The baron did not take the news about his half-brother at all well.

At the Harko City Spaceport, men were loading his private frigate with the amenities, supplies, and personnel he would need for a trip to Arrakis. In order to keep spice operations running smoothly, he had to spend months at a time on the desert hellhole, squeezing his fist to prevent smugglers and the accursed Fremen from getting out of hand. But, after the damage Abulurd had done years ago, the Baron had turned the most economically important planet in the Imperium back into a huge moneymaker. House profits were increasing steadily.

And now, just when everything seemed to be going his way, he had to deal with this! Abulurd, for all his stupidity, had an incredible knack for doing precisely the wrong thing, every time.

Piter de Vries, sensing his superior’s displeasure, approached with mincing steps, wanting to assist— or to appear to be doing so. But he knew better than to come too close. For years he had survived by avoiding the Baron’s wrath, longer than any of his master’s previous Mentats. In his younger, leaner days, Vladimir Harkonnen had been capable of lashing out like a cobra and striking a person in the larynx to cut off his breathing. But now he had grown so soft, so corpulent, that de Vries could easily slither out of the way.

Simmering, the Baron sat in the Keep’s stone-walled accounting room. His oval blackplaz table looked polished enough to ice-skate on. A huge globe of Arrakis stood in one corner, an art object any noble family would have coveted. But rather than show it off at Landsraad gatherings or blueblood social events, the Baron kept it in his private room, savoring the globe for himself.

“Piter, what am I to do?” He gestured toward a cluster of message cylinders newly arrived via bonded Courier. “The CHOAM Corporation demands an explanation, warning me in none-too-subtle terms that they expect shipments of whale fur to continue from Lankiveil despite the ‘change in rulership.’ ” He snorted. “As if I would decrease our quotas! They remind me that spice production on Arrakis is not the only vital commodity House Harkonnen controls. They’ve threatened to revoke my CHOAM directorship if I fail to meet my obligations.”

With a flick of his wrist he hurled a copper-sheathed message cylinder at the wall. It clanged and clattered, leaving a white nick on the stone.

He picked up a second cylinder. “Emperor Shaddam wants to know why my own half-brother would renounce the Harkonnen name and take the subdistrict governorship for himself.”

Again he hurled the cylinder at the wall. It struck with a louder clink beside the first white mark. He picked up a third. “House Moritani on Grumman offers covert military support in case I wish to take direct action.” The third cylinder struck the wall. “House Richese, House Mutelli— all curious, all laughing behind my back!”

He continued to throw message cylinders until his table was clear. One of the metal tubes rolled toward Piter, and he picked it up. “You didn’t open this one, my Lord.”

“Well, do it for me. It probably says the same as all the others.”

“Of course.” The Mentat used one of his long fingernails to cut the seal on the capsule, and slid the cap off. Bringing out a piece of instroy paper, he scanned it, his tongue darting over his lips. “Ah, from our operative on Caladan.”

The Baron perked up. “Good news, I hope?”

De Vries smiled as he translated the cipher. “Chiara apologizes for her inability to get messages out before this, but she is making progress with the concubine, Kailea Vernius, turning her against the Duke.”

“Well, that’s something anyway.” The Baron rubbed his fat chin. “I would have preferred word of Leto’s assassination. Now that would have been really good news!”

“Chiara likes to do things in her own way, at her own pace.” The instroy message faded, and de Vries balled it up, then tossed it and the cylinder aside. “We aren’t sure how far she’ll go, my Lord, for she has certain . . . standards . . . in royal matters. Spying is one thing; murder is quite another, and she’s the only one we could get past Thufir Hawat’s security.”

“All right, all right.” The two of them had been over this before. The Baron pushed himself up from his seat. “At least we’re throwing a bit of sand in the Duke’s eye.”

“Perhaps we should do more than that to Abulurd?”

Aided by the suspensor system at his waist, the fat man misjudged the strength of his own flabby arms and nearly flew off his feet. Wisely, de Vries said nothing about that, and absorbed data so that he could perform a proper Mentat analysis as soon as his master demanded it.

“Perhaps.” The Baron’s face reddened. “Abulurd’s older brother Marotin was an idiot, you know. Literally, I mean. A drooling, brain-damaged moron who couldn’t even dress himself, though his mother simpered over him, as if Marotin was worth the resources expended to keep him alive.” His jowly face was blotched with pent-up rage.

“Now it seems that Abulurd is just as brain-damaged, but in a more subtle way.” He slammed his flat palm down on the oily blackplaz surface, leaving a handprint that would gradually be broken down by self-cleaning systems in the furniture.

“I didn’t even know his bitch Emmi was pregnant. Now he’s got another son, a sweet little baby— and Abulurd’s robbed the child of his birthright.” The Baron shook his head. “You realize, that boy could be a leader, another Harkonnen heir . . . and his foolish father takes it all away.”

With his master’s frustration building, de Vries took extra care to stay out of reach, on the opposite side of the oval table. “My Lord, as near as I can tell, Abulurd has followed the precise forms of law. According to Landsraad rules he is allowed to request, and receive, a concession that few of us would even have considered. We may not think it wise, but Abulurd was within his rights as part of House Harkonnen—”

“I am House Harkonnen!” the Baron roared. “He doesn’t have any rights unless I say so.” He came around the desk. The Mentat stood frozen, afraid the corpulent man might attack him after all. Instead, he bobbed toward the door of the chamber. “We go to see Rabban.”

They walked through the echoing halls of the blocky Keep to an external armored lift that dropped them from the Keep’s spiked pinnacles down to an enclosed arena. Glossu Rabban worked with the House Guard to prepare for the evening’s scheduled gladiatorial combat, a tradition the Baron had established as a precursor to each of his long journeys to Arrakis.

Inside the arena, silent slaves cleaned the tiers of seats, polishing and sweeping away debris. The Baron’s great contests always drew large crowds, and he used such spectacles to impress guests of other Great Houses. Heavy durasteel doors at the gladiator-pit level remained closed, trapping caged beasts for combat. Hirsute, shirtless workers hosed down the empty pens of slain creatures or slaves, then dusted them with odor-suppressants.

Sweating, though he didn’t appear to be doing any work, Rabban stood in the midst of the men. Wearing a sleeveless jerkin of studded leather, he rested his hands at his waist, pursed thick lips, and glowered at the activity. Other laborers raked the sand of the arena floor, sifting out bone fragments and shattered blades.

Kryubi, captain of the House Guard, directed his soldiers. He decided where to station each armed man to provide an appropriately impressive military presence for the upcoming festivities.

Buoyed by his suspensor belt, the Baron glided down the waterfall of steps, passed through a spiked iron gate, and emerged on the stained arena floor. His feet barely touched the ground, giving his walk a ballet-like grace. Piter de Vries followed him with similar dancing steps.

Kryubi stepped up and saluted. “My Baron,” he said, “everything is prepared. We shall have a spectacular event tonight.”

“As always,” de Vries said, a smile twisting his sapho-stained lips.

“How many beasts do we have?” the Baron asked.

“Two Laza tigers, my Lord, a deka-bear, and one Salusan bull.”

With glittering black eyes the Baron studied the arena and nodded. “I’m weary this evening. I don’t want a long combat. Release the beasts and all five chosen slaves at once. We’ll have a free-for-all.”

Kryubi gave a brisk salute. “As you wish, my Lord.”

The Baron turned to his Mentat. “The blood will fly tonight, Piter. Maybe it will distract me from what I’d like to do to Abulurd.”

“Do you prefer to be merely distracted, my Baron?” the Mentat asked. “Or do you prefer . . . satisfaction? Why not have your revenge on Abulurd?”

A moment of hesitation, then: “Revenge will do quite nicely, Piter. Rabban!”

His nephew turned to see the Baron and his Mentat standing there. On stocky legs, Rabban marched across the arena floor to the two men.

“Did Piter tell you what your fool father has done now?”

Rabban’s expression contorted. “Yes, Uncle. Sometimes I can’t understand how such a clod can get through the day.”

“It’s true that we don’t understand Abulurd,” de Vries said. “But one of the important laws of statecraft suggests that to utterly defeat one’s enemy, one must understand him, learn his weaknesses. Learn where it will hurt the most.”

“Abulurd’s entire brain is his weakness,” the Baron mumbled, his tone dark. “Or maybe just his bleeding heart.”

Rabban chuckled, too loudly.

The Mentat held up one long finger. “Consider this. His infant son, Feyd-Rautha Rabban, is now his greatest vulnerability. Abulurd has taken an extraordinary step in order to— as he puts it—’see that the child is raised in a proper fashion.’ Apparently, this means a great deal to him.”

The Baron looked at his broad-shouldered nephew. “We wouldn’t want Rabban’s little brother turning out like Abulurd, would we?”

Rabban glowered at the possibility.

De Vries continued, his voice as smooth as oiled ice. “And so, what is the most terrible thing we could do to Abulurd under these circumstances? What would cause him the greatest pain and despair?”

A cold smile crossed the Baron’s face. “Brilliant question, Piter. And for that, you shall live another day. Two days, in fact— I feel generous.”

Rabban’s expression remained blank; he still hadn’t caught on. Finally, he began to snigger. “What should we do, Uncle?”

The Baron’s voice became sickly sweet. “Why, we must do everything possible to make sure that your new little brother is ‘raised properly.’ Naturally, knowing the consistently bad decisions your father has made, we cannot in good conscience allow Abulurd Rabban to corrupt this boy.” He looked over at the Mentat. “Therefore, we must raise him ourselves.”

“I shall prepare the documents immediately, my Lord Baron,” de Vries said with a smile.

The Baron shouted for Kryubi to attend them, then turned to his nephew. “Take all the men you need, Rabban. And don’t be too secretive about it. Abulurd must understand full well what he has brought upon himself.”