Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [86]
Khrone looked contemplatively at the bloodstains. “I am not averse to violence, but it must be directed violence. Constructive violence. This ghola has little self-control. He is in need of behavioral modifications.”
Uxtal tried to deflect the conversation from the implied criticism. “Why did he grab a knife and jump into a slig pen?”
“He was influenced by our conversation. I was discussing our discovery with my comrades, and the boy drew inspiration from the object. He seems to have a fondness for knives.”
“Matre Superior Hellica taught him that.” Uxtal swallowed hard. “I have read his cellular history. The original Baron Harkonnen was—”
“I know everything about the original. He has excellent potential for what I have in mind now. Our plans have changed because of what we’ve discovered here on Dan.”
Uxtal stared at the mysterious parcel in the Face Dancer’s hands. “And what have you found?”
Though his gash-mouth did not smile, Khrone seemed very pleased. He began to unwrap the object. “Another solution to our crisis.”
“Which crisis?”
“One you cannot understand.”
Feeling chastised, Uxtal bit back further questions, and stared as Khrone revealed another knife, this one ornate and sealed inside a clear plaz container. The weapon had a jeweled handle with intricate designs carved into it; the blade itself bore etched letters and symbols from an ancient language, but the words were obscured by a thick smear of crimson. Blood, barely oxidized. He leaned closer. It still looked moist inside its preservative cover.
“This is an ancient weapon—thousands of years old—sealed inside a nullentropy field until today, hidden and protected over the centuries by a succession of religious fanatics.”
“Is that blood?” Uxtal asked.
“I prefer to call it genetic material.” Gingerly, the Face Dancer set the artifact on the table. “We discovered it in a long-sealed religious shrine here on Dan, watched over by remnants of the Fish Speakers, who have now joined the Cult of Sheeana. The dagger is stained with the blood of Paul Atreides.”
“Muad’Dib! The father of the Prophet Himself, Leto II, the God Emperor.”
“Yes, the messiah who led Fremen warriors in a great jihad. A Kwisatz Haderach. We need him.”
“Because of the nullentropy field, the blood of Muad’Dib is still wet . . . fresh,” Uxtal said, quivering in excitement. “Perfectly preserved.”
“Ah, so you see where this is leading. There is hope for you yet. You may be useful after all.”
“Yes, I am useful! Let me show you. But . . . but I need to know more about what you want.”
At a hand gesture from their leader, two more Face Dancers entered the room, leading a wrung-out woman who wore a deep blue dress; her brown hair hung in stringy clumps. As she drew near, Uxtal noted the famous Atreides crest of long ago, a red braided hawk, on the left breast of her dress. When she saw the preserved dagger, the woman struggled against her captors. She didn’t seem to care about the Face Dancers or anyone—only the knife.
Khrone prodded her. “Speak, Priestess. Tell this man the story of your holy knife so that he may understand.”
She looked at Uxtal briefly, then turned her worshipful gaze back toward the dagger. “I am Ardath, formerly a Fish Speaker priestess, now servant of Sheeana. Long ago, the evil Count Hasimir Fenring attempted to assassinate the blessed Muad’Dib with this dagger. The weapon belonged to Emperor Shaddam IV, was given to Duke Leto Atreides as a gift, and then returned to Shaddam during his trial before the Landsraad. Later, Emperor Shaddam offered the dagger to Feyd-Rautha for his duel with Muad’Dib.” Priestess Ardath seemed to be reciting often-rehearsed scripture.
“Later, during Muad’Dib’s jihad, an exiled Hasimir Fenring—himself a failed Kwisatz Haderach—acquired the dagger. In a vile plot, he stabbed Muad’Dib deeply in the back. Some say that he died that day from