Taref drew his Maula pistol, aimed, and fired.

The projectile struck Manford in the head, shattered his skull, and splattered brains and blood over his shocked supporters. The Butlerian leader jerked backward, his legless form knocked out of the padded leather socket that secured him to the Swordmaster’s shoulders.

A sudden startled hush fell on the streets. All eyes had been watching the marching Butlerians. The Maula pistol had made only a whizzing clack from its spring-loaded mechanism.

Manford tumbled to the ground, twitching but obviously dead. The Swordmaster wailed.

Taref dropped the weapon and melted back into the crowd. Though numbed by the knowledge of what he had done, he forced himself to keep moving. Fortunately, his dusty desert garb looked commonplace in the streets. He heard gasps. People reacted with shock and dismay, and he glanced from face to face, mimicking their horror as he pretended to search for the source of the danger.

The Swordmaster scooped up the legless body and bounded away, carrying Manford Torondo like a limp doll. Other Butlerians screamed, but they could not find who had shot their leader. Some of the offworlders even gave water for the dead, as tears streamed down their dusty cheeks.

Taref didn’t stay to watch, but slipped under a sheltered overhang, and then away. He knew Directeur Venport would reward him for this one act far more than if he had brought a hundred avid recruits.

He decided to use the VenHold line of credit for a nice meal and a room after all. Then he would depart on the next spacefolder.

ON KOLHAR, WHEN Taref reported to the administrative towers without his promised volunteers, Directeur Venport’s face soured in disappointment. “No one else wishes to join our cause? You could not convince any of your desert people?”

Taref could barely contain himself. “You might not need any more volunteers, ever again.” He blurted out, “I assassinated Manford Torondo on Arrakis!”

That claim seemed to freeze time itself. Draigo Roget turned to him, his dark eyebrows raised in disbelief. The Directeur straightened behind his desk. “What?”

Taref was breathing quickly. “I saw him and his Swordmaster in Arrakis City. I don’t know why they were there, but I remembered your orders. I had a Maula pistol, so I shot the Butlerian leader in the head. I saw him fall. He’s dead, Directeur Venport.”

Josef looked at Draigo, struggling to conceal elation behind his thick mustache. “Is he telling the truth, Mentat?”

“I am not a Truthsayer, sir, but I will verify the facts as soon as possible.”

“I saw it with my own eyes, Directeur,” Taref insisted. “Half of his head was blown away, his brains splashed on the people around him and the dirt of the street. He’s dead — no question about it.”

Venport began to chuckle. “If you’re right, this almost makes up for the Baridge debacle. Without their pathetic half-leader, the barbarians will scatter like rodents.” Directeur Venport stepped over to Taref in a single stride and clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulders. “Good work.”

Chapter 51 (A threat works only if the recipient believes)

It was not a good time for the Mother Superior to die.

Prior to the crisis, Raquella had been quite healthy despite her advanced age, and now, only a year later, she felt decades older. Sorrow, despair, and the stress of rebuilding the Sisterhood school on a different planet would have taken its toll even on a much younger woman.

In order to maintain herself, she consumed frequent doses of melange supplied by VenHold, as well as other drugs, but they were rapidly becoming insufficient. Even melange only stretched her already-long life like a rubber band. Now her lifeline was almost to the breaking point.

Early each morning, locked in her private quarters, she went into a trance and analyzed her internal chemistry and cellular structure. With her skills and control as a Reverend Mother, she could observe each biological detail as if projected on a screen in her mind.

After analyzing the tiniest cellular nuances, Raquella used the information to determine what adjustments were necessary to sustain her for one more day. But tiny errors and failures had been mounting, and she’d been in crisis mode for a long time, just trying to stay alive. Her rate of decline was increasing, and she knew she could not maintain the biological façade for much longer. And the Sisterhood was still broken.

Raquella would have preferred to orchestrate her passing much differently. She had to save the Sisterhood, choose her successor. Otherwise there would be more turmoil, more arguments, maybe even further splits. Valya Harkonnen seemed the obvious candidate, but there was also Dorotea. Each woman had certain advantages, and obvious flaws. If only Raquella could combine the best of both, fuse the factions, heal them.

The other Sisters on Wallach IX didn’t notice the extent of the Mother Superior’s deterioration. They had seen the old woman for so long that they turned a blind eye to her mortality. Raquella’s followers didn’t know about the effort she expended just to keep standing upright. If she made the slightest slip, the house of cards that was her body would collapse. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep this up.

Now, on a bright morning under a clear sky, she walked out on the steep trail, climbing high Laojin Cliff as she often did. To demonstrate her health, Raquella continued to go for long walks. The wooded path was familiar to her, and she liked being high up, where she could look down at the cluster of buildings that constituted her new school.

Fielle accompanied her this morning, listening more than talking, as she often did. The large-boned Sister Mentat was in good shape and could actually walk faster, but was holding back. Raquella appreciated the company. She missed conversations with her dear friend Karee Marques, who had also been a Mentat, with the capacity to offer objective, well-reasoned advice.

Fielle was not an appropriate choice to become the next Mother Superior, but if Raquella were to die tomorrow — with Valya away on Ginaz for Swordmaster training, and Dorotea ensconced on Salusa Secundus — who would lead the Sisters? Raquella needed to decide on her successor.

Continuing to walk, the old woman remained silent, but her mind was not quiet; the rattling voices of Other Memory, dead Sisters from her bloodlines, clamored for her to join them. Raquella was not quite ready — but it had to be soon. She felt dread and anticipation.

They reached a sunny overlook on the steep trail, one of Raquella’s favorite spots. There they could sit on a flat stone and gaze out on the trees, lakes, and mountains of Wallach IX. A chill wind blew across the treetops and ruffled their robes.

Bundling up, the two sat for a long, contemplative moment. Fielle’s brown eyes were filled with compassion and concern. “Are you feeling well today, Mother Superior? You seem to be keeping something inside. Would you like to share it with me? I’ll do whatever I can to assist you.”

Raquella felt weary in every aged muscle and bone of her body. “It is no secret — I’m dying.”

The Sister Mentat did not react with denial; instead, she just gave a sad nod.

“Fielle, you are one of the most selfless people I’ve ever met, and I admire you for that.” Raquella smiled. “And for other fine traits. But you are so young, dear, so very young.”

“And I have much that I still want to learn from you. Is there any way I can help? For all of us, please find a way to keep going, Mother Superior.”