The morning sun that poured over the horizon made the far-stretching dunes of the Habbanya Erg appear as if alight with a white fire all their own. A tall, sand-carved ridge jutted from the expanse, but at such a great distance that it appeared to Virgil to be a reddish blotch on the cream plain. The 'thopter was in its final turn to land, making a swooping arc over the western section of the False Wall before settling into a recess hidden within the craggy mountains. A camouflaged canopy again covered the crevice within seconds of the 'thopter's touchdown. Standing to greet the passengers were several Fremen wearing only their in-sietch dress of browns and greens. Around the necks of each were a tribal gauze kerchief and a series of metal rings, all in varying diameters, woven into a cloth. All wore at the hip that most recognizable but mysterious symbols of Fremen culture, the crysknife. One tall, bearded figure approached first, clasping Terril's arm as he stepped from the 'thopter.
"Very dangerous of you to have made this journey, my friend, but a very welcome pleasure that you could join us here. Please, step inside so you may introduce us to your friend." Virgil followed the pair through an airlock built into the wall of the crevice and into the sietch proper, receiving both questioning and dangerous looks from the other Fremen in the hollow. All had the face and expression of a man never to be crossed, so Virgil did not attempt to return any of their glances and only looked straight ahead to mask his rising discomfort.
Two men pulled the airlock shut behind them, sealing in the sietch's precious moisture. The cave's interior was much larger than Virgil had anticipated, and between the echoes of thousands of voices and the overwhelming odor of spice, the experience was almost a sensory overload. The thought then occurred to him that he had never been exposed to spice in such a quantity; the most he had ever been around was only the occasional tinge of cinnamon that wafted from a merchant's stand or hung on the breath of dignitaries that he had been forced to mingle with because of his occupation. At the forefront in his mind, then, was the latent danger of the geriatric melange: prolonged, concentrated exposure led to inseparable addiction whose absence turned that which gave life into a thing that took it, and in a most excruciating fashion. He decided that he must be vigilant, especially in this sietch, where escape from the omnipresent drug would be difficult at best.
Immediately inside, the Fremen Virgil assumed to be the leader of this band was engaged with Terril, discussing the goings-on between their last visit and this. He heard no mention of Victor's capture. The Fremen motioned Virgil toward him, extending an arm in like manner to Terril's greeting. He reciprocated, but found the grip that held his forearm much stronger than he had anticipated. There was much still to be learned about these Fremen, a people that could survive in stretches of desert deemed too hostile to support life.
"I've not had the privilege to hear much about you friend," the man said to Virgil, "but I'd be pleased to have an introduction. Come, Terril and guest, Ayishah and Nawar have already prepared coffee for us in my quarters." Terril leaned in close to Virgil and whispered.
"My friend here is Hamzah, leader of Sietch Chinbar. You're just lucky that you came here with me, and not on your own accord, else he would've had to follow the law provided in that case.
"What would've happened then?"
"Well, your 'water' would belong to his tribe. Not pleasant, I assure you. Also, Ayishah and Nawar are his wives. I don't expect anything funny of you, but just be very careful- they'll probably slit your throat faster than their husband will." Virgil worked to hide his confusion.
"He has two wives?"
"Yes. One, Ayishah, is his by marriage, while Nawar is his by right." This only puzzled Virgil even more.
"By right, you mean…"
"He won her by defeating her previous husband in single combat. The man was a rebel, trying to usurp leadership of the sietch…"
"Your friend won a second wife?" Pure practicality filled Terril's voice, as he obviously saw nothing wrong with this arrangement.
"Well, yes. It was all legal, you see, and once a man has challenged another to combat in this manner, there's no backing out and the winner claims the property of the loser. Really though, it's necessary if you want to maintain tribal stability." This was all Terril had to say on the matter.
Duels to decide leadership of the tribe, winning wives after the defeat of their husband: where was a man supposed to start in trying to understand these people?
Wall hangings and curtains muffled the clamor of the sietch's interior, leaving the three men to sip at their steaming spice coffee in relative quiet. The stench of cinnamon was so off-putting to Virgil that he considered declining his proffered cup, but prudence and Terril's advice compelled him to accept. Melange intake of this magnitude could be quite damaging to the system, or so he had heard, but he determined that spice coffee would not be as immediately damaging as a knife in his back.