For four years, Gurney Halleck uncovered no clues about his sister’s whereabouts, but he never abandoned hope.

His parents refused to speak Bheth’s name anymore. In their quiet, colorless evenings they continued to study the Orange Catholic Bible, reassuring themselves by finding quotes that affirmed their lot in life. . . .

Gurney was left alone with his grief.

On the night of his beating, with no help from the Dmitri villagers, his parents had finally dragged Gurney’s broken and bruised body back inside the prefab dwelling. They owned few medical supplies, but a hardscrabble life had taught them the rudiments of first aid. His mother put him on the bed and nursed him as best she could, while his father stood by the curtains, sullenly waiting for the Harkonnens to return.

Now, four years later, the scars from that night gave Gurney a rougher profile than he’d had before; his ruddy face carried an unsettled look. When he moved, he felt sharp aches deep in his bones. As soon as he was able, he’d crawled out of bed and gone back to work. Doing his share. The villagers accepted his presence without comment, not even showing how relieved they were to have his assistance to help fill their quotas.

Gurney Halleck knew he no longer belonged with them.

He no longer took pleasure in his evenings down at the tavern, so he remained at home. After months of painstaking effort, Gurney managed to reassemble his baliset enough to make music, though its range was more limited and the tone remained distorted. Captain Kryubi’s words had burned into his brain, but he refused to stop composing his songs or singing them in his own room, where other people could pretend not to hear them. The bitter satire had dried from his lyrics, however; now the songs were focused on remembrances of Bheth.

His parents were so pale and washed-out that he couldn’t call to mind an image of them, though they sat in the next room. Yet even after so many years, he still recalled every line of his sister’s face, every graceful nuance of her gestures, her flaxen hair, her expressions, her gentle smile.

He planted more flowers outside, tending the calla lilies and daisies. He wanted to keep the plants alive, to keep Bheth’s memory clear and bright. As he worked, he hummed her favorite songs— and it felt as if she were there with him. He even imagined that they might be thinking of each other at the same time.

If she was still alive. . . .

Late one night, Gurney heard movement outside his window, saw a shadowy shape creeping through the darkness. He thought he was dreaming until he heard a louder rustle, a sharp intake of breath. He sat up quickly, heard something scurry away.

A flower lay on his windowsill, a fresh-cut calla lily like a totem, a clear message. Its creamy bowl of petals held down a scrap of paper.

Gurney grabbed the lily, outraged that someone would taunt him with Bheth’s favorite flower. But as he smelled the heady scent of the blossom, he scanned the note. It was half a page long, written in rushed yet feminine handwriting. He read it so quickly he gathered only the gist of the message.

The first few words were: “Tell Mother and Father I am alive!”

Clutching the scrap, Gurney flung himself over the sill of the open window and sprinted barefoot through the dirt streets. He glanced from side to side until he saw a shadow dart between two buildings. The figure hurried on its way to the main road, which led to a transit substation and then on into Harko City.

Gurney did not call out. That would only make the stranger put on speed. He bounded along with a rolling gait, ignoring twinges of pain in his patchwork-healed body. Bheth was still alive! His feet scraped on the rough, dry ground.

The stranger left the village behind, striking out for the fringe fields; Gurney guessed he had a small private vehicle parked out by the crop patches. When the man turned and saw the vague silhouette sprinting toward him, he bolted.

Already panting, Gurney rushed forward. “Wait! I just want to talk to you.”

The man didn’t stop. In the moonlight, he saw booted feet and relatively nice clothes . . . not a farmer by any means. Gurney had lived a hard life that kept his body tuned like a clock spring, and he quickly closed the distance. The stranger stumbled on the uneven ground, giving Gurney just enough time to bend over and ram into him like a charging D-wolf taking down prey.

The man sprawled in the dust. He scrambled up again, lurching off into the fields, but Gurney tackled him. They rolled over the edge into a two-meter-deep trench where the villagers had planted stunted krall tubers.

Gurney grabbed the front of the man’s fine shirt and shoved him up into a half-sitting position against the dirt wall of the trench. Rocks, gravel, and dust pattered all around them.

“Who are you? Have you seen my sister? Is she all right?” Gurney shone his chrono-light on the man’s face. Pale, widely set eyes, darting around. Smooth features.

The man spat dirt from his teeth and tried to struggle. His hair was neatly cut. His clothes were far more expensive than anything Gurney had ever seen.

“Where is she?” Gurney pressed his face close and held out the note as if it were accusatory evidence. “Where did this come from? What did she say to you? How did you know about the lily?”

The man sniffled, then pulled one of his arms free to rub a sore ankle. “I . . . I am the Harkonnen census taker for this district. I travel from village to village. It’s my job to account for all the people who serve the Baron.” He swallowed hard.

Gurney tightened his hold on the shirt.

“I see many people. I—” He coughed nervously. “I saw your sister. She was in a pleasure house near one of the military garrisons. She paid me money she’d managed to scrape together over the years.”

Gurney took deep breaths, focused on every word.

“I told her my rounds would take me to Dmitri village. She gave me all her solaris and wrote that note. She told me what to do, and I did it.” He slapped Gurney’s hand away and sat up indignantly. “Why did you attack me? I brought you news of your sister.”

Gurney growled at him. “I want to know more. How can I find her?”

The man shook his head. “She only paid me to smuggle this note out. I did it at great risk to my life— and now you’re going to get me caught. I can’t do anything more for you, or for her.”

Gurney’s hands moved up to the man’s throat. “Yes, you can. Tell me which pleasure house, which military garrison. Would you rather risk the Harkonnens finding out . . . or have me kill you now?” He squeezed the man’s larynx for good measure. “Tell me!”

In four years, this was the first word Gurney had received, and he couldn’t let the opportunity slip away. But Bheth was alive. His heart swelled with the knowledge.

The census taker retched. “A garrison over by Mount Ebony and Lake Vladimir. The Harkonnens have slave pits and obsidian mines nearby. Soldiers keep watch over the prisoners. The pleasure house . . .” He swallowed hard, afraid to reveal the information. “The pleasure house serves all the soldiers. Your sister works there.”

Trembling, Gurney tried to think how he might get across the continent. He possessed little knowledge of geography, but he could discover more. He stared up at the shadowy moon as it dipped behind the smoky clouds, already developing an ill-conceived plan to free Bheth.

Gurney nodded and let his hands fall to his sides. The census taker scrambled out of the trench and ran across the fields in a limping, cockeyed gait from his twisted ankle, kicking up dust and dirt. He headed toward a shelter of scrub brush, where he must have left a vehicle.

Numb and exhausted, Gurney slumped against the trench wall. He drew a deep breath, tasted determination. He didn’t care that the man escaped.

At long last, he had a clue to his sister’s whereabouts.