courtyard.
Farok struggled with an intense dislike for his visitor, Scytale realized. Fremen distrusted eyes that were not the total blue of the Ibad. Offworlders, Fremen said, had unfocused eyes which saw things they were not supposed to see.
The semuta music had stopped at their entrance. It was replaced now by the strum of a baliset, first a nine-scale chord, then the clear notes of a song which was popular on the Naraj worlds.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, Scytale saw a youth sitting cross-legged on a low divan beneath arches to his right. The youth’s eyes were empty sockets. With that uncanny facility of the blind, he began singing the moment Scytale focused on him. The voice was high and sweet:
A wind has blown the land away
And blown the sky away
And all the men!
Who is this wind?
The trees stand unbent,
Drinking where men drank.
I’ve known too many worlds,
Too many men,
Too many trees,
Too many winds.
Those were not the original words of the song, Scytale noted. Farok led him away from the youth and under the arches on the opposite side, indicated cushions scattered over the tile floor. The tile was worked into designs of sea creatures.
“There is a cushion once occupied in sietch by Muad’dib,” Farok said, indicating a round, black mound: “It is yours now.”
“I am in your debt,” Scytale said, sinking to the black mound. He smiled. Farok displayed wisdom. A sage spoke of loyalty even while listening to songs of hidden meaning and words with secret messages. Who could deny the terrifying powers of the tyrant Emperor?
Inserting his words across the song without breaking the meter, Farok said: “Does my son’s music disturb you?”
Scytale gestured to a cushion facing him, put his back against a cool pillar. “I enjoy music.”
“My son lost his eyes in the conquest of Naraj,” Farok said. “He was nursed there and should have stayed. No woman of the People will have him thus. I find it curious, though, to know I have grandchildren on Naraj that I may never see. Do you know the Naraj worlds, Zaal?”
“In my youth, I toured there with a troupe of my fellow Face Dancers,” Scytale said.
“You are a Face Dancer, then,” Farok said. “I had wondered at your features. They reminded me of a man I knew here once.”
“Duncan Idaho?”
“That one, yes. A swordmaster in the Emperor’s pay.”
“He was killed, so it is said.”
“So it is said,” Farok agreed. “Are you truly a man, then? I’ve heard stories about Face Dancers that …” He shrugged.
“We are Jadacha hermaphrodites,” Scytale said, “either sex at will. For the present, I am a man.”
Farok pursed his lips in thought, then: “May I call for refreshments? Do you desire water? Iced fruit?”
“Talk will suffice,” Scytale said.
“The guest’s wish is a command,” Farok said, settling to the cushion which faced Scytale.
“Blessed is Abu d’ Dhur, Father of the Indefinite Roads of Time,” Scytale said. And he thought: There! I’ve told him straight out that I come from a Guild Steersman and wear the Steersman’s concealment.
“Thrice blessed,” Farok said, folding his hands into his lap in the ritual clasp. They were old, heavily veined hands.
“An object seen from a distance betrays only its principle,” Scytale said, revealing that he wished to discuss the Emperor’s fortress Keep.
“That which is dark and evil may be seen for evil at any distance,” Farok said, advising delay.
Why? Scytale wondered. But he said: “How did your son lose his eyes?”
“The Naraj defenders used a stone burner,” Farok said. “My son was too close. Cursed atomics! Even the stone burner should be outlawed.”
“It skirts the intent of the law,” Scytale agreed. And he thought: A stone burner on Naraj! We weren’t told of that. Why does this old man speak of stone burners here?
“I offered to buy Tleilaxu eyes for him from your masters,” Farok said. “But there’s a story in the
Farok struggled with an intense dislike for his visitor, Scytale realized. Fremen distrusted eyes that were not the total blue of the Ibad. Offworlders, Fremen said, had unfocused eyes which saw things they were not supposed to see.
The semuta music had stopped at their entrance. It was replaced now by the strum of a baliset, first a nine-scale chord, then the clear notes of a song which was popular on the Naraj worlds.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, Scytale saw a youth sitting cross-legged on a low divan beneath arches to his right. The youth’s eyes were empty sockets. With that uncanny facility of the blind, he began singing the moment Scytale focused on him. The voice was high and sweet:
A wind has blown the land away
And blown the sky away
And all the men!
Who is this wind?
The trees stand unbent,
Drinking where men drank.
I’ve known too many worlds,
Too many men,
Too many trees,
Too many winds.
Those were not the original words of the song, Scytale noted. Farok led him away from the youth and under the arches on the opposite side, indicated cushions scattered over the tile floor. The tile was worked into designs of sea creatures.
“There is a cushion once occupied in sietch by Muad’dib,” Farok said, indicating a round, black mound: “It is yours now.”
“I am in your debt,” Scytale said, sinking to the black mound. He smiled. Farok displayed wisdom. A sage spoke of loyalty even while listening to songs of hidden meaning and words with secret messages. Who could deny the terrifying powers of the tyrant Emperor?
Inserting his words across the song without breaking the meter, Farok said: “Does my son’s music disturb you?”
Scytale gestured to a cushion facing him, put his back against a cool pillar. “I enjoy music.”
“My son lost his eyes in the conquest of Naraj,” Farok said. “He was nursed there and should have stayed. No woman of the People will have him thus. I find it curious, though, to know I have grandchildren on Naraj that I may never see. Do you know the Naraj worlds, Zaal?”
“In my youth, I toured there with a troupe of my fellow Face Dancers,” Scytale said.
“You are a Face Dancer, then,” Farok said. “I had wondered at your features. They reminded me of a man I knew here once.”
“Duncan Idaho?”
“That one, yes. A swordmaster in the Emperor’s pay.”
“He was killed, so it is said.”
“So it is said,” Farok agreed. “Are you truly a man, then? I’ve heard stories about Face Dancers that …” He shrugged.
“We are Jadacha hermaphrodites,” Scytale said, “either sex at will. For the present, I am a man.”
Farok pursed his lips in thought, then: “May I call for refreshments? Do you desire water? Iced fruit?”
“Talk will suffice,” Scytale said.
“The guest’s wish is a command,” Farok said, settling to the cushion which faced Scytale.
“Blessed is Abu d’ Dhur, Father of the Indefinite Roads of Time,” Scytale said. And he thought: There! I’ve told him straight out that I come from a Guild Steersman and wear the Steersman’s concealment.
“Thrice blessed,” Farok said, folding his hands into his lap in the ritual clasp. They were old, heavily veined hands.
“An object seen from a distance betrays only its principle,” Scytale said, revealing that he wished to discuss the Emperor’s fortress Keep.
“That which is dark and evil may be seen for evil at any distance,” Farok said, advising delay.
Why? Scytale wondered. But he said: “How did your son lose his eyes?”
“The Naraj defenders used a stone burner,” Farok said. “My son was too close. Cursed atomics! Even the stone burner should be outlawed.”
“It skirts the intent of the law,” Scytale agreed. And he thought: A stone burner on Naraj! We weren’t told of that. Why does this old man speak of stone burners here?
“I offered to buy Tleilaxu eyes for him from your masters,” Farok said. “But there’s a story in the
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