Brian Herbert - Mentats of Dune

When Kalifer grinned with relief, Josef hardened his voice. “First, however, you must disavow your pledge to Manford Torondo. You foreswore all advanced technology, but now you realize how irrational that was. If you wish to restore trade with VenHold and receive these supplies — including our cargo of spice from Arrakis — you must publicly renounce the Butlerians.”

He met Deacon Kalifer’s stare. The planetary leader did not speak for a long moment — a pause even more extensive than his normal ponderous speech. “But that is not possible, Directeur. The population would riot, and Leader Torondo would send vengeance squads against us. I beg you for a little flexibility. We will pay higher prices if you insist.”

“I have no doubt of that,” Josef said. “But increased prices are not what I require. For the good of humanity, this barbarian nonsense has to stop — and it will only stop when planets like Baridge choose civilization and commerce over fanaticism.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “This is not a negotiating ploy, Deacon. It is my only offer.”

Kalifer’s skin turned gray, and his expression sickened. “I … I cannot accept, Directeur. The citizens of Baridge will stand firm.”

Though furious inside, Josef came up with an indifferent tone. “As you wish, Deacon. I offered you my cargo first, but I can dispose of it at our next planetary stop. I rescind my offer. So long as you remain obstinate, we will make no further deliveries. Good luck surviving the effects of your solar storms.”

Cioba terminated the transmission. Josef flared his nostrils, shaking his head and trying to calm himself.

“They will change their minds soon enough,” she told him. “I could see it in the deacon’s eyes, his slight flinch, the underlying anxiety in his voice. They are already feeling desperate.”

“But how soon will they recant? I’m not inclined to keep giving them chances.” Josef turned to the Navigator’s tank. “Let’s go to the next planet on our list and see what they have to say.”

The mind of man is holy, but the heart of man is corrupt.

— MANFORD TORONDO, Lampadas rallies

With his planet isolated by the strict VenHold embargo, Manford Torondo’s determination only grew harder. He had no doubts, and he made certain his Butlerian followers had no doubts either. As their leader, Manford had to provide clear guidance, without exceptions, without room for deviation. And as his followers, they were obligated to listen to him.

Sometimes, however, he had to remind them. A dramatic, clear-cut example could influence millions of people.

In the predawn darkness, Manford rode on the sturdy shoulders of Anari Idaho, the strongest and most loyal of his Swordmasters. Anari was his body, his muscles, his strength, and his sword. After he’d lost his legs in a fanatic’s explosion at an early antitechnology rally, and the visionary Rayna Butler had died in his arms, Manford had taken his mentor’s place with equal fervor. Not letting his handicap limit him, he embraced the phrase “half a man, twice the leader.”

What remained of his body fit into a specially made harness on Anari’s shoulders, but although the Swordmaster carried him, she was no beast of burden. Anari had known him for so long, loving him in her perfect devoted way, that the two of them operated as one unit. Often she sensed Manford’s thoughts, and responded to his needs before he even spoke. He only had to believe he wanted to go in a certain direction, and Anari would head there.

When he conducted business in his offices, Manford sat in a special raised chair that made him look imposing. Whenever he appeared at rallies, he chose volunteer followers to transport him on a palanquin. And when he went into battle, Anari always carried him.

His Butlerian strike force had left the main city at dusk the night before, traveling by flatbed vehicles down the river road, then farther inland to a small village. Dove’s Haven was worthy of attention now only because of what Manford’s spies had reported.

His group — thirteen Swordmasters, plus another hundred followers ready to fight to the death — would be more than sufficient to teach the necessary lesson, even if the whole town resisted. Also accompanying them was a potential offworld business associate, Rolli Escon, the head of the shipping company EsconTran. Today, Directeur Escon would observe and learn.

As they approached Dove’s Haven, Manford instructed the Butlerian followers to remain behind, while the Swordmasters took the lead. Ahead, Manford could see the dark, sleeping village. His spies had already identified which dwellings were occupied by the town’s three leaders. Those would be the first targets.

Visibly uncomfortable, Rolli Escon walked alongside Anari Idaho. The offworld businessman glanced up so he could speak with Manford as they closed in on the unsuspecting town. “Leader Torondo, should we conclude our business agreement before you proceed? You’re a busy man, and I can begin the necessary administrative work elsewhere.”

Escon had come to Lampadas with a business proposition for Manford. His space-shipping company was small by the standards of the VenHold Spacing Fleet and not managed as efficiently, but at least his vessels did not use illegal computers or mutated monstrosities, as Josef Venport’s ships surely did.

From his perch, Manford looked down at Escon. “What administrative work?”

“It’ll be a challenge to reroute my cargo ships to where they can best serve the Butlerian cause. I am anxious to help the planets suffering most because of the VenHold embargo — especially Lampadas.”

Manford frowned at the man, displeased with his impatience. “Lampadas is fine. My strongest, most devoted followers live here near me, and we don’t need pampering and conveniences. The devil Venport will never understand that deprivation makes us stronger.”

Escon bowed his head, embarrassed. “You’re right, sir.”

Manford continued, “Others are not as strong, alas. The temptation of imaginary needs distracts them from their faith. So, for their own good, I must remove that distraction. I’ll need your ships to deliver what my followers truly need, and we will spit in the face of the VenHold embargo.”

“My ships are yours, Leader Torondo.” Escon gave a curt bow. “I am pleased to serve the Butlerian cause.”

Manford could feel that Anari was eager to begin the attack on Dove’s Haven, but she would never speak out of turn with others present. Anari only expressed her real opinions when they were alone, often as she massaged his aching shoulders, rubbed oils into his skin, or helped him into the bath. Although she could speak her mind there, he couldn’t recall her ever disagreeing with him unless it concerned his personal safety — in that, she was inflexible.

Now, she merely muttered, “The mind of man is holy.” The nearby Swordmasters repeated the words in a low murmur.

Manford straightened in the harness. “I accept your generous donation to our movement, Directeur Escon. The ships and fuel are most welcome.”

The shipping magnate shuffled his feet, and Manford realized that he had not intended to donate all expenses. Even so, the Butlerian leader didn’t retract his acceptance of the offer.

His gathered soldiers were restless in the cool darkness, holding cudgels, knives, and spears. Manford had not forbidden them from carrying projectile firearms, but this group wouldn’t need such weapons against the people of Dove’s Haven. Dawn would break soon, and they had to move forward.

Yet Escon continued the conversation. “But … how many of my ships will be necessary, sir? I understood you already had vessels of your own, decommissioned ships from the Army of the Jihad — gifts to you from Emperor Salvador Corrino?”