The woven baskets were passed around the crowd of reverent villagers, each person taking one of the shriveled brown curls. They nibbled the dry plant, savoring each tiny morsel. As they chewed, the rice farmers and their families began to hum, at first individually, then as the sound grew louder, they resonated, coordinating their voices.
A shiver went down Paul’s back. He looked at his mother and father, saw Jessica memorizing details, while Leto stood with erect posture, observing. Paul felt the buzzing grow in the air, and the majesty of the ritual.
The participating villagers sat cross-legged and close together on the ground, consuming the nubs of dried fern. More baskets were passed around. The people reached out to touch shoulders and arms, stroking adjacent faces as if in wonder and admiration. Their eyes and their smiles grew brighter.
“Thus, we are unified,” said the Archvicar. “Thus, we are part of Caladan and the universe.”
The humming became a background drone like that of summer insects. Paul felt sleepy, lulled into a sense of peace, and his eyelids drooped. The Muadh deacons returned the empty baskets to the temple and then came back outside, each one holding a bent brown fern, which they were the last to consume. They sat among the other followers who were already being affected by the ailar.
In the back of his mind, Paul sensed a glow, as if he could join the clarity and celebration experienced by these people. He glanced at his father with a silent question, seeing many other teenagers, young men and women his own age, participating in the ritual.
Leto shook his head and whispered, “No, we will not.”
Paul accepted the decision and watched the others. The euphoria was thick in the air like mist on a cool morning.
“These are my people,” Duke Leto said, then turned to Paul, “and they are your people, too.”
Paul watched these villagers wrapped up in their own world, their own lives, and shared a measure of their satisfaction.
In the universe of Imperial politics, it is necessary to take actions that are not made public. In fact, far more remains unseen than seen.
—PADISHAH EMPEROR SHADDAM IV
After flying low, beneath sensor records, Fenring landed his unmarked ’thopter at the designated coordinates, near a distinctive rock formation below the Shield Wall. Alone at the controls, he remained inside the cab as the craft clicked and cooled. Looking through the plaz screen, he scanned the rendezvous point, always alert for treachery. Although he expected to find none today, he never let down his guard.
He’d been to this spot in a previous covert meeting with the smugglers, but he saw no one now. Still, he knew Esmar Tuek and his crew were watching him. It was a delicate dance of trust and suspicion. His interactions with these fringe people were valuable, and no one could know of his involvement.
He continued waiting in the landed aircraft, knowing he was vulnerable. Fenring climbed out of the ’thopter and stood next to the insect-like craft. Warm, yellow sunlight reflected off the dusty fuselage. Finally, as he stared at the outcropping in front of him, a portion of the rock shifted to reveal an opening, a false front for their secret base, an electronically veiled entry. Three smugglers stood inside, wearing desert robes. They gestured for him.
He followed them into the revealed rock cleft, and the guards opened a moisture-sealed door that led into the tunnels of the hidden base. Though the smugglers tried to lead, Fenring strode ahead, since he knew the way to Tuek’s office. He intended to move at his own pace. Fenring could only infer the size of this hidden base; in his previous meetings, he had seen only a few of the passageways.
Esmar Tuek, the scar-faced leader of this smuggler band, waited for him in the rock-walled cave office. Gazing at his visitor with the deep blue eyes from a lifetime of melange, Tuek sat back at a metal desk with the demeanor of a king taking his throne. He signaled the others to leave. Fenring declined the offered chair across from him.
Tuek scowled, heavy brows overhanging his eyes. The smuggler’s face had angles and planes, as if he were a creature carved out of Arrakeen stone. Though an outlaw, Tuek lived comfortably here with his cohorts, reaping extravagant profits from his illicit spice operations. “You said you have an important message, Count Fenring? My wife and son will join us. They are heavily involved in our work here.”
“Hmmm, then they need to hear my report as well. It will affect all aspects of spice distribution from Arrakis, both through legal channels and the black market. Emperor Shaddam has instituted certain changes, after Otorio.”
Rulla Tuek entered with a haughty toss of her head, accompanied by Esmar’s adult son, Staban. Fenring had met them before. Staban, perhaps thirty-five, had the thick eyebrows of his father and a similar craggy face. Esmar’s new wife, a dark-haired Fremen, was about the same age as his son. Inside the smuggler base, she wore an eclectic outfit that consisted of a colorful scarf, a feminine blouse of offworld design, and loose trousers such as were normally worn by a man. Here behind the moisture seals, she did not wear a stillsuit, and Fenring could see that she was obviously pregnant, her abdomen rounded. Perhaps seven months, he guessed.
Esmar had once told Fenring privately that Rulla was vain about her appearance, one more way she pushed back against her Fremen traditions. Esmar would have preferred her to dress more conservatively as a woman of the desert, uncomfortable to have her so relaxed and even flirtatious around his rough smuggler crew. Esmar’s first wife, Staban’s mother, had been entirely different.
He had married his ambitious second wife seven years ago, had given her gifts, wealth, and influence, and now Rulla was in charge of certain aspects of his smuggling operations, along with Staban. Through her Fremen contacts, she was especially adept at setting up spice caravans with domesticated kulons, selecting routes through the desert that were not harassed by territorial sandworms or by Harkonnen patrols.
Rulla and Staban sat next to each other on a rock bench to the left of the metal desk. Fenring sensed tension between the woman and her husband and a well-concealed awkwardness with the son. The Count wanted to understand their personal complications, because they might affect his business relationships, but right now, he was here on the Emperor’s behalf.
The smugglers would not like the news.
“I bring tidings from Emperor Shaddam IV,” Fenring said. “There is a significant, hmmm-ahhh, change in policy that you will have to accept. And it will cost you. The Emperor has imposed a new spice surtax, which directs a much larger portion of all melange income to the Kaitain treasury.”
The smuggler leader frowned. “We do not operate within Imperial rules. We have our own commercial network.”
“That is the reason for our existence,” Rulla interjected. “We won’t pay any more.”
Staban remained silent, listening.
Fenring’s expression darkened. “You operate under a certain, hmmm-ahhh, understanding of the rules. Shaddam tolerates your activities, as do I. I can destroy all your operations with a single message to Kaitain—or to Carthag, if I decide to let the Baron take credit.”
Esmar flinched. “We already pay a significant bribe to the Emperor! That was our agreement.”
“And in return, he looks the other way. From now on, he has decreed that you will pay him more. All operations need to recognize and absorb the new spice surtax. Even smuggling operations. I will be keeping a close eye on you.”