Does he think to frighten me by reminding me that he is supported by bloodthirsty killers? the Baron wondered.
“A certain amount of killing has always been an arm of business,” the Baron said, “but a line has to be drawn somewhere. Someone must be left to work the spice.”
The Count emitted a short, barking laugh. “You think you can harness the Fremen?”
“There never were enough of them for that,” the Baron said. “But the killing has made the rest of my population uneasy. It’s reaching the point where I’m considering another solution to the Arrakeen problem, my dear Fenring. And I must confess the Emperor deserves credit for the inspiration.”
“Ah-h-h?”
“You see, Count, I have the Emperor’s prison planet, Salusa Secundus, to inspire me.”
The Count stared at him with glittering intensity. “What possible connection is there between Arrakis and Salusa Secundus?”
The Baron felt the alertness in Fenring’s eyes, said: “No connection yet.”
“Yet?”
“You must admit it’d be a way to develop a substantial work force on Arrakis – use the place as a prison planet.”
“You anticipate an increase in prisoners?”
“I suggest you not use Arrakis as a prison planet without the Emperor’s permission, Baron.”
“Of course not,” the Baron said, and he wondered at the sudden chill in Fenring’s voice.
“Another matter,” the Count said. “We learn that Duke Leto’s Mentat, Thufir Hawat, is not dead but in your employ.”
“I could not bring myself to waste him,” the Baron said.
“You lied to our Sardaukar commander when you said Hawat was dead.”
“Only a white lie, my dear Count. I hadn’t the stomach for a long argument with the man.”
“Was Hawat the real traitor?”
“Oh, goodness, no! It was the false doctor.” The Baron wiped at perspiration on his neck. “You must understand, Fenring, I was without a Mentat. You know that. I’ve never been without a Mentat. It was most unsettling.”
“How could you get Hawat to shift allegiance?”
“His Duke was dead.” The Baron forced a smile. “There’s nothing to fear from Hawat, my dear Count. The Mentat’s flesh has been impregnated with a latent poison. We administer an antidote in his meals. Without the antidote, the poison is triggered – he’d die in a few days.”
“Withdraw the antidote,” the Count said.
“But he’s useful!”
“And he knows too many things no living man should know.”
“You said the Emperor doesn’t fear exposure.”
“Don’t play games with me, Baron!”
“When I see such an order above the Imperial seal I’ll obey it,” the Baron said. “But I’ll not submit to your whim.”
“You think it whim?”
“What else can it be? The Emperor has obligations to me, too, Fenring. I rid him of the troublesome Duke.”
“With the help of a few Sardaukar.”
“Where else would the Emperor have found a House to provide the disguising uniforms to hide his hand in this matter?”
“He has asked himself the same question, Baron, but with a slightly different emphasis.”
The Baron studied Fenring, noting the stiffness of jaw muscles, the careful control. “Ah-h-h, now,” the Baron said. “I hope the Emperor doesn’t believe he can move against me in total secrecy.”
“He hopes it won’t become necessary.”
“The Emperor cannot believe I threaten him!” The Baron permitted anger and grief to edge his voice, thinking: Let him wrong me in that! I could place myself on the throne while still beating my breast over how I’d been wronged .
The Count’s voice went dry and remote as he said: “The Emperor believes what his senses tell him.”
“Dare the Emperor charge me with treason before a full Landsraad Council?” And the Baron held his breath with the hope of it.
“The Emperor need dare nothing.”
The Baron whirled away in his suspensors to hide his expression. It could happen in my lifetime! he thought. Emperor! Let him wrong me! Then – the bribes and coercion, the rallying of the Great Houses: they’d flock to my banner like peasants running for shelter. The thing they fear above all else is the Emperor’s Sardaukar loosed upon them one House at a time .
“It’s the Emperor’s sincere hope he’ll never have to charge you with treason,” the Count said.
The Baron found it difficult to keep irony out of his voice and permit only the expression of hurt, but he managed. “I’ve been a most loyal subject. These words hurt me beyond my capacity to express.”
“Um-m-m-m-ah-hm-m-m,” said the Count.
The Baron kept his back to the Count, nodding. Presently he said, “It’s time to go to the arena.”
“Indeed,” said the Count.
They moved out of the cone of silence and, side by side, walked toward the clumps of Houses Minor at the end of the hall. A bell began a slow tolling somewhere in the keep – twenty-minute warning for the arena gathering.
“The Houses Minor wait for you to lead them,” the Count said, nodding toward the people they approached.
Double meaning . . . double meaning , the Baron thought.
He looked up at the new talismans flanking the exit to his hall – the mounted bull’s head and the oil painting of the Old Duke Atreides, the late Duke Leto’s father. They filled the Baron with an odd sense of foreboding, and he wondered what thoughts these talismans had inspired in the Duke Leto as they hung in the halls of Caladan and then on Arrakis – the bravura father and the head of the bull that had killed him.
“Mankind has ah only one mm-m-m science,” the Count said as they picked up their parade of followers and emerged from the hall into the waiting room – a narrow space with high windows and floor of patterned white and purple tile.
“And what science is that?” the Baron asked.
“It’s the um-m-m-ah-h science of ah-h-h discontent,” the Count said.
The Houses Minor behind them, sheep-faced and responsive, laughed with just the right tone of appreciation, but the sound carried a note of discord as it collided with the sudden blast of motors that came to them when pages threw open the outer doors, revealing the line of ground cars, their guidon pennants whipping in a breeze.
The Baron raised his voice to surmount the sudden noise, said, “I hope you’ll not be discontented with the performance of my nephew today, Count Fenring.”
“I ah-h-h am filled um-m-m only with a hm-m-m sense of anticipation, yes,” the Count said. “Always in the ah-h-h process verbal, one um-m-m ah-h-h must consider the ah-h-h office of origin.”
The Baron hid his sudden stiffening of surprise by stumbling on the first step down from the exit. Process verbal! That was a report of a crime against the Imperium!
But the Count chuckled to make it seem a joke, and patted the Baron’s arm.
All the way to the arena, though, the Baron sat back among the armored cushions of his car, casting covert glances at the Count beside him, wondering why the Emperor’s errand boy had thought it necessary to make that particular kind of joke in front of the Houses Minor. It was obvious that Fenring seldom did anything he felt to be unnecessary, or used two words where one would do, or held himself to a single meaning in a single phrase.
They were seated in the golden box above the triangular arena – horns blaring, the tiers above and around them jammed with a hubbub of people and waving pennants – when the answer came to the Baron.
“My dear Baron,” the Count said, leaning close to his ear, “you know, don’t you, that the Emperor has not given official sanction to your choice of heir?”
The Baron felt himself to be within a sudden personal cone of silence produced by his own shock. He stared at Fenring, barely seeing the Count’s lady come through the guards beyond to join the party in the golden box.
“That’s really why I’m here today,” the Count said. “The Emperor wishes me to report on whether you’ve chosen a worthy successor. There’s nothing like the arena to expose the true person from beneath the mask, eh?”
“The Emperor promised me free choice of heir!” the Baron grated.
“We shall see,” Fenring said, and turned away to greet his lady. She sat down, smiling at the Baron, then giving her attention to the sand floor beneath them where Feyd-Rautha was emerging in giles and tights – the black glove and the long knife in his right hand, the white glove and the short knife in his left hand.
“White for poison, black for purity,” the Lady Fenring said. “A curious custom, isn’t it, my love?”
“Um-m-m-m,” the Count said.
The greeting cheer lifted from the family galleries, and Feyd-Rautha paused to accept it, looking up and scanning the faces – seeing his cousines and cousins, the demibrothers, the concubines and out-freyn relations. They were so many pink trumpet mouths yammering amidst a flutter of colorful clothing and banners.
It came to Feyd-Rautha then that the packed ranks of faces would look just as avidly at his blood as at that of the slave-gladiator. There was not a doubt of the outcome in this fight, of course. Here was only the form of danger without its substance – yet . . .
Feyd-Rautha held up his knives to the sun, saluted the three corners of the arena in the ancient manner. The short knife in white-gloved hand (white, the sign of poison) went first into its sheath. Then the long blade in the black-gloved hand – the pure blade that now was unpure, his secret weapon to turn this day into a purely personal victory: poison on the black blade.
The adjustment of his body shield took only a moment, and he paused to sense the skin-tightening at his forehead assuring him he was properly guarded.
This moment carried its own suspense, and Feyd-Rautha dragged it out with the sure hand of a showman, nodding to his handlers and distracters, checking their equipment with a measuring stare – gyves in place with their prickles sharp and glistening, the barbs and hooks waving with their blue streamers.
Feyd-Rautha signaled the musicians.
The slow march began, sonorous with its ancient pomp, and Feyd-Rautha led his troupe across the arena for obeisance at the foot of his uncle’s box. He caught the ceremonial key as it was thrown.
The music stopped.
Into the abrupt silence, he stepped back two paces, raised the key and shouted. “I dedicate this truth to . . . ” And he paused, knowing his uncle would think: The young fool’s going to dedicate to Lady Fenring after all and cause a ruckus!
” . . . to my uncle and patron, the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen!” Feyd-Rautha shouted.
And he was delighted to see his uncle sigh.
The music resumed at the quick-march, and Feyd-Rautha led his men scampering back across the arena to the prudence door that admitted only those wearing the proper identification band. Feyd-Rautha prided himself that he never used the pru-door and seldom needed distracters. But it was good to know they were available this day – special plans sometimes involved special dangers.
Again, silence settled over the arena.
Feyd-Rautha turned, faced the big red door across from him through which the gladiator would emerge.
The special gladiator.
The plan Thufir Hawat had devised was admirably simple and direct, Feyd-Rautha thought. The slave would not be drugged – that was the danger. Instead, a key word had been drummed into the man’s unconscious to immobilize his muscles at a critical instant. Feyd-Rautha rolled the vital word in his mind, mouthing it without sound: “Scum!” To the audience, it would appear that an un-drugged slave had been slipped into the arena to kill the na-Baron. And all the carefully arranged evidence would point to the slavemaster.
A low humming arose from the red door’s servomotors as they were armed for opening.
Feyd-Rautha focused all his awareness on the door. This first moment was the critical one. The appearance of the gladiator as he emerged told the trained eye much it needed to know. All gladiators were supposed to be hyped on elacca drug to come out kill-ready in fighting stance – but you had to watch how they hefted the knife, which way they turned in defense, whether they were actually aware of the audience in the stands. The way a slave cocked his head could give the most vital clue to counter and feint.
The red door slammed open.
Out charged a tall, muscular man with shaved head and darkly pitted eyes. His skin was carrot-colored as it should be from the elacca drug, but Feyd-Rautha knew the color was paint. The slave wore green leotards and the red belt of a semishield – the belt’s arrow pointing left to indicate the slave’s left side was shielded. He held his knife sword-fashion, cocked slightly outward in the stance of a trained fighter. Slowly, he advanced into the arena, turning his shielded side toward Feyd-Rautha and the group at the pru-door.
“I like not the look of this one, “said one of Feyd-Rautha’s barb-men. “Are you sure he’s drugged, m’Lord?”
“He has the color,” Feyd-Rautha said.
“Yet he stands like a fighter,” said another helper.
Feyd-Rautha advanced two steps onto the sand, studied this slave.
“What has he done to his arm?” asked one of the distracters.
Feyd-Rautha’s attention went to a bloody scratch on the man’s left forearm, followed the arm down to the hand as it pointed to a design drawn in blood on the left hip of the green leotards – a wet shape there: the formalized outline of a hawk.
Hawk!
Feyd-Rautha looked up into the darkly pitted eyes, saw them glaring at him with uncommon alertness.
It’s one of Duke Leto’s fighting men we took on Arrakis! Feyd-Rautha thought. No simple gladiator this! A chill ran through him, and he wondered if Hawat had another plan for this arena – a feint within a feint within a feint. And only the slavemaster prepared to take the blame!
Feyd-Rautha’s chief handler spoke at his ear: “I like not the look on that one, m’Lord. Let me set a barb or two in his knife arm to try him.”
“I’ll set my own barbs,” Feyd-Rautha said. He took a pair of the long, hooked shafts from the handler, hefted them, testing the balance. These barbs, too, were supposed to be drugged – but not this time, and the chief handler might die because of that. But it was all part of the plan.
“You’ll come out of this a hero ,” Hawat had said. “Killed your gladiator man to man and in spite of treachery. The slavemaster will be executed and your man will step into his spot .”
Feyd-Rautha advanced another five paces into the arena, playing out the moment, studying the slave. Already, he knew, the experts in the stands above him were aware that something was wrong. The gladiator had the correct skin color for a drugged man, but he stood his ground and did not tremble. The aficionados would be whispering among themselves now: “See how he stands. He should be agitated – attacking or retreating. See how he conserves his strength, how he waits. He should not wait.”
Feyd-Rautha felt his own excitement kindle. Let there be treachery in Hawat’s mind , he thought. I can handle this slave. And it’s my long knife that carries the poison this time, not the short one. Even Hawat doesn’t know that .
“Hai, Harkonnen!” the slave called. “Are you prepared to die?”
Deathly stillness gripped the arena. Slaves did not issue the challenge!
Now, Feyd-Rautha had a clear view of the gladiator’s eyes, saw the cold ferocity of despair in them. He marked the way the man stood, loose and ready, muscles prepared for victory. The slave grapevine had carried Hawat’s message to this one: “You’ll get a true chance to kill the na-Baron .” That much of the scheme was as they’d planned it, then.
A tight smile crossed Feyd-Rautha’s mouth. He lifted the barbs, seeing success for his plans in the way the gladiator stood.
“Hai! Hai!” the slave challenged, and crept forward two steps.
No one in the galleries can mistake it now , Feyd-Rautha thought.
This slave should have been partly crippled by drug-induced terror. Every movement should have betrayed his inner knowledge that there was no hope for him – he could not win. He should have been filled with the stories of the poisons the na-Baron chose for the blade in his white-gloved hand. The na-Baron never gave quick death; he delighted in demonstrating rare poisons, could stand in the arena pointing out interesting side effects on a writhing victim. There was fear in the slave, yes – but not terror.
Feyd-Rautha lifted the barbs high, nodded in an almost-greeting.
The gladiator pounced.
His feint and defensive counter were as good as any Feyd-Rautha had ever seen. A timed side blow missed by the barest fraction from severing the tendons of the na-Baron’s left leg.
Feyd-Rautha danced away, leaving a barbed shaft in the slave’s right forearm, the hooks completely buried in flesh where the man could not withdraw them without ripping tendons.
A concerted gasp lifted from the galleries.
The sound filled Feyd-Rautha with elation.
He knew now what his uncle was experiencing, sitting up there with the Fenrings, the observers from the Imperial Court , beside him. There could be no interference with this fight. The forms must be observed in front of witnesses. And the Baron would interpret the events in the arena only one way – threat to himself.
The slave backed, holding knife in teeth and lashing the barbed shaft to his arm with the pennant. “I do not feel your needle!” he shouted. Again he crept forward, knife ready, left side presented, his body bent backward to give it the greatest surface of protection from the half-shield.
That action, too, didn’t escape the galleries. Sharp cries came from the family boxes. Feyd-Rautha’s handlers were calling out to ask if he needed them.
He waved them back to the pru-door.
I’ll give them a show such as they’ve never had before , Feyd-Rautha thought. No tame killing where they can sit back and admire the style. This’ll be something to take them by the guts and twist them. When I’m Baron they’ll remember this day and won’t be a one of them can escape fear of me because of this day .
Feyd-Rautha gave ground slowly before the gladiator’s crablike advance. Arena sand grated underfoot. He heard the slave’s panting, smelled his own sweat and a faint odor of blood on the air.
Steadily, the na-Baron moved backward, turning to the right, his second barb ready. The slave danced sideways. Feyd-Rautha appeared to stumble, heard the scream from the galleries.
Again, the slave pounced.
Gods, what a fighting man! Feyd-Rautha thought as he leaped aside. Only youth’s quickness saved him, but he left the second barb buried in the deltoid muscle of the slave’s right arm.
Shrill cheers rained from the galleries.
They cheer me now , Feyd-Rautha thought. He heard the wildness in the voices just as Hawat had said he would. They’d never cheered a family fighter that way before. And he thought with an edge of grimness on a thing Hawat had told him: “It’s easier to be terrified by an enemy you admire .”
Swiftly, Feyd-Rautha retreated to the center of the arena where all could see clearly. He drew his long blade, crouched and waited for the advancing slave.
The man took only the time to lash the second barb tight to his arm, then sped in pursuit.
Let the family see me do this thing , Feyd-Rautha thought. I am their enemy: let them think of me as they see me now.
He drew his short blade.
“I do not fear you, Harkonnen swine,” the gladiator said. “Your tortures cannot hurt a dead man. I can be dead on my own blade before a handler lays finger to my flesh. And I’ll have you dead beside me!”
Feyd-Rautha grinned, offered now the long blade, the one with the poison. “Try this one,” he said, and feinted with the short blade in his other hand.
The slave shifted knife hands, turned inside both parry and feint to grapple the na-Baron’s short blade – the one in the white gloved hand that tradition said should carry the poison.
“You will die, Harkonnen,” the gladiator gasped.
They struggled sideways across the sand. Where Feyd-Rautha’s shield met the slave’s halfshield, a blue glow marked the contact. The air around them filled with ozone from the field.
“Die on your own poison!” the slave grated.
He began forcing the white-gloved hand inward, turning the blade he thought carried the poison.
Let them see this! Feyd-Rautha thought. He brought down the long blade, felt it clang uselessly against the barbed shaft lashed to the slave’s arm.
Feyd-Rautha felt a moment of desperation. He had not thought the barbed shafts would be an advantage for the slave. But they gave the man another shield. And the strength of this gladiator! The short blade was being forced inward inexorably, and Feyd-Rautha focused on the fact that a man could also die on an unpoisoned blade.
“Scum!” Feyd-Rautha gasped.
At the key word, the gladiator’s muscles obeyed with a momentary slackness. It was enough for Feyd-Rautha. He opened a space between them sufficient for the long blade. Its poisoned tip flicked out, drew a red line down the slave’s chest. There was instant agony in the poison. The man disengaged himself, staggered backward.
Now, let my dear family watch , Feyd-Rautha thought. Let them think on this slave who tried to turn the knife he thought poisoned and use it against me. Let them wonder how a gladiator could come into this arena ready for such an attempt. And let them always be aware they cannot know for sure which of my hands carries the poison .
Feyd-Rautha stood in silence, watching the slowed motions of the slave. The man moved within a hesitation-awareness. There was an orthographic thing on his face now for every watcher to recognize. The death was written there. The slave knew it had been done to him and he knew how it had been done. The wrong blade had carried the poison.
“You!” the man moaned.
Feyd-Rautha drew back to give death its space. The paralyzing drug in the poison had yet to take full effect, but the man’s slowness told of its advance.
The slave staggered forward as though drawn by a string – one dragging step at a time. Each step was the only step in his universe. He still clutched his knife, but its point wavered.
“One day . . . one . . . of us . . . will . . . get . . . you,” he gasped.
A sad little moue contorted his mouth. He sat, sagged, then stiffened and rolled away from Feyd-Rautha, face down.
Feyd-Rautha advanced in the silent arena, put a toe under the gladiator and rolled him onto his back to give the galleries a clear view of the face when the poison began its twisting, wrenching work on the muscles. But the gladiator came over with his own knife, protruding from his breast.
In spite of frustration, there was for Feyd-Rautha a measure of admiration for the effort this slave had managed in overcoming the paralysis to do this thing to himself. With the admiration came the realization that here was truly a thing to fear.
That which makes a man superhuman is terrifying.
As he focused on this thought, Feyd-Rautha became conscious of the eruption of noise from the stands and galleries around him. They were cheering with utter abandon.
Feyd-Rautha turned, looking up at them.
All were cheering except the Baron, who sat with hand to chin in deep contemplation – and the Count and his lady, both of whom were staring down at him, their faces masked by smiles.
Count Fenring turned to his lady, said: “Ah-h-h-um-m-m, a resourceful um-m-m-m young man. Eh, mm-m-m-ah, my dear?”
“His ah-h-h synaptic responses are very swift,” she said.
The Baron looked at her, at the Count, returned his attention to the arena, thinking: If someone could get that close to one of mine! Rage began to replace his fear. I’ll have the slavemaster dead over a slow fire this night . . . and if this Count and his lady had a hand in it . . .
The conversation in the Baron’s box was remote movement to Feyd-Rautha, the voices drowned in the foot-stamping chant that came now from all around:
“Head! Head! Head! Head!”
The Baron scowled, seeing the way Feyd-Rautha turned to him. Languidly, controlling his rage with difficulty, the Baron waved his hand toward the young man standing in the arena beside the sprawled body of the slave. Give the boy a head. He earned it by exposing the slavemaster .
Feyd-Rautha saw the signal of agreement, thought: They think they honor me. Let them see what I think!
He saw his handlers approaching with a saw-knife to do the honors, waved them back, repeated the gesture as they hesitated. They think they honor me with just a head! he thought. He bent and crossed the gladiator’s hands around the protruding knife handle, then removed the knife and placed it in the limp hands.
It was done in an instant, and he straightened, beckoned his handlers. “Bury this slave intact with his knife in his hands,” he said. “The man earned it.”
In the golden box, Count Fenring leaned close to the Baron, said: “A grand gesture, that – true bravura. Your nephew has style as well as courage.”
“He insults the crowd by refusing the head,” the Baron muttered.
“Not at all,” Lady Fenring said. She turned, looking up at the tiers around them.
And the Baron noted the line of her neck – a truly lovely flowing of muscles – like a young boy’s.
“They like what your nephew did,” she said.
As the import of Feyd-Rautha’s gesture penetrated to the most distant seats, as the people saw the handlers carrying off the dead gladiator intact, the Baron watched them and realized she had interpreted the reaction correctly. The people were going wild, beating on each other, screaming and stamping.
The Baron spoke wearily. “I shall have to order a fete. You cannot send people home like this, their energies unspent. They must see that I share their elation.” He gave a hand signal to his guard, and a servant above them dipped the Harkonnen orange pennant over the box – once, twice, three times – signal for a fete.
Feyd-Rautha crossed the arena to stand beneath the golden box, his weapons sheathed, arms hanging at his sides. Above the undiminished frenzy of the crowd, he called: “A fete, Uncle?”
The noise began to subside as people saw the conversation and waited.
“In your honor, Feyd!” the Baron called down. And again, he caused the pennant to be dipped in signal.
Across the arena, the pru-barriers had been dropped and young men were leaping down into the arena, racing toward Feyd-Rautha.
“You ordered the pru-shields dropped. Baron?” the Count asked.
“No one will harm the lad,” the Baron said. “He’s a hero.”
The first of the charging mass reached Feyd-Rautha, lifted him on their shoulders, began parading around the arena.
“He could walk unarmed and unshielded through the poorest quarters of Harko tonight,” the Baron said. “They’d give him the last of their food and drink just for his company.”
The Baron pushed himself from his chair, settled his weight into his suspensors. “You will forgive me, please. There are matters that require my immediate attention. The guard will see you to the keep.”
The Count arose, bowed. “Certainly, Baron. We’re looking forward to the fete. I’ve ah-h-h-mm-m-m never seen a Harkonnen fete.”
“Yes,” the Baron said. “The fete.” He turned, was enveloped by guards as he stepped into the private exit from the box.
A guard captain bowed to Count Fenring. “Your orders, my Lord?”
“We will ah-h-h wait for the worst mm-m-m crush to um-m-m pass,” the Count said.
“Yes, m’Lord.” The man bowed himself back three paces.
Count Fenring faced his lady, spoke again in their personal humming-code tongue: “You saw it, of course?”
In the same humming tongue, she said: “The lad knew the gladiator wouldn’t be drugged. There was a moment of fear, yes, but no surprise.”
“It was planned,” he said. “The entire performance.”
“Without a doubt.”
“It stinks of Hawat.”
“Indeed,” she said.
“I demanded earlier that the Baron eliminate Hawat.”
“That was an error, my dear.”
“I see that now.”
“The Harkonnens may have a new Baron ere long.”
“If that’s Hawat’s plan.”
“That will bear examination, true,” she said.
“The young one will be more amenable to control.”
“For us . . . after tonight,” she said.
“You don’t anticipate difficulty seducing him, my little brood-mother?”
“No, my love. You saw how he looked at me.”
“Yes, and I can see now why we must have that bloodline.”
“Indeed, and it’s obvious we must have a hold on him. I’ll plant deep in his deepest self the necessary prana-bindu phrases to bend him.”
“We’ll leave as soon as possible – as soon as you’re sure,” he said.
She shuddered. “By all means. I should not want to bear a child in this terrible place.”
“The things we do in the name of humanity,” he said.
“Yours is the easy part,” she said.
“There are some ancient prejudices I overcome,” he said. “They’re quite primordial, you know.”
“My poor dear,” she said, and patted his cheek. “You know this is the only way to be sure of saving that bloodline.”
He spoke in a dry voice: “I quite understand what we do.”
“We won’t fail,” she said.
“Guilt starts as a feeling of failure,” he reminded.
“There’ll be no guilt,” she said. “Hypno-ligation of that Feyd-Rautha’s psyche and his child in my womb – then we go.”
“That uncle,” he said. “Have you ever seen such distortion?”
“He’s pretty fierce,” she said, “but the nephew could well grow to be worse.”
“Thanks to that uncle. You know, when you think what this lad could’ve been with some other upbringing – with the Atreides code to guide him, for example.”
“It’s sad, “she said.
“Would that we could’ve saved both the Atreides youth and this one. From what I heard of that young Paul – a most admirable lad, good union of breeding and training.” He shook his head. “But we shouldn’t waste sorrow over the aristocracy of misfortune.”
“There’s a Bene Gesserit saying,” she said.
“You have sayings for everything!” he protested.
“You’ll like this one,” she said. “It goes: ‘Do not count a human dead until you’ve seen his body. And even then you can make a mistake.’ ”
Muad’Dib tells us in “A Time of Reflection” that his first collisions with Arrakeen necessities were the true beginnings of his education. He learned then how to pole the sand for its weather, learned the language of the wind’s needles stinging his skin, learned how the nose can buzz with sand-itch and how to gather his body’s precious moisture around him to guard it and preserve it. As his eyes assumed the blue of the Ibad, he learned the Chakobsa way.
– Stilgar’s preface to “Muad’Dib, the Man” by the Princess Irulan
Stilgar’s troop returning to the sietch with its two strays from the desert climbed out of the basin in the waning light of the first moon. The robed figures hurried with the smell of home in their nostrils. Dawn’s gray line behind them was brightest at the notch in their horizon-calendar that marked the middle of autumn, the month of Caprock.
Wind-raked dead leaves strewed the cliffbase where the sietch children had been gathering them, but the sounds of the troop’s passage (except for occasional blunderings by Paul and his mother) could not be distinguished from the natural sounds of the night.
Paul wiped sweat-caked dust from his forehead, felt a tug at his arm, heard Chani’s voice hissing. “Do as I told you: bring the fold of your hood down over your forehead! Leave only the eyes exposed. You waste moisture.”
A whispered command behind them demanded silence: “The desert hears you!”
A bird chirruped from the rocks high above them.
The troop stopped, and Paul sensed abrupt tension.
There came a faint thumping from the rocks, a sound no louder than mice jumping in the sand.
Again, the bird chirruped.
A stir passed through the troop’s ranks. And again, the mouse-thumping pecked its way across the sand.
Once more, the bird chirruped.
The troop resumed its climb up into a crack in the rocks, but there was a stillness of breath about the Fremen now that filled Paul with caution, and he noted covert glances toward Chani, the way she seemed to withdraw, pulling in upon herself.
There was rock underfoot now, a faint gray swishing of robes around them, and Paul sensed a relaxing of discipline, but still that quiet-of-the-person about Chani and the others. He followed a shadow shape – up steps, a turn, more steps, into a tunnel, past two moisture-sealed doors and into a globelighted narrow passage with yellow rock walls and ceiling.
All around him, Paul saw the Fremen throwing back their hoods, removing nose plugs, breathing deeply. Someone sighed. Paul looked for Chani, found that she had left his side. He was hemmed in by a press of robed bodies. Someone jostled him, said, “Excuse me, Usul. What a crush! It’s always this way.”
On his left, the narrow bearded face of the one called Farok turned toward Paul. The stained eyepits and blue darkness of eyes appeared even darker under the yellow globes. “Throw off your hood, Usul,” Farok said. “You’re home.” And he helped Paul, releasing the hood catch, elbowing a space around them.
Paul slipped out his nose plugs, swung the mouth baffle aside. The odor of the place assailed him: unwashed bodies, distillate esters of reclaimed wastes, everywhere the sour effluvia of humanity with, over it all, a turbulence of spice and spicelike harmonics.
“Why are we waiting, Farok?” Paul asked.
“For the Reverend Mother, I think. You heard the message – poor Chani.”
Poor Chani? Paul asked himself. He looked around, wondering where she was, where his mother had got to in all this crush.
Farok took a deep breath. “The smells of home,” he said.
Paul saw that the man was enjoying the stink of this air, that there was no irony in his tone. He heard his mother cough then, and her voice came back to him through the press of the troop: “How rich the odors of your sietch, Stilgar. I see you do much working with the spice . . . you make paper . . . plastics . . . and isn’t that chemical explosives?”
“You know this from what you smell?” It was another man’s voice.
And Paul realized she was speaking for his benefit, that she wanted him to make a quick acceptance of this assault on his nostrils.
There came a buzz of activity at the head of the troop and a prolonged indrawn breath that seemed to pass through the Fremen, and Paul heard hushed voices back down the line: “It’s true then – Liet is dead.”
Liet , Paul thought. Then: Chani, daughter of Liet . The pieces fell together in his mind. Liet was the Fremen name of the planetologist.
Paul looked at Farok, asked: “Is it the Liet known as Kynes?”
“There is only one Liet,” Farok said.
Paul turned, stared at the robed back of a Fremen in front of him. Then Liet-Kynes is dead , he thought.
“It was Harkonnen treachery,” someone hissed. “They made it seem an accident . . . lost in the desert . . . a ‘thopter crash . . . ”
Paul felt a burst of anger. The man who had befriended them, helped save them from the Harkonnen hunters, the man who had sent his Fremen cohorts searching for two strays in the desert . . . another victim of the Harkonnens.
“Does Usul hunger yet for revenge?” Farok asked.
Before Paul could answer, there came a low call and the troop swept forward into a wider chamber, carrying Paul with them. He found himself in an open space confronted by Stilgar and a strange woman wearing a flowing wraparound garment of brilliant orange and green. Her arms were bare to the shoulders, and he could see she wore no stillsuit. Her skin was a pale olive. Dark hair swept back from her high forehead, throwing emphasis on sharp cheekbones and aquiline nose between the dense darkness of her eyes.
She turned toward him, and Paul saw golden rings threaded with water tallies dangling from her ears.
“This bested my Jamis?” she demanded.
“Be silent, Harah,” Stilgar said. “It was Jamis’ doing – he invoked the tahaddi al-burhan.”
“He’s not but a boy!” she said. She gave her head a sharp shake from side to side, setting the water tallies to jingling. “My children made fatherless by another child? Surely, ’twas an accident!”
“Usul, how many years have you?” Stilgar asked.
“Fifteen standard,” Paul said.
Stilgar swept his eyes over the troop. “Is there one among you cares to challenge me?”
Silence.
Stilgar looked at the woman. “Until I’ve learned his weirding ways. I’d not challenge him.”
She returned his stare. “But – ”
“You saw the stranger, woman who went with Chani to the Reverend Mother?” Stilgar asked. “She’s an out-freyn Sayyadina, mother to this lad. The mother and son are masters of the weirding ways of battle.”
