The Etiquette Advisor from Chusuk took one look around the blocky Harkonnen Keep, and said with a heavy sigh, “I don’t suppose we have time to do any redecorating?”
Piter de Vries ushered the rangy, foppish man into the Hall of Mirrors, where he introduced him to the Baron and Beast Rabban. “Mephistis Cru comes highly recommended from the Chusuk Academy, having trained the daughters and sons of many noble houses.”
Accompanied by an army of distorted reflections in the mirrors, Cru moved as if he were a ballet dancer. His shoulder-length brown hair was frothed into lush curls that draped over a billowing robe (presumably the height of fashion on some distant world). His pantaloons were made of a shimmering fabric etched with subtle floral patterns. Cru’s skin was delicately powdered, and too heavily perfumed for even the Baron’s tastes.
With a gracious bow, the exceedingly proper man paused at the foot of the Baron’s immense chair. “I thank you for your confidence in me, sir.” The man’s voice was like wet silk. Cru’s full lips and even his eyes smiled, as if he imagined the Imperium could be a bright and sparkling place, if only everyone behaved with sufficient decorum. “I’ve read all the commentaries about you, and I agree that you simply must retool your image.”
The Baron, seated in a griffin-footed chair, already regretted listening to the advice of his Mentat. Rabban stood off to one side, glowering. Two-year-old Feyd-Rautha took a few toddling steps and slipped on the polished marble floor. Landing hard on his rump, he began to cry.
Cru inhaled a deep breath. “I believe I am up to the challenge of portraying you as likable and honorable.”
“You’d better be,” Rabban said. “We’ve already sent out the invitations for a banquet.”
The etiquette advisor reacted with alarm. “How much time do we have? You should have consulted with me first.”
“I am not required to confer with you on any decisions I make.” The Baron’s voice was as hard as Arrakis rock.
Instead of being cowed by the dangerous man’s simmering anger, Cru responded pedantically, “There, you see! Your sharp tone of voice, the furious expression on your face.” He jabbed out with a long, pale finger. “Such things are bound to put off your peers.”
“You are not one of his peers,” Rabban growled.
The etiquette advisor continued as if he had not heard the remark. “Far, far better to phrase your response with sincerity and genuine apology. For instance, ‘I’m so sorry I did not have the forethought to look at the problem from your point of view. However, I made the decision that I thought best. Perhaps if we work together, we might come up with a solution that is to our mutual benefit.’ ” Cru extended his soft hands theatrically, as if expecting applause from an audience. “Do you see how much more effective that can be?”
The Harkonnen nobleman did not agree at all, and was about to say so when the Mentat interceded. “My Baron, you agreed that this would be an experiment. You can always revert to your old ways later if this doesn’t work.”
Noting an uncomfortable nod from the fat man, Mephistis Cru began to pace back and forth, preoccupied with plans. “Relax, relax. I’m sure we’ll still have enough time. We’ll do what we can. None of us is perfect.” He looked up at the Harkonnen patriarch and smiled again. “Let us see what a difference we can make, even under these challenging circumstances.”
Inside the tower solarium, the Baron stood supported by his suspensor belt while Mephistis Cru began the first lesson. Smoky afternoon sunlight passed through grease-smudged windows, illuminating the broad floor of what had once been an exercise room, back in the Baron’s lean and healthy days.
The etiquette advisor walked around him, touching the Baron’s sleeves, poking at the black-and-purple fabric lines. “Relax, please.” He frowned at the large, soft bulk. “Form-fitting clothes are not for you, my Lord. I suggest billowing garments, loose robes. A magisterial cape would make you look absolutely… awe-inspiring.”
De Vries stepped forward. “We shall have the tailors create new clothes immediately.”
Next, Mephistis Cru studied the barrel-chested Rabban, with his fur-trimmed leather vest, iron-shod boots and wide belt holding his inkvine whip. Rabban’s rakish hair was tousled. Cru’s face barely covered an expression of dismay, but he forced himself to turn back to the Baron. “Well, let’s concentrate on you first.”
Remembering a detail, the foppish man snapped his fingers at de Vries. “Please acquire the guest list for the banquet. I intend to study backgrounds and develop specific compliments the Baron can use to gain their good graces.”
“Compliments?” Rabban swallowed a guffaw as the Baron glared at him.
One of Cru’s skills seemed to be an ability to ignore insults. He brought out a calibrated stick as long as his forearm and began to mark the Baron’s measurements. “Relax, relax. I am as excited about this banquet as you must be. We will select only the very, very best wines—”
“Not from Caladan,” Rabban interjected, and the Baron agreed.
Cru pressed his lips together for just a moment. “The second-best wines, then. We will commission the finest music and the most exquisite dining these lords have ever experienced. And entertainment, we must decide upon the most personally beneficial form of amusement.”
“We already have a gladiatorial event scheduled,” the Baron said. “It is our tradition here on Giedi Prime.”
The advisor’s expression melted into a look of horror. “Absolutely not, my Baron. I must insist. No gladiatorial contests. Bloodshed will foster entirely the wrong impression. We want the Landsraad to like you.”
Rabban already looked as if he wanted to break Cru over his knee like kindling. De Vries reminded them quietly, “An experiment, my Baron.”
For several uncomfortable hours, the etiquette advisor strutted around the room, rejoicing in the numerous details he had to resolve. He instructed the Baron on how to eat. He demonstrated the proper method for grasping silverware, holding it at the proper level with the elbows off the table. Cru used his measuring stick to rap the Baron’s knuckles whenever he made a mistake.
Later that afternoon in the exercise room, de Vries brought in Feyd-Rautha, who squirmed and fussed. At first, Cru was delighted to see the child. “We must work hard to bring the boy up properly, as befits his station. Refined manners will reflect his noble breeding.”
The Baron scowled, remembering his weakling half brother Abulurd, the child’s father. “We are attempting to overcome the deficiency of Feyd’s breeding.”
Next, Cru insisted on watching the Baron walk. He made the big man go from one end of the solarium to the other, back and forth, studying every dainty suspensor-assisted step, making suggestions. Finally, he tapped a long finger against his lips, pondering. “Not bad. We can work with that.”
Cru turned to Rabban, his face hard like a stern schoolmaster’s. “But you need to learn the basics. We must teach you to walk with grace.” His voice lilted as he spoke. “Glide through life, with each step but a gentle intrusion through the air around you. You must stop lumbering. It is essential not to project the appearance of an oaf.”
Rabban looked ready to explode. The etiquette advisor walked over to a small case he had brought with him. Withdrawing two gelatinous balls, he held them gently in his palms, like soap bubbles. One sphere was red, the other a deep green.
“Stand still, my Lord.” He balanced one ball on each of Rabban’s broad shoulders, where they hovered in precarious equilibrium. “Simple stinkball toys from Chusuk. Children use them for pranks, but they are also highly effective teaching tools. They break very easily— and believe me, you don’t want them to do that.”
With an arrogant sniff, filling his lungs with the perfumes that floated around his clothes, Cru said, “Allow me to demonstrate. Simply walk across the room. Use whatever grace you can manage, but take gentle steps so as not to dislodge the stinkballs.”
The Baron said, “Do what the man suggests, Rabban. It’s an experiment.”
The Beast strode across the floor with his usual plodding gait. He had not crossed half the distance before he dislodged the red sphere, which rolled off and burst on his leather vest. Startled by the movement, he jerked backward and lost the green stinkball, which splattered at his feet. Both spheres exuded brownish-yellow vapors that surrounded him with their foul stench.
The etiquette advisor began to chuckle. “So… my point is well taken?”
Cru didn’t have time to take another breath before Rabban was upon him, locking his viselike grip around the man’s white-skinned throat. He squeezed the windpipe with uncontrolled fury, much as he had strangled his own father.
The foppish man squawked and struggled, but he was no match for the Beast. The Baron allowed the scuffle to go on for a few seconds, but he did not intend to grant the etiquette advisor such a quick and simple death. Finally, de Vries delivered two precise, numbing chops with the side of his hand, stunning Rabban enough that he could pull the choking, rangy man away.
Rabban’s face was purple with anger, and the stink around him made the Baron cough. “Out of here, Nephew!” Feyd-Rautha had begun to cry. “And take your little brother with you.” The Baron shook his head, making his jowls jiggle. “This man is right about you. You are an oaf. I’ll thank you not to appear at the banquet.”
His fists clenching and unclenching, Rabban was clearly incensed, until the Baron added, “I want you to use listening devices to spy on our guests’ conversations. You’ll probably have a more entertaining time than I will.”
Rabban permitted himself a smug smile when he realized he would endure no further miserable etiquette training. He grabbed the child, who was wailing loudly because of the stench around his burly older brother.
The Mentat assisted Mephistis Cru as he picked himself up from the floor, his face mottled, red marks already showing on his slender throat. “I’ll… I’ll see to the menu now, my Lord Baron.” With uncertain steps, in a dazed shock, the half-strangled advisor stumbled out of the solarium through a side door.
The Baron glared at Piter de Vries, causing the Mentat to shrink back. “Patience, my Baron. It’s clear we still have a long way to go.”