"There will be no more travel for you, Mohiam," Mother Superior Harishka said. "You must remain safely here -- until we have your daughter."
You of fearful heart, be strong and fear not. Behold, your God will come with a vengeance; He will come and save you from the worshipers of machines.
-The Orange Catholic Bible
In the concubines' wing of the Imperial Palace, throbbing massage machines slapped and kneaded bare skin, using scented oils to caress every glorious contour of the Emperor's women. Sophisticated physical-maintenance devices extracted cellulite, improved muscle tone, tautened abdomens and chins, and made tiny injections to soften the skin. Every detail had to be the way old Elrood preferred, though he didn't seem much interested anymore. Even the eldest of the four women, the septuagenarian Grera Cary, had the figure of a woman half her age, sustained in part through frequent imbibing of spice.
Dawn's light was tinged amber by passing through the bank of thick armor-plaz windows. When Grera's massage was complete, the machine wrapped her in a warm towel of karthan weave and placed a refreshing cloth soaked with eucalyptus and juniper over her face. The concubine's bed changed into a sensiform chair that conformed perfectly to her body.
A mechanized manicure station dropped from the ceiling, and Grera whispered through her daily meditations as her fingernails and toenails were trimmed, polished, and painted a lush green. The machine slid back up into its overhead compartment, and the woman stood and dropped her towel. An electric field passed over her face, arms, and legs, removing barely discernible and unwanted hairs.
Perfect. Perfect enough for the Emperor.
Of the current retinue of concubines, only Grera was old enough to remember Shando, a plaything who had left Imperial service to marry a war hero and settle down into a "normal life." Elrood hadn't paid Shando much attention when she'd been among his numerous women, but once she'd left, he had railed at the others and moaned about his loss. Most of his favorite concubines chosen in succeeding years looked a great deal like Shando.
As she watched the other concubines go through similar body-toning procedures, Grera Cary thought of how things had changed for all the Emperor's harem. Less than a year earlier, these women had congregated only rarely, since Elrood was with one of them so often, performing what he called his "royal duty." One of the concubines, an Elaccan, had secretly given the old goat a nickname that stuck -- "Fornicario," a reference from one of the Old Terran languages to his sexual prowess and appetites. The women only used it among themselves, and snickered.
"Has anyone seen Fornicario?" asked the taller of the two youngest concubines at the other end of the room.
Grera exchanged a smile with her, and the women giggled like schoolgirls. "I'm afraid our Imperial oak has turned into a drooping willow."
The old man rarely came to the concubines' wing anymore. Though Elrood spent as much time in bed now as ever, it was for an entirely different reason. His health had declined rapidly, and his libido had already died. His mind was the next thing likely to go.
Suddenly the chattering women grew silent, turning with alarm toward the main entrance of the concubines' wing. Without announcing himself, Crown Prince Shaddam entered with his ever-present companion, Hasimir Fenring, whom they often called "the Ferret" because of his narrow face and pointed chin. The women covered themselves quickly and stood at attention to show their respect.
"What's so funny in here, hm-m-m-m-ah?" Fenring demanded. "I heard giggling."
"The girls were just enjoying a little joke," Grera said, in a cautious tone. Senior among them, she often spoke for the concubines.
It was rumored that this undersized man had stabbed two of his lovers to death, and from his slithery demeanor Grera believed it. Through her years of experience, she had learned how to recognize a man capable of extreme cruelty. Fenring's genitals were supposedly malformed and sterile, though sexually functional. She had never slept with him herself, nor did she wish to.
Fenring studied her with overlarge, soulless eyes, then moved past her to the two new blondes. The Crown Prince remained behind him, near the doorway to the solarium. Slim and red-haired, Shaddam wore a gray Sardaukar uniform with silver-and-gold trim. Grera knew the Imperial heir loved to play military games.
"Please share your little joke with us," Fenring insisted. He addressed the smaller blonde, a petite girl barely beyond her teens who was only slightly shorter than he was. Her eyes resembled Shando's. "Prince Shaddam and I both enjoy humor."
"It was just a private conversation," Grera responded, stepping forward protectively. "Personal things."
"Can't she speak for herself?" Fenring snapped, glaring back at the elder woman. He wore a black tunic trimmed in gold, and many rings on his hands. "If this one's been chosen to entertain the Padishah Emperor, I'm sure she knows how to relay a simple joke, ah-mm-m-m-m?"
"It was as Grera said," the young blonde insisted. "Just a girl thing. Not worth repeating."
Fenring took hold of one of the edges of the towel she had been gripping tightly about her curvaceous body. Surprise and fear covered her face. He jerked at the towel, exposing one of her breasts.
Angrily, Grera said, "Cease this nonsense, Fenring. We are royal concubines. No one but the Emperor may touch us."
"Lucky you." Fenring gazed across the room at Shaddam.
The Crown Prince nodded stiffly. "She's right, Hasimir. I'll share one of my concubines with you, if you like."
"But I didn't touch her, my friend-I was only fixing her towel a little." He let go, and the girl covered herself again. "But has the Emperor been . . . um-m-m-m-ah, utilizing your services much lately? We hear that a certain part of him is already deceased." Fenring looked up at Grera Cary, who towered over the Ferret.
Grera glanced over at the Crown Prince, seeking support and safety, but found none. His cold eyes looked past her. For a moment she wondered what this Imperial heir would be like in bed, if he had the sexual prowess his father had once possessed. She doubted it, though. From the cold-cod look of this one, even the withered man on his deathbed would still be a superior lover.
"Old one, you will come with me, and we will talk more of jokes. Perhaps we can even exchange a few," Fenring commanded. "I can be a funny man."
"Now, sir?" With the fingers of her free hand she indicated her karthan-weave towel.
His gleaming eyes narrowed dangerously. "A person of my station has no time to wait while a woman dresses. Of course I mean now!" He grabbed a tuft of her towel and pulled her along. She went with him, struggling to keep the towel wrapped around her. "This way. Come, come." While Shaddam followed passively, amused, Fenring forced her to the door.
"The Emperor will hear of this!" she protested.
"Speak loudly, he has trouble hearing." Fenring gave a maddening smile. "And who will tell him? Some days he doesn't even remember his own name -- he certainly won't bother with a crone like you." His tone sent a chill down Grera's spine. The other concubines milled about, confused and helpless as their grande dame was unceremoniously hauled out of their presence and into the corridor.
At this early hour no members of the royal Court were in evidence, only Sardaukar guards standing rigidly at attention. And with Crown Prince Shaddam here, the Sardaukar guards saw nothing at all. Grera looked at them, but they stared right through her.
Since her flustered, stuttering voice seemed to irritate Fenring, Grera decided it would be safest to become silent. The Ferret was behaving strangely, but as an Imperial concubine she had nothing to fear from him. The furtive man wouldn't dare do anything so stupid as to actually hurt her.
Glancing back suddenly, she found that Shaddam had disappeared. He must have scuttled off down another passageway. She was completely alone with this vile man.
Fenring passed through a security barrier and pushed Grera ahead of him into a room. She stumbled onto a black-and-white marbleplaz floor. A large chamber with a stonecrete fireplace dominating one wall, this had once been
a visitors' suite but was now devoid of furnishings. It smelled of fresh paint and long abandonment.
Remaining where she was, proud and fearless though wrapped in only a towel, Grera glanced up at him intermittently. She tried not to show defiance or lack of respect. Over her years of service, she had learned to stand on her own.
The door closed behind them. They were alone now, and Shaddam still hadn't appeared. What did this little man want with her?
From his tunic Fenring produced a green-jeweled oval. After he pressed a button on its side, a long green blade emerged, glinting in the light of a glowglobe chandelier.
"I didn't bring you here for questions, crone," he said in a soft tone. He held the weapon up. "Actually, I need to test this on you. It's brand-new, you see, and I've never really liked some of the Emperor's walking meat."
Fenring was no stranger to assassination, and killed with his bare hands at least as often as he engineered accidents or paid for thugs. Sometimes he liked blood work, while on other occasions he preferred subtleties and deceptions. When he was younger, barely nineteen, he had slipped out of the Imperial Palace at night and killed two civil servants at random, just to prove he could do it. He still tried to keep in practice.
Fenring had always known he had the iron will necessary for murder, but he had been surprised at how much he enjoyed it. Killing the previous Crown Prince Fafnir had been his greatest triumph, until now. Once old Elrood finally died, that would be a new feather in his cap. Can't aim much higher than that.
But he had to keep himself current with new techniques and new inventions. One never knew when they might come in handy. Besides, this neuroknife was so intriguing . . . .
Grera looked at the shimmering green blade, her eyes wide. "The Emperor loves me! You can't --"
"He loves you? A long-in-the-tooth concubine? He spends more time moaning about his long-lost Shando. Elrood's so senile he'll never even know you're missing, and all of the other concubines will be happy to move up a rank."
Before Grera could scramble away, the murderous man was on top of her, showing tremendous speed. "No one will mourn your loss, Grera Cary." He raised the pulsing green blade and, with a dark fire in his flickering eyes, stabbed her repeatedly in the torso. The karthan towel fell away, and the neuroblade struck her freshly creamed and oiled skin.
The concubine screamed in agony, screamed again, then fell into sucking moans and shudders, and finally became silent . . . . No lacerations, no blood, only imagined agony. All of the pain, but no incriminating marks -- could murder get better than this?
With pleasure suffusing his brain, Fenring knelt over the senior concubine, studying her shapely body crumpled on top of the disheveled towel. Good skin tone, firm muscles, now slack with death. It was hard to believe this woman was as old as they claimed. It must have required a lot of melange, and quite a bit of body conditioning. He felt Grera's neck for a pulse, then double-checked. None remained. Disappointing . . . in a way.
There was no blood on the body or on the green knife blade, no deep wounds -- but he had stabbed her to death. Or so she had thought.
An interesting weapon, this neuroblade. It was the first time he had ever used one. Fenring always liked to test the important tools of his trade in noncombat situations, since he didn't want to be surprised in a crisis.
Called a "ponta" by its Richesian inventor, it was one of the few recent innovations Fenring considered worthwhile from that tiresome world. The illusionary green blade slid back into its compartment with a realistic snick. The victim had not only thought she was being stabbed to death, but through intense neurostimulation actually felt an attack powerful enough to kill. In a sense Grera's own mind had killed her. And now there wasn't a mark on her skin.
Sometimes real blood added an exhilarating cap to an already-thrilling experience, but the cleanup often caused problems.
He recognized familiar noises behind him: an opening door and deactivated security field. Turning, he saw Shaddam staring down at him. "Was that really necessary, Hasimir? What a waste . . . . Still, she had outlived her usefulness."
"Poor old thing had a heart attack, I guess." From a fold of his tunic Fenring brought forth another ponta, this one ruby-jeweled with a long red blade. "I'd better test this one, too," he said. "Your father is hanging on longer than we'd hoped, and this would finish him off neatly. No evidence on the corpse, not a mark. Why wait for the n'kee to continue its work?" He grinned.
Shaddam shook his head, as if finally having second thoughts. He looked around, shuddered, and tried to appear stern. "We'll wait as long as we have to. We agreed not to make any sudden moves." Fenring hated it when the Crown Prince tried to think too much.
"Hmmm-mm? I thought you were so anxious! He's been making terrible business decisions, wasting Corrino money every day he stays alive." His large eyes glittered. "The longer he remains in a state like this, the more history will paint him as a pathetic ruler."
"I can't do any more to my father," Shaddam said. "I'm afraid of what might happen."
Hasimir Fenring bowed. "As you wish, my Prince."
They walked away, leaving Grera's body where it lay. Someone would find it, sooner or later. It wasn't the first time Fenring had been so blatant, but the other concubines would know not to challenge him. It would be a warning to them, and they would jockey with each other to become the new favorite of the impotent old man, using the situation to their advantage.
By the time word finally got back to the Emperor, he probably wouldn't even remember Grera Cary's name.
Man is but a pebble dropped in a pool. And if man is but a pebble, then all his works can be no more.
-Zensunni Saying
Leto and Rhombur trained long and hard every day, in the Atreides way. They dived into the exercise routine with all the enthusiasm and determination they could muster. The stocky Ixian Prince regained his vigor, lost some weight, and tightened up his muscles.
The two young men found themselves quite well matched and therefore good sparring partners. Because they trusted one another completely, Leto and Rhombur were able to push their limits, confident that nothing dangerous would happen to them.
Though they trained vigorously, the Old Duke hoped to accomplish more than just turning the exiled Prince into a competent fighter: He also wanted to keep his friend's son happy and make him feel at home. Paulus could only imagine what terrors Rhombur's renegade parents must be enduring out in the wilds of the galaxy.
Thufir Hawat let the two fight with recklessness and abandon, honing their skills. Leto soon noticed remarkable improvement, both in himself and in the heir to what little remained of House Vernius.
Following the Master of Assassins' advice about the weapons of culture and diplomacy as well as swordplay, Rhombur took an interest in music. He dabbled with several instruments before finally settling on the soothing but complex tones of the nine-string baliset. Leaning against a castle wall, he would strum and play simple songs, fingering melodies by ear that he recalled from childhood or pleasant tunes he made up for himself.
Often, his sister Kailea would listen to him play as she studied her lessons in history and religion that were the traditional fare of young noblewomen. Helena Atreides aided in the teaching, at the insistence of Duke Paulus. Kailea studied with good grace, occupying her mind, resigned to her situation as a political prisoner inside Castle Caladan, but trying to imagine more for herself.
Leto knew that his mother's resentment ran at depths invisible beneath the still waters of her public face. Helena was a hard taskmaster to Kailea, who responded with even greater determination.
Late one evening, Leto went up to the tower room after his parents had retired for the night. He'd intended to ask his father about taking them on one of the Atreides schooners for a day-trip up and down the coast. But as he approached the wooden door to the ducal chambers, he heard Paulus and Helena engaged in deep discussion.
"What have you done to find a new place for those two?
" The way his mother said the words, Leto knew exactly whom she meant. "Surely some Minor House on the fringe will take them in if you pay a large enough bribe."
"I don't intend to send those children anywhere, and you know that. They are our guests here, and safe from the loathsome Tleilaxu." His voice dropped to a grumble. "I don't understand why Elrood doesn't just send his Sardaukar in to flush those vermin out of the caves on Ix."
Lady Helena said crisply, "Despite their unpleasant qualities, the Tleilaxu will undoubtedly bring the factories of Ix back to the path of righteousness and obey the strictures established by the Butlerian Jihad."
Paulus gave an exasperated snort, but Leto knew his mother was deadly serious, and that frightened him all the more. Her voice grew more fervent as she tried to convince her husband.
"Can't you see, perhaps all of these events were meant to happen? You never should have sent Leto to Ix-he's already been corrupted by their ways, their prideful thinking, their high-handed ignorance of the laws of God. But the takeover on Ix brought Leto back to us. Don't make the same mistake again."
Dune - House Atreides Page 39