The Winds of Dune (23 page)

Still wearing a contented smile, Sielto glanced around the workshops. “You may not notice it, but this is an industry undergoing a great deal of turmoil. The Ollic League recently developed a synthetic variety of harmonywood, you see, and it greatly offended the traditionalists. Arsonists burned many of the new arbors to the ground.” He looked around warily, as if expecting a mob to appear out of the streets and alleys.

“But what’s so special about those trees, and why would somebody want to destroy them?” Paul asked.

“Only a few years ago, the Ollic family was a minor player among harmonywood growers. They had fallen upon extraordinarily hard times, until the patriarch, Ombar Ollic, took a daring chance that offended all the other Chusuk leagues, using Tleilaxu engineers to genetically modify his strains. What would have taken ten years to grow, now matured in a single year. And thanks to the Tleilaxu modifications, clonewood trees have a
natural
honeycombed structure, so there’s no need for the time-consuming borer beetles.”

Noting that the shopkeeper was paying far too much attention to them, Sielto led the boys back out into the streets. “Many objective critics say that clonewood balisets sound even sweeter than originals, and such an idea appalls the Chusuk purists. That’s why other families wish to destroy the Ollic League.”

Despite his natural antipathy toward the Tleilaxu, who had greatly damaged Ix, Bronso sounded surprised, even offended. “But anyone who creates more efficient production methods
deserves
to get more business.”

“You’re thinking like an Ixian. From your manner of speech, I can tell you are from Ix, correct?” Sielto seemed to be probing for information, but Bronso avoided answering. He turned to Paul. “And you? I have not yet determined your homeworld, though there are a number of options.”

Paul smiled calmly. “We’re space gypsies, not unlike Wayku, or Jongleurs.” For years, his tutors had drilled an understanding of consequences into him, explaining the complexities of commerce, government, alliances, and trade—all the things a Duke would need to know. “If Ollic clonewood sounds the same and grows faster, then their family’s profits are increased at the expense of other leagues. No wonder the rival families hate them so and burned their arbors.”

“Progress won’t be stopped by a few instances of petty arson.” Bronso’s nostrils flared. “If the artificial clonewood is better, faster, and cheaper to produce, why don’t the other families just adopt it in their own arbors, so they can be competitive again?”

“Maybe they should . . . but they will not. They are far too proud.”

Just before noon the following day, Paul and Bronso stood beside Rheinvar in a vault-ceilinged wing of the gilded theater for the first rehearsals. Overhead, magnificent frescoes depicted colorful dancers, actors, and masked performers.

The Jongleur leader had arranged an appropriate time to launch their grand performance, but the troupe needed to practice before the big event. Each planet had its differences in gravity, sunlight, and atmospheric content.

With a skeptical eye, Rheinvar observed a troupe of dancers going
through graceful, athletic movements on the stage. The music was quick and uplifting, with stunning harmonics. Above them, a pair of immense Gorun birds, their wings wide and powerful, clung to suspensor bars.

Though this was merely a setup and practice show, Rheinvar allowed a crowd of curiosity seekers to watch. “Their word of mouth is better advertising than all the announcements I could possibly make,” he told Paul.

Bronso’s eyes sparkled as he took in the elaborate routine of the dancers, all of whom wore pale blue leotards and tight feather caps in a variety of colors. A dozen dancers—ten men and two women—performed backflips and jumped high in the air; at exactly the right moment the Gorun birds spread their wings to provide a place for the dancers to land. Instantly, the enormous birds lifted into the air with slow, powerful sweeps of their wings and six dancers poised on top of them like daredevils, circling the theater and landing back on the stage. Finally, the dancers alighted onto the floor and took a bow as cheers filled the theater.

While the performers peeled away and vanished backstage, Rheinvar motioned to the lithe lead dancer in a red-feather headcap, and the man hurried over. “Outstanding practice performance. Have you met our new roustabouts?”

“Of course I have.” The man removed his cap to reveal a bald head that glistened with perspiration. Something looked familiar about him, but Paul was sure he hadn’t been among the workers setting up the stage. “How could I forget them?
Their
features don’t change.”

Rheinvar winked at the man, then led him and the boys backstage. Once they were out of sight of the crowd of onlookers, the dancer’s face shifted, changed as he twitched muscles, adjusted his appearance all the way down to the bone structure. Paul’s eyes widened as the performer became
Sielto
.

The man’s features altered again, taking on the appearance of someone else whom Paul remembered from their communal meal the previous night. The countenance shifted again, and finally returned to the appearance of the lithe man who had performed onstage. “I’m much more than a dancer, as you can see—I am a Face Dancer.”

Paul had heard of the exotic mimics before, and now he remembered that performance troupes often employed shape-shifters.

“A Face Dancer of the
Tleilaxu
,” Bronso said with a clear growl in the back of his words, but he was unable to reveal the reasons for his aversion to the loathsome race without exposing his connection to House Vernius.

Sielto took no offense at his tone. “Is there any other kind?” He gestured to the other performers backstage, who now looked entirely different from their stage appearances. “Most of the troupe is made up of Face Dancers.”

Rheinvar brushed imaginary dust from the sparkles on his top hat and placed it back on his head. “The audiences love it when the performers suddenly look like local political figures or recognizable heroes.”

“And our Master Jongleur has tricks of his own.” Sielto made a comical face. “Go sit out in the audience for the next routine, young roustabouts. Rheinvar, demonstrate what a Master Jongleur can truly do.”

“Well, I do need to keep in practice . . . and it is just a rehearsal.” As the Face Dancer bounded away, Rheinvar directed Paul and Bronso to empty seats in the main theater. “It’s the grand finale. Watch it from the front step. You’ve never seen anything like this.”

Dressed in his sparkling white suit under the intense lights, the Jongleur leader stepped to the center of the stage. Paul watched Rheinvar’s stiff movements, the deep breaths and trancelike concentration as he seemed to prepare himself for a great exertion.

When he spoke, the man’s voice carried throughout the great hall. “For our most spectacular event yet, we will attempt a dangerous routine that has been forbidden on seven planets—but have no fear, there is very little risk to any
individual
audience member.”

Uneasy laughter rippled through the stands. Bronso nudged Paul in the ribs and rolled his eyes.

Rheinvar stood like a stone at the center of the stage, where he drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. Paul felt a strange flicker pass in front of his vision, a crawling sensation on the surface of his skin, but he shook it off. He felt dizzy, but focused his thoughts as his mother had taught him to do, trying to identify what Rheinvar was attempting. Presently, he focused his vision—and everything seemed normal again.

Sielto and the Face Dancers stepped casually onto the stage behind Rheinvar. They remained motionless except for their eyes, gazing around the audience, to the deepest reaches of the old theater. It all seemed very sedate.

Beside Paul, however, Bronso shuddered and blinked, and his expression took on an odd, dreamy look. The audience sucked in amazed breaths in unison. Groups of people gasped and moved in waves, as if something invisible was darting among them. But Paul didn’t see anything.

On the stage, neither Rheinvar nor the Face Dancers had moved.

Audience members clapped and cheered; many did gyrations in their seats as though trying to avoid things that weren’t really there. Even Bronso whistled his approval. “But they aren’t doing anything!” Paul said, baffled.

Bronso pointed. “See there—oh! I’ve never seen so much leaping and twirling as the troupe goes out into the audience. Look how clever, the pinpoint landings, and the way they contort their faces to look like monsters. They’re amazing! The audience is sure to have nightmares.”

Paul, though, merely saw Rheinvar in deep concentration and the group of dancers behind him, standing casual and patient. “But . . . everyone is just standing on the stage. They’re doing nothing.”

“Are you blind and deaf?” Bronso clapped again and shot to his feet. “Bravo! Bravo!”

Finally, the Jongleur leader raised his head and opened his eyes. The Face Dancers bounded to the front of the stage and took a bow to the thunderous approval of the audience.

Then Paul understood. “It’s mass hypnosis on the audience. I thought it was just a legend.”

The Jongleur leader called the boys over to him, and doffed his top hat. “What did you see and hear? Were you impressed?” He looked from one boy to the other.

“We were both impressed,” Paul said. “But for different reasons.”

Bronso gushed about what he had seen, but Paul regarded the elegant old man with a measuring expression and said, “You played the audience like a musical instrument. Generating illusions, hypnotizing them. They saw exactly what you wanted them to see.”

Rheinvar was taken aback by Paul’s statement, but then he chuckled.
“You saw that? Well, it seems we have an unusual specimen here, more interesting even than a shape-shifter.” He slapped Paul on the back. “Yes, a very small number of people have a kind of mental immunity. Jongleurs use a resonance-hypnosis technique similar to what the Bene Gesserit use, except these players merely use it to enhance their performances.”

Bronso regarded his friend with clear astonishment. “You were serious? You really didn’t see anything?”

“He
is
a Master Jongleur. You were the one seeing things that weren’t there.”

As Jessica continued to tell her story in the Princess’s private wing of the Citadel, Irulan looked at her with obvious impatience and skepticism. “Paul told you all these things?”

“Yes, he did. He felt it was important for me to understand, just as it’s important for you. Otherwise you can’t write the truth.”

“I admit it’s interesting, but I still don’t see the point of all this, or why you considered it so urgent to tell me. I’ve already had enough trouble with Fremen traditionalists who believe that your son’s past has no bearing, that before he became Muad’Dib, there was nothing worth remembering.” A flush infused her smooth cheeks. “Paul said it himself after his first sandworm ride, and the Fremen quote it often—‘And I am a Fremen born this day on the Habbanya erg. I have had no life before this day. I was as a child until this day.’ ”

Jessica pressed her lips together into a thin line. “Paul said many things to the Fremen, but he did not come to Arrakis as a newborn. Without the first fifteen years of his life, he could never have become Muad’Dib.”