Chapter 16: The Honorable Man
The vendor was trying to charge the Atreides soldier fifteen solari for water that cost three.
"Fifteen," he repeated, holding up fingers for emphasis. "Fair price. Arrakis water. Good quality."
The soldier—young, maybe twenty, new to the desert—reached for his coin purse. He didn't know better. Probably thought fifteen solari was normal.
I shouldn't have intervened. Smart play was staying invisible. But something about watching an honest soldier get robbed by a merchant who'd charge his own mother double made my teeth grind.
"Three solari," I said, stepping up to the stall. "That's the actual price. He's cheating you."
The vendor's face went red. "You calling me a liar?"
"I'm calling you a thief. There's a difference." I looked at the soldier. "Three solari. Don't pay more."
The soldier's hand froze over his purse. Behind him, two more Atreides troops materialized—professional spacing, ready positions. And between them, the compact warrior I'd been observing for days.
Duncan Idaho.
His eyes swept over me. Assessing. Not hostile, just thorough. Taking in my stillsuit, my stance, the knife at my belt.
"Is he right?" Duncan asked the soldier.
"I—I don't know the local prices, sir."
Duncan looked at me. "And you do?"
"I know survival. Part of that is not getting robbed in broad daylight." I nodded at the vendor. "Three solari. I'll verify with any other merchant here."
The vendor muttered something about interfering outsiders. Accepted three solari. The soldier nodded thanks and left.
Duncan stayed.
"You know your way around," he said.
"I know enough not to starve or die broke."
"What's your name?"
"Morvani."
"Occupation?"
Moment of truth. Lie and get caught, or truth and see what happened.
"Smuggler. Mostly spice. Some water. Whatever pays."
Duncan's expression didn't change. "Honest answer. I appreciate that."
"You asked."
"Most wouldn't have answered." He gestured toward a quieter section of the market. "Walk with me."
It wasn't really a request. The two soldiers followed at professional distance—close enough to intervene, far enough to give the illusion of privacy.
We walked past stalls selling everything from ancient tech to suspicious meat. Duncan moved like he owned the street—not arrogant, just confident. A man who'd walked a thousand hostile streets and survived them all.
"Why help my soldier?" he asked.
"Because watching someone get robbed offends me. And because..." I hesitated. Calculated. "Because you're going to run this city soon. Smart money says being helpful now pays off later."
He smiled. Actually smiled. "At least you're honest about being calculating."
"Everyone's calculating. I'm just not pretending otherwise."
"Fair enough." He stopped at a water vendor—different one, honest prices. Bought two cups. Handed me one. "Drink."
I took it. Measured sips. Nothing wasted. The discipline was automatic now—part stillsuit training, part System-enforced efficiency from the Drought Whisper constantly pulling moisture.
Duncan noticed. "Someone taught you well."
"The desert teaches everyone. Some just learn faster."
We drank in silence. The water was flat, recycled, precious. Duncan studied me over his cup.
"Who do you work for?" he asked.
"Sirat Syndicate. Local smuggling operation. Not large, not small. We run spice and water through routes the Harkonnens don't patrol heavily."
"And what do you want?"
Direct question. Deserved direct answer. Mostly.
"To survive the transition. Harkonnens are leaving. You're arriving. Everything changes. People like me either adapt or disappear." I met his eyes. "I prefer adapting."
"What can you offer us?"
"Local knowledge. Smuggling routes. Water cache locations. Information on who's who in the underground markets." I paused. "And honesty. Which is apparently rare here."
Duncan finished his water. Set the cup down with practiced care—even disposable cups got respect from this man.
"I can't make promises," he said. "But my commander values useful information. If you're genuine, there might be opportunities."
"How do I prove I'm genuine?"
"Give me something. Nothing critical. Something I can verify." He pulled out a small data pad. "Impress me."
I thought fast. Needed something real, verifiable, valuable but not catastrophic. The hidden cache I'd found weeks ago—no, too close to my secrets. Harkonnen supply points? Better.
"There's a supply cache. Northern district, third level down. Abandoned warehouse marked with Harkonnen seal—faded orange circle with black bars. Inside, they've stockpiled weapons and water. Maybe fifty rifles, hundred liters. It's not guarded—they're moving everything quietly, forgot about this one."
Duncan made notes. "How do you know this?"
"Smugglers know where things are. That's the business."
"If this checks out, we'll talk more. If it doesn't..." He let the threat hang. Unspoken but clear.
"It'll check out."
We stood. The conversation was ending. Duncan extended his hand.
I shook it. His grip was firm, honest. The kind of handshake that meant something.
"The Duke arrives in eight days," Duncan said. "Things move fast after that. Be ready."
"I will be."
He left with his guards. Professional spacing. Alert but not paranoid.
I watched him disappear into the market crowd. Then I walked the opposite direction, mind racing.
First contact: successful. Information traded. Trust building initiated.
And I'd just shaken hands with the man who'd die holding a door shut. Who'd sacrifice everything for Paul Atreides. Who represented everything about honor and loyalty that the desert would eventually consume.
The handshake had felt genuine. Duncan Idaho liked me—or at least found me interesting.
That made it worse somehow.
I made my way back toward headquarters. The sun was setting—first sun already down, second following. The market was shifting to evening trade. Different vendors. Different crowds.
My Drought Whisper pressed against my control. The constant suppression was exhausting—like holding my breath all day. But necessary. The moment I relaxed, people nearby would start reaching for water.
I practiced the balance. Pull tight. Hold. Maintain.
By the time I reached headquarters, it was habit. Uncomfortable habit, but sustainable.
The main chamber had its evening rhythm. Jorik was there, repairing stillsuit seals. Mala worked through inventory sheets. Torren sat alone in his corner, radiating nervous energy.
Venn was absent. Probably in his quarters, nursing his wounded pride and plotting revenge against whoever had betrayed him.
I settled into my space. Pulled out the intelligence reports I'd been compiling. Added notes about Duncan Idaho's patterns, Atreides patrol routes, the general mood of transition.
Tomorrow Duncan would verify the cache. If it checked out—and it would—the conversation would continue. More valuable information. Deeper trust. Better positioning.
The game was accelerating. Pieces moving faster. In eight days, Duke Leto would arrive. Paul with him. Jessica. Thufir Hawat. All the players assembling.
And shortly after, the Harkonnen trap would spring. Blood and fire and betrayal.
I had eight days to position for survival. To make myself valuable enough that the Atreides would protect me. Or valuable enough that the chaos would pass me by.
Eight days to prepare for the moment when everything burned.
I looked at my hands. Steady. No shaking. I'd just committed to playing both sides—syndicate and Atreides. When the fire came, one side or both might try to kill me for it.
The calculus was simple. Risk versus reward. Survival versus morality.
I chose survival.
Always survival.
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