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"You are tired of waiting," Paul said.
Again, he waited while the cries of response died out.
Indeed, they are tired of waiting, Paul thought. He hefted the message cylinder, thinking of what it contained. His mother had showed it to him, explaining how it had been taken from a Harkonnen courier.
The message was explicit: Rabban was being abandoned to his own resources here on Arrakis! He could not call for help or reinforcements!
Again, Paul raised his voice: "You think it's time I called out Stilgar and changed the leadership of the troops!" Before they could respond, Paul hurled his voice at them in anger: "Do you think the Lisan al-Gaib that stupid?"
There was stunned silence.
He's accepting the religious mantle, Jessica thought. He must not do it!
"It's the way!" someone shouted.
Paul spoke dryly, probing the emotional undercurrents. "Ways change."
An angry voice lifted from a corner of the cavern: "We'll say what's to change!"
There were scattered shouts of agreement through the throng.
"As you wish," Paul said.
And Jessica heard the subtle intonations as he used the powers of Voice she had taught him.
"You will say," he agreed. "But first you will hear my say."
Stilgar moved along the ledge, his bearded face impassive. "That is the way, too," he said. "The voice of any Fremen may be heard in Council. Paul-Muad'Dib is a Fremen."
"The good of the tribe, that is the most important thing, eh?" Paul asked.
Still with that flat-voiced dignity, Stilgar said: "Thus our steps are guided."
"All right," Paul said. "Then, who rules this troop of our tribe--and who rules all the tribes and troops through the fighting instructors we've trained in the weirding way?"
Paul waited, looking over the heads of the throng. No answer came.
Presently, he said: "Does Stilgar rule all this? He says himself that he does not. Do I rule? Even Stilgar does my bidding on occasion, and the sages, the wisest of the wise, listen to me and honor me in Council."
There was shuffling silence among the crowd.
"So," Paul said. "Does my mother rule?" He pointed down to Jessica in her black robes of office among them. "Stilgar and all the other troop leaders ask her advice in almost every major decision. You know this. But does a Reverend Mother walk the sand or lead a razzia against the Harkonnens?"
Frowns creased the foreheads of those Paul could see, but still there were angry murmurs.
This is a dangerous way to do it, Jessica thought, but she remembered the message cylinder and what it implied. And she saw Paul's intent: Go right to the depth of their uncertainty, dispose of that, and all the rest must follow.
"No man recognizes leadership without the challenge and the combat, eh?" Paul asked.
"That's the way!" someone shouted.
"What's our goal?" Paul asked. "To unseat Rabban, the Harkonnen beast, and remake our world into a place where we may raise our families in happiness amidst an abundance of water--is this our goal?"
"Hard tasks need hard ways," someone shouted.
"Do you smash your knife before a battle?" Paul demanded. "I say this as fact, not meaning it as boast or challenge: there isn't a man here, Stilgar included, who could stand against me in single combat. This is Stilgar's own admission. He knows it, so do you all."
Again, the angry mutters lifted from the crowd.
"Many of you have been with me on the practice floor," Paul said. "You know this isn't idle boast. I say it because it's fact known to us all, and I'd be foolish not to see it for myself. I began training in these ways earlier than you did and my teachers were tougher than any you've ever seen. How else do you think I bested Jamis at an age when your boys are still fighting only mock battles?"
He's using the Voice well, Jessica thought, but that's not enough with these people. They've good insulation against vocal control. He must catch them also with logic.
"So," Paul said, "we come to this." He lifted the message cylinder, removed its scrap of tape. "This was taken from a Harkonnen courier. Its authenticity is beyond question. It is addressed to Rabban. It tells him that his request for new troops is denied, that his spice harvest is far below quota, that he must wring more spice from Arrakis with the people he has."
Stilgar moved up beside Paul.
"How many of you see what this means?" Paul asked. "Stilgar saw it immediately."
"They're cut off!" someone shouted.
Paul pushed message and cylinder into his sash. From his neck he took a braided shigawire cord and removed a ring from the cord, holding the ring aloft.
"This was my father's ducal signet," he said. "I swore never to wear it again until I was ready to lead my troops over all of Arrakis and claim it as my rightful fief." He put the ring on his finger, clenched his fist.
Utter stillness gripped the cavern.
"Who rules here?" Paul asked. He raised his fist. "I rule here! I rule on every square inch of Arrakis! This is my ducal fief whether the Emperor says yea or nay! He gave it to my father and it comes to me through my father!"
Paul lifted himself onto his toes, settled back to his heels. He studied the crowd, feeling their temper.
Almost, he thought.
"There are men here who will hold positions of importance on Arrakis when I claim those Imperial rights which are mine," Paul said. "Stilgar is one of those men. Not because I wish to bribe him! Not out of gratitude, though I'm one of many here who owe him life for life. No! But because he's wise and strong. Because he governs this troop by his own intelligence and not just by rules. Do you think me stupid? Do you think I'll cut off my right arm and leave it bloody on the floor of this cavern just to provide you with a circus?"
Paul swept a hard gaze across the throng. "Who is there here to say I'm not the rightful ruler on Arrakis? Must I prove it by leaving every Fremen tribe in the erg without a leader?"
Beside Paul, Stilgar stirred, looked at him questioningly.
"Will I subtract from our strength when we need it most?" Paul asked. "I am your ruler, and I say to you that it is time we stopped killing off our best men and started killing our real enemies--the Harkonnens!"
In one blurred motion, Stilgar had his crysknife out and pointed over the heads of the throng. "Long live Duke Paul-Muad'Dib!" he shouted.
A deafening roar filled the cavern, echoed and re-echoed. They were cheering and chanting: "Ya hya chouhada! Muad'Dib! Muad'Dib! Muad'Dib! Ya hya chouhada!"
Jessica translated it to herself: "Long live the fighters of Muad'Dib!" The scene she and Paul and Stilgar had cooked up between them had worked as they'd planned.
The tumult died slowly.
When silence was restored, Paul faced Stilgar, said: "Kneel, Stilgar."
Stilgar dropped to his knees on the ledge.
"Hand me your crysknife," Paul said.
Stilgar obeyed.
This was not as we planned it, Jessica thought.
"Repeat after me, Stilgar," Paul said, and he called up the words of investiture as he had heard his own father use them. "I, Stilgar, take this knife from the hands of my Duke."
"I, Stilgar, take this knife from the hands of my Duke," Stilgar said, and accepted the milky blade from Paul.
"Where my Duke commands, there shall I place this blade," Paul said.
Stilgar repeated the words, speaking slowly and solemnly.
Remembering the source of the rite, Jessica blinked back tears, shook her head. I know the reasons for this, she thought. I shouldn't let it stir me.
"I dedicate this blade to the cause of my Duke and the death of his enemies for as long as our blood shall flow," Paul said.
Stilgar repeated it after him.
"Kiss the blade," Paul ordered.
