All around him, Paul saw the Fremen throwing back their hoods, removing nose plugs, breathing deeply. Someone sighed. Paul looked for Chani, found that she had left his side. He was hemmed in by a press of robed bodies. Someone jostled him, said, "Excuse me, Usul. What a crush! It's always this way."
On his left, the narrow bearded face of the one called Farok turned toward Paul. The stained eyepits and blue darkness of eyes appeared even darker under the yellow globes. "Throw off your hood, Usul," Farok said. "You're home." And he helped Paul, releasing the hood catch, elbowing a space around them.
Paul slipped out his nose plugs, swung the mouth baffle aside. The odor of the place assailed him: unwashed bodies, distillate esters of reclaimed wastes, everywhere the sour effluvia of humanity with, over it all, a turbulence of spice and spicelike harmonics.
"Why are we waiting, Farok?" Paul asked.
"For the Reverend Mother, I think. You heard the message - poor Chani."
Poor Chani? Paul asked himself. He looked around, wondering where she was, where his mother had got to in all this crush.
Farok took a deep breath. "The smells of home," he said.
Paul saw that the man was enjoying the stink of this air, that there was no irony in his tone. He heard his mother cough then, and her voice came back to him through the press of the troop: "How rich the odors of your sietch, Stilgar. I see you do much working with the spice . . . you make paper . . . plastics . . . and isn't that chemical explosives?"
"You know this from what you smell?" It was another man's voice.
And Paul realized she was speaking for his benefit, that she wanted him to make a quick acceptance of this assault on his nostrils.
There came a buzz of activity at the head of the troop and a prolonged indrawn breath that seemed to pass through the Fremen, and Paul heard hushed voices back down the line: "It's true then - Liet is dead."
Liet , Paul thought. Then: Chani, daughter of Liet . The pieces fell together in his mind. Liet was the Fremen name of the planetologist.
Paul looked at Farok, asked: "Is it the Liet known as Kynes?"
"There is only one Liet," Farok said.
Paul turned, stared at the robed back of a Fremen in front of him. Then Liet-Kynes is dead , he thought.
"It was Harkonnen treachery," someone hissed. "They made it seem an accident . . . lost in the desert . . . a 'thopter crash . . . "
Paul felt a burst of anger. The man who had befriended them, helped save them from the Harkonnen hunters, the man who had sent his Fremen cohorts searching for two strays in the desert . . . another victim of the Harkonnens.
"Does Usul hunger yet for revenge?" Farok asked.
Before Paul could answer, there came a low call and the troop swept forward into a wider chamber, carrying Paul with them. He found himself in an open space confronted by Stilgar and a strange woman wearing a flowing wraparound garment of brilliant orange and green. Her arms were bare to the shoulders, and he could see she wore no stillsuit. Her skin was a pale olive. Dark hair swept back from her high forehead, throwing emphasis on sharp cheekbones and aquiline nose between the dense darkness of her eyes.
She turned toward him, and Paul saw golden rings threaded with water tallies dangling from her ears.
"This bested my Jamis?" she demanded.
"Be silent, Harah," Stilgar said. "It was Jamis' doing - he invoked the tahaddi al-burhan."
"He's not but a boy!" she said. She gave her head a sharp shake from side to side, setting the water tallies to jingling. "My children made fatherless by another child? Surely, 'twas an accident!"
"Usul, how many years have you?" Stilgar asked.
"Fifteen standard," Paul said.
Stilgar swept his eyes over the troop. "Is there one among you cares to challenge me?"
Silence.
Stilgar looked at the woman. "Until I've learned his weirding ways. I'd not challenge him."
She returned his stare. "But - "
"You saw the stranger, woman who went with Chani to the Reverend Mother?" Stilgar asked. "She's an out-freyn Sayyadina, mother to this lad. The mother and son are masters of the weirding ways of battle."
Chapter Twenty-Two
"Lisan al-Gaib," the woman whispered. Her eyes held awe as she turned them back toward Paul.
The legend again , Paul thought.
"Perhaps," Stilgar said. "It hasn't been tested, though." He returned his attention to Paul. "Usul, it's our way that you've now the responsibility for Jamis' woman here and for his two sons. His yali . . . his quarters, are yours. His coffee service is yours . . . and this, his woman."
Paul studied the woman, wondering: Why isn't she mourning her man? Why does she show no hate for me? Abruptly, he saw that the Fremen were staring at him, waiting.
Someone whispered: "There's work to do. Say how you accept her."
Stilgar said: "Do you accept Harah as woman or servant?"
Harah lifted her arms, turning slowly on one heel. "I am still young, Usul. It's said I still look as young as when I was with Geoff . . . before Jamis bested him."
Jamis killed another to win her , Paul thought.
Paul said: "If I accept her as servant, may I yet change my mind at a later time?"
"You'd have a year to change your decision," Stilgar said. "After that, she's a free woman to choose as she wishes . . . or you could free her to choose for herself at any time. But she's your responsibility, no matter what, for one year . . . and you'll always share some responsibility for the sons of Jamis."
"I accept her as servant," Paul said.