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what he was thinking. "But I do feel honor-bound to report it."
She considered for a moment, then said, "If you call attention to this
stockpile, I can think of many ways it could harm us, harm the people of
Lankiveil, or harm your own family. I wish you had never found it."
He looked into her jasper-brown eyes to see if any glimmer of temptation had
crossed them, but he saw only concern and caution there. "Perhaps Vladimir is
avoiding taxes or just embezzling to fill the coffers of House Harkonnen," she
ventured, her expression turning hard. "But he is still your brother. If you
report him to the Emperor, you could bring disaster upon your House."
Abulurd realized another consequence and groaned. "If the Baron is imprisoned,
then I would have to control all of the Harkonnen holdings. Assuming we keep
the Arrakis fief, I'd have to go back there, or else live on Giedi Prime."
Miserably, he took another drink of the wine. "I couldn't stomach either
option, Emmi. I like it here."
Emmi reached over to touch his hand. She stroked it, and he raised her hand to
his lips, kissing her fingers. "Then we've come to our decision," she said.
"We know the spice is there . . . but we'll just leave it be."
The desert is a surgeon cutting away the skin to expose what is underneath.
-Fremen Saying
AS THE MOON ROSE COPPER-RED over the desert horizon, Liet-Kynes and seven Fremen
departed the rocks and made their way out to the soft curving dunes where they
could be easily seen. One by one the men made the sign of the fist, in
accordance with Fremen tradition at the sign of First Moon.
"Prepare yourselves," Stilgar said moments later, his narrow face like a desert
hawk's in the moonlight. His pupils had dilated, making his solid blue eyes
look black. He wrapped his desert camouflage around him, as did the other, older
guerrillas. "It is said that when one waits for vengeance, time passes slowly
but sweetly."
Liet-Kynes nodded. He was dressed to look like a weak, water-fat village boy,
but his eyes were as hard as Velan steel. Beside him, his sietch-mate and
blood-brother Warrick, a slightly taller lad, nodded as well. This night, the
two would pretend to be helpless children caught out in the open . . .
irresistible targets for the anticipated Harkonnen patrol.
"We do what must be done, Stil." Liet clapped a hand on Warrick's padded
shoulder. These twelve-year-olds had already blooded more than a hundred
Harkonnens apiece, and would have stopped keeping count, except for their
friendly rivalry with each other. "I trust my brother with my life."
Warrick covered Liet's hand with his own. "Liet would be afraid to die without
me at his side."
"With or without you, Warrick, I don't plan to die this night," Liet said, which
elicited a deep laugh from his companion. "I plan to exact revenge."
After the orgy of poisoned death had fallen upon Bilar Camp, Fremen rage had
spread from sietch to sietch like water soaking into sand. From the 'thopter
markings found near the hidden cistern, they knew who was responsible. All
Harkonnens must pay.
Around Carthag and Arsunt, word was passed to timid-looking workers and dusty
servants who had been placed inside Harkonnen strongholds. Some of the
infiltrators scrubbed the floors of troop barracks using dry rags and abrasives.
Others posed as water-sellers supplying the occupation force.
As the tale of the poisoned village passed from one Harkonnen soldier to another
in progressively exaggerated anecdotes, the Fremen informants noted who derived
the greatest pleasure from the news. They studied the crew assignments and
route logs of Harkonnen patrols. Before long, they had learned exactly which
Harkonnen troopers were responsible. And where they could be found. . . .
With a high-pitched squeak and a dancing blur of gossamer wings, a tiny distrans
bat swooped from observation outcroppings in the mountains behind them. When
Stilgar held up a hand, the bat landed on his forearm, primly folding its wings
and waiting for a reward.
Stilgar drew a tiny drop of water from the sipping tube at his throat and let
the moisture fall into the bat's open mouth. Then he brought forth a thin
cylinder and placed it to his ear, listening as the bat emitted complex,
wavering squeaks. Stilgar tapped the bat on its head, then flung it into the
night air again, like a falconer releasing his bird.
He turned back to his expectant troop, a predatory smile on his moon-shadowed
face. "Their ornithopter has been seen over the ridge. The Harkonnens fly a
predictable path as they scan the desert. But they have been on patrol for so
long, they are complacent. They do not see their own patterns."
"Tonight, they fly into a web of death," Warrick said from the dune top, lifting
his fist in a very unboylike gesture.
The Fremen checked their weapons, loosed crysknives in sheaths at their sides,
tested the strength of garroting cords. With swishing robes, they erased all
marks of their passage, leaving the two young men alone.
Stilgar looked up at the night sky, and a muscle on his jaw flickered. "This I
learned from Umma Kynes. When we were cataloging lichens, we saw a rock lizard
that seemed to vanish before our eyes. Kynes said to me, 'I give you the
chameleon, whose ability to match itself with its background tells you all you
need to know about the roots of ecology and the foundations of personal
identity.' " Stilgar looked gravely at his men, and his expression faltered.
"I don't know exactly what he meant . . . but now we must all become chameleons
of the desert."
Wearing light-colored clothes, Liet stepped up the slipface of the dune, leaving
deliberate, painfully apparent footprints. Warrick followed just as clumsily,
while the other Fremen spread out on the flat sand. After pulling out breathing
tubes and covering their faces with loose hoods, they flailed their arms in a
blur of motion. Powdery sand engulfed them, and then they lay still.
Liet and Warrick ran about, smoothing wrinkles on the surface and leaving
nothing but their own footprints. They finished just as the patrol 'thopter
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