Dune

Oddly, the girl didn’t look at him. Her attention remained on the orrery. She was dark-skinned, of medium height, her figure concealed beneath a robe whose rich wine fabric and simple cut spoke of wealth. Her blue-black hair was held in a narrow band of material which matched the robe. The robe concealed her hands. Paul suspected that the hands were tightly clasped. It would be in character. Everything about her would be in character—including the robe: a last piece of finery saved for such a moment.

Paul motioned Bannerjee aside. He hesitated before obeying. Now, the girl moved—one step forward. When she moved there was grace. Still, her eyes avoided him.

Paul cleared his throat.

Now the girl lifted her gaze, the whiteless eyes widening with just the right shade of awe. She had an odd little face with delicate chin, a sense of reserve in the way she held her small mouth. The eyes appeared abnormally large above slanted cheeks. There was a cheerless air about her, something which said she seldom smiled. The corners of her eyes even held a faint yellow misting which could have been from dust irritation or the tracery of semuta.

Everything was in character.

“You asked to see me,” Paul said.

The moment of supreme test for this girl-shape had come. Scytale had put on the shape, the mannerisms, the sex, the voice—everything his abilities could grasp and assume. But this was a female known to Muad’Dib in the sietch days. She’d been a child, then, but she and Muad’Dib shared common experiences. Certain areas of memory must be avoided delicately. It was the most exacting part Scytale had ever attempted.

“I am Otheym’s Lichna of Berk al Dib.”

The girl’s voice came out small, but firm, giving name, father and pedigree.

Paul nodded. He saw how Chani had been fooled. The timbre of voice, everything reproduced with exactitude. Had it not been for his own Bene Gesserit training in voice and for the web of dao in which oracular vision enfolded him, this Face-Dancer disguise might have gulled even him.

Training exposed certain discrepancies: the girl was older than her known years; too much control tuned the vocal cords; set of neck and shoulders missed by a fraction the subtle hauteur of Fremen poise. But there were niceties, too: the rich robe had been patched to betray actual status . . . and the features were beautifully exact. They spoke a certain sympathy of this Face Dancer for the role being played.

“Rest in my home, daughter of Otheym,” Paul said in formal Fremen greeting. “You are welcome as water after a dry crossing.”

The faintest of relaxations exposed the confidence this apparent acceptance had conveyed.

“I bring a message,” she said.

“A man’s messenger is as himself,” Paul said.

Scytale breathed softly. It went well, but now came the crucial task: the Atreides must be guided onto that special path. He must lose his Fremen concubine in circumstances where no other shared the blame. The failure must belong only to the omnipotent Muad’Dib. He had to be led into an ultimate realization of his failure and thence to acceptance of the Tleilaxu alternative.

“I am the smoke which banishes sleep in the night,” Scytale said, employing a Fedaykin code phrase: I bear bad tidings.

Paul fought to maintain calmness. He felt naked, his soul abandoned in a groping-time concealed from every vision. Powerful oracles hid this Face Dancer. Only the edges of these moments were known to Paul. He knew only what he could not do. He could not slay this Face Dancer. That would precipitate the future which must be avoided at all cost. Somehow, a way must be found to reach into the darkness and change the terrifying pattern.

“Give me your message,” Paul said.

Bannerjee moved to place himself where he could watch the girl’s face. She seemed to notice him for the first time and her gaze went to the knife handle beneath the Security Officer’s hand.

“The innocent do not believe in evil,” she said, looking squarely at Bannerjee.

Ahhh, well done, Paul thought. It was what the real Lichna would’ve said. He felt a momentary pang for the real daughter of Otheym—dead now, a corpse in the sand. There was no time for such emotions, though. He scowled.

Bannerjee kept his attention on the girl.

“I was told to deliver my message in secret,” she said.

“Why?” Bannerjee demanded, voice harsh, probing.

“Because it is my father’s wish.”

“This is my friend,” Paul said. “Am I not a Fremen? Then my friend may hear anything I hear.”

Scytale composed the girl-shape. Was this a true Fremen custom . . . or was it a test?

“The Emperor may make his own rules,” Scytale said. “This is the message: My father wishes you to come to him, bringing Chani.”

“Why must I bring Chani?”

“She is your woman and a Sayyadina. This is a Water matter, by the rules of our tribes. She must attest it that my father speaks according to the Fremen Way.”