Paul of Dune

shigawire spools and a reader, filmbooks, and clean spice paper on which to take notes. She looked up, surprised to see Paul himself coming toward her.

Other than the silent guards, they had no audience, so she felt no need to be overly formal. “Husband, it is quite an unexpected event when you decide to visit me in my private wing.”

“I have paid too little attention to your writings,” he said in a voice as flat as the blade of a Sardaukar’s dagger. “There is great unrest, and I am anxious for you to release the next chapter of my story. Nevertheless, I must be careful about what you publish. This time, I will read it more closely.”

“To censor it?” She feigned indignation, but she had never expected to complete the work without interference.

“To read it. You know well enough what you should and should not say. I trust you that much.”

Paul stood before her waiting, not at all relaxed, while Irulan remained seated at her table surrounded by the paraphernalia of the project. The three guards seemed decidedly uncomfortable that she did not throw herself to the ground and abase herself before him. She smiled at this. “I think you should appoint me your official Minister of Propaganda.”

“You already serve the role — and you do it well.” His eyes narrowed. “Though I am not entirely certain why you do it. You are a ghanima, a prize I won in battle. You cannot revere me as a husband, and I don’t think you lust after power for its own sake. What is your real motive?”

“I am a scribe of history, my Husband.”

“No historian is without an agenda. That is why no genuine truth is ever recorded. Is it your wish that I believe you are loyal to me — to the exclusion of your family and the Sisterhood — that you wholeheartedly accept your role? You have no hidden agenda, no scheme?”

Irulan looked down at her notes, giving herself a chance to marshal her thoughts. “Ask yourself that question, Paul Atreides. Function as a Mentat. Why would I remain secretly loyal to House Corrino, to my father? He failed. Why would I follow the secret instructions of the Bene Gesserit? They failed, too. Where do I have the most to gain? As your loyal wife. Look at me, ask the question, and decide for yourself where I should invest my efforts.” She watched him follow the logic.

He bent over the table, picked up a few pages from the stack of papers on which she had been writing, and skimmed them, his eyes darting with the speed of static electricity. Then he picked up the entire manuscript.

“Before long, I will depart. I feel the need to … go on a meditative retreat after the recent terrible events. In the meantime, Korba will read this.”

Irulan gave him a mirthless smile. “Korba sees what he wants to see.”

Paul handed the manuscript to one of the guards, who took it as if the pages contained either holy scripture or incriminating evidence. “Yes, he is predictable. But useful because of that.”

And so am I, Irulan thought.

PART VI

Young Paul Atreides

10,187 AG

In the jungles of Caladan, Paul Atreides learned the value of ferocity, of going after his enemies instead of letting them pursue him. From our current perspective, this must be seen as one of the factors that made him the most aggressive Emperor in the long history of the Imperium. He accepted the necessity of pursuing his enemies and killing them without a modicum of compassion or regret.

In his first experience of actual war, joining his father on the battlefields of Grumman, Paul saw how violence could infect men with irrationality, how hatred could extinguish reason. And he came to understand that the most dangerous enemy is not the man with the most weapons, but the man with the least to lose.

— A Child’s History of Muad’Dib by the PRINCESS IRULAN

1

A sharp edge does not automatically make a sword a good weapon. Only the wielder can do that.

—Swordmaster credo

When he and Duncan rejoined the Atreides troops on Ecaz before the combined force departed for Grumman, Paul proudly wore a new Atreides uniform. After surviving in the wilds of Caladan, the young man took care to present himself properly to his father, without looking like a popinjay or a cadet who had never felt dirt under his fingernails. Paul had noticed that none of the veterans, such as Duncan and Gurney, looked overly polished. They had a hardened, professional appearance, and their weapons were worn from use and frequent cleaning. Not gaudy, but perfectly serviceable.

He and Duncan went to the landing field outside the Ecazi Palace, where the Atreides and Ecazi armies prepared for their primary strike against Hundro Moritani. This combined fighting force would be more than enough to crush the Grumman leader and avenge those who had been killed by the Viscount’s ruthless schemes.

Paul and Duncan found Duke Leto standing in the shadow of the Atreides private frigate. The young man couldn’t wait to tell him what he had been through. He wondered if the Duke would shed a tear upon learning of his mother’s death….

Leto surveyed his troops from the base of the embarkation ramp. In an instant, Paul noted the extra shadows around his father’s eyes. The scars on the nobleman’s heart had never healed from the deaths of Victor and Kailea, and the tragedy of his friend Rhombur. The murder of Ilesa had opened fresh wounds and, studying his father now, Paul saw a new haunted look. Duke Leto had been through his own ordeal here on Ecaz.

He embraced Paul, but seemed hesitant to show his relief and joy. He smiled at the Swordmaster. “Duncan, you’ve kept my son safe.”

“As you commanded, my Lord.”

As the clamor of activity continued around them, with soldiers checking weapons and hustling aboard frigates, following their sub-commanders, Paul and Duncan told their stories. In turn Leto told them how he had killed Prad Vidal by his own hand. He seemed to take no pride in it. “That is what a War of Assassins is all about, Paul. Only the correct combatants face death, not innocents.”

Armand Ecaz came to them, accompanied by two gray-suited Guild legates, a male and a female, though both looked remarkably sexless. “Leto, we have formalities to attend to.” The Archduke kept his empty sleeve pinned to his side, like a badge of honor; by now he had recovered enough that he could complete his duties without being slowed by the handicap. “Forms and agreements.”

“Yes, we follow all the rules,” Leto said bitterly. “The prescribed niceties of civilization.”

The Guild legates peered through droopy eyelids, and when they spoke they were entirely passionless, as if only husks of their bodies remained. “The forms must be obeyed,” the female legate said with emphasis.

“And we have obeyed the forms,” Leto replied, somewhat curtly. Paul knew he was anxious to dispatch the