for Liet and where Liet can see it for himself if he wishes. But I doubt he’ll want to: the weapon is not a very good one. Poor design for Arrakis.”
“You … took one?” Hawat asked.
“It was a good fight,” the Fremen said. “We lost only two men and spilled the water from more than a hundred of theirs.”
There were Sardaukar at every gun, Hawat thought. This desert madman speaks casually of losing only two men against Sardaukar!
“We would not have lost the two except for those others fighting beside the Harkonnens,” the Fremen said. “Some of those are good fighters.”
One of Hawat’s men limped forward, looked down at the squatting Fremen. “Are you talking about Sardaukar?”
“He’s talking about Sardaukar,” Hawat said.
“Sardaukar!” the Fremen said, and there appeared to be glee in his voice. “Ah-h-h, so that’s what they are! This was a good night indeed. Sardaukar. Which legion? Do you know?”
“We … don’t know,” Hawat said.
“Sardaukar,” the Fremen mused. “Yet they wear Harkonnen clothing. Is that not strange?”
“The Emperor does not wish it known he fights against a Great House,” Hawat said.
“But you know they are Sardaukar.”
“Who am I?” Hawat asked bitterly.
“You are Thufir Hawat,” the man said matter-of-factly. “Well, we would have learned it in time. We’ve sent three of them captive to be questioned by Liet’s men.”
Hawat’s aide spoke slowly, disbelief in every word: “You … captured Sardaukar?”
“Only three of them,” the Fremen said. “They fought well.”
If only we’d had the time to link up with these Fremen, Hawat thought. It was a sour lament in his mind. If only we could’ve trained them and armed them. Great Mother, what a fighting force we’d have had!
“Perhaps you delay because of worry over the Lisan al-Gaib,” the Fremen said. “If he is truly the Lisan al-Gaib, harm cannot touch him. Do not spend thoughts on a matter which has not been proved.”
“I serve the … Lisan al-Gaib,” Hawat said. “His welfare is my concern. I’ve pledged myself to this.”
“You are pledged to his water?”
Hawat glanced at his aide, who was still staring at the Fremen, returned his attention to the squatting figure. “To his water, yes.”
“You wish to return to Arrakeen, to the place of his water?”
“To … yes, to the place of his water.”
“Why did you not say at first it was a water matter?” The Fremen stood up, seated his nose plugs firmly.
Hawat motioned with his head for his aide to return to the others. With a tired shrug, the man obeyed. Hawat heard a low-voiced conversation arise among the men.
The Fremen said: “There is always a way to water.”
Behind Hawat, a man cursed. Hawat’s aide called: “Thufir! Arkie just died.”
The Fremen put a fist to his ear. “The bond of water! It’s a sign!” He stared at Hawat. “We have a place nearby for accepting the water. Shall I call my men?”
The aide returned to Hawat’s side, said: “Thufir, a couple of the men left wives in Arrakeen. They’re… well, you know how it is at a time like this.”
The Fremen still held his fist to his ear. “Is it the bond of water, Thufir Hawat?” he demanded.
Hawat’s mind was racing. He sensed now the direction of the Fremen’s words, but feared the reaction of the tired men under the rock overhang when they understood it.
“The bond of water,” Hawat said.
“Let our tribes be joined,” the Fremen said, and he lowered his fist.
As though that were the signal, four men slid and dropped down from the rocks above them. They darted back under the overhang, rolled the dead man in a loose robe, lifted him and began running with him along the cliff wall to the right. Spurts of dust lifted around their running feet.
It was over before Hawat’s tired men could gather their wits. The group with the body hanging like a sack in its enfolding robe was gone around a turn in the cliff.
One of Hawat’s men shouted: “Where they going with Arkie? He was—”
“They’re taking him to … bury him,” Hawat said.
“Fremen don’t bury their dead!” the man barked. “Don’t you try any tricks on us, Thufir. We know what they do. Arkie was one of—”
“Paradise were sure for a man who died in the service of Lisan al-Gaib,” the Fremen said. “If it is the Lisan al-Gaib you serve, as you have said it, why raise mourning cries? The memory of one who died in this fashion will live as long as the memory of man endures.”