cannot waste my time with commoners.”
“He is… not exactly a commoner, Sire. His name is Liet-Kynes, and he comes from Arrakis.”
Shaddam was irritated at the audacity of any man who would assume that he could simply walk in and expect an audience with the Emperor of a Million Worlds. “If I wish to speak with one of the desert rabble, I will summon him.”
“He is your Imperial Planetologist, Sire. Your father appointed his father to investigate spice on Arrakis. I believe numerous reports have been submitted.”
The Emperor yawned. “All of them boring, as I recall.” Now he remembered the eccentric Pardot Kynes, who had spent much of his life on Arrakis, shirking his duties and going native, preferring dust and heat to the splendor of Kaitain. “I have lost interest in deserts.” Especially now that amal is at hand.
“I understand your reservations about him, Sire, but Kynes could go back and rile up the desert workers. Who knows what influence he has with them? They might decide to stage an immediate general strike, decreasing spice production and forcing Baron Harkonnen to crack down. The Baron would then request Sardaukar reinforcements, and from there—”
Shaddam raised his well-manicured hand. “Enough! I see your point.” The Chamberlain always cycled through more consequences than an Emperor needed to hear. “Let him in. But clean the dirt off of him first.”
* * *
Liet-Kynes found the immense Imperial Palace impressive, but he was accustomed to a different sort of grandeur. Nothing could be more spectacular than the sheer vastness of Dune. He had stood face-to-face with monster Coriolis storms. He had ridden great sandworms. He had watched flickers of plant life thrive in the most inhospitable conditions.
A man sitting on a chair, however expensive, could not match any of that.
His skin felt oily from the lotion the attendants had smeared all over it. His hair smelled of flowery perfumes, and his body stank with unnatural deodorizers. According to Fremen wisdom, sand cleansed the body and the mind. Once he returned from Kaitain, Kynes intended to roll naked on a dune and stand out in the biting wind just to feel truly clean again.
Because he insisted on wearing his sophisticated stillsuit, the garment had been dismantled in a thorough search for concealed weapons and listening devices. The components had been scrubbed and lubricated, the carefully treated surfaces coated with strange chemicals, before the security men let him have it back. Kynes doubted the vital piece of desert equipment would ever function properly again, and he would have to discard it. Such a waste.
But since he was the son of the great prophet Pardot Kynes, Fremen would line up to the horizon for the honor of making a new garment for him. After all, they shared one goal: the welfare of Dune. But only Kynes could approach the Emperor and make the necessary demands.
These Imperial men understand so little.
Liet’s mottled tan cape flowed behind him as he marched forward. On Kaitain it appeared to be no more than coarse cloth, but he wore it like a royal mantle.
The Chamberlain announced his name curtly, as if offended that the Planetologist did not carry sufficient noble or political titles. Kynes clomped across the floor in temag boots, not bothering to walk with grace. He came to a stop in front of the dais and spoke boldly, without bowing. “Emperor Shaddam, I must speak to you of spice and of Arrakis.”
Courtiers gasped at his forthrightness. The Emperor stiffened, obviously offended. “You are bold, Planetologist. Foolishly so. Do you assume I know nothing of matters so vital to my Imperium?”
“I assume, Sire, that you have been given false information by the Harkonnens, propaganda to hide their true activities from you.”
Shaddam raised a reddish eyebrow and leaned forward, his full attention now focused on the Planetologist.
Kynes continued, “The Harkonnens are wild dogs tearing at the desert. They exploit the native people. Casualty rates on spice crawlers are higher even than in the slave pits on Poritrin or Giedi Prime. I have sent you many reports detailing such atrocities, and my father before me did the same. I have also delivered a long-term plan detailing how plantings of grass and desert scrub brush could reclaim much of the surface area of Dune— Arrakis, I mean— for human habitation.” He paused a beat. “I can only assume you have not read our reports, since we have received no response, and you have taken no action.”
Shaddam grasped the arms of the Golden Lion Throne. Flanking him,