"The Lady Jessica must be told," Idaho said. "Gurney says--"
"That message may not come from Gurney Halleck."
"It comes from no other. We Atreides have our ways of verifying messages. Stil, won't you at least explore some of--"
"Jacurutu is no more," Stilgar said. "It was destroyed many generations ago." He touched Idaho's sleeve. "In any event, I cannot spare the fighting men. These are troubled times, the threat to the qanat ... you understand?" He sat back. "Now, when Alia--"
"There is no more Alia," Idaho said.
"So you say." Stilgar took another sip of coffee, replaced the cup. "Let it rest there, friend Idaho. Often there's no need to tear off an arm to remove a splinter."
"Then let's talk about Ghanima."
"There's no need. She has my countenance, my bond. No one can harm her here."
He cannot be that naive, Idaho thought.
But Stilgar was rising to indicate that the interview was ended.
Idaho levered himself to his feet, feeling the stiffness in his knees. His calves felt numb. As Idaho stood, an aide entered and stood aside. Javid came into the room behind him. Idaho turned. Stilgar stood four paces away. Without hesitating, Idaho drew his knife in one swift motion and drove its point into the breast of the unsuspecting Javid. The man staggered backward, pulling himself off the knife. He turned, fell onto his face. His legs kicked and he was dead.
"That was to silence the gossip," Idaho said.
The aide stood with drawn knife, undecided how to react. Idaho had already sheathed his own knife, leaving a trace of blood on the edge of his yellow robe.
"You have defiled my honor!" Stilgar cried. "This is neutral--"
"Shut up!" Idaho glared at the shocked Naib. "You wear a collar, Stilgar! "
It was one of the three most deadly insults which could be directed at a Fremen. Stilgar's face went pale.
"You are a servant," Idaho said. "You've sold Fremen for their water."
This was the second most deadly insult, the one which had destroyed the original Jacurutu.
Stilgar ground his teeth, put a hand on his crysknife. The aide stepped back away from the body in the doorway.
Turning his back on the Naib, Idaho stepped into the door, taking the narrow opening beside Javid's body and speaking without turning, delivered the third insult. "You have no immortality, Stilgar. None of your descendants carry your blood!"
"Where do you go now, mentat?" Stilgar called as Idaho continued leaving the room. Stilgar's voice was as cold as a wind from the poles.
"To find Jacurutu," Idaho said, still not turning.
Stilgar drew his knife. "Perhaps I can help you."
Idaho was at the outer lip of the passage now. Without stopping, he said: "If you'd help me with your knife, water-thief, please do it in my back. That's the fitting way for one who wears the collar of a demon."
With two leaping strides Stilgar crossed the room, stepped on Javid's body and caught Idaho in the outer passage. One gnarled hand jerked Idaho around and to a stop. Stilgar confronted Idaho with bared teeth and a drawn knife. Such was his rage that Stilgar did not even see the curious smile on Idaho's face.
"Draw your knife, mentat scum!" Stilgar roared.
Idaho laughed. He cuffed Stilgar sharply--left hand, right hand--two stinging slaps to the head.
With an incoherent screech, Stilgar drove his knife into Idaho's abdomen, striking upward through the diaphragm into the heart.
Idaho sagged onto the blade, grinned up at Stilgar, whose rage dissolved into sudden icy shock.
"Two deaths for the Atreides," Idaho husked. "The second for no better reason than the first." He lurched sideways, collapsed to the stone floor on his face. Blood spread out from his wound.
Stilgar stared down past his dripping knife at the body of Idaho, took a deep, trembling breath. Javid lay dead behind him. And the consort of Alia, the Womb of Heaven, lay dead at Stilgar's own hands. It might be argued that a Naib had but protected the honor of his name, avenging the threat to his promised neutrality. But this dead man was Duncan Idaho. No matter the arguments available, no matter the "extenuating circumstances," nothing could erase such an act. Even were Alia to approve privately, she would be forced to respond publicly in revenge. She was, after all, Fremen. To rule Fremen, she could be nothing else, not even to the smallest degree.
Only then did it occur to Stilgar that this situation was precisely what Idaho had intended to buy with his "second death."
Stilgar looked up, saw the shocked face of Harah, his second wife, peering at him in an enclosing throng. Everywhere Stilgar turned there were faces with identical expressions: shock and an understanding of the consequences.
Slowly Stilgar drew himself erect, wiped the blade on his sleeve and sheathed it. Speaking to the faces, his tone casual, he said: "Those who'll go with me should pack at once. Send men to summon worms."
"Where will you go, Stilgar?" Harah asked.
"Into the desert."
"I will go with you," she said.
"Of course you'll go with me. All of my wives will go with me. And Ghanima. Get her, Harah. At once."
"Yes, Stilgar ... at once." She hesitated. "And Irulan?"
"If she wishes."
"Yes, husband." Still she hesitated. "You take Ghani as hostage?"
"Hostage?" He was genuinely startled by the thought. "Woman ..." He touched Idaho's body softly with a toe. "If this mentat was right, I'm Ghani's only hope." And he remembered then Leto's warning: "Beware of Alia. You must take Ghani and flee."
After the Fremen, all Planetologists see life as expressions of energy and look for the overriding relationships. In small pieces, bits and parcels which grow into general understanding, the Fremen racial wisdom is translated into a new certainty. The thing Fremen have as a people, any people can have. They need but develop a sense for energy relationships. They need but observe that energy soaks up the patterns of things and builds with those patterns.
--THE ARRAKEEN CATASTROPHE AFTER HARQ AL-ADA
It was Tuek's Sietch on the inner lip of False Wall. Halleck stood in the shadow of the rock buttress which shielded the high entrance to the sietch, waiting for those inside to decide whether they would shelter him. He turned his gaze outward to the northern desert and then upward to the grey-blue morning sky. The smugglers here had been astonished to learn that he, an off-worlder, had captured a worm and ridden it. But Halleck had been equally astonished at their reaction. The thing was simple for an agile man who'd seen it done many times.
Halleck returned his attention to the desert, the silver desert of shining rocks and grey-green fields where water had worked its magic. All of this struck him suddenly as an enormously fragile containment of energy, of life--everything threatened by an abrupt shift in the pattern of change.
He knew the source of this reaction. It was the bustling scene on the desert floor below him. Containers of dead sandtrout were being trundled into the sietch for distillation and recovery of their water. There were thousands of the creatures. They had come to an outpouring of water. And it was this outpouring which had set Halleck's mind racing.
Halleck stared downward across the sietch fields and the qanat boundary which no longer flowed with precious water. He had seen the holes in the qanat's stone walls, the rending of the rock liner which had spilled water into the sand. What had made those holes? Some stretched along twenty meters of the qanat's most vulnerable sections, in places where soft sand led outward into water-absorbing depressions. It was those depressions which had swarmed with sandtrout. The children of the sietch were killing them and capturing them.
Repair teams worked on the shattered walls of the qanat. Others carried minims of irrigation water to the most needy plants. The water source in the gigantic cistern beneath Tuek's windtrap had been closed off, preventing the flow into the shattered qanat. The sun-powered pumps had been disconnected. The irrigation water came from dwindling pools at the bottom of the qanat and, lab
oriously, from the cistern within the sietch.
The metal frame of the doorseal behind Halleck crackled in the growing warmth of the day. As though the sound moved his eyes, Halleck found his gaze drawn to the farthest curve of the qanat, to the place where water had reached most impudently into the desert. The garden-hopeful planners of the sietch had planted a special tree there and it was doomed unless the water flow could be restored soon. Halleck stared at the silly, trailing plumage of a willow tree there shredded by sand and wind. For him, that tree symbolized the new reality for himself and for Arrakis.
Both of us are alien here.
They were taking a long time over their decision within the sietch, but they could use good fighting men. Smugglers always needed good men. Halleck had no illusions about them, though. The smugglers of this age were not the smugglers who'd sheltered him so many years ago when he'd fled the dissolution of his Duke's fief. No, these were a new breed, quick to seek profit.
Again he focused on the silly willow. It came to Halleck then that the stormwinds of his new reality might shred these smugglers and all of their friends. It might destroy Stilgar with his fragile neutrality and take with him all of the tribes who remained loyal to Alia. They'd all become colonial peoples. Halleck had seen it happen before, knowing the bitter taste of it on his own homeworld. He saw it clearly, recalling the mannerisms of the city Fremen, the pattern of the suburbs, and the unmistakable ways of the rural sietch which rubbed off even on this smugglers' hideaway. The rural districts were colonies of the urban centers. They'd learned how to wear a padded yoke, led into it by their greed if not their superstitions. Even here, especially here, the people had the attitude of a subject population, not the attitude of free men. They were defensive, concealing, evasive. Any manifestation of authority was subject to resentment--any authority: the Regency's, Stilgar's, their own Council ...
I can't trust them, Halleck thought. He could only use them and nurture their distrust of others. It was sad. Gone was the old give and take of free men. The old ways had been reduced to ritual words, their origins lost to memory.
Alia had done her work well, punishing opposition and rewarding assistance, shifting the Imperial forces in random fashion, concealing the major elements of her Imperial power. The spies! Gods below, the spies she must have!
Halleck could almost see the deadly rhythm of movement and counter-movement by which Alia hoped to keep her opposition off balance.
If the Fremen remain dormant, she'll win, he thought.
The doorseal behind him crackled as it was opened. A sietch attendant named Melides emerged. He was a short man with a gourd-like body which dwindled into spindly legs whose ugliness was only accented by a stillsuit.
"You have been accepted," Melides said.
And Halleck heard the sly dissimulation in the man's voice. What that voice revealed told Halleck there was sanctuary here for only a limited time.
Just until I can steal one of their 'thopters, he thought.
"My gratitude to your Council," he said. And he thought of Esmar Tuek, for whom this sietch had been named. Esmar, long dead of someone's treachery, would have slit the throat of this Melides on sight.
Any path which narrows future possibilities may become a lethal trap. Humans are not threading their way through a maze; they scan a vast horizon filled with unique opportunities. The narrowing viewpoint of the maze should appeal only to creatures with their noses buried in sand. Sexually produced uniqueness and differences are the life-protection of the spices.
--THE SPACING GUILD HANDBOOK
"Why do I not feel grief?" Alia directed the question at the ceiling of her small audience chamber, a room she could cross in ten paces one way and fifteen the other. It had two tall and narrow windows which looked out across the Arrakeen rooftops at the Shield Wall.
It was almost noon. The sun burned down into the pan upon which the city had been built.
Alia lowered her gaze to Buer Agarves, the former Tabrite and now aide to Zia who directed the Temple guards. Agarves had brought the news that Javid and Idaho were dead. A mob of sycophants, aides and guards had come in with him and more crowded the areaway outside, revealing that they already knew Agarves's message.
Bad news traveled fast on Arrakis.
He was a small man, this Agarves, with a round face for a Fremen, almost infantile in its roundness. He was one of the new breed who had gone to water-fatness. Alia saw him as though he had been split into two images: one with a serious face and opaque indigo eyes, a worried expression around the mouth, the other image sensuous and vulnerable, excitingly vulnerable. She especially liked the thickness of his lips.
Although it was not yet noon, Alia felt something in the shocked silence around her that spoke of sunset.
Idaho should've died at sunset, she told herself.
"How is it, Buer, that you're the bearer of this news?" she asked, noting the watchful quickness which came into his expression.
Agarves tried to swallow, spoke in a hoarse voice hardly more than a whisper. "I went with Javid, you recall? And when ... Stilgar sent me to you, he said for me to tell you that I carried his final obedience."
"Final obedience," she echoed. "What'd he mean by that?"
"I don't know, Lady Alia," he pleaded.
"Explain to me again what you saw," she ordered, and she wondered at how cold her skin felt.
"I saw ..." He bobbed his head nervously, looked at the floor in front of Alia. "I saw the Holy Consort dead upon the floor of the central passage, and Javid lay dead nearby in a side passage. The women already were preparing them for Huanui."
"And Stilgar summoned you to this scene?"
"That is true, My Lady. Stilgar summoned me. He sent Modibo, the Bent One, his messenger in sietch. Modibo gave me no warning. He merely told me Stilgar wanted me."
"And you saw my husband's body there on the floor?"
He met her eyes with a darting glance, returned his attention once more to the floor in front of her before nodding. "Yes, My Lady. And Javid dead nearby. Stilgar told me ... told me that the Holy Consort had slain Javid."
"And my husband, you say Stilgar--"
"He said it to me with his own mouth, My Lady. Stilgar said he had done this. He said the Holy Consort provoked him to rage."
"Rage," Alia repeated. "How was that done?"
"He didn't say. No one said. I asked and no one said."
"And that's when you were sent to me with this news?"
"Yes, My Lady."
"Was there nothing you could do?"
Agarves wet his lips with his tongue, then: "Stilgar commanded, My Lady. It was his sietch."
"I see. And you always obeyed Stilgar."
"I always did, My Lady, until he freed me from my bond."
"When you were sent to my service, you mean?"
"I obey only you now, My Lady."
"Is that right? Tell me, Buer, if I commanded you to slay Stilgar, your old Naib, would you do it?"
He met her gaze with a growing firmness. "If you commanded it, My Lady."
"I do command it. Have you any idea where he's gone?"
"Into the desert; that's all I know, My Lady."
"How many men did he take?"
"Perhaps half the effectives."
"And Ghanima and Irulan with him!"
"Yes, My Lady. Those who left are burdened with their women, their children and their baggage. Stilgar gave everyone a choice--go with him or be freed of their bond. Many chose to be freed. They will select a new Naib."
"I'll select their new Naib! And it'll be you, Buer Agarves, on the day you bring me Stilgar's head."
Agarves could accept selection by battle. It was a Fremen way. He said: "As you command, My Lady. What forces may I--"
"See Zia. I can't give you many 'thopters for the search. They're needed elsewhere. But you'll have enough fighting men. Stilgar has defamed his honor. Many will serve with you gladly."
"I'll get about it, then, My Lady." r />
"Wait!" She studied him a moment, reviewing whom she could send to watch over this vulnerable infant. He would need close watching until he'd proved himself. Zia would know whom to send.
"Am I not dismissed, My Lady?"
"You are not dismissed. I must consult you privately and at length on your plans to take Stilgar." She put a hand to her face. "I'll not grieve until you've exacted my revenge. Give me a few minutes to compose myself." She lowered her hand. "One of my attendants will show you the way." She gave a subtle hand signal to one of her attendants, whispered to Shalus, her new Dame of Chamber: "Have him washed and perfumed before you bring him. He smells of worm."
"Yes, mistress."
Alia turned then, feigning the grief she did not feel, and fled to her private chambers. There, in her bedroom, she slammed the door into its tracks, cursed and stamped her foot.