Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [110]
Beside him, Hesban tugged on one of his long mustaches, but made no response. He wore a floor-length blue robe with golden piping. For years, Shaddam had disliked this pompous man who hovered too close to his father’s presence, and he vowed to choose a new Chamberlain after assuming the throne. And so long as this Suk doctor could find no explanation for Elrood’s gradually worsening illness, Shaddam’s ascendancy would be assured.
Hasimir Fenring had emphasized that even all the resources of the exalted Suk Inner School could not stop what had been set in motion. The catalyst chemical implanted in the old man’s brain would register on no poison-snooper, since it was not itself poison, but would only convert to a dangerous substance in the presence of spice beer. And as he felt worse and worse, old Elrood consumed ever-increasing quantities of the beer.
No more than a meter in height, the shrunken doctor had smooth skin but ancient eyes from the vast medical knowledge hammered into his mind. A black diamond tattoo marked the center of Yungar’s creased forehead. His ponytail of steel-gray hair, secured in the back by a silver Suk ring, was longer than a woman’s, reaching nearly to the floor.
Wasting no time on further pleasantries, Elas Yungar broached a familiar subject. “You have our payment?” He looked first at the Chamberlain, then at the Crown Prince, where his gaze settled. “Fresh accounts must be established before we can begin treatment. Given the Emperor’s age, our care could be quite prolonged . . . and ultimately fruitless. He must pay his bills, like every other citizen. King, miner, basket-weaver—it makes no difference to us. Every human wants to be healthy, and we cannot treat everyone. Our care is available only to those willing and able to pay for it.”
Shaddam rested a hand on the Chamberlain’s sleeve. “Ah yes, we will spare no expense for my father’s health, Aken. It is already arranged.”
They stood just inside the high-arched doorway of the Imperial audience chamber, beneath glorious ceiling frescoes of epic events from the history of the Corrino family: the blood of the Jihad, the desperate last stand on the Bridge of Hrethgir, the destruction of thinking machines. Shaddam had always found ancient Imperial history ponderous and boring, with little relevance to his current goals. Centuries and centuries ago didn’t matter—he just hoped it wouldn’t take that long for a change in the Palace.
In the echoing hall, the Padishah Emperor’s magnificent jeweled throne sat invitingly empty. Court functionaries and a few dark-robed Bene Gesserit scuttled about in side passages and alcoves, trying to remain unseen. A pair of heavily armed Sardaukar guards stood at the dais steps, attentive. Shaddam wondered whether they would obey him right now, knowing his father lay sick in his chambers. He decided not to test the idea. Too soon.
“We are all familiar with promises,” the doctor said. “Still, I wish to see the payment first.” Stubborn tone, an impertinent upward gaze that didn’t move from Shaddam, even though the Crown Prince hadn’t done much talking. Yungar chose to play strange power games, but soon he would be out of his league.
“Payment before even looking at the patient?” the Chamberlain gasped. “Where are your priorities, man?”
Finally, Dr. Yungar deigned to look over at Hesban. “You have dealt with us before, Chamberlain, and you know the costs of producing a Suk doctor, fully conditioned, fully trained.”
As heir to the Golden Lion Throne, Shaddam was familiar with Suk Imperial Conditioning, which guaranteed absolute loyalty to a patient. In centuries of medical history, no one had ever managed to subvert a graduate of the Inner School.
Some members of the royal Court had a hard time reconciling the legendary Suk loyalty with their incessant greed. The doctors never wavered from the clear but unstated position that they would not minister to anyone—not even to an Emperor—on a mere promise of remuneration. Suk doctors extended