This is suicidal madness!
But it had to be done: Taraza's orders.
Odrade glanced at the fenced spice yard beside them. The place appeared oddly familiar. More than deja vu. Inner certainty informed by Other Memories told her this place remained virtually unchanged from ancient times. The design of the spice silos in the yard was as old as Rakis: oval tanks on tall legs, metal and plaz insects waiting stilt-legged to leap upon their prey. She suspected an unconscious message from the original designers: Melange is both boon and bane.
Beneath the silos, a sandy wasteland where no growth was permitted spread out beside mud-walled buildings, an amoeba arm of Dar-es-Balat reaching almost to the qanat edge. The Tyrant's long-hidden no-globe had produced a teeming religious community that hid most of its activities behind windowless walls and underground.
The secret working of our unconscious desires!
Once more, Sheeana spoke: "Tuek is different."
Odrade saw Waff's head lift sharply. He had heard. He would be thinking: Can we conceal things from the Prophet's messenger?
Too many people already knew that a Face Dancer masqueraded as Tuek, Odrade thought. The priestly cabal, of course, believed they were giving the Tleilaxu enough netting in which to snare not only the Bene Tleilax but the Sisterhood as well.
Odrade smelled the biting odors of chemicals that had been used to kill wild growth in the spice storage yard. The odors forced her attention back to necessities. She did not dare indulge in mental wanderings out here! It would be so easy for the Sisterhood to become caught in its own trap.
Sheeana stumbled and emitted a small cry, more irritation than pain. Waff turned his head sharply and looked at Sheeana before returning his attention to the roadway. The child had merely stumbled on a break in the road surface, he saw. Drifted sand concealed places where the roadway had been cracked. The faery structure of the causeway ahead of him appeared sound, however. Not substantial enough to support one of the Prophet's descendants, but more than enough for a supplicant human to cross it into the desert.
Waff thought of himself chiefly as a supplicant.
I come as a beggar into the land of thy messenger, God.
He had his suspicions about Odrade. The Reverend Mother had brought him here to drain him of his knowledge before killing him. With God's help, I may surprise her yet. He knew his body was proof against an Ixian Probe, although she obviously did not have such a cumbersome device on her person. But it was the strength of his own will and confidence in God's grace that reassured Waff.
And what if the hand they hold out to us is held out in sincerity?
That, too, would be God's doing.
Alliance with the Bene Gesserit, firm control of Rakis: What a dream that was! The Shariat ascendant at last and the Bene Gesserit as missionaries.
When Sheeana again missed her footing and uttered another small sound of complaint, Odrade said: "Don't favor yourself, child!"
Odrade saw Waff's shoulders stiffen. He did not like that peremptory manner with his "Blessed One." There was backbone in the little man. Odrade recognized it as the strength of fanaticism. Even if the worm came to kill him, Waff would not flee. Faith in God's will would carry him directly into his own death - unless he were shaken out of his religious security.
Odrade suppressed a smile. She could follow his thinking process: God will soon reveal His Purpose.
But Waff was thinking about his cells growing in the slow renewal at Bandalong. No matter what happened here, his cells would carry on for the Bene Tleilax... and for God - a serial Waff always serving the Great Belief.
"I can smell Shaitan, you know," Sheeana said.
"Right now?" Odrade looked up at the causeway ahead of them. Waff already was a few steps onto that arching surface.
"No, only when he comes," Sheeana said.
"Of course you can, child. Anyone could."
"I can smell him a long way off."
Odrade inhaled deeply through her nose, sorting the smells from the background of burnt flint: faint whiffs of melange... ozone, something distinctly acid. She motioned for Sheeana to precede her single-file onto the causeway. Waff was holding his steady twenty paces ahead. The causeway dipped down to the desert some sixty meters ahead of him.
I will taste the sand at the first opportunity, Odrade thought. That will tell me many things.
As she mounted the causeway over the water moat, she looked off to the southwest at a low barrier along the horizon. Abruptly, Odrade was confronted by a compelling Other Memory. There was none of the crispness in it of actual vision, but she recognized it - a mingling of images from the deepest sources within her.
Damn! she thought. Not now!
There was no escape. Such intrusions came with purpose, an unavoidable demand upon her awareness.
Warning!
She squinted at the horizon, allowing the Other Memory to superimpose itself: a long-ago high barrier far away out there... people moving along the top of it. There was a faery bridge in that memory-distance, insubstantial and beautiful. It linked one part of that vanished barrier to another part and she knew without seeing it that a river ran beneath that long-gone bridge. The Idaho River! Now, the superimposed image provided movement: objects falling from the bridge. They were too far away to identify but she had the labels for this image projection now. With a sense of horror and elation, she identified that scene.
The faery bridge was collapsing! Tumbling into the river below it.
This vision was not some random destruction. This was classical violence carried in many memories, which had come down to her in the moments of spice agony. Odrade could classify the finely tuned components of the image: Thousands of her ancestors had watched that scene in imaginative reconstruction. Not a real visual memory but an assemblage of accurate reports.