Unknown

The slave concubines permitted my father under the Bene Gesserit–Guild agreement could not, of course, bear a Royal Successor, but the intrigues were constant and oppressive in their similarity. We became adept, my mother and sisters and I, at avoiding subtle instruments of death.

Crown Prince Shaddam’s tutoring chambers in the Imperial Palace would have been large enough to house a village on some worlds. With total disinterest, the Corrino heir brooded in front of his teaching machine while Fenring watched him.

“My father still wants me to sit in training classes like a child.” Shaddam scowled down at the lights and spinning mechanisms of the machine. “I should be married by now. I should have an Imperial heir of my own.”

“Why?” Fenring laughed. “So the throne can skip a generation and go directly to your son when he reaches his prime, hmmmm?”

Shaddam was thirty-four years old and seemingly a lifetime away from becoming Emperor. Each time the old man took a drink of spice beer, he activated more of the secret poison— but the n’kee had been working for months, and the only result seemed to be increasingly irrational behavior. As if they needed more of that!

That very morning Elrood had scolded Shaddam for not paying closer attention to his studies. “Watch, and learn!”— one of his father’s tedious phrases—“Do as well as Fenring, for once.”

Since childhood, Hasimir Fenring had attended classes with the Crown Prince. Ostensibly, he provided companionship for Shaddam, while he himself gleaned an understanding of Court intrigues and politics. In academics, Fenring always did better than his royal friend: He devoured any bit of data that could help him increase his position.

His mother Chaola, an introspective lady-in-waiting, had settled into a quiet home and lived on her Imperial pension after the death of the Emperor’s fourth wife Habla. In raising the two young boys together while she attended the Empress Habla, Chaola had given Fenring the chance to be so much more— almost as if she had planned it that way.

These days Chaola pretended not to understand what her son did at Court, though she was Bene Gesserit–trained. Fenring was wily enough to know that his mother comprehended far more than her station suggested, and that many plans and breeding schemes had gone on without his knowledge.

Now Shaddam let out a miserable groan and turned from the machine. “Why can’t the old creature just die and make it easy for me?” He covered his mouth, suddenly alarmed at what he had blurted.

Fenring paced the long floor, glancing up at the hanging banners of the Landsraad. The Crown Prince was expected to know the colors and crests of every Great and Minor House, but Shaddam had difficulty simply remembering all the family names.

“Be patient, my friend. All in its own time.” In one of the alcoves, Fenring struck a combustible spike of vanilla-scented incense and inhaled a long breath of the fumes. “In the meantime, learn about subjects that will be relevant to your reign. You’ll need such information in the near future, hmm-m-m-ah?”

“It irritated me when we were children, and you know it still does. Stop it!”

In the adjoining room, behind supposed privacy screens, Shaddam could hear his tutor giggling, the sounds of clothes rustling, bedsheets, skin upon skin. The tutor spent his afternoons with a willowy, achingly beautiful woman who had been sexually trained to Expert Class. Shaddam had given the girl her orders, and her ministrations kept the tutor out of the way so that he and Fenring could have private conversations— difficult enough in a palace full of prying eyes and attentive ears.

The tutor did not know, however, that the girl was intended for Elrood as a gift, a perfect addition to his harem. This little trick gave the Crown Prince a large club to wield as a threat against the bothersome teacher. If the Emperor ever found out . . .

“Learning to manipulate people is an important part of ruling,” Fenring often told him upon suggesting an idea. That much, at least, Shaddam had understood. As long as the Crown Prince listens to my advice, Fenring thought, he could become a good enough ruler, after all.

Screens displayed dull statistics of shipping resources, primary exports of major planets, holographic images of every conceivable product from the finest dyed whale-fur, to Ixian soothe-sonic tapestries . . . inkvines, shigawire, fabulous Ecazi art objects, pundi rice, and donkey dung. Everything spewed from the teaching machine like an out-of-control font of wisdom, as if Shaddam was supposed to know and remember all the details. But that’s what advisors and experts are for.

Fenring glanced down at the display. “Of all the things in the Imperium, Shaddam, what do you suppose is most important, hm-m-m-m?”

“Always,” Fenring replied. “If you turn out to be a superb Emperor, it will benefit all the populace . . . including me.”

Fenring tapped a key on the teaching machine. Machinery clicked, chimed, hummed. An image of a desert planet appeared. Arrakis. Fenring slid onto the bench beside Shaddam. “The spice melange. That’s the most important thing. Without it, the Imperium would crumble.”

He leaned forward, and his nimble fingers flew across the controls, calling up displays of the desert planet’s spice-harvesting activities. Shaddam glanced at footage of a giant sandworm as it destroyed a harvesting machine in the deep wastelands.

“Arrakis is the only known source of melange in the universe.” Fenring curled his hand into a fist and brought it down with a hard thump on the milky marbleplaz tabletop. “But why? With all the Imperial explorers and prospectors, and the huge reward House Corrino has offered for generations, why has no one found spice anywhere else? After all, with a billion worlds in the Imperium, it must be somewhere else.”

“A billion?” Shaddam pursed his lips. “Hasimir, you know that’s just hyperbole for the masses. The tally I’ve seen is only a million or so.”

“A million, a billion, what’s the difference, hmmmm? My point is, if melange is a substance found in the universe, we should find it in more than one place. You know about the Planetologist your father sent to Arrakis?”

“Of course, Pardot Kynes. We expect another report from him at any moment. It’s been a few weeks since the last one.” He raised his head in pride. “I’ve made a point to read them whenever they arrive.”

From the curtained side room, they heard gasping and giggling, heavy furniture sliding aside, something overturning with a thump. Shaddam allowed himself a thin smile. The concubine was well trained, indeed.

Fenring rolled his large eyes, then turned back to the teaching machine. “Pay attention, Shaddam. Spice is vital, and yet all production is controlled by a single House on a single world. The threat of a bottleneck is enormous, even with Imperial oversight and pressure from CHOAM. For the stability of the Imperium, we need a better source of melange. We should create it synthetically if we have to. We need an alternative.” He turned to the Crown Prince, his dark eyes glittering. “One that’s in our control.”

Shaddam enjoyed discussions like this much more than the tutor’s programmed learning routines. “Ah, yes! An alternative to melange would shift the entire balance of power in the Imperium, wouldn’t it?”

“Exactly! As it is, CHOAM, the Guild, the Bene Gesserit, the Mentats, the Landsraad, even House Corrino, all fight over the spice production and distribution from a single planet. But if there was an alternative, one solely in the hands of the Imperial House, your family would become true Emperors, not just puppets under the control of other political forces.”

“We are not puppets,” Shaddam snapped. “Not even my doddering father.” He flicked a nervous glance at the ceiling, as if comeyes might be hidden there, though Fenring had already run thorough scans for observational apparatus. “Uh, long may he live.”

“As you say, my Prince,” Fenring said without conceding a millimeter. “But if we put the wheels in motion now, then you will reap those benefits when the throne is yours.” He fiddled with the teaching machine. “Watch, and learn!” he said in a creaking falsetto imitation of Elrood’s ponderous pronouncements. Shaddam chuckled at the sarcasm.

The machine displayed scenes of Ixian industrial accomplishments, all the new inventions and modifications that had been made during a profitable rule by House Vernius. “Why do you think it is the Ixians can’t use their technology to find a spice alternative?” Fenring asked. “They’ve been instructed time and again to analyze the spice and develop another option for us, yet they play with their navigation machines and their silly timepieces. Who needs to tell the exact hour on any planet of the Imperium? How are those pursuits more important than the spice itself? House Vernius is an utter failure, as far as you are concerned.”

“This tutoring machine is Ixian. The annoying new Heighliner design is Ixian. So’s your high-performance groundcar and . . .”

“Off the point,” Fenring said. “I don’t believe House Vernius invests any of its technological resources in solving the alternative-spice problem. It is not a high priority for them.”

“Then my father should give them firmer guidance.” Shaddam clasped his hands behind his back and tried to look Imperial, flushed with forced indignation. “When I’m Emperor, I’ll be certain people understand their priorities. Ah, yes, I will personally direct what is most important to the Imperium and to House Corrino.”

Fenring circled the teaching machine like a prowling Laza tiger. He plucked a sugared date from a fruit tray unobtrusively displayed on a side table. “Old Elrood made similar pronouncements a long time ago, yet so far he hasn’t followed through on any of them.” He waved his long-fingered hand. “Oh, in the beginning he asked the Ixians to look into the matter. He also offered a large bounty for any explorer who found even melange precursors on uncharted planets.” He popped the date into his mouth, licked his sticky fingers, and swallowed the smooth, sweet fruit. “Still nothing.”

“Then my father should increase the reward,” Shaddam said. “He’s not trying hard enough.”

Fenring studied his neatly clipped nails, then raised his overlarge eyes to meet Shaddam’s. “Or could it be that old Elrood IX isn’t willing to consider all the necessary alternatives?”

“Suppose someone were to suggest using . . . the Bene Tleilax, for example? As the only possible solution?” Fenring leaned against a stone pillar to observe Shaddam’s reaction.

A ripple of disgust crossed the Crown Prince’s face. “The filthy Tleilaxu! Why would anyone want to work with them?”

“You must be joking. Who can trust anything the Tleilaxu say?” He pictured the gray-skinned race, their oily hair and dwarfish stature, their beady eyes, pug noses, and sharp teeth. They kept to themselves, isolating their core planets, intentionally digging a societal ditch in which they could wallow.

The Bene Tleilax were, however, true genetic wizards, willing to use unorthodox and socially heinous methods, dealing in live or dead flesh, in biological waste. With their mysterious yet powerful axlotl tanks they could grow clones from live cells and gholas from dead ones. The Tleilaxu had a slippery, shifty aura about them. How can anyone take them seriously?

“Think about it, Shaddam. Are the Tleilaxu not masters of organic chemistry and cellular mechanics, hm-m-m-m-ah?” Fenring sniffed. “Through my own web of spies I’ve learned that the Bene Tleilax, despite the distaste with which we view them, have developed a new technique. I have certain . . . technical skills myself, you know, and I believe this Tleilaxu technique could be applicable to the production of artificial melange . . . our own source.” He fixed his bright birdlike eyes on Shaddam’s. “Or are you unwilling to consider all alternatives, and let your father maintain control?”

Shaddam squirmed, hesitating to answer. He would much rather have been playing a game of shield-ball. He didn’t like to think of the gnomelike men; religious fanatics, the Bene Tleilax were intensely secretive and did not invite guests. Heedless of how other worlds regarded them, they sent their representatives out to observe and to make deals at the highest levels for unique bioengineered products. Rumor held that no outsider had ever seen a Tleilaxu woman. Never. He thought they must be either wildly beautiful . . . or incredibly ugly.

Seeing the Crown Prince shudder, Fenring pointed a finger at him. “Shaddam, don’t fall into the same trap as your father. As your friend and advisor, I must investigate unseen opportunities, hm-m-m-m-ah? Put aside such feelings and consider the possible victory if this works— a victory over the Landsraad, the Guild, CHOAM, and the scheming House Harkonnen. How amusing to think that all the strings the Harkonnens pulled to gain Arrakis after the downfall of Richese would be for naught.”

His voice became softer, infinitely reasonable. “What difference does it make if we have to deal with the Tleilaxu? So long as House Corrino breaks the spice monopoly and establishes an independent source?”

Shaddam looked at him, turning his back on the teaching machine. “You’re sure about this?”

“No, I’m not sure,” Fenring snapped. “No one can be sure until it is done. But we must at least consider the idea, give it a chance. If we don’t, somebody else will . . . eventually. Maybe even the Bene Tleilax themselves. We need to do this for our own survival.”

“What will happen when my father hears about it?” Shaddam asked. “He won’t like the idea.”

Old Elrood never could think for himself, and Fenring’s chaumurky had already begun to fossilize his brain. The Emperor had always been a pathetic pawn, shifted around by political forces. Perhaps the senile vulture had made a deal with House Harkonnen to keep them in control of the spice production. It wouldn’t surprise Shaddam if the young and powerful Baron had old Elrood wrapped around his little finger. House Harkonnen was fabulously wealthy, and their means of influence were legion.

Fenring put his hands on his hips. “I can make all of this happen, Shaddam. I have contacts. I can bring a Bene Tleilax representative here without anybody knowing. He can state our case before the Imperial Court— and then if your father turns him down, we might be able to find out who’s controlling the throne . . . the trail would be fresh. Hmmm-ahh, shall I set it up?”

The Crown Prince glanced back at the teaching machine that obliviously continued to instruct a nonexistent pupil. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said impatiently, now that he had come to a decision. “Let’s not waste more time. And stop making that noise.”

“It’ll take a while for me to get all the pieces in place, but the investment will be worth it.”

From the next room came a high-pitched moan; then a thin squeal of ecstasy built higher and higher until it seemed that the walls themselves must crumble.

“Our tutor must have learned how to pleasure his little pet,” Shaddam said with a scowl. “Or perhaps she’s just faking.”

Fenring laughed and shook his head. “That wasn’t her, my friend. That was his voice.”

“Don’t worry. It’s all being recorded for your later enjoyment. If our beloved tutor cooperates with us and causes no trouble, we’ll simply watch it for amusement. If, however, he proves difficult, we’ll wait until after your father’s been given this concubine for his own private toy—then we’ll show Emperor Elrood a glimpse of those images.”