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“
Have
you
taken
hostages
?
”
the
Emperor
asked
.
“
It
’
s
useless
,
Majesty
,
”
the
Baron
said
.
“
These
mad
Fremen
hold
a
burial
ceremony
for
every
captive
and
act
as
though
such
a
one
were
already
dead
.
”
“
So
?
”
the
Emperor
said
.
And
the
Baron
waited
,
glancing
left
and
right
at
the
metal
walls
of
the
selamlik
,
thinking
of
the
monstrous
fanmetal
tent
around
him
.
Such
unlimited
wealth
it
represented
that
even
the
Baron
was
awed
.
He
brings
pages
,
the
Baron
thought
,
and
useless
court
lackeys
,
his
women
and
their
companions
-
hair
-
dressers
,
designers
,
everything
.
.
.
all
the
fringe
parasites
of
the
Court
.
All
here
—
fawning
,
slyly
plotting
,
“
roughing
it
”
with
the
Emperor
.
.
.
here
to
watch
him
put
an
end
to
this
affair
,
to
make
epigrams
over
the
battles
and
idolize
the
wounded
.
“
Perhaps
you
’
ve
never
sought
the
right
kind
of
hostages
,
”
the
Emperor
said
.
He
knows
something
,
the
Baron
thought
.
Fear
sat
like
a
stone
in
his
stomach
until
he
could
hardly
bear
the
thought
of
eating
.
Yet
,
the
feeling
was
like
hunger
,
and
he
poised
himself
several
times
in
his
suspensors
on
the
point
of
ordering
food
brought
to
him
.
But
there
was
no
one
here
to
obey
his
summons
.
“
Do
you
have
any
idea
who
this
Muad
’
Dib
could
be
?
”
the
Emperor
asked
.
“
One
of
the
Umma
,
surely
,
”
the
Baron
said
.
“
A
Fremen
fanatic
,
a
religious
adventurer
.
They
crop
up
regularly
on
the
fringes
of
civilization
.
Your
Majesty
knows
this
.
”
The
Emperor
glanced
at
his
Truthsayer
,
turned
back
to
scowl
at
the
Baron
.
“
And
you
have
no
other
knowledge
of
this
Muad
’
Dib
?
”
