Dune

“Stilgar,” Paul said, “you urgently need a sense of balance which can come only from an understanding of long-term effects. What little information we have about the old times, the pittance of data which the Butlerians left us, Korba has brought it for you. Start with the Genghis Khan.”

“Ghengis . . . Khan? Was he of the Sardaukar, m’Lord?”

“Oh, long before that. He killed . . . perhaps four million.”

“He must’ve had formidable weaponry to kill that many, Sire. Lasbeams, perhaps, or . . .”

“He didn’t kill them himself, Stil. He killed the way I kill, by sending out his legions. There’s another emperor I want you to note in passing—a Hitler. He killed more than six million. Pretty good for those days.”

“Killed . . . by his legions?” Stilgar asked.

“Yes.”

“Not very impressive statistics, m’Lord.”

“Very good, Stil.” Paul glanced at the reels in Korba’s hands. Korba stood with them as though he wished he could drop them and flee. “Statistics: at a conservative estimate, I’ve killed sixty-one billion, sterilized ninety planets, completely demoralized five hundred others. I’ve wiped out the followers of forty religions which had existed since—”

“Unbelievers!” Korba protested. “Unbelievers all!”

“No,” Paul said. “Believers.”

“My Liege makes a joke,” Korba said, voice trembling. “The Jihad has brought ten thousand worlds into the shining light of—”

“Into the darkness,” Paul said. “We’ll be a hundred generations recovering from Muad’Dib’s Jihad. I find it hard to imagine that anyone will ever surpass this.” A barking laugh erupted from his throat.

“What amuses Muad’Dib?” Stilgar asked.

“I am not amused. I merely had a sudden vision of the Emperor Hitler saying something similar. No doubt he did.”

“No other ruler ever had your powers,” Korba argued. “Who would dare challenge you? Your legions control the known universe and all the—”

“The legions control,” Paul said. “I wonder if they know this?”

“You control your legions, Sire,” Stilgar interrupted, and it was obvious from the tone of his voice that he suddenly felt his own position in that chain of command, his own hand guiding all that power.

Having set Stilgar’s thoughts in motion along the track he wanted, Paul turned his full attention to Korba, said: “Put the reels here on the divan.” As Korba obeyed, Paul said: “How goes the reception, Korba? Does my sister have everything well in hand?”

“Yes, m’Lord.” Korba’s tone was wary. “And Chani watches from the spy hole. She suspects there may be Sardaukar in the Guild entourage.”

“No doubt she’s correct,” Paul said. “The jackals gather.”

“Bannerjee,” Stilgar said, naming the chief of Paul’s Security detail, “was worried earlier that some of them might try to penetrate the private areas of the Keep.”

“Have they?”

“Not yet.”

“But there was some confusion in the formal gardens,” Korba said.

“What sort of confusion?” Stilgar demanded.

Paul nodded.

“Strangers coming and going,” Korba said, “trampling the plants, whispered conversations—I heard reports of some disturbing remarks.”

“Such as?” Paul asked.

“Is this the way our taxes are spent? I’m told the Ambassador himself asked that question.”

“I don’t find that surprising,” Paul said. “Were there many strangers in the gardens?”

“Dozens, m’Lord.”

“Bannerjee stationed picked troopers at the vulnerable doors, m’Lord,” Stilgar said. He turned as he spoke, allowing the salon’s single remaining light to illuminate half his face. The peculiar lighting, the face, all touched a node of memory in Paul’s mind—something from the desert. Paul didn’t bother bringing it to full recall, his attention being focused on how Stilgar had pulled back mentally. The Fremen had a tight-skinned forehead which mirrored almost every thought flickering across his mind. He was suspicious now, profoundly suspicious of his Emperor’s odd behavior.

“I don’t like the intrusion into the gardens,” Paul said. “Courtesy to guests is one thing, and the formal necessities of greeting an envoy, but this . . .”

“I’ll see to removing them,” Korba said. “Immediately.”

“Wait!” Paul ordered as Korba started to turn.

In the abrupt stillness of the moment, Stilgar edged himself into a position where he could study Paul’s face. It was deftly done. Paul admired the way of it, an achievement devoid of any forwardness. It was a Fremen thing: slyness touched by respect for another’s privacy, a movement of necessity.

“What time is it?” Paul asked.

“Almost midnight, Sire,” Korba said.

“Korba, I think you may be my finest creation,” Paul said.

“Sire!” There was injury in Korba’s voice.

“Do you feel awe of me?” Paul asked.

“You are Paul-Muad’Dib who was Usul in our sietch,” Korba said. “You know my devotion to—”

“Have you ever felt like an apostle?” Paul asked.

Korba obviously misunderstood the words, but correctly interpreted the tone. “My Emperor knows I have a clean conscience!”

“Shai-hulud save us,” Paul murmured.