Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [165]
In the midst of her fellow Sisters, Mohiam was escorted to a safe building; a large contingent of armed female guards had been posted to watch her. She would be pampered and observed carefully until the baby was due.
“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 bodytoning 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