Rabban’s slaughter of the fur whales in Tula Fjord was only the first in a chain of disasters to strike Abulurd Harkonnen.

On a sunny day when the ice and snow had begun to thaw after a long, hard winter, a terrible avalanche buried Bifrost Eyrie, the greatest of the mountain retreats built by reclusive Buddislamic monks. It was also the ancestral home of House Rabban.

The snow came down like a white hammer, sweeping away everything in its path. It crushed buildings, buried thousands of religious devotees. Emmi’s father, Onir Rautha-Rabban, sent a plea for help directly to Abulurd’s main lodge.

With knotted stomachs, Abulurd and Emmi took an ornithopter, leading larger transports filled with local volunteers. He piloted with one hand, while clutching her fingers with his other. For a lingering moment, he studied the strong profile of his wife’s wide face, and her long black hair. Though she wasn’t beautiful in any classic sense, he never tired of looking at her, or of being with her.

They traveled along the folded coastline, then deep into the rugged mountain ranges. Many of the isolated retreats had no roads leading to the crags in which they nestled. All raw materials were extracted from the mountains; all supplies and people came via ’thopter.

Four generations ago, a weak House Rabban had surrendered planetary industrial and financial rights to the Harkonnens, on the condition that they be allowed to live in peace. The religious orders built monasteries and focused their energies on scriptures and sutras in an attempt to understand the subtlest nuances of theology. House Harkonnen couldn’t have cared less.

Bifrost Eyrie had been one of the first cities built like a dream of Shangri-La in the backbone ranges. Chiseled stone buildings were situated on cliffs so high that they remained above Lankiveil’s perpetual cloud level. Viewed from meditation balconies, the peaks floated like islands on a sea of white cumulus. The towers and minarets were covered with gold painstakingly extracted from distant mines; every flat wall surface was etched with friezes or intaglios depicting ancient sagas and metaphors for moral choices.

Abulurd and Emmi had been to Bifrost Eyrie many times, to visit her father or just to go on retreats when they needed relaxation. Upon returning to Lankiveil after seven years on dusty Arrakis, he and his wife had required a month at Bifrost Eyrie just to cleanse their minds.

And now an avalanche had nearly destroyed that great monument. Abulurd didn’t know how he could bear to see it.

They sat together tensely as he flew the ornithopter high, holding the vehicle steady in bucking air currents. Since there were few landmarks and no roads, he relied on coordinates for the ’thopter’s navsystems. The craft came over one razorback range and into a glacier-filled bowl, then up a rugged black slope to where the city should have been. The sunlight was dazzling.

With her jasper-brown eyes Emmi looked ahead, counting peaks and orienting herself, before she pointed, still not releasing his hand from her tightening grip. Abulurd recognized a few glittering gold spires, the milky-white stones that held up the magnificent buildings. Fully a third of Bifrost Eyrie had been erased, as if a giant broom of snow had smoothed everything over, obliterating any obstruction, whether cliff or building or praying monk.

The ’thopter landed in what had been the town square, now cleared as a staging area for rescue and salvage parties. The surviving monks and visitors had swarmed out onto the snowfield: The robed figures used makeshift tools and even bare hands to rescue survivors, but mostly to recover frozen bodies.

Abulurd climbed out of the ’thopter and reached up to help his wife down; he was afraid her legs might be shaking as much as his were. Although cold gusts cast ice crystals like gritty sand in their faces, the tears that sprang to Abulurd’s pale eyes were not caused by the wind.

Seeing them arrive, the barrel-chested burgomaster, Onir Rautha-Rabban, came forward. His mouth opened and closed above a bearded chin, but he remained speechless. Finally he just threw his thick arms around his daughter and gave Emmi a long hug. Abulurd embraced his father-in-law.

Bifrost Eyrie had been famed for its architecture, for prismatic crystal windows that reflected rainbows back into the mountain. The people who dwelled there were artisans who crafted precious items sold off-world to affluent, discriminating customers. Most famed of all were the irreplaceable books of delicate calligraphy and illuminated manuscripts of the enormous Orange Catholic Bible. Only the wealthiest Great Houses in the Landsraad could afford a Bible hand-lettered and embellished by the monks of Lankiveil.

Of particular interest had been the singing crystal sculptures, harmonic quartz formations taken from cave grottoes, arranged carefully and tuned to proper wavelengths, so that the resonance of one crystal, when tapped, would set up a vibration in the next, and the next, in a harmonic wave, a music unlike any other in all the Imperium. . . .

“More work crews and transports are on their way,” Abulurd said to Onir Rautha-Rabban. “They’re bringing equipment and emergency supplies.”

“All we can see is grief and tragedy,” Emmi said. “I know it’s too soon for you to think clearly now, Father, but if there’s anything else we can do—”

The square-shouldered man with the gray beard nodded. “Yes, there is, my daughter.” Onir looked Abulurd straight in the eye. “Our tithe to House Harkonnen is due next month. We’d sold enough crystals, tapestries, and calligraphy, and we had the proper amount of solaris set aside. But now—” He gestured to the ruins from the avalanche. “It’s all buried in there somewhere, and what money we have we’ll need in order to pay for . . .”

In the original agreement between Houses Rabban and Harkonnen, all of the religious cities on Lankiveil agreed to pay a specified sum each year. As a result they were free of other obligations and left alone. Abulurd held up his hand. “Not to worry.”

Despite his family’s tradition of harshness, Abulurd had always done his best to live well, to treat others with the respect they deserved. But ever since his son’s whale hunt had ruined the breeding grounds in Tula Fjord, he found himself slipping into a dark, deep hole. Only the love he shared with Emmi maintained him, providing him with strength and optimism.

“You can have all the time you need. What’s important now is to find any survivors, and to help you rebuild.”

Onir Rautha-Rabban looked too devastated even to weep. He stared at the people working on the mountainside. The sun was bright overhead, and the sky a clear blue. The avalanche had painted his world a pristine white, covering the depth of misery it brought.

On Giedi Prime, in the private chamber where he often went to brood with his nephew and his Mentat, Baron Harkonnen reacted to the news with appropriate indignation. In the midst of clutter, he bounced in his suspensor mechanism, while the others sat in chairdogs. A new, mostly ornamental walking stick rested against the chair, close at hand in case he needed to snatch it up and strike someone. This stick featured a Harkonnen griffin on its head, unlike the sandworm head of the one he had thrown off the balcony.

Decorative pillars rose in each corner of the room, squared off in a jumbled architectural style. A dry fountain sat in one corner. There were no windows— the Baron rarely bothered looking at the view anyway— and the polished tile felt cold against his bare feet, which touched the floor like a whisper, thanks to his suspensors. In one corner of the room, a pole bearing the drooping banner of House Harkonnen lay tilted against the wall, tossed there casually and never righted.

The Baron glowered over at Glossu Rabban. “Your father’s showing his soft heart and his soft head again.”

Rabban flinched, afraid he might be sent back to talk sense into Abulurd. He wore a padded sleeveless jacket of maroon leather that left his muscular arms bare. His close-cropped reddish hair had been smashed into a cowlick from the helmet he often wore. “I wish you wouldn’t keep reminding me that he’s my father,” he said, trying to deflect the Baron’s anger.

“For four generations the income stream from Lankiveil’s monasteries has been unbroken. That was our agreement with House Rabban. They always pay. They know the terms. And now, because of a little”— the Baron snorted—“snowfall, they’re going to shirk their tithe? How can Abulurd blithely wave his hands and excuse his subjects from their tax obligations? He is the planetary governor, and he has responsibilities.”

“We can always make the other cities pay more,” Piter de Vries suggested. He twitched as additional possibilities occurred to him. He got up from the chairdog and moved across the chamber toward the Baron; the loose-fitting robe curled around him as he glided with the grace and silence of a vengeful ghost.

“I don’t agree with setting a precedent like this,” the Baron said. “I prefer our finances all neat and tidy— and Lankiveil has managed to remain clean until now.” He reached over to a side table and poured himself a snifter of kirana brandy. He sipped it, hoping the smoky-tasting liquid would burn the ache from his joints. Since being fitted with his belt-mechanism the Baron had gained even more weight from reduced activity. His physical body felt like a burden hanging on his bones.

The Baron’s skin bore an aroma of eucalyptus and cloves from the oils he added to his daily bath. The massage boys had rubbed ointments deep into his skin, but his deteriorating body still felt miserable.

“If we go easy on one city, it’ll lead to an epidemic of manufactured disasters and excuses.” He pursed his generous lips in a pout, and his spider-black eyes flicked over to Rabban.

“I can understand why you’re displeased, Uncle. My father’s a fool.”

De Vries raised a long, bony finger. “If I may make a point, my Baron. Lankiveil is lucrative because of its whale fur trade. Virtually all of our profit comes from that one industry. The few trinkets and souvenirs from these monasteries bring a nice price, yes . . . but overall, the income is insignificant. On general principle, we require them all to pay, but we don’t need them.” The Mentat paused.

“Your point being?”

He raised his bushy eyebrows. “The point being, my Baron, that in this particular instance we can afford to . . . shall we say, make a point of the matter.”

Rabban began to laugh, a booming chuckle similar to his uncle’s. His exile on Lankiveil still rankled.

“House Harkonnen controls the fief of Rabban-Lankiveil,” the Baron said. “With fluctuations in the spice market, we need to ensure our absolute control in every moneymaking enterprise. Perhaps we’ve been lax in watching over my half-brother’s activities. He may feel he can be as lenient as he wishes, and that we’ll ignore him. This sort of thinking needs to stop.”

“What are you going to do, Uncle?” Rabban leaned forward, and his thick-lidded eyes narrowed.

“It’s what you are going to do. I need someone familiar with Lankiveil, and someone who understands the requirements of power.”

Rabban swallowed with anticipation, knowing what was coming.

“You’re going back there,” the Baron ordered. “But this time not in disgrace. This time you have a job to do.”