Mentats of Dune

The observant Mentat scouts gave Gilbertus Albans six hours’ advance warning of the approaching Butlerian force. He was not surprised to see the army on its way.

“I am always reassured when my Mentat projections prove to be accurate,” Gilbertus said to the robot’s memory core. “This time, though, I am saddened to be correct.”

Erasmus said, “The behavior of fanatics is extreme and irrational. Therefore, it is a paradox that they are so utterly predictable.”

Gilbertus could still retreat into his Memory Vault and identify the critical points where a different choice would have changed his fate, but that was a self-indulgent, time-wasting exercise. Perhaps he should have taken the robot’s advice and disappeared years ago. By establishing the Mentat School, he had cultivated a method of training that altered the very foundation of human thought — surely that was enough of an accomplishment for one person? It was too late now.…

Gilbertus do

“I’ll be observing.” With his network of secret spy-eyes, Erasmus would see more than anyone else in the institution.

Preparing the defenses, the Mentat students had walled themselves into the compound, closed and secured the gates, drawn up the co

When Gilbertus stepped onto the decks that overlooked the surrounding marshlands, he saw that Manford had brought hundreds of armed followers. They came crowded on vehicles, rolling along the rugged road that became even more challenging when it reached the waterlogged ground. Most appeared to be mere footsoldiers, but he also spotted a number of elite Swordmaster fighters, including Anari Idaho.

The Butlerians thronged across the uncertain terrain. Some were piled aboard amphibious vehicles that could be used as attack boats on the marsh-lake side of the school, while other vehicles would approach the high walls around the entrance. Perhaps Manford Torondo would be cautious, perhaps he would be brash and confident. He often exhibited chaotic behavior.

As they stopped at the main gates, Swordmaster Anari Idaho placed Manford into his saddle on her shoulders and stepped forward, carrying him to the barrier. The legless leader shouted up to the closed gate, “Headmaster Albans! I understand you wish to have a philosophical discussion with me.”

From his high observation deck, Gilbertus looked down at his opponent. “You brought a great many people for a philosophical debate. Are they all trained in rhetoric?”

“They provide moral support.”

Gilbertus knew this was simply a dance of words and would accomplish nothing. Nevertheless, he played it out, gleaning small details, assessing the mood of the Butlerians, studying their behavior. “I’ve known you for years, Leader Torondo. You have enough intelligence to hold your own in a discussion. I will invite you and your Swordmaster inside so we can debate. These other spectators are not invited.”

Anari turned her head and said something quickly to Manford, but he rested a reassuring hand on the side of her face, tenderly stroking her close-cropped hair. He shouted back up to the wall, “Why aren’t my followers welcome in your school? If you won’t let them accompany me, then I suggest you come down here. Open the gates and talk with me, face-to-face.”

“If I come out alone, do you absolutely guarantee my safety?”

“God will guarantee your safety.”

“I prefer a more direct commitment from you,” Gilbertus said. “I’m not one who can demand guarantees from God.”

“We could destroy your school at any time,” Manford taunted, “just as we ransacked Baridge and burned down the old Suk School on Salusa Secundus. But the Emperor’s sister is with you, and A

“She will be safe so long as your followers don’t ransack the school,” Gilbertus said. “And if you refuse to guarantee my safety when I come to speak with you, then you will have a long wait.”

Gilbertus knew that if he opened the secure gates, the Butlerians would surge forward, not caring how many students they sacrificed to get to him. He decided a siege was preferable to an invasion, or his personal surrender.

Realizing they were at an impasse, Manford withdrew, without any parting comment.

THE BUTLERIANS HAD brought a supply train with them and worked like drones to set up camp, laying down tarpaulins in the soft swamplands, erecting simple shelters, preparing food from cook wagons. They were ready to be here for days, weeks, months.

On the second night, Anari Idaho circled though the swamp with three of her fellow Swordmasters, scouting the imposing school. She had been trained as a Swordmaster on Ginaz, and had learned to fight in difficult environments, but even the rugged Ginaz islands were not such a festering set of dangers as this soggy, uncertain ground.

Alys Carroll and other faithful Mentat trainees had warned about the hazards and predators around the school, but Anari disregarded the worries of mere contemplators. She and her companions scouted for vulnerabilities in the darkness, looking for ways to break into the defiant Mentat School, all the while ready with their swords to fight any swamp predators that challenged them. Her group slipped around the tangled trees, weaving their way into the sangrove morass that was closest to the school. Wearing headbands with dim lights, they splashed through the shallow water, which rarely rose above their shins.

But Anari had underestimated the treacherous terrain. She was so alert for swamp dragons and spotted cats that she paid little attention to the glimmer of silver that flickered through the water cha

Anari was in the rear of the group, and she sprang up onto the curved sangrove roots, her lower legs already badly sliced. Blood dripped down her calves into the water and drove the predatory swimmers into a frenzy. The razorjaws were attacking the other cursing Swordmasters, ripping their hamstrings, leaping up to attach themselves to exposed skin. When one of the Swordmasters fell into the water, the boiling froth turned red in the collective light of the headlamps.

Anari tried to work her way forward, still balanced on the knobby roots, but her leg wounds were too serious. She grabbed the hand of a companion who flailed for help, but by the time she hauled him out, half of his body had been stripped of skin, and he died.

Anari tore part of her garment into makeshift bandages for her bleeding legs, and tediously picked her way back, never leaving the woven obstacle course of sangrove roots. Along the way, as the shadows increased, she watched the silver flickers of razorjaws in the shallow water below, following her drops of blood. The ravenous fish trailed her, hoping she would slip back into the shallow cha

She reached Manford’s camp feeling the weight of her failure, but determined to try again. “We won’t be defeated by fish,” she said, as a battlefield medic cleaned her wounds and stitched the largest slashes, then wrapped her legs. She asked for no anesthetic, but simply endured. She was the only survivor of the scout party.

Seated on a chair inside the medical tent, Manford observed Anari, showing great concern for her. “I want you to be more careful. I can’t lose my most loyal warrior … and best friend.”