Swordmasters Rivvy Dinari, Duncan Idaho, and I went with young Paul Atreides — I believe he was twelve years old then — down into the jungles of Ginaz, where we were attacked by giant caterpillars —”
“We know all about Duncan Idaho,” one of the Fremen interrupted. “He died saving Muad’Dib during his flight from the Harkonnens. That was how he and his mother came to be among us.”
“So Paul’s told you this story, then?” Bludd looked around, but could not find any answers on the faces.
“We have read the book by Princess Irulan,” replied one of the men. The others murmured solemn assent.
Bludd had read the book as well and felt that Irulan had left out a great many important things, even suggesting that Paul had never been away from the planet Caladan before coming to Arrakis, ignoring all of his exploits on Ecaz! That and other errors. Bludd had already spoken to the Princess about them.
The Fremen were drinking the wine, though obviously out of a sense of obligation rather than enjoyment. Bludd tried again, suggesting another story that Irulan had not included in her original chronicle. “Or shall I tell you how the War of Assassins began in Castle Caladan, with a heinous attack by the Grummans? Several people died, including —” He sniffed, drew a breath. “Perhaps I shall not tell that story, either.”
Bludd expected some of them to brag about their own exploits and tell their tall tales. But these Fremen were a dour bunch.
“This wine tastes like unfiltered urine,” growled Elias, whom Bludd had offended. “If we run it through a reclamation unit, at least we can get the water back.”
“My dear sir, this is a fine and expensive vintage. I am not surprised, however, that you cannot taste —”
Elias drew his crysknife, and the others fell immediately still. “You insult me!”
Bludd looked around, made a bored sigh. “Now, what?” “It is a matter of honor,” said one of the other men.
“You really don’t want to do this, my good sir,” Bludd said. “Draw your blade!” Elias held his crysknife and took up a fighting stance.
With utmost calmness, Bludd slid the rapier from his belt. “Have I not made it quite clear that I am an accomplished Swordmaster of Ginaz? Your wormtooth dagger is pretty, but I have four times the reach.” He flicked the rapier in the air for good measure.
“Are you a coward, then?”
“In a word… no.” Bludd straightened his jacket, plucked at his black ruffles. “En garde, if you insist.”
Elias lunged with the crysknife, to shouts and catcalls from his comrades. Though Bludd was dressed in fine clothes, the well-fitting garments gave him perfect ease of movement. He melted away from the man’s vicious thrust. Then in a flash, he circled around and pricked the Fremen’s shoulder.
“There, first blood is mine. Do you yield?”
The Fremen spectators chuckled. “Bad Bludd brags more than he fights! Bad Bludd!”
“My, what a feeble play on words.” His voice dripped sarcasm.
The angry Fremen fighter slashed and lunged again with surprising speed. Elias tossed the knife to his other hand and struck. Ah, so he could fight with either hand, a useful skill! Bludd parried, scissored his blade in the air, twirled, and pricked the man’s other shoulder. “You are fortunate that I have decided to restrain myself.”
Bludd toyed with him for several more minutes, showing off, making sweeping, grandiose moves of the type he had taught his students never to risk using. Showmanship was one thing, but victory was paramount. It did no good to have fine form if your opponent lopped off your head.
But this opponent did not seem to weaken or tire and continued with a relentless, though pedestrian, style of fighting. When Bludd realized he was starting to grow tired himself, he decided to put an end to the silly dance. He had heard how easily Fremen pride could be wounded, and did not want this man to hold a simmering blood vendetta against him. He had to give him a way to save face.
Driving forward with a flurry of intricate sword work, Bludd flailed his flexible blade so that it dizzied Elias. Then Bludd intentionally stepped in too close. He had observed the man’s style and knew how he would react. When he gave the Fremen an opportunity, just a hint of one, the crysknife flashed and cut a shallow gouge in the meat of Bludd’s upper left arm. There, now the man could be satisfied that he too had drawn blood. Elias responded with a feral grin.
“That’s enough, then.” Bludd drove the flat of his blade down hard on the back of the Fremen’s knife hand, forcing the fingers to release the handle. The wormtooth dagger dropped to the floor of the barracks.
One of the other Fremen soldiers stepped forward and kicked the crysknife beyond Elias’s reach. “He beat you fairly, Elias, but you drew blood as well.”
The Fremen looked bewildered and still angry. Another soldier added in a low voice, “Muad’Dib has commanded us to have no tribal rivalries.”
“This peacock is of no Fremen tribe,” Elias said.
“Muad’Dib wants his soldiers to fight the enemy, not each other.”
“And fine advice that is.” Bludd sheathed his rapier, picked up one of the unopened bottles of wine, and took it with him as he left the barracks. “Next time, perhaps I will just bring spice beer.”
15
Never turn your back on a Tleilaxu.
Lady Margot Fenring rode beside her young daughter in the rear compartment of a groundcar as it negotiated the winding streets of Thalidei. Lady Margot had ordered the driver to take them to one of the dockside public markets. She rarely went anywhere without her husband, but little Marie needed time away from her ever- watchful Bene Gesserit nanny and tutor. Though Margot could easily have defeated scores of Tleilaxu men, she was forbidden to travel without an escort, for her own “safety.”
Little Marie sat high on a thick cushion designed for a Tleilaxu Master. She drank in the details outside, her wide eyes filled with curious questions, but the girl was already wise enough to look for her own answers. The Fenrings had developed plans for the unique girl, determined to see to it that Marie was equipped with a breadth of experiences and abilities. She had to be prepared and armed for her destiny.
The worker-caste Tleilaxu driver assigned to them expertly avoided hitting diminutive Masters who haughtily walked out into the street without looking. Clearly uncomfortable around females, the driver did not speak to his passengers; he may even have received instructions to ignore them. Unlike all other vehicles around the city, the one in which Margot and her daughter rode had dark-tinted windows, as if the Tleilaxu did not want a female to be seen out in the open.
When traveling with her husband, Margot was treated quite differently, accepted grudgingly if not welcomed. When she went out without him, though, the Tleilaxu seemed
The young towhead smiled up at her, then gazed out the low tinted window on her left, oblivious to her mother’s concerns. Like Margot, she wore a long black dress, but she had pale blue eyes instead of gray-green.
The Harkonnen na-Baron had been an adequate lover, though not as skilled as he should have been, considering his repertoire of pleasure women. In light of later events, it was clear that Feyd was also not as skilled a fighter as he believed himself to be. Nevertheless, Margot had collected his seed and allowed herself to conceive a daughter as the Sisterhood had instructed her to do. Such perfect genetics from generations of Bene Gesserit coaxing human genetic stock. Yes, little Marie was indeed special.
During the year that the Fenrings had spent on Tleilax, Lady Margot had remained in touch with the
