He doubted, though, that Harkonnen patrols would be this far south. This was still Fremen country.
Gurney checked his weapons, damning the fate that made shields useless out here. Anything that summoned a worm had to be avoided at all costs. He rubbed the inkvine scar along his jaw, studying the scene, decided it would be safest to lead a ground party through the ridge. Inspection on foot was still the most certain. You couldn’t be too careful when Fremen and Harkonnen were at each other’s throats.
It was Fremen that worried him here. They didn’t mind trading for all the spice you could afford, but they were devils on the warpath if you stepped foot where they forbade you to go. And they were so devilishly cunning of late.
It annoyed Gurney, the cunning and adroitness in battle of these natives. They displayed a sophistication in warfare as good as anything he had ever encountered, and he had been trained by the best fighters in the universe then seasoned in battles where only the superior few survived.
Again Gurney scanned the landscape, wondering why he felt uneasy. Perhaps it was the worm they had seen . . . but that was on the other side of the ridge.
A head popped up into the con-bubble beside Gurney – the factory commander, a one-eyed old pirate with full beard, the blue eyes and milky teeth of a spice diet.
“Looks like a rich patch, sir,” the factory commander said. “Shall I take ‘er in?”
“Come down at the edge of that ridge,” Gurney ordered. “Let me disembark with my men. You can tractor out to the spice from there. We’ll have a look at that rock.”
“Aye.”
“In case of trouble,” Gurney said, “save the factory. We’ll lift in the ‘thopters.”
The factory commander saluted. “Aye, sir.” He popped back down through the hatch.
The factory crawler turned, began to descend. Gently it glided down to the dry beach at the foot of the ridge. Treads touched sand.
Gurney opened the bubble dome, released his safety straps. The instant the factory stopped, he was out, slamming the bubble closed behind him, scrambling out over the tread guards to swing down to the sand beyond the emergency netting. The five men of his personal guard were out with him, emerging from the nose hatch. Others released the factory’s carrier wing. It detached, lifted away to fly in a parking circle low overhead.
Immediately the big factory crawler lurched off, swinging away from the ridge toward the dark patch of spice out on the sand.
A ‘thopter swooped down nearby, skidded to a stop. Another followed and another. They disgorged Gurney’s platoon and lifted to hoverflight.
Gurney tested his muscles in his stillsuit, stretching. He left the filter mask off his face, losing moisture for the sake of a greater need – the carrying power of his voice if he had to shout commands. He began climbing up into the rocks, checking the terrain – pebbles and pea sand underfoot, the smell of spice.
Good site for an emergency base , he thought. Might be sensible to bury a few supplies here .
He glanced back, watching his men spread out as they followed him. Good men, even the new ones he hadn’t had time to test. Good men. Didn’t have to be told every time what to do. Not a shield glimmer showed on any of them. No cowards in this bunch, carrying shields into the desert where a worm could sense the field and come to rob them of the spice they found.
From this slight elevation in the rocks, Gurney could see the spice patch about half a kilometer away and the crawler just reaching the near edge. He glanced up at the coverflight, noting the altitude – not too high. He nodded to himself, turned to resume his climb up the ridge.
In that instant, the ridge erupted.
Twelve roaring paths of flame streaked upward to the hovering ‘thopters and carrier wing. There came a blasting of metal from the factory crawler, and the rocks around Gurney were full of hooded fighting men.
Gurney had time to think: By the horns of the Great Mother! Rockets! They dare to use rockets!
Then he was face to face with a hooded figure who crouched low, crysknife at the ready. Two more men stood waiting on the rocks above to left and right. Only the eyes of the fighting man ahead of him were visible to Gurney between hood and veil of a sand-colored burnoose, but the crouch and readiness warned him that here was a trained fighting man. The eyes were the blue-in-blue of the deep-desert Fremen.
Gurney moved one hand toward his own knife, kept his eyes fixed on the other’s knife. If they dared use rockets, they’d have other projectile weapons. This moment argued extreme caution. He could tell by sound alone that at least part of his skycover had been knocked out. There were gruntings, too, the noise of several struggles behind him.
The eyes of the fighting man ahead of Gurney followed the motion of hand toward knife, came back to glare into Gurney’s eyes.
“Leave the knife in its sheath, Gurney Halleck,” the man said.
Gurney hesitated. That voice sounded oddly familiar even through a stillsuit filter.
“You know my name?” he said.
“You’ve no need of a knife with me, Gurney,” the man said. He straightened, slipped his crysknife into its sheath back beneath his robe. “Tell your men to stop their useless resistance.”
The man threw his hood back, swung the filter aside.
The shock of what he saw froze Gurney’s muscles. He thought at first he was looking at a ghost image of Duke Leto Atreides. Full recognition came slowly.
“Paul,” he whispered. Then louder: “Is it truly Paul?”
“Don’t you trust your own eyes?” Paul asked.
“They said you were dead,” Gurney rasped. He took a half-step forward.
“Tell your men to submit,” Paul commanded. He waved toward the lower reaches of the ridge.
Gurney turned, reluctant to take his eyes off Paul. He saw only a few knots of struggle. Hooded desert men seemed to be everywhere around. The factory crawler lay silent with Fremen standing atop it. There were no aircraft overhead.
“Stop the fighting,” Gurney bellowed. He took a deep breath, cupped his hands for a megaphone. “This is Gurney Halleck! Stop the fight!”
Slowly, warily, the struggling figures separated. Eyes turned toward him, questioning.
“These are friends,” Gurney called.
“Fine friends!” someone shouted back. “Half our people murdered.”
“It’s a mistake,” Gurney said. “Don’t add to it.”
He turned back to Paul, stared into the youth’s blue-blue Fremen eyes.
A smile touched Paul’s mouth, but there was a hardness in the expression that reminded Gurney of the Old Duke, Paul’s grandfather. Gurney saw then the sinewy harshness in Paul that had never before been seen in an Atreides – a leathery look to the skin, a squint to the eyes and calculation in the glance that seemed to weigh everything in sight.
“They said you were dead,” Gurney repeated.
“And it seemed the best protection to let them think so,” Paul said.
Gurney realized that was all the apology he’d ever get for having been abandoned to his own resources, left to believe his young Duke . . . his friend, was dead. He wondered then if there were anything left here of the boy he had known and trained in the ways of fighting men.
Paul took a step closer to Gurney, found that his eyes were smarting. “Gurney – ”
It seemed to happen of itself, and they were embracing, pounding each other on the back, feeling the reassurance of solid flesh.
“You young pup! You young pup!” Gurney kept saying.
And Paul: “Gurney, man! Gurney, man!”
Presently, they stepped apart, looked at each other. Gurney took a deep breath. “So you’re why the Fremen have grown so wise in battle tactics. I might’ve known. They keep doing things I could’ve planned myself. If I’d only known – ” He shook his head. “If you’d only got word to me, lad. Nothing would’ve stopped me. I’d have come arunning and . . . ”
A look in Paul’s eyes stopped him . . . the hard, weighing stare.
Gurney sighed. “Sure, and there’d have been those who wondered why Gurney Halleck went arunning, and some would’ve done more than question. They’d have gone hunting for answers.”
Paul nodded, glanced to the waiting Fremen around them – the looks of curious appraisal on the faces of the Fedaykin. He turned from the death commandos back to Gurney. Finding his former swordmaster filled him with elation. He saw it as a good omen, a sign that he was on the course of the future where all was well.
With Gurney at my side . . .
Paul glanced down the ridge past the Fedaykin, studied the smuggler crew who had come with Halleck.
“How do your men stand, Gurney?” he asked.
“They’re smugglers all,” Gurney said. “They stand where the profit is.”
“Little enough profit in our venture,” Paul said, and he noted the subtle finger signal flashed to him by Gurney’s right hand – the old hand code out of their past. There were men to fear and distrust in the smuggler crew.
Paul pulled at his lip to indicate he understood, looked up at the men standing guard above them on the rocks. He saw Stilgar there. Memory of the unsolved problem with Stilgar cooled some of Paul’s elation.
“Stilgar,” he said, “this is Gurney Halleck of whom you’ve heard me speak. My father’s master-of-arms, one of the swordmasters who instructed me, an old friend. He can be trusted in any venture.”
“I hear,” Stilgar said. “You are his Duke.”
Paul stared at the dark visage above him, wondering at the reasons which had impelled Stilgar to say just that. His Duke . There had been a strange subtle intonation in Stilgar’s voice, as though he would rather have said something else. And that wasn’t like Stilgar, who was a leader of Fremen, a man who spoke his mind.
My Duke! Gurney thought. He looked anew at Paul. Yes, with Leto dead, the title fell on Paul’s shoulders .
The pattern of the Fremen war on Arrakis began to take on new shape in Gurney’s mind. My Duke! A place that had been dead within him began coming alive. Only part of his awareness focused on Paul’s ordering the smuggler crew disarmed until they could be questioned.
Gurney’s mind returned to the command when he heard some of his men protesting. He shook his head, whirled. “Are you men deaf?” he barked. “This is the rightful Duke of Arrakis. Do as he commands.”
Grumbling, the smugglers submitted.
Paul moved up beside Gurney, spoke in a low voice. “I’d not have expected you to walk into this trap, Gurney.”
“I’m properly chastened,” Gurney said. “I’ll wager yon patch of spice is little more than a sand grain’s thickness, a bait to lure us.”
“That’s a wager you’d win,” Paul said. He looked down at the men being disarmed. “Are there any more of my father’s men among your crew?”
“None. We’re spread thin. There’re a few among the free traders. Most have spent their profits to leave this place.”
“But you stayed.”
“I stayed.”
“Because Rabban is here,” Paul said.
“I thought I had nothing left but revenge,” Gurney said.
An oddly chopped cry sounded from the ridgetop. Gurney looked up to see a Fremen waving his kerchief.
“A maker comes,” Paul said. He moved out to a point of rock with Gurney following, looked off to the southwest. The burrow mound of a worm could be seen in the middle distance, a dust-crowned track that cut directly through the dunes on a course toward the ridge.
“He’s big enough,” Paul said.
A clattering sound lifted from the factory crawler below them. It turned on its treads like a giant insect, lumbered toward the rocks.
“Too bad we couldn’t have saved the carryall,” Paul said.
Gurney glanced at him, looked back to the patches of smoke and debris out on the desert where carryall and ornithopters had been brought down by Fremen rockets. He felt a sudden pang for the men lost there – his men, and he said: “Your father would’ve been more concerned for the men he couldn’t save.”
Paul shot a hard stare at him, lowered his gaze. Presently, he said: “They were your friends, Gurney. I understand. To us, though, they were trespassers who might see things they shouldn’t see. You must understand that.”
“I understand it well enough,” Gurney said. “Now, I’m curious to see what I shouldn’t.”
Paul looked up to see the old and well-remembered wolfish grin on Halleck’s face, the ripple of the inkvine scar along the man’s jaw.
Gurney nodded toward the desert below them. Fremen were going about their business all over the landscape. It struck him that none of them appeared worried by the approach of the worm.
A thumping sounded from the open dunes beyond the baited patch of spice – a deep drumming that seemed to be heard through their feet. Gurney saw Fremen spread out across the sand there in the path of the worm.
The worm came on like some great sandfish, cresting the surface, its rings rippling and twisting. In a moment, from his vantage point above the desert, Gurney saw the taking of a worm – the daring leap of the first hookman, the turning of the creature, the way an entire band of men went up the scaly, glistening curve of the worm’s side.
“There’s one of the things you shouldn’t have seen,” Paul said.
“There’s been stories and rumors,” Gurney said. “But it’s not a thing easy to believe without seeing it.” He shook his head. “The creature all men on Arrakis fear, you treat it like a riding animal.”
“You heard my father speak of desert power,” Paul said. “There it is. The surface of this planet is ours. No storm nor creature nor condition can stop us.”
Us , Gurney thought. He means the Fremen. He speaks of himself as one of them . Again, Gurney looked at the spice blue in Paul’s eyes. His own eyes, he knew, had a touch of the color, but smugglers could get offworld foods and there was a subtle caste implication in the tone of the eyes among them. They spoke of “the touch of the spicebrush” to mean a man had gone too native. And there was always a hint of distrust in the idea.
“There was a time when we did not ride the maker in the light of day in these latitudes,” Paul said. “But Rabban has little enough air cover left that he can waste it looking for a few specks in the sand.” He looked at Gurney. “Your aircraft were a shock to us here.”
To us . . . to us . . .
Gurney shook his head to drive out such thoughts. “We weren’t the shock to you that you were to us,” he said.
“What’s the talk of Rabban in the sinks and villages?” Paul asked.
“They say they’ve fortified the graben villages to the point where you cannot harm them. They say they need only sit inside their defenses while you wear yourselves out in futile attack.”
“In a word,” Paul said, “they’re immobilized.”
“While you can go where you will,” Gurney said.
“It’s a tactic I learned from you,” Paul said. “They’ve lost the initiative, which means they’ve lost the war.”
Gurney smiled, a slow, knowing expression.
“Our enemy is exactly where I want him to be,” Paul said. He glanced at Gurney. “Well, Gurney, do you enlist with me for the finish of this campaign?”
“Enlist?” Gurney stared at him. “My Lord, I’ve never left your service. You’re the only one left me . . . to think you dead. And I, being cast adrift, made what shrift I could, waiting for the moment I might sell my life for what it’s worth – the death of Rabban.”
An embarrassed silence settled over Paul.
A woman came climbing up the rocks toward them, her eyes between stillsuit hood and facemask flicking between Paul and his companion. She stopped in front of Paul. Gurney noted the possessive air about her, the way she stood close to Paul.
“Chani,” Paul said, “this is Gurney Halleck. You’ve heard me speak of him.”
She looked at Halleck, back to Paul. “I have heard.”
“Where did the men go on the maker?” Paul asked.
“They but diverted it to give us time to save the equipment.”
“Well then . . .” Paul broke off, sniffed the air.
“There’s wind coming,” Chani said.
A voice called out from the ridgetop above them: “Ho, there – the wind!”
Gurney saw a quickening of motion among the Fremen now – a rushing about and sense of hurry. A thing the worm had not ignited was brought about by fear of the wind. The factory crawler lumbered up onto the dry beach below them and a way was opened for it among the rocks . . . and the rocks closed behind it so neatly that the passage escaped his eyes.
“Have you many such hiding places?” Gurney asked.
“Many times many,” Paul said. He looked at Chani. “Find Korba. Tell him that Gurney has warned me there are men among this smuggler crew who’re not to be trusted.”
She looked once at Gurney, back to Paul, nodded, and was off down the rocks, leaping with a gazelle-like agility.
“She is your woman,” Gurney said.
“The mother of my firstborn,” Paul said. “There’s another Leto among the Atreides.”
Gurney accepted this with only a widening of the eyes.
Paul watched the action around them with a critical eye. A curry color dominated the southern sky now and there came fitful bursts and gusts of wind that whipped dust around their heads.
“Seal your suit,” Paul said. And he fastened the mask and hood about his face.
Gurney obeyed, thankful for the filters.
Paul spoke, his voice muffled by the filter: “Which of your crew don’t you trust, Gurney?”
“There’re some new recruits,” Gurney said. “Offworlders . . . ” He hesitated, wondering at himself suddenly. Offworlders . The word had come so easily to his tongue.
“Yes?” Paul said.
“They’re not like the usual fortune-hunting lot we get,” Gurney said. “They’re tougher.”
“Harkonnen spies?” Paul asked.
“I think m’Lord, that they report to no Harkonnen. I suspect they’re men of the Imperial service. They have a hint of Salusa Secundus about them.”
Paul shot a sharp glance at him. “Sardaukar?”
Gurney shrugged. “They could be, but it’s well masked.”
Paul nodded, thinking how easily Gurney had fallen back into the pattern of Atreides retainer . . . but with subtle reservations . . . differences. Arrakis had changed him, too.
Two hooded Fremen emerged from the broken rock below them, began climbing upward. One of them carried a large black bundle over one shoulder.
“Where are my crew now?” Gurney asked.
“Secure in the rocks below us,” Paul said. “We’ve a cave here – Cave of Birds. We’ll decide what to do with them after the storm.”
A voice called from above them: “Muad’Dib!”
Paul turned at the call, saw a Fremen guard motioning them down to the cave. Paul signaled he had heard.
Gurney studying him with a new expression. “You’re Muad’Dib?” he asked. “You’re the will-o’-the-sand?”
“It’s my Fremen name,” Paul said.
Gurney turned away, feeling an oppressive sense of foreboding. Half his own crew dead on the sand, the others captive. He did not care about the new recruits, the suspicious ones, but among the others were good men, friends, people for whom he felt responsible. “We’ll decide what to do with them after the storm .” That’s what Paul had said, Muad’Dib had said. And Gurney recalled the stories told of Muad’Dib, the Lisan al-Gaib – how he had taken the skin of a Harkonnen officer to make his drumheads, how he was surrounded by death commandos, Fedaykin who leaped into battle with their death chants on their lips.
Him .
The two Fremen climbing up the rocks leaped lightly to a shelf in front of Paul. The dark-faced one said: “All secure, Muad’Dib. We best get below now.”
“Right.”
Gurney noted the tone of the man’s voice – half command and half request. This was the man called Stilgar, another figure of the new Fremen legends.
Paul looked at the bundle the other man carried, said: “Korba, what’s in the bundle?”
Stilgar answered: ” ‘Twas in the crawler. It had the initial of your friend here and it contains a baliset. Many times have I heard you speak of the prowess of Gurney Halleck on the baliset.”
Gurney studied the speaker, seeing the edge of black beard above the stillsuit mask, the hawk stare, the chiseled nose.
“You’ve a companion who thinks, m’Lord,” Gurney said. “Thank you, Stilgar.”
Stilgar signaled for his companion to pass the bundle to Gurney, said: “Thank your Lord Duke. His countenance earns your admittance here.”
Gurney accepted the bundle, puzzled by the hard undertones in this conversation. There was an air of challenge about the man, and Gurney wondered if it could be a feeling of jealousy in the Fremen. Here was someone called Gurney Halleck who’d known Paul even in the times before Arrakis, a man who shared a camaraderie that Stilgar could never invade.
“You are two I’d have be friends,” Paul said.
“Stilgar, the Fremen, is a name of renown,” Gurney said. “Any killer of Harkonnens I’d feel honored to count among my friends.”
“Will you touch hands with my friend Gurney Halleck, Stilgar?” Paul asked.
Slowly, Stilgar extended his hand, gripped the heavy calluses of Gurney’s swordhand. “There’re few who haven’t heard the name of Gurney Halleck,” he said, and released his grip. He turned to Paul. “The storm comes rushing.”
“At once,” Paul said.
Stilgar turned away, led them down through the rocks, a twisting and turning path into a shadowed cleft that admitted them to the low entrance of a cave. Men hurried to fasten a doorseal behind them. Glowglobes showed a broad, dome-ceilinged space with a raised ledge on one side and a passage leading off from it.
Paul leaped to the ledge with Gurney right behind him, led the way into the passage. The others headed for another passage opposite the entrance. Paul led the way through an anteroom and into a chamber with dark, wine-colored hangings on its walls.
“We can have some privacy here for a while,” Paul said. “The others will respect my – ”
An alarm cymbal clanged from the outer chamber, was followed by shouting and clashing of weapons. Paul whirled, ran back through the anteroom and out onto the atrium lip above the outer chamber. Gurney was right behind, weapon drawn.
Beneath them on the floor of the cave swirled a melee of struggling figures. Paul stood an instant assessing the scene, separating the Fremen robes and bourkas from the costumes of those they opposed. Senses that his mother had trained to detect the most subtle clues picked out a significant fact – the Fremen fought against men wearing smuggler robes, but the smugglers were crouched in trios, backed into triangles where pressed.
That habit of close fighting was a trademark of the Imperial Sardaukar.
A Fedaykin in the crowd saw Paul, and his battlecry was lifted to echo in the chamber: “Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib! Muad’Dib!”
Another eye had also picked Paul out. A black knife came hurtling toward him. Paul dodged, heard the knife clatter against stone behind him, glanced to see Gurney retrieve it.
The triangular knots were being pressed back now.
Gurney held the knife up in front of Paul’s eyes, pointed to the hairline yellow coil of Imperial color, the golden lion crest, multifaceted eyes at the pommel.
Sardaukar for certain.
Paul stepped out to the lip of the ledge. Only three of the Sardaukar remained. Bloody rag mounds of Sardaukar and Fremen lay in a twisted pattern across the chamber.
“Hold!” Paul shouted. “The Duke Paul Atreides commands you to hold!”
The fighting wavered, hesitated.
“You Sardaukar!” Paul called to the remaining group. “By whose orders do you threaten a ruling Duke?” And, quickly, as his men started to press in around the Sardaukar: “Hold, I say!”
One of the cornered trio straightened. “Who says we’re Sardaukar?” he demanded.
Paul took the knife from Gurney, held it aloft. “This says you’re Sardaukar.”
“Then who says you’re a ruling Duke?” the man demanded.
Paul gestured to the Fedaykin. “These men say I’m a ruling Duke. Your own emperor bestowed Arrakis on House Atreides. I am House Atreides.”
The Sardaukar stood silent, fidgeting.
Paul studied the man – tall, flat-featured, with a pale scar across half his left cheek. Anger and confusion were betrayed in his manner, but still there was that pride about him without which a Sardaukar appeared undressed – and with which he could appear fully clothed though naked.
Paul glanced to one of his Fedaykin lieutenants, said: “Korba, how came they to have weapons?”
“They held back knives concealed in cunning pockets within their stillsuits,” the lieutenant said.
Paul surveyed the dead and wounded across the chamber, brought his attention back to the lieutenant. There was no need for words. The lieutenant lowered his eyes.
“Where is Chani?” Paul asked and waited, breath held, for the answer.
“Stilgar spirited her aside.” He nodded toward the other passage, glanced at the dead and wounded. “I hold myself responsible for this mistake, Muad’Dib.”
“How many of these Sardaukar were there, Gurney?” Paul asked.
“Ten.”
Paul leaped lightly to the floor of the chamber, strode across to stand within striking distance of the Sardaukar spokesman.
A tense air came over the Fedaykin. They did not like him thus exposed to danger. This was the thing they were pledged to prevent because the Fremen wished to preserve the wisdom of Muad’Dib.
Without turning, Paul spoke to his lieutenant: “How many are our casualties?”
“Four wounded, two dead, Muad’Dib.”
Paul saw motion beyond the Sardaukar, Chani and Stilgar were standing in the other passage. He returned his attention to the Sardaukar, staring into the offworld whites of the spokesman’s eyes. “You, what is your name?” Paul demanded.
The man stiffened, glanced left and right.
“Don’t try it,” Paul said. “It’s obvious to me that you were ordered to seek out and destroy Muad’Dib. I’ll warrant you were the ones suggested seeking spice in the deep desert.”
A gasp from Gurney behind him brought a thin smile to Paul’s lips.
Blood suffused the Sardaukar’s face.
“What you see before you is more than Muad’Dib,” Paul said. “Seven of you are dead for two of us. Three for one. Pretty good against Sardaukar, eh?”
The man came up on his toes, sank back as the Fedaykin pressed forward.
“I asked your name,” Paul said, and he called up the subtleties of Voice: “Tell me your name!”
“Captain Aramsham, Imperial Sardaukar!” the man snapped. His jaw dropped. He stared at Paul in confusion. The manner about him that had dismissed this cavern as a barbarian warren melted away.
“Well, Captain Aramsham,” Paul said, “the Harkonnens would pay dearly to learn what you now know. And the Emperor – what he wouldn’t give to learn an Atreides still lives despite his treachery.”
The captain glanced left and right at the two men remaining to him. Paul could almost see the thoughts turning over in the man’s head. Sardaukar did not submit, but the Emperor had to learn of this threat.
Still using the Voice, Paul said: “Submit, Captain.”
The man at the captain’s left leaped without warning toward Paul, met the flashing impact of his own captain’s knife in his chest. The attacker hit the floor in a sodden heap with the knife still in him.
The captain faced his sole remaining companion. “I decide what best serves His Majesty,” he said. “Understood?”
The other Sardaukar’s shoulders slumped.
“Drop your weapon,” the captain said.
The Sardaukar obeyed.
The captain returned his attention to Paul. “I have killed a friend for you,” he said. “Let us always remember that.”
“You’re my prisoners,” Paul said. “You submitted to me. Whether you live or die is of no importance.” He motioned to his guard to take the two Sardaukar, signaled the lieutenant who had searched the prisoners.
The guard moved in, hustled the Sardaukar away.
Paul bent toward his lieutenant.
“Muad’Dib,” the man said. “I failed you in . . . ”
“The failure was mine, Korba,” Paul said. “I should’ve warned you what to seek. In the future, when searching Sardaukar, remember this. Remember, too, that each has a false toenail or two that can be combined with other items secreted about their bodies to make an effective transmitter. They’ll have more than one false tooth. They carry coils of shigawire in their hair – so fine you can barely detect it, yet strong enough to garrote a man and cut off his head in the process. With Sardaukar, you must scan them, scope them – both reflex and hard ray – cut off every scrap of body hair. And when you’re through, be certain you haven’t discovered everything.”
He looked up at Gurney, who had moved close to listen.
“Then we best kill them,” the lieutenant said.
Paul shook his head, still looking at Gurney. “No. I want them to escape.” Gurney stared at him.
“Sire . . . ” he breathed.
“Yes?”
“Your man here is right. Kill those prisoners at once. Destroy all evidence of them. You’ve shamed Imperial Sardaukar! When the Emperor learns that he’ll not rest until he has you over a slow fire.”
“The Emperor’s not likely to have that power over me,” Paul said. He spoke slowly, coldly. Something had happened inside him while he faced the Sardaukar. A sum of decisions had accumulated in his awareness. “Gurney,” he said, “are there many Guildsmen around Rabban?”
Gurney straightened, eyes narrowed. “Your question makes no . . . ”
“Are there?” Paul barked.
“Arrakis is crawling with Guild agents. They’re buying spice as though it were the most precious thing in the universe. Why else do you think we ventured this far into . . . ”
“It is the most precious thing in the universe,” Paul said. “To them.”
He looked toward Stilgar and Chani who were now crossing the chamber toward him. “And we control it, Gurney.”
“The Harkonnens control it!” Gurney protested.
“The people who can destroy a thing, they control it,” Paul said. He waved a hand to silence further remarks from Gurney, nodded to Stilgar who stopped in front of Paul, Chani beside him.
Paul took the Sardaukar knife in his left hand, presented it to Stilgar. “You live for the good of the tribe,” Paul said. “Could you draw my life’s blood with that knife?”
“For the good of the tribe,” Stilgar growled.
“Then use that knife,” Paul said.
“Are you calling me out?” Stilgar demanded.
“If I do,” Paul said, “I shall stand there without weapon and let you slay me.”
Stilgar drew in a quick, sharp breath.
Chani said, “Usul!” then glanced at Gurney, back to Paul.
While Stilgar was still weighing his words, Paul said: “You are Stilgar, a fighting man. When the Sardaukar began fighting here, you were not in the front of battle. Your first thought was to protect Chani.”
“She’s my niece,” Stilgar said. “If there’d been any doubt of your Fedaykin handling those scum . . . ”
“Why was your first thought of Chani?” Paul demanded.
“It wasn’t!”
“Oh?”
“It was of you,” Stilgar admitted.
“Do you think you could lift your hand against me?” Paul asked. Stilgar began to tremble. “It’s the way,” he muttered.
“It’s the way to kill offworld strangers found in the desert and take their water as a gift from Shai-hulud,” Paul said. “Yet you permitted two such to live one night, my mother and myself.”
As Stilgar remained silent, trembling, staring at him, Paul said: “Ways change, Stil. You have changed them yourself.”
Stilgar looked down at the yellow emblem on the knife he held.
“When I am Duke in Arrakeen with Chani by my side, do you think I’ll have time to concern myself with every detail of governing Tabr sietch?” Paul asked. “Do you concern yourself with the internal problems of every family?”
Stilgar continued staring at the knife.
“Do you think I wish to cut off my right arm?” Paul demanded.
Slowly, Stilgar looked up at him.
“You!” Paul said. “Do you think I wish to deprive myself or the tribe of your wisdom and strength?”
In a low voice, Stilgar said: “The young man of my tribe whose name is known to me, this young man I could kill on the challenge floor, Shai-hulud willing. The Lisan al-Gaib, him I could not harm. You knew this when you handed me this knife.”
“I knew it,” Paul agreed.
Stilgar opened his hand. The knife clattered against the stone of the floor. “Ways change,” he said.
“Chani,” Paul said, “go to my mother, send her here that her counsel will be available in – ”
“But you said we would go to the south!” she protested.
“I was wrong,” he said. “The Harkonnens are not there. The war is not there.”
She took a deep breath, accepting this as a desert woman accepted all necessities in the midst of a life involved with death.
“You will give my mother a message for her ears alone,” Paul said. “Tell her that Stilgar acknowledges me Duke of Arrakis, but a way must be found to make the young men accept this without combat.”
Chani glanced at Stilgar.
“Do as he says,” Stilgar growled. “We both know he could overcome me . . . and I could not raise my hand against him . . . for the good of the tribe.”
“I shall return with your mother,” Chani said.
“Send her,” Paul said. “Stilgar’s instinct was right. I am stronger when you are safe. You will remain in the sietch.”
She started to protest, swallowed it.
“Sihaya,” Paul said, using his intimate name for her. He whirled away to the right, met Gurney’s glaring eyes.
The interchange between Paul and the older Fremen had passed as though in a cloud around Gurney since Paul’s reference to his mother.
“Your mother,” Gurney said.
” Idaho saved us the night of the raid,” Paul said, distracted by the parting with Chani. “Right now we’ve – ”
“What of Duncan Idaho, m’Lord?” Gurney asked.
