Dune_ House Atreides - Brian Herbert [87]
Fenring spoke again after a few moments. “N’kee is slow poison by design. We have worked long and hard to establish our plan, and your impatience can only cause damage and increase risk. A more sudden act would certainly create suspicion in the Landsraad, hmmm? They would seize upon any wedge, any scandal, to weaken your position.”
“But I am the heir to House Corrino!” Shaddam said, lowering his voice to a throaty whisper. “How can they question my right?”
“And you come to the Imperial throne bearing all the associated baggage, all the obligations, past antagonisms, and prejudices. Don’t fool yourself, my friend—the Emperor is merely one sizable force among many that make up the delicate fabric of our Imperium. If all the Houses banded together against us, even your father’s mighty Sardaukar legions might not be able to hold out. No one dares risk it.”
“When I’m on the throne, I intend to strengthen the emperorship, add some real teeth to the title.” Shaddam stood away from the starscope.
Fenring shook his head with exaggerated sadness. “I’d be willing to wager a cargo hold full of the highest-quality whale-fur that most of your predecessors have vowed the same thing to their advisors ever since the Great Revolt.” He drew a deep breath, narrowing his large dark eyes. “Even if the n’kee works as planned, you have at least another year to wait . . . so calm yourself. Take comfort in the increased symptoms of aging we’ve seen in your father. Encourage him to drink more spice beer.”
Miffed, Shaddam turned back to the phased optics and studied the hull patterns along the belly of the Heighliner, the mark of Ixian construction yards, the cartouche of the Spacing Guild. The hold was crowded with fleets of frigates from various Houses, shipments assigned to CHOAM, and precious records earmarked for library archives on Wallach IX.
“By the way, someone of interest is aboard that Heighliner,” Fenring said.
“Oh?”
Fenring crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “A person who appears to be a simple seller of pundi rice and chikarba root on his way to a Tleilaxu way station. He’s bearing your message for the Tleilaxu Masters, your proposal to meet with them and discuss covert Imperial funding of a large-scale project that will produce a substitute for the spice melange.”
“My proposal? I made no such proposal!” Revulsion flickered across Shaddam’s face.
“Um-m-m, you did, my Lord Prince. Ah, the possibility of using unorthodox Tleilaxu means to develop a synthetic spice? What a good idea you had! Show your father how smart you are.”
“Don’t place the blame on me, Hasimir. It was your idea.”
“You don’t want the credit?”
“Not in the least.”
Fenring raised his eyebrows. “You are serious about breaking the Arrakis bottleneck and setting up the Imperial House with a private, unlimited source of melange? Aren’t you?”
Shaddam glowered. “Of course I’m serious.”
“Then we will bring a Tleilaxu Master here in secret to present his proposal to the Emperor. We’ll soon see how far old Elrood is willing to go.”
Blindness can take many forms other than the inability to see. Fanatics are often blinded in their thoughts. Leaders are often blinded in their hearts.
—The Orange Catholic Bible
For months, Leto had stayed in the underground city of Vernii as the honored guest of Ix. By now, he had become comfortable with the strangeness of his new surroundings, with the routine, and with self-confident Ixian security—comfortable enough to grow careless.
Prince Rhombur was a chronic late sleeper, while Leto was the opposite, an early riser like the fishermen on Caladan. The Atreides heir wandered the upper stalactite buildings alone, going to observation windows and peeking in on manufacturing-design procedures or fabrication lines. He learned how to use the transit systems and discovered that his bioscram card from Earl Vernius opened many doors for him.
Leto gleaned more from his wanderings and his voracious curiosity than he did from instructional