Dune [Frank Herbert's Dune Saga Collection: Books 1 - 6]

The ground was icy crisp underfoot. Teg had to stoop slightly for the doorway. He entered a dark hallway, wood-paneled and with a well-lighted room at the end. The smell of food there drew him like a magnet. His arms were trembling once more. A small table had been set beside a window with a view of an enclosed and covered garden. Bushes heavy with red flowers almost concealed the stone wall that defined the garden. Yellow hotplaz gleamed over the space, bathing it in a summery artificial light. Teg sank gratefully into the single chair at the table. White linen, he saw, with an embossed edge. A single soup spoon.

A door creaked at his right and a squat figure entered carrying a bowl from which steam arose. The man hesitated when he saw Teg, then brought the bowl to the table and placed it in front of Teg. Alerted by that hesitation, Teg forced himself to ignore the tempting aroma drifting to his nostrils and concentrated instead on his companion.

“It is good soup, sir. I made it myself.”

An artificial voice. Teg saw the scars at the sides of the jaw. There was the look of an ancient mechanical about this man—an almost neckless head attached to thick shoulders, arms that seemed oddly jointed at both shoulders and elbows, legs that appeared to swing only from the hips. He stood motionless now but he had entered here with a slightly jerking sway that said he was mostly replacement artificials. The look of suffering in his eyes could not be avoided.

“I know I’m not pretty, sir,” the man rasped. “I was ruined in the Alajory explosion.”

Teg had no idea what the Alajory explosion might have been but it obviously was presumed he knew. “Ruined,” however, was an interesting accusation against Fate.

“I was wondering if I knew you,” Teg said.

“No one here knows anyone else,” the man said. “Eat your soup.” He pointed upward at the coiled tip of quiescent snooper, the glow of its lights revealing that it read its surroundings and found no poison. “The food is safe here.”

Teg looked at the dark brown liquid in his bowl. Lumps of solid meat were visible in it. He reached for the spoon. His trembling hand made two attempts before grasping the spoon and even then he sloshed most of the liquid out of the spoon before he could lift it a millimeter.

A steadying hand gripped Teg’s wrist and the artificial voice spoke softly in Teg’s ear: “I do not know what they did to you, Bashar, but no one will harm you here without crossing my dead body.”

“You know me?”

“Many would die for you, Bashar. My son lives because of you.”

Teg allowed himself to be helped. It was all he could do to swallow the first spoonful. The liquid was rich, hot and soothing. His hand steadied presently and he nodded to the man to release the wrist.

“More, sir?”

Teg realized then that he had emptied the bowl. It was tempting to say “yes” but the driver had said to make haste.

“Thank you, but I must go.”

“You have not been here,” the man said.

When they were once more back on the main road, Teg sat back against the groundcar’s cushions and reflected on the curious echoing quality of what the ruined man had said. The same words the farmer had used: “You have not been here.” It had the feeling of a common response and it said something about changes in Gammu since Teg had surveyed the place.

They entered the outskirts of Ysai presently and Teg wondered if he should attempt a disguise. The ruined man had recognized him quickly.

“Where do the Honored Matres hunt for me now?” Teg asked.

“Everywhere, Bashar. We cannot guarantee your safety but steps are being taken. I will make it known where I have delivered you.”

“Do they say why they hunt me?”

“They never explain, Bashar.”

“How long have they been on Gammu?”

“Too long, sir. Since I was a child and I was a baltern at Renditai.”

A hundred years at least, Teg thought. Time to gather many forces into their hands . . . if Taraza’s fears were to be credited.

Teg credited them.

“Trust no one those whores can influence,” Taraza had said.

Teg sensed no threat to him in his present position, though. He could only absorb the secrecy that obviously enclosed him now. He did not press for more details.

They were well into Ysai and he glimpsed the black bulk of the ancient Harkonnen seat of Barony through occasional gaps between the walls that enclosed the great private residences. The car turned onto a street of small commercial establishments: cheap buildings constructed for the most part of salvaged materials that displayed their origins in poor fits and unmatched colors. Gaudy signs advised that the wares inside were the finest, the repair services better than those elsewhere.