Count Hasimir Fenring stood on an outside deck of his Residency at Arrakeen, grasping the rail and gazing out at the weathered buildings of the city. Exiled again. Though he retained his official title as Imperial Spice Minister, he wanted to be anyplace but here.

On the other hand, it was good to be away from the turmoil on Kaitain.

In the dirty streets, the day’s last few water-sellers strode past open doorways, dressed in colorful traditional garb. Their pans and dippers clanged, bells at their waists jingled, and their high voices rose in the familiar, haunting cry of “Soo-soo sooook!” In the heat of late afternoon, merchants closed their shops and sealed the doors, so they could drink spice coffee in the cool shadows, surrounded by colorful interior hangings.

Fenring watched a cloud of dust kicked up by a groundtruck that rolled into the city, filled with labeled spice containers for transfer to off-world Guild ships. All of the records would pass through the Spice Minister’s offices, but he had no intention of scrutinizing them. For the foreseeable future, the Baron Harkonnen would be so unsettled by his near brush with disaster that he would not dare tamper with the official accounting.

The Count’s willowy wife Margot approached, giving him a comforting smile. She wore a cool, diaphanous gown that wrapped around her skin like an amorous ghost. “It is quite a change from Kaitain.” Margot stroked his hair, and he shivered with desire for her. “But this is still a palace of our own. I do not resent being here with you, my love.”

He ran his fingers along the spiderweb sleeve of her gown. “Hmmm, indeed. In fact, I believe it is safer for us to separate ourselves from the Emperor at this time.”

“Perhaps. For all of the mistakes he has made, I doubt one scapegoat will be sufficient.”

“Hmmm, Shaddam does not grovel well.”

She took Fenring by the arm and led him back inside and down the vaulted hallway. Diligent Fremen housekeepers, silent as usual, went about their duties circumspectly, averting their blue-within-blue eyes. The Count sniffed as he watched them move from task to task, like mobile secrets.

The Count and Lady Fenring paused at a statuette purchased in a town market, a robed faceless figure. The artist had been Fremen. Thoughtfully, Fenring lifted the piece from its stand and studied the creased, smothering garments of a desert man, captured so well by the sculptor.

She gave him a calculating look. “House Corrino still needs your help.”

“But will Shaddam listen, hmmm-ah?” Fenring replaced the statuette on the table.

They walked to the door of the wet-plant conservatory he had built for her. Reaching forward, she activated the palm-lock and stepped back as it glowed, unsealing the door. The humid smell of mulch and vegetation wafted out, filling Fenring’s nostrils. It was an odor he rather liked, since it was so different from the arid desolation of this world.

He sighed. Things could be a lot worse for him. And for the Emperor. “Shaddam, our Corrino lion, needs to lick his wounds for a while, and reflect on the mistakes he has made. One day, hmmm, he will learn to value me.”

They stepped in among the tall, broad-leafed plants and drooping vines, under diffused light from glowglobes hovering near the ceiling. At that moment, mist nozzles turned on like hissing serpents; they floated on suspensors from plant to plant. Moisture sprayed Fenring’s face, but he didn’t mind. He inhaled a long, deep breath.

Count Fenring found a crimson hibiscus blossom, a bright stain of bloodred petals clinging to a vine, and on impulse plucked it for her. Lady Margot sniffed the perfume.

“We will make a paradise wherever we are,” she said. “Even here on Arrakis.”