We have reports of arms merchants attempting to sell stone-burners, even after one blinded Muad’Dib and such weapons were declared illegal. The fires of a stone-burner shall be as nothing compared to the avenging spirit of Muad’Dib.

—ZIARENKA VALEFOR, chief of Alia’s guardian amazons

After the funeral debacle, hapless detainees faced various forms of interrogation, guided by Alia’s most aggressive priests. The late (and unlamented) Korba had called the process “customized terror.” Large groups might unite in common cause, filled with grand dreams and righteous delusions, but alone and fearful in a shadowy chamber, individuals behaved quite differently. Each one had a key weakness that the inquisitors used expert methods to discover.

And Alia needed to find answers.

During Paul’s reign, he had not been innocent of such tactics himself, but had looked the other way as his surrogates conducted brutal interrogations. The criminal Bronso of Ix had been arrested and questioned then, and—against all odds—had escaped! Alia had never been able to shake her suspicion that Paul himself might have had a hand in the Ixian’s release, though she couldn’t understand why. Paul had not wanted to watch the interrogation of Bronso in his death cell, even though the Ixian spewed hateful rhetoric against him.

With all the billions who died in his far-reaching Jihad, why didn’t her brother have the stomach for smaller unpleasantries? Having learned from Paul’s mistakes, however, Alia routinely, and clandestinely, watched during key interrogations. With her own powers of observation, she sometimes picked up things that others missed.

So far, despite the most rigorous questioning of the suspects, the sessions had yielded no valid information. Either Bronso and his allies had a superhuman level of cleverness and luck in concealing their tracks, or the Ixian was acting alone. She refused to accept either answer.

On a more positive note, Alia had used the funeral episode with Bronso as a catalyst to ferret out other affronts against Muad’Dib or House Atreides. In the dark of night, Qizara police forces spread through Arrakeen, Carthag, and countless villages, knocking down doors and arresting alleged arms merchants who had been trying to sell stone-burners like the one that had blinded Paul in a pillar of fire.

When the questionable merchants were brought in, they in turn provided customer lists, and the offending weapons were rounded up and delivered to Arrakeen—for Alia’s own stockpile. In these dangerous and delicate months of her fledgling Regency, Alia Atreides needed to consolidate her power and control the manufacture, distribution, and use of significant weaponry.

“Names provide names,” said Valefor.

At a session of her Regent’s Council, by unilateral decree, Alia amended the long-standing rules of the Great Convention that applied to atomics. Previously, Great Houses had been permitted to keep their warheads, which could be used only under strictly defined defensive circumstances. Henceforth, as a temporary emergency measure, no one except the Imperial Regent herself could possess such weaponry.

But how to pry the dangerous warheads from entrenched Landsraad families? To begin with, she set up an exchange program, under which noble houses could trade their family atomics for large rewards of spice, voting shares in CHOAM, or other perquisites. In the weeks following the Regent’s decree, many Great Houses dutifully surrendered their atomics, hungry for cash and spice after the hardships of the Jihad. Atomics hadn’t been openly used in warfare against rival families in millennia anyway.

But some Landsraad families held out, hoarding their ancient warheads . . . to no good purpose, she knew. As her priests and bureaucrats carefully noted the arrival of the weapons and stored them for “appropriate use,” it soon became apparent that certain noble Houses were not quite so forthcoming.

Using that as a starting point, Alia asked Duncan to maintain a list of potentially troublesome Houses. She submitted their names to the reconstituted (and ineffective) Landsraad that had reconvened on Kaitain, and she demanded exhaustive investigations and complete disclosure of their activities during the Jihad. Alia would not be caught by surprise.

Armed with information, she would first try economic reprisals against the passively recalcitrant worlds, but she did not rule out any options, even the application of atomics in particularly stubborn cases. After all, Paul had sterilized ninety worlds over the course of the Jihad, so what was the loss of a few more planets?

Back on Caladan, Jessica had fallen into a routine of tending her courtyard garden alone each morning for an hour or two, to contemplate the day’s obligations. Now, under a daybreak sky colored beige with dust and the canary yellow of the brightening sunrise, Jessica visited one of the sealed dry-climate gardens within the Citadel of Muad’Dib. The plants required very little water—some through natural selection, others by intentional hybridization. They had grown twisted hard branches, thick-skinned leaves, sharp spines, and thorns, impenetrable defenses against the harshness of the environment.

Upon hearing of Paul’s death, she had rushed to Dune, but her thoughts had been about more than the loss of her son. An entire empire was at stake, a government that would survive or fall depending on the decisions Alia made. In all the times Jessica had thought about Paul’s legacy, and how his actions and words were being distorted by popular belief, she had not pondered what might happen to the Imperium without Paul. What was the legacy of House Atreides for the children, Leto and Ghanima?

Her thoughts were interrupted when three men and a woman entered the dry-climate garden, seeking her out. They were an odd mix: Each wore a strikingly different outfit, and their facial features and skin tones left no doubt that they came from four different worlds, races, and cultures. They bore the look of governmental delegates.

Jessica rose, standing beside a modified cholla cactus whose bent limbs looked as if they had frozen in the act of flailing. The cactus provided a shield as she faced her visitors, though surely they had passed through stringent security measures to get this far.

“We apologize for arriving unannounced, my Lady, but we hoped for privacy and candor,” said the delicately built woman with porcelain white skin; blue-black hair hung to her shoulders. She seemed as stiff and formal as her diction. Jessica knew her: Nalla Tur from the Tupile Alliance. “We come to speak to you not only as the mother of Muad’Dib and the mother of the Imperial Regent, but also as the Duchess of Caladan.”

The tall, gaunt man next to her had rich brown skin, red beads in his hair, and dull rounded gems set into the flesh of his cheeks. He spoke in a deep baritone voice. “We must talk to you of Landsraad matters. I am Hyron Baha from Midea. Regent Alia has ignored our many messages, but we hope that you can make our words heard.”

Jessica massaged a soreness on the back of her own neck as she spoke cautiously. “Even if I agreed to speak on your behalf, you think too much of my power. I have no formal position here. I merely came for the funeral of my son, and I will go back to Caladan as soon as I can.”

Nalla Tur answered in a brisk voice, “You are still a member of the Landsraad, by virtue of your rulership of Caladan. Whether or not you choose to attend Landsraad meetings in the new hall on Kaitain, you have legal responsibilities to the reconstituted Houses.”

“I have many responsibilities. What is it you ask—and on whose behalf?”

The third speaker was a squat and solid man who seemed to be made entirely of muscle adapted to a high-gravity world. Andaur, she guessed, from the man’s accent. “We four are members of formerly exiled noble Houses who took refuge behind Guild shields on Tupile. During the last year of Paul-Muad’Dib’s reign, he signed a treaty that effectively granted us amnesty and allowed us to return to the government without fear of trial or execution.”

“Now the entire Landsraad—or what’s left of it—is shut out,” said the dark-haired woman.

Hyron Baha crossed his arms over his chest, tossed his bead-studded strands of hair. “We have been in session on Kaitain with the representatives of ninety-eight other Houses, but the Regent grants the Lands-raad no real power. And now she has demanded that we surrender our atomics. Clearly, she means to disarm us all.”

“What if we need to defend ourselves against an outside enemy? The Landsraad families are entitled to their atomics!” said the fourth representative, an obese, olive-skinned man with a shrill voice. Jessica didn’t recognize him, nor did he introduce himself.

She made a placating sound. “There has been no outside enemy for ten thousand years. Maybe my daughter is more worried about intransigent Houses. Atomics haven’t been used against populations for centuries, so of what use are they to you? Given the past conspiracies against my son, Alia has legitimate concerns about having atomics turned against her.”

The shrill-voiced man said, “And is it better to place them in the hands of unruly Fremen fanatics? Look at the damage already done in the Jihad!”

Jessica could not dispute that, but there were things she could not say to this group. She showed no reaction, though they looked for one in her.

“We are talking about the Landsraad.” Nalla Tur sounded impatient. “For millennia, we provided checks and balances against supreme Corrino rule. By virtue of our rights and long-standing tradition, we must be part of the current government. Even Muad’Dib knew the wisdom in letting the Landsraad continue. The Regent Alia should not rule without us.”

Jessica didn’t accept all of their arguments. “Muad’Dib has been gone only a month. You expect the entire government to change back to the way it was so swiftly?”

The stocky man from the high-gravity planet sounded conciliatory. Yes, his accent was definitely from Andaur. “Your son paid only lip service to the reconstituted Landsraad, and the Regent is even less receptive to shared governmental responsibilities. We need your help. We cannot allow Alia to become a tyrant.”

Jessica scowled. “A tyrant? You should choose your words carefully in my presence.” She made a warning gesture and accidentally bumped her hand against the spines of the enhanced cholla cactus, drawing blood from her palm.

“Apologies, great Lady, but we only seek the best for all concerned, and we need your help desperately.”

“I will speak with my daughter when the opportunity arises, as both her mother and—as you say—as a Landsraad representative. But she is the Regent, and I can’t guarantee that she will listen to either.”

Hyron Baha bowed formally, letting the red beads in his hair dangle in front of his face. “We’ve all been affected by the Jihad, Lady Jessica. We all know the human race will be generations recovering from the last few years. We should not let it grow worse.”

Jessica glanced down at her hand, then at the cactus. For every move I make, there will be sharp hazards, she thought, and caution cannot protect me from all of them.