Princess of dune, p.10
Princess of Dune, page 10
—Suk medical school manual, psychiatric maladies
Reverend Mother Mohiam was stern and serious in all things, including her role as the Emperor’s Truthsayer, but this morning she felt particularly sour as she waited inside a classroom on the palace grounds. Most of Shaddam’s daughters were late.
The old educational building was a remodeled guesthouse that stood on the shore of a pond covered with flowering water lilies. This main classroom had a high ceiling like a gymnasium, with four acrobatic bars dangling high overhead and a Holtzman safety field shimmering beneath them.
Up there the youngest Corrino princess—thirteen-year-old Rugi—swung back and forth in an athletic slimsuit, leaping from bar to bar. The physical training honed muscles, balance, and reflexes, but the slender girl took such delight in the activity it might as well have been play. Rugi was in excellent shape and participated in a variety of athletics.
Mohiam had asked all five of the Corrino princesses to come at the top of the hour, but so far, only Rugi was here. The girl continued to swing back and forth overhead, increasing her speed and effort.
“Come down now,” Mohiam called in a sharp voice, then reminded herself not to take out her annoyance on the one daughter who had done as she was told.
“As soon as I see my sisters.” Defiantly, the girl began a new routine.
The whole situation irritated Mohiam, who valued her own time. Of course, Irulan, Chalice, Wensicia, and Josifa all had high royal stations, but clearly they needed to remember their Bene Gesserit ties and obligations as well. Especially Irulan.
Mohiam had already felt glum and edgy since rising from bed at her customary time. With deep introspection, she tried to identify the reasons for her mood, but they were not obvious even to her. She recalled snippets of a bad dream in which her female ancestors kept calling out to her, but the details slipped into the vagueness of memory. Sometimes she was better at analyzing other people than her own actions.
The Reverend Mother calmed herself, waited. The others were ten minutes late now.
Finally, she heard voices outside, and presently Irulan led Chalice, Wensicia, and Josifa into the class chamber, unhurried. The Princess Royal said, “We were delayed by a succession of distractions at court, Reverend Mother. The blame is all mine.” The young woman showed just the right amount of contrition to dissipate the matter, and Mohiam did not make an issue of it.
Rugi dropped onto the suspensor field and then slid down a rope to the floor, joining her older sisters. She pulled a blue robe over her exercise slimsuit.
The Reverend Mother indicated half a dozen chairs in a circle, and they all took seats. Pursing her lips, she concentrated on the two youngest girls, Josifa and Rugi. “I must review some important matters with you all. It is a time of change. Your older sisters will know what I mean.”
Josifa, the second youngest, was six years older than Rugi—a lovely young woman with dark hair and soft features. She was the calmest and most patient of the Corrino daughters, and thus far she had shown little interest in young men at court, even though she was nineteen. She would need to marry well, in a match recommended by her father and by the Sisterhood, but tradition gave the fourth daughter more choice in the matter.
Looking at the two youngest princesses, Mohiam said in an authoritative voice, “Josifa and Rugi, your father is sending both of you to the Bene Gesserit Mother School on Wallach IX. Over the course of the next year, you will receive basic training in the ways of the Sisterhood, just as Irulan did.”
Irulan was surprised. “Both at once? Their ages are quite different, Reverend Mother.”
“Their minds need to be shaped and disciplined. Wallach IX is the best place for that.”
Wensicia looked envious. She and Chalice had received instruction from Bene Gesserit tutors in the palace, designed to benefit them in many aspects of life and politics. Irulan, however, had undergone far deeper training at the Mother School itself. She had spent several years in a very rigorous curriculum.
Shaddam had not considered additional instruction for her necessary, nor did the Sisterhood. The ambitious third daughter had, however, continued intensive studies on her own using palace resources.
Rugi did not look pleased, while Josifa took longer to consider how she felt. Either way, it did not matter; they were going. The pronouncement should not have been a surprise to them.
“Why isn’t Father here to discuss this with us?” Rugi demanded. “Did he command it?”
“Certainly he must have approved it,” Josifa said.
With a wry smile, Mohiam responded, “I am merely the messenger. One does not discuss such matters with the Padishah Emperor. One listens to his commandments. And it is his desire that you prepare to travel immediately. Your Heighliner will arrive in two days.”
Chalice seemed delighted for her sisters, while Wensicia showed a hint of resentment.
Irulan offered the younger girls a calm smile. “It is for the best, as you will see. The Mother School will open new lines of thought for you. Rugi, you will especially appreciate the physical prana-bindu training.”
“What will this course of instruction include?” Josifa asked, still reluctant. “Can we not get the same training in the palace, from our own tutors? Like Wensicia’s? They can teach prana-bindu here.”
Wensicia stiffened. “My instructors are my own choice, as are the subjects I study.”
Mohiam nodded to the Princess Royal, designating responsibility. “You will both be instructed in the ways of the Sisterhood. If you meet the stringent standards, you will be asked to remain on Wallach IX for more thorough training, such as Irulan received. Maybe someday you could even pass the most difficult of tests and become a Reverend Mother, like me.” She said it as both an enticement and a warning.
Irulan spoke up, highlighting subjects that she knew would interest her sisters. “At the Mother School, you will learn martial arts, as well as perfect control of your body, all your individual muscles. You will learn the simplest breathing exercises and calming techniques that are required for clear thinking.”
Surprisingly, Chalice spoke up with a giggle. “That would be useful during long and boring meetings or ceremonies!”
With a petulant expression, Rugi looked away.
Mohiam turned her attention to Josifa. “You are almost too old for effective training. Perhaps your father could have sent you sooner, but he has his reasons for doing so now, and Mother Superior Harishka has granted a special dispensation.”
“You’ll do fine,” Irulan said. “You have a clever mind.”
Josifa glanced at her younger sister, who still seemed displeased. “It will be a good opportunity for us, Rugi. I just wish we’d been given more warning, considering all of our activities at court.” She put an arm around her little sister, who pulled away.
“And friends,” Rugi said. “Can I refuse?”
“No,” Mohiam said, careful not to make it sound like a rebuke. “But you may ask questions if you wish, or save them for Irulan. It is a great honor and privilege to be invited to the Mother School.”
“It doesn’t feel like an honor,” Rugi said, then her eyes brightened. “But I would like to learn how to fight like a Bene Gesserit…”
Mohiam rose from her chair, feeling the age in her joints. “That is all I have to say for now.” She moved toward the door, heard her own robes rustling. “Josifa, Rugi, please go about your business now. I have things to discuss with your older sisters.”
Perplexed and unsettled, the girls left the education building together.
When they were gone, Irulan said, “This is rather sudden, isn’t it? Bene Gesserit are usually better at planning.”
Mohiam scowled. “It has been decided that the girls must go to Wallach IX for their safety, as a precaution. Political and potential military matters are brewing, and your father does not want the girls used as pawns.”
Chalice exclaimed, “For their safety? What about ours? Are we in danger here?”
Mohiam said in a serious tone, “As the Emperor’s daughters, you are always in danger.”
Wensicia’s expression sharpened. “What are you not telling us?”
“Only that you should all be vigilant, perhaps more than usual.”
Wensicia shifted in her seat. “This brings up some raw wounds. As Corrino princesses, we should be as prepared as possible, ready to meet any challenge or threat.” She sniffed. “I should have received full Bene Gesserit instruction on Wallach IX, to learn as much as Irulan did. Instead, I had to arrange my own private tutelage here.”
Mohiam scowled at her. “It was not deemed necessary for you, Wensicia.” None of them looked at Chalice.
Irulan spoke to Wensicia in a comforting tone. “There are many duties in the Imperium that we must accept, as our noble birth requires. Sometimes we never learn the reasons.”
“You would say that,” Wensicia said. “You, who have our father’s ear and advise him on political matters. He never asks for my counsel.”
Mohiam gathered her robes and turned to the door of the educational building, while Irulan said to her sister in barely a whisper, “Maybe he should.”
* * *
TWO DAYS LATER, on a chilly early morning, Josifa and Rugi prepared to board an Imperial shuttle on the palace’s private landing field.
As the girls’ traveling things were loaded aboard—only small packs despite their yearlong trip, because the Mother School would provide whatever they needed—Irulan, Wensicia, and Chalice came to bid their sisters farewell.
Josifa was calm, having accepted the sudden change, and now she looked forward to studying on Wallach IX.
Thirteen-year-old Rugi was crying. “Do I have to go?”
“It has already been arranged,” Wensicia said in a hard voice. “Appreciate the opportunity.”
“You’ll both love it there,” Irulan promised. “And you’ll learn so much. You will come back home as much stronger princesses.”
Chalice said, “I wish I were going along. It sounds exciting.”
Rugi wiped at her face, looked past Irulan toward the Imperial Palace. “Where is Father? Why isn’t he saying goodbye to us?” The tears kept coming.
“The Emperor has many important matters this morning,” Mohiam said, although she knew Shaddam was handling only routine business in his office.
Now both of the younger girls looked troubled as they boarded, while their older sisters remained on the landing field. Mohiam wished she could go back to Wallach IX now as well, but she had too many duties and obligations here that took precedence.
Competence breeds competence. Unfortunately, the reverse is also true.
—Sardaukar instruction manual for officers
It was only a rudimentary mess hall, a cafeteria for enlisted men, with plain plaswood tables and mismatched metal chairs, some with cushions and others without. After Zenha’s fall from grace, this was the best facility his well-wishers could obtain for his farewell gathering, a crowded room with at least forty people and only a token amount of celebratory food.
At least they were Zenha’s friends. For the occasion, they would spend more time drinking than eating, and he was fine with that.
For this somber departure celebration for the banished former Fleet Captain, the men had rearranged the simple furnishings to their own needs. The demoted officer sat at a makeshift head table between two of his closest friends in the service, Staff Captains Sellew and Nedloh, both of whom had traveled to Kaitain from their planetary assignments. Sellew was a young officer with intense blue eyes, while Nedloh was an old veteran with a battle scar on the side of his face. Everyone present at the sullen gathering knew how to manipulate the military bureaucracy to accomplish what they needed, since no official going-away party would have been sanctioned.
Commiserating with him, these boon companions were ordinary officers wearing Imperial uniforms, none of them members of the elite Sardaukar troops, nor of the noble high command. This group had advanced through the ranks with Zenha through hard work and competency, with no advantages of important bloodlines. They were all adjutants to showy, inept figurehead officers. They knew their places.
The pompous figureheads refused to be seen with the disgraced officer, but his friends didn’t abandon him. Most of these soldiers traveled extensively around the Imperium in fleet detachments aboard Guild Heighliners, leading peacekeeping forces for the Emperor. When word got out about what had happened to Zenha, they rushed to his support.
The former Fleet Captain had accepted his fate with grace, rather than sniveling shame. He wore his new leftenant uniform without any ribbons or medals, but he had promised himself he would earn them all over again, no matter how long it took. He would make up for those thousands of lives lost under his watch due to criminally faulty information provided to him. His injured ankle felt much better after the medpack and special boot, and now he could walk without a noticeable limp.
Listening to the subdued conversations, Zenha sipped a drink and pretended to enjoy himself. He greatly appreciated the presence of these people. Most of his friends were in dark moods because of how poorly he had been treated, yet they also honored the fallen soldiers on Otak. Zenha would never forget the blood of all those losses on his hands. The mission would have been so different if he’d had accurate information beforehand.
“Worst part is that now you’re serving under Duke Bashar Gorambi,” said Staff Captain Sellew. “‘Duke Bashar’! What a ridiculous made-up rank! At least my own commander is oblivious enough that I can fix problems and keep the fleet detachment running without him interfering. Gorambi, though, is actively incompetent! He’s a very pushy man.”
Nedloh nudged Zenha in the ribs. “Moko will have him wrapped around his finger.”
“What an injustice, assigning you to that fool!” grumbled another officer, a big bearded man. “Gorambi puts his troops in one stupid debacle after another.”
Zenha forced a smile for all of them. “I will do my best, as always.” He refrained from drinking to excess, wanting to keep his head about himself. Now he looked to the back of the room, where a supposedly unobtrusive but painfully obvious Imperial aide sat in a chair by himself. The dark-haired aide held a shigawire recording device, no doubt for a report he would make; he had taken no noticeable food or drink. The man had an unremarkable appearance, dressed in an Imperial business suit. He did not seem to be enjoying the party any more than Zenha.
The noise in the room grew louder as his friends drank more, gradually raising their voices to be heard over other slurred comments. One of the officers seated at a nearby table, Captain Horon, stood up and raised his glass. “A terrible thing was done to you, my good friend. They threw you into a static-storm of an operation, with a reeking pile of misinformation. How were you supposed to succeed? It was like dumping you on Arrakis with furs and arctic gear!” Horon continued ominously, “And all because you dared to ask for a princess’s hand in marriage.”
“Should have aimed lower, Moko,” Nedloh said with a snort.
The men all agreed, generating a hostile clamor of noise. A big officer boomed out, “Imagine that! One of us asking to marry the Emperor’s daughter!”
“Damned Shaddam could have just said no!” Sellew said.
Self-conscious, Zenha looked back at the suspicious Imperial aide, sure that all this would be reported to the palace. He was surprised to see the man switch off his shigawire recording device and disconnect the uptake spool, no longer interested in the proceedings.
Whether or not the spy was paying attention, Zenha had a great deal to say and didn’t care who heard it. Gathering his courage, or maybe his foolishness, he called out directly to the aide. “Why not turn your recorder on, so the Emperor can hear what I have to say in my own words?”
A smile curled at the corners of the aide’s mouth.
Frustrated with the presence of the spy, Staff Captain Sellew marched to the back, grabbed the recorder, and smashed it on the floor, then stomped on it for good measure. The nondescript aide stood up, unbothered.
Then Sellew grinned and clapped a hand on the spy’s back. “Moko, meet my adjutant, Leftenant Bosh.”
Zenha was surprised. “He wasn’t sent as a watcher for the Emperor, then?”
A wave of relief rippled through the room, and laughter among those who had known in advance. Sellew seemed very proud of himself. “No, but the man has contacts, and he managed to get hold of one of their trademark business suits. Bosh can set up anything, fix anything! Through his other contacts, he arranged for us to have complete privacy in this gathering. There are no recording devices here, no hidden microphones or spy-eyes. We can say whatever we want.”
“Nice to know,” Zenha said, “but I had planned to say whatever I wanted anyway.”
“And we want to listen!” Nedloh yelled, scratching the scar on his face.
The handful of loyal, trusted people pounded the tables in approval. Zenha felt the vibration around him like armor. Though the collective mood began to lift, he still felt the terrible ache of losing his troops, reliving the orders he’d given, second-guessing himself. Three troop carriers lost! So many lives!
Now that he had their full attention, Zenha rose to his feet, leaving his drink on the table. “I expected the Emperor to put me to death, but he thinks that serving in disgrace is a worse punishment. I still intend to make a difference. I can be a good leader in spite of the people I have to serve!”
“Hear, hear!” the men said, and they drank more.
“Assigning you to Gorambi is like a death sentence,” Captain Horon said with a snort.
No one laughed. The room grew silent, except for rustling bodies and tinkling glasses.
The bearded man continued, emboldened by the brash actions of Sellew and the spy Bosh. “Duke Bashar Gorambi is probably the biggest fool of all the noble popinjays. Have you ever heard him speak of military matters? He’s like a child moving toy soldiers around on his bedroom floor.”
