Brian Herbert - Paul of Dune

The villagers were slow to react to the interruption. The dancers faltered, then stood to the side of the stage, waiting to resume their performance. Orleaq looked concerned. Paul was intent only on the courier’s message. Urgent news was rarely good news.

The courier spoke in a breathless voice. “Emperor Muad’Dib, I bear a battlefield message from Stilgar. We felt the news important enough to divert a Heighliner in order to inform you as soon as possible.”

Orleaq spluttered. “You diverted a whole Heighliner just to bring a message?”

A thousand scenarios thundered through Paul’s mind. Had something terrible happened to Stilgar? “Speak your words.” His prescience had not warned him of any immediate disaster.

“Stilgar bade me to say this to you, ‘Usul, I did as you requested. Your armies have captured Kaitain, and I shall await you in the palace of the fallen Emperor.’”

Unable to contain his joy, Paul stood and shouted to the crowd. “Kaitain is ours!”

In response to his excitement, an uncertain wave of applause passed through the crowd. Jessica stepped closer to him. “I take it you will be leaving then?”

“I have to.” He couldn’t stop smiling. “Mother — it is Kaitain!”

Unsettled, Orleaq raised his hands, gesturing toward the dancers. “But, Sire, all the fishing boats are festooned for tomorrow’s regatta, and we thought you’d want to place a wreath at the statues of Old Duke Paulus and young Victor.”

“Please forgive me. I cannot stay.” When he saw the crestfallen expression on the man’s face, he added, “I’m sorry.” He raised his voice so the whole crowd could hear. “People of Caladan — I know you wanted your Duke back, but I’m afraid I can’t fill that role for you now. Instead, as your Emperor as well as your Duke, I give you my mother to watch over Caladan, to guide this world in my name.” He smiled at his solution. “She will be your new Duchess. I formally install her in that role.”

Jessica kept her voice much lower than his. “Thank you, Paul.” The people applauded, somewhat uncertainly at first and then with growing enthusiasm as she stepped forward to deliver an impromptu speech.

While his mother occupied the spectators, Paul quickly turned to the courier, whispering, “Is the Heighliner ready to depart?”

“The Navigator awaits your command, Muad’Dib.”

“I shall leave within the hour. First, send word to Arrakeen instructing Irulan to meet me on Kaitain. Her presence is required.” The courier rushed off to make the arrangements, and Paul turned toward a crestfallen Orleaq.

“Have we displeased you, Sire?” the nobleman asked, his voice cracking. “We expected you to stay a little while longer.”

“I cannot.” Paul knew that the Atreides part of him would always cling to Caladan, while his heart resided on Dune, and the part of him that was Muad’Dib would sweep across the entire galaxy.

The Guild delegation had arrived, and the three men were making their way through the fanmetal hutment that had been designated the temporary Imperial Audience Chamber. The haughty Guildsmen seemed irritated after being detained at each of the guard checkpoints, but they would have to follow protocol and security if they wanted an audience with Emperor Muad’Dib.

Standing beside the throne with all the erectness and poise befitting her position, a cool, blonde-haired Princess Irulan watched the trio enter the great metal-walled chamber. The men looked dignified in their gray uniforms, the sleeves of which displayed the Spacing Guild’s analemma sigil of infinity. In single file from shortest to tallest, each of the men had slightly odd features, offset from the norm of humanity.

The short one at the front had an oversized head, the left side of which was covered with a barbed metal plate, and half a head of ragged orange hair flowed back as he walked. The second man was exceedingly thin with a narrow face that bore the scars of reconstruction, while the tallest one at the rear turned his metal eyes nervously in all directions. Irulan noted the abrupt change when the Guilds-men simultaneously saw little Alia waiting on the impressive throne itself.

Wrapped in a cloak of his own importance, Korba stood at the foot of Paul’s throne like a guardian. He had embellished his traditional stillsuit and robes with marks of rank, and mysterious religious symbols drawn from archaic Muadru designs. Irulan doubted that Korba expected anyone to spot the influence, but with her Bene Gesserit training she had easily noticed what he was doing. The logical part of her mind saw the purpose of Korba’s obvious plan.

There is more power in religion than in being a glorified bodyguard, she thought.

Perhaps she should have created a similar role for herself.

As the eldest daughter of Shaddam Corrino IV, Irulan had always known that one day she would marry for political and economic reasons. The Emperor and the Bene Gesserit had groomed her for that duty, and she had willingly accepted it, even offering herself as a solution when Paul had faced her father after the Battle of Arrakeen.

While she had never expected Paul Atreides to fall in love with her, she had counted on conceiving his child. The Bene Gesserit Sisterhood demanded it for their breeding program. But Paul would not touch her, and by placing Irulan in a position clearly subordinate to Alia and Chani, he sent a message to everyone at court.

Now Irulan performed a barely perceptible Bene Gesserit breathing exercise, to ease her tension. She had stopped feeling the irony that Muad’Dib had made his initial audience chamber out of the massive hutment that her father had transported to Arrakis for his disastrous military strike. The days of Corrino glory were gone, and she had been relegated to this comparatively minor role, her own form of exile.

I am but a pawn on the Imperial chessboard.

Many people crowded the chamber — CHOAM functionaries, minor nobles hoping to increase their standing through public support of Muad’Dib, rich water sellers, former smugglers who now considered themselves respectable, as well as other visitors seeking an audience with Muad’Dib. Today, though, with Paul away on Caladan, they would see his sister Alia instead. The deceptively small girl in a four-year-old body perched like a bird on the translucent green throne that had once held Shaddam IV.

In a high royal chair beside Alia sat the red-haired Chani, opposite from where Irulan stood, with no throne of her own. Though Irulan was the Emperor’s wife, Paul had never consummated their marriage, and said he never would, because his Fremen concubine held all of his affections. With the avenue of mate and potential mother cut off from her, Irulan struggled to define her own role.

“We have an audience to see Emperor Muad’Dib,” said the shortest Guildsman. “We have journeyed from Junction.”

“Today, Alia speaks for Muad’Dib,” Chani said, then waited.

Discomfited, the second Guildsman said, “This is Ertun and I am Loyxo. We have come on behalf of the Spacing Guild to request an increased allotment of spice.”

“And who is the tall one?” Alia looked past the others.

“Crozeed,” he said, bowing slightly.

“Very well, I shall speak to Crozeed, since he at least has the good sense not to speak out of turn.”