Dune (53 page)

Listening to the man gave Feyd-?Rautha the feeling his head was being pushed
through mush . . . um-?m-?m-?ah-?h-?h-?hm-?m-?m-?m! Feyd-?Rautha turned his attention back
to the Lady Fenring.

“We’re ah-?h-?h taking up too much of this young man’s time,” she said. “I
understand he’s to appear in the arena today.”

By the houris of the Imperial hareem, she’s a lovely one! Feyd-?Rautha
thought. He said: “I shall make a kill for you this day, my Lady. I shall make
the dedication in the arena, with your permission.”

She returned his stare serenely, but her voice carried whiplash as she said:
“You do not have my permission.”

“Feyd!” the Baron said. And he thought: That imp! Does he want this deadly
Count to call him out?

But the Count only smiled and said: “Hm-?m-?m-?m-?um-?m-?m.”

“You really must be getting ready for the arena, Feyd,” the Baron said. “You
must be rested and not take any foolish risks.”

Feyd-?Rautha bowed, his face dark with resentment. “I’m sure everything will
be as you wish, Uncle.” He nodded to Count Fenring. “Sir.” To the lady: “My
Lady.” And he turned, strode out of the hall, barely glancing at the knot of
Families Minor near the double doors.

“He’s so young,” the Baron sighed.

“Um-?m-?m-?m-?ah indeed hmmm,” the Count said.
And the Lady Fenring thought: Can that be the young man the Reverend Mother
meant? Is that a bloodline we must preserve?

“We’ve more than an hour before going to the arena,” the Baron sad. “Perhaps
we could have our little talk now, Count Fenring.” He tipped his gross head to
the right. “There’s a considerable amount of progress to be discussed.”

And the Baron thought; Let us see now how the Emperors errand boy gets
across whatever message he carries without ever being so crass as to speak it
right out.

The Count spoke to his lady: “Um-?m-?m-?m-?ah-?h-?h-?hm-?m-?m, you mm-?m will ah-?h-?h
excuse us, my dear?”

“Each day, some time each hour, brings change,” she said. “Mm-?m-?m-?m.” And
she smiled sweetly at the Baron before turning away. Her long skirts swished and
she walked with a straight-?backed regal stride toward the double doors at the
end of the hall.

The Baron noted how all conversation among the Houses Minor there stopped at
her approach, how the eyes followed her. Bene Gesserit! the Baron thought. The
universe would be better rid of them all!

“There’s a cone of silence between two of the pillars over here on our
left,” the Baron said. “We can talk there without fear of being overheard.” He
led the way with his waddling gait into the sound-?deadening field, feeling the
noises of the keep become dull and distant.

The Count moved up beside the Baron, and they turned, facing the wall so
their lips could not be read.

“We’re not satisfied with the way you ordered the Sardaukar off Arrakis,”
the Count said.

Straight talk! the Baron thought.

“The Sardaukar could not stay longer without risking that others would find
out how the Emperor helped me,” the Baron said.

“But your nephew Rabban does not appear to be pressing strongly enough
toward a solution of the Fremen problem.”

“What does the Emperor wish?” the Baron asked. “There cannot be more than a
handful of Fremen left on Arrakis. The southern desert is uninhabitable. The
northern desert is swept regularly by our patrols.”

“Who says the southern desert is uninhabitable?”

“Your own planetologist said it, my dear Count.”

“But Doctor Kynes is dead.”

“Ah, yes . . . unfortunate, that.”

“We’ve word from an overflight across the southern reaches,” the Count said.
“There’s evidence of plant life.”

“Has the Guild then agreed to a watch from space?”

“You know better than that, Baron. The Emperor cannot legally post a watch
on Arrakis.”

“And I cannot afford it,” the Baron said. “Who made this overflight?”

“A . . . smuggler.”

“Someone has lied to you, Count,” the Baron said. “Smugglers cannot
navigate, the southern reaches any better than can Rabban’s men. Storms, sand-
static, and all that, you know. Navigation markers are knocked out faster than
they can be installed.”

“We’ll discuss various types of static another time,” the Count said.

Ah-?h-?h-?h, the Baron thought. “Have you found some mistake in my accounting
then?” he demanded.

“When you imagine mistakes there can be no self-?defense,” the Count said.

He’s deliberately trying to arouse my anger, the Baron thought. He took two
deep breaths to calm himself. He could smell his own sweat, and the harness of
the suspensors beneath his robe felt suddenly itchy and galling.

“The Emperor cannot be unhappy about the death of the concubine and the
boy,” the Baron said. “They fled into the desert. There was a storm.”
“Yes, there were so many convenient accidents,” the Count agreed

“I do not like your tone, Count,” the Baron said.

“Anger is one thing, violence another,” the Count said. “Let me caution you:
Should an unfortunate accident occur to me here the Great Houses all would learn
what you did on Arrakis. They’ve long suspected how you do business.”

“The only recent business I can recall,” the Baron said, “was transportation
of several legions of Sardaukar to Arrakis.”

“You think you could hold that over the Emperor’s head?”

“I wouldn’t think of it!”

The Count smiled. “Sardaukar commanders could be found who’d confess they
acted without orders because they wanted a battle with your Fremen scum.”

“Many might doubt such a confession,” the Baron said, but the threat
staggered him. Are Sardaukar truly that disciplined? he wondered.

“The Emperor does wish to audit your books,” the Count said.

“Any time.”

“You . . . ah . . . have no objections?”

“None. My CHOAM Company directorship will bear the closest scrutiny.” And he
thought: Let him bring a false accusation against me and have it exposed. I
shall stand there, Promethean, saying: “Behold me, I am wronged. ” Then let him
bring any other accusation against me, even a true one. The Great Houses will
not believe a second attack from an accuser once proved wrong.

“No doubt your books will bear the closest scrutiny,” the Count muttered.

“Why is the Emperor so interested in exterminating the Fremen?” the Baron
asked.

“You wish the subject to be changed, eh?” The Count shrugged. “It is the
Sardaukar who wish it, not the Emperor. They needed practice in killing . . .
and they hate to see a task left undone.”

Does he think to frighten me by reminding me that he is supported by
bloodthirsty killers? the Baron wondered.

“A certain amount of killing has always been an arm of business,” the Baron
said, “but a line has to be drawn somewhere. Someone must be left to work the
spice.”

The Count emitted a short, barking laugh. “You think you can harness the
Fremen?”

“There never were enough of them for that,” the Baron said. “But the killing
has made the rest of my population uneasy. It’s reaching the point where I’m
considering another solution to the Arrakeen problem, my dear Fenring. And I
must confess the Emperor deserves credit for the inspiration.”

“Ah-?h-?h?”

“You see, Count, I have the Emperor’s prison planet, Salusa Secundus, to
inspire me.”

The Count stared at him with glittering intensity. “What possible connection
is there between Arrakis and Salusa Secundus?”

The Baron felt the alertness in Fenring’s eyes, said: “No connection yet.”

“Yet?”

“You must admit it’d be a way to develop a substantial work force on
Arrakis–use the place as a prison planet.”

“You anticipate an increase in prisoners?”

“There has been unrest,” the Baron admitted. “I’ve had to squeeze rather
severely, Fenring. After all, you know the price I paid that damnable Guild to
transport our mutual force to Arrakis. That money has to come from somewhere.”

“I suggest you not use Arrakis as a prison planet without the Emperor’s
permission, Baron.”

“Of course not,” the Baron said, and he wondered at the sudden chill in
Fenring’s voice.

“Another matter,” the Count said. “We learn that Duke Leto’s Mentat, Thufir
Hawat, is not dead but in your employ.”
“I could not bring myself to waste him,” the Baron said.

“You lied to our Sardaukar commander when you said Hawat was dead.”

“Only a white lie, my dear Count. I hadn’t the stomach for a long argument
with the man.”

“Was Hawat the real traitor?”

“Oh, goodness, no! It was the false doctor.” The Baron wiped at perspiration
on his neck. “You must understand, Fenring, I was without a Mentat. You know
that. I’ve never been without a Mentat. It was most unsettling.”

“How could you get Hawat to shift allegiance?”

“His Duke was dead.” The Baron forced a smile. “There’s nothing to fear from
Hawat, my dear Count. The Mentat’s flesh has been impregnated with a latent
poison. We administer an antidote in his meals. Without the antidote, the poison
is triggered–he’d die in a few days.”

“Withdraw the antidote,” the Count said.

“But he’s useful!”

“And he knows too many things no living man should know.”

“You said the Emperor doesn’t fear exposure.”

“Don’t play games with me, Baron!”

“When I see such an order above the Imperial seal I’ll obey it,” the Baron
said. “But I’ll not submit to your whim.”

“You think it whim?”

“What else can it be? The Emperor has obligations to me, too, Fenring. I rid
him of the troublesome Duke.”

“With the help of a few Sardaukar.”

“Where else would the Emperor have found a House to provide the disguising
uniforms to hide his hand in this matter?”

“He has asked himself the same question, Baron, but with a slightly
different emphasis.”

The Baron studied Fenring, noting the stiffness of jaw muscles, the careful
control. “Ah-?h-?h, now,” the Baron said. “I hope the Emperor doesn’t believe he
can move against me in total secrecy.”

“He hopes it won’t become necessary.”

“The Emperor cannot believe I threaten him!” The Baron permitted anger and
grief to edge his voice, thinking: Let him wrong me in that! I could place
myself on the throne while still beating my breast over how I’d been wronged.

The Count’s voice went dry and remote as he said: “The Emperor believes what
his senses tell him.”

“Dare the Emperor charge me with treason before a full Landsraad Council?”
And the Baron held his breath with the hope of it.

“The Emperor need dare nothing.”

The Baron whirled away in his suspensors to hide his expression. It could
happen in my lifetime! he thought. Emperor! Let him wrong me! Then–the bribes
and coercion, the rallying of the Great Houses: they’d flock to my banner like
peasants running for shelter. The thing they fear above all else is the
Emperor’s Sardaukar loosed upon them one House at a time.

“It’s the Emperor’s sincere hope he’ll never have to charge you with
treason,” the Count said.

The Baron found it difficult to keep irony out of his voice and permit only
the expression of hurt, but he managed. “I’ve been a most loyal subject. These
words hurt me beyond my capacity to express.”

“Um-?m-?m-?m-?ah-?hm-?m-?m,” said the Count.

The Baron kept his back to the Count, nodding. Presently he said, “It’s time
to go to the arena.”

“Indeed,” said the Count.

They moved out of the cone of silence and, side by side, walked toward the
clumps of Houses Minor at the end of the hall. A bell began a slow tolling
somewhere in the keep–twenty-?minute warning for the arena gathering.
“The Houses Minor wait for you to lead them,” the Count said, nodding toward
the people they approached.

Double meaning . . . double meaning, the Baron thought.

He looked up at the new talismans flanking the exit to his hall–the mounted
bull’s head and the oil painting of the Old Duke Atreides, the late Duke Leto’s
father. They filled the Baron with an odd sense of foreboding, and he wondered
what thoughts these talismans had inspired in the Duke Leto as they hung in the
halls of Caladan and then on Arrakis–the bravura father and the head of the
bull that had killed him.

“Mankind has ah only one mm-?m-?m science,” the Count said as they picked up
their parade of followers and emerged from the hall into the waiting room–a
narrow space with high windows and floor of patterned white and purple tile.

“And what science is that?” the Baron asked.

“It’s the um-?m-?m-?ah-?h science of ah-?h-?h discontent,” the Count said.

The Houses Minor behind them, sheep-?faced and responsive, laughed with just
the right tone of appreciation, but the sound carried a note of discord as it
collided with the sudden blast of motors that came to them when pages threw open
the outer doors, revealing the line of ground cars, their guidon pennants
whipping in a breeze.

The Baron raised his voice to surmount the sudden noise, said, “I hope
you’ll not be discontented with the performance of my nephew today, Count
Fenring.”

“I ah-?h-?h am filled um-?m-?m only with a hm-?m-?m sense of anticipation, yes,”
the Count said. “Always in the ah-?h-?h process verbal, one um-?m-?m ah-?h-?h must
consider the ah-?h-?h office of origin.”

The Baron hid his sudden stiffening of surprise by stumbling on the first
step down from the exit. Process verbal! That was a report of a crime against
the Imperium!

But the Count chuckled to make it seem a joke, and patted the Baron’s arm.

All the way to the arena, though, the Baron sat back among the armored
cushions of his car, casting covert glances at the Count beside him, wondering
why the Emperor’s errand boy had thought it necessary to make that particular
kind of joke in front of the Houses Minor. It was obvious that Fenring seldom
did anything he felt to be unnecessary, or used two words where one would do, or
held himself to a single meaning in a single phrase.