Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [263]
“Not sufficient, Sire,” Ajidica said with a maddeningly impassive expression. “The Atreides must be humiliated for what they have done. They must be embarrassed. Leto must pay.”
The Emperor looked down his nose in disdain at the Tleilaxu researcher. His voice was cold and controlled. “Would you like me to send more Sardaukar to Ix? I’m sure another few legions walking the streets would keep a very close eye on your activities there.”
Ajidica still revealed no emotion.
Shaddam’s gaze turned stony. “For month after month I’ve waited, and still you haven’t produced what I needed. Now you say it could take decades more. Neither of us will last that long if Leto exposes us.”
The Crown Prince finished eating the slig morsels and pushed the plate away. Though the dish had been prepared perfectly, he had barely tasted it because his mind was elsewhere, distracted by the throbbing within his skull. Why did being Emperor have to be so difficult?
“Do what you will, Sire,” Ajidica said, his voice more strident than Shaddam had ever heard it. “Leto Atreides is not forgiven and must be punished.”
Wrinkling his nose, Shaddam dismissed the little man, gesturing for the Sardaukar to haul him away. Since he would soon be the Emperor of the Known Universe, he had many other things to do, important things.
If only he could get rid of this damned headache.
The worst sort of protection is confidence. The best defense is suspicion.
—HASIMIR FENRING
Thufir Hawat and Rhombur Vernius could leave the cell at their leisure, while Leto was honor-bound to remain, in part for his own safety. The Mentat and the Ixian Prince often went out to discuss testimony with various crew members from the Atreides frigate and anyone else who might help their cause in any way.
Leto, meanwhile, sat at the desk alone in his cell. Although the old Mentat had always trained him never to sit with his back to a door, Leto felt that he should be safe enough inside a maximum-security cell.
For the moment he reveled in a few moments of silence and concentration as he pored over the copious evidence projections that had been prepared for him. Even with Sardaukar guards as escorts, he would have been reluctant to walk through the Imperial Palace knowing that the shadow of accusation still hung over him. He would face his peers soon enough and proclaim his innocence.
He heard a noise at the cell confinement field behind him, but delayed looking back. With a humming scriber in his hand, he finished a paragraph about the complete destruction of the first Tleilaxu ship, noting a technical detail he hadn’t considered before.
“Thufir?” Leto asked. “Have you forgotten something?” Casually, he glanced over his shoulder.
A tall Landsraad guard stood there in a colorful, billowing uniform. The man wore a strange expression on his broad face, especially in the dark eyes. His skin looked pasty, as if painted on. And Leto spotted something different about the body, an odd lumpiness in the man’s peculiar, jerky movements. A disturbing, grayish tone to the skin on the hands, but not the face . . .
Reaching under his desk, Leto slid his fingers over the handle of a knife that Hawat had sneaked into the cell for him. It hadn’t been difficult for the warrior Mentat. Leto felt the hilt, gripped it without shifting his position or changing the placid and expectant expression on his face.
Every lesson the weapons master had ever taught him simmered in his muscles, alert and ready. Spring-coiled, Leto didn’t speak, didn’t challenge the intruder. But he knew something was wrong, and his life was on the line.
In a heartbeat the tall man slipped out of the voluminous uniform, maneuvering the static-seals that held the cloth together—and when the fabric slid away, so did the dull, expressionless face. A mask! The hands and lower arms went, too, dropping in a pile on the floor of the cell.
Dizzy with confusion, Leto threw himself