The Winds of Dune (5 page)

Once docked aboard the Heighliner, Jessica and Gurney left the comfort of the frigate and went out into the common areas. In nondescript clothing, they drew no attention to themselves as they entered the promenade. Isbar had already told her his version of Muad’Dib’s death; Jessica wanted to hear what the people were saying.

Some passengers never left their private vessels inside the great hold, but many of those who faced long passages with many stopovers and roundabout routes busied themselves in the Heighliner’s communal decks, visiting restaurants, drinking establishments, and shops.

She and Gurney crossed the vast open decks, looking at the wares for sale from numerous planets. Some vendors had already created items to commemorate the reign and death of Muad’Dib; she found it disturbing, and Gurney pulled her away. He led her to a brightly lit drinking establishment that was all plaz, crystal, and chrome, crowded with noisy patrons. Arrayed on the wall were colorful liquors, specialties from countless planets.

“This is the best place to eavesdrop,” Gurney said. “We’ll take seats and let the conversations come to us.” With a glass of black wine for herself and a frothy, bitter beer for him, they sat facing each other, comfortable in their closeness. And listened.

A race of itinerant people, the Wayku, served as staff aboard all Guildships; they were a silent, oddly homogeneous race, well known for impersonal solicitousness. Barely noticed, dark-uniformed Wayku stewards walked about among the patrons, clearing tables, delivering drinks.

The main topic of conversation involved the death of Muad’Dib. Debates raged at table after table about whether Jessica’s son had been savior or monster, whether the corrupt and decadent Corrino rule was preferable to the pure but violent reign of Paul-Muad’Dib.

They don’t understand what he was doing
, she thought to herself.
They can never understand why he had to make the decisions he did.

At one table, a heated argument degenerated into shouts and threats. Chairs were cast aside and two men rose, red-faced, yelling insults. One hurled a knife, while the other activated a personal shield—and the fight continued until the man with the shield lay dead from a slow thrust. The crowd in the bar had watched without attempting to intervene. Afterward, Guild security men came to remove the body and to arrest the befuddled-looking murderer, who could not seem to believe what his rage had led him to do.

While others were focused on the commotion, Jessica watched the silent Wayku stewards circle the tables. She saw one of them surreptitiously deposit printed sheets on several empty tables, then glide away. The move was so smooth that if she hadn’t been paying close attention, she never would have spotted it.

“Gurney.” She gestured, and he slid his chair back to retrieve one of the documents. He’d seen the same thing, brought it back. The title said,
The Truth About Muad’Dib
.

His expression darkened. “Another one of those scurrilous propaganda leaflets, my Lady.”

Jessica skimmed the flyer. Some statements were so outrageous as to be laughable, but others pointed out the excesses that Paul had allowed in his Jihad, emphasizing the corruption in Muad’Dib’s government. These had the ring of truth. Bronso of Ix had been a thorny problem for years, and the man was so very good at what he did that he’d become a veritable legend.

Jessica knew that neither Paul’s worst critics nor his most ardent admirers fully understood her son. Here in the bar, a man had just been killed for adhering to his beliefs, thinking that
he
understood Paul’s motives and intentions. Muad’Dib’s calling was infinitely complex, his goal too tangled, subtle, and long-term for anyone, even her, to comprehend fully. She accepted that now.

Gurney crumpled the leaflet, threw it aside in disgust, while Jessica shook her head, wishing it could have all been different. Still, Bronso served his purpose, as did they all.

Subakh ul kuhar,
Muad’Dib! Are you well? Are you out there?

—Fremen chant to wind and sand

H
e needed the desert, the vast ocean without water that covered most of the planet. Too much time in the city with its priests and Landsraad members arguing over plans for Muad’Dib’s funeral had been wearing on Stilgar. And those noisy pilgrims from other worlds! They were everywhere, clamoring and pushing, giving him no space or time to think.

Finally, after the envoy from Shaddam IV suffered his tragic accident, Stilgar decided to depart for Sietch Tabr, to immerse himself in the purity of Fremen life. He hoped it would cleanse his mental palate and make him feel
real
again, a Naib instead of a robed ornament in Alia’s court. He made the journey alone, leaving his wife Harah back at the Citadel to watch the Atreides twins.

At Sietch Tabr, however, he found many changes that disappointed him. It was like the slow fall of sand grains down a slipface, each grain too small to be noticed, but cumulatively causing a significant change. After so many years of Jihad, offworld influences had diluted the Fremen. Their hardships had eased, and their lives were no longer the difficult struggle they once had been. And with comforts came weakness. Stilgar knew the signs. He had watched the changes, and the sietch
could no longer offer him the purity he sought. In the end he stayed only one night.

Early the next morning, he was out on the open sand, riding a powerful worm. As the behemoth carried him back toward the Shield Wall and Arrakeen, he wondered if the mother of Muad’Dib would return for her son’s funeral. Jessica was a Sayyadina in her own right, and Stilgar felt that Dune had lost part of its soul when she’d chosen to go back to her water world instead of remaining here. How good it would be to see her again, though he was sure even Jessica must have changed.

As a precaution, he would gather his best Fedaykin in Arrakeen, where they could stand guard with Alia’s soldiers to welcome the mother of the Messiah—if she chose to return. Jessica didn’t need the pomp and ceremony, but she might need his protection.

Stilgar found his solo ride across the desert invigorating and cleansing. Sitting high on the gray-tan segments of the sandworm, he listened to the hiss of grains as the enormous sinuous body glided along. The hot desert winds caressed Stilgar’s face, winds that would easily erase the tracks of the worm behind them, winds that would make the desert pristine again. This experience made him feel whole once more—planting his own thumper, mounting the worm with his hooks and spreaders, guiding the monster to his will.

Ever since Muad’Dib had gone out to face his fate, the superstitious Fremen and the people of pan and graben claimed that he had joined Shai-Hulud—literally and spiritually. Some villagers had taken to placing empty pots on shelves or in windows to symbolize the fact that Muad’Dib’s water had never been found, that he had mingled with the sands, with the deity Shai-Hulud. . . .

Only hours after Muad’Dib had walked out onto the sand, sweet and bereaved Alia had asked Stilgar to follow orders that he knew were contrary to Paul’s direct wishes. She tapped into the Naib’s core beliefs and his need for revenge until he convinced himself that Muad’Dib’s contradictory intent was merely a test. After so much pain and death, Stilgar had
wanted
to feel blood on his hands. As a Naib he had killed many men, and as a fighter in Muad’Dib’s Jihad, he had slaughtered countless others.

A night of killing had ensued, as the details of the complex conspiracy began to unfold. Korba, a brave Fedaykin who had let himself
become too important in the priesthood, was the first implicated, his guilt plain to a council of Fremen Naibs. His execution at Stilgar’s hands had been easy, necessary, and bloody.

But Stilgar had never before killed a Guild Steersman, nor had he ever killed a Reverend Mother of the Bene Gesserit. Yet, when Alia gave the command, he’d committed the acts without question.

The captive Steersman Edric had wielded the power of the Spacing Guild and carried the political weight of an appointed ambassador, but his safety depended on civilized restraints that meant nothing to Stilgar. Smashing the tank had been simple. When the spice gas drained away and the Steersman flopped about like a spindly aquatic creature cast up on a hostile shore, Stilgar had gripped the mutant’s rubbery flesh and snapped the cartilaginous neck. He had taken no great pleasure in it.

The Bene Gesserit witch Mohiam was another matter entirely. Though Stilgar was a great Fremen fighter, this old woman had powers he did not understand, fearsome ways that could have rendered an attack against her very difficult, had he not had the advantage of surprise. He succeeded in killing her only because Mohiam never believed he would actually disobey Paul’s orders that she was not to be harmed.

To accomplish the task he had used a clever subterfuge to have her gagged so that she could not use the power of Voice against him, and the old witch had submitted. Had she suspected that her life was threatened, she would have fought tenaciously. Stilgar had not wanted a battle; he wanted an execution.

With the gag firmly set over her mouth, and her hands tied to the chair, Stilgar had stood before the old woman. “Chani—daughter of Liet and beloved of Muad’Dib—is dead after giving birth to twin children.” Mohiam’s bright eyes widened; he could see she wanted to say something, but was unable. “The ghola Hayt has broken his indoctrination and refused to kill Paul-Muad’Dib.” The witch’s expression had been a thunderstorm of activity as thoughts flashed through her mind. “Nevertheless, Muad’Dib has given himself to Shai-Hulud, as a blind Fremen is expected to do.”

Stilgar withdrew the crysknife from his belt. “Now true justice falls to me. We know your part in the conspiracy.” Mohiam began to struggle against her bonds. “The Guild Steersman is already dead, and Korba, too. Princess Irulan has been imprisoned in a death cell.”

There was a sound of snapping bonds . . . or perhaps it was the sound of wrist bones breaking. Regardless, Mohiam freed one of her hands. It flashed to the gag over her mouth, but Stilgar’s crysknife was faster. He stabbed her chest, knowing it to be a mortal wound, but the Reverend Mother kept moving, forcing her hand to pull the gag free.

Stilgar struck again, puncturing her larynx and slashing her throat, causing her to slump. He kicked the chair and body over, then looked at his sticky fingers. As he wiped the milky blade on the Reverend Mother’s dark robes, he realized that the blood of the witch looked and smelled the same as any other blood. . . .

Those had not been the only killings ordered by Alia. It had been a long and difficult night.

Now, as the great worm approached the gap that had been blasted through the Shield Wall by Paul’s atomics, Stilgar saw a barricade of water-filled qanats that no worm could cross—especially a tired one like this. Better to release the beast here, out on the open sand. He had ridden and released so many sandworms that he had lost count. As a Fremen, guiding the sacred creatures over the dunes had always been dangerous, but not to be feared. If you followed the proper protocol.

Short of the gap, he set the creature in motion, slipped down the pebbled rings, and tumbled off onto the sand. Then he rose to his feet and remained motionless, so that the worm would not detect his presence. Sandworms had no eyes, simply sensed vibrations.

But the creature paused and turned his way as soon as Stilgar released it. Usually, a worm set free of its rider would lurch away into the desert, or bury itself under the sand and sulk. But this one remained where it was, looming, intimidating. It raised its giant head high, facing down, toward him. Its mouth was a round cave bristling with tiny crystalline knives.

Stilgar froze in the enormous presence of the creature. It knew he was there, yet it did not move toward him, did not attack. Trembling slightly, the Naib could not forget the whispered rumors that Muad’Dib, having trekked out on the sands, had become one with Shai-Hulud. The sandworm’s eyeless head had an eerie, sightless gaze . . . making him think of Muad’Dib. Though blinded, the great man had been able to see Stilgar through prescience.

He felt a sudden chill. Something was different. He breathed
slowly, forming the words in his thoughts but with barely a sound passing across his dry lips. “Muad’Dib, are you there?”

It seemed foolish, but he could not escape the feeling. In an instant, the sandworm could dive down and devour him, but it did not.