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where the Steersman-Ambassador swam in his orange gas. The tank slid on its
supporting field, towed by two gray-robed attendants, like a rectangular ship
being warped into its dock.
Directly beneath her, Paul sat on the Lion Throne on its raised dais. He
wore the new formal crown with its fish and fist emblems. The jeweled golden
robes of state covered his body. The shimmering of a personal shield surrounded
him. Two wings of bodyguards fanned out on both sides along the dais and down
the steps. Stilgar stood two steps below Paul's right hand in a white robe with
a yellow rope for a belt.
Sibling empathy told her that Paul seethed with the same agitation she was
experiencing, although she doubted another could detect it. His attention
remained on an orange-robed attendant whose blindly staring metal eyes looked
neither to right nor to left. This attendant walked at the right front corner of
the Ambassador's troupe like a military outrider. A rather flat face beneath
curly black hair, such of his figure as could be seen beneath the orange robe,
every gesture shouted a familiar identity.
It was Duncan Idaho.
It could not be Duncan Idaho, yet it was.
Captive memories absorbed in the womb during the moment of her mother's
spice change identified this man for Alia by a rihani decipherment which cut
through all camouflage. Paul was seeing him, she knew, out of countless personal
experiences, out of gratitudes and youthful sharing.
It was Duncan.
Alia shuddered. There could be only one answer: this was a Tleilaxu ghola, a
being reconstructed from the dead flesh of the original. That original had
perished saving Paul. This could only be a product of the axolotl tanks.
The ghola walked with the cock-footed alertness of a master swordsman. He
came to a halt as the Ambassador's tank glided to a stop ten paces from the
steps of the dais.
In the Bene Gesserit way she could not escape, Alia read Paul's disquiet. He
no longer looked at the figure out of his past. Not looking, his whole being
stared. Muscles strained against restrictions as he nodded to the Guild
Ambassador, said: "I am told your name is Edric. We welcome you to our Court in
the hope this will bring new understanding between us."
The Steersman assumed a sybaritic reclining pose in his orange gas, popped a
melange capsule into his mouth before meeting Paul's gaze. The tiny transducer
orbiting a corner of the Guildsman's tank reproduced a coughing sound, then the
rasping, uninvolved voice: "I abase myself before my Emperor and beg leave to
present my credentials and offer a small gift."
An aide passed a scroll up to Stilgar, who studied it, scowling, then nodded
to Paul. Both Stilgar and Paul turned then toward the ghola standing patiently
below the dais.
"Indeed my Emperor has discerned the gift," Edric said.
"We are pleased to accept your credentials," Paul said. "Explain the gift."
Edric rolled in the tank, bringing his attention to bear on the ghola. "This
is a man called Hayt," he said, spelling the name. "According to our
investigators, he has a most curious history. He was killed here on Arrakis . .
. a grievous head-wound which required many months of regrowth. The body was
sold to the Bene Tleilax as that of a master swordsman, an adept of the Ginaz
School. It came to our attention that this must be Duncan Idaho, the trusted
retainer of your household. We bought him as a gift befitting an Emperor." Edric
peered up at Paul. "Is it not Idaho, Sire?"
Restraint and caution gripped Paul's voice. "He has the aspect of Idaho."
Does Paul see something I don't? Alia wondered. No! It's Duncan!
The man called Hayt stood impassively, metal eyes fixed straight ahead, body
relaxed. No sign escaped him to indicate he knew himself to be the object of
discussion.
"According to our best knowledge, it's Idaho," Edric said.
"He's called Hayt now," Paul said. "A curious name."
"Sire, there's no divining how or why the Tleilaxu bestow names," Edric
said. "But names can be changed. The Tleilaxu name is of little importance."
This is a Tleilaxu thing, Paul thought. There's the problem. The Bene
Tleilax held little attachment to phenomenal nature. Good and evil carried
strange meanings in their philosophy. What might they have incorporated in
Idaho's flesh -- out of design or whim?
Paul glanced at Stilgar, noted the Fremen's superstitious awe. It was an
emotion echoed all through his Fremen guard. Stilgar's mind would be speculating
about the loathsome habits of Guildsmen, of Tleilaxu and of gholas.
Turning toward the ghola, Paul said: "Hayt, is that your only name?"
A serene smile spread over the ghola's dark features. The metal eyes lifted,
centered on Paul, but maintained their mechanical stare. "That is how I am
called, my Lord: Hayt."
In her dark spy hole, Alia trembled. It was Idaho's voice, a quality of
sound so precise she sensed its imprint upon her cells.
"May it please my Lord," the ghola added, "if I say his voice gives me
pleasure. This is a sign, say the Bene Tleilax, that I have heard the voice . .
. before."
"But you don't know this for sure," Paul said.
"I know nothing of my past for sure, my Lord. It was explained that I can
have no memory of my former life. All that remains from before is the pattern
set by the genes. There are, however, niches into which once familiar things may
fit. There are voices, places, foods, faces, sounds, actions -- a sword in my
hand, the controls of a 'thopter . . . "
Noting how intently the Guildsmen watched this exchange, Paul asked: "Do you [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]