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 encrypted 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 Chief 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.”

One of the court Mentats sat rigidly in his chair. “They will appeal, Sire.”

Shaddam sniffed. “If Moritani has a case, let him make it.”

Fenring tapped his fingers on the table, considering consequences. Shaddam had already dispatched two legions of Sardaukar to oversee the Tleilaxu on Ix, and now he was sending more to Grumman. In other trouble spots around the Imperium he had increased the visible presence of his crack military troops, hoping to smother any thoughts of rebellion. He had increased the ranks of the Bursegs throughout the military, adding more mid-level commanders to be dispatched with troops, as needed.

Even so, small and annoying instances of sabotage or defacement continued to occur in random places, such as the theft of commemorative coins bound for Ecaz, the balloon effigy of Shaddam floating over the Harmonthep stadium, the insulting words painted on the cliffs of Monument Canyon. . . .

As a result, the loyal Sardaukar were spread too thinly, and because of the costly Project Amal, the Imperial treasury had insufficient funds to train and supply new troops. Thus, the military reserves were being depleted, and Fenring saw troubled times ahead. As House Moritani’s actions proved, some forces in the Landsraad sensed weakness, smelled blood. . . .

Fenring considered reminding Shaddam of all this, but instead he held his own counsel as the meeting continued. His old friend seemed to think he could handle things without him— so let the man prove it.

The Emperor would get himself deeper and deeper into trouble, and finally he would have to call his exiled “Spice Minister” back to Kaitain. When that occurred, Fenring would make him grovel . . . before finally assenting.