Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [35]
“Leto!” he shouted over his shoulder, his voice booming into the acoustics of the Plaza de Toros. “Leto, my son, come out here!”
Leto, still in the shadows of the archway, hesitated a moment, then marched forth. He held his head high as he crossed the hoof-trampled dirt to stand at his father’s side. The crowd cheered with renewed enthusiasm.
Old Duke Paulus turned and presented his son with the bloodied head of his kill. “I give you Leto Atreides!” he announced to the audience while pointing at his son. “Your future Duke!”
The crowd continued to applaud and shout hurrahs. Leto grasped one of the bull’s horns; he and his father stood together holding the defeated beast’s head high, the trophy oozing thick red drops onto the sand.
As Leto heard the people echo his name, he felt deep stirrings within, and wondered for the first time if this was truly what it felt like to be a leader of men.
N’kee: Slow-acting poison that builds up in the adrenal glands; one of the most insidious toxins permitted under the accords of Guild Peace and the restrictions of the Great Convention. (See War of Assassins.)
—The Assassins’ Handbook
Mmmm, the Emperor will never die, you know, Shaddam.” A small man with oversize dark eyes and a weasel face, Hasimir Fenring, sat opposite the shield-ball console from his visitor, Crown Prince Shaddam. “At least not while you’re young enough to enjoy the throne.”
With a sharp, darting gaze Fenring watched the black shield-ball come to rest on a low-scoring point. Completing his turn at the game, the heir to the Imperium clearly wasn’t happy about the result. They had been close companions for most of their lives, and Fenring knew exactly how to distract him at the right moment.
From the game room of Fenring’s luxurious penthouse, Shaddam could see the lights of his father’s Imperial Palace glittering on the gentle hillside a kilometer away. With Fenring’s aid he had disposed of his older brother Fafnir years and years ago, and still the Golden Lion Throne seemed no closer.
Shaddam went over to the balcony and drew a long, deep breath.
He was a strong-featured man in his mid-thirties, with a firm chin and aquiline nose; his reddish hair was cut short and oiled and styled into a perfect helmet. In an odd way, he looked similar to the century-old busts of his father sculpted during the early decades of Elrood’s reign.
It was early evening, and two of Kaitain’s four moons hung low in the sky beyond the gigantic Imperial building. Illuminated gliders rode the calm skies of dusk, chased by flocks of songbirds. Sometimes, Shaddam just needed to get away from the sprawling Palace.
“A hundred and thirty-six years as Padishah Emperor,” Fenring continued in his nasal voice. “And old Elrood’s father ruled for more than a century himself. Think about it, hmm-m-m-ah? Your father took the throne when he was only nineteen, and you’re almost twice that age.” The narrow-faced man looked with huge eyes at his friend. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
Shaddam didn’t respond, stared at the skyline, knowing he should return to the game . . . but he and his friend had bigger games to play.
After his long years of close association Fenring knew that the Imperial heir could not deal with complex problems when other amusements distracted him. Very well, then, I will end this diversion.
“My turn,” he said. Fenring lifted a rod on his side of the shimmering shield globe and dipped it through the shield to engage a spinning interior disk. This in turn caused a black ball in the center of the globe to levitate into the air. With expert timing, Fenring withdrew the rod, and the ball dropped into the center of an oval receptacle bearing the highest mark.
“Damn you, Hasimir, another perfect game for you,” Shaddam said, returning from the balcony. “When I’m Emperor, though, will you be wise enough to lose to me?”
Fenring’s oversize eyes were alert and feral. A genetic-eunuch, incapable of fathering