Margot had been so persistent about the importance of a certain matter, using all the quiet clout of the Bene Gesserit, that an audience had been granted to her on short notice. The only time open was during one of Shaddam’s morning walks, an hour he normally reserved for quiet personal reflection (“grief for his dead father,” according to the Court gossip Fenring had fostered).
Margot favored the weasel-faced man beside her with a pretty smile and a casual toss of her honey-blonde hair. Her gray-green eyes studied him. “You know very well what I wish to discuss with your friend, Hasimir,” she said, employing a familiar tone that astonished the Imperial heir. “Didn’t you prepare him?”
Fenring shook his head jerkily, and Shaddam saw him weaken in her presence. The deadly man wasn’t his usual forceful self. The Bene Gesserit delegation had been here for some days, waiting, and Margot Rashino-Zea had spent a great deal of time with Fenring in close discussions. Shaddam cocked his head, sensing some affection— or at least mutual respect— between the two. Impossible!
“Hmm-m-m-ah, I thought you might phrase it better than I could, Sister,” Fenring said. “Sire, the lovely Margot has an interesting proposal for you. I think you should listen to her.”
The Bene Gesserit looked at Shaddam strangely. Has she noticed my distress? he wondered, suddenly panicked. Does she know the reason for my feelings?
The sigh of the fountain drowned out their words. Margot took Shaddam’s hands in hers, and they were pleasingly soft and warm to him. Gazing into her sensual eyes, he felt her strength flow back into him, a comfort. “You must have a wife, Sire,” she said. “And the Bene Gesserit can provide the best match for you and House Corrino.”
Startled, Shaddam glanced over at his friend and snatched his hands back. Fenring smiled, uneasily.
“Soon you will be crowned Emperor,” Margot continued. “The Sisterhood can help you secure your power base— more than an alliance with any single Great House of the Landsraad. During his life, your father married into the Mutelli, Hagal, and Ecaz families, as well as your own mother from Hassika V. However, in these difficult times, we believe you would gain the greatest advantage by allying your throne with the power and resources of the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood.” She spoke firmly, convincingly.
He noticed that the entourage of Sisters had stopped a distance away and stood watching them. Out of earshot, the Sardaukar remained watchful but motionless, like statues. He looked at Margot’s perfectly formed face, her golden hair, her hypnotic presence.
She surprised him by turning back to the entourage and pointing. “Do you see the woman in the center over there? The one with bronze hair?”
Noting the gesture, a robed Reverend Mother stepped forward. Shaddam squinted, assessing her features, her doelike face. Even from a distance, he found her rather attractive, though she was not a classic beauty. Not as lovely as Margot, unfortunately, but she did seem young and fresh.
“Her name is Anirul, a Bene Gesserit of Hidden Rank.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s just one of our titles, Sire, quite common in the Sisterhood. It means nothing outside the order and is irrelevant to your work as Emperor.” Margot paused a beat. “You need only know that Anirul is one of our best. We are offering her to you in marriage.”
Shaddam felt a jolt of surprise. “What?”
“The Bene Gesserit are quite influential, you know. We can work behind the scenes to smooth over any difficulties you currently have with the Landsraad. This would free you to perform the work of being Emperor and secure your place in history. A number of your grandfathers have done this, to good effect.” She narrowed her gray-green eyes. “We are aware of the troubles you currently face, Sire.”
“Yes, yes, I know all that.” He looked over at Fenring, as if the weasel-faced man could explain himself. Then Shaddam beckoned for Anirul herself to come forward. The guards looked at one another uneasily, not knowing whether they should accompany her.
In front of him, Margot’s gaze intensified. “You are now the most powerful man in the universe, Sire, but your political rule is balanced between yourself, the Landsraad Council, and the powerful forces of the Spacing Guild and the Bene Gesserit. Your marriage to one of my Sisters would be . . . mutually beneficial.”
“Besides, Sire,” Fenring added, his eyes even larger than usual, “an alliance with any other Great House would bring with it certain . . . baggage. You would join with one family at the risk of spurning another. We don’t want to trigger another rebellion.”
Though surprised by the suggestion, Shaddam rather liked the sound of it. One of his father’s adages about leadership indicated that a ruler needed to pay attention to his instincts. The haunted cloak hung heavy on his shoulders like a crushing weight. Maybe the witching powers of the Sisterhood could ward off whatever malevolent force inhabited the garment and the Palace.
“This Anirul of yours does have an appealing look to her.” Shaddam watched as the proffered woman stepped forward and stood at silent attention, eyes averted, five paces from his royal person.
“Then will you consider our proposal, Sire?” Margot asked and took a respectful step back, awaiting his decision.
“Consider it?” Shaddam smiled. “I already have. In my position, decisions must be made quickly and decisively.” He looked at Fenring, narrowing his eyes. “Wouldn’t you agree, Hasimir?”
“Ah-hm-m-m, that depends upon whether you’re choosing a new garment or a wife.”
“Wise counsel on the surface,” Shaddam said to Fenring. “But disingenuous, I think. You are obviously Sister Margot’s friend, and you arranged this meeting, knowing full well the request she would make. I must, therefore, presume you concur with the Bene Gesserit position.”
Fenring bowed. “The decision is yours, Sire, no matter my personal opinion or feelings toward this beautiful woman beside me.”
“Very well, my answer is . . . yes.” Hearing this from where she stood, Reverend Mother Anirul did not even smile. “Do you believe I have made the right choice, Hasimir?”
Unaccustomed to being caught off-balance, Fenring cleared his throat several times. “She is a fine lady, Sire, and will no doubt make a superb wife. And the Bene Gesserit should make excellent allies, especially in these difficult transition times.”
The Crown Prince laughed. “You sound like one of our diplomats. Give me a yes or a no, without equivocation.”
“Yes, Majesty. That is, I give you a yes, without hesitation. Anirul is a woman of fine breeding and disposition . . . a bit young, but she has a great wisdom about her.” With a glance at Margot beside him, Fenring said, “You assured me that she can indeed bear children?”
“Royal heirs will flow from her loins,” Margot quipped.
“What an image!” Shaddam exclaimed, with another hearty laugh. “Bring her to me so I can meet her myself.”
Margot raised her hand, and Anirul hurried to the Crown Prince’s side. The rest of the Bene Gesserit entourage buzzed with conversation.
Shaddam looked at the woman closely, noted that Anirul— his wife-to-be— had delicate features. He noted tiny lines around the doe eyes, though her gaze was youthful and her movements lithe. At the moment she continued to lower her head with its ruffled bronze hair. As if being coy, she looked at the Crown Prince and then away again.
“You have just made one of the best decisions of your life, Sire,” Margot said. “Your reign will have a strong foundation.”
“This is cause for celebration, with all the pomp and splendor the Imperium can muster,” Shaddam said. “In fact, I plan to announce that the marriage will take place on the same day as my coronation.”
Fenring beamed. “It will be the grandest spectacle in Imperial history, my friend.”
Shaddam and Anirul exchanged smiles, and touched hands for the first time as he reached out to her.
When the center of the storm does not move, you are in its path.
—Ancient Fremen Wisdom<
br />
The Atreides frigate departed from Cala City Spaceport for the Padishah Emperor’s coronation, loaded with an abundance of banners, exquisite clothes, jewels, and gifts. Duke Leto wanted to make sure he contributed visibly to the magnificence of the Imperial ceremony.
“It is a good tactic,” Thufir Hawat agreed with a grim nod. “Shaddam has always reveled in the trappings of his position. The more finery you wear and the more gifts you present him, the more impressed he’ll be . . . and therefore the more inclined to grant your request.”
“He appears to value form over substance,” Leto mused. “But appearances can be deceiving, and I dare not underestimate him.”
Kailea had worn her own gorgeous sky-blue-and-lilac dress to see them off, but she would remain at the Castle, with no one to see her finery. Leto could see how much she longed to go to the Imperial Court, but he refused to bend in his decision. Old Paulus had taught him stubbornness as well.
Rhombur emerged into the staging area wearing pantaloons, a synthetic merh-silk shirt, and a billowing cape of purple and copper, colors of the lost House Vernius. He stood proudly, while Kailea gasped at her brother’s bravery for flaunting his family heritage. He seemed much more a man now, muscular and tanned, without the gentle roundings of baby fat.
“Some might see that as arrogance, my Duke,” Hawat said, nodding toward Rhombur’s clothes.
“This is all a gamble, Thufir,” Leto said. “We need to hark back to the grandeur that was lost when Tleilaxu treachery forced this noble family to go renegade. We must show the shortsightedness of Emperor Elrood’s malicious decision. We must help Shaddam see what a great ally House Vernius could be to the Imperial throne. After all”— he gestured to the proud Rhombur—“would you rather have this man as your ally, or the filthy Tleilaxu?”
The Master of Assassins favored him with a small, contained smile. “I wouldn’t come out and say that directly to Shaddam.”
“We’ll say it without words,” Leto replied.
“You are going to make a formidable Duke, m’Lord,” Hawat said.
They walked together from the staging area to the landing field, where twice the usual complement of Atreides troops had just finished boarding the frigate that would take them up to the waiting Heighliner.
Kailea came forward and gave Leto a brief, formal hug. Her pastel dress rustled with her movements, and he pressed his cheek against one of the gold combs in her copper-dark hair. He could feel the tension in her arms, and sensed that they both wanted to share a much more passionate embrace.
Then, with tears in her eyes, the daughter of Dominic and Shando Vernius clutched her brother even more desperately. “Be careful, Rhombur. This is so dangerous.”
“This may be the only way we can restore our family name,” Rhombur answered. “We must throw ourselves upon the mercy of Shaddam. Perhaps he’ll be different from his father. He has nothing to gain by maintaining the sentence against us, and much to lose— especially with the restlessness in the Imperium. He needs all the friends and strength he can get.” He smiled and swirled the purple-and-copper cape.
“Ix is wasted on the Bene Tleilax,” Kailea noted. “They don’t have an inkling about how to run a galactic business.”
Leto, Rhombur, and Hawat would be representatives from Caladan. Brash perhaps, and showy in their impertinence— or would it be seen as calm confidence? Leto hoped for the latter.
As Duke, he knew that flying in the face of Court politics was unwise. But his heart told him to gamble when the stakes were important enough, when he was on the side of righteousness— where he always intended to be. The Old Duke had taught him no less.
His father had shown him that a gambit filled with bravado often paid off far more substantially than a conservative and unimaginative plan . . . so why not this? Would the Old Duke have done something similar, or would he, guided by his wife, have taken a safer course? Leto had no answer for that, but was thankful that he didn’t have anyone like the stern and inflexible Lady Helena getting in his way now. When he decided to marry, it would never be to anyone like her.
He had sent a formal Courier to the Sisters in Isolation compound on the Eastern Continent, notifying his mother that he and Rhombur would journey to Kaitain. He didn’t delineate their plan or comment on the obvious risk involved, but he wanted her to be prepared for the worst. With no other heirs, Lady Helena would become the ruler of House Atreides should things go wrong, should Leto find himself executed or “accidentally” killed. Though he knew she had instigated the murder of his father, he had no choice in this circumstance. It was a matter of form.
The final pieces of Atreides luggage and trunks were loaded aboard, and within seconds the big frigate leaped into the gray-locked skies of Caladan. This would be different from his previous trips— the future of Rhombur’s bloodline hung in the balance . . . and perhaps his own as well.
With all the ceremonial fanfare, Leto was fortunate to have been granted an Imperial audience four days after the coronation. At that time he and Rhombur would make a formal petition to Shaddam, stating their case and throwing themselves on his mercy.
In the glorious first days of his regime, would the new Padishah Emperor risk casting a dark pall upon the festivities by renewing a sentence of death? Many Houses still saw omens in every action, and Shaddam was rumored to be as superstitious as any of them. This omen would be clear enough. By his own decision, Shaddam would establish the tenor of his reign. Would the Emperor want to begin by denying justice? Leto hoped not.
The ducal frigate took its assigned position inside the Heighliner’s cavernous but crowded cargo bay. Nearby, shuttles full of passengers moved delicately into position, along with transports and cargo ships filled with the trading goods of Caladan: pundi rice, medicinals from processed kelp, handmade tapestries, and preserved fish products. Privately owned lighters were still loading merchandise into the hold, ferrying up from the surface to the Heighliner. This huge Guild ship had gone from world to world on its roundabout route to Kaitain, and the province-sized cargo bay was dotted with ships from other worlds in the Imperium, all on their way to the coronation.
While they waited, Thufir Hawat looked at the chronometer mounted on a bulkhead of the frigate. “We still have three hours before the Heighliner completes loading and unloading and is ready to depart. I suggest we use this time for training, m’Lord.”
“You always suggest that, Thufir,” Rhombur said.
“Because you are young and require considerable instruction,” the Mentat countered.
Leto’s plush frigate was so full of amenities that he and his entourage could forget they were even off-planet. But he’d had enough of relaxing, and the anxiety of impending events filled him with a nervous energy that he wanted to discharge. “You have a suggestion, Thufir? What can we do out here?”
The Master of Assassins’ eyes lit up. “In space, there are many things a Duke— and a Prince—” he said with a nod to Rhombur, “can learn.”
• • •
A wingless combat pod the size of an ornithopter dropped out of the hold of the Atreides frigate and descended away from the Heighliner, into space. Leto worked the controls with Rhombur sitting in the copilot’s seat to his right. It reminded Leto for a moment of their brief training attempt in the Ixian orship, a near disaster.
Hawat stood behind them wearing a mobile crash restraint. In his harness he looked like a pillar of wisdom, frowning down at the two young men as they felt their way through the combat pod’s controls for the first time. An emergency override panel floated in front of Hawat.
“This craft is different from a coracle at sea, young sirs,” Hawat said. “Unlike the larger ships, we’re in zero gravity here, with all the flexibility and constraints that implies. You have both done the simulations, but now you are about to discover what real space combat is all about.”
“I get to fire the weapons first,” Rhombur said, repeating their prior arrangement.
“A
nd I’m piloting,” Leto added, “but we switch in half an hour.”
Behind him, Hawat spoke in a monotone: “It’s not likely, m’Lord Duke, that you will find yourself in a situation that requires space combat, but—”
“Yes, yes, I should always be prepared,” Leto said. “If I’ve learned anything from you, Thufir, it’s that.”
“First you must learn maneuvering.” Hawat guided Leto through a series of cruising curves and sharp arcs. He stayed sufficiently far from the enormous Heighliner, but close enough that he felt it constituted a genuine obstacle at this speed. Once, Leto reacted too quickly and plunged the combat pod into an uncontrolled spin, which he pulled out of by firing reaction jets to stop them without sending the craft spiraling in the opposite direction.
“Reaction and counter-reaction,” Hawat said, with approval. His now-tilted mobile crash restraint righted itself. “When you and Rhombur had your boating accident on Caladan, you were able to run aground on a reef to stop things from getting worse. Here, though, there is no safety net to catch you. If you spin out of control, you will continue to do so until the proper countermeasures are taken. You could fall and burn up in the atmosphere, or in deeper space you might hurtle into the void.”
“Uh, let’s not do any of that today,” Rhombur said. He looked over at his friend. “I’d like to try some practice shots now, Leto, if you can keep this thing flying straight for a few minutes.”
“No problem,” Leto said.
Bending to the weaponeer station between the boys, Hawat said, “I loaded skeet-drones into the hold. Rhombur, try to fire and nullify as many of them as you can. You have free range to use whatever weaponry you wish. Lasbeams, conventional explosives, or multiphase projectiles. But first, m’Lord”— Hawat squeezed Leto’s shoulder—“please take us around to the other side of the planet where we won’t have to worry about hitting the Heighliner when Rhombur’s shots go wild.”
Dune: House Atreides Page 54