The storehouse of expensive wine was part of the vast trove of spoils the armies of Muad’Dib were already bringing back to Arrakis. Whitmore Bludd found the uncatalogued cache during his work of managing the materials and overseeing the huge citadel construction project.

He perused the labels on the bottles, noting the vintages with growing admiration and amazement. He doubted the uncouth Fremen had any idea of the value of what they had found. They had piled the seized bottles without any sort of inventory list or temperature control.

These desert fanatics had no appreciation, no taste, no finesse. They would not know the difference between a crisp, delicate Caladanian white and a robust chianti from the greenhouse vineyards of IV Anbus. As he examined case after case of bottles inside the storehouse, Bludd realized he could not, in good conscience, let such a treasure go to waste.

Now, finding a rough-red table wine meant to be drunk in quantity rather than savored, he decided the Fremen might enjoy that more than anything too sophisticated. Or perhaps one of the syrupy muscats. When he came across a bottle of genuine Kirana champagne, he set it aside with the fine vintages. He couldn’t allow that to be wasted on a desert rat’s unsophisticated palate!

For tonight, Bludd settled on an enhanced claret he had tasted years ago, when he and his fellow Swordmaster Rivvy Dinari had toasted their service to Archduke Armand Ecaz. The corpulent Dinari had considered the vintage exceptional, and Bludd had fond memories of that evening, owing more to the fellowship and the situation than to the wine’s quality. Dinari, for all his girth, claimed to have quite a discriminating palate, although he did seem to prefer both quantity and quality.

Bludd had already changed into his evening clothes: a tailored maroon jacket, a belted black tunic with ruffled collar, tight black pants, and knee-high suede boots that matched the color of the jacket. As always, his long rapier hung at his hip, a weapon that was both decorative and deadly. He hefted the case of wine, balancing it on his other hip, and walked out of the storehouse with as much grace as he could summon. If these desert fighters were capable of enjoying good things — not at all a certainty — he would endear himself to them, and they would all have a fine time swapping tales of their exploits.

In a celebratory mood, he brought the wine and his own corkscrew, as well as a case of stemmed glasses, to the Fremen barracks. Smiling, he lifted out the bottles so that he could share the vintage, but the Fremen regarded him suspiciously. They accepted Bludd as one of Muad’Dib’s special advisers and a long-time acquaintance, yet the overdressed Swordmaster did not match their notion of a warrior.

He sniffed and quickly hid his distaste for all the smells around him. As members of Paul’s elite military stationed here on Arrakeen, they had access to enough water to bathe at least once in a while!

“I have brought fine wine from the stores of Emperor Paul Atreides” — he shrugged quickly — “or Muad’Dib, if that’s what you prefer to call him. Does anyone wish to partake?” Bludd began to pour glasses and gestured for the dusty Fremen soldiers to take them, one by one. “It is tradition among Swordmasters to share a glass of good wine while we exchange our stories of battle. Having been a primary instructor at the Ginaz School, I later became one of the two highest ranking swordfighters in the Ecazi court.”

Half a dozen Fremen picked up the glasses and looked at them. One, a Fedaykin named Elias, took a gulp and made a face.

“Not like that!” Bludd snapped, losing patience. “Examine its rich color, inhale its magnificent bouquet. Take a little sip. Allow the flavors to separate on your palate. This isn’t one of your coarse spice beers.” Elias seemed offended by the rebuff, though Bludd pretended not to notice. He held up a wineglass, took a sip, and let out a long sigh. “So… the stories. Since you are so enamored of Paul-Muad’Dib, shall I tell you of the time my fellow Swordmasters Rivvy Dinari, Duncan Idaho, and I went with young Paul Atreides — I believe he was twelve years old then — down into the jungles of Ginaz, where we were attacked by giant caterpillars —”

“We know all about Duncan Idaho,” one of the Fremen interrupted. “He died saving Muad’Dib during his flight from the Harkonnens. That was how he and his mother came to be among us.”

“So Paul’s told you this story, then?” Bludd looked around, but could not find any answers on the faces.

“We have read the book by Princess Irulan,” replied one of the men. The others murmured solemn assent.

Bludd had read the book as well and felt that Irulan had left out a great many important things, even suggesting that Paul had never been away from the planet Caladan before coming to Arrakis, ignoring all of his exploits on Ecaz! That and other errors. Bludd had already spoken to the Princess about them.

The Fremen were drinking the wine, though obviously out of a sense of obligation rather than enjoyment. Bludd tried again, suggesting another story that Irulan had not included in her original chronicle. “Or shall I tell you how the War of Assassins began in Castle Caladan, with a heinous attack by the Grummans? Several people died, including —” He sniffed, drew a breath. “Perhaps I shall not tell that story, either.”

Bludd expected some of them to brag about their own exploits and tell their tall tales. But these Fremen were a dour bunch.

“This wine tastes like unfiltered urine,” growled Elias, whom Bludd had offended. “If we run it through a reclamation unit, at least we can get the water back.”

“My dear sir, this is a fine and expensive vintage. I am not surprised, however, that you cannot taste —”

Elias drew his crysknife, and the others fell immediately still. “You insult me!”

Bludd looked around, made a bored sigh. “Now, what?” “It is a matter of honor,” said one of the other men.

“You really don’t want to do this, my good sir,” Bludd said. “Draw your blade!” Elias held his crysknife and took up a fighting stance.

With utmost calmness, Bludd slid the rapier from his belt. “Have I not made it quite clear that I am an accomplished Swordmaster of Ginaz? Your wormtooth dagger is pretty, but I have four times the reach.” He flicked the rapier in the air for good measure.

“Are you a coward, then?”

“In a word… no.” Bludd straightened his jacket, plucked at his black ruffles. “En garde, if you insist.”

Elias lunged with the crysknife, to shouts and catcalls from his comrades. Though Bludd was dressed in fine clothes, the well-fitting garments gave him perfect ease of movement. He melted away from the man’s vicious thrust. Then in a flash, he circled around and pricked the Fremen’s shoulder.

“There, first blood is mine. Do you yield?”

The Fremen spectators chuckled. “Bad Bludd brags more than he fights! Bad Bludd!”

“My, what a feeble play on words.” His voice dripped sarcasm.

The angry Fremen fighter slashed and lunged again with surprising speed. Elias tossed the knife to his other hand and struck. Ah, so he could fight with either hand, a useful skill! Bludd parried, scissored his blade in the air, twirled, and pricked the man’s other shoulder. “You are fortunate that I have decided to restrain myself.”

Bludd toyed with him for several more minutes, showing off, making sweeping, grandiose moves of the type he had taught his students never to risk using. Showmanship was one thing, but victory was paramount. It did no good to have fine form if your opponent lopped off your head.

But this opponent did not seem to weaken or tire and continued with a relentless, though pedestrian, style of fighting. When Bludd realized he was starting to grow tired himself, he decided to put an end to the silly dance. He had heard how easily Fremen pride could be wounded, and did not want this man to hold a simmering blood vendetta against him. He had to give him a way to save face.

Driving forward with a flurry of intricate sword work, Bludd flailed his flexible blade so that it dizzied Elias. Then Bludd intentionally stepped in too close. He had observed the man’s style and knew how he would react. When he gave the Fremen an opportunity, just a hint of one, the crysknife flashed and cut a shallow gouge in the meat of Bludd’s upper left arm. There, now the man could be satisfied that he too had drawn blood. Elias responded with a feral grin.

“That’s enough, then.” Bludd drove the flat of his blade down hard on the back of the Fremen’s knife hand, forcing the fingers to release the handle. The wormtooth dagger dropped to the floor of the barracks.

One of the other Fremen soldiers stepped forward and kicked the crysknife beyond Elias’s reach. “He beat you fairly, Elias, but you drew blood as well.”

The Fremen looked bewildered and still angry. Another soldier added in a low voice, “Muad’Dib has commanded us to have no tribal rivalries.”

“This peacock is of no Fremen tribe,” Elias said.

“Muad’Dib wants his soldiers to fight the enemy, not each other.”

“And fine advice that is.” Bludd sheathed his rapier, picked up one of the unopened bottles of wine, and took it with him as he left the barracks. “Next time, perhaps I will just bring spice beer.”