The bright and overly decorated passenger lounge of the Wayku mass-transit ship reminded him of the surreal stage of a play, with sets that were too gaudy and colors too bright. An anonymous passenger in mid-class seating, Tyros Reffa sat alone, knowing that his life would never be the same again. The worn furniture, garish signs, and pungent refreshment drinks comforted him in an odd way, a blurring wind of distraction and white noise.

He had traveled far from Zanovar and House Taligari, far from his past.

No one noticed Reffa’s name, no one cared about his destination. From the way his estate had been precisely targeted, from the Imperial spies who had scouted for him, even murderous Shaddam Corrino must believe his bastard half brother had been incinerated on Zanovar.

Why couldn’t he have left me alone?

Reffa tried to block the noise of the ever-present vendors, persistent and sometimes sarcastic people in dark glasses who sold everything from spice candy to curry-fried slig. He could still hear the thrumming, atonal music that overflowed from their earclamp headsets. He ignored them utterly, and after being rebuffed for several hours, the Wayku vendors finally left him alone.

Reffa’s hands were raw and chapped. He had scrubbed them repeatedly with the harshest of soaps, but still he could not get rid of the smells of death and smoke that clung to them, the gritty feel of gruesome soot beneath his fingernails.

He should never have tried to go back home….

Red-eyed and weeping, he had flown his private skimmer over the blistered scar of his estate. He had broken through the restricted recovery zones, bribing officials, outrunning exhausted sentries.

Nothing remained of his beautiful, well-tended home and gardens. Nothing at all.

A few lumps of drooping stone columns, the overturned bowl of a broken fountain, but no sign of his stately manor house or beautiful fern gardens. Faithful Charence had been cremated to powder, leaving only a scarecrowish shadow on the ground, the mark of what once had been a significant human being.

Reffa had landed, stepped out onto the vile-smelling ground and been engulfed in a strangled silence. Charred stones and black glass had crunched under his boots. He bent to scoop up powder with his fingers, as if hoping he might find some hidden message in the ashes. He dug deeper, but found no living blade of grass, not even the smallest insect. Around him the world was achingly quiet, devoid of breeze and birdsong.

Tyros Reffa had never bothered anyone, content with his own pursuits, living a good life. And yet his half brother had tried to assassinate him to eliminate a perceived threat to the throne. Fourteen million people slaughtered in a bungled attempt to kill one man. It seemed impossible, even for such a monster, yet Reffa knew it was true. The Golden Lion Throne was stained with the blood of injustice, reminding Reffa of the grand soliloquy-tragedies he had once performed on Jongleur. The Imperial Palace echoed with the screams of Zanovar.

Standing under the sooty sleet on his ruined land, Reffa howled the Emperor’s name, but his voice dissipated like distant thunder….

And so he booked passage on the next Heighliner from Taligari to Jongleur, where in his youth he had spent happy years. He longed to be back among the student actors, the creative and passionate performers in whose company he had enjoyed peace.

Traveling unobtrusively, using false documents the Docent had long ago arranged for him in case of emergency, Reffa rode the mass-transit ship in silence. Pondering everything he had lost, he heard the ebb and flow of passenger conversations: a soostone gemologist and his wife argued about fracture patterns; four boisterous young men disagreed loudly about a recent watercourse race they had seen on Perrin XIV; a trader laughed with his rival about the humilation someone named Duke Leto Atreides had dealt to Beakkal.

Reffa wished they would all just let him contemplate what he must do. Though he had never been aggressive or violent, the scorched ruin of Zanovar had changed him. He was not experienced at seeking justice. Inside, he was in turmoil with loathing for Shaddam, and felt more than a modicum of self-hatred. I am a Corrino, too. It is in my blood. Heaving a deep sigh, he slumped deeper into his seat, then got up to wash his hands again….

Before the brutal attack, Reffa had researched his family history, going back centuries to when the Corrinos were the model of ethics for the Imperium, to the enlightened reign of Crown Prince Raphael Corrino, as portrayed in the dramatic masterpiece, My Father’s Shadow. Glax Othn had made Reffa into the man he was. Now, though, he had no choice, no past, no identity.

“Law is the ultimate science.” This great concept of justice, first uttered long ago, echoed bitterly in his mind. It was said to be inscribed over the door to the Emperor’s study on Kaitain, but he wondered if Shaddam had ever read it.

In the hands of the throne’s current occupant, Imperial law shifted like quicksand. Reffa knew of mysterious deaths in his family. Shaddam’s older brother Fafnir, Elrood IX himself, and even Reffa’s own mother Shando, who’d been hunted down like an animal on Bela Tegeuse. He could never forget the faces of Charence, either, or the Docent, or the innocent victims of Zanovar.

He intended to rejoin his old acting troupe, under the tutelage of the brilliant taskmaster Holden Wong. But if the Emperor discovered Reffa was still alive, would all of Jongleur be at risk, too? He dared not reveal his secret.

A slight change in the Holtzmann hum told Reffa that the Heighliner had emerged from foldspace. Before long, a female Wayku voice announced their arrival and reminded passengers to purchase souvenirs.

From five overhead storage compartments, Reffa removed all of his remaining possessions. Everything. He’d had to pay dearly for the extra space, but he didn’t trust direct shipment of the special items he had purchased before leaving Taligari.

Followed by a bobbing train of suspensor cases, he made his way toward the exit. Even as passengers waited in line for the descent shuttle, Wayku vendors kept trying to sell them trinkets, though without much success.

When Reffa stepped into the spaceport terminal on Jongleur, his dark mood lifted. The large facility was crowded with people full of good cheer and smiles. The atmosphere was refreshing.

He prayed he had not put another precious world at risk.

Looking around at families and friends greeting the passengers, he saw no sign of Master Holden Wong, who had promised to meet him here. Reffa’s old troupe must have had a performance scheduled for that evening, and Wong always insisted on supervising everything himself. Living entirely in his world of acting, the master paid little attention to current events, probably didn’t even know about the attack on Zanovar. He seemed to have forgotten to meet his guest at the dock.

No matter, Reffa knew his own way around the city. A dock adjoined the spaceport, from which a sampan water taxi carried passengers into Ichan City across a broad river dappled with a carpet of lavender algae. As the boat puttered across the slow current, Reffa stood on the deck, filling his lungs with refreshing, moist air. So different from the sour smoke and char of Zanovar.

Ahead, seen through a thin river fog, Ichan City was a jumble of ramshackle buildings and modern high-rises, crowded with rickshaws and pedestrians. From the cabin below, he heard laughter and the music of a string quartet— baliset, rebec, violin, and rebaba.

The water taxi slowed, and reversed its engines as it docked. Reffa followed other passengers onto the old city pier, a sturdy wooden structure whose planked surface was scattered with fish scales, crushed shells, and strawlike crustacean legs. Amidst seafood stands and pastry shops, merry troupes of storytellers worked alongside musicians and jugglers, providing samples of their talents and passing out invitations to evening performances.

Reffa watched a mime playing the part of a bearded god rising from the sea. Catching his eye, the mime moved closer, making oddly contorted expressions with his pasty white face. His painted grin spread even wider. “Hello, Tyros. I came to greet you after all.”

Reffa recovered and said, “Holden Wong, when a mime speaks, does he impart wisdom— or reveal his folly?”

“Well said, my good friend.” Wong had attained the rank of Supreme Thespian, highest of all Master Jongleurs. With protruberant cheekbones, slitted eyes, and a wispy beard, he was over eighty years old, but moved like a much younger man. He had no inkling of Reffa’s parentage, or of the sudden and spiteful price placed on his head by Shaddam.

The old troupe leader put an arm around Reffa’s shoulder, leaving white greasepaint marks on his clothing. “Will you attend our performance this evening? Catch up on what you have been missing all these years?”

“That, and I hope to find a place in your troupe again, Master.”

Wong’s deep brown eyes danced. “Ah, to have a talented actor again! For comedy? Romance?”

“I, for one, would prefer tragedy and drama. My heart is too heavy for comedy or romance.”

“Ah, I am certain we shall find something for you.” Wong patted Reffa on the head, this time jokingly leaving white greasepaint in his dyed black hair. “I am pleased to have you back among the Jongleurs, Tyros.”

Reffa grew more serious. “I have heard you are planning a new production of My Father’s Shadow.”

“Quite so! I am just now scheduling the rehearsals for an important performance. We have not completed the casting yet, though we leave for Kaitain in a few weeks to entertain the Emperor himself!” The mime seemed delighted with his good fortune.

Reffa’s eyes became intense. “I would give my soul to play the part of Raphael Corrino.”

The Master Jongleur studied the younger man and detected deep fire in him. “Another actor has been selected— though he doesn’t have the spark the role requires. Yes, you just might be better.”

“I feel I was… born to play him.” Reffa drew a deep breath, but he covered the smoldering expression with the skill of a master actor. “Shaddam IV has provided me with all the inspiration I need.”