Dune

A hand crept into Paul’s. He looked down to see Chani peering up at him, concern in her eyes. Those eyes drank him, and she whispered: “Please, love, do not battle with your ruh-self.” An outpouring of emotion swept upward from her hand, buoyed him.

“Sihaya,” he whispered.

“We must go to the desert soon,” she said in a low voice.

He squeezed her hand, released it, returned to the table where he remained standing.

Chani took her seat.

Irulan stared at the papers in front of Stilgar, her mouth a tight line.

“Irulan proposes herself as mother of the Imperial heir,” Paul said. He glanced at Chani, back to Irulan, who refused to meet his gaze. “We all know she holds no love for me.”

Irulan went very still.

“I know the political arguments,” Paul said. “It’s the human arguments which concern me. I think if the Princess Consort were not bound by the commands of the Bene Gesserit, if she did not seek this out of desires for personal power, my reaction might be very different. As matters stand, though, I reject this proposal.”

Irulan took a deep, shaky breath.

Paul, resuming his seat, thought he had never seen her under such poor control. Leaning toward her, he said: “Irulan, I am truly sorry.”

She lifted her chin, a look of pure fury in her eyes. “I don’t want your pity!” she hissed. And turning to Stilgar: “Is there more that’s urgent and dire?”

Holding his gaze firmly on Paul, Stilgar said: “One more matter, m’Lord. The Guild again proposes a formal embassy here on Arrakis.”

“One of the deep-space kind?” Korba asked, his voice full of fanatic loathing.

“Presumably,” Stilgar said.

“A matter to be considered with the utmost care, m’Lord,” Korba warned. “The Council of Naibs would not like it, an actual Guildsman here on Arrakis. They contaminate the very ground they touch.”

“They live in tanks and don’t touch the ground,” Paul said, letting his voice reveal irritation.

“The Naibs might take matters into their own hands, m’Lord,” Korba said.

Paul glared at him.

“They are Fremen, after all, m’Lord,” Korba insisted. “We well remember how the Guild brought those who oppressed us. We have not forgotten the way they blackmailed a spice ransom from us to keep our secrets from our enemies. They drained us of every—”

“Enough!” Paul snapped. “Do you think I have forgotten?”

As though he had just awakened to the import of his own words, Korba stuttered unintelligibly, then: “M’lord, forgive me. I did not mean to imply you are not Fremen. I did not . . .”

“They’ll send a Steersman,” Paul said. “It isn’t likely a Steersman would come here if he could see danger in it.”

Her mouth dry with sudden fear, Irulan said: “You’ve . . . seen a Steersman come here?”

“Of course I haven’t seen a Steersman,” Paul said, mimicking her tone. “But I can see where one’s been and where one’s going. Let them send us a Steersman. Perhaps I have a use for such a one.”

“So ordered,” Stilgar said.

And Irulan, hiding a smile behind her hand, thought: It’s true then. Our Emperor cannot see a Steersman. They are mutually blind. The conspiracy is hidden.

Once more the drama begins.

—THE EMPEROR PAUL MUAD’DIB

ON HIS ASCENSION TO THE LION THRONE

Alia peered down from her spy window into the great reception hall to watch the advance of the Guild entourage.

The sharply silver light of noon poured through clerestory windows onto a floor worked in green, blue and eggshell tiles to simulate a bayou with water plants and, here and there, a splash of exotic color to indicate bird or animal.

Guildsmen moved across the tile pattern like hunters stalking their prey in a strange jungle. They formed a moving design of gray robes, black robes, orange robes—all arrayed in a deceptively random way around the transparent tank where the Steersman-Ambassador swam in his orange gas. The tank slid on its supporting field, towed by two gray-robed attendants, like a rectangular ship being warped into its dock.

Directly beneath her, Paul sat on the Lion Throne on its raised dais. He wore the new formal crown with its fish and fist emblems. The jeweled golden robes of state covered his body. The shimmering of a personal shield surrounded him. Two wings of bodyguards fanned out on both sides along the dais and down the steps. Stilgar stood two steps below Paul’s right hand in a white robe with a yellow rope for a belt.

Sibling empathy told her that Paul seethed with the same agitation she was experiencing, although she doubted another could detect it. His attention remained on an orange-robed attendant whose blindly staring metal eyes looked neither to right nor to left. This attendant walked at the right front corner of the Ambassador’s troupe like a military outrider. A rather flat face beneath curly black hair, such of his figure as could be seen beneath the orange robe, every gesture shouted a familiar identity.

It was Duncan Idaho.

It could not be Duncan Idaho, yet it was.