Duncan Idaho stared at the monstrous Salusan bull through the force-field bars of its cage, his child’s gaze meeting the multifaceted eyes of the ferocious creature. The bull had a scaly black hide, multiple horns, and two brains that were capable of only one thought: Destroy anything that moves.

The boy had worked in the stables for weeks now, doing his best at even the most miserable of jobs, feeding and watering the combat bulls, tending them, cleaning their filthy cages while the beasts were pushed back behind force-barricades to keep them from attacking him.

He enjoyed his job, despite what others considered the degrading meniality of the tasks to be performed. Duncan didn’t even think of it as low-level work, though he knew several other stableboys did. These were simply chores to him, and he considered his payment in freedom and happiness more than sufficient. Because of the gracious generosity of his benefactor, Duke Paulus Atreides, he loved the old man dearly.

Duncan ate well now and had a warm place to live and fresh clothes whenever he needed them. Though no one asked him to, he worked hard anyway, driven and dedicated. There was even some time for relaxation, and he and the other workers had their own gymnasium and recreation hall. He could also go splashing in the sea whenever he wished, and a friendly man from the dockside occasionally took him along for a day’s fishing.

At present the Old Duke kept five of the mutated bulls for his games. Duncan had sought to befriend the beasts, trying to tame them with bribes of sweet green grass or fresh fruits, but an exasperated Stablemaster Yresk had caught him at it.

“The Old Duke uses them in his bullfights— do you think he prefers them tame?” His puffy eyes had widened with anger. The white-haired stablemaster had accepted him on the Duke’s orders, but grudgingly, and he gave Duncan no special treatment. “He wants them to attack. He doesn’t want the creatures to purr when he’s on display in the Plaza de Toros. What would the people think?”

Duncan had lowered his eyes and backed off. Always obedient, he never again tried to make these beasts his pets.

He had seen holorecordings of the Duke’s previous spectacles, as well as the performances of other renowned matadors; while he was saddened to witness the slaughter of one of his magnificent charges, he was amazed at the bravery and self-assurance of Duke Atreides.

The last corrida on Caladan had been staged to celebrate the departure of Leto Atreides for his off-planet schooling. Now after many months there would be another, as the Old Duke had recently announced a new grand bullfight, this one to entertain his guests from Ix, who had come to stay as exiles on Caladan. Exiles. In a sense, Duncan was one, too. . . .

Though he had his own sleeping quarters in a communal outbuilding where many of the Castle workers lived, sometimes Duncan bedded down out in the stables, where he could hear the snorting and simmering beasts. He had put up with far worse conditions in his life. The stables themselves were comfortable, and he enjoyed being alone with the animals.

Whenever he slept out there, he listened to the movements of the bulls in his dreams. He felt himself becoming attuned to their moods and instincts. For days now, though, the creatures had grown increasingly fretful and moody, prone to rampages in their pens . . . as if they knew their nemesis the Old Duke was planning another bullfight.

Standing outside the cages, young Duncan noticed fresh, deep score marks where the Salusan bulls had rammed their enclosures in an attempt to break free, trying to gore imaginary opponents.

This was not right. Duncan knew it. He’d spent so much time watching the bulls that he felt he understood their instincts. He knew how they should react, knew how to provoke them and how to calm them— but this behavior was out of the ordinary.

When he mentioned it to Stablemaster Yresk, the gaunt man looked suddenly alarmed. He scratched the shock of thinning white hair on his head, but then his expression changed. He fixed his suspicious, puffy eyes on Duncan. “Say, there’s nothing wrong with those bulls. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were just another Harkonnen, trying to cause trouble. Now run along.”

“Harkonnens! I hate them.”

“You lived among them, stable-rat. We Atreides are trained to be constantly on the alert.” He gave Duncan a nudge. “Don’t you have chores to complete? Or do I need to find some more?”

He’d heard that Yresk had actually come from Richese many years before, so he was not truly an Atreides. Still, Duncan didn’t contradict the man, though he refused to back down. “I was their slave. They tried to hunt me down like an animal.”

Yresk lowered his bushy eyebrows; with his lanky build and wild, pale hair he looked like a scarecrow. “Even among the common people, the old feud between Houses runs deep. How do I know what you might have up your sleeve?”

“That’s not why I told you about the bulls, sir,” Duncan said. “I’m just worried. I don’t know anything about House feuds.”

Yresk laughed, not taking him seriously. “The Atreides-Harkonnen breach goes back thousands of years. Don’t you know anything about the Battle of Corrin, the great betrayal, the Bridge of Hrethgir? How a cowardly Harkonnen ancestor almost cost the humans our victory against the hated machine-minds? Corrin was our last stand, and we would have fallen to the final onslaught if an Atreides hadn’t saved the day.”

“I never learned much history,” Duncan said. “It was hard enough just finding food to eat.”

Behind folds of wrinkled skin, the stablemaster’s eyes were large and expressive, as if he was trying to appear to be a kindly old man. “Well, well, House Atreides and House Harkonnen were allies once, friends even, but never again after that treachery. The feud has burned hot ever since— and you, boy, came from Giedi Prime. From the Harkonnen homeworld.” Yresk shrugged his bony shoulders. “You don’t expect us to trust you completely, do you? Be thankful the Old Duke trusts you as much as he does.”

“But I had nothing to do with the Battle of Corrin,” Duncan said, still not understanding. “What does that have to do with the bulls? That was a long time ago.”

“And that’s about all the jabber I have time for this afternoon.” Yresk removed a long-handled manure scraper from a prong on the wall. “You just keep your suspicions to yourself from now on. Everyone here knows what he’s supposed to do.”

Though Duncan worked hard and did everything he could to earn his keep, the fact that he had come from the Harkonnens continued to cause him grief. Some of the others working in the stables, not just Yresk, treated him as a barely concealed spy . . . though what Rabban would have wanted with a nine-year-old infiltrator, Duncan couldn’t guess.

Not until now, however, had he felt so affronted by the prejudice. “There’s something wrong with the bulls, sir,” he insisted. “The Duke needs to know about it before his bullfight.”

Yresk laughed at him again. “When I need the advice of a child in my business, I’ll be sure to ask you, young Idaho.” The stablemaster left, and Duncan returned to the stalls to stare at the agitated, ferocious Salusan bulls. They glared back at him with burning, faceted eyes.

Something was terribly wrong. He knew it, but no one would listen to him.