“Just find a way to do it. Don’t go through regular channels. If a Suk can cure me, then I’ll have nothing to hide.”
• • •
Several days later, Piter de Vries learned that a talented if somewhat narcissistic Suk doctor had been stationed on Richese, an ally of the Harkonnens. The wheels in the Mentat’s mind began to turn. In the past, House Richese had aided Harkonnen-inspired plots, including the assassination of Duke Paulus Atreides in the bullring, but the allies often disagreed on priorities. For this most sensitive of all matters, de Vries invited the Richesian Premier, Ein Calimar, to visit the Baron’s Keep on Giedi Prime, to discuss “a mutually profitable enterprise.”
An older, meticulously dressed man who retained his youthful athleticism, Calimar had dark skin and a wide nose with wire-rimmed eyeglasses perched on it. He arrived at the Harko City Spaceport wearing a white suit with gold lapels. Four guards in blue Harkonnen livery escorted him into the Baron’s private quarters.
Once he stepped inside the private chambers, the Premier’s nose twitched at an odor, which did not escape his host’s bemused notice. The nude body of a young boy hung in a closet only two meters away; the Baron had intentionally left the door open a crack. The corpse’s putrid odor mixed and interlocked with older ones that had permeated the rooms to such a degree that even strong perfumes did not conceal them.
“Please sit.” The Baron pointed to a couch where faint bloodstains could still be seen. He had prepared this entire meeting with subliminal threats and unpleasantness, just to set the Richesian leader on edge.
Calimar hesitated— a moment that delighted the Baron— then accepted the seat, but declined an offer of kirana brandy, though his host took a snifter for himself. The Baron slumped into a bobbing suspensor chair. Behind him stood his fidgety personal Mentat, who stated why House Harkonnen had requested the meeting.
Surprised, Calimar shook his head. “You wish to rent my Suk doctor?” His nose continued to twitch, and his gaze searched the room for a source of the odor, settling on the closet door. He adjusted his golden spectacles. “I’m sorry, but I am unable to comply. A personal Suk physician is a responsibility and an obligation . . . not to mention an enormous expense.”
The Baron pouted. “I have tried other doctors, and I would prefer to keep this matter private. I cannot simply advertise for one of the arrogant professionals. Your Suk doctor, though, would be bound by his oath of confidentiality, and no one needs to know he left your service for a brief period.” He heard the whining tone in his own voice. “Come, come, where is your compassion?”
Calimar looked away from the dark closet. “Compassion? An interesting comment from you, Baron. Your House hasn’t bothered to help us with our problem, despite our entreaties over the last five years.”
The Baron leaned forward. His wormhead walking stick lay across his lap, its tip filled with serpent-venom darts pointed toward the white-suited man. Tempting, so tempting. “Perhaps we could come to an understanding.” He looked questioningly at his Mentat for an explanation.
De Vries said, “In a word, he means money, my Baron. The Richesian economy is floundering.”
“As our ambassador has explained repeatedly to your emissaries,” Calimar added. “Since my House lost control of the spice operations on Arrakis— you replaced us, don’t forget— we have attempted to rebuild our economic foundation.” The Premier held his chin high, pretending that he still had some pride left. “Initially, the downfall of Ix was a boon to us, removing competition. However, our finances remain somewhat . . . strained.”
The Baron’s spider-black eyes flashed, relishing Calimar’s embarrassment. House Richese, manufacturers of exotic weaponry and complex machines, experts in miniaturization and Richesian mirrors, had made initial market-share gains against rival Ixian companies during the upheavals on Ix.
“Five years ago the Tleilaxu began shipping Ixian products again,” de Vries said with cold logic. “You are already losing whatever gains you made in the past ten years. Sales of Richesian products have fallen off severely with the renewed availability of Ixian technology.”
Calimar kept his voice steady. “So you see, we must have resources to enhance our efforts and invest in new facilities.”
“Richese, Tleilax, Ix . . . we try not to interfere in squabbles between other Houses.” The Baron sighed. “I wish there could just be peace throughout the Landsraad.”
Anger seeped into the Premier’s features. “This is more than a squabble, Baron. This is about survival. Many of my agents are missing on Ix and presumed dead. It disgusts me even to consider what the Tleilaxu may use their body parts for.” He adjusted his spectacles; perspiration glistened on his forehead. “Besides, the Bene Tleilax are not a House of any sort. The Landsraad would never accept them.”
“A mere technicality.”
“We arrive at an impasse then,” Calimar announced, making as if to rise. He looked once more at the ominous closet door. “I did not believe you’d be willing to meet our stiff price, regardless of how excellent our Suk doctor is.”
“Wait, wait—” The Baron held up a hand. “Trade agreements and military pacts are one thing. Friendship is another. You and your House have been our loyal ally in the past. Perhaps I didn’t fully understand the scope of your problem before.”
Calimar tilted his head back, gazed down the bridge of his nose at the Baron. “The scope of our problem consists of many zeros and no decimal points.”
Set in folds of fat, his black eyes took on a crafty gaze. “If you send me your Suk doctor, Premier, we shall rethink the situation. I’m sure you will be most pleased to hear the financial details of our offer. Consider it a down payment.”
Calimar refused to move. “I would like to hear the offer now, please.”
Seeing the stony expression on the Premier’s face, the Baron nodded. “Piter, tell him our proposal.”
De Vries quoted a high price for the rental of the Suk, payable in melange. No matter how much this Suk doctor cost, House Harkonnen could squeeze out the extra income by liquidating some of their hidden, illegal spice stockpiles, or by tightening production on Arrakis.
Calimar pretended to consider the offer, but the Baron knew the man had no choice but to accept. “The Suk will be sent to you immediately. This doctor, Wellington Yueh, has been working on cyborg studies, developing a machine-human interface to restore lost limbs through artificial means, an alternative to having the Tleilaxu grow replacements in their axlotl tanks.”
“ ‘Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of a human mind,’ ” de Vries quoted— the primary commandment arising out of the Butlerian Jihad.
Calimar stiffened. “Our patent lawyers have gone over this in detail, and there is no violation whatsoever.”
“Well, I don’t care what his specialty is,” the Baron said impatiently. “All Suk doctors have broad reservoirs of knowledge upon which they can draw. You understand that this must be kept in strict confidence?”
“That is not a matter of concern. The Suk Inner Circle has held embarrassing medical information on every family in the Landsraad for generations. You need not worry.”
“I am more worried that your people will talk. Do I have your promise that you will not divulge any details of our bargain? It could prove just as embarrassing to you.” The Baron’s dark eyes seemed to sink deeper into his puffy face.
A stiff nod from the Premier. “I am pleased to be of assistance, Baron. I have had the rare privilege of closely observing this Dr. Yueh. Allow me to assure you that he is most impressive indeed.”
Military victories are meaningless unless they reflect the wishes of the populace. An Emperor exists only to clarify those wishes. He executes the popular will, or his time is short.
— Principium, Imperial Leadership Academy
Beneath a black security hood, the Emperor sat in his elaborate suspensor chair as he received information from the ridulian report crystal. After delivering the encryp
ted summary, Hasimir Fenring stood beside him while words streamed through Shaddam’s mind.
The Emperor did not like the news.
At the conclusion of the progress summary, Fenring cleared his throat. “Hidar Fen Ajidica conceals much from us, Sire. If he were not vitally important to Project Amal, I would terminate him, hmmmm?”
The Emperor swung the security hood from his head, removed the glittering crystal from its receptacle. Adjusting his eyes to the bright morning sunshine that passed through a skylight in his private tower quarters, he peered at Fenring. The other man lounged at the Emperor’s desk of golden chusuk wood inlaid with milky soostones, as if he owned it.
“I see,” Shaddam mused. “The little gnome isn’t pleased to receive two more legions of Sardaukar. Commander Garon will put pressure on him to perform, and he feels the vise tightening around him.”
Fenring got up to pace in front of a window that over-
looked a profusion of orange and lavender blossoms in a rooftop garden. He picked at something lodged beneath one of his fingernails and flicked it away. “Don’t we all, hmmm?”
Shaddam noticed that the Count’s gaze had strayed to the holophotos of his three young daughters that Anirul had mounted on the wall— annoying reminders that he still had no male heir. Irulan was four years old, Chalice a year and a half, and baby Wensicia barely two months. Pointedly, he switched off the images and turned to his friend.
“You’re my eyes in the desert, Hasimir. It disturbs me that the Tleilaxu have been smuggling infant sandworms from Arrakis. I thought it couldn’t be done.”
Fenring shrugged. “What could it possibly matter if they took a small worm or two? The creatures die soon after they leave the desert, despite every effort to care for them.”
“Perhaps the ecosystem should not be disturbed.” The Emperor’s scarlet-and-gold tunic trailed over the edge of the suspensor chair onto the floor. He nibbled on a morsel of crimson fruit from a bowl beside him. “In his last report, our desert Planetologist claims that reductions in particular species could have devastating consequences on food chains. He says there are prices to be paid by future generations for the mistakes of today.”
Fenring made a dismissive gesture. “You shouldn’t bother yourself with his reports. If you brought me back from exile, Sire, I could remove such worries from your mind. I’d do your thinking for you, hmmm-ah?”
“Your assignment as Imperial Observer is hardly exile. You are a Count, and you are my Spice Minister.” Distracted, Shaddam thought about ordering something to drink, perhaps with music, exotic dancers, even a military parade outside. He had only to command it. But such things did not interest him at the moment. “Do you desire an additional title, Hasimir?”
Averting his overlarge eyes, Fenring said, “That would only call more attention to me. Already it is difficult to conceal from the Guild how often I journey to Xuttuh. Besides, trivial titles mean nothing to me.”
The Emperor tossed the pit of his fruit into the bowl, frowning. Next time he would order the preparers to cut out the seeds before serving them. “Is ‘Padishah Emperor’ a trivial title?”
At the sound of three beeps, the men looked up at the ceiling, from which a clearplaz tube spiraled down to a receptacle on the Emperor’s chusuk wood desk. An urgent message cylinder streaked through the tube and thunked into place. Fenring retrieved the cylinder, cut off a Courier’s seal, and removed two sheets of rolled instroy paper, which he passed to the Emperor, restraining himself from examining them first. Shaddam unrolled them, scanned the pages with an expression of growing distress.
“Hmmmm?” Fenring asked, in his impatient manner.
“Another formal letter of complaint from Archduke Ecaz, and a declaration of kanly against House Moritani on Grumman. Most serious, indeed.” He wiped red juice from his fingertips onto his scarlet robe, then read further. His face flushed. “Wait a minute. Duke Leto Atreides has already offered his services to the Landsraad as a mediator, but the Ecazis are taking the matter into their own hands.”
“Interesting,” the Count said.
Angrily, Shaddam thrust the letter into Fenring’s hands. “Duke Leto found out before I did? How is this possible? I’m the Emperor!”
“Sire, the flare-up is not surprising, considering the disgraceful behavior at my formal banquet.” Seeing the blank look, he continued. “The Grumman ambassador assassinating his rival right at the dinner table? You remember my report? It came to you months ago, hmmmm?”
As Shaddam struggled to put the pieces together in his mind, he waved dismissively at a blackplaz shelf beside his desk. “Maybe it’s over there. I haven’t read them all.”
Fenring’s dark eyes flashed with annoyance. “You have time to read esoteric reports from a Planetologist, but not from me? You would have been prepared for this feud if you’d paid attention to my communiqué. I warned you the Grummans are dangerous and bear watching.”
“I see. Just tell me what the report says, Hasimir. I’m a busy man.”
Fenring recounted how he’d had to release the arrogant Lupino Ord, owing to diplomatic immunity. With a sigh, the Emperor summoned attendants and called an emergency meeting of his advisors.
• • •
In the conference room adjoining Shaddam’s Imperial office, a team of Mentat legal advisors, Landsraad spokesmen, and Guild observers reviewed the technicalities of kanly, the careful ballet of warfare designed to harm only actual combatants, with minimal collateral damage to civilians.
The Great Convention prohibited the use of atomic and biological weapons and required that disputing Houses fight a controlled feud through accepted direct and indirect methods. For millennia, the rigid rules had formed the framework of the Imperium. Advisors recounted the background of the current conflict, how Ecaz had accused Moritani of biological sabotage in their delicate fogtree forests, how the Grumman ambassador had murdered his Ecazi counterpart at Fenring’s banquet, how Archduke Ecaz had formally declared kanly against Viscount Moritani.
“Another item of note,” said the Imperial Trade Chief, waving one knobby finger like a rapier in the air, “I have learned that an entire shipment of commemorative coins— minted, if you recall, Sire, to celebrate your tenth anniversary on the Golden Lion Throne— has been stolen in an audacious raid on a commercial frigate. By self-styled space pirates, if reports are to be believed.”
Shaddam glowered, impatient. “How is a petty theft relevant to the situation here?”
“That shipment was bound for Ecaz, Sire.”
Fenring perked up. “Hmmmm, was anything else stolen? War matériel, weapons of any kind?”
The Trade Chief checked his notes. “No— the so-called raiders commandeered only the Imperial commemorative coins, leaving other valuables behind.” He lowered his voice and mumbled, as if to himself, “However, since we used inferior materials in minting those coins, the financial losses are not significant. . . .”
“I recommend that we dispatch Imperial Observers to Ecaz and to Grumman,” Court Chamberlain Ridondo said, “in order to enforce the forms. House Moritani has been known to . . . ah, stretch their interpretation of formal rules.” Ridondo was a skeletally gaunt man with yellowish skin and a slippery way of accomplishing tasks while allowing Shaddam to take the credit; he had fared well in his position as Chamberlain.
Before Ridondo’s suggestion could be discussed, though, another message cylinder thumped into the receptacle beside the Emperor’s chair. After scanning the message, Shaddam slammed it onto the conference table. “Viscount Hundro Moritani has responded to the diplomatic insult by carpet-bombing the Ecazi Palace and its surrounding peninsula! The Mahogany Throne is physically destroyed. A hundred thousand noncombatants dead, and several forests are on fire. Archduke Ecaz barely escaped with his three daughters.” He squinted down at the curling instroy paper again, then looked quickly at Fenring but refused to ask for advice.
“He disregarded the strictures of kanly?” the Trade C
hief said in shock. “How can they do that?”
The sallow skin on Chamberlain Ridondo’s towering forehead wrinkled with concern. “Viscount Moritani does not have the honor of his grandfather, who was a friend of the Hunter. What is to be done with wild dogs such as these?”
“Grumman has always hated being part of the Imperium, Sire,” Fenring pointed out. “They constantly seek opportunities to spit in our faces.”
The discussion around the table took on a more frenetic tone. As Shaddam listened to the talk, trying to look regal, he reflected on how different it was to be Emperor from how he’d imagined. Reality was exceedingly complicated, with too many competing forces.
He recalled playing war games with young Hasimir, and realized how much he missed his boyhood friend’s companionship and advice. But an Emperor could not reverse important decisions lightly— Fenring would remain in his Arrakis assignment and in the allied duty of overseeing the artificial spice program. It was better if spies believed the stories of friction between them, though perhaps Shaddam could schedule more frequent visits with his childhood companion. . . .
“The forms must be obeyed, Sire,” Ridondo said. “Law and tradition bind the Imperium. We cannot allow one noble house to ignore the strictures as they choose. Clearly, Moritani sees you as weak and unwilling to intervene in this squabble. He’s taunting you.”
The Imperium will not slip through my fingers, Shaddam vowed. He decided to set an example. “Let it be known throughout the Imperium, that a legion of Sardaukar troops is to be stationed on Grumman for a period of two years. We’ll put a leash on this Viscount.” He turned to the Spacing Guild observer at the far end of the table. “Furthermore, I want the Guild to levy a heavy tariff on all goods delivered to and from Grumman. Such income to be used for reparations to Ecaz.”
The Guild representative sat in silence for a long, cold moment, as if pondering the “decision,” which was in reality only a request. The Guild was beyond the control of the Padishah Emperor. Finally, he nodded. “It will be done.”
Dune: House Harkonnen Page 9