On Kaitain weeks later, unmoved by any-thing but anger, Shaddam Corrino IV watched the conclusion of the bastard Tyros Reffa’s recorded speech. He cursed under his breath.
Behind the closed doors of the Emperor’s private office, Cammar Pilru waited for Shaddam to comment. The Ixian Ambassador had seen the oration numerous times, and still it wrenched his heart.
Shaddam, though, remained cold. “I see I was right to have his damnable mouth fused shut before I executed him.”
Upon returning to the Palace, the Padishah Emperor had sequestered himself. Outside the grounds, Sardaukar tried to keep order in the face of numerous demonstrations. Some demanded that Shaddam abdicate, which might have been a viable solution if he’d had an acceptable male heir. As it was, his eleven-year-old daughter Irulan had already received numerous marriage proposals from the heads of powerful Houses.
Shaddam wanted to kill all the suitors… perhaps his daughters, too. At least he didn’t have to worry about his wife anymore.
Following their numerous military embarrassments, even the once-loyal Sardaukar were upset with him, and Supreme Bashar Zum Garon had lodged a formal complaint. Garon’s son had died in the Ixian debacle, but even worse in the old Bashar’s estimation, the Imperial soldiers had been betrayed. Not defeated, but betrayed. This was an important distinction in his mind, for the Sardaukar had never, in their long history, tasted defeat. Garon demanded that this potential blemish be formally erased from the record. He also wanted a posthumous commendation for his son.
Shaddam didn’t know how to deal with it all.
Under other circumstances, he would never have given this pathetic and now self-important Ixian diplomat a moment of his time. But Ambassador Pilru still had his damnable connections and was riding the wave of Rhombur’s victory.
Feeling strong again after all the years of abuse and neglect, Pilru dropped a hard sheet of ridulian crystal in front of Shaddam’s frowning face. “It was most unfortunate, Sire, that you did not have the opportunity to perform a thorough genetic analysis on Tyros Reffa, if only to disprove his claim that he was also a member of House Corrino. Many members of the Landsraad, indeed many noblemen of the Imperium, question this.”
He tapped the data on the crystal sheet, which Shaddam no doubt found incomprehensible. Pilru had been ignored, insulted, and dismissed for decades, but now that would change. He would make certain that the Emperor paid reparations to the Ixian people and that he offered no resistance to the restoration of Vernius rule.
“Luckily, I was able to obtain samples from Reffa in his prison cell.” Pilru smiled. “As you can see, this is incontrovertible genetic proof that Tyros Reffa was indeed a son of Emperor Elrood IX. You signed your own brother’s death warrant.”
“Half brother,” Shaddam snapped.
“I could easily arrange to have his recording and the test results distributed quietly among the members of the Landsraad, Sire,” Ambassador Pilru said, holding up the crystal sheet. “I’m afraid the fate of your half brother wouldn’t remain quiet for long.”
He had, of course, removed all details of the mother’s identity from the test results. No one needed to know the bastard’s connection to the long-dead Lady Shando Vernius. Rhombur had the secret, and that was enough.
“Your threat is all too clear, Ambassador.” Shaddam’s eyes burned bright through the shadows of defeat that had settled around him. “Now, what do you want of me?”
While Shaddam waited in his private receiving hall for the arguments and proceedings to begin, he had very few moments of pleasure. Now he understood why his old father had felt the need to drink so much spice beer. Even Count Fenring, his companion in misery, could not cheer him up, with so many political millstones around the Imperial neck.
However, an Emperor could also make others miserable.
Fenring paced beside him, fidgeting and full of feral energy. All doors except the main entrance had been sealed, all witnesses removed. Even the guards had been instructed to wait in the halls.
Shaddam was eager. “They will be here any moment, Hasimir.”
“It still seems a bit… childish, hmmm?”
“But gratifying, and don’t pretend to disagree.” He sniffed. “Besides, it is the privilege of being an Emperor.”
“Enjoy it while you can,” Fenring murmured, then turned away from Shaddam’s glare.
They both watched the double bronze doors, which guards swung open slowly. Sardaukar soldiers brought in a familiar, awful-looking machine with a good deal of clanking, creaking, and clattering. Hidden cutter blades whirred inside the monstrosity, and sparks crackled from circuit ports.
Years ago, Tleilaxu prosecutors had brought the horrible execution device to Leto Atreides’s Trial by Forfeiture, hoping to vivisect him with it, draining his blood and slicing open his tissues to take numerous genetic samples. Shaddam had always thought the machine had a great deal of potential.
Fenring looked at it, pursing his lips in contemplation. “A device designed only to maim, to hurt, to exert pain. If you ask me, Shaddam, it is clearly a machine with a human mind, hmmm-ah? Perhaps it is a violation of the Butlerian Jihad.”
“I am not amused, Hasimir.”
Behind the machine marched six captive Tleilaxu Masters, shirtless because of their well-known tendency to conceal weapons in their sleeves. These were the Tleilaxu representatives who had come to the Imperial Court in recent months, held here after the failure of Project Amal. Before word could get out about Ajidica’s demise, Shaddam had ordered their capture and detention.
Count Fenring himself held a deep grudge, suspecting that at least one of these Tleilaxu was a Face Dancer, a shape-shifter who had mimicked him in order to deliver a falsely optimistic report about the success of the artificial spice. It had only been a delaying tactic by Ajidica, to forestall Imperial retaliation long enough for the Master Researcher to escape. But it had failed.
For his part, Shaddam didn’t look at any of the captives as individuals, and indeed the gnomish men all appeared very much alike. “Well?” he shouted at them. “Stand by your machine. Don’t tell me you aren’t aware of its purpose?”
With despondent expressions, the captive Tleilaxu Masters took up positions around the diabolical-looking device.
“You Tleilaxu have caused me a great many problems. I am about to face the greatest crisis in my reign, and I think you all should shoulder some of the blame.” He looked at their faces. “Choose one among you, so that I can see this device in operation, and after the demonstration the rest of you will dismantle it right here.”
Guards stepped forward, holding hand tools. The glowering, gray-skinned men looked at each other, remaining silent. Finally, one man reached forward to activate the power source on the angular plates of the execution machine. The cumbersome contraption surged to life with a roar that startled the Emperor and the guards.
Fenring merely nodded, realizing that half of the effectiveness of this machine was its ominous nature. “It seems they are having trouble choosing, hmmm?”
“We have chosen,” one of the Tleilaxu announced. Without a word or gesture, the six Tleilaxu Masters all climbed up and jumped into a hopper on top of the execution contraption. They tumbled inside, throwing themselves into the embrace of the choppers, cutters, and slicers. As a final, malicious joke, gouts of blood, fragments of flesh, and small pieces of bone sprayed the Emperor and Fenring. The Sardaukar scrambled away.
Shaddam spluttered and grabbed for a cape to wipe the gore off of himself. Fenring did not seem terribly put off as he smeared a gobbet away from his eyes. The vivisection machine continued to cough and grind. The Tleilaxu had made no screams, no outcries.
“I believe that takes care of the Face Dancer question,” the Emperor announced in a not-quite-satisfied tone.