A beautiful woman confined to a desolate world, Lady Margot Fenring did not complain about the starkness, miserable heat, or lack of amenities in the dusty garrison town. Arrakeen was situated on a hard salt pan, with the inhospitable desert stretching off to the south and higher elevations, including the rugged Shield Wall, rising to the northwest. Since it was a few kilometers beyond the uncertain wormline, the settlement had never been attacked by one of the great sandworms, but this was still a subject of occasional concern. What if something changed? Life on the desert planet was never entirely secure.

Margot thought of the Sisters who had been lost there while working for the Missionaria Protectiva. Long ago, they had gone off into the desert, following the orders of Mother Superior— never to be seen again.

Arrakeen was immersed in the rhythms of the desert . . . the dryness and the premium put on water, the ferocious storms that blew in like great winds across a vast sea, the legends of danger and survival. Margot felt great serenity and spirituality here. It was a haven where she could contemplate nature, philosophy, and religion far from the inane bustle of the Imperial Court. She had time to do things in this place, time to discover herself.

What had those lost women found?

In the lemon glow of dawn, she stood on a second-floor balcony of the Residency. Fine dust and grit filtered the rising sun and gave the landscape a new look, leaving deep shadows where creatures concealed themselves. She watched a desert hawk fly toward the sun-drenched horizon, flapping its wings with slow power. The sunrise was like an oil painting by one of the great masters, a wash of pastels that sharply defined the rooftops of the town and the Shield Wall.

Somewhere out there, in countless sietches nestled in the rocky wasteland, dwelled the elusive Fremen. They had the answers she needed, the essential information Mother Superior Harishka had pressed her to obtain. Had the desert nomads listened to the teachings of the Missionaria Protectiva, or had they simply killed the messengers and stolen their water?

Behind her, the recently completed conservatory had been sealed with an airlock that opened only for her. Count Fenring, still asleep in their bedroom, had helped her to obtain some of the most exotic plants in the Imperium. But they were for her eyes alone.

Lately, she’d heard rumors of a Fremen dream for a green Arrakis— typical Edenic myths of the type often spread by the Missionaria Protectiva. That could have been an indication of the missing Sisters. It was not unusual, however, for a struggling people in a harsh environment to develop their own dreams of paradise, even without Bene Gesserit prompting. It would have been interesting to discuss the stories with Planetologist Kynes, perhaps ask him who the Fremen’s mysterious “Umma” might be. She could not imagine how all this might be connected.

The desert hawk rose on thermals and soared.

Still standing at the balcony window, Margot took a sip of melange tea from a small cup; the soothing glow of its spicy essence filled her mouth. Though she had lived on Arrakis for a dozen years, she consumed spice only in moderation, careful not to become addicted enough that her eye color altered. In the mornings, though, melange enhanced her ability to perceive the natural beauty of Arrakis. She’d heard it said that melange never tasted the same twice, that it was like life, changing each time one partook of it. . . .

Change was an essential concept here, a key to understanding the Fremen. Superficially, Arrakis appeared always the same, a wasteland stretching into the unending distance, and into infinite time. But the desert was so much more than that. Margot’s Fremen housekeeper, the Shadout Mapes, had suggested as much one day. “Arrakis is not what it seems, my Lady.” Tantalizing words.

Some said the Fremen were strange, suspicious, and smelly. Outsiders spoke with a critical eye and sharp tongue, with no compassion or any attempt to understand the indigenous population. Margot, though, viewed the Fremen oddness as intriguing. She wanted to learn about their fiercely independent ways, to understand how they thought, and how they survived here. If she got to know them better, she could perform her job more effectively.

She could learn the answers she needed.

Studying the Fremen who worked in the mansion, Margot recognized barely discernible identifiers in body language, vocal inflection, odor. If the Fremen had anything to say, and if they thought you deserved to hear it, they would tell you. Otherwise, they went about their chores diligently, with heads bowed, disappearing into the tapestry of their society afterward like grains of sand in the desert.

In her search for answers, Margot had considered stating her questions outright, demanding any information about the missing Sisters, hoping the household servants would take her request out into the desert. But she knew the Fremen would simply vanish, refusing to be coerced.

Perhaps she should expose her own vulnerabilities to gain their trust. The Fremen would be shocked at first, then confused . . . and possibly even willing to cooperate with her.

My only duty is to the Sisterhood. I am a loyal Bene Gesserit.

But how to communicate without being obvious, without raising suspicions? She considered writing a note and leaving it in a place where it was sure to be found. The Fremen were always listening, always gathering information in their furtive ways.

No, Margot would have to be subtle, and also treat them with respect. She would have to tantalize them.

Then she remembered an odd practice that came to her through centuries of Other Memory . . . or was it just a bit of trivia she had read while studying on Wallach IX? No matter. On Old Terra, in an honor-based society known as Japan, there had been a tradition of hiring ninja assassins, quiet yet effective, in order to dodge legal entanglements. When a person wished to engage the services of the shadowy killers, he would go to a designated wall, face it, and whisper the name of the target and the fee offered. Though never seen, the ninja were always listening, and a contract was made.

Here in the Residency, the Fremen, too, were always listening.

Margot tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder, loosened her cool slikweave garment, and stepped into the hall outside of her offices. In the immense mansion, even in the cool early morning, people moved about, cleaning, dusting, polishing.

Margot stood in the central atrium and looked up toward the high-arched ceiling. She spoke in a soft, directed voice, knowing that the architecture of the old Residency created a whisper gallery. Some would hear her, in random places. She didn’t know who, nor did she look to identify them.

“The Bene Gesserit Sisters, whom I represent here, hold the utmost respect and admiration for Fremen ways. And I, personally, am interested in your affairs.” She waited for the faint echoes to die away. “If anyone could hear me, perhaps I have information to share about the Lisan al-Gaib— information you do not know at this time.”

The Lisan al-Gaib, or “Voice from the Outer World,” was a Fremen myth concerning a messianic figure, a prophet who bore striking parallels with the Sisterhood’s own plans. Obviously, some prior representative of the Missionaria Protectiva had planted the legend as a precursor to the arrival of the Bene Gesserit’s Kwisatz Haderach. Such preparation had been done on countless worlds in the Imperium; her comments were sure to spark Fremen interest.

She saw a flitting shadow, a drab robe, leathery skin.

Later that day, upon observing the Fremen employees moving about their household tasks, Margot thought they stared at her with a different kind of intensity, assessing her rather than just averting their blue-within-blue eyes.

Now, she began to wait, with the supreme patience of a Bene Gesserit.