Thread: Daughter Of Dune (Ursus Peregrinus & darkangel76)

Sitting in the shadow of a dune, a cloaked sat still. Beside him on the sand lay his pack, a set of maker hooks projecting from the top. As the two moons rose over the distant Shield Wall, he removed a small cage from beneath his jubba cloak and lifted it up to examine the bat hanging within. Letting it sip a single drop of water from his stillsuit's sip-tube, he opened the cage and drew it out. Murmuring into its ear, he gave a gentle lifting motion and allowed it to fly free. For a moment the bat circled, then it turned southeast, winging its way across the Great Erg. Rising, Marid of Broken Cliffs shouldered his pack and brushed his cloak carefully over the sand to eliminate the evidence of his passing. It was too close to the villages of the sink and graben to dare calling up a maker, but he had much ground to cover. Just before the last full moon, a Sayyadina had come to his Sietch, riding a palanquin with a dozen guardsmen. She had spent a day in conference with his father Salah, the Naib. Then, without a word spoken to any other in the Sietch, she had left once more, headed deep into the south. Salah had come to him that night, and had told him to make a journey. He was to go alone, to Arrakeen, and seek out a man called Kaleff. The former Fedaykin would know him when he gifted him with a baliset, and Marid was to ask for some trifling ghanima in return, a memory of Muad'dib's great Jihad. Once he had taken custody of this spoil of war, he was to return it to Broken Cliffs, where it would be tested by the Amtal rule. He did not fully understand, but that was unimportant. Too young to take part in the great Jihad, Marid was eager to prove himself. Hunting smugglers and spice hunters in the deep desert was poor meat for a hungry Fremen. Drawing deeply on the sip tube of his stillsuit, he drained the catchpockets. The best place to store moisture was in the body, and he would need his strength tonight. Moving with the peculiar arrhythmic step of a Fremen from the deep desert, the figure moved through the city of Arrakeen. His dusty jubba cloak was pulled close around him, and the hood obscured his face, but his stance was enough to grant him some measure of space as he forced his way through the crowds in the marketplace. The Souk was incredibly crowded to a Fremen who had spent his life first in the safe havens of the South Polar region and then in the camps and sietches of the deep desert. Marid's eyes narrowed as he was jostled, but kept his hand from his crysknife. Pausing in wonder, Marid stood for a long time at the fountain in the midst of the market square. Water running free, and folk walking past it as though it were nothing. Now and then one would dip a cup and sip, but most simply walked by as though such wealth were a common thing. Shaking his head, the young Fremen turned away and moved towards the house Salah had described. He recognized it by the palm fronds carved into the sandstone of the door frame, but he did not approach immediately. Instead, he crossed to a coffeehouse and chose a seat where he could watch the doorway surreptitiously. Throwing back the hood of his cloak and slipping off his gloves. He even slipped out of his stillsuit's filters and mask, though not without hesitation. The air here in Arrakeen had a life to it, though. He remembered the same sense of moisture in the air from his youth at the South Pole. It lacked the oppressive dryness of the Erg, or even the communities clustered about the Shield Wall. A young woman brought him a cup of coffee without his asking, and smiled at him. Marid thanked her with a gesture, touching lips and forehead before lifting his cup and sipping. He had no reason to wait before approaching his destination, but neither did he see a reason to rush in. No, it might be better to wait a while, and see. When he finished his coffee, the serving girl approached again and he slipped a few coins across the polished stone of the table. Your coffee is excellent. Please, some more? And a meal, if you would. The dark-haired, dark-eyed girl smirked at the excessive formality of his words, but nodded as she tucked the coins into her purse and slipped away through the crowd. Marid was wondering where his meal was when he sensed a presence behind him. His shoulders tensed and one hand slipped beneath the table but before his fingers touched his knife's hilt, he felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder. Is there a reason you are watching my front door, little one? No, there's no need for that knife, boy. You came looking for me as I have come looking for you. The voice was deep and rough, and as Marid turned he saw scarred and callused fingers on his jubba cloak. Shrugging off the hand, Marid gestured at the seat opposite him. Please, sit. I have ordered food, if you will join me I would be most honoured. The tension in his shoulders and the hardness in his eyes didn't fade as he got his first good look at the interloper. He was a big man, broad and stout, not water-fat but lacking the lean and wind-burnt look of those used to the desert. Still, the way he moved and the callus on his nose from a stillsuit's filters showed him to be a Fremen. He was bald, his tanned pate showed a long scar from his right eyebrow back past his ear, and wore a blue and black striped jellaba that covered his bulky form. White teeth showed through a bushy black beard, one crystal tooth filling a gap to the left of his smile. That tooth, a diamond carved to replace one lost in battle, was one of the things his father had told him to watch for. I would be pleased to join you, the big man intoned as he sat, his large hands flat on the table. I think, perhaps, you are the one I have been waiting for, but here is no place to discuss business. Let us talk of more pleasant things, yes? Music, perhaps... I am a fine player of the Baliset. My father taught me, years ago, but I was more eager for battle then. Now, in my dotage, I find it restful to revisit those simpler times. Marid watchd him suspiciously and then allowed a faint smile to quirk his lips. My own interests are more practical. Where music is concerned I have a poor ear and clumsy fingers. My skills, poor as they are, rest in shaping stone. He dipped his hand beneath his cloak and laid a loop of carved stone beads on the table. His pace-counters, that he used to measure distance on the march. One hundred and eight of them, alternating between polished granite and basalt, each carved with the likeness of a different form of desert life. The dark beads were plant life, the creosote bush, saguaro cactus, sand verbena and more. The light beads were animal life, from the biting wasp and scorpion to the sand terrapin and kit fox. The large stranger examined the beads, then passed them back with a nod. You underestimate yourself, my young friend. Your sietch is lucky to have one with your skills. That white smile widened as the girl returned with two cups and a carafe of spice coffee. Thank you, Johara, the serving girl's smile mimicked the large man's, and Marid shook his head and laughed ruefully. Curse me for a fool, the young Fremen sighed. This cafe is yours as well. You are Kaleff of Sietch Tabr. It does amuse, does it not? To seek to spy upon me from the comfort of my own coffee house? Kaleff slapped his palm upon the table and then poured coffee for them both, sipping from his cup to show Marid it was unpoisoned. Marid sipped in turn, bowing his head respectfully to his host. I am Marid, of Broken Cliffs, son of Salah our Naib. Marid could not hide his rueful smile at showing himself a fool before this stranger. I know your father well, Marid. We fought together, on Muad'dib's great Jihad. On a dozen worlds, we fought, but never more fiercely than we did here, where the great crusade began. So when at last we came home again, we wept for there were no more battles. Kaleff sighed and plucked an olive from the plate, popping it into his mouth. No battle but one, Marid replied. My father never lets us forget that the great battle is not yet won. The desert is still our enemy, even as it is our strength. Bi lal kaifa, Kaleff replied. Just as you say the divine created Arrakis to train the faithful. It will be a sad day when the desert grows green once more. The conflicting emotions on the old Fedaykin's face mirrored the look Marid's father would show when he spoke of such things. Since the coming of Liet's father the Fremen had cherished the dream of a green Arrakis. Now that it was finally coming within reach, the older Fremen seemed almost afraid of their victory. Marid could understand a wish to preserve the desert, he loved the wide sky and there was no thrill like calling up a maker and setting the first hook between its rings, but for generations his people had worked and fought and striven for the change that was coming. It seemed like cowardice to turn away from it on the eve of victory. Sipping his coffee, the young Fremen nudged his pack with one foot. My father sends a gift, Kaleff. He bade me bring it to you, a nine thumper journey. I came alone, in secret, to meet with you. Will you te- Kaleff's chopping motion silenced him and Marid sat back. We will speak at dinner. Until then, be mindful. There are few on this side of the Shield Wall that can be trusted, and fewer still in Arrakeen. Go now, return to my door at sunset. Without another word, Marid stood, lifting his heavy pack to his shoulder and striding calmly from the cafe. He did not look back. Questions roiled in his mind, but the desert taught patience. He would learn the answers in time. For now, he would walk the streets of the city, and see what Arrakeen had to offer him.