"Does my decision suit Muad'Dib?" Stilgar asked. Only the faintest touch of sarcasm tinged his voice, but Fremen ears around them, alert to every tone in a bird's cry or a cielago's piping message, heard the sarcasm and watched Paul to see what he would do.
"Stilgar heard me swear my loyalty to him when we consecrated the Fedaykin," Paul said. "My death commandos know I spoke with honor. Does Stilgar doubt it?"
Real pain exposed itself in Paul's voice. Stilgar heard it and lowered his gaze.
"Usul, the companion of my sietch, him I would never doubt," Stilgar said. "But you are Paul-Muad'Dib, the Atreides Duke, and you are the Lisan al-Gaib, the Voice from the Outer World. These men I don't even know."
Paul turned away to watch the Habbanya Ridge climb out of the desert. The maker beneath them still felt strong and willing. It could carry them almost twice the distance of any other in Fremen experience. He knew it. There was nothing outside the stories told to children that could match this old man of the desert. It was the stuff of a new legend, Paul realized.
A hand gripped his shoulder.
Paul looked at it, followed the arm to the face beyond it - the dark eyes of Stilgar exposed between filter mask and stillsuit hood.
"The one who led Tabr sietch before me," Stilgar said, "he was my friend. We shared dangers. He owed me his life many a time . . . and I owed him mine."
"I am your friend, Stilgar," Paul said.
"No man doubts it," Stilgar said. He removed his hand, shrugged. "It's the way."
Paul saw that Stilgar was too immersed in the Fremen way to consider the possibility of any other. Here a leader took the reins from the dead hands of his predecessor, or slew among the strongest of his tribe if a leader died in the desert. Stilgar had risen to be a naib in that way.
"We should leave this maker in deep sand," Paul said.
"Yes," Stilgar agreed. "We could walk to the cave from here."
"We've ridden him far enough that he'll bury himself and sulk for a day or so," Paul said.
"You're the mudir of the sandride," Stilgar said. "Say when we . . ." He broke off, stared at the eastern sky.
Paul whirled. The spice-blue overcast on his eyes made the sky appear dark, a richly filtered azure against which a distant rhythmic flashing stood out in sharp contrast.
Ornithopter!
"One small 'thopter," Stilgar said.
"Could be a scout," Paul said. "Do you think they've seen us."
"At this distance we're just a worm on the surface," Stilgar said. He motioned with his left hand. "Off. Scatter on the sand."
The troop began working down the worm's sides, dropping off, blending with the sand beneath their cloaks. Paul marked where Chani dropped. Presently, only he and Stilgar remained.
"First up, last off," Paul said.
Stilgar nodded, dropped down the side on his hooks, leaped onto the sand. Paul waited until the maker was safely clear of the scatter area, then released his hooks. This was the tricky moment with a worm not completely exhausted.
Freed of its goads and hooks, the big worm began burrowing into the sand. Paul ran lightly back along its broad surface, judged his moment carefully and leaped off. He landed running, lunged against the slipface of a dune the way he had been taught, and hid himself beneath the cascade of sand over his robe.
Now, the waiting . . .
Paul turned, gently, exposed a crack of sky beneath a crease in his robe. He imagined the others back along their path doing the same.
He heard the beat of the 'thopter's wings before he saw it. There was a whisper of jetpods and it came over his patch of desert, turned in a broad arc toward the ridge.
An unmarked 'thopter, Paul noted.
It flew out of sight beyond Habbanya Ridge.
A bird cry sounded over the desert. Another.
Paul shook himself free of sand, climbed to the dune top. Other figures stood out in a line trailing away from the ridge. He recognized Chani and Stilgar among them.
Stilgar signaled toward the ridge.
They gathered and began the sandwalk, gliding over the surface in a broken rhythm that would disturb no maker. Stilgar paced himself beside Paul along the windpacked crest of a dune.
"It was a smuggler craft," Stilgar said.
"So it seemed," Paul said. "But this is deep into the desert, for smugglers."
"They've their difficulties with patrols, too," Stilgar said.
"If they come this deep, they may go deeper," Paul said.
"True."
"It wouldn't be well for them to see what they could see if they ventured too deep into the south. Smugglers sell information, too."
"They were hunting spice, don't you think?" Stilgar asked.
"There will be a wing and a crawler waiting somewhere for that one," Paul said. "We've spice. Let's bait a patch of sand and catch us some smugglers. They should be taught that this is our land and our men need practice with the new weapons."
"Now, Usul speaks," Stilgar said. "Usul thinks Fremen."
But Usul must give way to decisions that match a terrible purpose , Paul thought.
And the storm was gathering.
When law and duty are one, united by religion, you never become fully conscious, fully aware of yourself. You are always a little less than an individual.
- from "Muad'Dib: The Ninety-Nine Wonders of
the Universe" by Princess Irulan
The smuggler's spice factory with its parent carrier and ring of drone ornithopters came over a lifting of dunes like a swarm of insects following its queen. Ahead of the swarm lay one of the low rock ridges that lifted from the desert floor like small imitations of the Shield Wall. The dry beaches of the ridge were swept clean by a recent storm.