Paul of Dune

Korba confronted the near-naked man in his bindings. “You could not have done this by yourself. No man could.”

“Maybe not one ordinary man, but one Swordmaster could. I planned it all in every detail, without help.” Then Bludd began to regale them with the entire scheme, rattling off specific details of every phase of the operation that had taken him many months to put into place — step by step, one part of the plan after another.

Korba snorted in disbelief at the preposterous claims, but Paul realized that Bludd was not exaggerating. As the Swordmaster talked, he seemed impressed with his own cleverness, though a bit sheepish to reveal it. “I have been caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar, and now you have me. I presume that my service to you is at an end, Sire? You must admit, I did excellent work on your citadel.”

Paul was genuinely baffled. “But why did you turn on me?” He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so confused. His words came out in a rush. “What did you have to gain? How did I offend you? What could possibly have sparked such absolute hatred?”

“Hatred? Why, I do not hate you, Sire. You have been exceedingly fair and kind to me, and I never sought to harm you.” He sighed, and Paul finally detected a deep-seated wound that the man had carried inside for many years, a scar that had never faded. “But history has been less kind to me. I wanted to add my own flourish to the record.” “Explain yourself, man!” Korba growled.

“I lived my life as a great Swordmaster and accomplished many deeds of valor. Can you name them?” He raised his eyebrows, looked wearily at Korba, then at the guards, and back at Paul. “Come, you must remember some of them? Any of them? You certainly do, my Lord. Or do you only remember Rivvy Dinari, who died protecting Archduke Armand during the wedding-day attack? Not poor Swordmaster Bludd, who failed to save Ilesa.” He lowered his head. “I missed my chance then. I failed and was brushed aside, but Rivvy went out in a final flash of glory, a true hero. In fact, he was the star of all the historical accounts. Have you read them, my Lord Paul?”

“I was there. I don’t need to read them.”

“I fought with the Ecazi and Atreides soldiers on Grumman. I helped in the final showdown with Viscount Moritani — does anyone remember? As Archduke Armand clung to life all these years, I served as steward of House Ecaz and apparently accomplished nothing! For you, I oversaw the construction here of the greatest work of architecture in human history, but it will always be known as the Citadel of Muad’Dib. Korba is right about that. I am just another footnote.”

Defiant tears sparkled in his eyes, but he drew no shred of sympathy from Paul. “I demand a grand ending for the history books, not a fading-away. No matter what I’ve done before, this should have been seen as my last great act as a Swordmaster.” Bludd looked around, as if expecting cheers.

“Your secret police can relax, my Lord. I had no political motivations in doing this, I assure you. All your security, your protective measures, your tests… kept looking outward for enemies, imagining motives and eliminating any threats you could perceive. But my motive? I just wanted the attention, the recognition, the respect.” He smiled and lowered his voice. “Despite all, I must confess that I am glad to see you are still alive. And I suppose I will not be remembered as a hero after all. Ah well, it is better to be famous than infamous, but it is better to be infamous than forgotten altogether.”

Anger honed Paul’s voice to a dangerous edge. “What makes you think I will not have your name stricken from the historical record — like House Tantor after they unleashed their holocaust on Salusa Secundus?”

Bludd crossed his sinewy arms over his chest. “Because, Paul Atreides, you have too much respect for history, no matter what Princess Irulan writes.” He brushed at his bare chest, as if imagining wrinkles in a ruffled shirt he no longer wore. “You will sentence me to death, of course. There is nothing I can do about that.”

“Yes, you are sentenced to death,” Paul said, as if in an afterthought.

“Muad’Dib, I refuse to believe he acted alone! Such a complex conspiracy?” Korba said. “The people will never believe it. If you execute this one man, they will see him as a token, perhaps even a scapegoat. They will believe we are unable to find the true perpetrators.”

Bludd laughed sarcastically. “So you will punish random people because you are too narrow-minded to believe that a man with talent and imagination could accomplish what I did? How appropriate.”

Paul was too tired and sickened to deal further with the matter. “Continue your investigations, Korba. See if what he says is true. But do not take too long. There’s enough turmoil on Arrakeen, and I want to end this.”

Bludd was taken away in chains, looking oddly satisfied, even relieved.

13

Individuals can be honorable and selfless. But in a mob, people will always demand more — more food, more wealth, more justice, and more blood.

—Bene Gesserit analysis of human behavior, Wallach IX Archives

The open square in front of the Citadel of Muad’Dib was spacious enough to hold the population of a small city, but it could not encompass all those who clamored to witness the execution of Whitmore Bludd.

From just inside his high balcony — designed by Bludd himself, so that the Emperor could stand above all his people and address the multitudes — Paul watched the throng shift like waves of sand on endless dunes. He heard their grumbles and shouts, felt their charged anger ready to ignite.

It concerned him, but he could not deny them this spectacle. His Empire was based on passion and devotion. These people had sworn their lives to him, had overthrown planets in his name. While pretending to be a brave hero, the traitor Bludd had tried to harm their beloved Muad’Dib, and they felt a desperate need for revenge. Paul had little choice but to grant it to them. Even with his prescience, he could not foresee all the harm that would arise if he dared to forgive Bludd. If he dared! He was the ruler of the Imperium, and yet he was not free to make his own decisions.

Out in the square, guards cleared a central area so that the group of condemned prisoners could be brought out. Guards wearing personal shields used clubs to drive the people back, but it was like trying to deflect the winds in a raging sandstorm. In the mob’s frenzy, some of them turned upon each other, overreacting to an unintentional shove or the jab of an elbow.

It is a tinderbox down there. Paul saw now that he had addicted them to violence as much as they were addicted to spice. How could he expect them simply to accept peace? The crowd below was a microcosm of his entire Empire.

Fedaykin guards brought Bludd and ten other men forward from the citadel’s prison levels. The men plodded along in heavy chains.

Seeing them, the crowd responded with a roar that rolled through the square like a physical wave. At the forefront of the captives, Whitmore Bludd tried to stride along with a spring in his step, though he had been severely beaten, his feet were bruised and swollen, and he was so sore he could barely walk. The men behind him were allegedly fellow conspirators who’d had some part in the terrible massacre.

Two of the ten were the pair of inept assassins who had also plotted to kill Muad’Dib but had been caught in the early stages of their plan. Korba had offered up the other eight as sacrificial lambs, but it was clear to Paul that the evidence against them had been doctored, their confessions forced. Paul was sadly unsurprised to note that all eight were known to be Korba’s rivals, men who had challenged his authority. Paul felt sick inside. And so it begins….

In the square beneath the balcony, a stone speaking platform had become a gathering place for priests, news-criers, and orators proclaiming the glory of Muad’Dib. Now the platform had been reconfigured as an execution stand.

Though limping, Bludd maintained some semblance of grace and courage, but three of the men behind him stumbled or resisted and had to be dragged along. Those men protested their innocence (correctly, perhaps) by their gestures, their expressions, their wails of anguish. But the thunderous roar of the crowd drowned out their words.

As soon as the foppish Swordmaster was hauled up to the speaking platform, the crowd let out another roar