The Harkonnen banquet was more extravagant than any previously staged on Giedi Prime. After surviving the severe tutoring of Mephistis Cru, the Baron didn’t know if he ever wanted to undergo such an ordeal again.

“This will change how you are perceived in the Landsraad, my Baron,” Piter de Vries reminded him in a soothing, reasonable voice. “Remember how Leto Atreides is revered, how they applaud him for his drastic action on Beakkal. Use it to your advantage.”

Upon combing through the names on the list, the etiquette advisor had been horrified to see that blood-rivals had been invited from Grumman and Ecaz. It would be like a sonic grenade waiting for the pulse of its primer. After discussion and outright argument, the Baron finally agreed to drop Archduke Armand Ecaz from the invitations, and de Vries scuttled about to make the changes, so that the banquet could proceed without problems.

The Mentat still worried that he would be executed at the conclusion of the festivities. Noting the man’s obvious unease, the Baron smiled to himself. He liked to keep people off-balance, fearing for their positions and their very lives.

The evening’s carefully selected guests were ferried down from orbit by a Harkonnen shuttle. Resplendent in billowing clothes that concealed both his girth and his suspensor belt, the Baron stood under the ornamental portcullis of his Keep. Gleaming in the smoky orange dusk of Harko City, the sharp iron spikes of the gate hung like dragon fangs, poised to chomp down on visitors.

As noble guests emerged from the suspensor-borne transportation barge, the Baron smiled graciously and welcomed each of them with rehearsed, exceedingly polite phrases. When he thanked them personally for coming, several men regarded him with suspicion, as if he were speaking a foreign language.

The Baron had been forced to allow the representatives an armed bodyguard, one for each nobleman. Mephistis Cru had been loath to make the concession, but the nobles had refused to come otherwise. The fact was, they simply did not trust the Harkonnens.

Even now, as the distinguished visitors stood together inside the ebony-walled reception foyer, they spoke with careful words, curious about what House Harkonnen truly wanted of them.

“Welcome, welcome, my esteemed guests.” The Baron raised his ring-studded hands. “Our families have been associated for generations, yet few of us can call each other friends. I mean to add a bit more civility to interactions among the Landsraad Houses.” He smiled, feeling as if his lips might break, knowing that many of these people would probably have cheered if Duke Leto Atreides had said the same thing. All around, he noted furrowed brows, lips pinched into frowns, eyes filled with questions.

Cru had written the remarks for him, and the words clawed at the Baron’s throat. “I see this news is surprising to you, but I promise— on my honor,” he continued quickly before anyone could snicker at that comment, “that I intend to ask nothing of you. I only wish to share an evening of joy and fellowship so that you might return home with a better opinion of House Harkonnen.”

Old Count Ilban Richese raised his hands and applauded. His blue eyes sparkled with delight. “Hear, hear, Baron Harkonnen! I heartily endorse your sentiments. I knew you had a soft spot in you.”

Stiffly, the Baron nodded his appreciation, though he had always considered Ilban Richese to be a vapid man who focused on unimportant matters, such as the inane hobbies of his grown children. As a consequence, House Richese had not adequately exploited the decline of House Vernius and the Ixian industrial empire. Still, an ally was an ally.

Luckily for House Richese, their Premier, Ein Calimar, was quite competent enough to keep the technological facilities busy even in times of adversity. The thought of Calimar made the Baron scowl, though. The two of them had conducted business on several occasions, but lately the bespectacled politician did little more than nag him about money House Harkonnen supposedly owed for the services of the Suk doctor Wellington Yueh— money the Baron never intended to pay.

“Peace and fellowship… such a pleasant sentiment, Baron,” added Viscount Hundro Moritani, his thick mane of black hair swirling around his head, his eyebrows heavy, his eyes dark and intent. “Not something any of us expected from House Harkonnen.”

The Baron tried to maintain his smile. “Well, I’m turning over a new leaf.”

The Viscount always added an unsettling edge to his comments, as if a rabid dog were chained to his soul. Hundro Moritani had a habit of leading the Grumman people on fanatical, often ill-advised, strikes, flouting the rules of the Imperium and lashing out at anyone who dared challenge him. The Baron might have considered him an ally if Grumman’s actions weren’t so annoyingly unpredictable.

A redheaded master of arms, wearing the impressive formal badge of a trained graduate of Ginaz, stood next to the Viscount. The other nobles had brought along muscular bodyguards, but Hundro Moritani seemed much more impressed to bring his own pet Swordmaster. Hiih Resser had been the only Grumman trainee to complete the full schooling on Ginaz. The redhead looked uneasy, though, clinging to duty like a lifeline.

The Baron considered the advantages. House Harkonnen had no devoted Swordmaster. He wondered if he should send a few of his own candidates to Ginaz….

Gliding on his suspensors, taking gentle steps, he led his guests through the main levels of the Keep. The coarse facility had been decorated with bouquets of sweetly pungent off-world flowers, since available Giedi Prime floral arrangements were “disappointing,” according to the etiquette advisor. As a consequence, the Baron could scarcely breathe in his own halls.

The big man gestured, wearing the flowing sleeves of a gentleman of leisure. He led the way into the reception hall, where servants carried trays of drinks in Balut crystal goblets. On a low platform, three music masters from Chusuk (friends of Mephistis Cru) played sprightly background melodies on fine balisets. The Baron flitted among the guests, joining in dull conversations with them, maintaining the illusion of civility.

And hating every moment of it.

After a few drinks laced with melange, the guests gradually relaxed and began chatting about CHOAM Directorships, animal harvests on backwater planets, or loathsome Spacing Guild tariffs and regulations. The Baron consumed two snifters of kirana brandy, double the limit Cru had attempted to impose on him, but he didn’t care. These proceedings were interminable. The smile was hurting his face.

The moment dinner was announced, the Baron guided the diners into the banquet hall, eager to move on from this endless, inane conversation. Count Richese chattered incessantly about his children and grandchildren, as if anyone could keep track of them all. He seemed to hold no grudge against House Harkonnen for superseding them in spice operations on Arrakis decades ago. The noble nincompoop had lost much wealth through his incompetence and wasn’t even bothered by it.

The guests took their designated seats after bodyguards had checked for booby traps. The banquet table was a plateau of darkly polished elacca wood shimmering with islands of fine porcelain and floating clusters of wine goblets. The display of food was breathtaking, the smells mouthwatering.

Beatific boys with milky skin stood behind the chairs, a designated attendant for every invited guest. The Baron had chosen these servants himself, street urchins drugged into submission and then cleaned up.

The immense host moved to a wide, customized chair at the head of the table and summoned the first course of appetizers. He had placed chronometers all around the banquet hall so he could watch every second tick by. He couldn’t wait for it to be over….

Inside the listening alcove, Rabban eavesdropped on party conversations. He had been swiveling the parabolic microphone from one blathering mouth to another, hoping to discover embarrassing gossip, accidentally divulged secrets. The sheer dullness made him want to vomit.

Everyone was on guard, careful with their words. He learned nothing at all. Rabban was frustrated. “This is even more boring than actually participating,” he snapped at the Mentat, who fidgeted beside him, studying the listening devices.

Lowering his eyebrows, de Vries scowled at him. “As a Mentat, I have no choice but to memorize every single tedious moment, every line, while your simple brain will forget it all within a few days.”

“I’m counting my blessings,” Rabban said with a smirk.

On the high-resolution monitors, they watched the main course being served. Rabban’s thick-lipped mouth watered, knowing he’d receive only leftovers… but if that was the price of being excused from this chattering aviary of strutting birds, he would gladly suffer it. Even eating cold food was preferable to civility.

Behind the scenes, yet still a busybody attending to a thousand details, Mephistis Cru scampered into the spy alcove, thinking it was a dinnerware storage room. He stopped, startled to encounter Rabban and de Vries. Swallowing hard, Cru touched his neck unconsciously where thick layers of powder masked the heavy bruises from Rabban’s recent stranglehold.

“Oh, excuse me,” he said, finding his composure. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He nodded at de Vries, whom he erroneously considered an ally. “The banquet is proceeding quite nicely, I believe. The Baron is doing a fine job.”

Beast Rabban growled, and Mephistis Cru scurried out.

De Vries and Rabban resumed their listening duties, wishing for something to happen before the night was completely wasted.

“What a lovely child!” Count Richese gushed upon seeing Feyd-Rautha. The fair-haired boy knew plenty of words and already understood how to get what he wanted. The Count extended his arms. “May I hold him?”

At the Baron’s nod, a servant brought Feyd-Rautha to the old Richesian, who bounced him on his grandfatherly knee. Feyd didn’t giggle, which surprised Ilban.

The Count then lifted his wineglass, while supporting Feyd with one arm. “I propose a toast to children.” The guests drank to this. Grumbling to himself, the Baron wondered if Feyd might need his diaper changed, and if the old fool would be quite so happy to perform those menial duties.

At that moment, Feyd burbled a stream of nonsense words, which the Baron understood were names for his own excrement. Ilban, however, didn’t know that and simply smiled and repeated the words back to the boy. He bounced Feyd again and exclaimed in a childish voice, “Look, little one! They’re bringing dessert now. You like that, don’t you?”

The Baron leaned forward, pleased that the meal was about to conclude, and because he had planned this part of the banquet himself, making his own decisions without listening to the guidance of the etiquette advisor. It was, he thought, a very clever idea that the guests might find amusing.

Carrying a platform large enough to hold a human body, six servants brought in a two-meter-long cake, which they placed in the middle of the table. The concoction was curved and narrow, shaped like a sandworm and decorated with powdered swirls of potent melange.

“This confection symbolizes Harkonnen holdings on Arrakis. Celebrate with me our decades of profitable work in the desert.” The Baron beamed, and Count Richese applauded with all the others, though even he must not have missed the insult directed toward his family’s earlier failures.

The frosting seemed to shimmer, and the Baron waited for the delightful surprise inside.

“There, look at the cake, little one!” Ilban placed Feyd on the table in front of him— an action that no doubt would have horrified Mephistis Cru.

One of the chef’s assistants used a wire-knife to slice open the length of the sweet sandworm, as if he were performing an autopsy. The banquet guests crowded around to get better views, and Count Richese leaned Feyd forward.

When the cake was opened, shapes squirmed inside, long writhing forms, serpentine creatures meant to represent the sandworms of Arrakis. The harmless snakes had been drugged and stuffed inside the cake so that as they roiled and squirmed out of the frosting, they looked like a nest of tentacles. A wonderful little joke.

Feyd seemed fascinated, but Count Richese choked on a scream. The tension of the night and the guests’ suspicions about the Baron had placed everyone on edge. The Count, trying to be a hero, yanked Feyd-Rautha roughly away from the table, overturning his own chair in the process.

Feyd, who had not been afraid of the snakes, was now startled into a fit of bawling. As he wailed, bodyguards grabbed their lords and prepared to defend them.

On the other side of the table from the toddler, Viscount Moritani stood back, his black eyes glittering with an odd mixture of mirth and fury. Swordmaster Hiih Resser stood ready to protect his lord, but Moritani seemed unconcerned. The Viscount coolly adjusted a bracelet on his wrist, causing a white-hot beam from a covert lasgun to vaporize the snakes, detonating them into shreds of scaly flesh, chunks of meat, and blackened frosting.

Guests screamed. Most rushed for the doors of the banquet hall. Mephistis Cru scampered in from a back room, waving his hands and pleading for calm.

From that point on, the pandemonium only grew worse.