If only Leto could have lived to learn this, she thought, and she did not find the thought a paradox. Standing, she peered down at the desert where the tiger had taken Leto. There was a sound growing in the sand out there, a familiar sound to Fremen: the passage of a worm. Rare as they had become in these parts, a worm still came. Perhaps the first cat's death throes... Yes, Leto had killed one cat before the other one got him. It was oddly symbolic that a worm should come. So deep was her compulsion that she saw three dark spots far down on the sand: the two tigers and Leto. Then the worm came and there was only sand with its surface broken into new waves by the passage of Shai-Hulud. It had not been a very large worm... but large enough. And her compulsion did not permit her to see a small figure riding on the ringed back.
Fighting her grief, Ghanima sealed her Fremkit, crept cautiously from her hiding place. Hand on her maula pistol, she scanned the area. No sign of a human with a transmitter. She worked her way up the rocks and across to the far side, creeping through moonshadows, waiting and waiting to be sure no assassin lurked in her path.
Across the open space she could see torches at Tabr, the wavering activity of a search. A dark patch moved across the sand toward The Attendant. She chose her path to run far to the north of the approaching party, went down to the sand and moved into the dune shadows. Careful to make her steps fall in a broken rhythm which would not attract a worm, she set out into the lonely distance which separated Tabr from the place where Leto had died. She would have to be careful at the qanat, she knew. Nothing must prevent her from telling how her brother had perished saving her from the tigers.
= = = = = =
Governments, if they endure, always tend increasingly toward aristocratic forms. No government in history has been known to evade this pattern. And as the aristocracy develops, government tends more and more to act exclusively in the interests of the ruling class - whether that class be hereditary royalty, oligarchs of financial empires, or entrenched bureaucracy. -Politics as Repeat Phenomenon: Bene Gesserit Training Manual
"Why does he make us this offer?" Farad'n asked. "That's most essential."
He and the Bashar Tyekanik stood in the lounge of Farad'n's private quarters. Wensicia sat at one side on a low blue divan, almost as audience rather than participant. She knew her position and resented it, but Farad'n had undergone a terrifying change since that morning when she'd revealed their plots to him.
It was late afternoon at Corrino Castle and the low light accented the quiet comfort of this lounge - a room lined with actual books reproduced in plastino, with shelves revealing a horde of player spools, data blocks, shigawire reels, mnemonic amplifiers. There were signs all around that this room was much used - worn places on the books, bright metal on the amplifiers, frayed corners on the data blocks. There was only the one divan, but many chairs - all of them sensiform floaters designed for unobtrusive comfort.
Farad'n stood with his back to a window. He wore a plain Sardaukar uniform in grey and black with only the golden lion-claw symbols on the wings of his collar as decoration. He had chosen to receive the Bashar and his mother in this room, hoping to create an atmosphere of more relaxed communication than could be achieved in a more formal setting. But Tyekanik's constant "My Lord this" and "My Lady that" kept them at a distance.
"My Lord, I don't think he'd make this offer were he unable to deliver," Tyekanik said.
"Of course not!" Wensicia intruded.
Farad'n merely glanced at his mother to silence her, asked: "We've put no pressure on Idaho, made no attempt to seek delivery on The Preacher's promise?"
"None," Tyekanik said.
"Then why does Duncan Idaho, noted all of his life for his fanatic loyalty to the Atreides, offer now to deliver the Lady Jessica into our hands?"
"These rumors of trouble on Arrakis..." Wensicia ventured.
"Unconfirmed," Farad'n said. "Is it possible that The Preacher has precipitated this?"
"Possible," Tyekanik said, "but I fail to see a motive."
Chapter Seventeen
"He speaks of seeking asylum for her," Farad'n said. "That might follow if those rumors..."
"Precisely," his mother said.
"Or it could be a ruse of some sort," Tyekanik said.
"We can make several assumptions and explore them," Farad'n said. "What if Idaho has fallen into disfavor with his Lady Alia?"
"That might explain matters," Wensicia said, "but he -"
"No word yet from the smugglers?" Farad'n interrupted. "Why can't we -"
"Transmission is always slow in this season," Tyekanik said, "and the needs of security..."
"Yes, of course, but still..." Farad'n shook his head. "I don't like our assumption."
"Don't be too quick to abandon it," Wensicia said. "All of those stories about Alia and that Priest, whatever his name is..."
"Javid," Farad'n said. "But the man's obviously -"
"He's been a valuable source of information for us," Wensicia said.
"I was about to say that he's obviously a double agent," Farad'n said. "How could he indict himself in this? He's not to be trusted. There are too many signs..."
"I fail to see them," she said.
He was suddenly angry with her denseness. "Take my word for it, mother! The signs are there; I'll explain later."
"I'm afraid I must agree," Tyekanik said.
Wensicia lapsed into hurt silence. How dared they push her out of Council like this? As though she were some light-headed fancy woman with no -