Dune

Irulan, who had closed her eyes and put both hands to her forehead in mnemonic impressment, opened her eyes, studied Paul intently.

“The Ixian Confederacy offers submission,” Stilgar said, “but their negotiators question the amount of the Imperial Tax which they—”

“They want a legal limit to my Imperial will,” Paul said. “Who would govern me, the Landsraad or CHOAM?”

Stilgar removed from the folder a note on instroy paper. “One of our agents sent this memorandum from a caucus of the CHOAM minority.” He read the cipher in a flat voice: “The Throne must be stopped in its attempt at a power monopoly. We must tell the truth about the Atreides, how he maneuvers behind the triple sham of Landsraad legislation, religious sanction and bureaucratic efficiency.” He pushed the note back into the folder.

“A constitution,” Chani murmured.

Paul glanced at her, back to Stilgar. Thus the Jihad falters, Paul thought, but not soon enough to save me. The thought produced emotional tensions. He remembered his earliest visions of the Jihad-to-be, the terror and revulsion he’d experienced. Now, of course, he knew visions of greater terrors. He had lived with the real violence. He had seen his Fremen, charged with mystical strength, sweep all before them in the religious war. The Jihad gained a new perspective. It was finite, of course, a brief spasm when measured against eternity, but beyond lay horrors to overshadow anything in the past.

All in my name, Paul thought.

“Perhaps they could be given the form of a constitution,” Chani suggested. “It needn’t be actual.”

“Deceit is a tool of statecraft,” Irulan agreed.

“There are limits to power, as those who put their hopes in a constitution always discover,” Paul said.

Korba straightened from his reverent pose. “M’Lord?”

“Yes?” And Paul thought, Here now! Here’s one who may harbor secret sympathies for an imagined rule of Law.

“We could begin with a religious constitution,” Korba said, “something for the faithful who—”

“No!” Paul snapped. “We will make this an Order in Council. Are you recording this, Irulan?”

“Yes, m’Lord,” Irulan said, voice frigid with dislike for the menial role he forced upon her.

“Constitutions become the ultimate tyranny,” Paul said. “They’re organized power on such a scale as to be overwhelming. The constitution is social power mobilized and it has no conscience. It can crush the highest and the lowest, removing all dignity and individuality. It has an unstable balance point and no limitations. I, however, have limitations. In my desire to provide an ultimate protection for my people, I forbid a constitution. Order in Council, this date, etcetera, etcetera.”

“What of the Ixian concern about the tax, m’Lord?” Stilgar asked.

Paul forced his attention away from the brooding, angry look on Korba’s face, said: “You’ve a proposal, Stil?”

“We must have control of taxes, Sire.”

“Our price to the Guild for my signature on the Tupile Treaty,” Paul said, “is the submission of the Ixian Confederacy to our tax. The Confederacy cannot trade without Guild transport. They’ll pay.”

“Very good, m’Lord.” Stilgar produced another folder, cleared his throat. “The Qizarate’s report on Salusa Secundus. Irulan’s father has been putting his legions through landing maneuvers.”

Irulan found something of interest in the palm of her left hand. A pulse throbbed at her neck.

“Irulan,” Paul asked, “do you persist in arguing that your father’s one legion is nothing more than a toy?”

“What could he do with only one legion?” she asked. She stared at him out of slitted eyes.

“He could get himself killed,” Chani said.

Paul nodded. “And I’d be blamed.”

“I know a few commanders in the Jihad,” Alia said, “who’d pounce if they learned of this.”

“But it’s only his police force!” Irulan protested.

“Then they have no need for landing maneuvers,” Paul said. “I suggest that your next little note to your father contain a frank and direct discussion of my views about his delicate position.”

She lowered her gaze. “Yes, m’Lord. I hope that will be the end of it. My father would make a good martyr.”

“Mmmmmmm,” Paul said. “My sister wouldn’t send a message to those commanders she mentioned unless I ordered it.”

“An attack on my father carries dangers other than the obvious military ones,” Irulan said. “People are beginning to look back on his reign with a certain nostalgia.”

“You’ll go too far one day,” Chani said in her deadly serious Fremen voice.

“Enough!” Paul ordered.

He weighed Irulan’s revelation about public nostalgia—ah, now! that’d carried a note of truth. Once more, Irulan had proved her worth.

“The Bene Gesserit send a formal supplication,” Stilgar said, presenting another folder. “They wish to consult you about the preservation of your bloodline.”

Chani glanced sideways at the folder as though it contained a deadly device.

“Send the Sisterhood the usual excuses,” Paul said.