a mind to expand his plot and exterminate the Corrinos as well as Muad’Dib. Kill them to the last man, woman, and child. Burn their planets. Wipe them off the map of the universe.
Maybe later. With Marie on the throne, it would be done.
“Why don’t we let the child demonstrate her abilities against Dr. Ereboam’s ghola soldiers?” Fenring said, intentionally taunting the albino researcher. Right now, he needed an outlet for his rage. Marie waited nearby, alone in a game room. Since killing Thallo, she no longer had a playmate.
“Do you seriously wish to pit your girl against a dozen trained ghola soldiers?” Garon asked, in disbelief.
“Fifteen,” Fenring said. He knew that in private training sessions she had already proved herself more than capable of handling such a challenge. “Mmm, yes, that should be fair enough.”
MARIE’S EYES FLASHED dangerously as she was led into a small indoor combat arena. She had been told it was time to play. Fenring felt a rush of adrenaline as he smiled at her, feeling complete confidence in the sweet little girl.
Lady Margot seemed just as eager. “Now you shall see what a Bene Gesserit child can do when seasoned with my husband’s advice, and a dash of Tleilaxu Twisting techniques. She has a far broader skill set than any previous assassin.”
Fifteen uniformed ghola fighters chosen by Ereboam had already been sent into the combat room and armed with real weapons, at the insistence of the Fenrings. The Count patted Marie on her blonde head and handed the girl a dagger. “This is all you should need, hmmm?” He bent down to kiss her forehead.
“It’s all I need.”
Margot kissed her daughter’s cheek before sending her into the enclosed arena. The muscular, fully grown soldiers faced Marie, looking at the girl in uneasy confusion as the door sealed, leaving the observers outside.
“Now,” Margot said, using the implacable command of Voice, “extinguish all the lights. She will fight in complete darkness.”
“Hmm-ah, yes,” Fenring agreed, his eyes sparkling. “That should make it more of a challenge.”
THE COUNT COULD see that Bashar Garon was alarmed to hear a flurry of commotion on the combat floor — darts flying and weapons clashing, cries of surprise and pain from the ghola fighters. Several screamed as they died. The darkness remained absolute.
He smiled to himself and gripped Lady Margot’s hand on her lap. He felt her pulse quicken. “Just a little controlled violence,” Fenring said to the Sardaukar commander, as if to ease Garon’s concerns.
“But they are so many and she is so small,” the Bashar said.
Men continued to cry out, and then everything fell eerily silent. Thirty seconds later, the lights went back on.
On the floor, Marie stood looking up at the viewing area. Motionless bodies lay at her feet — the best fighters that the Tleilaxu had to offer. At some point she had discarded her dagger; the girl was speckled with blood on her hands, feet, and face. Count Fenring was still struck by how small and innocent she looked. He couldn’t have been prouder. “Amazing,” Garon said.
“A waste of our best gholas,” Dr. Ereboam added bitterly.
“Perhaps you need to start with better genetic material,” Lady Margot said with an edge of sarcasm.
Fenring watched the other Tleilaxu Masters conferring among themselves in their rude, secret tongue. He didn’t care what they were saying. Their body language revealed enough.
Marie had functioned with deadly precision, synthesizing the wealth of teachings she had been given. With a thrill of fear, he wondered if the girl might be able to best even him. Fenring turned to his wife and saw that her eyes held a sheen of unshed tears. Joyful tears, he thought.
He said tersely, “She is ready.”
15
A written “fact” is considered innately more true than spoken gossip or hearsay, but physical documents have no greater claim to accuracy than an anecdote from an actual eyewitness.
The Imperium reeled from the impact of the violence in the Celestial Audience Chamber, and the people’s reactionary anger displayed itself in increasingly deadly raids on new planets. The jihadis demanded retribution on Muad’Dib’s behalf, and many innocent populations paid the price.
Worse, Irulan watched Paul turn a blind eye to the unjust bloodshed.
No one of importance paid any attention to the death of her sister. Rugi was merely a name on a list of casualties, and few people remarked on the fact that she was the youngest daughter of the Padishah Emperor, a man once described as “the Ruler of a Million Planets.” The spotlight of history focused only upon Muad’Dib and the ever-mounting violence around him. House Corrino had become no more than a footnote in history… just as Swordmaster Bludd had vowed not to be.
But Irulan could not drive away the memory of holding her sister’s body in her arms, and she allowed herself a flash of hatred for Paul, because he had not cared about her grief. Had not even
Preoccupied with his new crackdowns and increased security after the threat, Paul did not acknowledge
According to reports, her father had wailed with grief when he learned the news. He had fooled few people with his crocodile tears, but he had certainly gained some sympathy. Poor Shaddam had dutifully sent his youngest and “most beloved” daughter to attend the Great Surrender ceremony, and Muad’Dib had allowed her to be killed! Her father was certainly shrewd to use the tragedy to build momentum, possibly as a lever in another bid for power.
The Corrino Princess suspected that he had already sent emissaries to find Earl Thorvald, calling upon familial connections, asking the brother of her father’s “dear but regrettably lost” fifth wife, Firenza. Irulan thought he might even succeed, for a while at least.
Irulan once again took control over her emotions, using her Sisterhood training to discover a resolve that allowed her to balance her conflicting roles. She was not permitted direct influence in the government. She was not a true wife. She was not Paul’s lover.
But she was still his wife, and the daughter of an Emperor.
Paul knew her worth, from her writing ability to her knowledge of politics. She had nearly finished writing his early-life ordeals during the War of Assassins, and, like Scheherazade, Irulan would continue to make herself indispensable. His followers devoured any glimpse into his life, his philosophy, his vision for them, for Dune, and for all inhabited planets. His mother, after all, had been a Bene Gesserit. He knew full well the value of mythmaking.
Irulan’s quarters, with the adjacent offices, solarium, and enclosed dry-climate garden, had been specifically designed to be conducive to her writing. She had plenty of light, meditation areas, uninterrupted concentration, secretaries if she needed them. By Muad’Dib’s command, historical documents were surrendered to her; friends of House Atreides, eyewitnesses to events, even former rivals were strongly encouraged to grant the Princess any interviews she desired.
Irulan promised herself that one day she would also tell the story of her own upbringing in the Imperial household and find a way to make the death of poor Rugi meaningful. With each passing day the next manuscript neared completion….
Three Fedaykin guards marched into the enclosed garden where she sat at a small table surrounded by
