Irulan bowed slightly to him. “I will write my father immediately and compose missives for Guild couriers to deliver to the Landsraad nobles and other dignitaries.”
Paul had no doubt that she would sign each one “Princess Irulan, Daughter of Shaddam IV, Wife of Emperor Paul-Muad’Dib Atreides.” And that was her due.
2
It was from Count Hasimir Fenring that my father learned to use people as bargaining chips.
Sire, I bring a message from your daughter, the Princess Irulan.” Dressed in his gray Sardaukar uniform, Bashar Zum Garon held his officer’s cap in one hand and with the other he extended a message cylinder to Shaddam, who had just finished breakfast with Wensicia and her husband in the austere drawing room of his private residence. An attendant had taken the baby away for now; Shaddam couldn’t abide eating with all the fuss surrounding the infant.
“And what makes you think I want to hear from her?” Shaddam motioned for Wensicia to accept the transmittal. “I would rather hear from Count Fenring.”
Sitting too close to Wensicia, Dalak brightened. “Sire, would you like me to write my cousin? Perhaps this time I can convince him to come back to us. I am happy to continue trying.”
Wensicia frowned at her husband. “Stop overestimating your own importance and influence. It has become tedious. Count Fenring barely even remembers who you are.” Dalak had left Salusa twice in the previous six months, brightly insisting that he could find and talk to his cousin. Each time, however, he had “encountered travel difficulties” and was unable to reach the Tleilaxu, much less find Fenring, though Bashar Garon never seemed to have such troubles. Both times Dalak had returned looking childishly abashed, shrugging in embarrassment at his incompetence.
Shaddam, however, had discovered exactly what Dalak was up to on these extracurricular expeditions. Wensicia’s simpering husband was less of a fool than he appeared to be — and more of a Fenring. Shaddam intended to deal with the man’s indiscretions in his own way….
Wensicia studied the message cylinder suspiciously. “This bears both Irulan’s personal seal and the royal seal of the Emperor.”
“Official business,” Garon said, still standing at attention. “And, no, Sire, I have not been able to make Count Fenring reconsider. He sends his regards along with a thousand apologies, but circumstances will not permit his return to Salusa.”
“And did he give you any response to his dear cousin’s pleas?” Shaddam looked pointedly at Dalak, who cringed.
“He made no mention whatsoever of having any contact with Wensicia’s husband, Sire. But I will continue to press him with each visit to the Tleilaxu homeworlds. They have begun to develop your private army, as requested.”
“Whether or not his cousin can convince him, as our plans build toward fruition, Hasimir won’t be able to resist getting involved. I know it.”
Dalak seemed eager to change the subject of the conversation. “I thought Irulan wasn’t allowed to participate in official business?” He peered over his wife’s shoulder to study the sealed message cylinder. “Is Paul Atreides finally going to send troops and work crews here to begin the terraforming? I would love for our little Farad’n to grow up in a more hospitable place.”
Wensicia broke open the seals and read the missive. “Muad’Dib means to show off his new citadel, which he claims surpasses the old Imperial Palace on Kaitain in both size and opulence.”
His mouth curling downward bitterly, Shaddam looked out the reinforced window onto the devastated landscape. “Anything surpasses what I have now.”
“He requests a representative from every world and every noble family, including the Corrinos on Salusa Secundus. He will even generously ease the travel restrictions that keep you bottled up here.”
Wensicia looked up. “It is more than an invitation, Father: It is a summons. You, or your representative, are
“I am the Emperor.” Shaddam made the comment out of habit, without much conviction.
“It is to be a gift for Muad’Dib. There are other specifics here, concerning the minimum amount of water.”
“I was given to understand that similar messages have gone out to all planetary leaders. I do not advise ignoring the summons,” Bashar Garon said. “His fanatics would seize upon any excuse to kill you and end the Corrino bloodline forever.”
Shaddam knew the commander was right. “Does it specify exactly who must attend? Or will any representative do?” His gaze fell on Wensicia’s milquetoast husband. The thin little man always dressed in silk and lace, and swooped around like a prince at a costume ball, oblivious to his stark surroundings or the plight of his father-in-law. “Maybe it’s time for you to make yourself useful, Dalak. Give me the sort of advice and counsel that Count Fenring once provided for me. Kill some of my enemies, as he did. Go there as my representative and find a way to assassinate Muad’Dib.”
“Sire?” Dalak’s face turned the color of pale cheese. “Don’t you have other people to do that for you?”
“No one as expendable.” Shaddam was pleased to see the shocked expression on the man’s face, as if he had never been so blatantly insulted before. “What good are you, Dalak? Hasimir could have done it easily. My daughter says that the first thing you do after you awaken is look at yourself in a mirror at the foot of your bed. Is this the best sort of ally I have now? No wonder House Corrino is in such disgrace.”
Dalak stiffened, gathering a thin and fragile shell of pride. “I groom meticulously to present myself well in your royal court. I do it all for you, Majesty. And I would do anything you command. It is my duty. My life revolves around restoring glory to House Corrino.”
“Ah, restoring glory to House Corrino. Perhaps I can help.” Shaddam sent a signal, and four of his servants entered from a side door, nudging along several large crates that were lightened by suspensors. “These crates contain some of the greatest and most valuable Corrino family treasures. They are
From the panicked look on Dalak’s face, Shaddam could tell that the man knew precisely what the crates contained. “I… I am glad to see them returned to their rightful owners.”
Shaddam got up from the dining table and walked over to the man. “It was rather difficult, and expensive. I am sure, however, that those costs can be retrieved from your own private accounts.”
Wensicia looked at her husband as if he had become a putrefying mass of flesh. “You stole and liquidated Corrino heirlooms?”
“Certainly not!” Dalak’s indignant demeanor was not quite convincing. “I had nothing whatsoever to do with anything like that.”
Shaddam continued, “We now know why he had such difficulty reaching the Tleilaxu worlds and speaking with Count Fenring. He was much too preoccupied by other business.”
“No — I deny it completely. Where is your proof?”
“An Emperor’s word is all the proof any loyal subject should need.” Indeed, he had sufficient documentation, hidden receipts, secret images of the transactions occurring. There could be no question at all. Shaddam glanced at Bashar Garon. “Do you have an extra weapon on your person that you might loan to this young man? One of the daggers or handguns you keep in your boots and sleeves? Or perhaps that little poison dart pistol in your inside jacket pocket. That seems an adequate weapon for my effeminate son-in-law.”
Dutifully, Garon reached into his coat and brought out the tiny weapon, not certain what Shaddam intended. The dart pistol was flat and half the size of his hand.
