Dune

“...venerable tradition . . . support of the legions and all Fremen everywhere . . . violence met with violence according to the Law . . . majesty of the Imperial Person . . . forfeit all rights to . . .”

It was nonsense, she thought. Nonsense! All of it—nonsense . . . nonsense . . . nonsense . . .

Stilgar finished: “Thus the issue is brought to judgment.”

In the immediate silence, Korba rocked forward, hands gripping his knees, veined neck stretched as though he were preparing to leap. His tongue flicked between his teeth as he spoke.

“Not by word or deed have I been traitor to my Fremen vows! I demand to confront my accuser!”

A simple enough protest, Alia thought.

And she saw that it had produced a considerable effect on the Naibs. They knew Korba. He was one of them. To become a Naib, he’d proved his Fremen courage and caution. Not brilliant, Korba, but reliable. Not one to lead a Jihad, perhaps, but a good choice as supply officer. Not a crusader, but one who cherished the old Fremen virtues: The Tribe is paramount.

Otheym’s bitter words as Paul had recited them swept through Alia’s mind. She scanned the gallery. Any of those men might see himself in Korba’s place—some for good reason. But an innocent Naib was as dangerous as a guilty one here.

Korba felt it, too. “Who accuses me?” he demanded. “I have a Fremen right to confront my accuser.”

“Perhaps you accuse yourself,” Alia said.

Before he could mask it, mystical terror lay briefly on Korba’s face. It was there for anyone to read: With her powers, Alia had but to accuse him herself, saying she brought the evidence from the shadow region, the alam al-mythal.

“Our enemies have Fremen allies,” Alia pressed. “Water traps have been destroyed, qanats blasted, plantings poisoned and storage basins plundered . . .”

“And now—they’ve stolen a worm from the desert, taken it to another world!”

The voice of this intrusion was known to all of them—Muad’Dib. Paul came through the doorway from the hall, pressed through the guard ranks and crossed to Alia’s side. Chani, accompanying him, remained on the sidelines.

“M’Lord,” Stilgar said, refusing to look at Paul’s face.

Paul aimed his empty sockets at the gallery, then down to Korba. “What, Korba—no words of praise?”

Muttering could be heard in the gallery. It grew louder, isolated words and phrases audible: “...law for the blind . . . Fremen way . . . in the desert . . . who breaks . . .”

“Who says I’m blind?” Paul demanded. He faced the gallery. “You, Rajifiri? I see you’re wearing gold today, and that blue shirt beneath it which still has dust on it from the streets. You always were untidy.”

Rajifiri made a warding gesture, three fingers against evil.

“Point those fingers at yourself!” Paul shouted. “We know where the evil is!” He turned back to Korba. “There’s guilt on your face, Korba.”

“Not my guilt! I may’ve associated with the guilty, but no . . .” He broke off, shot a frightened look at the gallery.

Taking her cue from Paul, Alia arose, stepped down to the floor of the chamber, advanced to the edge of Korba’s table. From a range of less than a meter, she stared down at him, silent and intimidating.

Korba cowered under the burden of eyes. He fidgeted, shot anxious glances at the gallery.

“Whose eyes do you seek up there?” Paul asked.

“You cannot see!” Korba blurted.

Paul put down a momentary feeling of pity for Korba. The man lay trapped in the vision’s snare as securely as any of those present. He played a part, no more.

“I don’t need eyes to see you,” Paul said. And he began describing Korba, every movement, every twitch, every alarmed and pleading look at the gallery.

Desperation grew in Korba.

Watching him, Alia saw he might break any second. Someone in the gallery must realize how near he was to breaking, she thought. Who? She studied the faces of the Naibs, noting small betrayals in the masked faces . . . angers, fears, uncertainties . . . guilts.

Paul fell silent.

Korba mustered a pitiful air of pomposity to plead: “Who accuses me?”

“Otheym accuses you,” Alia said.

“But Otheym’s dead!” Korba protested.

“How did you know that?” Paul asked. “Through your spy system? Oh, yes! We know about your spies and couriers. We know who brought the stone burner here from Tarahell.”

“It was for the defense of the Qizarate!” Korba blurted.

“Is that how it got into traitorous hands?” Paul asked.

“It was stolen and we . . .” Korba fell silent, swallowed. His gaze darted left and right. “Everyone knows I’ve been the voice of love for Muad’Dib.” He stared at the gallery. “How can a dead man accuse a Fremen?”

“Otheym’s voice isn’t dead,” Alia said. She stopped as Paul touched her arm.