of his uncle’s box. He caught the ceremonial key as it was thrown.
The music stopped.
Into the abrupt silence, he stepped back two paces, raised the key and shouted. “I dedicate this truth to....” And he paused, knowing his uncle would think: The young fool’s going to dedicate to Lady Fenring after all and cause a ruckus!
“... to my uncle and patron, the Baron Vladimir Harkonnen!” Feyd-Rautha shouted.
And he was delighted to see his uncle sigh.
The music resumed at the quick-march, and Feyd-Rautha led his men scampering back across the arena to the prudence door that admitted only those wearing the proper identification band. Feyd-Rautha prided himself that he never used the pru-door and seldom needed distractors. But it was good to know they were available this day—special plans sometimes involved special dangers.
Again, silence settled over the arena.
Feyd-Rautha turned, faced the big red door across from him through which the gladiator would emerge.
The special gladiator.
The plan Thufir Hawat had devised was admirably simple and direct, Feyd-Rautha thought. The slave would not be drugged—that was the danger. Instead, a key word had been drummed into the man’s unconscious to immobilize his muscles at a critical instant. Feyd-Rautha rolled the vital word in his mind, mouthing it without sound: “Scum!” To the audience, it would appear that an undrugged slave had been slipped into the arena to kill the na-Baron. And all the carefully arranged evidence would point to the slavemaster.
A low humming arose from the red door’s servo-motors as they were armed for opening.
Feyd-Rautha focused all his awareness on the door. This first moment was the critical one. The appearance of the gladiator as he emerged told the trained eye much it needed to know. All gladiators were supposed to be hyped on elacca drug to come out kill-ready in fighting stance—but you had to watch how they hefted the knife, which way they turned in defense, whether they were actually aware of the audience in the stands. The way a slave cocked his head could give the most vital clue to counter and feint.
The red door slammed open.
Out charged a tall, muscular man with shaved head and darkly pitted eyes. His skin was carrot-colored as it should be from the elacca drug, but Feyd-Rautha knew the color was paint. The slave wore green leotards and the red belt of a semishield—the belt’s arrow pointing left to indicate the slave’s left side was shielded. He held his knife sword-fashion, cocked slightly outward in the stance of a trained fighter. Slowly, he advanced into the arena, turning his shielded side toward Feyd-Rautha and the group at the pru-door.
“I like not the look of this one,” said one of Feyd-Rautha’s barb-men. “Are you sure he’s drugged, m’Lord?”
“He has the color,” Feyd-Rautha said.
“Yet he stands like a fighter,” said another helper.
Feyd-Rautha advanced two steps onto the sand, studied this slave.
“What has he done to his arm?” asked one of the distractors.
Feyd-Rautha’s attention went to a bloody scratch on the man’s left forearm, followed the arm down to the hand as it pointed to a design drawn in blood on the left hip of the green leotards—a wet shape there: the formalized outline of a hawk.
Hawk!
Feyd-Rautha looked up into the darkly pitted eyes, saw them glaring at him with uncommon alertness.
It’s one of Duke Leto’s fighting men we took on Arrakis! Feyd-Rautha thought. No simple gladiator this! A chill ran through him, and he wondered if Hawat had another plan for this arena—a feint within a feint within a feint. And only the slavemaster prepared to take the blame!
Feyd-Rautha’s chief handler spoke at his ear: “I like not the look on that one, m’Lord. Let me set a barb or two in his knife arm to try him.”
“I’ll set my own barbs,” Feyd-Rautha said. He took a pair of the long, hooked shafts from the handler, hefted them, testing the balance. These barbs, too, were supposed to be drugged—but not this time, and the chief handler might die because of that. But it was all part of the plan.
“You’ll come out of this a hero, ” Hawat had said. “Killed your gladiator man to man and in spite of treachery. The slavemaster will be executed and your man will step into his spot. ”
Feyd-Rautha advanced another five paces into the arena, playing out the moment, studying the slave. Already, he knew, the experts in the stands above him were aware that something was wrong. The gladiator had the correct skin color for a drugged man, but