Текст книги "Mentats of Dune"

Автор книги: Brian Herbert

Соавторы: Kevin Anderson
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Chapter 68 (Every Mentat knows there)

Every Mentat knows there is no such thing as the future. As the ancient philosopher Anko Bertus said, there is a range of possible futures, and each has its probabilities. Mentat projection can sort them, to guide the creators.

– GILBERTUS ALBANS, instruction to students at the Mentat School

The weak sun rose over Wallach IX the following morning, and Dorotea hurried across a courtyard filled with meter-high greenhouse structures where the acolytes grew fresh vegetables. Mother Superior Raquella had summoned her to her private chambers. It was not a casual request. The red-faced Acolyte runner said it was urgent.

After the silvery-purple jungles of Rossak, and glorious Salusa Secundus, Dorotea did not like this cool, plain planet, and she looked forward to returning to the Imperial Court. The orthodox Sisters who had accompanied her were also anxious to get back to their duties in the palace.

But Raquella had terrified them all the night before, forcing them to see the destructive nature of their factional differences. The Mother Superior had nearly flung herself off the cliff in despair, but stepped back from the brink in exchange for the promises of Valya and Dorotea. Dorotea meant her promise that they would find common ground, would work together.

In her heart, she understood that the two factions still had philosophical differences, particularly regarding the use of advanced technology. But there didn’t have to be a permanent, fundamental difference. The breeding-record computers – which Dorotea had never been able to find – were either destroyed or abandoned. The argument didn’t matter anymore. Both parts of the Sisterhood believed in developing innate human skills, watching and guiding the evolution of the human race.

The details of a new coalition would be the most difficult part, but Dorotea felt confident that she and Valya could negotiate terms acceptable to both factions. Dorotea wanted to fashion the combined Sisterhood into a legacy Mother Superior Raquella would be proud of.

If the new Sisterhood resolved to turn its back on forbidden computers, Dorotea was sure she could convince Salvador Corrino to forgive the women who had strayed. Then all Sisters could follow the correct path together, with the blessing of the Emperor.…

To her credit, Valya also seemed to be making genuine efforts to reunite with Dorotea, for the good of the order. Even so, the other woman’s reluctance still simmered beneath the surface, and Dorotea was sure that Valya had deceived her in the past, pretending to be of the same mind when she joined their quiet conspiracy. Valya was powerful and talented, a Reverend Mother now, just like Dorotea. And the aged Mother Superior considered her to be one of her most reliable confidantes.

Dorotea already had her hundred orthodox Sisters on Salusa, as well as more than a dozen new Acolytes. They filled significant roles at court, basked in their importance. But after Raquella’s crisis on the cliff, Dorotea had removed the Imperial insignia from her black robe, indicating that she considered herself a Sister first. Her six companions had done the same.

And now she had received an urgent summons to the Mother Superior’s quarters. After all these years, the old woman – her grandmother – was on her deathbed. Dorotea felt a sinking in her heart.

She climbed a wooden stairway in one of the prefab buildings and hurried down a hall to the second door, which was half open. She pushed her way inside.

The Mother Superior’s apartment consisted of three modest rooms, one of which she used as a private office, cluttered with files from ongoing projects. Dorotea saw papers strewn about. “Mother Superior?” she called out.

Valya appeared in the bedroom doorway, her face drawn and gray. She motioned for Dorotea. “Mother Superior is increasingly feeble. She asked to see us both right away. I believe she has chosen her successor.” She shook her head in dismay. “Yesterday’s ordeal drained the rest of the life from her.”

After a cold shudder, Dorotea straightened her posture. “Whatever her decision, we must abide by it and work together. My orthodox Sisters are prepared to do what is necessary for the Sisterhood.”

Valya rushed her inside. “Hurry!”

Inside the dim, stifling room, Raquella sat propped up in her bed, surrounded by pillows, and she looked ancient, as if years and years had been heaped on her overnight. Her eyes appeared to have sunk deeper into her skull than the day before, and her skin looked translucent, showing age spots and blood vessels. A medical Sister leaned over her with a handheld scanner to monitor vital signs. A worried Fielle stood nearby, looking very unlike an emotionless Sister Mentat.

Raquella dismissed the medical Sister in a breathy voice that sounded like crackling papyrus. “Leave us.” The doctor hurried out of the room and closed the door.

“Sister Fielle has made an important Mentat projection,” Raquella said. “We all need to hear it for the good of the Sisterhood. After she speaks, I will announce my successor.” The ancient woman drew a long breath, which required great effort. “I am nearly finished with this life. But I want to make certain my work goes on.”

The Sister Mentat gave a somber nod. Her short hair looked wilder than usual. “Some time ago I warned Mother Superior that a civil war might occur among the Sisters without her leadership. I suggested that either of you might instigate it.” She looked first at Dorotea, then at Valya. “My Mentat projection told me that the only way to bring the factions together was for Raquella to make a martyr of herself, like Serena Butler, to force the factions to reconcile.

“When I told Mother Superior of my projection, I did not inform her that I knew exactly what she would do – that she would take it to the brink, but that you both would make it unnecessary for her to kill herself after all.”

Raquella was surprised to hear this. “I fully intended to leap off the cliff if necessary.”

“You may have thought so, Mother Superior, but my projection told me what would happen. I’m ashamed to admit that I withheld this information from you, but you needed to be absolutely convincing. Valya and Dorotea had to be certain you would actually plunge to your death.”

Raquella said in her weakened voice, “I was ready to leap, and would have done so if I didn’t believe Valya and Dorotea would work together, rather than at cross-purposes.”

Dorotea found the sincerity in the old woman’s voice moving.

Raquella’s weak laugh was barely more than a spasm of exhaled breath. “All things considered, I’d rather let myself die here in bed, surrounded by all of you.” She raised her eyebrows at Fielle. “Even though you did deceive me. I would have done what was necessary regardless.”

The Sister Mentat looked away. “My projection told me it was necessary.”

“In the future, you will reveal all details of your projections to the Mother Superior. All details.”

Bowing her head, the young woman agreed.

Raquella patted her hand, spoke to the other two women. “Fielle is young and headstrong. She will be a challenge for the Sisterhood’s new leadership, but her intentions are true and good. This one is a gem to be polished.”

Fighting impatience, Valya asked, “Who is to be your successor, Mother Superior? I want to be sure you have peace, that you rest easily.”

Adjusting herself on the pillows, Raquella said, “My choice is a nonchoice – as it must be. Dorotea and Valya, you both bring strengths and advantages to our future, and you each know what they are. I want you to lead the Sisterhood together – merging the orthodox Salusan school and the Wallach IX school. Find a way to intertwine all Acolytes and Sisters, take the pieces and forge a stronger whole. Work as partners.”

Dorotea bowed, accepting the decision, but Valya’s dark eyes remained wide in disbelief.

“There is more than enough for both of you to do,” Raquella continued. “Cooperate. Repeat that word over and over in your minds, and act it out. Cooperate. You are both Mother Superiors. Establish a division of responsibilities. Repair our splintered Sisterhood and make it strong again.”

Valya nodded slowly. “We will do our best, Mother Superior.”

Dorotea straightened at the old woman’s bedside, let out a long breath. “Agreed. Henceforth we will fight external enemies, not internal ones.”

A broad smile formed on Raquella’s creased face, and she suddenly looked less weary. “Now that the conflict is resolved among my Sisters, I am content.” She breathed a sigh of relief and appeared to be near tears, as if she could finally let go after a lifetime of hard work.

Raquella beckoned Dorotea closer. “Before I go, there is something I want to share with you, Granddaughter.” She pressed a forefinger against her own temple. “Lean close, very close, and touch your forehead to me … here. You have Other Memories, but you don’t have all of mine.”

Dorotea hesitated, then complied. As their skin touched, she felt a sudden flash, like the opening of a floodgate. Information and memories rushed into her mind in a transfer of vast knowledge, a wealth of past lives and experiences. She received her grandmother’s hopes and dreams for the Sisterhood – all of the information Raquella had withheld – and now she learned with a certainty that there were computers here on Wallach IX! She nearly recoiled at the revelation, but before she could pull back, the Mother Superior pressed a gnarled hand against the back of her head, holding her in place with surprising strength.

With the information came a broader understanding, astonishing conclusions … until the flow of data gradually stopped. Thoughts flashed and dimmed, then faded – as Mother Superior Raquella herself faded. Moments later, she was gone.

Dorotea blinked her eyes, then raised herself from the bed to find Raquella dead, looking peaceful but empty.

Dizzy with the terrible loss, Fielle held on to the wall for support as she stumbled out of the room and slammed the door shut behind her.

Valya, still in disbelief, stared at the Mother Superior’s body, then at Dorotea. She seemed numbed by the shock of the tremendous loss.

But Dorotea now had everything. She grasped the fantastic scope of Raquella’s work – her dreams, her ambitions, her complex plans. Despite her previous horror of computers, Dorotea reluctantly vowed to respect her grandmother’s wishes, and focus on what was needed to fulfill Raquella’s vision for humankind. She understood so much more now! Dorotea possessed the information, and the strength, to build the Sisterhood into the grand and powerful organization it deserved to be – united and far-reaching.

But if she and Valya were supposed to be partners, each a Mother Superior sharing the responsibility for leadership, why had Raquella given only Dorotea her full life and memories? In order to be equals, she and Valya should have the same resources, the same knowledge.

Had the Mother Superior sensed something … perhaps that Sister Valya was not quite as trustworthy?

Reeling, Dorotea delved into her new knowledge, trying to decipher the ancient woman’s thought processes, but there was such a wealth of information that she would need a great deal of time to sort it out and ponder it. Perhaps during the long flight back to Salusa Secundus to inform the orthodox Sisters at the Imperial Court, she could make sense of it all.

Their reverie was interrupted by Dorotea’s own internal turmoil of Other Memory. The ancestral voices became chaotic and clamorous. The awakened voices of her ancestors – including Raquella herself – were screaming at her. A warning!

Dorotea became aware of Valya standing there at the dead Mother Superior’s bedside, looking at her in a most peculiar, unsettling way.

* * *

VALYA STRUGGLED WITH what the Mother Superior had just decreed. After all this waiting, all the years of proving herself, she was supposed to share power with the woman who had wrecked the Rossak school?

It made no sense at all. And Raquella had clasped Dorotea close in some strange final embrace just before she died. That had not been equal at all, and Valya had no faith in the traitor Sister, regardless of the platitudes they had exchanged. She was poison.

Dorotea seemed dazed as she reeled back from the deathbed. Valya could hear a distraught Fielle weeping out in the corridor through the closed door.

Valya would have to act quickly. She had the correct goals, and the determination to complete them. Only as the sole Mother Superior could she achieve everything she desired, both for the Sisterhood … and for House Harkonnen. Now was the time.

Dorotea looked up at her from Raquella’s silent body, drew a long breath. “The future of the Sisterhood is up to us now.”

“You are mistaken. It is up to me.”

Valya had taken Dorotea’s measure, her physical reactions, her reflexes … her weaknesses and anticipated resistance points. Dorotea was an especially strong person, and a Reverend Mother Truthsayer. Sharpening her Voice into a well-honed and perfectly aimed weapon, she spoke with all the power she could summon. “Don’t move!”

The words froze Dorotea. Valya knew this would be harder than when she had paralyzed Master Placido on Ginaz or directed the commando Sisters on Rossak. For an instant, Dorotea could not move a muscle except for a slight, alarmed widening of her eyes. The traitorous Sister could do nothing more than watch in surprise and horror as Valya calmly removed a knife from her own robe, and raised it like a viper preparing to strike. She said, “Take this from me.”

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.”

With a deep sigh, Manford said, “Perhaps you’re right, but make one of your Mentat projections now. You know what has to happen next: Your students must all surrender and promise to follow the Butlerian path. They must take the new oath, because if I make an exception in your case, others will demand the same. I can’t have that.”

“You also need Mentats, Leader Torondo. We provide a valuable alternative to thinking machines, and we show the Imperium that society doesn’t need computers anymore. You can’t destroy our example.” The Headmaster paused, and added, “Maybe I could rewrite the oath for you, clarify the terms and add definitions, caveats—”

“No! One exception leads to another and another. You don’t understand my followers – they are not deep thinkers who understand nuances. They must have black-and-white choices. Your tampering would only open up room for doubt.”

“Then send my school away from Lampadas as a punishment. Exile us. All my trainees will go elsewhere.”

Manford shook his head. “We could never allow you to leave.” Especially not with Anna Corrino. He sighed again. “I’m granting a great courtesy in discussing this with you at all. Your Mentats have enjoyed small victories during this siege, harming some of my scouts with your defenses, but you can’t last for long. We will overwhelm you.”

Gilbertus’s eyes flashed. “You swore you would not harm my school or my students.”

“I won’t need to do anything. We can merely stay here and wait until you all starve or surrender.”

“That would still be harming my school, albeit indirectly.”

Manford shrugged. “You waste too much time on minutiae. In my mind, the matter is clear-cut – just as the new oath is.”

Outside the tent, he heard Deacon Harian’s voice. “I must see Leader Torondo. Let me in – I have the proof we need!”

“Then I hope your dead lips can speak it, because you will not enter the tent,” Anari said. “I am commanded not to allow any interruption.”

Manford had no doubt Anari would give her life before allowing the deacon to pass, but he also knew that Harian would continue his ruckus until he was finally allowed in. He called out, “Anari, let us see what the deacon has discovered.” He added a warning edge in his voice. “You can slay him if he wastes my time.”

Deacon Harian did not balk, nor did Manford expect him to; if nothing else, the man was resolute. Anari opened the tent flap, and the bald deacon strode in, carrying a tome. Sister Woodra accompanied him, as if she served as his personal Truthsayer rather than Manford’s.

Harian glared at Gilbertus Albans, who sat straight-backed at the table. With the delicate touch of a forefinger, the Headmaster pushed his spectacles higher up on his nose.

Harian thumped the heavy book down on the camp table, then turned to a page that featured the image of a face. “This was brought to my attention by one of our loyal followers, an archivist who found this volume in his large collection. It was published shortly after the Battle of Corrin.” He pushed the book forward onto the table, demanding that Gilbertus look at the image.

Manford had seen the picture many times: the historical record from the climactic battle of the war against thinking machines, when the Army of the Jihad rescued the hostages that Omnius placed in harm’s way, using them as human shields at the Bridge of Hrethgir. In the image, frightened people crowded together, liberated from their long nightmare.

Harian continued, “The book includes details of humans who collaborated with thinking machines, the demon robots – and how some of the turncoats escaped in the confusion by mingling with refugees.”

Gilbertus looked at the picture, then back up, showing no apparent interest. With his eidetic Mentat focus, he had probably memorized every detail with a single glance.

Harian stabbed his finger at one of the figures, a face that was plain on the high-resolution image even after all these years. “This is you, Headmaster Albans.

Manford stared down in disbelief. The image showed a man who was perhaps in his midthirties, with facial features that appeared to match those of the Mentat Headmaster.

“There is a resemblance,” Gilbertus said, “but it proves nothing.”

Harian smiled cruelly. “Nevertheless, it is you. I’ve had my suspicions about you for some time now, Headmaster, and finally I have proof.”

“How could that possibly be me? The person in that image would be…” He waved a hand. “… extremely old. Far beyond a normal human life span.”

“An ancient machine sympathizer was recently caught and executed,” Sister Woodra pointed out. “A man named Horus Rakka. He changed his identity, lived among normal humans, and hid from his past, but eventually he was found out and met the fires of Butlerian justice.”

“Yes, I heard about that, but Horus Rakka was a very old man. I may have a few gray hairs, but I’m not decrepit.”

Harian flipped open the tome, looking for the page he wanted. “This book also contains records of refugees who were saved from the Bridge of Hrethgir, those given passage from Corrin after the fall of the thinking machines. The archivist spent days poring over the long list of names.”

“One of my Mentats could have done it in an hour,” Gilbertus said with only a hint of a flippant tone.

Harian found the right page. Among the thousands of names listed in the book, he pointed to one specific entry. “That’s your name, isn’t it, Headmaster? Gilbertus Albans.”

The Mentat glanced at Sister Woodra, then looked at Manford as he answered. “That name is the same as mine. Again, it proves nothing. If you examined all historical records, across all settled worlds, you will probably find other identical names as well.”

“Ah, but the demon robot Erasmus had a special ward, chosen from the slave pens and trained specially. Gilbertus Albans was his name. Several of the refugees from the Bridge of Hrethgir recorded that fact to accompany their oral statements. But Gilbertus Albans was never found after the Battle of Corrin.”

The Mentat’s expression remained mild. “Corrin was leveled in the attack. Many humans were never found. Your story grows more absurd by the moment.”

Harian leaned forward, raising his voice. “I believe that when you were raised on Corrin, the demon robot found some way to prolong your life. We know the thinking machines had that technology. I am convinced you slipped away during the confusion, posed as one of the refugees, and created a new life for yourself. You’ve been hiding here on Lampadas all this time, haven’t you? Assuming no one would remember.”

Manford couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Anari looked ready to explode, her emotions boiling across her face.

Shaking his head, Gilbertus said, “Your evidence is circumstantial, and your conclusion strains credulity. You haven’t even proved that the person in the image matches up with a name found on a long list.”

Harian sniffed. “Your resemblance to the man in this image, and the identical name, could be nothing more than a coincidence.” And now he smiled, as if delivering a coup de grâce. “But Sister Woodra is a Truthsayer. Speak now, Headmaster. Tell the Truthsayer that you are not the man in the image, that you’re not the Gilbertus Albans who was raised by Erasmus. She will know if you are lying.”

Sister Woodra stared intently at him. Gilbertus remained still, seemingly at peace and smiling slightly, whereas a guilty man might squirm and perspire.

“I’m not the man in the image,” Gilbertus insisted. He stared calmly at the Salusan Sister.

“You’re lying, aren’t you?” she said.

“The fact that you have framed that as a question shows your uncertainty.” A small smile worked at the edges of his mouth.

“You’re probably the best liar I’ve ever seen, but you are lying. I hear it in your voice, a tremor so slight that no one but a Truthsayer would ever notice it. But it is there, nonetheless. And I see the soft glistening of your skin. Not perspiration, but a barely perceptible change on the surface of the epidermis. These things are even more apparent to me, Headmaster Albans, because I have watched recordings of you giving speeches and talking to your students – obtained by the Butlerian students in your midst. Your voice and skin were never like they are now, because you were not lying on those occasions.” She looked even more intently at him. “There is something in your eyes, too. Fear, perhaps.”