The Winds of Dune (33 page)

Jessica stood with her back to him. Her bronze hair was set in an intricate
knot, her gown and demeanor an odd combination of Fremen practicality, sedate Bene Gesserit conservativism, and regal beauty.

It had been sixteen years since Leto’s death, and in that time Gurney had struggled with his changing perception of Jessica. They had been close friends for a long time, and he could not stop his awakening feelings for her, though he tried to dispel them. He could not forget that when they were first reunited out in the desert—Gurney with his band of smugglers, Paul and Jessica with their Fremen—Gurney had tried to kill her, convinced she was a traitor to House Atreides. He had believed the lies spread by Harkonnens.

Gurney no longer doubted Jessica’s integrity.

By the cistern, she turned to look at him, her face little changed despite the intervening years, but not through Bene Gesserit age-defying tricks. Jessica was simply beautiful, and she did not need chemicals or cellular adjustments to retain her stunning appearance.

He gave a formal bow. “My Lady, you summoned me?”

“I have a favor to ask, Gurney, something very important, and very private.” She did not use Voice on him and applied no apparent Bene Gesserit techniques, but in that instant he would have done anything for her.

“It shall be done—or I will die in the attempt.”

“I don’t want you to die, Gurney. What I have in mind will require finesse and the utmost care, but I believe you are fully capable of it.”

He knew he was flushing. “You honor me.” He was not so foolish as to think that Jessica was unaware of his feelings for her, no matter how he struggled to maintain a placid demeanor and a respectable distance. Jessica was Bene Gesserit trained, a Reverend Mother in her own right; she could read his moods no matter how cleverly he covered them up.

But what
kind
of love did he feel for her? That was unclear even to Gurney. He loved her as his Duke’s lady, and was loyal to her as Paul’s mother. He was physically attracted to her; no doubt of that. Yet his sense of Atreides honor muddied all of his feelings. He had been her companion for so many years; they were friends and partners, and they ruled Caladan well together. Out of respect for Duke Leto, Gurney had always fought back his romantic feelings for her. But it had been so many years. He was lonely; she was lonely. They were perfect for each other.

Still, he didn’t dare. . . .

She startled him out of his reverie. “Alia asked you and Duncan to track down Bronso of Ix.”

“Yes, my Lady, and we will do our utmost. Bronso’s writings promote chaos in this delicate time.”

“That’s what my daughter says, and that’s exactly what she’s forced Irulan to write.” Troubled wrinkles creased Jessica’s forehead. “But Alia doesn’t understand everything. What I ask of you now, Gurney, I cannot explain, because I’ve made other promises.”

“I don’t need explanations, merely your instructions, my Lady. Tell me what you need.”

She took a step closer to him, and he focused only on her. “I need you to
not
find Bronso, Gurney. It will be difficult, because Duncan is sure to throw all of his resources into the hunt. But I have my reasons. Bronso of Ix must be allowed to continue his work.”

A storm of doubts swept into Gurney’s mind, but he stopped himself from uttering them. “I gave you my word that I wouldn’t ask questions. If that is all, my Lady?”

Jessica looked at him intently. Her eyes, which used to be clear green, had taken on a blue cast from melange usage over the years. Beyond that, he thought he saw a hint of affection for him there, more than usual.

She turned back to stare at the rock wall of the cistern. “Thank you for trusting me, Gurney. I appreciate that more than you can ever know.”

Evil does not have a face, nor does it have a soul.

—
ANONYMOUS

T
hough Rheinvar the Magnificent had kept a low profile for many years since the debacle at Balut’s Theater of Shards, his Jongleur troupe still performed on backwater worlds and fringe outposts. The ubiquitous Wayku kept track of their movements as they slipped from system to system.

Bronso, traveling under a succession of assumed names and theatrical disguises, thought fondly of the troupe leader, one of the rare Master Jongleurs. Now, he needed Rheinvar and his Face Dancers to help him on his mission.

When the Guildship arrived at the secondary world of Izvinor, the Ixian used his ID scramblers to pose as a steerage-class passenger and travel down to the surface. There, he changed clothes, altered his identity again, and became a businessman looking for investment opportunities in keefa futures.

He had already sent word ahead to the Jongleur encampment, and as he made his way to the rendezvous hotel, he saw leaflets and placards advertising the upcoming performance. He smiled. Very little seemed to have changed.

“This suite is our finest,” the bellman said, guiding a suspensor platform filled with Bronso’s luggage into the parlor room. A smooth-faced
man with a narrow black mustache and a bald head, the bellman was the sort of fellow whose age could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-five.

After the door closed behind them, the man dutifully began to unload the bags. “Do you have fresh fruit?” Bronso asked.

“The mumberries are ready for picking.” The bellman began to hang clothing in a closet.

“Too sweet for my tastes.” With this exchange of code words, the other man’s features shifted, rearranged, and then settled into an appearance that Bronso recalled warmly from his youth. “Ah, now you look like Sielto—but are you truly him?”

“Who is truly anyone? Every person is illusion to some degree. But . . . yes, I am the Sielto you remember. Rheinvar awaits you with great anticipation.”

After a series of secretive movements through the city, doubling back, changing clothes, Bronso walked with the Face Dancer to the simple camp—very much the same as the tents he remembered from his boyhood, though they were a bit more battered and threadbare. Ten dancers practiced on dry grass, turning somersaults and vaulting over one another.

“These days, we no longer play the big palaces and theaters,” said a familiar, rich voice. “But we get by.”

Bronso felt years of anxiety and heavy responsibilities lift away as he turned to face the Jongleur leader. Rheinvar wore one of his trademark white suits, though his top hat was nowhere in sight; his dark brown hair still had only a little gray in it. “You haven’t aged a day in twenty years!”

“Many things have changed . . . only appearances remain the same.” The troupe leader gestured for Bronso to follow him into an administrative tent. “And you, young man—you’ve become quite infamous. I could lose my head just for speaking with you.” Rheinvar gave a self-deprecating shrug. “Though some say that would be no great loss to the universe.” He extended his hands, locked his fingers together, cracked his knuckles. “Your message said you need my help. Have you come to work as a roustabout again?”

“I’m not applying for a job, old friend. I am offering one for your Face Dancers in their . . . extracurricular capacity.” He glanced over his
shoulder at Sielto. “Years ago, before I fled Ix, I transferred my entire fortune from House Vernius to hidden accounts. I can pay you quite extravagantly.”

“Very interesting. And the job?”

Without flinching, Bronso looked into the Jongleur leader’s eyes. “I want you to help me assassinate someone.”

“If you’re willing to pay a vast fortune, the target must be an incredibly important person. Who could possibly warrant so much money?”

Bronso glanced through the partially open flap of the tent and lowered his voice. “The Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib.”

Rheinvar took a step backward, then burst out laughing. “You’ve come to us too late. Haven’t you heard? Muad’Dib is already dead.”

“I don’t mean physically. I mean his reputation, the myth and distortions around him. I have eyes inside the Citadel of Muad’Dib, and I watch what is happening there, and while I disagree with a great many political decisions, I have a very specific focus. I need to kill the idea that Paul was a messiah. The people, and the historians, must see that he was human—and deeply flawed. I need you to help me assassinate his character.”

“I hear that Muad’Dib killed a Face Dancer, at the end,” Sielto said with no emotion whatsoever. “An infiltrator and conspirator named Scytale. Maybe that’s a good enough reason for us to help you against him.”

Rheinvar continued to scowl. “It will be dangerous. Very dangerous.”

Bronso paced the tent floor, talking quickly. “You only need to provide me with cover and help me distribute propaganda against him. The Wayku have assisted me for years, but I want to do something even larger in scale now, building on what I have already done. I trust your skills and your subtlety, Rheinvar. In fact, in coming here I am trusting you with my life. I hope you deserve that trust, and that my childhood memories aren’t deceiving me.”

The troupe leader looked over at Sielto, and a wordless understanding passed between them. The Master Jongleur sat down behind a cluttered table, folded his hands in front of him, and grinned. “Then allow me to demonstrate a bit of trust myself, to seal our cooperation. I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out, a bright man like yourself.”

In front of Bronso’s eyes, the old man’s features altered, flowed, and settled into a bland, emotionless countenance. Another Face Dancer! “Vermillion Hells! Now I see why you haven’t changed in all these years.”

“The first Rheinvar—the one you knew as a boy—was indeed human. But seventeen years ago, after an assassination job went awry, he was severely injured during our escape. He died aboard the Heighliner shortly after it left orbit. Fortunately, no one but us saw him perish. We decided not to throw away his fame and reputation, his
worth
as the troupe leader, and our perfect cover.

“And so I was the Face Dancer chosen to take his place. But without the real Rheinvar, we lost our inspiration, and our stature as performers declined. I can mimic some of his skills, but I am not truly a Master Jongleur. I do not have his amazing hypnotic and manipulative powers. I can only pretend to be who he was. Without him, we lost something indefinable.”

“Something human, perhaps?” Bronso asked.

The two Face Dancers shrugged. “Do you still want our help?”

“More than ever, since now I’ve learned something about you that others do not know—something you might not even know yourselves.”

The shape-shifter assumed Rheinvar’s familiar appearance again. “Oh? And what is that, my friend?”

“That all Face Dancers are not the same inside.”

We live our lives, dream our dreams, and scheme our schemes. Shai-Hulud watches all.

—Fremen wisdom

B
efore Alia could become too involved in her wedding preparations, she went to Jessica, preoccupied with another matter. She wasn’t distracted or disturbed, but engrossed. “I have something you and I should do together, Mother—something I’d like us to share. It will put us both on the same course.” She seemed very excited by the prospect.