Like a puppet, Dorotea accepted the knife, fumbling her fingers around the hilt. She had never encountered such an assault before, had no experience in resisting it.
Valya felt a flush of excitement. She remembered thinking that her compelling Voice might be boosted by the power of Other Memory she carried within herself, all those other experiences, that wisdom, that power. It was a visceral feeling she had, because the throaty sound was so similar to a background rumble she often heard in her mind. So far, Valya seemed to be the only Sister who could do this.
“Now drive it into your throat!”
Dorotea struggled with herself, and her arms trembled as the knife lifted up and wavered, its point targeted on the hollow of her neck. She tried to yank the blade away. Regaining some control, she took a lurching step toward Valya, her eyes ablaze, sweat pouring from her brow. She managed to turn the blade away and shove it toward Valya, but despite the effort, Dorotea’s hands turned the blade back toward herself.
Valya leaned close and commanded, “Drive it into your throat! Now!”
Dorotea fought back. The knife wavered in the air; the hilt was slick with sweat. Finally, with a gasp as if something had broken inside her, Dorotea let out a despairing cry and rammed the knife deep into her neck.
With only a thin gasp as the blood gushed, she collapsed across the body of Raquella Berto-Anirul and died — granddaughter and grandmother dead within moments of each other.
Valya stood over the treacherous Sister, thinking that this was but a small repayment for all the damage the woman had done on Rossak. All those Sisters dead …
The blade was lodged in the base of Dorotea’s throat, her dead fingers wrapped securely around the hilt. Poor Dorotea, overwhelmed by grief and unable to face the huge responsibilities placed upon her, had committed suicide. It was obvious to anyone who looked.
Valya was the Sisterhood’s Mother Superior now.
Valya Harkonnen.
Chapter 69 (Some of us carry a portion of our)
Some of us carry a portion of our past hidden inside us like a small time bomb, ticking, ticking away, waiting to explode.
— GILBERTUS ALBANS, private journals (not included in Mentat School Archives)
In the siege camp outside the Mentat School, Manford Torondo’s headquarters tent was sensibly protected from the elements. Its raised floor kept it dry on the soggy ground, and the fabric walls coated with water-repellent film blocked out rain, wind, sun, and persistent insects.
The Butlerian leader asked for no special amenities — only a camp desk to do his work and cushions to sleep on — but Anari insisted on making him comfortable, wanting the tent to be more of a home than a battle headquarters. Whatever his Swordmaster didn’t provide, his followers brought for him: blankets, rugs, pillows, and lovingly prepared camp food that was as good as his meals back at home. He didn’t need the pampering, but gratefully accepted the gifts and love that his followers presented. His graciousness made them love him even more.
All that mattered to him at the moment was that his tent was a good place to parley with the intractable Headmaster of the Mentat School.
When Gilbertus Albans emerged alone from his towering school walls, he looked proud and not at all disheveled. Manford gave Deacon Harian specific orders that the Headmaster was not to be harmed or harassed in any way. “I gave him my word in front of my followers, and I won’t have it broken.”
Harian looked angry — as he often did — but he assented with a clipped nod. From observation platforms on the defensive walls, curious and intimidated Mentat students watched Gilbertus emerge from the gates and walk into the unfolding crowd of antitechnology supporters.
From the murmuring resentment in the air, Manford could tell that his own followers had already made up their minds that the Mentat Headmaster had betrayed them, that he was teaching his students heretical, forbidden techniques. His people wanted to fire artillery projectiles that would shatter and sink the school buildings in order to prove their implacable faith and demonstrate the futility of opposing the Truth. The Butlerians had shown that iron resolve at Dove’s Haven, in Zimia, and on Baridge. But in those places, only the guilty had suffered; this time, the entire Mentat School had defied him. Given the simmering, mounting rage, Manford wasn’t sure if he could control his own followers. But he had given his word.
As Harian pushed aside the tent flap and led the Headmaster inside, Gilbertus stepped past the deacon, paying him little heed. Harian continued to stare at the Headmaster as if he’d caught him doing something. Even Manford didn’t know why the bald deacon showed such hostility toward the calm and studious man. But Manford intended to put Gibertus Albans in his place, in his own way.
Manford didn’t offer any refreshment; this was no social visit. “You’ve caused me a great deal of trouble, Headmaster.”
Gilbertus gave a polite bow. “And your new oath has caused me and my students no small amount of consternation. It is ill-advised and unconscionable.”
Glowering, Anari Idaho placed her hand on the hilt of her sword, but Manford gestured for her to desist. The air around them was brittle with tension. Sister Woodra stood inside the command tent at Manford’s request, watching the Headmaster’s every gesture and expression, analyzing the tone of his voice.
Gilbertus didn’t acknowledge anyone other than the Butlerian leader. “If you had consulted me beforehand, Leader Torondo, I could have explained our concerns before this became a crisis. If your lackeys”—now he nodded toward Harian—“had listened to reason, then the matter need not have escalated.”
Manford spoke over a muttering of discontent from his aides. “And what do you find so objectionable about an expression of faith, Headmaster? Why will you not reaffirm your stance against thinking machines? Surely, you must see that your refusal raises suspicions. How can I be expected to tolerate it?”
Gilbertus remained standing. “I object to the new oath both on principle and because of its wording. I prepared a list of six hundred thirty-seven specific flaws, contradictions, and ambiguities.” He frowned at Harian. “Your deacon confiscated the document I carried with me out of the school, but I can recite the flaws from memory, if you wish.”
Even though he was not invited to do so, the Headmaster began to rattle off details. Manford was neither interested nor impressed. What sort of man was this Gilbertus Albans? He was most perplexing and irritating — but also, in a strange way, admirable. The Headmaster managed to list more than twenty specifics before Manford silenced him.
Gilbertus did not seem upset at being cut off, but said, “It’s not possible to debate the merits of an issue if one side stubbornly refuses to listen.”
“If the opposing side has no merits, one doesn’t need to listen,” Manford countered.
“Then why am I here?”
Manford glanced at the avid expressions of Deacon Harian and Anari Idaho. Sister Woodra looked calculating, her eyes bird-bright and attentive. He dismissed them all, telling Anari to stand guard outside his tent while he and the Headmaster discussed important matters.
After Manford shooed them away, Gilbertus took a seat across the camp table. The Butlerian leader hardened his expression. “You know I cannot allow your Mentat students to deny me with impunity. Everyone on Lampadas is aware that you refused the oath, and I will not ignore your defiance.”
“This matter could have been dealt with quietly. I am not the one who spread the news around Lampadas and sent a force against the school.” Gilbertus looked maddeningly calm. “Your oath was unnecessary. You had every reason to assume my Mentats were loyal, while I, personally, have done everything you asked. I spoke out against thinking machines, assisted you on the Thonaris raid, and defeated a robot in chess for your spectacle at the Imperial Court. My loyalty was already plain — you did not need to force the issue. But you did … and this is where we now find ourselves.”