Reverend Mother Mohiam stood waiting at the entrance to the audience chamber. He was surprised to see her back from Wallach IX. He had not seen his Truthsayer in some time, not since she had rushed off—without requesting his permission—on some errand back at the Bene Gesserit Mother School. She had left an apologetic message claiming that in this emergency her obligations to the Sisterhood superseded any duties for the Emperor, and she was gone before he could argue with her. He had keenly felt her absence.
Seeing him, Mohiam lowered her eyes in a respectful manner. He resented the fact that she had been gone when he needed her to help review candidates for the empty seats in the Landsraad. Now he confronted her. “You and your damnable witch Sisters. What have you been up to?”
The Reverend Mother was reserved, deferential. “We exist only to serve, Sire. Our Sisterhood furthers the cause of humankind.”
“And does it further the cause of this throne?”
She bowed again, even deeper. He was surprised the old woman was so limber. “The Imperium represents humanity. The Sisterhood has never done anything to hinder your rule, Sire. How may I assist you now?”
She followed as he entered and climbed to the shimmering throne. Despite his frustration, he was oddly comforted to have his Truthsayer at his side again. Count Fenring also waited for him in the audience chamber, having just returned from his own trip to Arrakis and prepared to give a report on spice operations. With Mohiam and Fenring here, at last he would receive good, reliable advice. They could get to the bottom of this damnable report.
Dressed in a white lace tunic with billowing sleeves and black trousers, Count Fenring approached the throne with supple moves like a dancer. Though he was glad to see his childhood friend, Shaddam thrust the instroy pages at Fenring. “There are serious shortfalls, Hasimir. I suspect that someone is cheating me, somehow. My Mentat accountants have raised a faint specter of impropriety. I must know the merits of their suspicions.”
Fenring scrutinized the report and the veiled conclusions. With eyes flicking back and forth, he absorbed the summary, then reviewed the original data. “Ahhh, hmmm, they suspect that melange is somehow leaving Arrakis without being accounted for. There is a leak in some distribution channel.”
“Your smugglers are getting out of control. I will no longer tolerate it.”
Fenring was taken aback. “Hmmm-ahh, the smugglers are carefully monitored, and they know their place. We choose not to notice their operations in exchange for information they provide. We would not want to lose that source of valuable data.”
“They are cheating us.” Shaddam looked down at the report. “It is clear that they are selling spice elsewhere without reporting the income, or paying the agreed-upon bribes.”
“Esmar Tuek is aware of his tenuous position, Sire. He keeps his crew under tight scrutiny, mmmmm, and I keep them all under careful observation. It may not be them.”
The Emperor didn’t believe it. “Obviously, they have another channel of spice export, beyond your purview. We must learn what they are doing and punish them accordingly.”
Fenring perfunctorily studied the report again, but he did not seem surprised by the results he saw. “I, ahhhh, received a copy of this an hour ago. I have already enlisted Grix Dardik to analyze it as, mmmmm, a check on your own Mentat accountants. I expect he will have insights.”
Shaddam frowned at the mention of the odd man. “You depend too much on that failed Mentat. You could afford someone better.”
“Hmmmm, ‘better’ is a subjective term. I am attracted to his unorthodox methods and conclusions. I salvaged Dardik from the trash heap of Imperial history.”
“Then let us see if he can provide a satisfactory explanation.” Shaddam leaned back to wait. The two men knew each other too well.
One of the court functionaries hurried away and soon returned with a hesitant, jittery Dardik, who seemed confused. His oversized head lolled to one side, and his gaze wandered, as if the man were trapped inside his body and wanted to escape.
The Count took him by the arm, and led him toward the throne. The Sardaukar guards stood wary, as if afraid the Mentat might lunge toward the Emperor. Fenring turned the slender man to face the throne and shook him by the shoulders. He said apologetically to the Emperor, “He is deep in his projections and analyses, Sire.”
The failed Mentat reached into a fold in his tunic and withdrew a vial of sapho juice, which he gulped. A drop of the blood-red liquid ran from the corner of his mouth.
Count Fenring snapped, “Tell His Majesty what you said about Imperial spice shortages.”
“Spice, spice, spice…” Dardik stared at the floor, not meeting the Emperor’s gaze. Suddenly, his expression brightened, and he grinned up at the throne with stained lips. “Ah, you want to know where all the missing spice is! How it is being sold through illicit channels!”
Emperor Shaddam took an exasperated breath. “My Mentat accountants have already identified a suspected problem. What else can you add? How are the smugglers selling spice that my observers cannot see?”
Dardik let out an odd chuckle. “Smugglers are not your problem. The smugglers are, dare I say, quite honest.”
“Honest smugglers?” The Emperor glared at Fenring. “That is his conclusion?”
The failed Mentat’s head bobbed. “Many things pass through my mind, Your Greatness. In my detailed projections, yes, these smugglers are more honest than many. They operate in the shadows, but in full view of Count Fenring. He sees. He knows.”
“Then how does so much spice slip away without being accounted for?” Shaddam asked. “And without paying my surtax? Baron Harkonnen is under the most intense scrutiny. There must be a secondary channel.”
“I project … another spice operation behind the scenes. A new operation.” The eccentric Mentat began to hum in an odd, irritating imitation of Fenring’s mannerisms. “Completely different.”
“Details, man, details! What are the details?”
Dardik looked up suddenly. “Details?”
“How did you arrive at that conclusion?”
With an arrogant stare, he replied, “Sire, a Mentat cannot unpack his mind to a non-Mentat.”
Shaddam looked up at the ornate, painted ceiling, counted slowly to himself in an effort to remain calm. “Where is this behind-the-scenes spice operation you refer to? Who is running it?”
“I don’t know where, and I don’t know who.”
Frustration flared in Shaddam, but Mohiam moved quickly to his side, whispering, “He does not lie to you, Sire. He makes his projections, but is not capable of explaining how he arrived at his conclusion.”
The Emperor looked at the old Truthsayer in her black robes, then turned to Fenring, considering the new information. He sighed. “Hasimir, you are my Imperial Spice Observer. Find the answers. Go back to Arrakis and dig deeper.” He softened his voice. “That is an area in which you excel, old friend.”
* * *
AFTER THE COUNT had withdrawn with his eccentric Mentat, Shaddam sat through another meeting, a request to mediate the dispute between two feuding noblemen. Both were allies he needed, but the Emperor was too preoccupied, and he dismissed them without even hearing their arguments. He stalked out of the audience chamber and went back to his contemplation chamber.