“Tell me, Javid,” she said, “whence come you?” “I am but a simple Fremen of the desert,” he said, every syllable giving the lie to the statement. Zebataleph intruded with an offensive deference, almost mocking: “We have much to discuss of the old days, My Lady. I was one of the first, you know, to recognize the holy nature of your son’s mission.” “But you weren’t one of his Fedaykin,” she said. “No, My Lady. I possessed a more philosophic bent; I studied for the priesthood.” And insured the preservation of your skin, she thought.
