Paul swept his gaze across the group, saw women who hid signs of weeping, saw the lackeys who had come to enjoy grandstand seats at a Sardaukar victory and now stood choked to silence by defeat. Paul saw the bird-bright eyes of the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam glaring beneath her black hood, and beside her the narrow furtiveness of Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.
There's a face time betrayed to me, Paul thought.
He looked beyond Feyd-Rautha then, attracted by a movement, seeing there a narrow, weaselish face he'd never before encountered -- not in time or out of it. It was a face he felt he should know and the feeling carried with it a marker of fear.
Why should I fear that man? he wondered.
He leaned toward his mother, whispered: "That man to the left of the Reverend Mother, the evil-looking one -- who is that?"
Jessica looked, recognizing the face from her Duke's dossiers. "Count Fenring," she said. "The one who was here immediately before us. A genetic-eunuch . . . and a killer."
The Emperor's errand boy, Paul thought. And the thought was a shock crashing across his consciousness because he had seen the Emperor in uncounted associations spread through the possible futures--but never once had Count Fenring appeared within those prescient visions.
It occurred to Paul then that he had seen his own dead body along countless reaches of the time web, but never once had he seen his moment of death.
Have I been denied a glimpse of this man because he is the one who kills me?
Paul wondered.
The thought sent a pang of foreboding through him. He forced his attention away from Fenring, looked now at the remnants of Sardaukar men and officers, the bitterness on their faces and the desperation. Here and there among them, faces caught Paul's attention briefly: Sardaukar officers measuring the preparations within this room, planning and scheming yet for a way to turn defeat into victory.
Paul's attention came at last to a tall blonde woman, green-eyed, a face of patrician beauty, classic in its hauteur, untouched by tears, completely undefeated. Without being told it, Paul knew her -- Princess Royal, Bene Gesserit -- trained, a face that time vision had shown him in many aspects: Irulan.
There's my key, he thought.
Then he saw movement in the clustered people, a face and figure emerged --
Thufir Hawat, the seamed old features with darkly stained lips, the hunched shoulders, the look of fragile age about him.
"There's Thufir Hawat," Paul said. "Let him stand free, Gurney."
"M'Lord," Gurney said.
"Let him stand free," Paul repeated.
Gurney nodded.
Hawat shambled forward as a Fremen lance was lifted and replaced behind him.
The rheumy eyes peered at Paul, measuring, seeking.
Paul stepped forward one pace, sensed the tense, waiting movement of the Emperor and his people.
Hawat's gaze stabbed past Paul, and the old man said: "Lady Jessica, I but learned this day how I've wronged you in my thoughts. You needn't forgive."
Paul waited, but his mother remained silent.
"Thufir, old friend," Paul said, "as you can see, my back is toward no door."
"The universe is full of doors," Hawat said.
"Am I my father's son?" Paul asked.
"More like your grandfather's," Hawat rasped. "You've his manner and the look of him in your eyes."
"Yet I'm my father's son," Paul said. "For I say to you, Thufir, that in payment for your years of service to my family you may now ask anything you wish of me. Anything at all. Do you need my life now, Thufir? It is yours." Paul stepped forward a pace, hands at his side, seeing the look of awareness grow in Hawat's eyes.
He realizes that I know of the treachery, Paul thought.
Pitching his voice to carry in a half-whisper for Hawat's ears alone, Paul said: "I mean this, Thufir. If you're to strike me, do it now."
"I but wanted to stand before you once more, my Duke," Hawat said. And Paul became aware for the first time of the effort the old man exerted to keep from falling. Paul reached out, supported Hawat by the shoulders, feeling the muscle tremors beneath his hands.
"Is there pain, old friend?" Paul asked.
"There is pain, my Duke," Hawat agreed, "but the pleasure is greater." He half turned in Paul's arms, extended his left hand, palm up, toward the Emperor, exposing the tiny needle cupped against the fingers. "See, Majesty?" he called.
"See your traitor's needle? Did you think that I who've given my life to service of the Atreides would give them less now?"
Paul staggered as the old man sagged in his arms, felt the death there, the utter flaccidity. Gently, Paul lowered Hawat to the floor, straightened and signed for guardsmen to carry the body away.
Silence held the hall while his command was obeyed.
A look of deadly waiting held the Emperor's face now. Eyes that had never admitted fear admitted it at last.
"Majesty," Paul said, and noted the jerk of surprised attention in the tall Princess Royal. The words had been uttered with the Bene Gesserit controlled atonals, carrying in it every shade of contempt and scorn that Paul could put there.
Bene-Gesserit trained indeed, Paul thought.
