Dune

Teg glanced around him. Had anything been changed since his previous visit? He saw no significant alterations. He wondered if shrines such as this one had undergone much change at all over the eons. There was a dewcarpet on the floor as soft as brantdown and as white as the underbelly of a fur whale. It shimmered with a false sense of wetness that only the eye detected. A bare foot (not that this place had ever seen a bare foot) would feel caressing dryness.

There was a narrow table about two meters long almost in the center of the room. The top was at least twenty millimeters thick. Teg guessed it was Danian jacaranda. The deep brown surface had been polished to a sheen that drank the vision and revealed far underneath veins like river currents. There were only four admiral’s chairs around the table, chairs crafted by a master artisan from the same wood as the table, cushioned on seat and back with lyrleather of the exact tone of the polished wood.

Only four chairs. More would have been an overstatement. He had not tried one of the chairs before and he did not seat himself now, but he knew what his flesh would find there—comfort almost up to the level of a despised chairdog. Not quite at that degree of softness and conformity to bodily shape, of course. Too much comfort could lure the sitter into relaxation. This room and its furnishings said: “Be comfortable here but remain alert.”

You not only had to have your wits about you in this place but also a great power of violence behind you, Teg thought. He had summed it up that way before and his opinion had not changed.

There were no windows but the ones he had seen from the outside had danced with lines of light—energy barriers to repel intruders and prevent escape. Such barriers brought their own dangers, Teg knew, but the implications were important. Just keeping the energy flow in them would feed a large city for the lifetime of its longest-lived inhabitant.

There was nothing casual about this display of wealth.

The door that Muzzafar watched opened with a gentle click.

Danger!

A woman in a shimmering golden robe swept into the room. Lines of red-orange danced in the fabric.

She is old!

Teg had not expected her to be this ancient. Her face was a wrinkled mask. The eyes were deeply set green ice. Her nose was an elongated beak whose shadow touched thin lips and repeated the sharp angle of the chin. A black skullcap almost covered her gray hair.

Muzzafar bowed.

“Leave us,” she said.

He left without a word, going out through the door by which she had entered. When the door closed behind him, Teg said, “Honored Matre.”

“So you recognize this as a bank.” Her voice carried only a slight trembling.

“Of course.”

“There are always means of transferring large sums or selling power,” she said. “I do not speak of the power that runs factories but of the power that runs people.”

“And that usually passes under the strange names of government or society or civilization,” Teg said.

“I suspected you would be very intelligent,” she said. She pulled out a chair and sat but did not indicate that Teg should seat himself. “I think of myself as a banker. That saves a lot of muddy and distressful circumlocutions.”

Teg did not respond. There seemed no need. He continued to study her.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she demanded.

“I did not expect you to be this old,” he said.

“Heh, heh, heh. We have many surprises for you, Bashar. Later, a younger Honored Matre may murmur her name to mark you. Praise Dur if that happens.”

He nodded, not understanding much of what she said.

“This is also a very old building,” she said. “I watched you when you came in. Does that surprise you, too?”

“No.”

“This building has remained essentially unchanged for several thousand years. It is built of materials that will last much longer still.”

He glanced at the table.

“Oh, not the wood. But underneath, it’s polastine, polaz, and pormabat. The three P-Os are never sneered at where necessity calls for them.”

Teg remained silent.

“Necessity,” she said. “Do you object to any of the necessary things that have been done to you?”

“My objections don’t matter,” he said. What was she getting at? Studying him, of course. As he studied her.

“Do you think others have ever objected to what you did to them?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“You’re a natural commander, Bashar. I think you’ll be very valuable to us.”

“I’ve always thought I was most valuable to myself.”

“Bashar! Look at my eyes!”

He obeyed, seeing little flecks of orange drifting in across the whites. The sense of peril was acute.

“If you ever see my eyes fully orange, beware!” she said. “You will have offended me beyond my ability to tolerate.”

He nodded.

“I like it that you can command but you cannot command me! You command the muck and that is the only function we have for such as you.”

“The muck?”

She waved a hand, a negligent motion. “Out there. You know them. Their curiosity is narrow gauge. No great issues ever enter their awareness.”

“I thought that was what you meant.”