Thinking of the uneasiness the young man had shown recently, the tension of their discussion in the dining hall, Leto nodded. “He might find that reassuring.” He softened his voice. “At least he will be glad to know that I myself don’t plan to marry.”
Jessica gave him a resigned smile. “I can make him see the advantages of this Junu Verdun—at least for the sake of discussion.”
“It’s settled, then,” Leto said. He wished it could be different, that he could marry Jessica after all, and Paul could marry for love … and they would all live happily on Caladan.
I must stay the course, he thought, no matter how difficult it is.
We can manipulate others through granting a thing or withholding a thing … and knowing when to do both.
—IBBO VIPP, a philosopher of Ecaz
Dressed in a black Bene Gesserit robe, Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam accompanied the Emperor into the cavernous Landsraad Hall. An emergency meeting of nobles after the Otorio disaster had been called into session.
The stately chamber had never looked like this before, draped with black mourning banners from the walls and ceiling. Eighty-four painfully empty seats indicated the members killed in the most monstrous terrorist attack in modern history, and countless flowers symbolized the hundreds of family members and tens of thousands of support staff and locals also obliterated in the crash when the dump boxes crashed into Otorio.
After Shaddam took his ornate chair at the side of the stage, the Truthsayer seated herself on his right like a silent conscience. A dozen high-ranking Landsraad dignitaries filed in and took seats subordinate to the Emperor. They had gravely important roles in this emergency session, including elderly Speaker Tilson Xumba and even the dignified Ur-Director of CHOAM, Malina Aru, who rarely appeared in public. As the mother of the mastermind behind the Otorio massacre, Malina Aru faced a wave of anger and scorn. Nevertheless, showing remarkable bravery, or audacity, she had come to face the Landsraad in person. Mohiam was curious to hear how the Urdir would frame the situation.
She also feared the Landsraad nobles might tear Malina Aru limb from limb.
In initial statements, the Ur-Director had insisted that neither she nor the CHOAM Company had anything to do with Jaxson Aru’s fanatical act and denied any involvement in the Noble Commonwealth movement. Malina and her other son, Frankos, the CHOAM President, had publicly disavowed the violent actions. Mohiam could not analyze the Urdir’s written statement with truthsense, but she believed the woman’s claims. How could allowing such ruthless devastation possibly be in CHOAM’s best interests? Malina Aru had a sterling reputation, was a vocal supporter of the Imperium and its traditions, and surely wasn’t part of the resistance to bring it all down.
Gazing across the restless noble members in the long banks of seats, Mohiam noted faces that were red-eyed and shadowed with grief. So many close friends, associates, allies, and family members had been lost in the carnage—larger-than-life personalities and important voices that were now gone forever. Repercussions would continue throughout the Imperium for generations, and fundamental power shifts would occur.
Those eighty-four empty seats had to be filled, all at once, and ambitious nobles would be attracted like carrion birds to a fresh corpse.
As the simmering crowd settled, Speaker Xumba caught the eye of the Emperor, who nodded. The Speaker, a tall mahogany-skinned man of advanced years, walked slowly to the podium, where cones of light shone down on him. His eyes were red and moist, his expression downturned with grief.
He gripped the lectern and stood in silence, staring meaningfully at the empty seats as if reciting each individual name in his mind. No one made a sound. The Landsraad Hall had become like a graveyard for the noble dead.
Xumba gazed up at the ceiling, as if grasping for appropriate words for such a solemn occasion. “Funerals for our dead have been held, eulogies spoken, remembrances shared, and tears shed.” He wiped his cheeks. Mohiam detected sincerity in the Speaker’s words, genuine grief.
He waved an arm in a slow horizontal arc to indicate the empty seats, the vacuum left in the political landscape of the Imperium. “All those passionate voices silenced, dedicated noble rulers seeking to keep the Landsraad strong. How can we ever replace them? The Emperor will consider candidates for those positions, and soon, he will submit names to us for our review.”
Shaddam leaned to one side and whispered to Mohiam, “The balance of power has shifted, since so many of my allies were killed at Otorio. We will need to rectify that.”
She knew the truth of it. The Emperor’s closest loyalists had attended the gala celebration, while lesser sycophants, possibly even Noble Commonwealth sympathizers, had made excuses not to attend on Otorio. “So many seats, Sire. But you had a majority before, and you will arrange to install only true loyalists in their places. At a time like this, the Landsraad would not dream of weakening the Imperium further.”
Shaddam frowned at her. “Would they not? It seems the rebels might use our perceived weakness as an opportunity to fracture our very civilization.”
She considered. “I will use truthsense to vet any candidates and make sure that each one is truly loyal. You will reward your real allies, and leave the false ones out in the cold.”
“I like that approach.”
As Speaker Xumba finished his speech and stepped back, the Emperor rose in the weighty silence and took his place at the podium. He waited for the amplification fields to adjust. “This is a vital and serious matter. I will never forget my loyal comrades who were murdered at Otorio. Eighty-four of the finest, most loyal nobles. It will not be easy to replace such qualified, talented members, but my committee will work day and night. I will give due consideration to new candidates who can fulfill those tragically empty seats.”
A few members of the audience called out in support. One shouted, “Long live the Imperium!” Sitting quietly, Mohiam knew Shaddam would have preferred to hear “Long live the Emperor!”
Nevertheless, he accepted the praise. “Things will get better,” he promised. “Things will get much better.” Shaddam spoke for several minutes, naming the Landsraad members who had been lost, one by one in a solemn recitation, highlighting those with the most significant accomplishments. He ended with a vow. “We will find and punish the criminals responsible for this terrible attack. The violent nature of the Noble Commonwealth has been exposed for all to see. My Sardaukar will not rest until Jaxson Aru is brought to justice.” He basked in a thunderous standing ovation.
Mohiam felt tension in the air. Ur-Director Malina Aru would speak next, and Shaddam had just lit a funeral pyre for her.
An awkward, hushed ripple traveled through the room when the proud woman approached the speaking zone. She walked without shame, though muttered insults and accusations were hurled at her like sharp barbs. Malina Aru stepped up to address the noble families of those whom her son had murdered.
Without flinching, she waited for the angry undertone to subside. Many gave her only numb stares, silenced by their own disbelief. Mohiam could hear the underlying venom in the audience, though a few seemed slightly more sympathetic toward an innocent mother blindsided by her son’s crimes.
As a Bene Gesserit, Mohiam admired the Ur-Director for the power she held in CHOAM, although Malina’s work was far different from the Sisterhood’s. Few women ever achieved such prominent, visible power in the Imperium. Malina Aru had been brought in to salvage the less-competent administration of her husband, who had been quietly retired from his position. As Urdir, Malina’s record of CHOAM profits and influence was unimpeachable.