Paul of Dune

that soon began to coalesce into words, a chanted, mocking, hate-filled chorus of “Bad Bludd, Bad Bludd!”

Half of the doomed men fell to their knees trembling, but not the Swordmaster, who stood with his chin high. The others turned their heads down in dismay and terror.

Defiant, Bludd squared his shoulders and gazed at the crowd. His long ringlets of silver-and-gold hair blew in the hot breeze. Even now the Swordmaster seemed to consider this to be part of a performance, determined not to be remembered by history as a gibbering coward. He smiled boldly, swelling his chest. If he was going to be infamous, then Bludd would be truly extravagant in his infamy.

Paul allowed the crowd’s emotions to rise. Finally, passing smoothly through the moisture seals, he emerged onto the balcony and stood under the warm yellow sunlight. Many faces in the crowd turned rapturously toward him. For a long moment, he said nothing — just absorbed the throbbing wash of emotions, and let the onlookers absorb him. The shouts rose to a cacophony, and Paul raised his hands for silence.

He could have spoken in a normal voice, not even requiring the amplifiers that were spaced around the vast square. But he shouted, “Justice is mine.”

Even Bludd turned to face him. It seemed as if the Swordmaster wanted to give him a salute, but his hands were bound.

Paul had decided against a long and ponderous speech. The crowds already knew the crime, and knew who had been found guilty. “I am Muad’Dib, and I give you this gift.” He gestured down toward Bludd and the other men. “Justice is yours.”

The guards removed the shackles from Bludd and the other prisoners, and let the chains tumble heavily onto the speaking platform. Knowing what was to come, the guards vanished quickly into the crowd. With a dismissive gesture, Paul stepped back into the shadows, out of sight, as if he had washed his hands of the matter. But he continued to watch.

The mob hesitated for a minute, not sure what they were supposed to do, unable to believe what Muad’Dib had just said. Two of the prisoners tried to bolt. Bludd stood on the execution platform with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting.

The crowd surged forward like a crashing wave. They howled and clawed at each other to get closer. Paul watched, sickened, as they tore Bludd limb from limb, along with the ten hapless scapegoats.

Chani slipped into the shadows beside him, her face dusky, her eyes large and hard. She had a Fremen’s bloodthirstiness, wanted to see pain inflicted upon those who had tried to harm her and her beloved. Even so, at the sight of such violence and fanaticism, revulsion showed on her face.

Paul knew exactly what he had created here. For so long, he had been forced by prescience to use violence as a tool in order to achieve what needed to be done. And violence was an effective and powerful tool. But now it seemed that the slippery instrument had turned, and the violence itself was using him as its tool. A dark part of him wasn’t sure if he would be able to control what he had unleashed. Or if he even wanted to.

14

True morality and honor can never be codified into law, at least not for every eventuality. A nobleman must always be prepared to select the high road, thus avoiding the pitfalls of shadowy paths and spiritual dead ends.

—CROWN PRINCE RAPHAEL CORRINO

“They are reasonably good fighters,” Bashar Zum Garon admitted as he looked at the trained group of gholas that the Tleilaxu presented in an enclosed arena in Thalidei. “No match for my Sardaukar or Muad’Dib’s Fedaykin, but I do see considerable skills out there. Emperor Shaddam may find them acceptable for his secret army.”

“Ah, hm-m-m-m,” Count Fenring said, sitting next to Margot in the spectator seats of the combat area. “That was a nice parry from the tall, bearded one.” They watched a hundred uniformed soldiers engage in practice matches with an array of simulated weapons that left marks on their opponents to show “kills” and “wounds.” They were using swords, stunners, knives, darts, and projectile simulators.

“And the man in red just made a decent thrust against his opponent, but they’re half a step slow,” Lady Margot pointed out.

Dr. Ereboam nodded knowingly. “When we have finished honing them, they will successfully compete against Sardaukar and Fedaykin, because they begin with the same raw material. Their minds remember nothing of their past lives, but their bodies remember their training. Our battlefield harvesters take cells from fallen warriors, even intact bodies if they are reparable. These gholas have the same muscle reflexes and superior potential as the most celebrated fighters. They are the most celebrated fighters.”

“Hmmm, I would submit that any soldier who does not survive a battle is not, ahh, by definition, the best fighter.”

The albino researcher scowled. “These are the best of the best, those who not only possessed superior skills, but who died bravely. These resurrected fighters can become a spectacular army for Emperor Shaddam — an army that Muad’Dib knows nothing about. They appear on no census rolls, their names no longer exist. Provided we can smuggle them to Salusa Secundus, they will seem to have appeared out of thin air.”

Garon nodded seriously. “I will inform the Emperor of what you offer. As gholas, none of them fear death. Yes, they can be fierce, indeed.”

Though Fenring was loathe to participate in any more of Shaddam’s schemes that were bound to fail, he had to admit that this one showed a certain measure of promise. He feared, however, that the fallen Emperor would never truly understand how different and formidable a foe Muad’Dib was, with his fanatical armies that felt no sense of self-preservation.

Count Fenring and Lady Margot knew their own plans for Marie were much more likely to succeed than Shaddam’s tiresome schemes to restore himself to power. Even at her young age, Marie had outwitted and outfought the deranged Thallo. The Tleilaxu were quite dismayed after the disaster, but Fenring did not need their flawed Kwisatz Haderach candidate for his own success.

Yes, the little girl’s skills were developing nicely.

Fenring watched as a mock town appeared at the center of the enclosed arena; building facades emerged from places of concealment in the floor. The ghola soldiers divided into two squadrons designated by red or blue waist sashes, then faced off on the faux town streets and alleys, firing marker darts at one another. None of them spoke a word.

“My Marie could defeat the whole pack of them down there,” Count Fenring mused. “You’ll have to do better than that, Doctor.”

Ereboam let out a shrill, scoffing sound. “Against so many trained opponents she would not stand a chance!”

“Oh, she would stand a chance all right,” Lady Margot agreed. “But perhaps saying she could kill a hundred warrior gholas is a bit too boastful. I am confident she could eliminate a dozen of them, however.”

“Yes,” Fenring said, correcting himself. “Make it fifteen.”

Bashar Garon seemed deeply disturbed by the suggestion. “That little girl? Against hardened warriors? She can’t be more than seven years old.”

“Ahh-hm-mm, she is six,” Fenring said. “And her age is not the question here, only her skill level.” He lowered his voice, adding a dangerous undertone. “Perhaps I should send her to Shaddam’s court. Our dear Emperor would find her far more difficult to kill than my dear cousin Dalak.”

He had not loved Wensicia’s husband, or even known him well, but the fool had indeed been a member of Fenring’s family. When Garon reported the “unfortunate incident” of Dalak’s death — first telling Shaddam’s lie, then admitting to the dishonorable truth — the Count had been extremely annoyed. He could not ignore the insult, even for the sake of his supposed childhood friend. For his own part, the Bashar remained offended by many of Shaddam’s recent actions, and Dalak’s murder was only one of them.

One more reason not to assist Shaddam, one more reason to despise the man’s ineptitude. Fenring had half