Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [168]
Sometimes real blood added an exhilarating cap to an already-thrilling experience, but the cleanup often caused problems.
He recognized familiar noises behind him: an opening door and deactivated security field. Turning, he saw Shaddam staring down at him. “Was that really necessary, Hasimir? What a waste. . . . Still, she had outlived her usefulness.”
“Poor old thing had a heart attack, I guess.” From a fold of his tunic Fenring brought forth another ponta, this one ruby-jeweled with a long red blade. “I’d better test this one, too,” he said. “Your father is hanging on longer than we’d hoped, and this would finish him off neatly. No evidence on the corpse, not a mark. Why wait for the n’kee to continue its work?” He grinned.
Shaddam shook his head, as if finally having second thoughts. He looked around, shuddered, and tried to appear stern. “We’ll wait as long as we have to. We agreed not to make any sudden moves.” Fenring hated it when the Crown Prince tried to think too much.
“Hmmm-mm? I thought you were so anxious! He’s been making terrible business decisions, wasting Corrino money every day he stays alive.” His large eyes glittered. “The longer he remains in a state like this, the more history will paint him as a pathetic ruler.”
“I can’t do any more to my father,” Shaddam said. “I’m afraid of what might happen.”
Hasimir Fenring bowed. “As you wish, my Prince.”
They walked away, leaving Grera’s body where it lay. Someone would find it, sooner or later. It wasn’t the first time Fenring had been so blatant, but the other concubines would know not to challenge him. It would be a warning to them, and they would jockey with each other to become the new favorite of the impotent old man, using the situation to their advantage.
By the time word finally got back to the Emperor, he probably wouldn’t even remember Grera Cary’s name.
Man is but a pebble dropped in a pool. And if man is but a pebble, then all his works can be no more.
—Zensunni Saying
Leto and Rhombur trained long and hard every day, in the Atreides way. They dived into the exercise routine with all the enthusiasm and deter-mination they could muster. The stocky Ixian Prince regained his vigor, lost some weight, and tightened up his muscles.
The two young men found themselves quite well matched and therefore good sparring partners. Because they trusted one another completely, Leto and Rhombur were able to push their limits, confident that nothing dangerous would happen to them.
Though they trained vigorously, the Old Duke hoped to accomplish more than just turning the exiled Prince into a competent fighter: He also wanted to keep his friend’s son happy and make him feel at home. Paulus could only imagine what terrors Rhombur’s renegade parents must be enduring out in the wilds of the galaxy.
Thufir Hawat let the two fight with recklessness and abandon, honing their skills. Leto soon noticed remarkable improvement, both in himself and in the heir to what little remained of House Vernius.
Following the Master of Assassins’ advice about the weapons of culture and diplomacy as well as swordplay, Rhombur took an interest in music. He dabbled with several instruments before finally settling on the soothing but complex tones of the nine-string baliset. Leaning against a castle wall, he would strum and play simple songs, fingering melodies by ear that he recalled from childhood or pleasant tunes he made up for himself.
Often, his sister Kailea would listen to him play as she studied her lessons in history and religion that were the traditional fare of young noblewomen. Helena Atreides aided in the teaching, at the insistence of Duke Paulus. Kailea studied with good grace, occupying her mind, resigned to her situation as a political prisoner inside Castle