Heretics of Dune by Frank Herbert

Taraza came to his retirement sanctuary on Lernaeus. It honored him for her to do this and he knew it. She appeared at his gate unannounced accompanied only by two acolyte servers and a small guard force, some of whose faces he recognized. Teg had trained them himself. The time of her arrival was interesting. Morning, shortly after his breakfast. She knew the patterns of his life and certainly knew that he was most alert at this hour. So she wanted him awake and at his fullest capabilities.

Patrin, Teg’s old batman brought Taraza into the east wing sitting room, a small and elegant setting with only solid furniture in it. Teg’s dislike of chairdogs and other living furniture was well known. Patrin had a sour look on his face as he ushered the black-robed Mother Superior into the room. Teg recognized the look immediately. Patrin’s long, pale face with its many age wrinkles might appear an unmoved mask to others, but Teg was alert to the deepened wrinkles beside the man’s mouth, the set stare in the old eyes. So Taraza had said something on the way in here that had disturbed Patrin.

Tall sliding doors of heavy plaz framed the room’s eastward view down a long sloping lawn to trees beside the river. Taraza paused just inside the room to admire the view.

Without being told, Teg touched a button. Curtains slid across the view and glowglobes came alight. Teg’s action told Taraza he had computed a need for privacy. He emphasized this by ordering Patrin: “Please see that we are not disturbed.”

“The orders for the South Farm, sir,” Patrin ventured.

“Please see to that yourself. You and Firus know what I want.”

Patrin closed the door a little too sharply as he left, a tiny signal but it spoke much to Teg.

Taraza moved a pace into the room and examined it. “Lime green,” she said. “One of my favorite colors. Your mother had a fine eye.”

Teg warmed to the remark. He had a deep affection for this building and this land. His family had been here only three generations but their mark was on the place. His mother’s touches had not really been changed in many rooms.

“It’s safe to love land and places,” Teg said.

“I particularly liked the burnt orange carpets in the hall and the stained glass fanlight over the entry door,” Taraza said. “That fanlight is a real antique, I am sure.”

“You did not come here to talk about interior decoration,” Teg said.

Taraza chuckled.

She had a high-pitched voice, which the Sisterhood’s training had taught her to use with devastating effectiveness. It was not a voice easy to ignore, even when she appeared most carefully casual as she did now. Teg had seen her in Bene Gesserit Council. Her manner there was powerful and persuasive, every word an indicator of the incisive mind that guided her decisions. He could sense an important decision beneath her demeanor now.

Teg indicated a green upholstered chair at his left. She glanced at it, swept her gaze once more around the room and suppressed a smile.

Not a chairdog in the house, she would wager. Teg was an antique surrounding himself with antiques. She seated herself and smoothed her robe while waiting for Teg to take a matching chair facing her.

“I regret the need to ask that you come out of retirement, Bashar, she said. “Unfortunately, circumstances give me little choice.”

Teg rested his long arms casually on his chair’s arms, a Mentat in repose, waiting. His attitude said: “Fill my mind with data.”

Taraza was momentarily abashed. This was an imposition. Teg was still a regal figure tall and with that large head topped by gray hair. He was, she knew, four SY short of three hundred. Granting that the Standard Year was some twenty hours less than the so-called primitive year, it was still an impressive age with experiences in Bene Gesserit service that demanded that she respect him. Teg wore, she noted, a light gray uniform with no insignia: carefully tailored trousers and jacket, white shirt open at the throat to reveal a deeply wrinkled neck. There was a glint of gold at his waist and she recognized the Bashar’s sunburst he had received at retirement. How like the utilitarian Teg! He had made the golden bauble into a belt buckle. This reassured her. Teg would understand her problem.

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