“Commander?” he asked.
“It is the Lord Leto’s wish that you command his Royal Guard,” Luli said.
“That so? Let’s go talk to him about it.”
“Oh, no!” Luli was visibly shocked. “The Lord Leto will summon you when it is time. For now, he wishes us to make you comfortable and happy.”
“And I must obey?”
Luli merely shook her head in puzzlement.
“Am I a slave?”
Luli relaxed and smiled. “By no means. It’s just that the Lord Leto has many great concerns which require his personal attention. He must make time for you. He sent us because he was concerned about his Duncan Idaho. You have been a long time in the hands of the dirty Tleilaxu.”
Dirty Tleilaxu
, Idaho thought.
That, at least, had not changed.
He was concerned, though, by a particular reference in Luli’s explanation.
“
His
Duncan Idaho?”
“Are you not an Atreides warrior?” Luli asked.
She had him there. Idaho nodded, turning his head slightly to stare at the enigmatic masked woman.
“Why are you masked?”
“It must not be known that I serve the Lord Leto,” she said. Her voice was a pleasant contralto, but Idaho suspected that this, too, was masked by the cibus hood.
“Then why are you here?”
“The Lord Leto trusts me to determine if you have been tampered with by the dirty Tleilaxu.”
Idaho tried to swallow in a suddenly dry throat. This thought had occurred to him several times aboard the Guild transport. If the Tleilaxu could condition a ghola to attempt the murder of a dear friend, what else might they plant in the psyche of the regrown flesh?
“I see that you have thought about this,” the masked woman said.
“Are you a mentat?” Idaho asked.
“Oh, no!” Luli interrupted. “The Lord Leto does not permit the training of mentats.”
Idaho glanced at Luli, then returned his attention to the masked woman.
No mentats.
The Tleilaxu history had not mentioned that interesting fact. Why would Leto prohibit mentats? Surely, the human mind trained in the super abilities of computation still had its uses. The Tleilaxu had assured him that the Great Convention remained in force and that mechanical computers were still anathema. Surely, these women would know that the Atreides themselves had used mentats.
“What is your opinion?” the masked woman asked. “Have the dirty Tleilaxu tampered with your psyche?”
“I don’t … think so.”
“But you are not certain?”
“No.”
“Do not fear, Commander Idaho,” she said. “We have ways of making sure and ways of dealing with such problems should they arise. The dirty Tleilaxu have tried it only once and they paid dearly for their mistake.”
“That’s reassuring. Did the Lord Leto send me any messages?”
Luli spoke up: “He told us to assure you that he still loves you as the Atreides have always loved you.” She was obviously awed by her own words.
Idaho relaxed slightly. As an old Atreides hand, superbly trained by them, he had found it easy to determine several things from this encounter. These two had been heavily conditioned to a fanatic obedience. If a cibus mask could hide the identity of that woman, there had to be many more whose bodies were very similar. All of this spoke of dangers around Leto which still required the old and subtle services of spies and an imaginative arsenal of weapons.
Luli looked at her companion. “What say you, Friend?”
“He may be brought to the Citadel,” the masked woman said. “This is not a good place. Tleilaxu have been here.”
“A warm bath and change of clothing would be pleasant,” Idaho said.
Luli continued to look at her Friend. “You are certain?”
“The wisdom of the Lord cannot be questioned,” the masked woman said.
Idaho did not like the sound of fanaticism in this
Friend’s
voice, but he felt secure in the integrity of the Atreides. They could appear cynical and cruel to outsiders and enemies, but to their own people they were just and they were loyal. Above all else, the Atreides were loyal to their own.
And I am one of theirs,
Idaho thought.
But what happened to the
me
that I am replacing?
He felt strongly that these two would not answer this question.
But Leto will.
“Shall we go?” he asked. “I’m anxious to wash the stink of the dirty Tleilaxu off me.”
Luli grinned at him.
“Come. I shall bathe you myself.”
Enemies strengthen you.
Allies weaken.
I tell you this in the hope that it will help you understand why I act as I do in the full knowledge that great forces accumulate in my Empire with but one wish—the wish to destroy me. You who read these words may know full well what actually happened, but I doubt that you understand it.
—THE STOLEN JOURNALS
The ceremony of “Showing” by which the rebels began their meetings dragged on interminably for Siona. She sat in the front row and looked everywhere but at Topri, who was conducting the ceremony only a few paces away. This room in the service burrows beneath Onn was one they had never used before but it was so like all of their other meeting places that it could have been used as a standard model.
Rebel Meeting Room— Class B
, she thought.
It was officially designated as a storage chamber and the fixed glowglobes could not be tuned away from their blank white glaring. The room was about thirty paces long and slightly less in width. It could be reached only through a labyrinthine series of similar chambers, one of which was conveniently stocked with a supply of stiff folding chairs intended for the small sleeping chambers of the service personnel. Nineteen of Siona’s fellow rebels now occupied these chairs around her, with a few empty for any latecomers who might still make the meeting.
The time had been set between the midnight and morning shifts to mask the flow of extra people in the service warrens. Most of the rebels wore energy-worker disguises—thin gray disposable trousers and jackets. Some few, including Siona, were garbed in the green of machinery inspectors.
Topri’s voice was an insistent monotone in the room. He did not squeak at all while conducting the ceremony. In fact, Siona had to admit he was rather good at it, especially with new recruits. Since Nayla’s flat statement that she did not trust the man, though, Siona had looked at Topri in a different way. Nayla could speak with a cutting naiveté which pulled away masks. And there were things that Siona had learned about Topri since that confrontation.
Siona turned at last and looked at the man. The cold silvery light did not help Topri’s pale skin. He used a copy of a crysknife in the ceremony, a contraband copy bought from the Museum Fremen. Siona recalled the transaction as she looked at the blade in Topri’s hands. It had been Topri’s idea, and she had thought it a good one at the time. He had led her to the rendezvous in a hovel on the city’s outskirts, leaving Onn just at dusk. They had waited well into the night until darkness could mask the Museum Fremen’s coming. Fremen were not supposed to leave their sietch quarters without a special dispensation from the God Emperor.
She had almost given up on him when the Fremen arrived, slipping in out of the night, his escort left behind to guard the door. Topri and Siona had been waiting on a crude bench against a dank wall of the absolutely plain room. The only light had come from a dim yellow torch supported on a stick driven into the crumbling mud wall.
The Fremen’s first words had filled Siona with misgivings.
“Have you brought the money?”
Both Topri and Siona had risen at his entry. Topri did not appear bothered by the question. He tapped the pouch beneath his robe, making it jingle.
“I have the money right here.”
The Fremen was a wizened figure, crabbed and bent, wearing a copy of the old Fremen robes and some glistening garment underneath, probably their version of a stillsuit. His hood was drawn forward, shading his features. The torchlight sent shadows dancing across his face.
He peered first at Topri then at Siona before removing an object wrapped in cloth from beneath his robe.
“It is a true copy, but it is made of plastic,” he said. “It will not cut cold grease.”
He pulled the blade from its wrappings then and held it up.
Siona, who had seen crysknives only in museums and in the rare old visual recordings of her family’s archives, had found herself oddly gripped by the sight of the blade in this setting. She felt something atavistic working on her and imagined this poor Museum Fremen with his plastic crysknife as a real Fremen of the old days. The thing he held was suddenly a silver-bladed crysknife shimmering in the yellow shadows.
“I guarantee the authenticity of the blade from which we copied it,” the Fremen said. He spoke in a low voice, somehow made menacing by its lack of emphasis.
Siona heard it then, the way he carried his venom in a sleeve of soft vowels and she was suddenly alerted.
“Try treachery and we will hunt you down like vermin,” she said.
Topri shot a startled glance at her.
The Museum Fremen appeared to shrivel, drawing in upon himself. The blade trembled in his hand, but his gnome fingers still curled inward around it as though clasping a throat.
“Treachery, Lady? Oh, no. But it occurred to us that we asked too little for this copy. Poor as it is, making it and selling it this way puts us in dreadful peril.”
Siona glared at him, thinking of the old Fremen words from the Oral History:
“Once you acquire a marketplace soul, the
suk
is the totality of existence.”
“How much do you want?” she demanded.
He named a sum twice his original figure.
Topri gasped.
Siona looked at Topri. “Do you have that much?”
“Not quite, but we agreed on …”
“Give him what you have, all of it,” Siona said.
“All of it?”
“Isn’t that what I said? Every coin in that bag.” She faced the Museum Fremen. “You will accept this payment.” It was not a question and the old man heard her correctly. He wrapped the blade in its cloth and passed it to her.
Topri handed over the pouch of coins, muttering under his breath.
Siona addressed herself to the Museum Fremen. “We know your name. You are Teishar, aide to Garun of Tuono. You have a
suk
mentality and you make me shudder at what Fremen have become.”
“Lady, we all have to live,” he protested.
“You are not alive,” she said. “Be gone!”
Teishar had turned and scurried away, clutching the money pouch close to his chest.
Memory of that night did not sit well in Siona’s mind as she watched Topri wave the crysknife copy in their rebel ceremony.
We’re no better than Teishar
, she thought.
A copy is worse than nothing.
Topri brandished the stupid blade over his head as he neared the ceremony’s conclusion.
Siona looked away from him and stared at Nayla seated off to her left. Nayla was looking first one direction and now another. She paid special attention to the new cadre of recruits at the back of the room. Nayla did not give her trust easily. Siona wrinkled her nose as a stirring of the air brought the smell of lubricants. The depths of Onn always smelled dangerously
mechanical
! She sniffed. And this room! She did not like their meeting place. It could easily be a trap. Guards could seal off the outer corridors and send in armed searchers. This could be too easily the place where their rebellion ended. Siona was made doubly uneasy by the fact that this room had been Topri’s choice.
One of Ulot’s few mistakes
, she thought. Poor dead Ulot had approved Topri’s admission to the rebellion.
“He is a minor functionary in city services,” Ulot had explained. “Topri can find us many useful places to meet and arm ourselves.”
Topri had reached almost the end of his ceremony. He placed the knife in an ornate case and put the case on the floor beside him.
“My face is my pledge,” he said. He turned his profile to the room, first one side and then the other. “I show my face that you may know me anywhere and know that I am one of you.”
Stupid ceremony
, Siona thought.
But she dared not break the pattern of it. And when Topri pulled a black gauze mask from a pocket and placed it over his head, she took out her own mask and donned it. Everyone in the room did the same thing. There was a stirring around the room now. Most of the people here had been alerted that Topri had brought a special visitor. Siona secured her mask’s tie behind her neck. She was anxious to see this visitor.