Dune (55 page)

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.