The Winds of Dune (4 page)

“Shaddam is not the Emperor,” Duncan pointed out. “Stop referring to him as such.”

“Your pardon. Since I serve in his court on Salusa Secundus, I tend to forget.” Regaining his momentum, Rivato forged ahead. “Despite the sad events, we have a tremendous opportunity to restore order. Since the . . . fall of Shaddam IV, the Imperium has faced extreme turmoil and bloodshed. The Jihad was driven by a man of great charisma—no one denies that—but with Muad’Dib gone, we can now return much-needed stability to the Imperium.”

Alia interrupted him. “The Imperium will stabilize under my regency. Paul’s Jihad ended almost two years ago, and our armies remain strong. We face fewer and fewer rebellious worlds.”

The envoy tried to give a reassuring smile. “But there are still places that require, shall we say, considerably more
diplomacy
to settle things down. A restoration of the Corrino presence would calm the waters by providing continuity.”

Alia regarded him coldly. “Muad’Dib has two children by his concubine Chani, and these are his imperial heirs. The line of succession is clear—we have no further need of Corrinos.”

Rivato raised his hands in a placating gesture. “When he took Princess Irulan as his wife, Paul-Muad’Dib recognized the need to maintain ties with the former Imperial House. The long tradition of Corrino rule dates back to the end of the Butlerian Jihad. If we strengthen those ties, it would benefit all humanity.”

Stilgar pounced on the remarks. “You suggest that Muad’Dib’s reign did not benefit humanity?”

“Ah, now, that is for historians to decide, and I am no historian.”

Duncan folded his hands on the table. “What are you, then?”

“I offer solutions to problems. After consulting with the Padishah—I mean, with Shaddam—we wanted to suggest ways to face this transition of rule.”

“Suggestions, such as?” Alia prodded.

“Rejoining the bloodlines, in whatever manner, would eliminate much of the turmoil, heal the wounds. There are many possible avenues
to accomplish this. For instance, you, Lady Alia, might marry Shaddam—in name only, of course. It has been well established that Muad’Dib took Princess Irulan as his wife in name only. There is an obvious precedent.”

Alia bristled. “Shaddam’s wives have not had a high survival rate.”

“That is in the past, and he has been unmarried for years.”

“Nevertheless, the offer is unacceptable to the Regent.” Duncan’s voice carried a slight undercurrent of jealousy, Alia thought.

“Tell us what other marriages you suggest,” Stilgar said, “so that we may scoff at those as well.”

Unruffled, Rivato sorted through his fallback plans. “Shaddam has three surviving daughters—Wensicia, Chalice, and Josifa—and Muad’Dib has a young son. Perhaps the Atreides boy could be betrothed to a Corrino daughter? The difference in ages is not so significant, considering the geriatric effects of melange.” Seeing their scowls, Rivato continued quickly. “Similarly, the Emperor’s grandson, Farad’n, by his daughter Wensicia, could be betrothed to the daughter of Muad’Dib. They are close enough in age.”

Alia rose to her feet, a sixteen-year-old girl among grim men, yet she was obviously the one who wielded the power. “Rivato, we need time to consider what you’ve said.” If she let him continue to speak, she might order his execution after all, and then she would probably regret it. “I must attend to many pressing matters, including the state funeral for my brother.”

“And a Fremen funeral for Chani,” Stilgar added in a low voice.

She gave Rivato a cold smile. “Return to Salusa and await our answer. You are dismissed.”

With a hurried bow, the unsettled man withdrew and the amazon guards marched him away. As soon as the door closed again, Duncan said, “His suggestions are not entirely without merit.”

“Oh? You would have me wed old Shaddam?” The ghola remained impassive, and Alia wondered if he felt nothing for her after all. Or did he just hide it well? “I will hear no more of these dynastic absurdities.” With a brisk gesture, she cut off further discussion. “Duncan, there’s something else I need you to do for me.”

The following day, Alia peered into the death cell through a hidden spy-eye. Princess Irulan sat on a hard bench, looking at nothing in particular, showing no sign of impatience. Her demeanor exuded sadness rather than fear.
Not terrified for her life, that one.
It was difficult to accept that she was truly mourning the loss of Paul, but Alia knew it to be true.

Bored with the game, she left the surveillance screen and instructed one of the yellow-robed Qizara guards to unseal the door. As the Regent entered, Irulan rose to her feet. “Have you come to inform me of my execution date? Will you kill me, after all?” She seemed more interested in the answer than afraid of it.

“I have not yet decided your fate.”

“The priests have, and their mobs howl for my blood.”

“But I am the Imperial Regent, and
I
make the decision.” Alia gave her a thin, mysterious smile. “And I am not yet ready to reveal it to you.”

Irulan sat back down with a long sigh. “Then what do you want from me? Why did you come here?”

Alia smiled sweetly. “An envoy from Salusa Secundus came to see me. Through him, your father suggested outrageous marriages into House Corrino as a way to solve most of the Imperium’s problems.”

“I considered that myself, but you no longer listen to my counsel, despite the respect you had for me when you were younger,” Irulan said evenly. “What answer did you give him?”

“Late yesterday, the envoy boarded a small shuttle to take him back to a Heighliner in orbit. Unfortunately, his shuttle experienced inexplicable engine failure and fell out of the sky from a high altitude. I’m afraid there were no survivors.” Alia shook her head. “Some people suspect sabotage, and we will mount a full investigation . . . as soon as we have time.”

Irulan gazed at her in horror. “Did Duncan Idaho sabotage the engines? Stilgar?”

Alia tried to maintain her implacable expression, but she softened, remembering when she and the Princess had been rather close. This was not a black or white situation. Grayness surrounded Irulan. “With my brother gone, conspirators and usurpers will come at me from all directions. I need to show my strength and mettle, or everything Muad’Dib worked for will be lost.”

Irulan said, “But what else will you lose along the way?”

“Perhaps you, Princess. It would take only a flick of my finger.”

“Oh? Then who would raise Paul’s children? Who would love them?”

“Harah is quite competent in that regard.” Alia left the death cell, and the Qizara guards sealed the door again, leaving the Princess alone with her unanswered questions.

No contemporary can decide the worth of my son’s actions. Muad’Dib’s legacy will be judged on a scale that extends longer than a single lifetime. The future makes its own decisions about the past.

—
LADY JESSICA
, Duchess of Caladan

K
nowing that Alia now faced the turbulent aftermath of Paul’s death, Jessica decided to depart for Dune—to be with her daughter and help in any way she could. She sent a formal message to the Qizara Isbar, telling him that she and Gurney Halleck intended to leave Caladan as quickly as possible. The priest’s delegation scrambled to accommodate her wishes.

The military-augmented Guildship remained in orbit, and Gurney arranged for them to ride in a lavish old Atreides frigate from the private spaceport hangar. This ornamented workhorse vessel had been put into service by Old Duke Paulus, and Jessica remembered that Leto had used it during their initial journey to Arrakis.
Everything we do brings the baggage of history with it
, she thought.

As Gurney issued curt instructions to the pilot, the obsequious priest appeared in the empty bay, bowing deeply. “The Heighliner crew awaits your pleasure, my Lady. In Muad’Dib’s name, we already diverted the vessel to Caladan so that we could deliver our sad news to you. The needs of the delayed passengers are not more pressing than yours.”

“Passengers? I had assumed this was a special military ship commandeered by the Qizarate.”

“Now that the Jihad has been declared over, many of the military vessels have been placed back into service as passenger ships. We took the first available vessel after Regent Alia instructed me to bring you word of Muad’Dib’s death. What other business can possibly be so important? All those other people can wait.”

Gurney dropped a heavy pack on the frigate’s ramp, muttering to himself. Though not surprised by the offhanded show of power, Jessica was alarmed that Isbar would simply divert an entire ship with a crowded cargo hold and a full roster of passengers. “Well, let us be quick about it.”

Isbar stepped closer, and Jessica could see the hunger in his eyes, the blind awe. “May I ride with you in the frigate, my Lady? As the mother of Muad’Dib, you can teach me much. I would be your rapt pupil.”

But she had no need of sycophants. She didn’t want this priest as her pupil, rapt or otherwise. “Please travel with your own party. I require solitude for my prayers.”

Disappointed, Isbar gave a solemn nod and backed out of the hangar, still bowing, as Jessica and Gurney climbed aboard the frigate. The ornate hatch sealed them inside. Gurney said, “Paul would have despised that man.”

“Isbar is no different from the other priests that have formed a power structure around Muad’Dib, and around his legacy. My son was trapped by his own mythos. As the years went by, it became apparent to me—and to him—how much had slipped out of his control.”

“We removed ourselves from the equation, my Lady,” Gurney said, then quoted a familiar saying, “ ‘Those who do nothing but observe from the shadows cannot complain about the brightness of the sun.’ Perhaps we can make amends now, if Alia is inclined to permit it.”

During the flight up to the Heighliner, Jessica tried to relax while Gurney took out his baliset and began to strum softly. She feared he had already composed a memorial hymn for Paul, and she wasn’t ready to hear that. To her relief, he merely played a familiar tune that he knew was one of her favorites.

She looked at his craggy face, the patchy blond hair that was going
gray, the prominent inkvine scar. “Gurney, you always know the right piece to perform.”

“From practice, my Lady.”