“An Imperial wedding must be very exciting, my Lord Baron.”

More interested in the nude boy’s lovely form than in his attempts at conversation, Vladimir Harkonnen balanced on the suspensor mechanism that held his body upright as he prepared for the week’s festivities. The windowplaz tint had been adjusted to permit just the right amount of natural light into the guest suite in the Emperor’s extravagant Kaitain palace.

“Ah, nuptials — how could I not be overjoyed?” the Baron answered sarcastically.

He had just sent a manservant running out of the suite to fetch another selection — an adequate selection this time — of garments for that evening’s wedding rehearsal dinner. His tailors were continually preparing alternative outfits, but he would have to make his choice soon. So far, the options looked like nomads’ tents hanging on his bulk. “I may govern Arrakis, but I can’t show up looking like a Fremen!”

The boy blinked dark, doelike eyes. “Would you like a massage before you dress in those restrictive clothes, my Lord?”

“Why bother to ask? Just do it.”

The boy dutifully kneaded fragrant ointments into the Baron’s soft shoulders, then continued the intimate massage as he had been taught. When he was finished, however, the Baron was left feeling less satisfied than he had anticipated. Perhaps it was time to train a replacement.

A CARNIVAL AIR had prevailed on Kaitain for days: jubilant crowds, fireworks displays, and sporting events featuring the best athletes of great and minor Houses. From every building in the enduring Imperial city, scarlet-and-gold Corrino flags fluttered in a warm breeze beneath a cerulean sky. For Shaddam’s wedding to Firenza Thorvald, perfect weather was guaranteed by backup satellites and technicians working long shifts.

Throngs had camped out on the route the royal procession would take on the way to the Grand Theater. Everyone wanted the best views of the Padishah Emperor and his bride-to-be. Any moment now, the two royal carriages would approach, each drawn by magnificent golden lions from Harmonthep.

Inside the dining hall for the reception, the Baron observed from a special seat designed to accommodate his bulk. The banquet table seemed as long as a street in Harko City, lined with representatives from practically every noble holding in the Landsraad. While the Baron couldn’t care less about the elaborate spectacle, weddings in general, or Shaddam IV in particular, he was certain that the officious Chamberlain Ridondo and his swarms of functionaries would make careful note of which noble families declined to attend. The Baron was somewhat surprised, scandalized, and pleased to see empty seats under the House Atreides banner. So, Duke Leto had other priorities.

So do I… and yet, I am here.

An accented voice interrupted him from his left. “A waste of time, eh? This new one doesn’t know what she’s getting into. She’ll end up dead like the previous wives.”

Startled, the Baron turned to see a large, angular man settle into a reserved highback chair. He had heavy brows over intense, pale blue eyes, and a rough-edged appearance despite his fine clothes. A horsehead emblem adorned the lapel of his white-and-blue jacket, a stylized depiction that showed sharp spines projecting from the horse’s majestic head. The Baron remained cool, uninterested in small talk. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Nevertheless, we should know each other, Vladimir. I am the Viscount Hundro Moritani from Grumman.”

The Baron did not like such casual familiarity. “I’m aware of your history, sir. You’re a nasty piece of business, aren’t you? The war with Ecaz, the attack on House Ginaz, the destruction of the Swordmaster school. Is the Imperial censure still in force against you, or has that been rescinded?”

Surprisingly, the Viscount let out a throaty, abrasive chuckle. “I am pleased you have taken an interest in my activities. I do what is necessary to protect my House and my holdings.”

Impatient to eat, the Baron raised a ring-laden hand to signal a servant to bring a plate of hors d’oeuvres. Even with the regularly spaced poison snoopers hanging over the table, he produced his own device from a pocket and wafted it over the varied morsels before tasting anything. “It was interesting to observe how hard you could push before the Emperor stopped you,” he said.

Moritani watched him intently. “And what have you concluded?”

The Baron began popping little sandwiches into his mouth, savoring the variety of flavors, the exotic seasonings. “I learned that while the Emperor made a great show of criticizing your actions, he did not inflict any lasting harm on House Moritani. Therefore, you achieved most of your aims, and paid a very small price.”

The Viscount grumbled, and the Baron could sense the hair-trigger of anger seething there. “I did not accomplish enough. Archduke Ecaz remains alive and now denies me access to a rare medicine that would cure my son.”

Awkwardly, the Baron ate another tiny sandwich. He had no interest in House Moritani’s personal feuds or family troubles. House Harkonnen had feuds of its own.

Moritani motioned to his bodyguard, a redheaded man who stood nearby. Tall and well-proportioned, the pale-skinned retainer was younger than his master; one of his ears was half missing and scarred over. “Baron, this is my personal Swordmaster, Hiih Resser.”

The Baron took greater interest now. “Few Houses have a dedicated Swordmaster these days.”

Moritani’s lips curled upward in a cruel smile. “Because the Ginaz School is not training any more of them.”

“House Atreides still has Duncan Idaho,” Resser pointed out. “I knew him on Ginaz.”

“I have no interest in House Atreides!” the Viscount raised his voice, quick to anger. “It is time to fetch Wolfram. The banquet is about to begin, but he will need to retire early. See to it that he doesn’t overexert himself.” Resser bowed and left.

The chairs began to fill, and the noise level increased. At the head table, Shaddam Corrino and Count Hasimir Fenring took seats, followed by the Emperor’s bride-to-be and Lady Margot Fenring.

“I’d say the Count got the better of those two women,” Moritani said in a low tone, admiring Lady Margot.

Seeing the Princess Firenza for the first time, the Baron was struck by how plain and pear-shaped she was, with a loose chin and too much makeup, apparently to cover flaws on her skin. “She looks like a peasant.”

“Good wide hips, though,” the Viscount said. “Maybe she’ll be the one to bear him the sons he wants.”

“Even if she does, she is too ugly. He won’t keep her long.” The Baron was beginning to enjoy his candid conversation with this gruff man. “And yet we all come here to smile and celebrate. I, for one, find these dinners and parties to be quite tedious, with very little benefit. Doesn’t anyone realize we are busy men?”

“Our attendance offers us an excuse to conduct other business, Vladimir.” Then, visibly brightening, Viscount Moritani looked toward the main entrance doors, through which Hiih Resser escorted a sickly looking boy into the dining hall. Wolfram was around ten or eleven, with facial features that closely resembled those of his father. The boy appeared disoriented, drugged.

“You say he is ill? Not contagious, I hope?” The Baron had his own diseases to deal with.

“The boy is afflicted with a rare disorder that causes him to waste away. His mother suffered from it, too. Dear sweet Cilia. She lasted a year after Wolfram’s birth, but the effort of delivering him took its physical toll.” A wave of sorrow crossed Hundro Moritani’s face; his emotions seemed as mercurial as the weather patterns on Arrakis. Resser led the groggy boy to the table and positioned him in a seat beside the Viscount. Moritani warmly patted his son’s pale hand before turning back to the Baron.

“Wolfram finds solace in semuta. Only the deep trance and the music give him relief from the terrible pain. It’s all I can do to help him. There is a cure, of course — esoit-poay, the Ecazis call it.” His voice took on a razor sharpness. “In the embargo signed by the Archduke, he explicitly forbids any drop of that drug to leave Ecaz, although very few people in the whole Imperium require it.” His fist clenched hard enough to bend silverware. “He does it only to gain vengeance on me.”

Well, you did carpet bomb his government center and kill his oldest daughter and his brother, if I remember correctly. But instead of voicing his thought, the Baron said, “An unfortunate situation. Can you not purchase the drug on the black market?”

“Not a microgram. Even semuta has been restricted so that I must pay exorbitant prices. The Archduke knows what I need and attempts to thwart me at every turn! Out of sheer spite!” A wave of anger reddened his features again, but the man’s volatile emotions quickly shifted to an expression of loving calm. “I’m left with no choice. Damn them, I have to give my son whatever he needs to ease the terrible pain.”

The Baron sensed that the Grumman leader wanted to suggest some sort of bargain with House Harkonnen. Smelling a chance to make a profit if he was careful, the Baron said, “I have certain channels of my own to obtain black-market drugs, Viscount, but House Ecaz is no friend of mine, either. The Archduke is closely allied with House Atreides.”

As Moritani helped his dazed son eat one of the small appetizers, his eyes shone brighter, as if a fire had been lit behind the pupils. “Have you noticed that neither Duke Leto Atreides nor Archduke Armand Ecaz are in attendance here? My spies tell me that Leto has gone to Ecaz for a secret meeting. They are undoubtedly plotting against both of us.”

“Many nobles are not in attendance,” the Baron pointed out. “I am not the only one weary of all the weddings. One Imperial nuptial is much like another.”

“But this one, Baron, gives me the opportunity to invite you to Grumman as my honored guest. We have much in common. Perhaps we can help each other achieve our aims.”

Wary but curious, the Baron studied the other man. “There may well be opportunities to explore. Yes, a visit to Grumman might be interesting and mutually beneficial. My people will make the arrangements.”