The years had been unkind to Baron Vladimir Harkonnen.

In a rage, he swiped his wormhead walking stick across the counter in his therapy room. Jars of ointments, salves, pills, and hypo-injectors crashed to the tile floor. “Nothing works!” Each day, he felt worse, looked more revolting. In the mirror he saw a puffy, red-faced caricature of his Adonis-self, hardly recognizable as the person he had once been.

“I look like a tumor, not a man.”

With darting movements, Piter de Vries stepped into the room, ready to offer assistance. The Baron struck at him with the heavy cane, but the Mentat sidestepped the blow with the grace of a cobra.

“Get out of my sight, Piter.” The Baron reeled, trying to catch his balance. “Or this time I really will think of a way to kill you.”

“Whatever my Baron wishes,” de Vries said in a too-silken voice. He bowed and retreated to the door.

The Baron held affection for few people, but he appreciated the devious workings of the twisted Mentat’s mind, his convoluted plans, his long-term thinking . . . regardless of his obnoxious familiarity and lack of respect.

“Wait, Piter. I need your Mentat brain.” He lumbered forward, leaning on the walking stick. “It’s the same old question. Find out why my body is degenerating, or I will dispatch you to the deepest slave pit.”

The whip-thin man waited for the Baron to catch up with him. “I shall do my best, Baron. I know full well what happened to all of your doctors.”

“Incompetents,” he growled. “None of them knew anything.”

Formerly healthy and full of tremendous energy, the Baron suffered from a debilitating disease whose manifestations disgusted and frightened him. He had gained an enormous amount of weight. Exercise did not help, nor did medical scans or even exploratory surgeries. For years he had tried every healing procedure and bizarre experimental treatment— all to no avail.

For their failures, a score of House doctors had received torturous deaths at the hands of Piter de Vries, often through imaginative application of their own instruments. As a result, no high-level medical practitioners remained on Giedi Prime— or at least none were visible; those who had not been executed had gone into hiding or fled to other worlds.

More annoyingly, servants had begun disappearing, too— and not always because the Baron had ordered them killed. They had fled outside the Castle Keep into Harko City, vanishing into the ranks of uncounted and unheeded laborers. As he ventured out into the streets accompanied by his guard captain Kryubi, the Baron found himself constantly looking for people who even resembled the servants who had abandoned him. Wherever he went, he left a trail of bodies. The killings brought him little pleasure, though; he would rather have had an answer.

De Vries accompanied the Baron as he hobbled into the corridor; his walking stick clicked along the floor. Soon, the big man thought, he would have to wear a suspensor mechanism to remove the burden from his aching joints.

A team of workmen froze as the two approached. The Baron noted that they were repairing wall damage he had caused in a rage the day before. Each of them bowed as the Baron clicked past and breathed audible sighs of relief when they saw him disappear around a corner.

When he and de Vries reached a cerulean-curtained drawing room, the Baron lowered himself onto a black sligskin settee. “Sit beside me, Piter.” The Mentat’s inky eyes darted around, like those of a trapped animal, but the Baron snorted with impatience. “I probably won’t kill you today, provided you give me good advice.”

The Mentat maintained his casual demeanor, revealing none of his private thoughts. “Advising you is the sole purpose of my existence, my Baron.” He remained aloof, even arrogant, because he knew it would be far too costly for House Harkonnen to replace him, though the Bene Tleilax could always grow another Mentat from the same genetic stock. In fact, they probably already had replacements, just waiting.

The Baron drummed his fingers on the arm of the settee. “True enough, but you don’t always give the advice I need.” Looking closely at de Vries, he added, “You are a very ugly man, Piter. Even with my disease, I’m still prettier than you.”

The Mentat’s salamander tongue darted over lips stained crimson by sapho juice. “But my sweet Baron, you always liked to look at me.”

The Baron’s face hardened, and he leaned close to the tall, thin man. “Enough relying on amateurs. I want you to obtain a Suk doctor for me.”

Surprised, de Vries drew a quick breath. “But you have insisted that we maintain complete secrecy about the nature of your condition. A Suk must report all activities to his Inner Circle— and send them the bulk of his fee.”

Vladimir Harkonnen had led members of the Landsraad to believe he’d grown corpulent through his own excesses— which was an acceptable reason to him, one that did not imply weakness. And, given the Baron’s tastes, it was a lie easy to believe. He did not wish to become a pitiable laughingstock among the other nobles. A great Baron should not suffer from a simple, embarrassing disease.

“Just find a way to do it. Don’t go through regular channels. If a Suk can cure me, then I’ll have nothing to hide.”

Several days later, Piter de Vries learned that a talented if somewhat narcissistic Suk doctor had been stationed on Richese, an ally of the Harkonnens. The wheels in the Mentat’s mind began to turn. In the past, House Richese had aided Harkonnen-inspired plots, including the assassination of Duke Paulus Atreides in the bullring, but the allies often disagreed on priorities. For this most sensitive of all matters, de Vries invited the Richesian Premier, Ein Calimar, to visit the Baron’s Keep on Giedi Prime, to discuss “a mutually profitable enterprise.”

An older, meticulously dressed man who retained his youthful athleticism, Calimar had dark skin and a wide nose with wire-rimmed eyeglasses perched on it. He arrived at the Harko City Spaceport wearing a white suit with gold lapels. Four guards in blue Harkonnen livery escorted him into the Baron’s private quarters.

Once he stepped inside the private chambers, the Premier’s nose twitched at an odor, which did not escape his host’s bemused notice. The nude body of a young boy hung in a closet only two meters away; the Baron had intentionally left the door open a crack. The corpse’s putrid odor mixed and interlocked with older ones that had permeated the rooms to such a degree that even strong perfumes did not conceal them.

“Please sit.” The Baron pointed to a couch where faint bloodstains could still be seen. He had prepared this entire meeting with subliminal threats and unpleasantness, just to set the Richesian leader on edge.

Calimar hesitated— a moment that delighted the Baron— then accepted the seat, but declined an offer of kirana brandy, though his host took a snifter for himself. The Baron slumped into a bobbing suspensor chair. Behind him stood his fidgety personal Mentat, who stated why House Harkonnen had requested the meeting.

Surprised, Calimar shook his head. “You wish to rent my Suk doctor?” His nose continued to twitch, and his gaze searched the room for a source of the odor, settling on the closet door. He adjusted his golden spectacles. “I’m sorry, but I am unable to comply. A personal Suk physician is a responsibility and an obligation . . . not to mention an enormous expense.”

The Baron pouted. “I have tried other doctors, and I would prefer to keep this matter private. I cannot simply advertise for one of the arrogant professionals. Your Suk doctor, though, would be bound by his oath of confidentiality, and no one needs to know he left your service for a brief period.” He heard the whining tone in his own voice. “Come, come, where is your compassion?”

Calimar looked away from the dark closet. “Compassion? An interesting comment from you, Baron. Your House hasn’t bothered to help us with our problem, despite our entreaties over the last five years.”

The Baron leaned forward. His wormhead walking stick lay across his lap, its tip filled with serpent-venom darts pointed toward the white-suited man. Tempting, so tempting. “Perhaps we could come to an understanding.” He looked questioningly at his Mentat for an explanation.

De Vries said, “In a word, he means money, my Baron. The Richesian economy is floundering.”

“As our ambassador has explained repeatedly to your emissaries,” Calimar added. “Since my House lost control of the spice operations on Arrakis— you replaced us, don’t forget— we have attempted to rebuild our economic foundation.” The Premier held his chin high, pretending that he still had some pride left. “Initially, the downfall of Ix was a boon to us, removing competition. However, our finances remain somewhat . . . strained.”

The Baron’s spider-black eyes flashed, relishing Calimar’s embarrassment. House Richese, manufacturers of exotic weaponry and complex machines, experts in miniaturization and Richesian mirrors, had made initial market-share gains against rival Ixian companies during the upheavals on Ix.

“Five years ago the Tleilaxu began shipping Ixian products again,” de Vries said with cold logic. “You are already losing whatever gains you made in the past ten years. Sales of Richesian products have fallen off severely with the renewed availability of Ixian technology.”

Calimar kept his voice steady. “So you see, we must have resources to enhance our efforts and invest in new facilities.”

“Richese, Tleilax, Ix . . . we try not to interfere in squabbles between other Houses.” The Baron sighed. “I wish there could just be peace throughout the Landsraad.”

Anger seeped into the Premier’s features. “This is more than a squabble, Baron. This is about survival. Many of my agents are missing on Ix and presumed dead. It disgusts me even to consider what the Tleilaxu may use their body parts for.” He adjusted his spectacles; perspiration glistened on his forehead. “Besides, the Bene Tleilax are not a House of any sort. The Landsraad would never accept them.”

“A mere technicality.”

“We arrive at an impasse then,” Calimar announced, making as if to rise. He looked once more at the ominous closet door. “I did not believe you’d be willing to meet our stiff price, regardless of how excellent our Suk doctor is.”

“Wait, wait—” The Baron held up a hand. “Trade agreements and military pacts are one thing. Friendship is another. You and your House have been our loyal ally in the past. Perhaps I didn’t fully understand the scope of your problem before.”

Calimar tilted his head back, gazed down the bridge of his nose at the Baron. “The scope of our problem consists of many zeros and no decimal points.”

Set in folds of fat, his black eyes took on a crafty gaze. “If you send me your Suk doctor, Premier, we shall rethink the situation. I’m sure you will be most pleased to hear the financial details of our offer. Consider it a down payment.”

Calimar refused to move. “I would like to hear the offer now, please.”

Seeing the stony expression on the Premier’s face, the Baron nodded. “Piter, tell him our proposal.”

De Vries quoted a high price for the rental of the Suk, payable in melange. No matter how much this Suk doctor cost, House Harkonnen could squeeze out the extra income by liquidating some of their hidden, illegal spice stockpiles, or by tightening production on Arrakis.

Calimar pretended to consider the offer, but the Baron knew the man had no choice but to accept. “The Suk will be sent to you immediately. This doctor, Wellington Yueh, has been working on cyborg studies, developing a machine-human interface to restore lost limbs through artificial means, an alternative to having the Tleilaxu grow replacements in their axlotl tanks.”

“ ‘Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of a human mind,’ ” de Vries quoted— the primary commandment arising out of the Butlerian Jihad.

Calimar stiffened. “Our patent lawyers have gone over this in detail, and there is no violation whatsoever.”

“Well, I don’t care what his specialty is,” the Baron said impatiently. “All Suk doctors have broad reservoirs of knowledge upon which they can draw. You understand that this must be kept in strict confidence?”

“That is not a matter of concern. The Suk Inner Circle has held embarrassing medical information on every family in the Landsraad for generations. You need not worry.”

“I am more worried that your people will talk. Do I have your promise that you will not divulge any details of our bargain? It could prove just as embarrassing to you.” The Baron’s dark eyes seemed to sink deeper into his puffy face.

A stiff nod from the Premier. “I am pleased to be of assistance, Baron. I have had the rare privilege of closely observing this Dr. Yueh. Allow me to assure you that he is most impressive indeed.”