After he recovered from the inkvine beating, Gurney Halleck worked for two months with a sluggish sense of inner dread, worse than he had ever experienced in the slave pits. An ugly scar ran along the side of his jaw, thrashing lines that throbbed a beet-red color and continued to hurt. Though the actual wound had healed, the toxic residue still pulsed with neural fire, as if an intermittent lightning bolt lay buried within his cheek and jaw.

But that was only pain. Gurney could endure that. Physical injuries meant very little to him anymore; they had become part of his existence.

He was more frightened by the fact that he had been punished so minimally after he’d attacked Glossu Rabban. The burly Harkonnen had whipped him, and the guards had beaten him afterward so that he’d needed three days in the infirmary . . . but he had experienced much worse for only minor infractions. What did they really have in mind?

He remembered the dull gleam of calculated cruelty in Rabban’s close-set eyes. “Check the records. Find out where he came from. And if he has any family left alive.” Gurney feared the worst.

With the other slaves he wandered through the days mechanically, hunched over with a growing anticipation and horror in the pit of his stomach. He worked alternately on the cliffs of Mount Ebony and in the obsidian-processing vats. Cargo ships landed near the garrison and the slave pits, hauling away containers filled with glowing, sharp-edged volcanic glass to be distributed by House Hagal.

One day a pair of guards unceremoniously hauled him from the vats. He dripped with dark suspension fluids. Half-clad, splattering oily liquid on the uniformed guards, Gurney stumbled out into the open square where Glossu Rabban had inspected the prisoners, where Gurney had attacked him.

Now he saw a low platform on the ground, and in front of it, a single chair. No chains, no shigawire bindings . . . just the chair. The sight struck terror into his heart. He had no idea what might be in store for him.

Guards shoved him into the chair, then stepped away. A doctor from the prison infirmary stood at attention nearby, and a group of Harkonnen soldiers marched into the square. The other slaves continued working in the pits and tanks, so Gurney knew the impending event was personal . . . a spectacle arranged only for him.

That made it infinitely worse.

The more Gurney showed his agitation, the more pleasure the guards took in refusing to answer him. So he fell silent, as the thick processing liquid dried into a crackling film on his skin.

The familiar doctor stepped up, holding a small yellow vial with a tiny needle at one end. Gurney had seen those yellow vials in the infirmary, stored in a transparent case, but he’d never had occasion to receive one. The doctor slapped the pointed end against the prisoner’s neck as if he were crushing a wasp. Gurney jerked up, throat clenched, muscles straining.

Warm numbness spread like hot oil through his body. His arms and legs grew leaden. He twitched a few times, then couldn’t move at all. He couldn’t turn his neck, couldn’t grimace, couldn’t blink or even move his eyes.

The doctor shifted the chair and twisted Gurney’s head as if positioning a mannequin, forcing him to stare at the low platform in front of him. Gurney suddenly realized what it was.

A stage. And he would be compelled to watch something.

From one of the outbuildings Glossu Rabban emerged, fully dressed in his finest uniform and accompanied by the work supervisor, who also wore a dark, clean uniform. The scrawny, potbellied man had eschewed his nostril filters for the occasion.

Rabban stepped in front of Gurney, who wanted nothing more than to leap to his feet and throttle the man. But he couldn’t move. The paralysis drug held him like a vise, so he simply put as much hatred into his eyes as he could manage.

“Prisoner,” Rabban said, his thick lips wearing an obscene smile. “Gurney Halleck of the village Dmitri. After you attacked me, we took the trouble to find your family. We’ve heard from Captain Kryubi about the obnoxious little songs you were singing in the tavern. Even though no one had seen you in the village for years, they never thought to report your disappearance. A few of them, before they died under torture, said that they assumed we’d taken you away in the night. The fools.”

Gurney felt panicked now, with fluttering dark wings in his mind. He wanted to demand answers about his tired and unambitious parents . . . but he feared Rabban would tell him anyway. He could barely breathe. His chest muscles spasmed, fighting the paralysis. As his blood boiled and his rage grew, he was unable to draw in more breath. His head began to buzz from lack of oxygen.

“Then all the pieces fell into place. We learned about how your sister had been assigned to the pleasure houses . . . and you just couldn’t accept the natural order of things.” Rabban shrugged his broad shoulders; his fingers strayed meaningfully to his inkvine whip, but did not pull it free. “Everyone else knows his place on Giedi Prime, but you don’t seem to know yours. So we’ve decided to provide a reminder, just for you.”

He gave a theatrically heavy sigh that emphasized his disappointment. “Unfortunately, my troops were a bit too . . . enthusiastic . . . when they asked your parents to join us here. I’m afraid your mother and father did not survive the encounter. However . . .”

Rabban raised one hand, and the guards hurried to the supply shack. Out of his field of view, Gurney heard a scuffle and then a woman’s wordless cry, but he could not turn to see. He knew it was Bheth.

For a moment his heart skipped a beat just to know she was still alive. He’d thought the Harkonnens might have killed her after his capture in the pleasure house. But now he knew in his soul that they’d only been saving her for something much worse.

They dragged her, thrashing and struggling, onto the wooden platform. She wore only a baggy, torn shirt. Her flaxen hair was long and wild, her eyes wide with fear, and even more so once she caught sight of her brother. Again, he saw the white scar on her throat. They had stolen Bheth’s ability to sing or to talk . . . and had destroyed her ability to smile.

Their gazes locked. Bheth couldn’t speak. Paralyzed, Gurney could not say anything to her, or even flinch.

“Your sister knows her place,” Rabban said. “In fact, she served us rather well. I checked through the records to come up with an exact number. This little girl has provided pleasure to 4,620 of our troops.” Rabban patted Bheth on the shoulder. She tried to bite him. He clenched his fingers and tore off the shift she wore.

The guards forced her naked onto the platform— and Gurney couldn’t move. He wanted to shut his eyes, but the paralysis prevented him. Though he understood what she had been forced to do for the past six years, seeing her nakedness again offended and appalled him. Her body was bruised, her skin a patchwork of dark colors and thin scars.

“Not many women at our pleasure houses last as long as she has,” Rabban said. “This one has a strong will to live, but her time is at an end. If she could speak, she’d tell us how very happy she is to give this one last service to House Harkonnen— providing a lesson to you.”

Gurney strained with all of his might, trying to force his muscles to move. His heart pounded, and heat pulsed through his body. But he could not so much as wiggle a finger.

The work supervisor went first. He opened his robes, and Gurney had no recourse but to watch as the potbellied man raped Bheth on the stage. Then came five of the other guards, performing at Rabban’s command. The broad-shouldered brute observed Gurney as much as he observed the spectacle on the stage. Inside his mind, Gurney flew into a rage, then wished fervently to be allowed to retreat, to call down black sleep upon himself. But he didn’t have that option.

Rabban himself went last, taking the greatest pleasure. He was forceful and brutal, though by then Bheth had been abused nearly into unconsciousness. As he finished, Rabban locked his hands around Bheth’s neck, around the white scar. She struggled again, but Rabban twisted her head, forcing her to look over at her brother as he squeezed his hands around her throat. He thrust once more inside her, viciously, and then the muscles in his arms went tense. He squeezed harder, and Bheth’s eyes bulged.

Gurney had no choice but to watch as she died in front of him. . . .

Doubly satisfied, Rabban stood, stepped back, and redressed himself in his uniform. He smiled at both of his victims. “Leave her body here,” he said. “How long will her brother’s paralysis last?”

The doctor approached quickly, unmoved by what he had just seen. “Another hour or two at that small dosage. Any more of the kirar would have put him into a hibernation trance, and you didn’t want that.”

Rabban shook his head. “Let’s leave him here to stare at her until he can move again. I want him to consider the error of his ways.”

Laughing, Rabban departed and the guards followed. Gurney remained alone in the chair, completely unshackled. He could not cease staring at the motionless form of Bheth sprawled on the platform. Blood trickled from her mouth.

But even the paralysis that gripped Gurney’s body could not prevent the tears that spilled from his eyes.