Today, though, the woman was not here for her business acumen but for an accounting of Jaxson’s terrible act.
At the podium, Malina Aru looked as if she wished she were somewhere else, anywhere else, and finally her strong, stoic expression cracked. She appeared uneasy—uncharacteristically so. From what Mohiam knew, the Urdir had always been extremely self-confident, sure of herself in life and business; when seen in public, she even carried herself with a certain swagger. Now Malina had something to say beyond her carefully worded written statement.
Facing the Landsraad, the Urdir’s posture slumped. With a visible effort, she gathered herself and turned to the side of the speaking zone, waiting. Three men in formal attire entered from the perimeter, and then another three from the opposite side, and another trio came from the front, each group bearing a large and impressive display of exotic flowers from all across the Imperium. They placed the lavish bouquets on the stage around Malina.
“These flowers are to honor the victims of the horrendous tragedy on Otorio, blossoms from the worlds that each fallen noble called home,” she said, then added steel to her voice. “No memorial can possibly make up for the loss of so many significant lives.”
The audience grumbled in dissatisfaction. Reverend Mother Mohiam knew that the Urdir needed to say more, or do something, to bring them around to her side.
Malina’s gesture activated a set of images. Holos of the dead Landsraad members shimmered throughout the audience in the great hall, appearing in their proper empty seats, like ghosts. The Reverend Mother was eerily reminded of the display Jaxson Aru had unleashed just before the impact from orbit.
The audience gasped in unison. Some members sobbed.
The holos did not move, mere projections of the dead, each one depicted in official Landsraad robes, sitting stiffly with hands clasped on their laps.
Malina continued, “I was not able to attend the gala on Otorio, and for that I have formally apologized to the Emperor. I survived, but only by happenstance. I did not know what my son intended to do.”
Some members wiped tears from their eyes, and waves of sobbing passed through the chamber. A few angry grumbles of disbelief rippled through the tiered seats.
Malina added an edge of real anger to her voice. “If I had known, I would have stopped him. I would have killed him if necessary! I denounce what Jaxson did. CHOAM does not support his actions in any way, nor do I … his mother.” She drew in a shuddering breath.
Reverend Mother Mohiam listened with her truthsense to analyze how much of this woman’s emotions were real and how much of her grief and indignation was manufactured. Surprisingly, she couldn’t entirely tell. The Ur-Director had remarkable control of herself.
“From my personal holdings, and by assent of the CHOAM board, we will donate a significant sum to help the noble houses harmed by my son’s reprehensible act, and also the families of the other victims, the commoners, the retainers, friends, and support staff. Not every casualty came from a wealthy House—countless workers helped build the Corrino museum and the Imperial Monolith. For their laudable achievements, CHOAM wishes to honor their memories.”
Polite applause went through the chamber, but did not last long. The audience was still resentful, still suspicious of her. Mohiam could read their mood.
Malina Aru faced them, letting shame descend upon her like a mourning cloak. “I find this difficult to say. Impossible to say. I know … I know … I gave birth to a monster.” Tears streamed down her face.
The audience fell silent, listening to her every word, watching her every movement and gesture.
“I renounce my son, sever all ties to him. Emperor Shaddam has declared him an outlaw, as do I. I grieve with you, but not for him. I hope never to see Jaxson again … except when he is brought to justice.”
She left the speaking zone to a stunned silence. The holoprojections of the dead Landsraad members remained for a few moments longer before they flickered out.
As Speaker Xumba closed the meeting, Mohiam pondered what Malina Aru had just said, trying to decide whether it was an incredibly brave act or merely a measure of self-preservation, designed to protect CHOAM. As Truthsayer, she had listened closely. The Urdir carefully shaded the truth, interweaving it with oblique falsehood, but Mohiam could not identify outright lies.
When the crowd dispersed, the Emperor lingered in the vast hall, engaged in conversation with several nobles who had rushed up to make their case for some of the now-vacant Landsraad holdings.
While Shaddam was preoccupied, a Bene Gesserit messenger slipped up to Mohiam, one of the trusted Sisters also assigned on Kaitain. Her words were carefully modulated so that only Mohiam could hear her. “Reverend Mother, you are summoned back to Wallach IX. It is an urgent matter regarding one of your former students. The message comes directly from Mother Superior Harishka. You must obey.”
Even though she was the Emperor’s Truthsayer, Mohiam responded to a secret, higher calling. “I must obey. Arrange immediate passage to the Mother School.”
In his developmental years, many people said of Paul Atreides that he was destined for greatness.
—Imperial histories
Paul enjoyed his training sessions with Duncan Idaho more than with any of his other instructors. Sometimes at the beginning of a session, the Swordmaster just gave him an intense look that told Paul it would be a tough and demanding workout.
Now he raised two large, heavy blades, one in each hand. “Today, young Master, we train with a different weapon. Broadswords.”
Paul frowned, knowing the weapon was unwieldy and inappropriate for someone of his small stature. “Not our usual type of swordplay.”
“All the more reason to train.” Duncan tested the broadsword, swishing it in the air. “This one is for you. It’s easier to handle, though longer than your arm. A good weapon to start with. Use your shield.”
“Ah,” Paul said, activating the controls at his belt. “You want a larger weapon than mine because you are afraid of me.”
“Not unless you give me a reason to fear you.”
They fought with the overlarge two-handed swords and body shields, using traditional thrusts and parries, along with combat variations Duncan had learned on Ginaz. Paul also applied some of Gurney Halleck’s defensive tactics, which Duncan easily recognized.
During the practice fight, Duncan teased the young man by calling him Gurney, which distracted Paul and threw him off balance. In the heat of combat, he lost the nuances of what he’d been taught and instead resorted to instinctive fighting, relying on the quick footwork of his youth.
After a loud and vehement clash, Paul stepped back, panting. “So is it better to fight instinctively, as animals, or constrained by knowledge and rehearsed techniques, as humans often do? Natural versus the trained, animal versus human?”
Duncan raised his heavy sword, ready to fight again. “We are basically animals, so that’s our instinctive side. The other side, the human one, involves socialization, learning how to find our way in society and excel in our pursuits.” He sliced the air, pressed closer.
Paul parried, grunting with the effort of lifting his blade, and then Duncan paused. “We use learned fighting methods to overcome obstacles and danger,” the Swordmaster said. “Our human side is more polished and refined, an advantage over lower animal forms. We can call upon a larger arsenal of actions to remain dominant.” He nodded to himself, pretending to relax, but Paul could sense he was prepared to lunge. “Ultimately, the goal of our lives is to become as human as possible, to advance as far as we can.”