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The questioning silence of the moment was broken by the sound of someone whistling as he walked down the outer hall. The whistling was stilled by a guardsman's barked command as it came opposite the door.
"Korba, I think you may survive all this," Paul said. And he read the growing light of understanding on Stilgar's face.
"The strangers in the gardens, Sire?" Stilgar asked.
"Ahh, yes," Paul said. "Have Bannerjee put them out, Stil. Korba will assist."
"Me, Sire?" Korba betrayed deep disquiet.
"Some of my friends have forgotten they once were Fremen," Paul said, speaking to Korba, but designing his words for Stilgar. "You will mark down the ones Chani identifies as Sardaukar and you will have them killed. Do it yourself. I want it done quietly and without undue disturbance. We must keep in mind that there's more to religion and government than approving treaties and sermons.
"I obey the orders of Muad'dib," Korba whispered.
"The Zabulon computations?" Stilgar asked.
"Tomorrow," Paul said. "And when the strangers are removed from the gardens, announce that the reception is ended. The party's over, Stil."
"I understand, m'Lord."
"I'm sure you do," Paul said.
Here lies a toppled god--
His fall was not a small one.
We did but build his pedestal,
A narrow and a tall one.
--TLEILAXU EPIGRAM
Alia crouched, resting elbows on knees, chin on fists, stared at the body on the dune--a few bones and some tattered flesh that once had been a young woman. The hands, the head, most of the upper torso were gone--eaten by the coriolis wind. The sand all around bore the tracks of her brother's medics and questors. They were gone now, all excepting the mortuary attendants who stood to one side with Hayt, the ghola, waiting for her to finish her mysterious perusal of what had been written here.
A wheat-colored sky enfolded the scene in the glaucous light common to midafternoon for these latitudes.
The body had been discovered several hours earlier by a low-flying courier whose instruments had detected a faint water trace where none should be. His call had brought the experts. And they had learned--what? That this had been a woman of about twenty years, Fremen, addicted to semuta ... and she had died here in the crucible of the desert from the effects of a subtle poison of Tleilaxu origin.
To die in the desert was a common enough occurrence. But a Fremen addicted to semuta, this was such a rarity that Paul had sent her to examine the scene in the ways their mother had taught them.
Alia felt that she had accomplished nothing here except to cast her own aura of mystery about a scene that was already mysterious enough. She heard the ghola's feet stir the sand, looked at him. His attention rested momentarily upon the escort 'thopters circling overhead like a flock of ravens.
Beware of the Guild bearing gifts, Alia thought.
The mortuary 'thopter and her own craft stood on the sand near a rock outcropping behind the ghola. Focusing on the grounded 'thopters filled Alia with a craving to be airborne and away from here.
But Paul had thought she might see something here which others would miss. She squirmed in her stillsuit. It felt raspingly unfamiliar after all the suitless months of city life. She studied the ghola, wondering if he might know something important about this peculiar death. A lock of his black-goat hair, she saw, had escaped his stillsuit hood. She sensed her hand longing to tuck that hair back into place.
As though lured by this thought, his gleaming gray metal eyes turned toward her. The eyes set her trembling and she tore her gaze away from him.
A Fremen woman had died here from a poison called "the throat of hell."
A Fremen addicted to semuta.
She shared Paul's disquiet at this conjunction.
The mortuary attendants waited patiently. This corpse contained not enough water for them to salvage. They felt no need to hurry. And they'd believe that Alia, through some glyptic art, was reading a strange truth in these remains.
No strange truth came to her.
There was only a distant feeling of anger deep within her at the obvious thoughts in the attendants' minds. It was a product of the damned religious mystery. She and her brother could not be people. They had to be something more. The Bene Gesserit had seen to that by manipulating Atreides ancestry. Their mother had contributed to it by thrusting them onto the path of witchery.
And Paul perpetuated the difference.
The Reverend Mothers encapsulated in Alia's memories stirred restlessly, provoking adab flashes of thought: "Peace, Little One! You are what you are. There are compensations."
Compensations!
She summoned the ghola with a gesture.
He stopped beside her, attentive, patient.
"What do you see in this?" she asked.
"We may never learn who it was died here," he said. "The head, the teeth are gone. The hands ... Unlikely such a one had a genetic record somewhere to which her cells could be matched."
"Tleilaxu poison," she said. "What do you make of that?"
"Many people buy such poisons."
"True enough. And this flesh is too far gone to be regrown as was done with your body."
"Even if you could trust the Tleilaxu to do it," he said.
She nodded, stood. "You will fly me back to the city now."
When they were airborne and pointed north, she said: "You fly exactly as Duncan Idaho did."
He cast a speculative glance at her. "Others have told me this."
"What are you thinking now?" she asked.
"Many things."
"Stop dodging my question, damn you!"
"Which question?"
She glared at him.
He saw the glare, shrugged.
How like Duncan Idaho, that gesture, she thought. Accusingly, her voice thick and with a catch in it, she said: "I merely wanted your reactions voiced to play my own thoughts against them. That young woman's death bothers me."
"I was not thinking about that."
"What were you thinking about?"
"About the strange emotions I feel when people speak of the one I may have been."
"May have been?"
"The Tleilaxu are very clever."
"Not that clever. You were Duncan Idaho."
"Very likely. It's the prime computation."
"So you get emotional?"
"To a degree. I feel eagerness. I'm uneasy. There's a tendency to tremble and I must devote effort to controlling it. I get ... flashes of imagery."
"What imagery?"
"It's too rapid to recognize. Flashes. Spasms ... almost memories."
"Aren't you curious about such memories?"
"Of course. Curiosity urges me forward, but I move against a heavy reluctance. I think: 'What if I'm not the one they believe me to be?' I don't like that thought."
"And this is all you were thinking?"
"You know better than that, Alia."
How dare he use my given name? She felt anger rise and go down beneath the memory of the way he'd spoken: softly throbbing undertones, casual male confidence. A muscle twitched along her jaw. She clenched her teeth.
"Isn't that El Kuds down there?" he asked, dipping a wing briefly, causing a sudden flurry in their escort.
She looked down at their shadows rippling across the promontory above Harg Pass, at the cliff and the rock pyramid containing the skull of her father. El Kuds--the Holy Place.
"That's the Holy Place," she said.
"I must visit that place one day," he said. "Nearness to your father's remains may bring memories I can capture."
She saw suddenly how strong must be this need to know who he'd been. It was a central compulsion with him. She looked back at the rocks, the cliff with its base sloping into a dry beach and a sea of sand--cinnamon rock lifting from the dunes like a ship breasting waves.
"Circle back," she said.
"The escort ..."
"They'll follow. Swing under them."
He obeyed.
"Do you truly serve my brother?" she asked, when he was on the new course, the escort following.
"I serve the Atreides," he said, his tone formal.
And she saw his right hand lift, fall--almost the old salute of Caladan. A pensive look came over his face. She watched him peer down at the rock pyramid.
