but beckon with this hand, Duncan Idaho will come to me and he will obey me.”
“What idle boast is this?” Farad’n asked.
But Tyekanik shook his head, recalling his argument with Wensicia. He said: “My Prince, it could be true. This Preacher has many followers on Dune.”
“Why didn’t you tell me he was from that place?” Farad’n asked.
Before Tyekanik could answer, The Preacher addressed Farad’n: “My Lord, you must not feel guilty about Arrakis. You are but a product of your times. This is a special pleading which any man may make when his guilts assail him.”
“Guilts!” Farad’n was outraged.
The Preacher only shrugged.
Oddly, this shifted Farad’n from outrage to amusement. He laughed, throwing his head back, drawing a startled glance from Tyekanik. Then: “I like you, Preacher.”
“This gratifies me, Prince,” the old man said.
Suppressing a chuckle, Farad’n said: “We’ll find you an apartment here in the palace. You will be my official interpreter of dreams—even though you never give me a word of interpretation. And you can advise me about Dune. I have a great curiosity about that place.”
“This I cannot do, Prince.”
An edge of his anger returned. Farad’n glared at the black mask. “And why not, pray tell?”
“My Prince,” Tyekanik said, again touching Farad’n’s arm.
“What is it, Tyek?”
“We brought him here under bonded agreement with the Guild. He is to be returned to Dune.”
“I am summoned back to Arrakis,” The Preacher said.
“Who summons you?” Farad’n demanded.
“A power greater than thine, Prince.”
Farad’n shot a questioning glance at Tyekanik. “Is he an Atreides spy?”
“Not likely, My Prince. Alia has put a price on his head.”
“If it’s not the Atreides, then who summons you?” Farad’n asked, returning his attention to The Preacher.
“A power greater than the Atreides.”
A chuckle escaped Farad’n. This was only mystic nonsense. How could Tyek be fooled by such stuff? This Preacher had been summoned—most likely by a dream. Of what importance were dreams?
“This has been a waste of time, Tyek,” Farad’n said. “Why did you subject me to this . . . this farce?”
“There is a double price here, My Prince,” Tyekanik said. “This interpreter of dreams promised me to deliver Duncan Idaho as an agent of House Corrino. All he asked was to meet you and interpret your dream.” And Tyekanik added to himself: Or so he told Wensicia! New doubts assailed the Bashar.
“Why is my dream so important to you, old man?” Farad’n asked.
“Your dream tells me that great events move toward a logical conclusion, ” The Preacher said. “I must hasten my return.”
Mocking, Farad’n said: “And you will remain inscrutable, giving me no advice.”
“Advice, Prince, is a dangerous commodity. But I will venture a few words which you may take as advice or in any other way which pleases you.”
“By all means,” Farad’n said.
The Preacher held his masked face rigidly confronting Farad’n. “Governments may rise and fall for reasons which appear insignificant, Prince. What small events! An argument between two women . . . which way the wind blows on a certain day . . . a sneeze, a cough, the length of a garment or the chance collision of a fleck of sand and a courtier’s eye. It is not always the majestic concerns of Imperial ministers which dictate the course of history, nor is it necessarily the pontifications of priests which move the hands of God.”
Farad’n found himself profoundly stirred by these words and could not explain his emotion.
Tyekanik, however, had focused on one phrase. Why did this Preacher speak of a garment? Tyekanik’s mind focused on the Imperial costumes dispatched to the Atreides twins, the tigers trained to attack. Was this old man voicing a subtle warning? How much did he know?
“How is this advice?” Farad’n asked.
“If you would succeed,” The Preacher said, “you must reduce your strategy to its point of application. Where does one apply strategy? At a particular place and with a particular people in mind. But even with the greatest concern for minutiae, some small detail with no significance attached to it will escape you. Can your strategy, Prince, be reduced to the ambitions of a regional governor’s wife?”
His voice cold, Tyekanik interrupted: “Why do you harp upon strategy, Preacher? What is it you think My Prince will have?”
“He is being led to desire a throne,” The Preacher said. “I wish him good luck, but he will need much more than luck.”
“These are dangerous words,” Farad’n said. “How is it you dare such words?”
“Ambitions tend to remain undisturbed by realities,” The Preacher said. “I dare such words because you