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.
“Could I have a drink of water?” Taraza asked. “It has been a long and tiresome journey. We came the last stage by one of our transports, which we should have replaced five hundred years ago.”
Teg lifted himself from the chair, went to a wall panel and removed a chilled water bottle and glass from a cabinet behind the panel. He put these on a low table at Taraza’s right hand. “I have melange,” he said.
“No, thank you, Miles. I’ve my own supply.”
Teg resumed his seat and she noted the signs of stiffness. He was still remarkably supple, however, considering his years.
Taraza poured herself a half glass of water and drank it in one swallow. She replaced the glass on the side table with elaborate care. How to approach this? Teg’s manner did not fool her. He did not want to leave retirement. Her analysts had warned her about that. Since retirement, he had taken more than a casual interest in farming. His extensive acreage here on Lernaeus was essentially a research garden.
She lifted her gaze and studied him openly. Square shoulders accentuated Teg’s narrow waist. He still kept himself active then. That long face with its sharp lines from the strong bones: typically Atreides. Teg returned her gaze as he always did, demanding attention but open to whatever the Mother Superior might say. His thin mouth was cocked into a slight smile, exposing bright and even teeth.
Teg did not prompt her with questions. His manner remained impeccable, curiously withdrawn. She reminded herself that this was a common trait of Mentats and nothing else should be read into it.
Abruptly, Teg stood and strode to a sideboard at Taraza’s left. He turned, folded his arms across his breast and leaned there looking down at her.
