was only doing the will of —”

“I am the will of Muad’Dib!” Gurney scowled down at the body, then looked up at the trophy on the post. “Take away Lord Colus’s head and see that his people have it for a proper burial. As for Enno, you may carry his body and his water back to Dune, but his head remains here.” He pointed. “On the spike.”

From the uneasy muttering, Gurney knew that the superstitious Fremen would fear that an angry ghost might follow them. Gurney looked directly at the corpse as he spoke. “And if Enno’s shade has something to say to me, then he can follow me as he wishes. You men are merely following my orders, as every soldier is required to do.”

He stalked off, but the disgust and dismay in the pit of his stomach only increased. He suspected that the Fremen would portray Enno as a martyr, a man not only blessed because he had drowned and come back to life, but also a veritable holy man who had disobeyed his non-Fremen commander in order to do what Muad’Dib would have wanted.

Gurney knew Paul Atreides well, however, and knew the young Emperor was not nearly so bloodthirsty and vicious as his followers believed him to be. Not in his heart, anyway.

Gurney fervently prayed that he was not wrong in his own heart.

12

Both the Bene Gesserit and the Tleilaxu are fixated on the advancement of their own breeding programs. The Sisterhood’s records encompass thousands of years as they seek to perfect humanity for their own purposes. The Tleilaxu have more commercial aims in their genetic research — producing gholas, Twisted Mentats, artificial eyes, and other biological products that are sold around the Imperium at great profit. We advise extreme caution in dealing with either group.

—excerpt from a CHOAM report

A military officer arrived unexpectedly at Tleilax, announcing that he was on the “business of the Emperor” and demanding to see Count Hasimir Fenring.

Fenring did not like surprises. Agitated, he rode in a tubecar that sped away from the noxious expanse of the dead lake and across the plain from Thalidei to the isolated spaceport where the visitor had been allowed to land. What could this possibly mean? He had taken great pains to keep his location a secret, but there seemed no limit to the reach and influence of Muad’Dib.

He arrived at a high, one-story structure built of black plasmeld that was fronted with an array of tinted windows. With its curved surfaces and organic shape, the building looked like something that a worm might have excreted.

He entered the lobby, and two lower-caste Tleilaxu guided him across the glistening black floor. His escorts seemed just as displeased by the unannounced visitor. In the small and stuffy cafeteria, Fenring was surprised to see a familiar, craggy-faced man. It had been years since they’d seen each other, and it took him a moment to recall the correct name. “Bashar Zum Garon?”

The officer rose from a table where he had been drinking an oily-looking beverage. “You are a difficult person to locate, Count Fenring.”

“Hmm-ahhh, intentionally so. But I should know not to underestimate the resourcefulness of a Sardaukar officer.”

“No, you should not. I come at the request of Emperor Shaddam.” “Hmm-m-m, not the Emperor I expected. How did you find me?”

“Shaddam ordered it.”

“And a loyal Sardaukar always follows orders, hmmm? You are still in charge of Shaddam’s personal guard?”

“What little is left of it, barely more than a police force.” Garon did not look happy. “I commanded the most powerful military force in the Imperium, until Muad’Dib and his fanatical Fedaykin defeated us. Now I am the glorified equivalent of a security guard.” He regained his composure but not before Fenring saw the swift, sharp flicker of hatred there. “Sit with me. The Tleilaxu tea is palatable.”

“I know the stuff well.” Fenring had grown to loathe its faint licorice undertaste almost as much as he loathed the aftertaste of all his dealings with Shaddam. Time and again, the Emperor had stumbled into traps of his own making — and time and again, Fenring had used his resources and wiles to repair the damage. Even after the original Arrakis Affair, when the Harkonnens and the Sardaukar troops should have wiped out House Atreides, Fenring had spent more than a billion Solaris on gifts, slave women, spice bribes, and tokens of rank. Squandered money and resources. Now, though, his former friend had fallen into a pit so deep he could never claw his way out.

Fenring slid into a hard plasmeld chair that was too low to the floor, designed for the shorter Tleilaxu Masters. He waited for the Bashar to explain his business. Only one other cafeteria table was occupied, by a Tleilaxu man who ate stew in a rapid and messy fashion.

Garon stirred his tea, but didn’t drink. “I spent many years in Imperial service. Then, after the death of my son Cando defending Shaddam’s amal project…” His voice trailed off, but he regained his composure. “After that, I voluntarily stripped off all marks of my former rank and departed from Kaitain, expecting never to return. For a time I retired to my estate on Balut, but that didn’t last long before Muad’Dib ordered me back into service and assigned me to Shaddam. It seems that the former Padishah Emperor was insisting that I take charge of security in his exile. Not only did he kill my son, but he foolishly led the Sardaukar to suffer their first-ever military defeat.”

The Count clearly remembered the catastrophic end of the amal project, “Your son died valiantly in the defense of Ix. He showed great courage leading a Sardaukar charge against overwhelming odds.”

“My son died trying to protect an idiotic, greedy attempt to develop and monopolize artificial spice.”

“Hmm-ahh, and does Shaddam know you feel this way?”

“He does not. If I had my son’s courage, I would tell him so. Shaddam says he has fond memories of my flawless loyalty.” Garon cleared his throat, changed the subject, but the bitter tone remained in his voice. “Regardless, he sent me to find you and deliver a message. Shaddam wishes you to know that he still holds you in the highest esteem. He reminds you that he allowed his Imperial daughter Wensicia to marry your cousin Dalak.”

“Yes, I know.” He thought back, trying to remember his cousin. “I haven’t seen Dalak since he was a boy. I believe I taught him some fighting techniques, even spent some time counseling him about the politics of the Imperium. A good boy. Not the brightest student, but he showed some promise.”

Shaddam had allowed his third daughter to marry him? A true sign of desperation, obviously intended to influence Fenring. Did that mean there might soon be a Corrino heir with Fenring blood? He darkened. “I do not like to be manipulated.”

“No one does. Even so, Shaddam begs you to return to him. He needs your counsel and friendship.”

Fenring did not doubt what Shaddam must have in mind. The Count resented the fallen Emperor for his insistence on ill-advised plans as much as Bashar Garon did. Shaddam has a dangerous sort of intelligence that leads him to believe he is much smarter than he actually is. This causes him to make serious mistakes.

Garon drew an ornate, jewel-handled knife from his sleeve. Fenring’s muscles tightened. Has he been sent to assassinate me? He placed his hand over the concealed needle launcher in his sleeve.

But the Bashar just slid the knife across the table, jeweled hilt first. “This is yours now, a gift from your boyhood friend. He said you would recognize it, know its significance.”

“Yes, I am familiar with this.” The Count turned it over to examine the sharp edge of the blade. “Shaddam presented it to Duke Leto at the Trial By Forfeiture, and later the Duke gave it back to him.”

“More importantly, it is the knife with which Feyd Rautha-Harkonnen dueled Muad’Dib.”

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