Ahead lay the walled-up vault of Shaddam’s grandfather, Fondil III, known as “the Hunter.” The pitted iron door was flanked by the stuffed carcasses of two ferocious predators the man had killed: a spiny ecadroghe from the high plateaus of Ecaz and a tufted saber-bear from III Delta Kaising. Fondil, however, had taken his epithet from hunting men, ferreting out enemies and destroying them. His big-game adventures had been a mere diversion.
Shaddam and Fenring passed coffins and chambers for children and siblings, and finally an idealized statue of Elrood IX’s first heir, Fafnir. Years ago, Fafnir’s death (an “accident” arranged by young Fenring) had opened Shaddam’s path to the throne. Complacent, Fafnir had never imagined that his little brother’s friend could possibly be dangerous.
Only suspicious Elrood had imagined that Fenring and Shaddam might have been behind the murder. Though the boys never confessed, Elrood had cackled knowingly. “It shows initiative that you are able to make difficult decisions. But do not be so eager to take the responsibility of an Emperor. I still have many years left in my reign, and you must observe my example. Watch, and learn.”
And now Shaddam had to worry about the bastard Reffa, too.
He finally led Fenring to where the sealed ashes of Elrood IX waited in a relatively small alcove, adorned with shimmering diamondplaz, ornate scrollwork, and fine gems— a sufficient display of Shaddam’s grief at the loss of his “beloved father.”
The glowglobes came to a halt and shone down like bright embers. Disrespectfully, Shaddam leaned against the resting place of his father’s ashes. The old man had been cremated to foil any Suk physician’s attempts to determine the true cause of death.
“Twenty years, Hasimir. We’ve waited that long for the Tleilaxu to create synthetic spice.” Shaddam’s eyes were bright, his gaze intent. “What have you learned? Tell me when the Master Researcher is ready to go into full-scale production. I grow tired of waiting.”
Fenring tapped his own lips. “Ajidica was most anxious to reassure us about the progress, Sire, but I am not convinced that the substance has been thoroughly tested. It must meet our specifications. The repercussions of amal will make the galaxy tremble. We dare not commit any tactical errors.”
“What errors can there possibly be? He’s had two decades to test it. The Master Researcher says it’s ready.”
Fenring regarded the Emperor in the dim light. “And you trust what a Tleilaxu says?” Around him he could smell death and preservatives, perfumes, dust… and Shaddam’s nervous sweat. “I suggest we exercise caution, hmmm-ahh? I am arranging for a final test, one that will give us all the proof we need.”
“Yes, yes, give me no more details about your dull tests. I have seen Ajidica’s reports, and I do not understand half of what he says.”
“Just another month, Shaddam, perhaps two.”
Impatient and brooding, the lean-faced Emperor paced the crypt. Fenring tried to fathom the depth of his friend’s mood. The glowglobes, keyed to follow Shaddam, tried in vain to keep pace as he moved back and forth in the confined area.
“Hasimir, I am sick unto death of caution. All my life I have been waiting— waiting for my brother to die, waiting for my father to die, waiting for a son! And now that I have the throne, I find myself waiting for amal so that I can finally have the power a Corrino Emperor deserves.”
He stared at his clenched fist, as if he could see the visible lines of power trickling through his fingers. “I have a CHOAM Directorship, yet it carries no real ability to command. The Combine does whatever it wishes, because they can outvote me at any turn. The Spacing Guild is not required by law to follow my decrees, and if I don’t tread carefully, they could impose sanctions, withdraw transportation privileges, and shut down the entire Imperium.”
“I understand, Sire. But far more damaging, I believe, are the increasing examples of nobles defying and ignoring your commands. Look at Grumman and Ecaz— they continue their petty little war in violation of your peacekeeping efforts. Viscount Moritani practically spat in your face.”
Shaddam tried to step on a glossy black beetle, which succeeded in scuttling to safety in a crack. “Perhaps it is time to remind everyone exactly who is in command! When I have amal at my disposal, they will all have to dance to my tune. Spice from Arrakis will be prohibitively expensive.”
Fenring was contemplative, though. “Hmmm, many Great Houses have gathered their own melange