Irulan. Tell her I need her.”
BECAUSE THE PRINCESS sequestered herself in her private chambers and offices, a few wagging tongues suggested that she had taken a secret lover since she did not share Muad’Dib’s bed. The more faithful believed that Irulan simply meditated in private on her awe for Muad’Dib.
But Paul knew that Irulan spent most of her days occupied with the next volume of her massive biographical project. He had read some of her draft passages, noting occasional errors and fabrications designed to build his image as a messiah. Because her alterations almost always coincided with his purposes, he rarely asked her to change what she had written. He smiled, thinking of this.
He had asked his spies to watch for any seditious treatises or manifestos that she might attempt to circulate among the populace. Thus far they had found no cause for concern. He didn’t think Irulan would try to foment a revolution, simply because it did not make sense for her to do so. Though he didn’t trust her entirely, he could rely on her for certain things. Such as now.
Pursuant to his summons, Irulan arrived at the conference room where Bludd’s citadel model still shimmered, although the wiry Swordmaster had already gone away to begin his preparations. An army of workers would complete the finishing touches, cleaning and polishing every corner, slab, and engraving, though Bludd insisted on doing the final ornate work in the Celestial Audience Chamber with his own hands, claiming his personal standards of perfectionism were far more rigorous than any other man’s (though Korba disagreed).
Irulan’s long blonde hair was tied back in a serviceable, yet not extravagant, style. Paul liked her better this way than with her formal hauteur. Her blue eyes studied the others who were present. “You summoned me, Husband?”
“I have a new task for you, Irulan — one for which you are well suited. It will require that you re-establish connections with the once-prominent families of the Landsraad.” He explained about the proposed ceremony. “Help me to summon them here. Bring forth one representative from every world in my Empire to celebrate the completion of the first part of my palatial fortress.”
When Korba spoke, he found a way to impart vehemence into every word. “This festival will also force every leader to prove his loyalty to Muad’Dib. My Qizarate will help administer the details. We will call this the Great
Irulan was surprised. “Even my father, from Salusa Secundus?”
Paul tapped his fingers on the table. “Shaddam IV is one of my subjects as well. He is not exempt.”
Irulan’s face took on a calculating expression. “I can help you write the invitations, send summonses that will not be ignored, but are you aware of how much such an extravagance will cost you? Plus the commotion, the security issues, the traffic flow through the spaceports? Can the Guild handle the transport details?”
“The Guild
Irulan’s eyes showed surprise, then admiration. “A neat trick. Such a thing will not unduly strain the coffers of any planetary lord, and the Fremen will delight in it. A perfect symbolic gesture.”
“Symbolic and practical. We will distribute the water to all the people in Arrakeen,” Chani said. “It will show the benevolence of Muad’Dib.”
