Frank Herbert - Children of Dune

“It’s already done, My Lady,” Stilgar said. “Gurney’s man and I planned this together.”

“Those were your men, then, the ones who helped.”

“Some of them, My Lady.”

She read the hidden reservations, nodded. “You studied me pretty well in those old days, Stil.”

“As you once were at pains to tell me, My Lady, one observes the survivors and learns from them.”

Alia stepped forward then and Stilgar stood aside while Jessica confronted her daughter.

Knowing there was no way to hide what she had learned, Jessica did not even try concealment. Alia could read the minutiae when she needed, could read as well as any adept of the Sisterhood. She would already know by Jessica’s behavior what had been seen and interpreted. They were enemies for whom the word mortal touched only the surface.

Alia chose anger as the easiest and most proper reaction.

“How dare you plan an action such as this without consulting me?” she demanded, pushing her face close to Jessica’s.

Jessica spoke mildly: “As you’ve just heard, Gurney didn’t even let me in on the whole plan. It was thought …”

“And you, Stilgar!” Alia said, rounding on him. “To whom are you loyal?”

“My oath is to Muad’Dib’s children,” Stilgar said, speaking stiffly. “We have removed a threat to them.”

“And why doesn’t that fill you with joy … daughter?” Jessica asked.

Alia blinked, glanced once at her mother, suppressed the inner tempest, and even managed a straight-toothed smile. “I am filled with joy … mother,” she said. And to her own surprise, Alia found that she was happy, experiencing a terrible delight that it was all out in the open at last between herself and her mother. The moment she had dreaded was past and the power balance had not really been changed. “We will discuss this in more detail at a more convenient time,” Alia said, speaking both to her mother and Stilgar.

“But of course,” Jessica said, turning with a movement of dismissal to face the Princess Irulan.

For a few brief heartbeats, Jessica and the Princess stood silently studying each other—two Bene Gesserits who had broken with the Sisterhood for the same reason: love … both of them for love of men who now were dead. This Princess had loved Paul in vain, becoming his wife but not his mate. And now she lived only for the children given to Paul by his Fremen concubine, Chani.

Jessica spoke first: “Where are my grandchildren?”

“At Sietch Tabr.”

“Too dangerous for them here; I understand.”

Irulan permitted herself a faint nod. She had observed the interchange between Jessica and Alia, but put upon it an interpretation for which Alia had prepared her. “Jessica has returned to the Sisterhood and we both know they have plans for Paul’s children.” Irulan had never been the most accomplished adept in the Bene Gesserit—valuable more for the fact that she was a daughter of Shaddam IV than for any other reason; often too proud to exert herself in extending her capabilities. Now she chose sides with an abruptness which did no credit to her training.

“Really, Jessica,” Irulan said, “the Royal Council should have been consulted. It was wrong of you to work only through—”

“Am I to believe none of you trust Stilgar?” Jessica asked.

Irulan possessed the wit to realize there could be no answer to such a question. She was glad that the priestly delegates, unable to contain their impatience any longer, pressed forward. She exchanged a glance with Alia, thinking: Jessica’s as haughty and certain of herself as ever! A Bene Gesserit axiom arose unbidden in her mind, though: “The haughty do but build castle walls behind which they try to hide their doubts and fears.” Could that be true of Jessica? Surely not. Then it must be a pose. But for what purpose? The question disturbed Irulan.

The priests were noisy in their possession of Muad’Dib’s mother. Some only touched her arms, but most bowed low and spoke greetings. At last the leaders of the delegation took their turn with the Most Holy Reverend Mother, accepting the ordained role—“The first shall be last”—with practiced smiles, telling her that the official Lustration ceremony awaited her at the Keep, Paul’s old fortress-stronghold.

Jessica studied the pair, finding them repellent. One was called Javid, a young man of surly features and round cheeks, shadowed eyes which could not hide the suspicions lurking in their depths. The other was Zebataleph, second son of a Naib she’d known in her Fremen days, as he was quick to remind her. He was easily classified: jollity linked with ruthlessness, a thin face with blond beard, an air about him of secret excitements and powerful knowledge. Javid she judged far more dangerous of the two, a man of private counsel, simultaneously magnetic and—she could find no other word— repellent . She found his accents strange, full of old Fremen pronunciations, as though he’d come from some isolated pocket of his people.

“Tell me, Javid,” she said, “whence come you?”

“I am but a simple Fremen of the desert,” he said, every syllable giving the lie to the statement.

Zebataleph intruded with an offensive deference, almost mocking: “We have much to discuss of the old days, My Lady. I was one of the first, you know, to recognize the holy nature of your son’s mission.”

“But you weren’t one of his Fedaykin,” she said.

“No, My Lady. I possessed a more philosophic bent; I studied for the priesthood.”

And insured the preservation of your skin, she thought.

Javid said: “They await us at the Keep, My Lady.”

Again she found the strangeness of his accent an open question demanding an answer. “Who awaits us?” she asked.

“The Convocation of the Faith, all those who keep bright the name and the deeds of your holy son,” Javid said.

Jessica glanced around her, saw Alia smiling at Javid, asked: “Is this man one of your appointees, daughter?”

Alia nodded. “A man destined for great deeds.”

But Jessica saw that Javid had no pleasure in this attention, marked him for Gurney’s special study. And there came Gurney with five trusted men, signaling that they had the suspicious laggards under interrogation. He walked with the rolling stride of a powerful man, glance flicking left, right, all around, every muscle flowing through the relaxed alertness she had taught him out of the Bene Gesserit prana-bindu manual. He was an ugly lump of trained reflexes, a killer, and altogether terrifying to some, but Jessica loved him and prized him above all other living men. The scar of an inkvine whip rippled along his jaw, giving him a sinister appearance, but a smile softened his face as he saw Stilgar.

“Well done, Stil,” he said. And they gripped arms in the Fremen fashion.

“The Lustration,” Javid said, touching Jessica’s arm.

Jessica drew back, chose her words carefully in the controlled power of Voice, her tone and delivery calculated for a precise emotional effect upon Javid and Zebataleph: “I returned to Dune to see my grandchildren. Must we take time for this priestly nonsense?”

Zebataleph reacted with shock, his mouth dropping open, eyes alarmed, glancing about at those who had heard. The eyes marked each listener. Priestly nonsense! What effect would such words have, coming from the mother of their messiah?

Javid, however, confirmed Jessica’s assessment. His mouth hardened, then smiled. The eyes did not smile, nor did they waver to mark the listeners. Javid already knew each member of this party. He had an earshot map of those who would be watched with special care from this point onward. Only seconds later, Javid stopped smiling with an abruptness which said he knew how he had betrayed himself. Javid had not failed to do his home-work: he knew the observational powers possessed by the Lady Jessica. A short, jerking nod of his head acknowledged those powers.