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Chapter Text

Dawn bloomed slowly. Sonya was perched on a boulder among a few gnarled oaks on the clifftop, listening to the boom and hiss of the waves hurling themselves against the rocks. Salt spray misted cold and clean in her lungs. The sun crept over the horizon, warming the clear sky and scattering shards of gold across the waters. A flock of gulls cackled joyously and flew out over the sea.

About a kilometer south, back along the rocky trail, there lay on the next promontory the flowing, elegant lines of Castle Caladan. Ordered and neat as a fortress should be. Balanced with curves, echoing the movement of waves breaking on the sand. A certain unity was obvious. It showed as much love and care to the soldier’s barracks and servant’s quarters as in the Duke’s own mighty hall. It shone hauntingly gilded and perfect in the early light.

From his seat on the rock next to her, Gurney sighed. “Damn the Emperor’s eyes.”

Sonya nodded. “I know. How is it I’m already missing this place and I haven’t even left yet?”

Soon the Duke, his Lady, and their son would be leading the final wave of Atreides household to Arrakis to assume responsibility of their new fief. Leaving all this splendor behind, with none of them likely to ever set eyes on Caladan again.

She’d been safe here. Always. No matter where she had been or where she was going next, she could count on finding peace and rest in this place.

Even as a small child on Giedi Prime it had been a good place, somewhere to go in her head. Clearing tables of spilled food and wine in Alma’s cafeteria, practicing the invisibility of a servant, and overhearing the grumblings of Harkonnen foot-soldiers. They sneered at the soft world of their Atreides enemies, the sentimentality of poetry and balisets and centuries-old orchards. Surely those Atreides must be weak, to waste time and energy on such things when there was industry to drive and blood to spill. Then the broken, pathetic laughter the soldiers gave before roaring for another round. Thugs drinking to forget that they crouched in the midst of their cheap, miserable, hole of a city. In the midst of a dark, maltreated, hole of a world.

But Sonya knew, never having seen it and only knowing it from a glitching filmbook Dror had scavenged, that Caladan was the place of safety. Her mother pointed to the flickering picture of a lighthouse by a fishing village, at the unruly wave that broke and reformed jerkily around a winking beacon. A tiny light in the abyss, something to strive for.

Is it a real place? she’d asked her mother one day. Never having seen a lake, or a river, or even a decent pond, it had seemed to her like something out of the imagination. 

As real my love for you, Sonya.

Damn it. She took a deep breath and scrubbed a few rogue tears from her eyes. Gurney made no comment, just gave her the space to gather herself. When she could see clearly again he said, “It’s in here though.” He tapped his chest, over the heart. “Nothing can take that away.”

She nodded, and swallowed.

“Tell me something good about this new world,” he asked. “About Arrakis.”

 “I’ve never been there—”

He made an impatient growl in his throat. “But you’ve read all about it. You can imagine it, can’t you?” He waited for her answer.

Sonya closed her eyes. Thought of filmbooks, ecosystem analyses, meteorological reports, cultural dissertations. And she talked of the raw beauty of the coriolis storms. How the spice sand must glitter in the morning heat shimmer. Shadows and twinned moonlight over the hollowed rocks. Worms the size of freight trains churning the dunes.

For Gurney’s sake, she even tried a song. The Fremen language she had learned on Ix, a useful study of Chakobsa influences. But song is different from language. Still, there’d been one filmbook with a song that kept flowing through her mind:

            Moons rise full and soft

            Shadows turn and turn again

            Where is the well-dipper? She has fallen

            Where is the cave of dreams? It is lost

            They are calling, they are calling

            They are waiting, they are waiting…

Something haunting, something longing. Almost a lament. It suited her mezzo-soprano range, strong low tones drawn out and searching. And yet there was golden thread woven through the stanzas, firm in the refrain. Something like hope. The last few notes floated in the air.

“Not bad,” he said, his lip betraying a smile. “See? Ahead of us are all kinds of new things to also grow homesick for.”

She chuckled. “I suppose you’re right.”

He sighed, drumming his fingers on his knee. “And I don’t suppose I can convince you to keep your voice in training?”

She gave him a sideward glare. “No.”

He nodded, sighing. It was an old argument.

Below a slight figure was winding its way up the trail. She lapsed into silence, watching. As it drew closer details coalesced. A slender young man with a simple woolen cloak about his shoulders, a pale and delicate face, and dark-waved hair shifting in the wind.

“He’s grown some since you were last here,” commented Gurney.

“Somewhat,” she agreed. She could tell he hadn’t quite struck that sprinting growth that tumbles through a teenaged year or two. Judging by his parents, the boy would never be very tall or broad anyway. “And yet…” There was more of a change than that. Something different about his upright posture as he paused on the trail. Seeming to trace the flight of a sea eagle as it hovered on a thermal. A sort of thoughtfulness that did not seem child-like or teenager-like. But deep and pensive. She realized it was familiar. “He stands like his father.”

Gurney mulled that over. “There was a Bene Gesserit here two days ago. An old witch, the Emperor’s own Truthsayer. Something must have happened, but neither he nor the Lady will say anything about it. He’s been like this ever since.”

She considered. The boy was…extraordinary. They all knew that, instinctively. A discerning mind, a quick fighter, an honorable countenance. All the things expected and hoped for in a Duke’s son. But then the Lady Jessica had given him something else. Something more. In the parlance of an old fisherman, Sonya might even say it was something ‘uncanny’. The timing of the Truthsayer’s visit was interesting—perhaps even suspicious—but really it could only have been a matter of time before the Bene Gesserit came snooping.

The heir turned to look at them, in the sure way that said that he’d known that they were there from the beginning.

A stentorian shout erupted from beside her, making her flinch. “Backs to doors!”

Below, Paul Atreides gave a regal nod, tilted just so to make it dry and perhaps a bit mocking. He looked back over the sea, and then retraced his steps down the trail.

“He’s still a young pup,” Gurney grumbled.

Not for much longer, she thought. Aloud she said, “You’ve taught him well. When the time comes he’ll know what to do.”

Off to the south, the morning ‘thopter from Cala City made its approach to the general landing platform. She estimated an hour before it was debarked, refueled, and primed to go back.

The Warmaster saw it, too. “You ready?”

She shrugged. “As much as I can be.” Her bag was already packed and Hawat’s mountain of code cylinders with it.

“Better get a move on, then.” They stood and together began their trek back to the Castle grounds. “Oh, Idaho said to tell you. If the dandy gives you any trouble he expects you to send the severed ears back to him. And that if you finally decide to give the dandy some trouble, he’ll send you a whole case of Dara gin.”

She laughed. “Naturally.” If Duncan were in front of her, she would have threatened to shove him off the cliff. Instead he was on the other side of the universe by now and she missed him sorely. “Well when you see him, tell him I hope he enjoys drinking his own filtered piss and scrubbing his ass with sand. Because it’s exactly what he deserves. And…take care. Both of you.”

The red line on his jaw twitched. “Take care? Aye lass, we will. Take care, take cover, take heart. You do the same.”

----

Later, on Kaitain, she sat in Lord Laskaris’ office with the intelligence chief Blake reviewing the communiques. It was an arduous task requiring a few hours and several cups of coffee.

The ambassador finally looked up from the last page. “It says here that Thufir briefed you on this…last contingency.”

She nodded. “Erinys Protocol. Correct.”

Laskaris read it again, frowning even deeper. “This—I know intelligence work must consider every possibility. I’ve been on Kaitain a long time. I’ve seen lords who thought they were walking among angels get thrown down quicker than a courtesan could wink. But this—” he waved the paper— “seems fatalistic even to me.” He laughed nervously. “One step more and we’d be preparing for the Empire’s immolation by supernova.”

Hawat had warned her about this. That the detail and resources he’d invested in the Protocol might read as if there was no hope left. Word would get out, fester, and poison morale. She would need to tell Laskaris and Blake—she could not avoid it—but assurances would have to be made. Or else the weight of such a future would crush them all. She opened her mouth only to be interrupted by Blake.

“We know Thufir,” he said dryly. He did not glance her way, only addressed Laskaris as the old friend he was. “I know he has a plan for if there’s a supernova. And protocols ready for everything else. I don’t think he expects us to get there.” He gestured at the stack of code cylinders. “But I think the precautions suggested by Erinys are sound. Moving to Arrakis, it’s a major transition. For awhile it will be a guerilla war with whatever Harkonnen suicide troops are left behind. Our teams here will need to be ready to move there, or even attack weak points on Giedi Prime or Lankiveil. A few teams would benefit by having the ability and resources to work more independently, both on current missions and many possible future ones. Erinys will help us with that. That’s what it’s for.”

The lord rapped his fingers, thinking. Then he sighed. “Very well. I will leave the particulars to you and Jacamar then, Blake. Now, as to the Harkonnen raids…”

Later, in Blake’s office, they plotted out budgets, safehouses, and chains of command. All the details that fascinated her and bored most field agents to tears. Finally they had sorted things to general satisfaction. But she did want to know one thing.

"Blake, about Erinys—”

"That’s the most sugar I’ve seen you add to your coffee,” he interrupted. He looked sternly through the lens of his silver-rimmed spectacles. “Which is why I figured it would be best if I were the one to smooth things over. You’re a lot of things Jacamar, but comforting isn’t one of them.”

Sonya sat back in her chair and drained her mug. With a clunk it was set down on the desktop. She wasn’t a good enough liar to fool Blake, nor did she want to try. “No,” she said finally. “I suppose I’m not. What do you need to know?”

Blake smiled ruefully. “Nothing. I know enough. That the whole of House Atreides is sailing closer to the wind. But then, when have we not? We’ll plan accordingly. And if it comes to Erinys…” His eyes were bright behind glass. “What does Thufir say? That old phrase, old as the dust?”

She knew what he meant. Hawat said it often. “Una salus victis.”

“Exactly. Exactly. Now, does he have any plans for you? Any priorities?”

Three words still echoed in her head. But she shook them off. “I’ve got two. First, the spice hoard.”

They knew it existed. Tantalizing clues in stolen ledgers and decoded comm chatter. Follow the money, find their holdings. It might be the leverage point they needed. Expose it, perhaps gain enough standing to dissuade the Emperor from supporting Harkonnen. Destroy it, and they put a hole in the Harkonnen ability to wage war. Military transport fees with the Spacing Guild alone could bankrupt such an effort before it even started. Either way, there were opportunities there to undermine the Baron’s position.

Blake nodded. “Karras’s team has been involved with most of that.” He began drafting an order. “I’ll put them at your disposal, for this project and for the cells dictated for Erinys. Brief them that the cell will be preparations for guerrilla warfare, for now. Have them memorize the safehouse positions, underground prep, all of that. But hold off on the mission details. At least until I say.” He signed and sealed it for her to distribute.

She resumed, “Second, to keep an eye on the Corrinos. Whatever we can safely gather as to involvement with Harkonnen. Observe but do not interfere.”

He grimaced. “Yes. I’m afraid it’s already begun. Ardas has gone missing. I set a team on it but the trail’s gone cold.”

Their highest-placed mole in the Palace. Yes, that certainly was telling. “I’ll see to it.”

“Very well then,” he said, straightening the piles of papers on his desk. “In that case, good hunting.”

Chapter Text

“Now that we aren’t otherwise busy, care to tell me what spurred this call at my door?”

Raúl was nudged out of his hazy, euphoric study of the ceiling’s midnight blue sky and its constellations of stars. It contrasted with the reality, which was afternoon light streaming in through hall window. “Does one need a reason to visit a friend?”

Nenna chuckled dryly. “When the visiting occurs multiple times and devours the block I set aside for writing this afternoon, it certainly does.” She slid out of bed and her magnificent curves disappeared under a silk robe.

A lurking shred of self-doubt peered up out its grave, and he did not quite gather the presence of mind to quietly hit it with a shovel. “I’m not…I’m not imposing, am I?”

She turned back to him with a serious eye. “Raúl, I wouldn’t have let you in if you were.” She smiled, and her fingers deftly tied up her dark, curly hair. “In fact, today you happened to be an opportune distraction. I’ve been honing my arguments for the debate with Takani all morning. I needed a break, some clarity, and preferably some exercise. I’d say you ably assisted in all three arenas. Now stop dodging my question.”

He sat up and allowed the parade of recent annoyances flash through his head. “Jacinda’s got her campaign going, and I’m along for the ride whether I like it or not. Had breakfast with the Bendau family today…the girl Serena is determined I’ll give her that. And then there’s the Wallach dinner tonight. And the Alman recital tomorrow evening. God almighty, if Mireia weren’t also in the thick of it I’d be ready to sabotage the whole thing with something very public and very unsuitable.”

Nenna furrowed her brow. “The Rejanis will be at the Alman recital, won’t they? And Lucasta, too?”

He made a noise and began gathering his scattered clothing. Certainly the afterglow had been neatly defenestrated.

“I don’t suppose you’ll finally agree to sit down and talk with her?” She said to his back. “It’s been what, almost four months since she arrived in Corinth? Really, you’ll feel a lot better if you just get it over with.”

“Nenna—” he warned. Where the hell were his pants?

“Yes?”

He stifled a sigh and turned around. The woman was smirking, pants in hand. In his most aggrieved tone he asked, “May I have those?”

She passed them over, then ambushed him with a hug and peck on the cheek. “You’re still my seventh favorite person, you know that right?”

He had to smile at the old joke. “Yeah, yeah.”

She walked out, hips effortlessly swaying in the way that had made rich men bleed their savings and Houses Major shuck their honor. “Get cleaned up,” she shot over her shoulder, “I’ll get us some tea.”

It was a work of minutes to shower, towel off, and redress. He took a seat in Nenna’s parlor and she poured him a glass of chilled tea.

He’d remembered something. “Wasn’t I your sixth favorite person?”

She laughed. “Raúl, be grateful you’re going down the list, not up. My top four are dead philosophers and I’m always looking for more dead people to join them.”

His pocket chirped. He fished out his communicator. There was a new message from the contact listed as Cheops Tutor. The history was full of very short messages. Usually a time, to which he already knew the location. The new message read: 3pm.

She must be back on planet. Hopefully with a long list of schemes and operations. He got the sense that all the prep work of Harkonnen surveillance and contact mapping in the past few months was coming to a head. She could try to keep him out of it, but one way or another he wanted in on the action. Any action. Hell, he’d take sitting behind an Ixian speaker three blocks away from a target if he had to.

It was just after 2pm now. If he hurried he could make it. He should have the time before needing to prep for the Wallach dinner. If he was lucky she’d have something new and dangerous to get his mind off Season madness.

“It’s her, isn’t it? Your ‘office jockey’, as Gabe would say.”

“Yes.” He scowled. The smugness radiating off Nenna was insufferable. Part of her charm, really. “How’d you know?”

She shrugged. “If I told you, you’d stop doing it. Duty calls, I assume?”

He was draining the glass to save himself from having to respond.

“Well do bring her by sometime. I’m a little offended that Gabe and Zarae got to meet her first. You’re not afraid I’ll tell her about the time you forgot the name of the Butlerian Jihad? Called it, what, ‘The Time The Stupid Machines Got Uppity’?"

“Nenna—”

“You going to argue with me or go see her?” she teased. “Go on, move along dumbass! I’ve got work to do.”

----

“So you’re back from Caladan? All going well with the preparations I suppose?” Delambre drawled.

Sonya did not look up or answer, only moved her king-side bishop to the third-level. She was trying to decide how much to say. The Ardas problem. She’d reviewed all the available data from all their available sources. And yet it had yielded surprisingly little. Apparently all the spies in Atreides could not discover where he’d gone.

Delambre made a disapproving noise in his throat. “Come on Jacamar, out with it. I can practically hear your gears grinding. You going to tell me what’s bothering you do I have to guess?”

“How much of this gets back to Tygath?” she asked.

“By intention? Very little. But he likely has me under surveillance from time to time. I know how to look for it but…he’s the one who taught me how to look for it. So he probably knows more you’d like. I suppose you could set up a cone of silence.” He moved a rook.

He didn’t seem to register that she was questioning his trustworthiness. But then, why would he? They’d worked together for months, enough time for them to lose track of how many times one had gotten the other out of a tight spot. If she read him right, loyalty was his nature.

So, though she shouldn’t trust him or anyone else, she did anyway. And as such it gave her fits of uneasiness. Hawat would surely be appalled. Duncan would have a good many comments. Most of them suggestive but not very helpful.  

She sighed. “Wouldn’t work. I know the sightlines here, sweep it for devices. Ranged listening would be extremely difficult, which leaves bugging personal effects or clothing. A cone wouldn’t solve that.”

Delambre shrugged. “Well, if that’s the only barrier here.” He started unbuttoning his shirt.

“What—” A split second, enough time for her eye to automatically follow the line of his throat, sweep of collarbone and well-toned chest. She groaned and facepalmed herself. “Seriously?”

He laughed, and his hands dropped back to the tabletop. “Prude.”

I’m not though, she thought, or at least not much. But this is goddamn distracting. “Idiot. You think I could be, practically growing up in a brothel?” Her attention switched back to the board. Impatiently, “Move already, will you?”

One of his pawns sallied forth, blindly charging into the melee. “Well, are you going to tell me or leave me to wallow in my vast ignorance?”

Sonya grunted and shifted her queen down a level. What choice did she have? “One of our contacts went dark. He missed the last two check-ins and hasn’t been seen in the last five days.”

“Hmmm. He’s not been sucked into the Season, like I have?”

“No.”

“Do I know him?”

“I doubt it. He’s more in the University circles.”

“I’m not smart enough? Ouch. Then how might I be of service, O Omniscient One?”

“I need an introduction to Nenna Silverbren.”

Raúl paused, his hand hovering over a knight. “Mind telling me who this person is, first?”

“This—this isn’t Rejani or Harkonnen work. The fewer people who know about it, the better.”

Well that doesn’t sound good, he thought. “But Nenna would be fine?”

“There’s risk. But she’d have a lot less risk and is a lot less likely to draw attention. I’ll make sure she knows what she’d be getting into.” The mentat tilted her head in consideration. “Unless you think she can’t be trusted with—”

“I’d trust her with my life,” he stated, matter-of-fact. It was not something he said lightly.

Jacamar nodded. “All right then…” She gestured for him to move again. “Then what’s the holdup?”

“Nothing, nothing.” He set down the knight, thinking that when next he saw Nenna somehow he was going to witness a whole new level of smugness. “Tomorrow then. She has a debate scheduled in the morning, best to catch her right after.”

“Not before? Tonight even?”

He waved it off. “I know, missing persons are time-sensitive. But she’s refining now. Trust me, she’ll be much more inclined to help after the debate. Keep looking with your own sources in the meantime.” He gave her the details for the meeting, which she as usual had no need to write down.

She drummed her fingers on the table, studying the cheops board. Raúl could see he was once again at her mercy, his king in check and Jacamar poised to move her queen to the apex. Her gaze flicked up again. “On the Harkonnen missions, I’m still working on the details. I should have something actionable soon.”

“Oh.” He pushed down a spike of disappointment. Still, he could wait. What else did he have to do? “Well, then I shall wait with baited breath.”

More silence. At this time in the afternoon the summer sun was lazing slowly down the sky. Even here in the shade of the cypresses it was a warm day, barely stirred by a breeze. He wondered how long he could sit here before someone would come track him down and slap a uniform on him for the next charade.

“How’s your family?”

He hid a smile. The mentat had gotten marginally better at the niceties, but it still came out as stiff and graceless to the ear. But he appreciated the effort. It was forgivable because, unlike most polite conversation amongst courtiers, she did actually ask in order to listen to the answer. He told her they were well. Vidal had gone back to Ardea, and Jacinda was still busy lining up candidates left and right. Mireia bore it well enough. Together mother and daughter were terrorizing the unmarried male peerage with unassailable charm and near-diabolical tactics. God help them all.

“Ah,” remarked Jacamar, “so they’re having a grand old time then?”

He grunted. “Never doubt it.”

“What about you?” She waved vaguely at him, brow creased. “You seem…daunted?”

Raúl chuckled darkly. “Hardly. Just…” He hunted for the right word. “…tired, I suppose. I’m too old for this brand of bullshit.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’ll trade you. My matchmakers for your Harkonnens.”

The woman snorted. “Not a chance.” She clacked the queen into place, ending the game with a glance at her watch. “Time for one more game, I should think.”

He smirked and reset the board. “Ever think of letting me win? Just once?”

“It wouldn’t be real if I let you,” she chided. “And you wouldn’t want it if I did.” She steepled her fingers and eyed him across the board. “But you’re improving. Keep at it.”

Chapter Text

Privately, Sonya doubted that Ardas would ever be seen again. This was Kaitain, in the seat of Corrino power. It was always the risk of a spy, especially in the Imperial household. When your enemy holds all the keys and guards all the doors, was it so hard for people to disappear?

She tried not to think on that. They each had a job to do. Hers was to find Ardas if she could, but also a mountain of other things. Back in her office that evening she ran calculations, began preparations, and arranged for the help of Karras’ team. Since their discovery of the spice laundering at Forwin’s warehouse and the close call with the street gang, Rejani and private security had trebled in that district. It’d made surveillance exceptionally difficult. But the listening device she’d planted in Forwin’s office had given them info on a last shipment of ‘coffee’ to depart on tomorrow’s Guild heighliner bound for Giedi Prime. It was their best opportunity to set a tracker, something their operatives on the Harkonnen homeworld could follow to the hoard site.

The next morning was combat drills, daily briefings, and final checks on tonight’s operation. In between, there was the Silverbren meeting in the afternoon. She found her way to the University campus. In some ways it reminded her of Ix. The smell of paper and dust and carpets was the same. But the Imperium University was decidedly less…rigid. Would she have spotted a student defacing a lecture poster with a cartoon mustache on Ix? No, not at all.

The moderator was setting the rules and expectations of the debate as she found seat in the back of the university amphitheater. And the duel began.

Takani, the classic old patrician with his dignified bearing. Formidable, insightful, austere in his wording, portraying the wise old backbone of society and tradition. And Silverbren, his opposite. Worldly, ardent, confrontational, wielding a soft-lipped and sharp-toothed humor that chipped away at her opponent’s veneer. As they discussed morals and ethics, students, visitors, and faculty were engaged. What had begun as mutterings had grown into shouts and rallies to the back-and-forth. With the equalizer of sober academic robes, external differences were shunted aside in order to pull apart the ideas. It was spirited, barbed, and merciless.

In the last few minutes, Delambre sidled into a seat behind her. He tried to make himself heard over a chorus of jeers. “Is she winning?”

“This isn’t about winning,” Sonya said. Mentats dealt in absolutes, facts and formulas. But Ix prepared them this, too. Because without the morals, especially mired in uncertainties, what was the point of the calculation? The logic had to be rooted in something deeper. Something you defended. “This is about the fight. It’s about the exchange.” She gestured around them, the whirling, frenzied excitement of the crowd. “They did this.”

That seemed to check him, left him uncharacteristically thoughtful. The moderator called time, congratulations were passed around, and tides of onlookers washed by the orators. After the hubbub died down, there was quiet, amiable chatter between the three on stage, and a parting of ways. Only Silverbren, catching sight of them in the back, lingered.

“Ah you persisted!” she said at their approach, shoving a pile of notes into her case. She was still glowing with the energy of the debate, and her gray eyes danced over Sonya curiously. Delambre began over formal introduction and she laughed heartily, interrupting him. “Enough of that, come let’s eat. I asked Meronie to prepare us a proper luncheon.”

The apartment was sumptuous, a penthouse corner suite overlooking the Park of Emeralds and settled between the university and entertainment districts. The interior was a delicate balance, stylish but comfortable. It reflected a woman who was well-read, discerning in tastes, and unapologetic in her various pursuits. Not bad for someone who started out as the mistress of a grocer tycoon.

“That a new painting?” asked Delambre. He grimaced at a large oil painting hanging in the parlor, a riot of warm colors swirling and heavy on the canvas.

“Isn’t it hideous? I’ll be burning it presently. But there’s something about it that gets me writing. So it can’t be all bad.”

Servants announced readiness in the dining room, and they ate lunch. Conversation bounced between the theatre, university lectures, scandals of the Season, and the movement of business that anticipated the changes on Arrakis.

Finally Silverbren signaled for the table to be cleared. “All right Raúl, scuttle off. I’m sure the lady can survive without your gallant assistance. And I’m sure she has plenty to do without you tagging along all day.”

His gaze flitted between the two women suspiciously. Sonya piped up, “I’ll be fine. I appreciate your help.”

Silverbren laughed. “Move along, dumbass,” she cackled.

He grumbled a little and left.

“So what can I do for you Mistress Jacamar? You don’t seem the type who does social visits.”

“Not so much,” she allowed. “I’m looking for an acquaintance of mine. His family asked for my help to try to find him. He has many ties in the university circles.”

“And I don’t suppose it’s any of my business as to why you’ve taken an interest.”

She said nothing. Sonya knew this was risky. If any of her other contacts or leads had panned out she wouldn’t have tried this. In researching Silverbren she’d found no obvious red flags to mark her as an informer for any particular party, and neither did she seem susceptible to any bribery. But really…she was a broker of information and influence to suit her own whims. Other than being recommended by Delambre, what assurances did she have against betrayal?

“Frankly, I don’t care,” she continued. “I’m just glad you’re getting Raúl to start caring about what’s happening outside of his family.”

And that explains the dismissal. Sonya replied, “I think you give me too much credit. He’s a thrill-seeker. If I ran a casino I’d be of equal interest to him.”

The woman shrugged prettily. “You’d know best, I suppose. Sonya—may I call you Sonya?”

She assented, but remained on guard.

Silverbren sat back in her chair, contemplating. Then finally, “Is the unease…is it because I know you work for Atreides?” She waved at her before she could answer, saying, “You don’t need to answer that, though I suppose it’s not really a secret. There are so criminally few female Mentats out there, and you’re the only one on Kaitain I wager. But do my politics, or rather lack of them, bother you? Perhaps it makes me untrustworthy?”

"I don’t know you,” was Sonya’s noncommittal response.

“But you know Raúl. Don’t you trust him?”

“Delambre can make mistakes. I can’t afford mistakes.”

“Or maybe it’s my background. ‘Once a whore always a whore.’”

Sonya snorted contemptuously. As if she cared on that account.

There was a new glint in the woman’s eye. “Then maybe it’s because Raúl and I have been lovers? Whenever one of us gets bored.”

It came as no surprise. But what did it matter to her? Sonya laughed harshly. “Yes,” came the sarcastic edge, “that must be it.”

Silverbren rose from her chair. “Then I don’t see your concern. Shall we speak of the details then?”

Why do I even bother? She sighed and briefly gave the name, profession, last known whereabouts, etc. Possible concerns with Imperial entanglements.

Silverbren made some notes. Finally she fixed Sonya with an eagle-eyed stare. “Thank you, Sonya. Call me Nenna, if you care to. And let me leave you with one last observation. Thrill-seeking, in this case, is a symptom not of boredom but of fear. A trick of the mind to mask fearfulness. If he never invests in anything but himself, then what else is there to lose?” Pointedly, she narrowed her eyes. “Conversely, lack of risk-taking is also, more obviously a symptom of fear. Fear that you’ll fail everything you care about. Because you’ve invested too heavily in things larger than yourself, and yet not enough in your own self.” She made a gesture, as if still standing at a podium and making a point. “Both are positions driven by fear. Those Bene Gesserit have a saying, ‘fear is the mind-killer.’ Perhaps it’s time for you to accept a little more risk, for your own sake.”

Sonya meditated on that for a moment. Then finally she looked around and said mildly, “I wasn’t aware we were in a lecture hall. Well done, I compliment you on your prose and delivery.”

The woman laughed, losing the posture. “Yes well, I do rattle on sometimes I grant you. But I will look into the matter you gave me, too.”

This is where Sonya was afraid of giving offense. But then she offered the same to similar contacts when she had utilized their information and expertise. “I can provide for expenses, I know inquiries like these can be costly…”

Silverbren shook her head. “Keep it. I don’t take money from friends.”

Sonya hesitated. “Are we friends, then?”

Silverbren poured herself another drink, quirking a crooked sort of smile. Something about her had grown more thoughtful, serious, and oddly more genuine. “That is my hope.”

Sonya was still trying to get the measure of this scholar, but the pull was to trust her back. A little voice whispered reciprocity, that baited hook of giving something in order to get it back tenfold. A common ploy in business and tradecraft. But then it’d been like this with Delambre’s other friends as well, Gabe ibn-Wobiha and Zarae. Not any malicious sense of reciprocity, just…trust. Loyalty begets loyalty. It felt silly to trust such a thing. A childish thing.

But I already do, she grumbled at herself. Because this is exactly what it feels like within the Atreides. They decided to trust me and I in turn trusted them. Internally, she shivered at that. It was powerful. And dangerous, because there was always the thought of, what if I was wrong?

“If it makes you more comfortable, call it provisional,” said the scholar. “As long as you’re his friend, then you are my friend, too. I know well that’s not generally the logic of alliances in your line of work but… I waste our time talking further on it. Words only get you so far, let us get down to the actions.” She smiled again. “And if I know Raul, I’m sure he’s itching for some of that action. What would you bet that he’s sitting outside, just waiting for the opportunity to wheedle himself into something, hmm?”

Sonya excused herself and tried to get her mind on all the other things that needed to be done. It irked her slightly than Silverbren was right. He’d found himself a bench next to the building entrance. She sighed. “All right, Delambre. You got any plans tonight?”

He perked up immediately. “How late?”

Chapter Text

Raúl always had plans at night. But it could work, he thought. The sun was setting now, and hopefully he could be out of this pageantry before midnight. Then, by fair means or foul, he was getting out of here and jumping onto Jacamar’s promised Harkonnen raid. Mean time, best behavior.

Jacinda said—asked?—something he didn’t quite catch.

“What?” Raúl glanced away from the groundcar window.

Jacinda, bedecked and bejeweled for a night out, looked him over with suspiciously. “You seem…distracted.”

He had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Everything’s fine, Jacinda. I will not eat too much, drink too much, or talk too much. I’ll find you the gossip and do my best not to become the gossip. I’ll talk with all the women you want me to and will distract or intimidate Mireia’s unsuitables. Anything else you require of me?”

Her well-manicured brow pinched at his tone. She was about to scold him when her daughter reached a hand over and gave a gentle reprimand of ‘Mother.’ And instead the Countess gave a rueful smile and sighed. It was a very Vidal thing for her daughter to do. “I’m sorry Raúl. I’ll try not to pry. You know how hard that is for me.” She laughed a little at herself, hugging her daughter in the seat next to her. “I do require one more thing. Let us help you fend off the Bendaus, hmmm?”

He smiled. “All right then.” The groundcar stopped at the receiving line and a footman hopped forward to open the door. “Shall we?”

Outside the dusk’s golden light draped itself across the grand steps of the Alman Symphony Hall. A swirl of nobles in eveningwear alighted from their cars and ascended to the entrance. With Jacinda on one arm and Mireia on the other, three entered the brightly lit lobby.

Right. Rounds had to be made. First to the Duke and Duchess Alman, their hosts. Then to the other principals in the room. Duchess Wallach and her daughters Tamara, Zenobia, and Circe. Out of his rank, really, but he humored Jacinda anyway. The Earl Moritai and his second daughter Cahaya, a timid, wide-eyed girl who clearly wished she was invisible. Mireia had befriended her, Jacinda hinted, and he knew enough that say that he could do much worse. He skirted the Bendaus, completing what was polite. Mireia and Jacinda, God bless them, sidled in with talk about some art exhibit and he was able to extricate himself. Earl Ordos was present, deep in conversation with Baron and Lady Rejani. He paid his respects and moved on. So far so good. Maybe she—

He turned and almost ran into her. There was a flurry of pardons and a gentle smile that rooted his feet right to the marble floor. She was draped in a moonlight-silvered gown, dark hair woven with small matching roses. Stunning, as always. It took him a few seconds to realize she was telling him something.

“Lord Delambre—” she said it a little sharper this time, and he finally got a glint of focus.

“Yes, it’s good to see you—” What automatic nonsense.

“And you. But you’re going to want to be over there. Quickly, now.” Her gaze darted past him, to a knot of young noblemen.

Jacamar called him ‘idiot’ often. This time really felt like one. But at least the suggestion released him from further making a fool of himself in front of the one and only Lucasta Ophelion. “Very well…” Without knowing the goal here, he wandered over. He’d yet to get a drink, and the men were crowded around a punch bowl. Might as well start there.

He recognized many of them. Fellow veterans of the Season, some around his age but most in their twenties. To his eyes that made them quite young, still high on the semi-independence granted from attaining age majority for inherited titles and fortunes. Ah, youth. It was clear several of them had been carousing beforehand, already unsteadily deep in their cups. They jumped topics like deer bounding through a thicket, diverting at the slightest hint of interest. Eavesdropping was laughably easy. The liquor made them louder and looser.

“God almighty,” said one, “can’t get in a league of the Lady Mireia. Don’t know how you did it, Ordos.”

“Charm, of course.” That was the young Lord Altan Ordos, the Earl’s oldest son. Raúl wasn’t too enthused about his inclusion in Mireia’s circle, but wasn’t in a position to complain. The kid was young, dumb, and handsome. Add his silver tongue and being the heir apparent of an influential House Major and he made the top tier of any guest list. He had a great many things going for him. Now if he could only do without the arrogance.

Vos Tombe, who was among the fray, flicked his gaze over to Raúl. Tombe was a friend of his, likewise a seasoned bachelor of the Corinth circuit. He had very different reasons for staying clear of the marriage field, largely reasons with rather masculine names, though he put up with the mess well enough. He was a careful man, very perceptive and reserved. But, every once in awhile, he liked to stir up a little trouble. To the group he predicted loftily, “Ah, she won’t marry this season. Don’t get your hopes up, Ordos.”

Another young one said, “What’s the rush? Hell, I’d rather not rush anyway. More excuses to stay in Corinth.”

Tombe hummed doubtfully. “You laugh now. But in a few years the young Atreides and young Harkonnen will be of age. And every woman with a dowry will be all over them.”

“Let them! The Princess Irulan has a long march on them none of them could match.”

“I think you’re wrong, Tombe,” said Ordos grandly. “Any woman, including the Lady Mireia, will overturn heaven and hell for the best of men.” He preened a little, and with the falsest of modesty, “Who knows? That might even be me.”

There were snorts and guffaws of derision all around. But the quiet laugh of a young noble from the outer edge of group turned the Lord Ordos sour. He shot the man a sneer.

“Well, all the Lords in the Imperium could keel over and it still wouldn’t put Kaveh there in the running.”

The lordling, presumably Kaveh, stood rock still as laughter ricocheted around them. Raúl didn’t recognize him. He was quite young, likely in university. Neat, cautious, bespectacled. Small in stature, tan skin, dark hair, prominent nose. His clothes were of good make, well-used but well-cared for, but the sober cut of it better suited a funeral than a concert. Maybe a House Minor lord?

The young Lord Nihal Vandeyar, a younger cousin of Baron Rejani, a cousin of her, did not laugh. His face was alcohol-flushed, mood turned from festive to serious in a moment. In the lull after the laughter he spat, “Better Kaveh than you, I say.”

There were some nervous shifts and sipping all around. Ordos grunted, eyeing Vandeyar and Kaveh. “You’ll want to retract that,” he bit off.

Kaveh stepped forward to restrain his friend. “Nihal, it’s not worth—”

A savage joy flashed across Ordos’ face. “Go on, Nihal,” he needled. “Fight his battles for him. The whelp needs all the help he can get. This little one couldn’t even lie, cheat, or kill to get into the eyeline of a Mireia Delambre. Let him live off charity for awhile and then crawl back the dunghill he came from.”

Now seemed an excellent time to interrupt. Raúl rushed along, barging carelessly through the mob with loud apologies. With a good-natured hurry he sang out, “Ah gentlemen, how’s the libation? Seemed like it was a bit light on the fire last time…”

“And a little heavy tonight,” mumbled someone in the back.

“How are the rounds treating you?” asked Tombe lightly.

He ladled a glass of punch. “Oh, the usual. And you?”

The young Ordos seemed to recover his standing first. “Ah, Delambre. I must’ve stepped away earlier. My salutations and wishes, et cetera…”

Does he think I heard him bragging? Ha, do I care? He was already someone to dump to the ‘will not recommend’ pile. Raúl smiled agreeably and answered, “Of course, of course.” Out of the edge of his vision he caught Vandeyar’s continuing death glare at Ordos. Well, on to dividing measures. “You know Ordos, I thought I heard your father asking for you,” he lied. “Something about the seats, maybe?”

Ordos grumbled a little and threw back the last of his drink. “Off to fulfill my filial duty, then. And perhaps later to your good Lady niece’s company.” He left the knot of men before Raúl could counterfeit a noncommittal grunt. The collection fell apart quickly, refreshing their cups and meandering off to novel entertainments. Vandeyar made to follow Ordos, but between Kaveh and Raúl they discreetly steered him to the terrace outside.

“Let go of me!” he hissed.

“Not until you cool down,” Raúl said evenly. “If you want to start a fight, do it tomorrow. If you and your hangover still think it wise, proceed with my blessing.”

“He’s right, Nihal. You’re not thinking clearly. This isn’t the quad, there are consequences out here.” Kaveh’s eyes flared, betraying some simmering anger. “And that loud-mouthed fool is right about one thing. If it’s anyone’s fight its mine. Much as I appreciate the support.”

Doubt, anger, resentment, and finally acceptance settled over Vandeyar like a mantle. He sighed heavily, swaying on his feet. “Well, he maligned the Lady, too. I’m thinking right enough to know the Lady is worth ten of that Ordos. Rank be damned.” He fixed Raúl with the steeliest stare a drunkard could offer. “You, Delambre—make sure of it.” And then he wandered off, charting a wandering course for a stone bench.

 “I better get some food in him,” muttered Kaveh. The young man’s stance was stiff and uncomfortable, unable to meet his eye. “If I may take my leave, milord.”

“He’s all right.” As they watched, the young lord dropped into a seat and hailed a servant. Raúl turned back, offering a hand. “Forgive my intrusion earlier. If I may introduce myself—”

“I know who you are—” the young man snapped.

There followed a tense silence. Both of them seemed equally surprised at the outburst. The young man struggled silently for a moment, mastering himself.

On Raúl’s end, he racked his brain. He didn’t usually forget faces…his father and their aides had trained all the Delambre children better than that. The man couldn’t be much more than twenty. He could not be of the Houses Major, unless it was some very distant relation. And Kaveh must be a first name, as he knew enough that no House Minor had that title.

Finally the young man said, “Forgive me, I…we’ve not met but I’m of Ardea. Of course I should know of you, sire.” He straightened and finally met his gaze. Raúl, expecting embarrassment or anger, saw something unexpected in the green eyes. Defeat. With a precise bow he said, “I am Kaveh Baradas, sire. Son of the Lord Shaheen Baradas, who is vassal to your brother the Count Vidal Delambre. Long may he reign in peace.”

Baradas.

Raúl blinked, tried hard to find the right thing to say. Baradas. Instead, he thought of how he should have marked the resemblance sooner. He had seen those family features enough on the register of those eligible for ransom. And on enemy propaganda posters, throwing down their Delambre oppressors. Or even looking back at him from battered portraits in a tiny frozen keep on the northern edge of nowhere. And finally from the ceremonies of peace and renewal, where rows of people on both sides looked as if none of them had slept in years. Memories nearly fifteen years old had unexpectedly grown legs again and were swarming about without any real purpose. Distantly, he realized he probably looked like he’d been clouted over the head. Or like he’d been blundering about in the dark of a cellar hoping to stumble his way out.

“I—I should see to my friend, sire. I thank you for your assistance, earlier. If I may take my leave?”

An instinct clicked into place and Raúl made the proper bow of return. “Yes, of course. A pleasure to meet you, young sir.”

Another strict bow and the young man withdrew.

Later there was music to hear. Strings that serenaded, winds that whispered, the bold clash of brass braying loud and insistent. All of it balanced and masterful, each converting overtures to concertos to crescendos. Beginnings to conflicts to resolutions. Threading arcs of drama. But what he heard most clearly were the drums. Like the rumble of thunder, and running feet, and the subsonic hum of House shield generators.

The end couldn’t come soon enough.

Chapter Text

They waited impatiently in the back of the surveillance van. Milo Karras, all broody and silent. Jon Ansel, withdrawn and crouched over his tactical display with headphones jacked in. Eve Merritt, sketching idly in the field notebook she carried. And Sonya, running scenarios in her head and trying not to mark every minute. It was a cramped space, but they were used to it.

But Niccioto Sideris, with his wildly tapping foot, was the one who could turn any reasonable space into an annoying tin can. Tapping, drumming. Apparently without rhythm except for whatever jaunty notes that were rattling away in his head.

Finally Karras had enough. “Sideris—” he thundered.

"What?”

Merritt, probably for the two hundredth time in her tenure as Karras’ second, said long-sufferingly, “The foot, Sid. Cut it out or I cut it off.”

The foot stilled and he sighed.

Sonya turned and tapped Ansel on the shoulder. He flinched but recovered quickly, catching her meaning. On some paper he scribbled, Forwin and Demming wrapping. Leave for warehouse ~5min.

“Five minutes,” she relayed to the rest of them.

“Thank God,” muttered Merritt.

“Hmm,” mused Sideris. “Not much time for golden boy to get here, then.”

Karras quirked an eyebrow at her.

She checked her communicator. No new messages. She did her best not to start tapping her own foot.  “We leave in five. With or without him.”

“Be a shame, though,” said Sideris, fidgeting, “I like that guy. He actually knows how to have fun with this.”

Karras nodded to himself. “Well, I guess it sounds like you’re itching for remote duty, then. Get a little perspective.”

“Not at all!” he hurried.

Now if only they were all assembled…

There was a new tapping at the rear door. A quick check at the peephole and she let Delambre in.

“A thousand apologies.” He looked frazzled, still tugging his rumpled street clothes into something presentable. A set of false facial hair was in place. They’d agreed it was a more practical solution than breaking his nose repeatedly.

“You ready to work?”

He threw together his trademark smile, though it seemed a bit rushed. “Definitely. What’s the plan?”

She wasn’t convinced. But neither did she have time to ask. “We’ll be riding with Merritt, we’re in charge of planting the tracker. Karras and Ansel will be in this van, they’ll be watching the perimeter. Sideris is running a smash vehicle, will stage a collision a few cars ahead of them, enough to slow them down and distract them. I’ll plant a tracker, you standby to run interference.”

“Sounds simple enough,” Delambre replied brightly. As always, said as if they were all going out on a picnic.

Simple it wasn’t. It was risky as hell and she detested it. But with security being so tight and even tighter restrictions on their actions to avoid complications with the Corrinos, they were limited. This was to be the last shipment and their last chance. Once it got into the Guild property it was hands-off. Their spies on Giedi Prime couldn’t afford to spend time untangling the customs on the other end, not without something clear to follow. They already had their hands full tracking troop transfers, Harkonnen spy traffic, and otherwise keeping themselves from being caught.

But it couldn’t be helped. She went through the contingencies with everyone aloud one more time, then dismissed everyone to their vehicles. The game was on and the ballet of unobtrusive tailing began.

Traffic was tight and frenetic. Groundcars hummed on their suspensor fields, lines stacked and shifted with signal changes and street merges. They’d creep forward in the next lane, only to fall behind. They approached the strike point meters at a time.

Finally, they were close enough for Merritt to move into position directly behind the target vehicle. “All ready?” was Karras’ dry voice on the comm.

Sideris and Sonya sounded off.

Karras crackled again. “Go when ready, team 1.”

Tense, they waited. Then—

Screeech---thunk—

In their chase car, the three of them of them flinched. At the change of the signal ahead, a small groundcar ahead had plowed haphazardly into the back of another. Immediately the stream of traffic ground to a halt. Shouts and horns echoed back and forth.

The flap on the rear of their target truck rippled and a guard peered out. Sure he was in a workman’s uniform, but the alertness was unmistakable.

“Come on, rabbit. Hop a little farther,” she mumbled.

“More of a scene, Sid,” was Merritt’s terse comment.

By accident or design, there was a near-instant response. On one of the crunched cars the chunnering of a suspensor field gave out began belching smoke and flame. Panicked shouts followed as those nearest the collision abandoned their vehicles in flight. A rare few ran forward into the confusion, perhaps to assist.

“Much better,” said Merritt. The guard dropped down to stand beside the truck and he began chattering to a wrist mic. His attention was fixed on the spectacle ahead.

“That’s our cue,” said Delambre, hand on the door.

“Go—”

The two piled out. Delambre made a show of rubber-necking, in ready position between the two trucks to rush forward and run interference with the guard. Quick and cautious, Sonya stepped up to the rear flap, listening and peeking inside.

No second guard. It made her job easier but did not reassure her. A shipment like this? They were incognito, but surely an experienced man would have put a second guard on this for basic redundancy?

She ducked inside, checking for secondary security measures. No tripwires, spyeyes, additional locks. Nothing.

This is too easy, she thought.

The plan had been to hide the tracker in the climate-control housing on the exterior of the crates. A screwdriver and a deft hand, and a tracker would be simple to hide in the innards of the machinery. But she held off. It would take more time, but she needed to check. She knelt next to the lock and set to work.

“What are you doing in there?” muttered Merritt in her ear.

She had been practicing this style of lock on a spare assembly in her office until it became soothing to her. The action of hands and mind absorbed in a delicate task. In twenty-eight seconds she had cracked the lock. Her mind chanted, What are the chances what are the chances—

She prized up the lid. And found the crate empty.

Fuck. Damn you Gulon.

But there was no time to waste. She latched it again and exited the truck. A tap on Delambre’s shoulder, and they retreated back the cab of their chase vehicle.

“Everyone back off. It’s a decoy.”

Beside her, Merritt cursed under her breath. Off comms, presumably the rest of the team was thinking the same.

Last chance blown, she thought. What now?

She forced herself to focus. Looking within, she adjusted her calculations. Somehow, they’d been conned. But at what level?

“Ansel,” she said. “Check the office feed. Anything since we left?”

A moment passed as the tech fast-forwarded through the recording since then. Then, “No.”

Then that was most likely. The bug in the office, hers or the unknown party’s, must’ve been found. To confound the eavesdropper Forwin had faked a departure. But Sonya knew from independent surveillance that they still had a shipment to send and other trucks to send it in. Preferably tonight, while the heighliner to Giedi Prime was soon due and elsewhere enemies were chasing their tails. Take advantage of the confusion they’d inspired. But what would be their route?

Many thousands of routes. She saw the street map of Corinth in her mind. Eliminated surface streets and alleys incapable of handling a large groundtruck. Incorporated algorithms for fastest routes to the spaceport, traffic, Corinth security patrols, and routes familiar to the Forwin drivers. They would’ve left after the decoy truck to fool anyone watching the warehouse area. Perhaps they could still intercept.

“Sideris, ditch and hitch with team 3. We’re re-routing.”

It was half-informed, half-blind. At every other turning she made further calculations, triple-checking her work. The maze of streets and ticking of traffic patterns etched acidly into the inside of her skull. Out of the commercial district, cutting across residential areas and industrial corridors. But as they approached the freight docking area for the Guild spaceport, they spotted their quarry.

Their well-fortified quarry. A groundtruck with not one but two cars in convoy. And Karras noted a surveillance vehicle of unknown origin trailing the procession. With no opportunity for surprise, need for a light touch, and a numerous enemy, options were thin. Odds were there were Rejani and Harkonnen operatives in that group.

“Unless you’re willing to work up a helluva disruptive distraction, we’re not getting in a range of that truck,” said Delambre.

Merritt drummed her fingers on the steering wheel fuming. “I’ve got a pack of mines that would take care of that nicely, just give me the word. This dancing around is starting to piss me off.”

Well, their objectives needed to change then. “If we could delay them, they’d miss their load time for the heighliner.” The next one bound for Giedi Prime leaves in two days, which would give them another chance to mount a second attempt. Or find a different opportunity in. She looked again to the map in her head and found a chokepoint. There was a drawbridge that the truck would have to cross to make it to the docks.

“Merritt, take us out of this lane. We need to get ahead of them.”

A few minutes later, Raúl and Jacamar were back out of the truck taking the narrow service path along the River Naian north to the bridge. “You sure about this?” he asked. Privately Raúl wondered if they should give this up. Even to him this seemed a little outside the lines.

“We need another chance,” was her low reply. “Now quiet.”

So, no. She was very unsure about this.

They were equipped, in a fashion. Fortunately, Jacamar and her team prepared for damn near everything. A grappling hook with cable, a tool box, a small explosive device if necessary. All thing things they could need to get up in and sabotage the lift mechanism on the bridge. Or in the very least enough to trip the repair sensor to get them to close the bridge.

He stopped, straining with all his senses. Something was wrong here. That feeling of approaching the edge of a cliff in the dark.

Even then he almost missed it. Very faintly, a step that was not their own. It came from ahead. Beside him Jacamar cut the air with a hand, signaling she heard it too. They both melted into shadows, settling amongst the debris of the service path.

In the gloom, he saw nothing. At first. But he still forced himself to be still. Watching, listening. Hardly daring to breathe. Finally, through a sliver of a broken crate there was the form of a man. In his step and movement was the grace of Laza tiger, every line and angle of him entirely focused and ready to strike. The quality was so rare, so particular. He had seen this before. Years ago, on the bloody streets of Vikara.

It’d been days of smoke, gray slush, and numbing tedium. He’d been holding temporary command of the site of the old Vikara fortress. Once an impregnable Delambre stronghold, now a blasted pile of rubble. Every one of them was exhausted, but they kept trudging along. With the truce called there was nothing to do but try to recover any poor bastards still alive or, more likely, give the charred remains an attempt at dignity. Sergeant Dern, a gruff brick of a man, came up to him with a furrowed brow. Stating they had ‘visitors’.

There were a full squad of them, advancing. In spotless battle armor. That kind of parade-dress bullshit that normally would have gotten them laughed off the field. Anyone in this war worried about parade standards deserved to be dragged through the mud and put on some real work. But they moved in that same feline way. Hunters, all. Dull white armor marked with the gold lion.

Their commander had asked, “Are you of rank?” The Galach words sounded strange in the man’s mouth. Coarse and guttural.

He’d replied that he was.

A brisk nod. And eyes cold as the northern ice shield. “We will see it all.” It was a statement, not a request. Raúl, even worn and tired, still knew enough to stay out of the way. They surveyed the crater, the bodies, the lasgun scars on the remnants of shield wall. He ventured to say that talks were being held in Ar, that they were working on a peace. When they finally left all of them breathed easier.

Several minutes later, long after the lone patroller had moved on, he heard Jacamar curse quietly. “Sardaukar. Motherfucking Sardaukar. What the hell are they doing out there?”

Chapter Text

Fortunately breakfast had been pushed to a later hour. Unfortunately, for Raúl at least, the hour was not late enough. But he was upright at the breakfast table anyway, thankful for strong coffee and a stout breakfast.

Jacinda, as usual, was talking. She and Mireia were reviewing the coups and disasters witnessed from the night before. Largely favorable, from what he overheard. Better than the botched raid. Jacamar had been forced to call off further action, disappointing even if wise. If Sardaukar were on the prowl then caution was warranted. The mentat was undoubtably working on a back-up plan. Or several. He just had to wait impatiently.

At mention of his name he made an effort to straighten his spine. “Hmm?”

Jacinda tsked. “You were near them, Raúl, didn’t you hear them? Some ruckus between Altan Ordos and Nihal Vandeyar?”

He’d been hoping they’d skip over this entirely, but to no avail. He rolled a shoulder in an easy shrug. “It wasn’t much. An argument. It broke up before it became anything.”

Jacinda seemed to sense his sour opinion, furrowing her brow. Well, Ordos had been high on her list for Mireia. “Oh? What was the argument about?”

He took his time to chew, swallow, and chase the bite with a sip of coffee. He tilted his head and threw a meaningful glance to Mireia.

The girl gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “Me?”

“That’s how it began. Ordos was bragging about… well about being, in his estimation, in your favor.”

Jacinda cackled. “Bravo, my daughter!”

Mireia looked less than enthralled. In fact, to Raúl it looked like she was offended and trying to hide it. Good, maybe she already saw Ordos for what he was. She tempered her mother’s praise, “I wouldn’t equate braggadocio with flattery. It speaks more to his own pride than mine, I think.” Her sharp eyes fixed on him. “Details, uncle.”

Raúl was beginning to recognize a bit of his attitude in her, a bridled sort of defiance. He was not sure if her was more appalled or proud. Probably both. He tried to be vague. “Well, there was a House Minor lord who laughed at Ordos’ boast. No wonder. They all laughed at him for that. But he took a set against the one young Lord, who happened to be Vandeyar’s friend. Ordos said something as to the lord not being of rank or means to even be in your presence, and Nihal took offense on his friend’s behalf.” He shrugged again. “Nihal wasn’t exactly mentat-sober at the time.”

“And the injured party?”

He’d wanted to keep Baradas out of it, but there was no avoiding it. If he redirected now she’d just ask Tombe or another of that group. I couldn’t just keep my mouth shut now, could I? he thought. But, maybe, better to thoroughly expose Ordos than to sidestep Baradas. “Vandeyar’s friend? Kaveh Baradas.”

Jacinda choked on her winterfruit juice.

“Baradas, you mean…”

“Yes.” There was an awkward pause, mostly as Jacinda was valiantly trying to recover. She sounded like she was about to hack up a lung, and for her sake he relented and tried to change the subject. “As I said, it came to nothing. Jacinda, I know you wanted to invite Moritai and his daughter, who else is on the guest list?”

But Mireia jumped in before her mother could get her breath. Incredulous, “How is it we have one of our House Minor on Kaitain and they aren’t in residency at our embassy?”

It wasn’t that unusual. If a House Minor was rich enough, they often maintained their own residences on Kaitain. But Mireia had hooked something, and she wasn’t going to let it go until she’d dragged it out. He said, “I gathered he was going to university here.”

“Then, in all the time he’s been here, has he even been invited to even dine here?”

They were sucked into silence.

Jacinda finally recovered. “No, dear. Surely you understand why.”

“I’m not a dullard, mother,” was the stern reply. “I grew up in the history. Because of the Baradas you lost your brothers. If we hadn’t won we all would’ve died. But father has set an example. He’s gone to great lengths to reconcile. I’m sure father was very generous, how else could this young lord afford the costs of the University? But it’s all for nothing if we don’t show it socially. The Houses Minor owe us fealty, we owe them protection. And we can’t even show them hospitality?” She paused, staring down her mother. “Think on it. What if Ordos had insulted House Artanyan in such a way? That an Artanyan wasn’t fit to marry a Delambre? It’s an insult to all of us.” Mireia stood from the table, satisfied with herself. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to my correspondence.” She made a sweeping curtsey and left them staring after her.

“What….what…” Jacinda was flabbergasted.

He gave a rueful grin. “She’s clearly Vidal’s and your daughter, Jacinda. She made several strong points followed by a fabulous exit.”

“But she’s being ridiculous!”

“Is she?” He had to reconsider now. Because the girl was right. What was the use of Vidal’s efforts, all the persuasion and promises and capital invested in righting their father’s mistakes? Instead of humiliating and crushing their enemy, as the old Count would have, Vidal had made amends and provided whatever was needed for both Houses to recover equally. But as much as both Houses had needed some social distance after the war, it couldn’t last. Much as I’d prefer it to—

Mireia, he knew, at least remembered the raid drills. The old siren in the fortress at Ar had gone off a few years ago, the machinery on the fritz. She’d ducked under a table before thinking it through, right in the middle of breakfast. When a guard had come in to make his apologies for the error, she’d shakily laughed it off as a jest. Don’t know why I did that, she’d said. But we knew why.

Kaveh Baradas might be old enough to remember pieces of the war, if only just. A year older than Mireia, as the file said. Just as the file said he’d been among the holdouts in the cellars of Yavchan Keep. A little frost-bitten thorn of a stone keep hid away in the back end of nowhere. God, how close that had been to something bad. Would the kid have been old enough to remember how close—

“You’re defending her?”

He was jarred out of that thought. But it was still there. It’d been there for years and likely would remain there, though he sometimes pretended otherwise. He sighed. “I guess I am. She’s right, if this unofficial distance continues it’s just going to create a new resentment.”

“Resentment.” She let the word roll around her mouth. Like she considered chewing it, or spitting it out, but her manners wouldn’t let her do it. Like she considered saying her brothers’ names aloud again, instead of tending the flowers at their graves.

Because as much as distance was more comfortable—forget it, just let us all forget—it was still souring. He’d already seen a glimpse of that with young Kaveh. That frustration, and that defeat. And defeat could only last so long until it turned into something poisonous. He had to convince her. “Is that worth that, after we’ve spent all this time building them back to their former strength? To have it start all over again?”

Jacinda stared at him, serious and dark. She did not speak for a full minute. She had no love for House Baradas. But she had even less love for the hell they’d all gone through.

“It doesn’t have to happen all at once,” he ventured carefully. “But Kaveh Baradas may be a good place to start. I will say, of all that lot at the concert he showed the most sense. He wasn’t looking for a fight. And he was trying his best to get himself and his friend out of it without conflict.”

She still looked uncertain. “I’ll need to discuss this with Vidal.”

He nodded. “Of course. But tell him I’m in favor. I checked with Tygath’s papers. The kid’s not ambitious, he just likes his books. I think we can handle him.”

Jacinda finally chuckled at that. “You in favor of it? Kull wahad Raúl, that’s almost a mark against it.” She sighed, and finished her drink. “Very well, I’ll consider it. If only to keep my daughter from starting a riot.”

“I’d laugh if I didn’t know she was perfectly capable of just that.”

They picked at their remaining food, each thinking.  Jacinda said, “You know, Vidal thought you’d make a good ambassador. If you ever got your head on straight.”

Raúl snorted. “He also said that about me as a business liaison and a propaganda minister before that. Forgive me if I’m not jumping on the chance.” Though maybe I should, he thought. It would get me out of this marriage business and have Tygath keel over with apoplexy.

“And you spoke with Lucasta,” she noted with a smirk.

He was ripped from his reverie of Tygath staggering around clutching his chest. Not more of this. “For about thirty seconds, Jaci. I’ve had longer conversations with Marquise Bendau’s hunting-cats.”

“Still, progress.” Before he could retort she was moving on to the next thing. “Yes, the dinner. I’m still looking for suggestions to round out the guest list. Perhaps I could use your insight—”

------------

To Sonya, the Sardaukar presence raised questions. Not that there weren’t Sardaukar in Corinth. They were the trusted palace guards, even if they looked silly in ceremonial dress. But to see them on the streets, out of uniform but still unmistakable, lent a disturbing element to this whole fiasco.

Sardaukar, hunting, she mused. But hunting who?

If they’d been after the spice surely they would’ve succeeded? Corinth City was Imperial ground, after all. If they knew enough to come, surely they would know enough to find the spice?

It made her wonder about the listening device in Forwin’s office, the one that was not her own. Sonya had considered it could be Corrino in origin…not of their standard make but perhaps done by an outside contractor. It would explain how the Sardaukar came to be there. But if it was Corrino then why monitor Forwin, and presumably Rejani and Harkonnen, and yet do nothing? She and the Atreides monitored because they needed to build evidence. Sardaukar though…Sardaukar were not exactly intelligence-gatherers. They were edged weapons, bred and trained to kill. No doubt, no questions. They were the end-phase of a project, sent in when the plan’s been made and you’re ready to eradicate something.

Sardaukar, hunting. Maybe hunting Atreides? She shivered.

The trick, the best of all tricks, was to turn disaster into opportunity. Time was running short. Arrakis news carried word of sabotage by Harkonnen insurgents, which had been cheerily dismissed by the Baron Harkonnen as unsanctioned vigilantes. Atreides needed a leverage point, any advantage they could get. More than ever, she needed that hoard.

In Laskaris’ office, she, Karras, Blake, and the Lord turned over the problem. “Maybe we’re going about it the wrong way. Someone knows,” mused the intelligence chief. “Here on Kaitain in the Harkonnen contingent, someone knows where it is. Everything from location, layouts, guard rotas, codes. It’ll be tightly controlled, but it has to be here.”

“Gulon,” said Karras. “He’s the leader of this smuggling racket, on Harkonnen’s behalf. He has to know.”

She calculated, looking within. Then, “I agree. And Drusnev.” The Harkonnen spymaster on Kaitain, a much more difficult target. “Possibly, Neytanyi.” The Rejani spymaster, though she doubted it. Neytanyi was understaffed and unimaginative. “But Gulon’s a businessman, not a soldier. He’d be susceptible to heavy persuasion. Under the right conditions.”

“He’d tell us if he was under the knife,” Karras asserted.

“Don’t even think it aloud, for the love of God,” said Laskaris. “Kull wahad, what a debacle that would be. Much as I despise the toad, it would be all our heads if the Imperial Majesty got wind of it.”

“Besides, Karras, if it came to that Jacamar here has first crack at it. My orders. Then we sit back and watch.” Blake kneaded the back of his neck, sighing.

“Gulon’s careless,” Sonya said quietly. “He can be clever when he wants to be, but he’s still careless. He was when I knew him, and he’s shown to be since then. They might have the Forwin warehouse district locked down, but we’ve still gotten much more because of his looseness in other quarters. His position has buffered him from consequences, his comfort and convenience are his priorities. He wouldn’t bother memorizing the details. There’s a strong possibility he has it on a databook.”

Blake’s eyes shone bright. “Under lock and key. At the Embassy?”

“No.” Karras grinned wolfishly, starting to see her plan. “Oh he has an office at the Embassy, but he barely uses it. He lives off site, where it’s more comfortable, and works out of his home office. We cased the place, security is laughably light. Trick will be the palm-locked floor safe. We’ll need his prints to work up a facsimile.”

“Then that’s the target,” said Blake. “Jacamar, I trust you can find a way in?”

Chapter Text

He’d just been beginning to nod off when he was elbowed in the ribs. Mireia had always had the sharpest of elbows.

When she’d called in a favor and recruited Raúl for an evening outside Jacinda’s ever-flowing plans, sitting in the back of yet another lecture hall at the university had not been what he had in mind. Unlike Nenna’s debate, this talk was sparsely attended. A few students here and there were asleep and a few handfuls of scholars and professionals listened with quiet attention.

“An afternoon away from the glitz and glamor and you chose this?” he hissed.

She elbowed him again, though at least this time it was more of a warning tap. She was distracted with a new projected slide. The presenter began going on maximizing bintu bean yields with an intercropping, customized rotation of…something. Mireia was enthralled somehow, jotting down cryptic scribbles about rhizomes and microbial diversity in a notebook.

Raúl, on the other hand, wondered if it was possible to die of boredom. Jacamar would know. Probably would say something about it being unlikely but she was happy to test the hypothesis at his convenience.

Eventually the speaker finished and there was a spasm of applause. Several minutes of follow-up questions and some shuffling of people later and they were back in the fresh air.

“Homeward?” he suggested.

“Not a chance,” she flashed, eyes devouring the sweeping lawns and ancient stone halls. “I’ve got the rest of evening free—you know how rare that is since I’ve gotten here? You manage to slip off when it suits, but me? I have to get a blasted chaperone if I want to go anywhere without mother. Besides, if you weren’t here with me you’d probably have to go that card party at the Bendaus tonight.”

He did feel bad about that. To Jacinda, Raúl was a side project. Mireia was the main event. She tolerated it with good grace, but certainly it had to feel more like a cage here than at home.

And also, the Bendaus. He had definitely forgotten about that. So, wandering around the University it is. “Lead on. Dare I ask of your remaining plans? Is there a speaker about the weathering of rocks or the blowing of leaves in the wind?”

She laughed, bright as a sunbeam. “Uncle, you never wanted to come here? The finest minds in the Imperium visit to speak and share and learn! Even the Mentats from Ix show up for guest professorships and lecture circuits. All we get at home are Tygath and stuffy tutors!”

He looked around. The grounds of the university were impeccably neat and tidy, thick with students heading back to their dormitories or trooping off-campus. The sun would be setting soon, and the deep afternoon had turned it all to honeyed light and shadows cast by long-armed oaks. As the younger son, he might’ve gone here. Vidal, he knew, had nearly shipped him here when tensions had heightened before the war. After all, Anais had found refuge away from the turmoil with the Bene Gesserit off-planet. But at the time he’d been old enough to give his opinion, and that was to stay. Vidal hadn’t liked it, but neither had he especially liked the idea of separating the family further. So would he have liked the collegial atmosphere? Living and training among the Vandeyars and Ordos’ and Tombes? Probably. But walking here now, he just felt distinctly out of place. “I’ll pass,” he said breezily.

She groaned at his lack of enthusiasm. “You’re hopeless.”

“Not quite.”

She peered at a posted campus map, then set off. “Come on! Cay’s brother is playing in the battlecross intramurals today,” she explained as they walked. “I was hoping to keep her company. Maybe that’s more to your taste?”

He shrugged. “Better than agricultural lectures, certainly.”

“Then onward, I say!” She bobbed, she skipped, she swirled, cheerfully oblivious to the puzzled looks of passers-by. She was nearly brimming with excitement.

Suspicion tapped him on the shoulder. Surely this was too much excitement for a casual sporting event? And while Cahaya Moritai was growing to be a close friend of hers, did that explain the smile?

“Well I’m glad you’re having fun,” he said. “But why do I get the feeling you’re up to something?”

Her grin grew more wicked. “And what if I am?”

Confirmed. Mischief was afoot. It could hardly be a Jacinda kind of motive—could it? Surely Mireia knew better than that? But he couldn’t discount it altogether. The Season was in peak madness. With the hanging threat of Bene Gesserit concubines, rivalry among the highborn ladies for husbands could be cutthroat. And among the young noblemen the glints of enormous dowries could be equally compelling. And yet with all the political maneuvering somehow the idea of romance persevered. Flirtations, schemes, and deceptions became ever more convoluted. Accidental meetings and have-you-met-my-friends and all kinds of frilled lies at the ready—

But as they entered the courtyard outside a small stadium and Mireia rushed up to embrace her friend, he shoved that aside. Surely he could let her have her mischief? After all, he frequently made his own. He followed in the girls’ giggling wake. Besides, anything would be better than a Bendau card party. By a very wide margin.

Fortunately they had much more of interest to them than him. The game was already in play, armored players clashing through battlelines, a ball thrown haphazardly up and down the field with modified sticks. He chose a seat several rows higher and to the side of the group, trying to preserve for them the illusion of independence and privacy. In the stands more of Mireia’s friends and acquaintances gathered, magnifying the chatter like a swarm of starlings roosting in a grove at night.

“—nice to get a reprieve—”

“—you would not believe the level—”

“—if mother says one more thing about that I’m going to—”

He checked his communicator idly. Nothing. He sighed and settled in.

On the field, possession of the ball changed many times. Goals were made, penalties inflicted. The sky darkened and glowglobes shone starkly instead. He knew the general rules and had worked out many of the minor details through context. Teams here played for the exercise and the glory of their residence hall. Today it was Blue versus Green. Tomorrow he presumed it would be two different colors on the field. He’d never been a gamesman, what did he care? After the quiet drone of the lecture hall the clattering and shouts grated on him. He checked the communicator again.

“Ah, I see you were kidnapped,” said a warm voice.

He tensed immediately. Lucasta, of course. “Yes.” He shot her sidelong glance. “And you?”

“My cousin is playing. Green number 12?” He saw her point, followed the line of her hand down the field. “And I think…yes it is. Green 5.”

He took a closer look, if only to avoid conversation. Green 5 was…of course it fucking was. One of the smaller men on the team, but recognizable. The young Baradas lord again.

“Son of a—” He quashed the rest of that quickly. The shape of Mireia’s plan was beginning to make sense. Surely an accidental introduction…naturally pleasantries would be exchanged…oh yes there’s going to be a dinner at the embassy coming up…of course we can set a few more plates! An informal invitation, but one her mother could hardly counter without making a fool of them. “She’s devious,” he admitted aloud. Then, “Almost as devious as you.”

There was a sigh. “Well you haven’t made it easy, Raúl.”

“Fine. What is it you want?”

"I don’t want anything. But I—”

“What?”

She squared her shoulders slightly. “I—I tried to explain. Back then. And I know it hurt but—”

That set his teeth on edge. “Oh I remember.” There’d been a perfumed garden and moonlight on summer’s night much like this. Very romantic setting for a soft, rationally-constructed clarification of affections. And a very quiet, harrowing sort of place to sit alone afterward. The opposite of where they were now, he supposed. The jostling of bodies, shouted commands, sticks striking. Should I be grateful for the racket, then? he wondered. “I don’t see the need to revisit this.”

“Maybe it’s not fair for me to bring it up,” she said. “I just—we were friends once, right? Is it bad that I just wanted to know if you were all right after all this time?”

It was an old stone wall, badly constructed and mortar coming apart already from the freeze-thaw of about a decade of winters. He exhaled. The social climbers and adventuresses were a lot simpler, at least. “Yes, we were friends. And I’m fine.”

She gave him a searching look and a long silence.

He scrubbed the back of his neck with a hand and tried again. “Look, I’m happy enough. Ecstatic, even. Hell it’s been an age, Lu. My niece over there is old enough to break heads, stomp hearts, and influence people.” He laughed. “So, yes. I’m happy. You’re happy. We’re all happy.” He stopped, considering. “You are happy…right?”

They watched as a green player hurled the ball for a long pass, was roughed up by the defense, and somehow still managed to be caught by their fellow player.

"More than I thought I would be,” she said.

He turned, needing to see if she meant it. Watched her doe eyes as she turned over the past and present. Always even and careful, never rushing. That was the same. She’d always been soft-voiced, but clear-sighted.  

“He’s good to me,” she said thoughtfully. “He seeks my opinion on his decisions, trusts my judgement. My family is clear of their debts and our alliance with House Ophelion rebuilt trade. And my children…well, I’ll not bore you.”

She’d been content before, but at mention of her kids she was shining. He had to smile at that.

She was a good person. She’d helped him, had got him through that ragged time right at the beginning. Back when he’d been still raw, still tired, still waiting for the next blinding, sickening upheaval to drop on them. Back when he hadn’t really believed there was anything else. She’d been kind and had lent him some of her steadiness, as friends do.

As friends do, he thought. God I need to stop being an ass sometimes, don’t I? Years whining to myself about what I didn’t have with her, to ignore what I did. “I’m glad then,” he said. And he meant it, even if inside something still panged. “And feel free to bore me about your Evander and Rani. I just emerged from a lecture on soils. You can’t scare me.”

Lucasta burst out in a musical laugh. There was some relief in there, too. “No, no,” she teased a bit. “Another time. I’ll save it for when you’re not on your guard.”

“Ah, well. A worthy tactician. I’ll be sure to surround myself in allies to insure against surprise attacks.”

“You do that. You’ve made plenty of friends, haven’t you? From what I can tell, one in every corner of this city.”

“Hey, I had friends before!”

She laughed again. “I know, I know. But these ones are fierce as wildcats. They’re your people. None of that vacillating indubitably-of-course-kind of sycophants. I met Zarae the other day. They were visiting the boxes and gladhanding us noblefolk after the performance of their show. And before I knew it, they were insinuating some truly frightening things about jilted lovers and dire tragedies. All about the script, purportedly.”

He groaned. “God almighty—”

“Fierce,” she insisted. “I like them.” 

“Right, right.” He shook his head in defeat, smiling.

“And your family is well,” she said. “They’re safe now. All your family’s work has paid off.”

“Yes,” he said absently. Maybe. A wriggling doubt clung on with dirty, ragged claws. Safe? Below, the scrum of players collided again, interrupting the thought. A whistle shrilled and the players regrouped at their respective benches. He saw a few glancing up into the stands, no doubt taking notice of the young women. There was a ripple effect, and by the time the teams retook the field a tough game grew more savage. In a matter of a handful of plays the field grew muddier, noisier, and more chaotic. “Damn it,” he muttered. Because this looked like trouble.

Lucasta saw it, too. “The Blue team. I think young Ordos plays for them.”

“Kull wahad,” he cursed. Sweat dripped down his back. Damn the summer heat.

“I don’t like that one,” she admitted. “You met Nihal. Certainly he’s no level-headed Red Duke. But he and Ordos are in a grudge match. With good reason, I think.”

“And the Baradas lad?”

Lucasta looked guilty on that score. “Well, he’s a good kid. I didn’t know him until Nihal befriended him, I swear it. Their friendship was none of my doing. But I did wager they could use some help the other night. The way that clod of masculinity was rambling on I knew there was no way they were going to listen to me.”

She was probably right there. He’d known right off soft words and logic wouldn’t have worked for that lot.

Back on the field, the game grew worse. Before, it had been competitive, unflinching. But now it was downright mean. Progression on the field was irretrievably mired. The next play, and blue players broke ranks to thoroughly trounce a green one. There was a sharp yelp of pain. And the shrieks of whistles, largely ignored. The ball was abandoned as green players rushed to avenge their fallen.

Clattering, furious shouts, general bedlam. Together it really sounded like he was back in—

Fuck.

Yes, it did, he admitted. He took stock of his rapid heart rate, the sweat, the hands tight on his knees.

It had been awhile. But this was familiar. Annoying, inconvenient. Hard to say sometimes when it would become a problem. But ultimately manageable. He just needed to breathe.

“Raúl—”

He flinched. Hard. Out of the corner of his eye her hand was frozen, half outstretched with an old impulse. He watched it return to its position in her lap. Gently, “Do you need to get some air?”

He nodded stiffly.

“Do you want company?”

He blinked. She was looking over him carefully. Always with care. Pity sometimes in those warm brown eyes, but never judgement or scorn. Do you want company? was the echo pattering through him for a few moments.

“No,” he lied. He got to his feet. And hesitated. He glanced over to the group of starling women, who had grown ever more agitated with the chaos on the field. Mireia was now rapt in silence, surveying the field.

Mireia. The thought rooted his feet.

“It’s all right,” said Lucasta. “Get some air. I’ll watch over your niece and her friends. They’re safe here. I promise.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He nodded again and left the stadium behind. Instead he walked circuits around the old stone buildings. Breathed slow and deeply. Counted glowglobes and oak trees. Listened to the softer sounds of wind in the trees, water trickling through fountains, and crickets warming up their night-song.

By the time he returned the game had ended and the players had intermingled with the crowd. Mireia, Lucasta, and Cahaya Moritai were in discussion with Nihal Vandeyar, Harta Moritai, and Kaveh Baradas. And, as he’d presumed by the intensely innocent look she shot him on his approach, Mireia had already had her triumph.

Chapter Text

Sonya ran in the dark of the morning. Not because she liked it, because she didn’t. And not for the exercise, though it was valuable. She ran because when she woke, even on the shores of sleep, her mind had already begun grinding. It leaned into the thousand fractal spirals of worry, to the point where she could not rest longer. It was not a new phenomenon, but she could not deny that it had gotten worse.

So she ran, which helped. If her fluctuating schedules of night and day surveillance allowed, she preferred the quiet of the imminent dawn. She settled into a steady, loping pace, tracing her accustomed route along the inside of the embassy wall. Glowglobes on the wall-tops cast an amber radiance over the path and the buildings comprising the embassy complex. She turned the corner and made her fourth pass in front of soldier’s barracks, starting her last kilometer. And then the training rooms, servant’s quarters, motorpool, administrative building, main hall, the Duke’s residence, and assorted guardhouses and gardens. All still and empty-seeming in the blue-black of lessening night.

No stars though, was the stray thought that slid through the heartbeats and pounding of feet. I miss the stars.

Stars led to planets.

Kaitain. home of House Corrino, seat of the Imperium. Taxes, decrees, spies, deception, Sardaukar. City light hides the reach of the night sky.

Caladan, ancestral home of House Atreides. Fish, wine, pearls, integrity, vendettas, safety. Clear skies, frequent rains.

Giedi Prime, home of House Harkonnen. Mines, manufacturing, gladiators, misery, drugs, power. Choking smog and deathly cloud.

These three had always orbited the brightness of her mind. But now new planets upset the equilibrium. Their gravities, celestial mechanics, and meanings were not yet fully understood. Her pace had increased.

Eudora, home of House Rejani. Cottons, coffees, dyes, fripperies, debts. Monsoon-shrouded nights filled with lantern-flies.

Ardea, home of House Delambre. Hearth-cedar, wheat, lasguns, annoying second sons. Clear and cold, timbered canopies.

Arrakis, home of the Fremen. Spice, secrets, adventurers, desperation. And the sky…

Desert world, no cloud. Little development. The sky would be a sea of tiny flames when not overshadowed by the light of two moons. Perhaps the clearest skies in the Imperium. If you could survive the journey to see them.

All the numbers and facts flew by her. She pushed until she was sprinting full-bore, like a dart from a maula pistol. She pushed until it was the blood pounding in her ears. And the harsh drag of breath in her throat. And the burn of her muscles as her feet struck the path.

Then she spied it. The path to the barracks again, her starting point. She broke through the imaginary line and chunnered ungainly to a halt.

After, she walked herself in slow circles until her heart and breath evened and she no longer wanted to fall over into the dirt. The sweat cooled on her skin and the shaking in her hands subsided. Other runners passed and traded nods or grunts. Niven and Reese, a pair of technicians. Tanner, the Harkonnen team leader. A quartet of day-shift guards: Galatas, Astor, Pallas, Dorn. Windows began kindling lights here and there. The embassy no longer seemed so empty.

She straightened and turned inward to the barracks. A shower, some breakfast. Then time to get to work.

---

Gulon’s residence on Kaitain was what Sonya would expect. An elaborately showy three-story mansion set back from the street, nestled among artful shrubberies, flowering trees, and trimmed lawns. It was within the stylish Sojourn neighborhood, a jewel among the other Houses Minor and entrepreneur class homes.

Karras had done the prep work himself. He was a thorough and observant operative, which rendered her own visit largely unnecessary. But she wanted to see the place with her own eyes. In her utility worker garb and van she scouted the spy eyes and fences, checked guards and routes, and noted servants and delivery schedules. Their best plan to get a layout check would be either to bribe a servant or get a disguised agent in as a delivery person. Both options would require time and caution they weren’t likely to have.

Around noon Gulon’s chauffeur pulled the groundcar up to the front entrance. From down the road she watched as the Lord Gulon and his two day-time bodyguards entered and were driven away. She followed discreetly.

At three different junctures she could’ve easily killed him. An ‘accident’ shoving the car off the Shahrazad Bridge into the River Naian. A gridlocked traffic signal where she might’ve stepped out of her van and shot them with her poison-laden stunner. A hit-and-run as Gulon exited the car and lingered impatiently on the sidewalk in front of a stylish entrepreneur-district restaurant. Each with varying chances of success and lack of detection. They were idle and useless thoughts but they kept her occupied. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, ignoring the glass-shard pain in her arm.

She parked and, with a quick change from worker to entrepreneur, she merged into her new surroundings. Gulon was meeting a Rejani clothing magnate for lunch it seemed, choosing a balcony table. She watched from a coffeehouse across the street, stewing.

Why am I wasting my time? she thought. Even if she had brought along Sideris she could’ve gotten him inside and at least gathered more substantive intel. If this conversation were even worth overhearing. But Karras’ team was on Forwin warehouse duty this day-shift. All in the service of deception. If the Gulon gambit was to work, they had to sell that the Atreides were desperately trying that avenue for obtaining info on spice-smuggling. Meanwhile, she’d requisitioned a class-1 palm scanner that was currently in play on Gamont. Whether it got to Kaitain in a timely manner would depend on how much pressure she could put on field office chief there. Junden had always been a particularly stubborn bastard.

Well, I could wait at the embassy and go over the same old data or I could wait here and maybe learn something. She had set her pieces in motion: Silverbren, Karras, and Junden, just a few of many. Meanwhile, the opposing pieces on the board were also in motion. And she could only wait to see where they landed. She sighed, ordered sweetened ibrik coffee, and waited.

But it wasn’t until the pair of fancy men had finished their meal and were considering desserts that she noticed something interesting. Gabriel ibn-Wobiha, the con man and thief, was also on that balcony. He was sitting alone a few tables away, ostensibly reading a newspaper and eating some sort of basket of finger food. Yet occasionally he’d glance over to Gulon’s table.

Several theories populated, freely spanning the depths of the mundane to the ludicrous. Her stomach gurgled at the thought of actual food. So when Gulon and his associate parted with a handshake and left the establishment she went inside to see for herself.

Without asking permission, she dropped into the seat across from the con man. “Curious that we should cross paths,” she remarked. She stole a handful of what turned out to be fried mushrooms from his plate and sat back. 

Well-hidden surprise turned to his customary surliness. She had to admit, she liked that about him. If he’s charming you, you’re a mark. If he’s annoyed by you, you’re an equal. “Sure, help yourself,” he muttered.

“Hey, just paying you back.” Last time she’d worked with him, he’d ended up eating her entire supply of surveillance snacks out of her borrowed undercover groundcar. She got right to the point. “You’re surveilling.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You know, spies call it ‘surveilling’. Us working folk call it other things.”

“All right, who were you ‘casing’?”

He fixed her with a sharp eye. “The same as you, I expect. Henrik Gulon, asshole extraordinaire.”

“Why?” The question prickled. She could monitor micro-expressions, changes in breathing, cadences, pulse, and a dozen other indicators. But she was no Truthsayer. At the end of the day professional liars, whether military or civilian, were best checked by the verification of facts and calculation of likelihoods.

“For business and pleasure,” he replied. “Raúl mentioned this Lord Gulon as my kind of mark. Dumb and deserving of a few of life’s many reversals of fortune.”

“And that’s all he said?”

He shoved the remainder of his food across the table at her. “No need to get vexed. Hell, you should know by now that he’s not as dumb as he looks. It’s habit for him to keep the high cards hidden. He keeps the details out of it. Frankly, that job you and I pulled told me more about you than he ever has. And the fact you use words like ‘surveilling’.”

“Oh.” Right.

“All he said was that Gulon’s a rich, unplucked chicken. Or thereabouts. But I count the cards, same as you. Gulon’s a Harkonnen lackey, which the Delambres aren’t too fond of anyway. Well-heeled and certainly too fattened for anyone’s good. I only wondered, why that one? And why now? Coincidentally, you began appearing on the scene. I have some contacts on Giedi Prime, so I had them dig a little. I asked a few educated questions. It seems this isn’t the first time yours and Gulon’s names have come up.”

She pushed the plate back slowly, appetite lost. It’s in the file, she thought. And that’s all it is, a note in a file. “It’s no secret.”

“But I’d guess it’s not common knowledge. That kind of thing can make your life more difficult if everyone knew. People get caught up in the stupid details. As if the past matters more than what you are now.”

She looked up from the table. Normally she’d categorize that as a veiled threat. An implication of blackmail, that his silence could be bought. But that did not seem the case. From his mouth, it was just an observation. Ibn-Wobiha probably knew better than most, she supposed. He was born little better than a maula himself, living on the streets of Corinth and surviving by his wits. They both knew the saying of the faufreluches. A place for every man, and every man in his place. And the structure of the Imperium did not take kindly to those trying to escape their ‘place.’

“Anyway, it’s none of my business,” he said gruffly. “What I mean is that I did my surveilling. Surprise, surprise, he’s a rich prick. Figured I’d empty his coffers myself. But if you’re here then I guess that means you want me to back off?”

She nodded.

“Because you need something from him more valuable than his money and jewels?”

She raised her eyebrows.

“I’m not asking what it is, I’m just saying. If you were just executing a grudge I’m sure you would’ve done it ages ago. Why haven’t you?”

Many reasons. Logic. Duty. Sanity. Hate. And under all that, the fear that pulling on that one thread would unravel everything else. “Now’s not the time for that.”

He watched her thoughtfully. What he was looking for, she could not begin to guess. Finally he said, “Well, in that case you’d better take a look at this.” Out of his jacket he pulled out a databook and slid it across the table.

Sonya took it carefully. The first page was a schematic, very precise and closely annotated. She recognized the outline of the house. “This is—”

“As much as I could determine from my trip inside,” he finished. “Let me tell you, he has a taste for heavy furniture. That new divan nearly threw out my back.” He tapped the screen. “There’s a floor safe in his office. Would be a bitch to brute-force it. And that palm-lock is top of the line. Good thing I have a top-of-the-line palm scanner you could borrow. You know, just in case.”

She realized her mouth was hanging open. “You’re serious?”

“I’ll need it back, but yes I am,” he said. “Don’t look so clobbered. I’m not dumb enough to just blunder in and fuck up some ongoing spy shit. Whatever you need from him, I’m sure it’s more important than his humiliation and a few solaris. Though, if you need another pair of hands send me an invitation.” He leaned in. “And you better invite me along when you take him down for keeps.”

--

Later, back at the embassy, Sonya saw to more needful tasks. Reports to review, recommendations to make, and coding cylinders to prepare for the next heighliner to Arrakis. Surveillance and bug transcripts, especially aimed at Corrino, Rejani, and Harkonnen personnel, dominated her attention.

Dinner was a lamb curry in the mess hall, listening to the chatter and clatter as she read a book on fogwood shapers on Ecaz. But the Arrakis reports kept returning to her, rife with subpar equipment, sabotage, and low morale. And clearly a Judge of the Change who’d been instructed to ignore such idiosyncrasies as those the Harkonnens had left behind. Instead of retiring for the evening, she angled her steps to the training rooms.

It was busy this late in the day. All staff on site had been through basic combat training, all the way down to the maids and dishwashers. Field personnel were required to log their hours regularly to remain on active status. But even office personnel, who had no such loggin requirements, had been finding their way here after work more often. She wended her way past the weight room, obstacle arena, sparring room, and finally down to the small indoor dart range.

Such were the times that she was accustomed now to seeing the Lord and Lady Laskaris along the firing line. Sonya watched idly as she worked the console of her own lane to get it set up. Of the ten darts Lord Castor Laskaris fired, three bounced off the simulated shield over the target, and another two ricocheted within the shield and failed to hit. In comparison, the Lady’s target sported nine hits.

“You’re anticipating the recoil, dear,” said the Lady to her husband.

He muttered to himself, reloading his stunner. When he looked up he saw Jacamar on his other side. “Is she right, Jacamar?”

Sonya’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile. “I’m afraid so, sir.”

“Of course I’m right,” said the Lady Laskaris playfully.

He sighed in exasperation. “My pearl, I only wish you would be kind enough not to correct me so very often. Seeing as I was the one to teach you to shoot, oh let me see, twenty years, no thirty—”

“Ah-ah, none of that,” chided Olivia Laskaris. Her eyes sparkled and she tapped her console. “Again!”

Sonya caught the edge of his lopsided smile as he sent the order to re-rack. “Yes, my pearl.”

Some rounds passed. Sonya’s first was fair, but needed improvement. Slow-pellet stunners were temperamental. The low speed of the projectile made the effective range short and the parabolic flight subject to the slightest deflections. Firing dead on into a shield with a high frequency was akin to lobbing a rubber ball at a brick wall. Working with the ricochets could often improve accuracy. She adjusted the stunner’s angle and velocity as the rounds and shield levels progressed.

At the end of another round, she heard the Lady say, “Sonya, dear, do let me know if you should require another addition to your court apparel. A black dress is sublime for all occasions, and it certainly complements your complexion, but one should never have just one dress in their wardrobe.”

Sonya blinked, her stunner still aimed down-range. Months had passed since wearing the dress in question. Lady Laskaris, from whom the dress had been borrowed, had refused quite gallantly to take it back. Now it languished in a garment bag, hooked on the inside of the door of Sonya’s tiny barracks room. She would’ve shoved it to the bottom of her travel chest, except the silk wrinkled like mad. She’d counted herself fortunate: recent formal occasions allowed her the obscurity of a standard Atreides dress uniform. She set down the stunner. “I—”

“And don’t stand on ceremony! Kita and I would welcome the challenge to match something to your next occasion. I quite enjoyed our last adventure, didn’t you?”

Their last adventure, as it was referred to, resulted in twenty-three outfit changes, standing as a dress form for swift alterations by the Lady’s maid, and a total of three hours of Sonya’s life consumed. But with the jovial mother figure Lady Laskaris was, Sonya had been loathe to criticize her process.

Lord Laskaris glanced over to Sonya. “Don’t torture her, my pearl.”

The lady laughed. “You indulge me, Sonya. But truly, should you have need of me I would be happy to be of assistance.”

Sonya made a small bow. “Thank you, my lady.” The Laskaris’ withdrew, teasing each other good-naturedly. And Sonya picked up the stunner again…

…and was struck by a lightning bolt of an idea. Brilliant and eminently uncomfortable all at once. Thanks to ibn-Wobiha, she could raise the means. And call in a favor from Delambre, and perhaps she could set up an opportunity.

Perhaps I could still get by with a uniform?

Chapter Text

He was just pulling on his dress uniform boots when he recognized the brisk knock of the butler at his door.

“Sire, our first guest for this evening has arrived. Shall I see her through to the parlor?” Underneath the generally unflappable affect Raúl thought he heard just the slightest bit of horror.

Raúl glanced at the clock on his wall. A full hour-and-a-half earlier than the dinner invitation time. He smiled. “That’s quite all right Matthis, I’ll see to our guest myself. A tour of the grounds should fill the time.”

“Very good, sire.”

He was just finishing the last collar button when he stepped out into the entrance hall. There, pacing like a caged wolf, was the only person he knew who would dare arrive unconscionably early to a formal dinner. The strong light of the westing sun threw her long, sharply-uniformed shadow across the marble floor.

He clicked his heels and she stopped dead, thrown off her stride. The attaché case in her hand swung askew. Before she could recover he made the traditional bow and greeting, “Welcome to Delambre Hall. May your cup be full and your hearth warm.”

For a few entertaining seconds he watched as Jacamar unfroze, froze again, and finally sketched a bow in return. When he failed utterly to keep the smirk off his face she groused, “Milord, I’d wish you the same. Except you don’t want to know what I’m putting in your damn cup.”

He dropped the formal poise and laughed. “Right, right, come along.”

They cut through the empty parlor, catching glimpses of the dining room as servants bustled about setting places, lighting glowglobes, and arranging centerpieces. Distantly Jacinda could be heard midway through her customary pre-event troubleshooting in the kitchens. Behind him Jacamar said dryly, “For a minute there I thought the butler was going to throw me out.”

“You flustered him,” he said over his shoulder, “in the span of Matthis’ long and distinguished career I don’t think a Kaitain guest has ever shown up early.”

They emerged outside onto the rear terrace overlooking the gardens. At his shoulder, “Well, I wanted to be sure I could do this properly.” She paused, fidgeting slightly. “You said there might be a good spot?”

“Not far.” Down the steps angling south past the hedges and a grove of dwarf hearth-cedar. To the south there was an ivy-covered pergola down by the meditation pond, quiet enough. At night most people gravitated to the northern end, which was enjoying a particularly good showing of moonflowers this summer. At her nod he left her to keep a sharp eye out for Jacinda and any unsuspecting gardeners. After a few minutes Jacamar emerged, no case in sight.

“If this works I owe ibn-Wobiha an earl’s ransom.” She shot him a sidelong look. “Strange that he already had an interest in Gulon, don’t you think?”

He shrugged. “Is it? Lord Gulon isn’t exactly shy about his wealth. He outright brags that he’s the Baron’s man on Kaitain.”

“Yes, because we both know Wobiha picks his marks by their wealth alone.”

She knows I said something to Gabe, he thought.

Jacamar cleared her throat. “Sorry. What I mean to say is thank you. It’s been—surprising. Seems like it’s harder and harder to think there’s such a thing a good surprise. So…thanks. For whatever you and your friends can do.”

Huh, I was not expecting that. “You’re welcome.”

They retraced their steps back to the terrace. “Though I’ll admit,” she added as they passed a fountain, “If any of you keep it up I’m liable to think I’m being fitted with a shigawire noose. I don’t suppose Tygath is hiding behind the next hedge ready to serve me up as a scapegoat for something?”

He chuckled. “Not at the dinner tonight, but he’s around. Usually he stays with Vidal but there’s been so much disorder lately that they decided he’d be better positioned here if there’s trouble.” His stomach turned unpleasantly. There was another of those needling, twisting feelings that liked to hang around, the idea that, It’s not ‘if’ there’s trouble it’s ‘when’. It was a stupid thought, he knew. Even with his side activities, House Delambre was clear of any impending unrest, as were the other Great Houses. The Emperor had unofficially sent Atreides into a trap with the Harkonnens. But Raúl had been in Corinth awhile. He’d put his entire inheritance on the line to bet that the Imperial Majesty would go to great lengths to ensure House Delambre wasn’t pulled into it. Stacking them with the Atreides was dangerous. It was closer to civil war. Because if it was more than Atreides versus Harkonnen, all the Houses of the Landsraad would be forced to choose sides. And besides, it wouldn’t get to that point. The Atreides still had a shot at succeeding.  

The needling thought receded, but did not leave.

“I said, are you sure Gulon accepted the invitation?”

He refocused. “Oh, yes. Between him and the rest we’ll have quite the crowd tonight.” And a very petty, very different sort of war on our hands.

“You’re usually thrilled about that.”

He stopped. Jacamar was studying him closely with those smoke-glass eyes. Shit, if Jacamar can tell, it must be obvious. He chose his words carefully. “Let’s just say we’re including a number of potent dishes to the night’s menu.”

“Not just on my account?” Her brow furrowed, mouth a serious line.

Briefly he explained the Mireia situation. Ordos of course had already been invited. Vandeyar and Baradas were now rather begrudgingly included by Jacinda.

“So Mireia will have her hands full,” summarized Jacamar as they walked again for the house. “She anticipated this and is capable. I don’t see the problem.”

“Well—” Put it that way…

“Before you say something that seems ‘chivalrous’, I’ll remind you that I’ve seen her at work. She might be young, but she runs rings around these buffoons. Probably about as well as you can. Besides, I wouldn’t worry about Altan Ordos for much longer. The way I hear it, he’s been covering himself in the opposite of glory.”

“Really?”

“Allegedly, his father suspects him of embezzlement. And then suspects him of throwing away said embezzled funds on laughably bad speculation schemes. And not for the first time. Seeing as the Earl has other more competent heirs-in-waiting, I doubt young Altan will remain relevant for much longer.”

“Huh.” Good news to him. Bad news to Jacinda.

“Allegedly.”

“Right, right.” That still left Vandeyar and Baradas, and more than a few other young bucks. But…she was right. Between Mireia, Jacinda, and himself, surely they could handle it.

For a minute or so they continued in silence and finally the regained the terrace. “Worry about it if you want,” remarked Jacamar wryly. “But it’s a waste of your energy.  Don’t you have your own troupe of hangers-on to fend off? Aren’t the Bendaus attending?”

He groaned and she barked a laugh. He blinked: it always surprised him when she did that. He threw up his hands, giving up. A few steps into the parlor and he unlocked the liquor cabinet. “Come on, can I get you a drink?”

“Knowing the guest list, I’d rather not.”

“Well, then you can watch me drink.”

---

Dinner was served.

Jacinda was enthroned at one end, the hostess in her element. Raúl sat on the other, the default male family member available to fill in for Vidal as host.

The soup was light and unassuming.

"Have you seen the new production of The Enchanted Forest at the Blue Pennant yet?”

“No but I hear it’s sublime.”

Broad hints to him from the Marquise Bendau in the interests of her daughter, “Oh, you really must join us next week! It would be grand if you’d do us the honor.”

The salad was varied and fresh.

Down the table, Mireia was busy fielding the attentions of various young gentlemen of means. Altan Ordos and Hugh Kenric were close at hand, the golden sons of their respective Houses. They were too far away to clearly hear, but every once in awhile he caught a bright bout of laughter from that quarter. Nihal Vandeyar and Kaveh Baradas had places closer to the middle glancing up-table towards the laughter.

The fish course was of lemon-pepper Kaitain sole, buttery soft with a sharp citrus dressing.

As predicted, Jacinda’s inimitable seating arrangements were starting to come into contention. Lord Gulon was five seats down on his right, the man’s gravelly voice intruding to an unfortunate degree, “—the demand for the slave market never goes away I’m afraid. The, let us say, sensibilities of some Houses try to deny it. But the practice is sound and sustainable on Giedi Prime—” Jacamar, four seats down to the left, was asked by her neighbor if she found the fish too tart. She replied in a mild negative and continued to wield knife and fork with frightening efficiency.

The main course was a pair of roast swans, decorated lavishly with patterns of perfectly sauteed vegetables. The elder and younger Bendau were in raptures, Mireia’s suitors and the other guests offered up their more graceful compliments. Jacamar was polite but reserved in her commentary. She shot him a dead-eyed look implying doubtful thoughts regarding the existence of God, the Devil, and possibly the afterlife. He nearly choked laughing into his napkin.

The cheese and fruit course passed like the gas from cattle and the over-ripeness of windfall plums.

Mireia was laughing at something the young Lord Ordos said. But not in the way when something actually amused her. Even he heard her say, “Oh I don’t think you really mean that my Lord.”

And his answer: “Well certainly I meant what I said—”

Before he could hear the rest, Marquise Bendau interrupted. “I hear you play the baliset, Lord Delambre.”

He hurried to nip that bald line of flattery in the bud. “Yes, but poorly to the extreme.”

The younger Bendau fluttered her eyelashes absurdly. Perhaps she’d already had a touch too much of the wine, as it came across more as being in the midst of an allergic reaction. “Oh but I’d love to hear you play sometime!”

The Earl Morotai, seated with his daughter Lady Cahaya, studiously drained his wine goblet. The Earl’s daughter could not quite conceal a look of ‘really?’ and he couldn’t blame her. Raúl forced a genial laugh and insisted, “I speak the truth, it’s rather bad. I would not plague the ears of these good people by playing.”

“Then what has been your interest of late?” persisted the Marquise, “You’re a bright, active young man. Surely you have recent pursuits?”

“Oh yes,” he acknowledged. “Hobbies…” He had so many. But of late? Dodging the marriageable daughters of the peerage. Bedding a former courtesan who was also his long-time friend. Moonlighting as an agent of espionage. None of which were appropriate dinner conversation. He tried desperately divert interest. “I’ve been studying cheops.”

Usually that answer that would earn a comment on its merit and then a swift topic change. Not so with the Bendaus. “Cheops!” declared the mother, “Well now, an intellectual’s game! Do you find it rewarding?”

“Well I—”

“Maybe you can show me how to play?” was a rather coy invitation from the Lady Serena. Raúl suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. He smiled blandly and instead asked the young Lady Morotai if she was a student of cheops.

Not expecting the sudden spotlight, the girl’s eyes grew wide and she froze. He instantly regretted involving her: she was obviously a shy kid and certainly didn’t deserve this. He waited patiently to hear her stammered reply of ‘yes’ and he tried to apologize with a kind smile. The Earl added in his soft-voiced way that his daughter had played since she was five and, with ample pride, that she was a challenging opponent.

The dessert course was a fast-melting ice cream of rose and cardamom.

“Cheops,” remarked the Earl thoughtfully. “I heard the Mentat Jacamar is a fine player.” With a curious eye to Raúl he added, “I believe she is the Lady Mireia’s friend?”

Raúl used the dessert spoon, tiniest and third most ridiculous of utensils, to daintily scoop as he glanced down the table. He couldn’t hear what Gulon was saying, but judging by Jacamar’s tense shoulders and implacable disinterest it could not be good.

Lady Serena spoke up again. “Oh, the former slave?”

His spoon hovered in the air. “What now?” Jacamar wouldn’t have volunteered that.

“Oh.” Lady Serena faltered. And realized with horror that it may be construed as an insult again his niece, and therefore to him. Sheepishly she finished with, “I thought I heard Lord Gulon say.”

God almighty, he thought acidly. Though I expect that’s fitting for any Harkonnen bootlicker.

To his right, the Marquise reappraised the mentat. “Ah. I thought I saw traces of maula. In the bone structure, I should think—”

“Mother—” warned Lady Serena. The younger Bendau at least had the grace to look embarrassed, and tried to cover by saying brightly, “She must have great accomplishments.”

“To be a Mentat for the Atreides,” said Morotai, “you may rely on it.”

Chapter Text

The ice cream had definitely melted.

It formed a sugary pool of pale pink at the bottom of the palladium-silver serving bowl, looking less like a fine dessert and more like a sticky mess. Poking at it with her spoon, the more and more she saw it as a metaphor. For what exactly she was positive she did not want to know.

As anticipated, the offerings at the Delambre dining table were on par with the Emperor’s own. Finely curated and well-proportioned, served handsomely on stylish place settings. The Countess was the consummate hostess, her brother-in-law and daughter genial and conversant and charming. It was a level of manner that was equal to the Atreides household and exceeded them in opulence.

But, in the face of a gathering of humans, such perfection is bound to crack. Sonya was sorry that her requested addition was contributing to the problem. As predicted, Gulon had been a loud, odious prick.

However, Gulon was a distant second when it came to the evening’s most disruptive guest. Delambre had not been exaggerating. Although Gulon had his many smarmy, insinuating, insulting comments that made her itch for kindjal, truly it was the Mireia drama that was featured center stage. Sonya was positioned well enough to hear the dueling flirtations from young Ordos and Kenric, the increasingly cool and detached demeanor of their object, and the rapt attention of their audience.

Despite the Countess’ game efforts to redirect the conversation, the young Lord Ordos has settled into conversation nearly as distasteful as the Harkonnen sycophant sitting in arm’s reach. Altan Ordos was a striking young man in appearance, clean-cut, admirably built, with a dark, confident gaze. Typically charming. But the coolness of the Countess’ daughter had disquieted him. The more coolness, the more he drank. The more he drank, the cooler she became. It was a spectacular positive feedback loop. Perhaps some smitten young woman might think the glow of alcohol and wounded ego in his face becoming, but it was increasingly obvious that Mireia Delambre was no such woman.

“Some of the rabble on the outer edges of the Imperium can be quite tiresome,” Ordos drawled, stabbing out for something to talk about. “All this fuss over that dusty little speck with the worms. If it weren’t for the spice no one would miss it at all!”

There were some general mutterings, but no one attempted a distinct answer. They were aware, as Altan Ordos seemed to have forgotten, that both members of the Atreides and Harkonnen factions were among their number. Especially since there was rumor of a Harkonnen assassination attempt on young Paul Atreides, which she happened to know to be true. Hardly polite to discuss the matter of Arrakis in such mixed company.

He moved on, drinking deeper from his wine goblet. “My father keeps a colony, little more than a stravidium mine on a barren rock. Nothing grows there, can barely breathe there! And yet now the colony administrator is whining for representation in my father’s court! As a House Minor! The nerve. Only my father’s generosity has kept them clothed and fed for years! Better that they should focus on working off their debts and mind their place, I say.”

“Perhaps the miners have a just claim,” casually replied the young Lady Delambre. “As I hear it, they’ve turned a remote installation into a profitable enterprise.” She turned innocently towards her mother. “Surely such innovation and industriousness should be rewarded? Advocacy for their population seems a small price to pay for such sacrifice, wouldn’t you agree?”

Hugh Kenric, a little less handsome than Ordos and a little more sensible, had caught the way the wind was blowing. No longer did he try flirting—not directly at least. But he was happy to pile firewood around his rival’s feet. “I thought I’d heard that the Chulu colony had been experiencing some delays in medical shipments these past few years,” he remarked. “Between that and the delays in equipment upgrades, I think it’s a miracle they’re making any profit at all.”

“A few years…” mused the young Lady. “But Lord Ordos, didn’t you say you had been personally overseeing the Chulu colony these past few years?”

The soup that had been ice cream slopped around Ordos’ roving spoon. Pouting had turned to prideful sulking. “You cannot be a House Minor by wishing it. As much as a House Minor cannot be a House Major by wishing it.” His mouth twitched, eyes flicking briefly over Vandeyar and Baradas further down the table. “Place is determined by God and the grace of his Imperial Majesty. The blood of commoners can never hope for anything more than that.”

"That seems to be a simplistic way of viewing the Universe,” said Lady Delambre. The tones were soft and agreeable, but the ice at the heart of it was disdain. Kenric, satisfied with his contribution, sat back to watch. The Countess was at a loss and, at the other end of the table, Raúl Delambre watched with dark amusement.

“Blood is the simplest bond in the Universe, my Lady,” insisted Ordos, who was still determined to prevail. Not understanding that he had already lost. “Every being of worth is loyal to their kin and true to their lineage. It’s the order of the Universe. A slave is a slave and a master a master.” His words hung in the air, unacknowledged and unreciprocated. Maybe they agreed, but it was horrendously impolite to say such a thing out loud. Seeing no help from his peers, and perhaps finally understanding the depths of his blunder, he rounded desperately to Sonya. “Surely,” he said, “you would agree? The faufreluches exist for a reason. They contribute to the stability of the Imperium. And at the root of the classes is blood. And that can never change.”

Sonya stared back. She cocked her head slightly, studying him. What a spoiled child, an ignorant human. It was obvious to anyone with a halfway-working brain that if there was any natural superiority of Ordos blood it had not been passed to this specimen before her. All she saw in this young Lord was a monumental waste of resources

Without seeing him, she sensed the noxious presence of a similar waste of flesh—my enemy—except in that case it was an even greater waste because he was an older man who had squandered even more than resources. One she had been ignoring yet remained the stinging welt that striped her arm all the same.

Oh, the many things she could say. Instead, she chose something aimed at baiting her trap. She spoke slowly, ponderingly.

“The faufreluches exists for a reason.” A reason that is not entirely sound. “They contribute to the stability of the Imperium.” And also contribute to the ultimate erosion of the Imperium. “And certainly blood is an element in all of our lives.” Whether we want it to be, or not. She paused, letting the silence thrum around her. “And yet, to say blood is simple, that it is static, is a fundamental error. Blood is not fate. If a lord’s son were raised among the maula, afforded the possessions and burdens of a maula, he would be a maula. Blood may give us gifts and curses, but it is one variable of many. All of which are constantly in flux. So I must disagree, Lord Ordos. If there is anything fixed about the nature of the Universe it is this: it never stops changing. You either flow with the process or be crushed by it.” She bared her teeth in a smile. “And blood, however low or noble, will not prevent it.”

A small tinkling bell sounded, and the servants returned to clear the table with graceful efficiency. The swift change obscured the silence badly. But Sonya could not help feeling a smidgeon of unholy glee, however unwise. She could’ve slapped Ordos across the face right then and he wouldn’t have registered it, such was his dumbfounded existential shock.

“Such spirited talk!” quickly cried the Countess as she stood from her place. “I regret to curtail such discourse, but perhaps we could benefit from some fresh air and music. Let us to the terrace!”

With relief the guests repaired to the pleasure garden. The house bards, a trio of a harp, shawm, and hand-drum, provided entertainment. Which gave way to conversation and card games. Sonya weathered it all, using all her patience. If she left too soon it would show her hand.

Then, at the end of another set from the bards, she slipped away from the crowd. The pergola was out of the way but not too far from the terrace, private and sheltered. Cedar beams intricately carved with crenellations and cloaked with curtains of jeweled ivy. Lit only by small glowglobes, the bower became its own world floating in the dark. In truth, much too nice a place for the animal she was baiting. But it had what was needed. Some isolation, a glass-topped table, and two chairs.

It even had a game built in. A simple one, favored as a children’s game on Ardea. Wolf-and-elk. A cruciform set of divots and lines in the table and a bowl of colored marbles were ready for use. Seventeen blue, one red. She wiped down the table and started to set up the marbles.

Soon marbles were moving, skipping over each other. Wolf picking off stragglers by hop-scotching them, elk maneuvering en masse to box in their enemy. Ricochet patterns, cascades. She distracted herself by playing out several scenarios and strategies. Admired the patterns and symmetries that arose. Almost as if they’d sprung forth on their own accord. It seemed so simple playing it out over a table. As if this very game hadn’t been played out with people’s lives every day she lived and breathed.

Sonya heard the steps and hardened herself. “Ah,” not deigning to look up, “Lord Gulon. Do forgive me if I don’t rise to greet you.”

He sat heavily in the chair across from her, the wheeze betraying his age. The microsurgeries and treatments could roll back some years on his face, but beneath it all was still a lazy old man. A constant tonight were his eyes crawling over her. It was the next of many times that night that she’d thought of drawing a blade. “Well now,” he said, “finally a time we can sit and talk. Thank you for this rare opportunity, my dear.”

Sonya raised her gaze from the board. With the barest attempt at civility, “Care for a game?” She watched carefully, measuring.

He smiled. She saw gladiators die in that smile, heard women screaming in that smile. It was a careless sort of thing that said I want and was prepared to make others pay for it. “Oh no my dear,” he demurred. “I don’t play games.”

Liar, she thought. It’s just that you prefer simple games. Ones you can win with a clenched fist or a bigger stack of solaris. Out loud she asked, “Then why are you at my table?”

“You were always a smart girl, Sonya.” She saw it this time, confronted it. His eyes going up and down. Appraising. “And you’ve grown into an attractive woman.”

In the short time she had spent in the Gulon household, she studied. And Gulon would sit at his desk, smiling that same smile as her tutor had her recite some new theorem or manuscript. And she felt that same cold prickle of sweat running down her back. She’d been twelve at the time, hating the attention after all the years invisibly scrubbing floors and bussing tables. Knowing instinctively that there was nothing good in that gaze.

“And I see you’ve come into your own.” He laughed. “I’ll admit, the Atreides trained you far better than I ever could. So…accomplished.” Gulon leaned forward, elbows resting on the table.

She didn’t like this angle or tone. In her boots, she clenched and unclenched her toes, needing to do something.  

He continued, “That’s what all these good nobles call their daughters. Accomplished. Well-read, well-bred. What they mean is ready to be married, of course. But you? I daresay you are far more accomplished than they will ever be. Fit for a place of power.” He gestured grandly. “And I would be happy to give you that.”

Silence. Surely…no. Is he that conceited? Or think I am? “You…” Sonya tried again. “You offer what exactly?”

“Oh, you see it. You remember the estate. Was it not comfortable? You would be a queen there. The power of my House in your hands.” His eyes glinted. “And while the Harkonnens are distracted with their silly vendetta and their spice, we could take Giedi Prime. Make it ours. Make it better. As my consort.”

The hubris astounded her. If it had mass it would’ve pulled moons into its orbit or stars into its black maw. Her scar burned, her fingers itched for action. “No.”

“Think about it—”

And unfortunately she did. It hung there like a noose. Or a pool of blood spilling onto the floor. Rage spiked the nausea swirling in her stomach. Curdled it. “I said, no.” She could hear her voice rising.

“But—”

“You killed my mother.” It was a statement. A fact.

He blinked. “Did I?” His brow pulled together, trying to recall. Finally he admitted, “I don’t remember that.”

“Of course not.”

Why would he? It’d been over twenty years ago. And to him killing a slave was nothing, really. Just disposing of defective property. But she remembered. Sitting in that same cold-sweat office, reciting Giedi Prime’s epic drivel The Tragedy of Abulard when the officer of the watch entered with news. He had a slave out in the hall, a female. Identification G-97232. She had tricked a guard and even managed to break into the surveillance hub before being caught. Her tutor Fedras excused himself: he got anxious whenever violence seemed imminent. With a sigh Gulon pushed himself away from his desk and followed the guard into the hall, discussing the inconvenience. Young Sonya rigid in her chair, listening. That was her mother’s number.

Did she say why she had broken in? No, she wouldn’t say. Any priors? Yes, two strikes. The guard suggested an interrogator. Gulon sighed, muttered something like ‘waste’. She heard the scrape of steel leaving a sheath. Her mother’s voice, cursing and defiant, and the sounds of guards grunting to contain a struggle. A sucking wheeze, a heavy fall.

In the office, a leaping nothing shivered in Sonya’s chest. Not knowing what she did, her hand impulsively grabbed something off the desk.

And then Gulon re-entered. Wiping his hands and kindjal clean with a handkerchief.  Entirely unbothered. He told her to start again.

And she did, droning on. It hardly seemed real, surely it had been staged? In the high drama she had been forced to memorize recently, something like this seemed to be part of that. Be methodical, Dror had said, as they’d brooded over a crude cheops board. Check your assumptions. And in the back of her mind she hoped she was wrong.

She was not. Later, risking punishment for being out after curfew, she found the corpse in the refuse room ready to be taken away by the burn-men. And all she had left in the universe was herself and the stolen metal in her hand.

“Well…” Gulon was still searching for something to say. Must be awkward to realize you couldn’t remember killing someone, someone suddenly of importance. “If I could bring her back, I would my dear. If it meant—”

 “It wouldn’t matter,” she spat. “You’re not listening. No. As in not under any circumstances would I be your wife, concubine, mentat, your anything.”

“Don’t be so quick,” he flashed. “My offer now is generous. Atreides is on a knife’s edge. Ready to fall. I’ll have you soon enough, and then the choices will only be service or death.”

“Either would be better than Lady Gulon,” she snarled.

He lurched to his feet, livid. Planted his hands on the table, palms down, leaning over her. His instinctive move for dominance, she’d remembered, to lord over and impose. His meaty breath fouled the perfumed air. “You’re so smart 3-3-6,” he hissed, “and somehow so stupid.”

She did not move.  

Finally, he pushed off and left. When she was sure he had gone, Sonya remembered to unclench her hands, her jaw, her gut. Many deep breaths, a mantra or two. It was old anger, still as raw and scorching as the day it’d been born. But it had given her what she needed.

Over twenty years ago, it had dared her to steal a penknife off a master’s desk. Her first tool needed for escaping a planet.

Tonight, it had given her the right and left palmprints of the Lord Gulon. Her last tool needed for breaking a palm lock. 

Chapter Text

The rest of the evening was damage control.

Raúl occupied himself with the task of isolating and sobering up Altan Ordos. Between that and Jacamar succeeding in luring Gulon into the gardens, the mood lightened. Luckily for him, managing drunk or otherwise unruly people was something he had great practice in and out of court circles. Still, it did require close attention. Ordos had gotten to the grabby phase of inebriation, which made checking on the mentat impossible.

He didn’t worry, really. Jacamar could handle herself. In the past few months he could list several occasions in which she had incapacitated men twice her size with a few well-placed blows or joint manipulations. The bridge of his nose remembered that.

Finally, an agitated Gulon returned take his leave from Jacinda. He did not rest quite at ease until he noticed Jacamar re-materialize on the terrace. Mireia found her a glass of wine and a lone seat on the edge between the music and the card-players. When the girl hurried away to be pulled into another conversation, Jacamar quaffed half the glass in one swig. The tightness in her shoulders smoothed a touch and she heaved a sigh. She caught his stare through the parlor’s bay windows and nodded minutely.

Well, at least something had gone right.

Because, even as the awkwardness and excitement had dissipated and the mood of party mellowed to one of pleasant distraction, he could feel simmering. Jacinda and Mireia saw to the needs and entertainments of their other guests, the perfect hostesses, plying them music and games and charm. But though mother and daughter worked deftly and efficiently, they were taking care not overlap each other. Which meant they were actively avoiding each other.

Eventually groundcars were called for, lords and ladies departed. And hardly had the door closed on their last guest when the simmering boiled over.

“By the Great Mother, what the hell is going on?” Jacinda could evidently wait no longer.

Mireia, with the last of the evening’s smiles gone, was on the defensive. “It’s not the end of the world, mother. Besides, we wouldn’t want to be accused of being boring now would we?”

“Boring? No, insulting our guests isn’t boring. What got into you?”

“I tired of his boasting.” For a slip of a girl, she did sound tired and looked it. She kicked off her heels but would not sit still.

“Tired? I taught you better than that!” Jacinda was pacing and close to throwing sparks. “Where are your manners, young lady?”

 “Now hold on.” If he didn’t curb this soon this was going to get out of hand. “Ordos was leagues worse. Droning on about blood…kull wahad. He guzzled enough wine to drop a troubadour. I had to physically stop him from dipping into the liquor cabinet. Where were his manners?”

“If a guest spits in our faces we call it rain!” She rounded on Mireia again. “Besides, he wouldn’t have drunk like that if you hadn’t acted like—”

Mireia huffed. “Like what mother?”

“Like—like you weren’t interested—”

“That’s because I’m not interested in him! He’s a boastful fool.”

“That may be! But this is the court, Mireia! Put Altan Ordos down like that—who has charm and position and wealth—and what benefit is that? They’ll turn on you, call you shrewish, spiteful, graceless! Then what are your chances?”

“Jaci…” This was going a bit too far. What Jacamar had hinted was already coming out in pieces. If Kenric and Mireia knew some of those pieces, then it wouldn’t be long before Altan Ordos’ worth crumbled completely. Mireia’s words might’ve been ill-advised, but he could see no meaningful damage. In fact, it might work to her advantage.

“This is your fault!” she jabbed a finger in his direction. “You’ve been encouraging her! You let her invite that Baradas and his friend! I told you I was going to talk to Vidal and we were going to make a decision on that. But no! Where were you? I trust you to watch out for her!”

The retort he’d had ready stumbled. The lingering taste of wine felt old and acidic in his mouth. Like bile.

“Where were you?” she repeated shrilly.

“I—”

Hundreds of kilometers away from where I needed to be—fast enough for me but too slow for them—

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you had me in invite that Gulon leech…”

—acting on instinct here when it would’ve better served there—

“…and that Mentat…”

“Fault?” Mireia found her footing and rallied. She was truly angry now. “If there’s any fault it belongs to me. I made a decision. I’m not a child, mother!”

“Act like a child and I will treat you like a child!”

“Treat me like a child and I’ll—”

"Enough!” he cut in.

They both stopped abruptly, taken aback by his sharpness.

He shoved the thoughts aside the ones clamoring for now now now and ignored the sweat on the palms of his hands. Later. He forced a slow, deep breath. He said, “I think we can all agree that things could’ve gone more smoothly. But believe me, it could’ve gone much worse.” He let that sink in for a second. Then, “We’ll talk of this in the morning, all right? When we’re not tired and snappish? And then you can feel free to plot on how best to feed me to the Bendau hunting-cats.”

That brought a half-laugh and a smirk. Not a great showing, but he’d take it.

The next day the principal errors were apologized for all around. But Raúl could not help feeling that something had shifted. In the next meal at home, where the upcoming social calendars were reviewed and chinked with even more events in between, Jacinda was almost…reluctant. Fewer opportunities were offered, and they were offered more carefully. And though Mireia always concurred, as she had done before, she considered each of them carefully, too. As if neither of them had wanted to challenge the other.

Perhaps they feared what it would mean for the other to do so.

The day after that he was lucky enough for a timely diversion. Even if he was once again crammed into the passenger seat of a surveillance van. “When is he supposed to leave for the evening?”

Jacamar checked her watch. “Probably after five minutes after you stop asking about it.”

He thunked back against the head-rest. They were sitting three blocks away from the Gulon household and watching a remote feed from a spyeye aimed at the front gate.

“You want to go over the plan again?”

“Not really, no.”

“I see.”

Outside it was nearing full dark. In the neighborhood he heard the drone of groundcars near and far, the faint song of nightingales, wind in the oaks. Very peaceful. Why did it have to be suspicious when something was too peaceful? He sighed. “Have I thanked you for shutting down Ordos and his stupid mouth?”

She shrugged. “You needn’t. Not exactly subtle, was it?”

“Unfortunately, he was at the stage where subtle probably wouldn’t have worked. It worked at least.”

“Not well enough. I take it from your irritating sighs that there’s been fallout of some kind?”

He debated changing the subject. Or employing the Mentat’s own talent for silence. But then, when did that ever work? “Do you ever get the feeling that you’re doing more harm than good?”

From Delambre, it was the strangest question Sonya had ever heard. But he seemed serious, so she treated it seriously. She considered it carefully. “Sometimes. We’re not superhuman. Even the best Mentat can’t anticipate every possibility and predict every possible outcome.” This idiot, for example. Certainly he’d never been in her calculations for collecting data from the Rejani embassy.

“Does it ever get better?”

“No. Well, yes, after a fashion.” She checked the spyeye display again, still nothing. If she’d arranged for Karras’ team to put on their show for nothing Blake would have her ass in tomorrow’s intelligence briefing. “Are you familiar with Domar’s Paradox?”

“Let’s pretend I’m not.”

“The general paradox is simple. It observes that people that have the most confidence in a subject are typically those who really only have the bare minimum of understanding in that subject.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s more complicated, of course. Those with a high level of understanding are less confident, but once they verge into expert level they regain confidence. Not as much as the moron, but it becomes more bearable. In short, a little knowledge makes you arrogant, a lot makes you doubt, and an insane amount makes you skeptical.” Essentially, that was a Mentat’s life in a sentence.

She couldn’t see him well, but she could tell he was smiling. “So, you’re saying there’s hope for me, yet?”

She snorted and smiled herself. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Probably for the best.” He leaned forward. “Looks like he’s out the door.”

He was right. The spyeye feed showed the automatic gate opening and Gulon’s groundcar cruising down the driveway.

Sonya exhaled her relief. “All right, we wait a few minutes, and then it’s a go.”

When she was sure Gulon wouldn’t double-back, it was a matter of exertion, angles, and skill. Exertion to haul herself over the fence and vault over obstacles. Angles to use trees and decorative objects to block the estate surveillance’s view of her approach. Skill to bypass the mid-tier security system the third-floor guest room window. Once inside it was child’s play to evade the movements of the servants. Another minute on the office door lock and she was inside.

Gulon’s office. He’d adopted the style of the capitol here. Baroque filigree, sumptuous rugs over polished marble floors, Ecaz or Ardean wood furnishings. She flipped up the rug and, from the slingbag from her back, pulled out the palm facsimile. It had taken nearly two days to produce even with ibn-Wobiha’s help. But she admired the work. Palm locks incorporated the surface variations like fingerprints and palm lines, but also the internal arrangement of veins, arteries, and the fine detail of capillaries. This replica she pressed to the palm lock of the safe, holding her breath.

The mechanism whirred and clicked. And unlocked.

She exhaled. In the safe there were a number of objects. Baubles, high-value stacks of solari notes. And a databook marked with the Harkonnen Information Bureau seal. She settled into her semi-hidden position behind the desk and dove into the data, automatically flicking pages as she absorbed it a piece at a time. A river, a sea. With some time she might even be able to use that alone to crack a route into the Harkonnen embassy. But one step at a time. But what she wanted was there. Times, dates, shipping manifests, schematics, duty rotas, budgets, flight paths, access codes. All for a location in a low-trafficked area on the outskirts of Harko. A location with closed-security, excellent storage conditions, and until recently a steady stream of incoming cargo shipments.

She replaced everything as it had been. Reversed her course out of the house and the grounds. And, for the first time in weeks, she felt hopeful.

“Karras has been keeping them busy in the warehouse district,” remarked Delambre as she climbed back into the van. “Did you get what you need?”

“And more,” she said. “Looks like I have a raid to plan.”

Chapter Text

Never did the sun truly shine on Giedi Prime. By day the sky was a brown smudge, by night a darker smudge lit indifferently by the glare of industrial white glowglobes. She’d known it—remembered it— and yet somehow it was not the same as experiencing it again in all its drabness.

It was night now. She flew the small cargo ‘thopter over the sprawling slums and warehouses, mentally occupying herself with maps of escape routes and contingencies. This plan she had been working on non-stop for three days. It had gotten Hawat’s personal stamp of approval.

It had better work.

“You ready for this?” Duncan asked at her shoulder.

Sonya forced her grip to loosen on the control yoke. “The ‘thopter’s clean. I have the codes. And I’d be a fool to doubt your team.” She didn’t turn, but in the angled glass of the cockpit she could see behind her in the hold the four Fremen who’d volunteered. In meeting them on the Guild heighliner she’d been struck by the immediate impression of competence. A deadly brand of grace, no wasted movement or words. They accepted her on Duncan’s account, but remained watchful. She’d done her best to rein in her curiosity, asked them no questions and bore their scrutiny patiently. Guerillas fighting under an eighty-year Harkonnen regime, on an already brutal world, certainly deserved that respect. But she was curious to see how these new allies would perform somewhere out of their element.

Duncan snorted. “Not that. I meant this.” He waved his hand over the cityscape below.

He’d been back here on missions before, but this was her first time since she’d left. She thought again of the implant in her palm, something she did with disturbing frequency these days. Its presence was a small and bitter comfort, but at least it was some comfort. “More ready than you,” she growled.

Below the grid of factories and slums and pipelines stretched on. Freight trains plodded along in predictable lines, small and toy-like at this height. Removed like this, it was easy to forget that people lived down there at all. But she could see them in her mind. The freeborn using the streets, soldiers on leave drunk or high on semuta and stumbling against the walls. The slaves using the narrow alleys, the in-between spaces and corridors built to make them even more invisible to their masters. Those liminal passages where trash missed by the burn-men belonged to the rats, cats, and dogs. And, perhaps, it belonged even to slaves. If it could be said that a slave owned anything.

It's better seeing it from up here, she thought. The people are just memory and supposition. From up here all it’s just architecture and urban planning. Insights into the design of a hell.

"You didn’t have to come,” said Duncan quietly. “You’ve already done more than enough.”

Sonya took a breath, eased the control yoke to compensate for a freshening cross-wind. “I would’ve been back here sooner or later. Better to face it, right?”

He sighed, watching the lights below. “Yeah.”

“Besides,” she said, “if I’m not here then who’s to stop you from fucking up?”

He barked a laugh and chucked her on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit. We’re in and we’re out. Don’t go looking for a white dog in Harko and we’ll be fine.”

She bit back a retort on the nature of ‘fine’ and instead warned, “Hold on, I need to call in the landing approach.” Flipping on the comm, she traded the growl for a bored tone of the everyday freighter pilot, “Red Tower, this is Hopper Five-Alpha-Six requesting clearance on east loading dock.”

A pause, and then the Tower crackled back. “Reading five-by-five. Code in Five-Alpha-Six.”

“Coding. Viper-Seven-Seven, tower.”

Silence. In the ‘thopter, all were listening. Sonya’s heart was threatening to beat out of her ribcage. Then, “Clear for landing Five-Alpha-Six, go ahead.”

She let out a breath. Between the ‘thopter from their spies on Giedi Prime and Gulon’s codes, they’d passed the first test. She began making adjustments for their descent—

—and winced when the comm crackled again. “What’s your name, sweetheart? You’re not Olga.”

He didn’t seem suspicious. Just a lonely guard stuck on the tower late shift, hoping to hit on a freighter pilot. In true Harkonnen stupidity, women weren’t permitted in the military. Even as ‘thopter pilots. But they couldn’t turn away the utility in using them in domestic flight duties. With few career options here other than wife, servant, secretary, or nurse, the robust female corps of Giedi Prime pilots had gained a bit of reputation. In her mind’s eye she flicked through the record of the craft’s usual pilot, Olga Peron. It provided some inspiration. She said, “Name’s Markov. Olga’s out with a touch of redeye. She’ll be back on tomorrow, or it’s her ass on burn runs.”

“Aww, I don’t get a first name?”

Off comms she heaved a sigh. “Duncan?”

“Leave the man out to dry, ‘Markov’.”

“Fine.” On the channel, with something like a purr in her voice, “But then you wouldn’t have anything to look forward to, Tower. Better luck next time. Out.” She switched off with more vehemence than perhaps was warranted.

Duncan chuckled, patting her on the shoulder. “I do believe you’re getting better at that. Had a little practice on Kaitain, have you?”

“Shut up.”

He just laughed harder and strapped himself in for the landing.

The approach was smooth, easy as a feather on the breeze. Once the ‘thopter was powered down, she hopped out and made nice with the duty clerk that came to meet them. With the stolen workman’s coveralls on her and the team, the clerk didn’t bat an eye. He followed her up into the cargo hold to confirm the manifest’s crates of spice. He never saw Duncan’s blade coming.

“Twenty minutes,” she confirmed, checking her watch. The men nodded and dispersed like shadows, each shouldering a backpack of explosives. While she kept watch with the ‘thopter.

Minute five. Nothing seemed amiss. No shouts or sirens or running. Not that she could tell much from here. The entire cache was underground, accessible only by freight elevators. In theory it made the facility more secure. In practice it created the conditions to turn a thick-walled building into a soon-to-be kiln.

Minute ten. The same. She eyed the tower protruding from the north side of the compound, its tall sides lit by floodlights and roofline needled with an antenna array. She tapped her foot. Sideris was a bad influence. She missed the whisper of the comms, but here in the heart of the enemy camp they could not risk even that. Anything strong enough to work underground would attract the notice of the Harkonnen Information Bureau. Even with an encoded channel, it was too high of a risk here. So she had calculated.

Minute fourteen, the first of the Fremen, Nazir, returned.

Minute fifteen, Roshim returned.

Minute sixteen, the Fremen leader Larus returned, Duncan on his heels.

Minute twenty. And the last Fremen, Kuron, was unaccounted for.

Larus and Duncan discussed their options. They had some time for a recovery. The timers for the detonators wouldn’t go off for another thirty minutes. But the more time they spent here, the greater the chance of none of them leaving this planet.

She looked within, reviewing facility maps, guard patrol routes, duty rotas, delivery times, etc. Kuron’s route was not the longest, but it did require the most evasions of guards. If he’d had to divert, she knew where he would be. “I’ll bring him back,” she stated, interrupting them.

Duncan furrowed his brow. “Where?”

“It’d take longer to explain than to do.”

Larus looked doubtful, but Duncan only asked, “Time of return?”

“Ten minutes, tops.”

“Then go. Nazir, go with her.”

Down the stairs, darting across open spaces, slipping through chokepoints as fast as she dared. Kuron had been tasked with the rigging up the auxiliary generators and communications nodes in the common areas, the upper levels. In her mind the passageways branched and flowed, the entry route she’d plotted versus the evasion routes available to avoid patrols. The common areas by the offices…that was the problem. Late at night this facility ran on a lighter crew, but it was still a considerable amount of activity. Coffee breaks, restroom breaks. Procrastination and chatter. The last target was at the base of the tower, where the communications hub was centered. Unfortunately, it was also across from the mess hall. And from what she could hear ahead, a trio of soldiers were gabbing away right across from the hub door.

It was a delicate position. A fight there and there was a chance one of them could make it through the adjacent tower door, throw the lock, and set off every alarm from here to the Baron’s men. Past them, she could just make out Kuron peering around the corner, waiting for his opportunity. She signed her plan to Nazir, who affirmed.

She would be the diversion. She could get close without them wondering about the color of her eyes. She looked the part. She took a deep breath, telling herself, I belong here…I belong here…

Sonya walked up, casual as could be. One of them caught her movement and looked around curiously. The other two turned to see.

“I’m looking for coffee,” she said, “Ulrich said I could get some around here?” Ulrich being the duty clerk. The dead one.

She must’ve been a damn sight more intriguing than their normal, circular talks about upcoming arena fights. They ushered her out of the corridor and into the mess hall. Perfect. It gave the Fremen time to finish and gave her control of the engagement. At closer inspection it seems one was a tower comm officer, the others were guard patrol pair 6 on their break.

“You’d be Markov, then,” surmised the comm officer. “Japrinka said you were filling in for Olga. I’m Zukov,” he grinned, showing a mouthful of shiny teeth.

She forced herself to assess. He was well-fed, in the way that anyone born into the soldier class is bound to be. They had best pick of food, housing, healthcare, women. But he lacked the scars and the attitude of a front-line man. Clearly he’d never been in action. The kindjal and shield belt around his waist seemed ornamental at best.

But observation bled over into experience. She remembered cleaning up after people like him. Those who dumped their plates onto the floor to make the slaves scramble. Who kicked them aside as if they were insects. Anger flickered, smothered fear.

She smiled back.

“And this is Savar and Belsin,” he continued, pointing to one guard and then the other. At this point they were interchangeable, more of a threat with their bearing and their gear of shield belts, kindjals, slow-pellet stunners, and longswords.

Savar asked, “You usually on late shift runs?”

She shrugged, trying to keep herself loose and relaxed. Even as she kept her stance balanced and ready. “Yeah. Never made much difference to me.”

“Not a bad run, is it? Pays good, even if Olga complains. Thinking of staying on?” Belsin beat Zukov to the samovar and handed her a full mug.

She hummed her thanks and sipped at the oily brew. She didn’t bother trying to hide a grimace. “Could be better.” She gave a sly smile. “A little sugar goes a long way.”

 Zukov was quicker this time, passing her the sugar bowl, spoon, and answering smirk. “Sugar we’ve got plenty of, especially for lovely freighter pilots.”

She set down the mug and turned half-away. With her right hand, she ladled in sugar. With the left, she checked for any obstructions for the slip-tip. Ninety seconds had passed since drawing them into the mess hall. If the Fremen were worth their water, it should’ve been plenty of time for them to set the last bomb. She knew, with certainty, that she could kill all three of these men before they could land a proper strike. But she wanted to see how the Fremen would do. Divide the effort and compare the results. She tried a neurolinguistic suggestion. “I’m sure you do,” she purred. “Wish I could stay longer, but I’m on a tight schedule.”

At the word ‘schedule’ Savar, apparently the more responsible one, checked his watch. “So are we,” he said regretfully. “Come on by again, we’ll treat you properly.” He elbowed Belsin, and the two of them left for the dim-lit corridor.

Zukov grinned at his apparent luck. He looked her up and down. “Japrinka said you sounded pretty. I don’t suppose I could beat him to the gate and ask you to breakfast?”

“I’ll think about it.” She was listening for signs of a struggle out in the corridor. But there was nothing over the whine of the glowglobes and environmental systems. Impressive work.

“Aw, can’t you do better than that?” He took a step closer.

She sipped her coffee—still quite bad— and then set it down again. She sighed.

A twitch of her left wrist. Pivot. Strike. The slip-tip punched between the ribs, into the heart. Precise application of angle, placement, force. Helped along by a potent hemotoxin. He was dead in eleven seconds.

After he’d dropped to the floor, Sonya replaced the blade with care and dragged the body to the storage closet. Right on cue, Kuron and Nazir hauled in the dead guards and stacked them likewise. And then they were out, making their way to the surface double-time. They arrived to the platform with forty seconds to spare.

Duncan was at the rear door of the ‘thopter, hurrying them inside. “We’re going?” he asked.

"We're going.”

By the time the hoard went up in smoke they were already halfway to the spaceport. By the time military and emergency staff responded on scene they were on Guild property. On the shuttle ride to the Guild orbital station they could see a bright flare piercing the gloom of the northern sector of Harko, wilder and brighter than the neighboring power stations, factories, and crematoria.

When it came to parting ways in the terminal, the uneasiness was catching up to her. The maybes of If I had planned it better mixed with fear, triumph, disgust, vindication. Asking herself that question of whether she had really had to kill, or if she preferred it that way. She pressed her fingers to her temple and forehead, willing the incoming headache to go away.

“Well, at least we had fun this time, right?” Duncan quipped.

“If I’d had to come back to this hole I’m at least glad you considered this ‘fun’,” she grated.

He rumbled a laugh. “Any day above ground, Sonya. Any day above ground. You’ve got more fun on Kaitain waiting and I’ve got mine on Dune.”

She nodded. “You watch yourself, Duncan. It’d be damned embarrassing if you let a worm eat you now.”

His face went pensive for a moment. “It’s a hard place but… hell, Sonya. I think you’ll like it there. Once we shake off the ticks it’ll be a good place. Harsh sometimes, but beautiful.” He tilted his head. “I’m more worried about you. Got a lot of vipers in that nest.” He raised an eyebrow. “That dandy giving you any trouble?”

“No more than usual.”

“You giving him any trouble?”

Kull wahad he was fucking predictable. She groaned, “Duncan, there’s an airlock about twenty meters away with your name on it. Don’t tempt me.”

He laughed and hauled her up into a bone-crushing hug. “All right then, I’ll be seeing you. Give ‘em hell.”

“Same Duncan, same.”

Chapter Text

“I shouldn’t have served the brandywine.”

Raúl and Jacinda had just left having lunch with the Moritais. Mireia, exercising her newfound veto power, had gone her own way after to visit Lady Cahaya and their friends to the university. And Jacinda had returned to one of her favorite pastimes: fretting.

“At the dinner,” Jacinda was saying. “Too potent. I should’ve chosen something milder.”

As Jacamar had predicted, Altan Ordos’ reputation had crumbled like old shortbread. As Raúl had predicted, Mireia’s put-down of him had not damaged her reputation in the slightest. She’d seen through him before his peers had, and now she was lauded a young lady of character and insight. Jacinda was still recovering from the shift.

He shrugged. “It wouldn’t have helped.”

“Maybe not. But it’s not just Ordos, you know. You said the Bendaus were being more foolish than usual. Right in front of the Moritais.”

“So?” He knew why it bothered her, but he wanted her to admit it. Ah, seating arrangements. It’s never just about the conversation. At least in this case it’s not another Mireia-related thing for her to obsess over.

“So….” She vacillated, searching for an excuse or a diversion. “Now Moritai’s slowing down those negotiations on those new power cells. Dreadfully boring stuff, I’ll not go into it.”

“Power cells?” She was really reaching. “Do you mean the Kuasa 45s or the Memaksa 11s?”

“The—” She looked up from her communicator. “The Kua—the first one?”

He raised his eyebrows.

She tsked, frustrated at the both of them. “Really, Raúl, how do you keep track?”

"I read the fine print in Tygath’s not-so-brief briefings. So how about you not keep doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Power cells?” he drawled. “Is that what you’re calling me now? I take it Moritai’s not too concerned I’ll be snapped up by the Bendaus any time soon. Plenty of time for him to re-evaluate my suitability for his daughter. The deception isn’t necessary, Jaci. Though I suppose I appreciate the attempt to make this all seem ‘natural’.”

She looked so defeated. It was a little adorable, actually. She sighed. “I suppose there isn’t. But I do wish you would take this all seriously.”

“Why? There’s little strategic advantage to marrying me off.” They’d achieved stability on Ardea and trade was good. They had more power and wealth than most Houses Major. Certainly they could, and would have to, grasp for more. But he was far enough away from succession now—thank the merciful God—that it rendered the idea of a political alliance practically null. “I can only assume you mean to match me for my Own Good. But really, do you think I’m likely to fall head first for some young woman just out into the world? Who’s the same age as my niece? Really, Jaci?” He laughed sourly.

She threw up her hands. “You can’t blame me for trying. The older the candidates the more complicated it becomes.”

“Oh, I’m well aware.” ‘Complicated’ being code for ugly as sin, crazy as a cross-eyed witch, or hopelessly snared in political entanglements. The few youngish, merry widows out there were spoiled for choice and in no rush to remarry.

They listened for a moment to the hum of suspensors and the traffic outside.

“Raúl, you do know I want you to be happy. Right?”

Not this again. First Lucasta, now Jacinda. Must it be a theme to doubt that anyone could ever be content in his position? Finally smiled and said, “I know.” And he did. She was his sister. By marriage, maybe, but ultimately was more of a sister than Anais had been. She could be a little dramatic and a little frivolous sometimes, but she had a good heart and it showed. “And I appreciate it. What gets less appreciated is the execution. You understand that what you and Vidal are the exception, not the rule? Picking out what matches look good for us on paper isn’t likely to equal what you two have.”

He used the ‘us’ because, much as she was fond of him, he knew he wasn’t the main worry she was having right now.

“Well, when you finally decide on what you’re looking for, tell me. Please?”

“Of course.” He did not elaborate that he was quite certain he was not prepared for or seeking anything she would consider ‘suitable.’ But it was harmless to let her think otherwise. “But Mireia’s the one who needs to hear that, not me.”

She sighed, looking out the window. Summer afternoon rains had started pattering the windows, overriding the traffic noise. “It’s hard becoming a spectator in her life,” she said. “Harder than I thought it would be.”

He snorted. “Well she still needs us to lean on, don’t worry. But she’s right: she’s not a child anymore. We have to trust her to make her own decisions.”

And to her credit, not having Raúl go along as chaperone this afternoon had been Jacinda’s idea. The young people wanted to visit some of Cahaya’s and her brother’s friends in the university district. A safe enough venture. There’d be eyes and respectability enough for an outing in that sector. She agreed and they began on other topics.

Relieved of those duties, Raúl found himself with an ungodly amount of time to waste. Certainly he could’ve employed it any number of worthy activities. Reviewing his finances, his correspondences, his reports. But the rain made him restless, somehow. That and the ungentle reminder of a missive from Vidal—yet another vacant position for the Minister of Immigration that he’d be happy for Raúl to fill—prompted him to action.

Unfortunately, Jacamar was off-planet and had been unable to say why. He could guess, though. From the general exhaustion and the bitter smell of rachag from her coffee, it was obvious she’d been working non-stop since the break-in at Gulon’s residence. Tensions between the Atreides and Harkonnen had, in Raúl’s lifetime at least, never been higher. Despite Duke Leto’s best efforts it was clear that Arrakis remained unstable in the transition. So if she was no longer on Kaitain she could only be heading to two places: Arrakis or Giedi Prime. He hoped for her sake it was Arrakis. He was used to the secrecy, but it still irked him. Watching her nonchalantly slaughter him in another cheops game at the park before she’d left, he’d joked—complained?—that he never got to do anything fun. She’d stopped mid-move and glanced up at him, that rare look she gave sometimes that he couldn’t quite name. And then she gave a tired smile and assured him dryly that she’d brief him upon her return. And so that waited.

He messaged Nenna, who replied glibly that he really needed some more hobbies.

And so he was left with the salle. Which he supposed, given his mood, was not the worst idea.

The embassy’s salle d’armes was rather empty that rainy afternoon. Punching training bags and running drills passed the time ably enough. The vague notion of hunting for a sparring partner was beginning to set in when he was interrupted. He blinked sweat from his eyes. “What?”

It was one of Tygath’s aides, Jagneaux, nervously standing at the edge of the mats. “Sire,” he said, “Master Tygath requires you in his study.”

He could certainly tell him to tell Tygath to go to hell—he was sorely tempted—but from the tone and carriage of the messenger he thought better of that impulse. Though Tygath often intruded, he did not often demand his presence. Something’s wrong, he thought. He ran a towel over himself for the worst of the sweat and went straight up to the Mentat’s office.

He knocked and entered. And was greeted by the troubling sight of Tygath, his aide Clements, the security chief Ankar, and four of Ankar’s staff. “Is there a problem?” he asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

The question was ignored. “When was the last time you saw Lady Mireia?”

Don’t leap to conclusions. It was a calm voice eerily similar to Jacamar’s in his head. He voiced the obvious answer, as Tygath obviously had access to their official schedules.

“Have you heard from her since?”

The needling feeling, the one that pricked more sweat up his spine and tension in his gut, began tightening its grip. Calm was slipping. It took a great deal of discipline to calmly pluck the communicator from his pocket to check. No new messages from Mireia, though there was one from Jacamar, a note that she’d returned. Again, an odd question. He knew for a fact that Tygath monitored his communicator remotely, at least when it suited him. He replied in the negative.

“Have there been any strangers left unsupervised within the Hall?”

Again, Tygath would know this. There had been the infamous dinner, with Moritai, Bendau, Ordos, Jacamar, Baradas, Vandeyar, Gulon, and all the others. They’d followed standard procedures and security had ensured that no one left the Hall and gardens to venture to other parts of the embassy, but beyond moderate security in house they’d been unable to maintain supervision of every guest at every moment. They’d also had a breakfast with House Wikkheiser yesterday, and a luncheon with House Alman the day before, but those had been relatively tame by comparison. His mind sought for a pattern, trying to fill in the gaps and trying to prepare him. In the room next door that served as the office for Tygath’s aides, he now heard a woman crying. He lost his patience, or maybe his courage. “Tygath, what the hell is going on?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with,” was the sneering response, the Mentat being his dismissive, airy, haughty self. The baoding balls clacked and chimed in his hand. Around him, the stern faces of the security staff told a different story. “As you might gather,” Tygath continued, “we’ve had a security breach. A rather serious one. It is quite possible it was able to be enacted because an outside agent had details on the Lady Mireia’s schedules, habits, and modes of transportation.” His mouth twitched contemptuously. “I recall you neglecting some of my advice in that arena. Though I am still collating data. Have you had any unusual messages or requests for meetings?”

“No, no.” It was not quite a lie. But now he wondered at the most recent message, the seemingly benign notification between…friends? Whatever the hell they were. Jacamar, he’s getting at Jacamar. That she could’ve…done something. Or at least allowed something to happen. Something with…no. They were allies, at least. But doubt seeped in. A little, but it permeated like the burnt ozone from an overcharged shield. And there was his father’s training, and Tygath’s, that said: be suspicious of motives and gain and access. She had said she was off-planet. And he had assumed her strain recently had been Harkonnen-focused. But what did he actually know? He knew, without a doubt, that she would put the Atreides order above everything. He tried sorting out the panic, the dread, but the claws sunk in deep. It was an old feeling he’d hoped would fade away. He hated it. Especially when it was aimed at nothing. But now he picked it up, channeled it. I have to be sure. I will be sure. “Tygath—”

“Your involvement would not be helpful in this matter,” the Mentat cut in. “Answer the questions—”

“Tygath.” The room went quiet at that word, that command. “Tell me.”

And, that bastard, he did.

Chapter Text

Transport between Giedi Prime and Kaitain was an inexorable series of waits and changes. It didn’t matter that she traveled under a different identity and papers, the direct route to Kaitain was still too scrutinized. Instead she had a stopover at Draconis IV and then a delay at Tarahell, and between all the loading times, customs lines, and security checkpoints Sonya was afforded many flavors of mind-numbing tedium and fragmented rest.

But she had promised, so upon returning to her barracks room on Kaitain she messaged Delambre. Grimly she reviewed Silverbren’s last affirmation: she’d tracked Ardas last known whereabouts to a seedy end of Butcher’s Row and had asked ibn-Wobiha to pick up the trail. Sonya could only assume the kid was dead. She sped-read the rest of the surveillance reports, took a shower, and napped fitfully. Some time later her communicator trilled. A meet was set at the Elysian Club, which made sense. It was raining at her window. Sometimes they met there if the weather was poor. Which worked perfectly. She was monumentally hungry and could use a potent drink. She threw on some civilian clothes and was on her way.

Delambre was already at one of the private dining rooms. “Have a seat,” he said, “let me pour you some wine. How was your journey?”

She shut the door, slumped into a seat, and kicked off her shoes. That last was an indulgence. She’d been living in those shoes for days now. And the perk of a private room is that no one actually cares about footwear. “Arduous, but auspicious,” she mused. She glanced around, seeing a remote for a cone of silence. “Shall I?”

“Go ahead. They’ll ring when the food orders are up.”

Sonya clicked on the device. Instantly the low conversation noise of nearby rooms died away, leaving them in an island of amplified silence. The few sounds within the room—wine glugging from the bottle, Delambre’s shifting feet on the carpet, and the creaks of her chair as she leaned back—all seemed unnaturally loud. To fill the space she continued, “With the intel we recovered at Gulon’s estate I was able to find the Harkonnen spice hoard. I planned it and our strike team turned it to ash. Hopefully it will set back the Harkonnen timetable. I’ll take a year but it should give us five. Might even give us ten, if we’re lucky.”

"Then congratulations are called for!”

She picked up the proffered cup and idly swirled the ruby depths. The mission was over. That was the most dangerous part, of course. Tired, strung out, waiting for the enemy’s next move. She had made her play, cut out the reserve wealth that had been squeezed from an eighty-year control of the most profitable substance in the Known Universe. The Harkonnens were rich from many sources but that hoard would’ve been their emergency currency. Take that away and they had nothing to fall back on. It should be enough to sabotage, in the very least, their ability to pay the horrendously exorbitant military transport rates imposed by the Spacing Guild. It should make it too risky to attempt such a maneuver.

It should. But then should was such a fragile word. She thought of that lone Sardaukar walking along the riverside and wondered.

But the next move was for tomorrow. “I hope so.” She looked up. Delambre was still standing, holding his own wine goblet. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to bring you in on it. Hawat’s orders.”

Delambre nodded. “I understand,” he drawled. “Orders are orders, aren’t they?”

She stopped, the goblet halfway to her lips.

Orders sounded wrong coming out of his mouth. In fact, several things seemed wrong here. The false cheer in his voice as he’d invited her in, the stiff gestures as he’d poured the wine, him remaining on his feet. It was a sickening moment in which she mentally ran through every concealed weapon on her person. Twice.

The most dangerous part is when the mission is over, she berated herself.

She put down the goblet carefully, studying him. “Is there something wrong?”

“You might say that.” The voice was level, the posture ready for a fight. She searched the set of his jaw and the ice-chip stare for clues.

“What’s this about?” Sonya’s mind clicked through possibilities, as far as she dared without losing the moment. This was anger. She’d never seen Delambre so angry. And in check, too. It was so foreign to her that it seemed fake. Like a facedancer. A wild surmise, but not impossible.

When he lunged at her, a kindjal appearing in his hand, she was almost too slow for it. She was out of the chair and on the other side of the table in an instant.

“Tell me where she is or I’ll gut you right here.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Delambre.” Without registering it, she’d flipped on her shield belt and drawn steel.

He shoved the table across the room, blocking the door. She tried to use a split-second of eye-flicker. Too slow. He knocked the kindjal from her hand and shoved her against the wall, blade to her neck. He didn’t notice the slip-tip in her left hand, poised centimeters at the exposed brachial artery of his upraised knife-arm. Every impulse was screaming at her to finish it now. But she held off. Because he wasn’t a facedancer. The weight was too close.

“You should’ve drank the wine,” he gritted through his teeth. “Would’ve made the interrogation easier.”

‘She’…it could only be a handful of women to justify this. Assuming it’s no trick.

“Lucasta?” she forced out. No. “Mireia?”

“Don’t—” His control slipped, just a little. “Tell me.” The edge of the kindjal pressed down harder. She could feel the sharp pressure. The slightest shift in angle and it would start parting her throat.

She ran through possibilities. Mireia must’ve been taken. And somehow he thought she was involved. Pointless to tell him again she’d been on Giedi Prime. That she’d just been grateful she had gotten to leave her old prison behind. She pushed back on his forearm, trying to give herself space to breathe. “I don’t know. Because I didn’t take her! Who said I did?”

“No one—”

She guessed. “Tygath, then. He implied it. He’s good at that. He must’ve wanted you out of the way while they worked on it.” If she had been in less danger, she would’ve laughed. Instead she choked out, “A good bonus for him, to take me off the board.”

She saw doubt crack the ice. But it wasn’t enough. She could feel a sting and a few drops of warm blood sliding down her neck. Heart rattling wildly. White-knuckled grip on her hilt. Kill him now—

Against every self-preserving instinct, going all the way back to the girl with the penknife, she forced her fingers to open. The slip-tip clattered to the floor. And she eased off her counterpressure from her bracing arm, ceding resistance.

There was an eternity. Infinite spiraling loops of meaningless calculations fuzzing just beyond her conscious thought. She watched the suspicion contort to disbelief, to deliberation, to judgement. And, eventually, to shame. The weight eased, the knife withdrew. He looked… well, he looked like he was at the end of his rope. Shakily, kindjal returned to sheath. And he sat back on the tabletop. “God Almighty…I—I—”

“Stop.” Her voice cracked on the word. She forced herself to take a deep breath and prodded at her neck. Her fingers came away red but the wound wasn’t deep. It’d clot on its own, but she pulled out her handkerchief anyway. Another breath, another mantra. Reset. New day, new problem to solve. “All right, tell me everything.”

“But—”

“When did it happen?”

“Three hours ago,” he said dully. “Tygath is looking, they’re tracing the car that took her.”

“Ransom?”

“That’s hoped for. But nothing so far, at least since I left the embassy.”

“Any suspects?”

He looked at her like she was crazy.

“I meant besides me.”

He rubbed his face and sighed. “Look, I can’t talk about this. I already fucked up once today. The bastard’s right, I’m not in a position to think clearly on this.”

“But I am.” Internally, she amended that with, Or at least, think clearer than you. “And I’m offering my assistance. I can already guess some suspects. I’m sure there’s heavy consideration of that Baradas. Though I think much more likely other Houses Major, to discredit her as a rival. Or generate blackmail. Or force a marriage contract. The list goes on. Is Tygath hunting Kaveh Bararas?”

“Tygath will handle this fine.”

She snorted. “If you thought that you wouldn’t have gone after me.”

He exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself. “Fine. Yes, of course he’s looking for Baradas. There were signs left behind that pointed that way. And he hasn’t been located. But…he doubts that’s the whole story.”

“Hmm, I can guess.” She looked within, running down the possibilities in sharper detail. She plucked out one of the stupider ones. “Let’s see. Now that Atreides is in a fraught position, alliance with another Great House may be needed to counter the Emperor’s plans. But unfortunately no Great House will have the body parts required to take a risk and ally with us.” Delambre bristled at that, and she eased off. It was true and they both knew it. “But lo, disaster to House Delambre! The Count’s first-born has been taken by their old enemy! How fortunate that an Atreides should be available to offer their assistance! An Atreides that is an intelligence gatherer, who would know everything needed to anticipate such a move and recover the lost daughter! Surely honor must be restored! Unite the two houses by wedding the first-borns and all shall be well!” Her mocking ring went flat. “Something on that level?”

“Well—”

“I suppose it is a possible plan,” she said. “If I were an infant. But believe me, I’ve had my fill of melodramatic drivel. You have any idea how ridiculous that is? It would take a thousand chances, too much time, and probably not work.”

Delambre’s pocket beeped. Quickly he dug out the communicator and checked his messages. He tensed.

“What is it?” she asked.

He hesitated again. Oh, it was definitely related to this madness.

She grunted. “She’s my friend too, you know. Make a decision, idiot. Tell me to leave or let me help.”

He handed over the communicator. On the screen was a ransom demand using the old forms, calligraphy and all. Or at least it seemed like a ransom demand. It had all the requisite words and forms and timelines.

But the details…to Sonya it smelled like an amateur. Or perhaps a set-piece.

Delambre grumbled. “They can’t possibly expect that I keep this to myself.” There’d be that old cliché: tell anyone and the girl dies. That the funds must come from Lord Raúl Delambre. The truth was that House Delambre wouldn’t have shared this to anyone if they could help it, not even to the Emperor. It would’ve been an admission of weakness and invited more opportunists. Someone with experience wouldn't have bothered to write that down for this audience.

She shrugged. “You have a reputation for going rogue, here in the Court. Someone less experienced might assume you’d take this upon yourself.”

“Less experienced?”

“Yes.” She pointed out the deadline, glaring up at her with its silly loops and swirls. “With this long delay in sending this to you, this deadline is too short. Eight in the evening? Ransoms take longer than this to verify and release the funds. Whoever wrote this either doesn’t understand that or doesn’t care. And here,” she tapped rapidly, looking at the data in the sent log. “This address string is badly concealed.” She looked within, untangling the algorithm. “The address is for a university. Looks like Baradas’ personal number.” She handed the communicator back to him. “You should send this to Tygath right away.”

Delambre frowned. “So more signs to Baradas? That seems too obvious.”

“It is,” she said. “It’s not Baradas. I’d bet my teeth on it. But someone wants it to look like it’s Baradas. Which is why I’m going to find out what happened to him.”

“Tygath hasn’t been able to track him.”

“Tygath’s been focusing his efforts on Mireia, not Baradas. You already said Tygath didn’t believe Baradas was likely. And though Tygath is formidable, I suspect I have access to information he doesn’t in this aspect.” Her mind flashed to a particular report that had read not an hour before. “I’m sure he suspects. But I know. Tygath’s not been watching House Rejani as closely as Atreides has in the past few weeks.”

He blinked in surprise. “You know where he is?”

“No. But I know where to find someone who does.”

Chapter Text

Sonya knew that the nature of the Universe was connectivity. Pull at one strand of a thing and it’s tied to everything else. Space could be folded and heighliners could simply be in a new place because this was so. People, if anything, were a concentrated example of the same. Mireia Delambre was missing. The next logical step was to interview their relatives and friends and last points of contact.

And while Jonas Tygath would naturally to focus on the Lady, Sonya thought it would be more productive to follow the other missing person. Kaveh Baradas. While she agreed that Baradas seemed unlikely to be the perpetrator, she had a line of occurrence pinging in her mind telling her he was still an important piece.

Which is why they were climbing the front steps to Ophelion Hall. With her running on a second wind of rachag and antifatigue pills. Sapho would be better, maybe. It is by will alone I set my mind in motion, it is by the juice of sapho the thoughts acquire speed…

But the lips acquire stains and by hell the stains became a warning.

This is enough, she thought, steeling herself. Better to have control than speed. It is enough because I say it’s enough…

“Remember, I’m the knife,” she said aloud. “Don’t do anything stupid.” She knocked on the door. A glance to Delambre showed his retort be bitten off with a twitch of his jaw.

The door-guard answered. “Good day, what business brings you to this great Hall?”

“Tell the Duchess Ophelion that the Lord Delambre and a Mentat are at her door. As to our reason for being here? She will know.”

Vague and threatening was her intent, and it was felt. The door-guard looked to one of his fellows, who carried the message away. The remaining three stood eyeing their visitors on the front steps. A few tense minutes later, the messenger returned and they were beckoned inside and shown into an empty parlor.

The Duchess appeared, her yellow day-dress fluttering in her wake. She tried a gracious smile and pleasant greeting. “This is an unexpected pleasure, Lord Delambre. Is there something I can assist you—”

“Nihal Vandeyar,” interjected Sonya bluntly. “We need to speak with him.”

The Duchess was affronted, her mouth agape and poise interrupted. Sonya watched as the woman smoothly reformed her serene countenance. With the smallest bit of reprimand she replied, “I wasn’t aware you spoke for Lord Delambre, mistress. I believe we met before, are you not the Mentat Sonya Jacamar? Pray tell me what is your—”

“Don’t test me,” said Sonya, her tone sharp and officious. Rudeness to cut through the niceties. “I know he’s here.”

Lucasta Ophelion was a noble certainly, used to power and command, but much too gentle for this. To Sonya it did not seem an affectation when she withdrew into worry and doubt and looked to Delambre for some reassurance. Sonya hoped he was up to the task.

“It’s important,” he said, the words stumbling out.

There was an awkward silence.

Kull wahad, idiot. He was usually good at this. She played the one part, he the other. The knife and the wine, the push and the pull. Sometimes they flipped it for variety—it was good training for her—but he’d been honing the charisma for a very long time. If he can’t manage that now—

“It’s important,” he said, again. Sonya blinked but resisted the impulse to glance sideways. She heard the turn in his voice. Earnest, steady, soft. “Please, Lu.”

There’s the wine, Sonya thought with relief. To her calculations the Duchess either knew the whole tale or knew enough of the tale to understand that, for the sake of House Ophelion, pleading ignorance of it all was the smarter move. The knife would not sway her, the wine alone perhaps could. But better to fuse the two and be sure. Sonya watched as the Duchess wavered a moment, then nodded. She retreated and in a few moments they all sat down with a very anxious young Vandeyar.

Sonya had reasoned it. Nihal Vandeyar had been seen entering the Rejani Embassy in great agitation. In less than ten minutes he had left again, still agitated. Her supposition? He had seen or heard something disturbing related to Baradas and had been told to hide in a less obvious place.  With his cousin, on more removed ground. The question was, how much of this business was he aware of?

“We need to ask you some questions,” she said. She deliberately left off titles, the less to remind him he could still hide behind rank. “We think something happened to your friend Kaveh. Do you know what happened?”

“I don’t know where he is.”

A little too fast. And he’d skipped to ‘where’ rather than answering her question ‘what’.

Delambre caught it, too. “Nihal,” he said. The young man’s eyes darted up, fixed on Delambre. “I give you my word, I’m not looking to harm him. If he’s in trouble, we want to help him. But to do that we need to know everything.”

“I—I don’t know for certain.”

“Then tell us what you do know.”

It was a stop-start of a narrative, but straight forward enough. He and Baradas had a standing arrangement that day of the week to meet for a late lunch after morning classes at a café off campus. Vandeyar had been delayed, but a server showed him to a table saying his friend had just stepped away for a minute. Five minutes had dragged to ten. Impatient, he’d gotten to check the restrooms. The door to the back alley was cracked open. He looked out. In a puddle was one of Baradas’ notebooks and broken syringe. And then he’d recognized some House Delambre security in the streets. He picked up the notebook and syringe and fled.

“I didn’t know what it meant, I just panicked,” admitted the young lord. He was trying to hold himself with some semblance of dignity, but all Sonya saw was a scared kid. “Kaveh, he’s been worried recently.” He looked back to Delambre again. “He…he thought that it was weird to be remembered all of a sudden. That maybe the invitation was a trap of some kind…because of his family.” He hurried to add, “He felt bad about thinking that. I know he thinks very highly of the Lady Mireia and he told me he wanted to trust you, my Lord. But you understand…”

“I understand, Vandeyar.” Delambre smiled a little. “My niece…well she’s been reminding us that we had a glaring blindspot in terms of hospitality. She wanted to fix it. Quite abruptly.”

Sonya was half-listening at this point, recreating the scenario in her mind. Markers were present for stress in Vandeyar, but nothing that suggested deception. “May I see the notebook and syringe?”

The spine was worn from long use, pages newly rippled and muddied. The notes themselves were of hydrodynamics: formulas and laws and diagrams of flow. The handwriting was small and neat. Marginalia included doodled lines and waves. It told her more about the writer than how it had ended up on the ground.

The syringe was with the Ophelion security chief, so the Duchess had a guard bring it in to them. The make was of common supply, an inferior quality. Unreliable to the point where operatives, even those wishing to stay undetected in the gray crowds, would steer clear of it. Leaving it behind was also an amateur move.

“My security chief tested it,” said the Duchess. “There were traces of a sedative, dueroline.”

A banal choice. Could be purchased from black market dealers on the street, or stolen from a pharmacy. Common. But sedative suggested that at least indicated that Baradas was still alive. Although Sonya suspected that it wasn’t the kidnapper’s plan for him to remain so. She asked more questions, specifics on whens and wheres. Compared it to Mireia’s timeline. He’d gone missing before Mireia. A fact that could be damning if it was spun a certain way. But to Sonya it made sense to remove the one who would be less-missed first. And all the better to set him up. She had a strong feeling who it could be, but were they truly getting outside help? Captures usually meant accomplices.

“May I ask…” Vandeyar hesitated.

From beside him the Duchess picked up the query. “Can you tell us what is going on?”

Raúl sat there, thinking. The fewer people who knew the better, that would be Tygath’s view on this. And he was probably right.

But Tygath liked a cleaner board, fewer pieces. People complicated things. Kull wahad, Jacamar complicated things just sitting there next to him. Why did I stop? he thought.

Tygath was right to be suspicious, at least in theory. Jacamar was dangerous. Raúl had had ample opportunity to observe just how dangerous in the past few months. The slip-tip that had clattered to the ground: she had chosen to drop it. Proof that she’d improved. That if she’d wanted to kill him, he’d be dead. Another outsider, a spy, a zealot. Another damn Mentat who knew too much.

She’d been right, it hadn’t taken much from Tygath to nudge him after her. Just a few words and a few things left purposely unsaid. He’d set a trap for her, a poor one, and fallen into it himself. Proof that fear and ingrained training could unseat the habit of years and so-called growth. Back to almost going too far, because he’d let the fear parade about unchecked. It’d convinced him that she would tell him what he needed to know to fix this. It’d convinced him that she was his enemy.

Why did I stop? He needed to remember this, understand it. Because he could not say why exactly he’d changed his mind and shouted down the fear.

Next to him, Jacamar shot him a look. One of the many neutral ones she possessed, but this one said ‘your call.’ She was giving him the choice on how to respond, because this was his mission.

Was it because she trusted me to stop?

Maybe. He didn’t know much, but he knew that Jacamar was a friend. Time to find out who his other friends were.

He signed to Jacamar, watch left. The smallest gesture was her acknowledged. He would watch right.

“My niece was abducted this afternoon.”

He had done this the wrong way at the Elysian Club and skipped straight to accusation. It should be a test. Will they have honest or manufactured reactions?

He watched Lucasta. Soft coffee skin, a few more lines around the eyes and mouth than years ago. Different, but the same. And saw the reaction, disbelief to shock to horror. To pity. Genuine. Another friend. “Great Mother,” she breathed.

“Oh—” was the tight gasp from Vandeyar. “Oh no…”

“You understand, then,” he said. He glanced at Jacamar, saw her sign ‘true’ for Vandeyar. A third friend, good. He followed then with, “She’s being held for ransom. And it looks like Kaveh Baradas is being set up to take the fall for it.”

Lucasta was looking between him and Jacamar, brow furrowed. “But, who? And to what purpose? Surely money is not the true object.”

“We don’t know,” said Jacamar. “But this must remain secret. Do we have your word?”

Lucasta’s mouth firmed into a determined line. She nodded. “It is sworn.”

The young lord gaped, still trying to take it in. “I…I do give my oath.” As he said it, it seemed to sharpen him. He squared his shoulders. “Lord Delambre, I’ve failed my friend. If there is anything I can do to help…”

“Be ready for the rest of this day.” Raúl stood, and a half second was followed by Jacamar. “I may need your assistance. But first we have work to do.”

Hurrying down the outside steps, Jacamar finally spoke up. “And what is it we’re going to do?”

“Whatever we can.”

“But Tygath—”

They ducked into Jacamar’s groundcar. “Yes, Tygath.” It’d been bothering him, the communicator. If he knew Tygath, he’d be monitoring the communicators of all the Delambres, for safety. Why would he ask what he already knew? He tapped the hard metal case in his pocket.

“I’m not telling him about the ransom. Because he should already know. He monitors my comms. He should be dragging me in for the prep work. But he’s not. He used the phrase ‘security breach’. The last time there was a ‘security breach’, it was a mole.”

She cursed. “And you’re just remembering this now?”

“I know, I’m an idiot.” And to be fair, this time he’d really been one. He should’ve gotten that: Tygath communicated almost exclusively through disdain and hints. He’d have time to be ashamed later. “Point is,” Raúl said, “he didn’t know that when he aimed me at you. But now I can play this two ways. One, I flail around like an imbecile and do this on my own. I make it to the meet. Meanwhile, Tygath will have a team of people he trusts ready to shadow the ransom exchange and swoop in on the perpetrator. He doesn’t trust many people, so it’ll be a very small team. Maybe too small, but it’s all he can afford to risk. He’ll send the rest off to run down other leads.”

“And the second way?”

“I call him. And tell him I’m bringing my own team in to help. And maybe between both teams we can do this.”

She tapped the steering wheel, eyes rolling white. “If you mean Karras and his people, I’m sorry they’re already in the field. If you mean your team, you’d better start praying.”

“You don’t think it could work?”

She got out the driver’s seat and walked around the car. There was that flash of feral, a flicker in the eyes. “Out. Drive. You find them, I’ll run calculations. One way or another, we’re going to fucking make it work.”

Chapter Text

“I’ll admit it,” Raúl muttered, “this is the one night that I could do without excess drama. And what am I doing? Going to the goddamned theatre.”

It was a beautiful summer evening. Cobalt blue skies, the twinkling of hundreds of tiny glowglobes, and a tunnel of perfumed jasmine overhanging the Blue Pennant Grand Theatre. Out front he could hear the raucous crowd out front chattering, the ticket-sellers, hawkers of opera glasses, flower girls, and the whole parade necessary to make it through the door. But here at the quieter side entrance reserved for nobility and their guests he only needed a flash of his ticket and a nod to the doorman to enter the venue. The attaché case full of solaris he carried went entirely unremarked.

He was trying to think of this as a business exchange. That was the work of ransom. Business. That it happened to deal in the lives of loved ones was incidental.

Now if only he could convince the strain from his shoulders and the tingling sense of wrongness out of him.

“You? Looking for a quiet night on the town?” crackled Jacamar’s sardonic voice in his ear. “That’s a first.”

“Cut the chatter,” was Tygath’s rigid retort.

Raúl exhaled something like a laugh. In the hall he passed Nenna, who was chuckling.

An uneasy alliance had been reached for the ransom exchange. Tygath ran his team of eight, focused on recovering Mireia and positioned outside and inside the theatre. Jacamar oversaw the rest—Gabe, Nenna, and Zarae—who were to provide security immediately around Raúl. Tygath had threatened, in his most venomous and oblique way, to eviscerate any of the amateurs involved should they fuck up. In that moment the ‘amateurs’ had looked to Jacamar, who’d only hummed in reply.

“We’re in position,” was Jacamar again. “Get to your box.”

“Right, right.”

The elevator let him off on the fourth floor, where private boxes were the rule. The family had one reserved for the season anyway, which was probably why the abductor had chosen the theatre for a hand-off. The curtains were drawn, which gave him the privacy of checking every seat and corner. Under one he found a note.

He read it aloud, stomach churning. “‘Leave the package in the box alone at intermission. Draw the curtains. We will know if you do not.’”

“Be wary,” Tygath said. “The box is bugged if they’re even semi-competent.”

He hummed, shoving the note deep in a pocket. He settled into his seat, touched a button, and the curtain drew back revealed the theatre’s vast interior. Gilded, baroque ceilings, lines of private boxes, and below the murmurs of an impatient crowd. Within a few tense minutes the stage curtain rose and the play commenced.

The overture flowed in bright, clear notes, and a chorus of Bene Gesserit witches set the scene amid a swirl of scenery. Raúl was familiar with the tale. A land in turmoil. Its kindly lord ousted by his wicked brother. The lord’s daughter held captive, his household scattered and fled into a strange wilderness. Brother against brother, oaths taken and broken, schemes for escape. Intrigue, comedy, romance, drama, and a skirmish of wits all played out on the stage. Brilliant performances, engaging story, marvelous effects. But given the night being what it was? Insufferable. As the lord’s daughter, her cousin, and a hapless troubadour tramped off into the woods for intermission he was tempted to shout: Finally you long-winded hams!

Another punch of the button and the curtains cocooned the box. With one last glance at the briefcase, he left the box and made his way to the private parlor for refreshments. Every scrape of a fork on porcelain and peal of laughter grated his nerve. Every instinct was telling him to march back to the box and strangle whoever came to make the pickup.

Evidently he was easy to anticipate right now. He heard her voice again, “Steady on, idiot. We’re watching…” Then, “Rook, you see it?”

Gabe cursed briefly. “It’s a shell game. Two servants with food carts inbound. If I bump them now it’ll blow the whole deal.”

“Rook, stay in position. Knight, move to position 2.”

Raúl smiled widely, set down his flute of champagne, and began weaving his way towards the door. He was closer than Zarae.

Fingers snaked their way around his elbow and clamped down hard. Nenna was there with an easy smile and a steel grip. “M’lord, I must introduce you to this fascinating gentleman.”

In his ear, “‘Fascinating?’ Hold position, idiot. Bishop, disable him if you have to.”

“I insist, m’lord.” Nenna tugged at his elbow a little but did not move. He could tell she was nervous but she hid it well. What he would give for a scrap of her composure right now. With meaning she added, “Come along, the drama will be resuming soon enough.”

He relented. Not gladly or gracefully, but he did it. Tried to ignore the flurry of comm chatter in his ear as he made conversation with a very enthusiastic Alman lord about the gossip of this mistress or that scandal. Nenna drifted away, keeping her eyes open and conversation fluent.

“Lord Delambre!”

He turned to see two glittering ladies sailing towards him: the Marquise and Lady Bendau. Kull wahad, just what I needed tonight…

“I’m wounded!” cried the Marquise, in a tone that was petulant and far from actual injury. “My Lord, you promised that you would come see The Enchanted Forest with us, and now instead you are all alone in your own box? For shame!”

He gave his best charming smile, the one that blunted the mother’s disappointment and nearly melted the younger Bendau into a puddle on the marble floor. “Ah, you well know I promised no such thing. I’m afraid prior engagement and duty have called me elsewhere, ladies.” Distractions, I need distractions.

“Oh but perhaps all can be forgiven!” continued the Marquise. “We have space in our box, you must join us!”

“We shall be shattered if you do not, sir!”

He dug around for a sufficiently flowery excuse. “I’m afraid I’m not good company tonight. Truth is I’m honor-bound to wait for a friend. In the meantime I must not let the dark cloud of my mood dampen your combined radiance.”

In his ear, “Bishop, you see?”

“On it.”

“But perhaps we can cheer you up?” was the simpering reply from the young lady.

A passing server stumbled in the Marquise’s side, disrupting the conversation but saving his tray of drinks. The faux pas was loudly protested by the ladies and the poor server babbled his abject apologies. In a trice Nenna was there to steady the Marquise and soothe her bruised ego, allowing the befuddled server to escape.

“Well I am glad that you and your wonderful gown have escaped harm, Marquise Bendau. I was coming over to say to the Lady Bendau that the new sculptor at the Nova Exhibition had arrived! He’s a shy fellow, but I’d be happy to introduce you to him if you wished.”

Direct hit. Nenna knew—because Raúl knew and had told her—that Lady Serena Bendau was quite enamored with the arts and with this sculptor’s work in particular. He was a young, elusive prodigy who’d caught the girl’s eye. Perhaps it was because when she’d winked at him across the exhibit hall the young man had blushed like a high mountain cherry and scuttled into hiding. Lady Serena’s interest shifted instantly, “Mother I’d like to—”

“Oh, of course dear.” The elder Bendau was distracted herself, drawn away by sight of some late-arriving notables.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

A chime sounded at the five-minute warning, dispersing the crowd in the parlor and driving them all back to their seats. It took every gram of discipline in him—however little that was—to keep a leisurely pace back to his box. We can make it through tonight, he thought. We have to.

As expected, the briefcase was gone. In its place, a new message, which again he read aloud. “‘She is in box 15. If you do not wait until the end of the play, she is dead.’”

He looked out across the theatre. The corresponding box appeared vacant, its curtains had been drawn before and remained that way now. On the stage below, disguised lovers met in an enchanted forest.

He swore under his breath. “If I don’t get to kill someone after all this I’m going to be pissed.” But he settled back into his seat, idly watching the back-and-forth below.

“She’s not there,” Tygath said in his dry voice. “But she’ll be nearby.”

How do you know? Did you check? What if you’re wrong? What if she’s already—

“Hold,” said Jacamar, her voice quiet in his ear. Almost as if she were there next to him, instead of crouched in a storeroom, in a vacant box, or even on some rooftop like a gargoyle. “Just hold on, idiot. They’ll find her.”

There was a rapping at the door. “Lord Delambre!”

Not again. It was not the Bendaus, but just about as tiresome.

“Answer it,” said Tygath.

Really? But he did.

“I—” Altan Ordos had his fist upraised, about to knock again. His eyes darted around, and behind him the last of the crowd slipped away. “I’m sorry about—”

“Forgiven,” Raúl said curtly. “If that’s all then—”

“I need to speak with you privately.”

Raúl flexed his fingers impatiently on the doorjamb. “Then we can make an appointment another time—”

“No, now.” The tone was firm.

“Oblige him,” ordered Tygath.

Why? I am about to strangle this asshole and you want me to humor him?

“Just do it, King,” Jacamar agreed.

He beat down his impatience with a crude club, messily and without much art. He sighed. “Very well, step inside.”

“Thank you.”

Raúl did not bother acknowledging the nicety, just closed the door behind him. “What is it, then?”

“Well I—” He avoided Raúl’s glare. “I hoped to speak with your Lady niece. Is she meeting you here tonight?”

“No she’s not.”

“Is she well?”

“Yes, of course.” He hoped so. If she wasn’t then it would be time for some knifework.

“Oh.” There was a long pause. “Forgive me, Lord Delambre. This is quite irregular. But I’d heard something strange.”

“Here it comes,” said Jacamar.

Raúl’s stomach turned, a glimmer of a realization. He hid it. “What do you mean?” he prompted.

The young man looked—feigned—embarrassment. “There was some university gossip. There was some upset in the university district this afternoon, and I heard the Lady Mireia’s dinner plans had been cancelled at the Tombe’s tonight. If that was all I wouldn’t have thought twice but I…I’d heard some other things.” He paused for effect. “But, as you say, she is well.” He bowed and made to leave. “Forgive me, I’ll leave you to—"

“Wait.”

The young man stopped, alert. Expectant.

“You see him?” Tygath rasped. “Play along.”

Oh, I see him, Raúl thought. Knowledge is power, and at that moment he knew that Altan Ordos was poised for manipulation. The boy was a silver-tongued fool. He’d prepared a gambit that would make him the hero, turn around his fortunes. It might save his reputation and by extension his debts. Maybe even win him rich dowry.

In Jacamar's words, an amateur.

You’re waiting for me to duck into the snare. And I’m going to do just that. He let the stress leak more into his voice. “Tell me. What did you hear?”

He caught the relief, the hint of relaxation in Ordos’ stance. Now that the boy’s trap had been sprung. “A few days ago, I was in the residence hall and I overheard Kaveh Baradas. It sounded like he was…I’m not sure but it sounded like he was planning something. I didn’t catch much, but I heard ‘Mireia’, ‘Blue Pennant’, and ‘exchange’. Then he missed evening classes today…and then all the other news…” He shrugged. “It just seemed to line up in a strange way. I thought—well it doesn’t matter.”

“You thought what?”

“Well…I thought it could be…well, a ransom.” He was looking over Raúl rather closely. Raúl let the silence stretch. Until finally—

“What if it was?”

The young lord’s eyes widened. Because that’s what surprise is supposed to look like. The boy gulped, and it was almost comical. “Then I’d want to help, sir. It’s not much, but I remember him saying to Vandeyar something about a card room, called the Jagged Star. It’s right across the street.”

Chapter Text

Got him, thought Sonya. She was on the move, slipping from her position in the loft space above the boxes and sliding down the ladder.

In her comm Tygath said, “Team 1, cordon around that building. Team 2 not in play, shadow King. King, watch for weapons.”

Ordos, like all young men of the Emperor’s peerage, wore kindjals as a right of their station and a matter of evening adornment. Doubtless the young lord had a plan for it tonight. Play the hero, save the damsel, kill the villain. Not so dissimilar from the story gracing the stage.

Oh for the plans we mortals make.

Zarae was following servant one. Ibn-Wobiha, servant two. That left it to Nenna and Sonya.

“Ready, Bishop? You’re to follow.” Sonya peered out into the empty hall, then hurried along. She needed to be ahead of them, in the street before they emerged. Nenna would trail them. 

“Bishop switched positions with Knight,” was Nenna’s reply. “We figured you could use Knight more for this part.”

Even better. Sonya found the window and the drainpipe to slide down. In a matter of seconds her feet hit pavement and she had melted into shadow.

Calculations pressed upon her as she watched for the two men to emerge. Ordos and Delambre would leave via service door, a back-alley entrance. The few hours of prep and the knowledge of the drop-point had allowed the schematics of the location to be etched into her mind and into her team. Silverbren had been a new factor, but she adapted quickly. Zarae and ibn-Wobiha knew Sonya’s methods and followed suit.

Timing, this comes down to timing. Will he have a lookout he can give a sign to? Or have a signaling device on his person? They’ll need to make sure Baradas is conscious and unbound, but still impaired.

Now that they knew—not guessed but knew—that Ordos was involved, the particulars jumped into focus. She listened and looked within, trying to pin down the one path. Probabilities ticked regarding accomplices, building layouts, resources, travel times, drug dosages, restraints.

The door creaked and her eyes opened. A shift—a movement?—left down the alley tripped her up briefly. But a quick glance revealed nothing. Instead she breathed, and waited for the approach.

She heard the twinned noise of hushed conversation, in the earbud and growing louder to her own ear.

“I think it must be the third floor.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. I think the fire stairs will do nicely, don’t you?”

“Team 1?” she whispered.

"We’re closing in. King, delay him.”

“Wait,” Delambre said aloud. Ordos swung around to look back at him, caught in a sliver of glowglobe streetlight. His left hand was poised on his shield belt, but not near the belt actuator.

Could there be a trigger there?

Delambre continued, “They might be watching that way. We check all the entrances first. Then I decide.”

The hand dropped from the belt. “All right. See you on the other side.” The two split up, circling the building cautiously.

The rear door of the theatre nudged open, revealing the face dancer. She signaled them to follow Delambre. She tracked Ordos.

The streets and alleys were not entirely empty. Every length or so there was a cluster of flower-sellers counting profits, a kitchen boy taking out the garbage, the alternating hum of groundcars and strains of a baliset from a pub. But there was more than enough shadow and noise to hide her.

“Red to White.” One of Tygath’s men to Tygath. “Found targets. Appear to be alive, bound, unconscious. Northeast corner apartment, third floor, in bedroom. Two guards in living area, armed with stunners and shield belts.”

“Breech with stunners when ready, Red. Secure targets.”

A flicker shot through her. Saw the entry point, four-man team with slow-pellet stunners—

“Breech—”

She could almost hear the splintering of the door, the puff of the stunner darts, the drop of the bodies. In front of her the young lord trotted along, varying pace but not paying enough attention. What a cocky little bastard.

“All secure. Targets alive and drowsy. One guard superficial blood loss, one unmarked. Both unconscious.”

“Good. Remove all. We’re pulling out—”

“Wait.” She had an idea. She was picturing the room, the scene. It was a gamble, but it may be worth a week’s worth of interrogation. And seeing as this was Kaitain and they would likely have to let this lordling go, it could be worth it. “White, I have a chance to trap the subject. Let me try it. Knight and I will meet the team up there, immediately. Knight, use east entrance.”

"Going—”

"No, we withdraw. King, let him lead, act baffled, part ways. End.”

As Ordos he rounded the back of the building, Sonya stepped to the corner and watched. The young man, once bouncing, was now affecting a furtive, watchful air as made the final approach to Delambre.

“Let her try it. That’s an order.” It was hardly above a whisper, but the edge was there. She hadn’t heard that tone before. It was authority, it was focused.

It worked.

Reluctantly Tygath ordered, “Team 1 hold position one minute—"

She bolted, launched herself at the lifted fire escape stairs to pull it down, and whipped up the flights. She kicked in the door and met Zarae at the corridor at the northeast corner apartment. And entered.

Tygath’s team stood ready. Two had Mireia and Baradas in fireman’s carries, two remained at ready with stunners drawn. The guards were sprawled on the floor where they must’ve fallen, one with blood flowing freely from an arm wound. Their shields had clicked off. Around them were the empty quarters of a midway-through-remodeling apartment. Here a paint-spattered chair, here a stack of cans. In the next room, a bedroom, more cans, more paint, and drop-cloths aplenty. There were still the impressions of where the prisoners had laid, sack-hoods and binders left abandoned on the ground. Her mind recreated the tableaux of what had been here minutes before.

She would put it back that way. With a few adjustments of her own.

“Knight?” The face dancer perked up, eyes bright. “Do you want to play a part? It won’t be terribly imaginative, I’m afraid.”

They grinned. “Do I?”

“I’ll need the Lady’s shoes and the young man’s jacket.”

-----------

Three minutes. Below in the street, Raúl gamely stalled by arguing entry points. In his earpiece came a few hurried directions for the plan. Simple shock value. The art was there, but it would also need performance. Almost there, he thought grimly. Mireia is out. She’ll be fine. I hope. Now we clean up.

He helped Ordos drag down the eastern fire escape, let him lead the way for this bit. He wanted to keep him where he could see him. He wanted to use his kindjal. He wanted this fool to beg for his life—but later.

The apartment door was broken. Ordos stopped in his tracks, confused.

Curtains rise.

Raúl pushed past him, kindjal drawn and shield on. The dim light of the apartment was checkered from the windows, muddled from a broken glowglobe. Fresh blood darkened the clothes of the two guards, spattered on the ground beside them. Clipped, neat. Jarring.

The boy stammered. “I—I don’t—”

Raúl shoved open the inner door. On the ground were two prone figures. On the left Baradas, hands bound, lower half haphazardly covered in a drop-cloth, a deep cut ruining his throat and a hood discarded to the side. On the other side of the room, further in, a bound and hooded female figure mostly covered in a red-soaked drop-cloth. Only the feet—high-heeled, pale, small feet—protruded into the open.

In the bad light, in this room smelling of paint thinner and dust, and the sounds of merry-makers floating on the air from the street below, he almost believed it. It hit him like a hammer, right in the gut. Unsteadily he knelt next to the female figure. Where were you…

But then he saw a detail that set that old refrain aside. A small, fresh scab on the neck.

He hesitated. This was a newer sort of shame.

She was stone still and facing away from the door. Under the cloth, he imagined fingers tightening their grip on a kindjal. Behind him, the boy stepped tentatively to the doorway.

Right, right, he thought. Need to make this look good. He reached out, two fingers gently resting under the chin at the carotid. Under the fingertips the skin was warm and the heartbeat strong and a little fast.

And then he stood up very slowly. “She’s dead,” he exhaled, letting it hang in the air. He turned to see.

Young Ordos’ mouth was agape, surveying the grim scene. “I don’t—” His mouth seemed stuck. “I don’t—”

“It’s fresh. Less than an hour. I’d hoped…” Raúl trailed off and made a moment out of scanning the room. He sighed. “Well it doesn’t matter. Their leader must’ve taken the solaris and cleaned up. No witnesses.”

“No…no…”

Raúl pretended not to hear the sound of reality catching up with a spoiled brat. “Whoever it was must’ve been real bastard. Didn’t even try to cover it up.” He knelt to study ‘Baradas’, and made a note to compliment Zarae later. Blood oozing messily from the neck, clear defensive wounds on his arms and hands. Everyone knew face dancers can change faces, but who knew they could fake mortal wounds? A nice theatrical touch. Appropriate, given the circumstances. “I thought it could be Baradas, but obviously not. But no matter. I had a tracker in the case. We’ll catch him soon enough.”

There was a muffled choking noise, a tell. Oh, what a tell. Ordos tried to cover it up with a question. “But—how?”

If the goal was to get back in the good graces and good credit of society, it would’ve been smart to not even try to recover the money at all. Take the hit and rely on a grateful House Delambre to cover his debts.

But the boy was low in cash or brains. He’d have to pay his accomplices somehow. A split—or maybe even all—of the ransom would do. While he played hero, at least one accomplice would have to grab the cash. The most trusted accomplice. The one who would be most acquainted with Ordos’ plans.

The best one to turn on Ordos.

But better still to have Ordos try turning on him first.  

Raúl continued. “I’ll call in Tygath. I should’ve before…that was a mistake. I’ll pay for it. I’ll regret it…but not as much as I’ll make that bastard regret it.”

He let it dangle. Let it work, giving it time for consequences to seep in. The boy had a choice.

“I—I should leave you—” Ordos gulped.

“No,” said Raúl, firm but compassionate. Inside he cackled, No escape, for you. “No, we’ll need your help. Besides, you’re in it now. We’ll need to know your sources. That’ll help with the loose ends. For Mireia’s sake.”

“For Mireia’s sake…” echoed the lordling hollowly.

Raúl pulled out his communicator, tapping away. He wasn’t sending anything, it didn’t matter. Just a little more time, a little more wretched silence, guilt, fear…

“Lord Delambre,” croaked the boy. “I—I have something to say…”

-----------

After that, it took four vehicles and thirty minutes to move all parties to the Delambre embassy. Sonya went too, the last vehicle in the convoy. To Altan Ordos the Lady Delambre and Baradas were still quite dead, and he willingly followed Tygath to an interrogation room for debriefing. Two of Tygath’s men peeled off to scoop up the true accomplice, who was identified to them by ibn-Wobiha and his sharp eyes. And Sonya stood with Delambre at one end of the House infirmary, waiting as the Suk doctor examined his two new patients at the other end of the infirmary.

Delambre was pacing. It was getting to be quite annoying.

“Would you stop that?” she grated. The rachag and anti-fatigue pills were slacking off, which meant irritability was rising. Between this dramatic diversion and the Giedi Prime hellscape she needed to sleep for approximately eighteen hours. Maybe longer.

He slowed, but did not stop. “Do you think she’s all right?”

Sonya sat down, creaking onto an empty cot. “I don’t need to guess. We’ll know soon.”

“But if you had to guess.”

She sighed and looked down the room. She couldn’t see anything of course. Modesty curtains were up. But she could hear people conversing in low voices.

“She’ll be fine,” Sonya said.

The idiot exhaled, dragging his hands over his forehead and through his increasingly tousled hair. But he finally stopped pacing and plunked down on his own cot.

After an age, the doctor withdrew and advanced on them. Delambre stood again and opened his mouth.

But before he could speak the doctor held up his hand. “The Lady is well, I assure you. She is still groggy from the sedative, but I do not detect any poisons or irregularities. She has a few scratches and bruises, most likely from being carried around. She is coming around.”

“God be praised.” He sank back down to the cot.

Sonya cleared her throat. “And the young man?” In this state she figured Delambre would forget to ask.

“He is well, too. He’s rousing a bit quicker. One of the security men showed me the syringe that’d been prepared for him. It smells like a stimulant mixed with a mind-altering substance. We’ll know the specifics soon. But I suspect it would’ve made him look crazy. Given the concentration, it probably would’ve killed him.”

“Kull wahad,” cursed Sonya.

“I will fetch the Countess,” said the doctor, and was briskly away.

They were alone again. Time was creeping along, but by now it must be about an hour to midnight. The Enchanted Forest would have finished, with all its loose plot-threads gracefully gathered and tied. Heroes prevailed, lovers reunited, and order and faith restored to their rightful places. The actors bowed, the theatre emptied, and night restored itself to such a peace as this. If only she could lay down on this cot and rest…

She heard Delambre, more to himself than to anyone say, “I’m going to kill him.”

Maybe she’d heard him wrong. “What?”

“I’ll do it properly. He’ll need a second and some witnesses.” He stood again.

She rose to stop him. “No.”

Annoyance flashed across his face. “Fine. I’ll just—”

She planted her feet, setting herself between him and the door. “It’d be murder, Delambre.”

He chuckled acidly. “Not in the legal sense.”

“You think your family would want this? You think Mireia would want this? If it’s made public it’ll be a blemish on her name.”

“She’s stronger than that. We all are.” He made to go around her. “It wouldn’t matter—”

But she was not having it. This was wounded pride and fear. Anything he rushed now would be regretted later. “Maybe not. But they’d still wonder why you’d stoop to kill him. Honor’s one thing. Revenge is another. They’d be wondering if you were acting because the worst had happened, not because the worst could’ve happened. Is this for her or for you?” You know this already idiot. Slow down and remember.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. Then the air went out of him in a grunt and he went back on his heels. “I don’t have to like it. It’s bullshit, is what it is. He’ll get off easy.”

She exhaled, too. “That’ll be up to your brother. If it wasn’t politics it’d also be up to Mireia and the courts. But…here we are. I assume the Count will be on Kaitain with the daily heighliner? That’d be in two hours, thirty-seven minutes. You can wait that long. Besides, I doubt it’ll be easy on the kid. Ordos won’t like to be reminded he’s still the progenitor of this little fuck-up.”

If it were up to her, she’d be in on the interrogations. She suspected Tygath was right: the kid hadn’t gotten the transportation details without inside help. But…that was an internal matter. She already occupied a seat in Tygath’s ill-opinions, enough to nearly have her throat cut. Helping with Mireia’s recovery, that was one thing. But anything more would just be whistling for shigawire in the dark.

"Focus on Mirea, ensure she has the support she needs. And don't forget Kaveh Baradas. All right?"

The communicator buzzed in her jacket pocket. Blake again, testily reminding her she was required for the Harkonnen raid debriefing. There was only so long she could put that off.

“I need to go,” she said. “I don’t need to call in Silverbren, correct?”

He smiled a little. “No, I won’t do anything stupid. At least no more than usual. Promise.”

The room seemed a lot smaller, just then. And quieter. Just the two of them sharing the same space. She blinked a few times, struggling with the feeling. Too tired to characterize it properly. Finally she gave up and turned to leave.

“Sonya—”

She froze.

“Thank you. And I was...well I wasn't thinking. I’m sorry.”

A few beats. And then the communicator buzzed again and she was able to shake herself loose. “Don’t mention it,” she said softly. And she wended her way back, escaping into the night air.

Chapter Text

The next day it was a very late breakfast that was held most casually and incorrectly in the family parlor. Jacinda was dashing about.

“Let me get you another plate, dear!”

“Mother—” Mireia was ensconced in the center of her own couch, wrapped in a blanket, and already balancing a tray with a full breakfast across her lap. An enormous half-eaten omelet, heaped honey starfruit, stack of buttered toast. This was her second plate, and she clearly was already full. She looked down, looked up, and looked over to Raúl in a silent plea for assistance.

From his chair across the way, he crooked a smile and flipped over his empty coffee cup.

“—uh I’m okay but I think uncle could use more coffee?”

“Oh, yes of course!” Jacinda swooped by with carafe in hand, swiftly pouring another cup for him.

He had slept like the dead for ten hours, but he was still tired. It was that dull, scraped-out feeling that came after a battle. Except in this case he had no cuts, no bruises, nothing broken or injured. Just an empty-feeling head and no ambition to do anything. He was in no great mood for conversation, but it helped to sit and watch the byplay between mother and daughter. Grateful that he got to watch it.

“Why don’t you sit down, Mother?” pleaded her offspring.

“But you must eat, dear! The doctor said it would help with the after effects.”

“And I have been,” said the girl patiently. “I promise you, I’m all right. I was unconscious for most of it and the few moments I was awake I was in a quiet room and staring at the inside of a bag. Honestly, the presentation to the court of his Supreme Majesty was scarier.”

Jacinda sighed, kissed her daughter on the forehead, and resumed her guard position next to her on the couch.

They heard the hall door open and everyone stopped to listen. After a moment, Vidal came in. Embraces and more breakfast all around.

“What news, then?” Jacinda sharp-eyed and expectant.

Vidal sighed fondly. “Not ‘instant death’ if that’s what you mean.”

His wife made a disgruntled noise.

“No, but I think you’ll approve. I spoke with Ordos about his errant spawn. And after some discussion, he agreed with me. Altan Ordos has been sentenced to twenty years hard labor at the Chulu colony. He’ll be shipped there tomorrow.”

Mireia blinked. “That’s the standard sentence for kidnapping and extortion in Imperial Law.”

“Very good my dear.” He poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Still too lenient,” insisted Jacinda.

“I think not,” said Raúl, a smile creeping up his face. “Chulu was neglected by the young Ordos for years. They have no love for him there.”

“He’ll be getting what he deserves. It won’t be public but…Altan’s brothers will know. They weren’t too fond of him, you know. And we’ll know. I suspect Ordos was only too happy to make his eldest an example to the rest. And he agreed to the presence of one of our observers to ensure the sentence is carried out as arranged.”

“I still don’t like it,” fretted Jacinda.

“It’s justice, love. Or as close as we can get to it.” He kissed the hand she’d wrapped around their daughter’s shoulders. Reluctantly she smiled. To Raúl he said, “In the meantime, we have much to be thankful for. Tygath is far from pleased of course, but he did manage to say that you hadn’t completely screwed up his plans.”

Raúl chuckled dryly. “Kull wahad. That’s almost a compliment.”

Vidal blew on his coffee to cool it. “I thought that as well. He was not too keen at your friends’ inclusions, but he admitted that the confession would not have been achieved so quickly if you, Mentat Jacamar, and Zarae hadn’t been quick on the mark. And without a confession I doubt I would’ve had the proper leverage over Ordos. I’ve met some of your friends, but I’d like to properly to show them our appreciation. Could you ask for them?”

“Certainly.” Raúl leaned back in his chair. Nenna had her lectures, Zarae was casting their upcoming play, and who knew what Gabe was involved in recently. They were busy folk, but they’d all had come when he asked. He could figure a time to invite them to the Hall. Jacamar though…she’d been ready before he could ask. And by the end he’d never seen anyone more stubbornly not-tired. She looked like she’d needed to sleep for a week. Kull wahad, and she’d just come back from Giedi Prime. For her sake, he figured he could give them all some time before making something so formal. But then there was that other matter. “Has Tygath made any progress on the follow-up investigation?”

Vidal paused mid-sip, blue eyes darting up. Of the family, only he and Raúl knew of Tygath’s suspicions of a mole. It was a moment before the Count answered neutrally, “He said he’s still collecting data. Let’s hope he concludes it soon.”

“Right, right.” He tried to ignore the needling uncertainty of loose ends.

“And our house guest?”

He meant Kaveh Baradas. In the wake of events, the Doctor had cautioned that the young lord had taken more of a beating than Mireia. Apparently Ordos’ accomplices had been sloppy with the abduction, to the point of Baradas being able to put up a fight before getting a syringe. The doctor had cautioned for rest and observation in case of concussion.

“Resting comfortably,” said Jacinda. “He’s been a little nauseous, so he hasn’t been eating much this morning. But Doctor Mevdano says that should dissipate soon.” And she had seen to all that herself, of course, and made sure that the kitchens and house-servants were seamlessly caring for an almost-invalid. Much as she was skeptical of a Baradas, he was first and foremost her guest and she would fiercely ensure that he was comfortable in her house.

“Actually…” Mireia piped up from beneath her mountain of breakfast. “We thought it might be beneficial to invite his friends Lord Vandeyar and Duchess Ophelion over later. I think being here after all this… well I’m sure it’d do him good to see his friends if he’s feeling a little better.”

Vidal furrowed his brow in thought while his daughter waited in suspense. It had really been her idea, though one that was quickly seconded by Raúl. At this point the sheep were already loose from the corral, Raúl had already told them about the worst of it. And since the rest of the Baradas family was still on Ardea, Nihal at least was a friendly face. Finally Vidal replied, “Very well, if he wishes it. I suspect Lord Shaheen will be here with the next heighliner, but that won’t be until tomorrow morning.”

The rest of the day was strangely stretched and golden. For the first time in a long time there were no appointments to keep, entertainments to partake, or noble company to visit. It had all been cancelled under the excuse of excessive fatigue. At this point in the Season it was not an uncommon malady to befall a House Major or Minor for a day or two. Whether the suddenness would be remarked upon was a problem for a different day. For today they napped, lounged, and otherwise found themselves at leisure about the house.

If there was any complaint to be had as they sat in the sun on the garden terrace, it was that the summer here was too warm. A proper summer had strong sun but a cool alpine breeze to soothe and fresh fir and spruce with every lungful of air. It made them talk more of Ardea, and miss it. Even though they knew, as Vidal helpfully reminded them, that currently their home was deep in winter. Still, cooler was cooler, and Ardea could not help but look more and more appealing.

It was deep in the afternoon when Nihal Vandeyar and Lucasta Ophelion arrived. He took them up to their friend personally.

Kaveh Baradas was sitting up in bed, wearing borrowed sleepwear, and squinting at an open book in his lap. His spectacles had been crunched so he wasn’t faring too well. He looked up at their entrance, smiling a little. “I don’t suppose you brought me my spares?”

“You know, I might’ve.” Nihal thumped a bag down on the bed, shuffled through it, and slapped a small case in his friend’s hand.

In a trice he’d swapped out the broken pair. He blinked and sighed. “Much better, thanks. And I don’t suppose my notebooks—”

Nihal groaned and Lucasta laughed. “I’m a bit more practical than my cousin,” she said. “I made him pack the schoolwork.”

“Thank you, your Grace. I really would’ve hated to get behind. I’m sure if it were up to Nihal he would’ve just dumped in odds and ends.” He dodged a mock-punch from his friend and glimpsed Raúl where he was leaning on the doorframe. He cleared his throat and added, “And thank you, Lord Delambre. Er, again. And your friends.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it. If you need anything just—”

There was a tapping at the doorframe beside him. “Pardon me,” said Mireia brightly. She was carrying a tea tray. “I just wanted to make sure you were well-provisioned here.”

There was a flurry of greetings, thanks, and how-are-yous, and then Vandeyar popped up to help her with the tray and arrange a few seats, and the room degenerated into well-meaning chaos. Through it all it was Raúl who caught the dumbstruck look on Kaveh Baradas’ face. Followed by panic. Followed by mortification. Followed by a desperate attempt to cover all those things by fiddling with his spectacles.

What was it Vandeyar said? ‘He thinks very highly of the Lady Mireia’?

Before Raúl could process any of the level of—well—whatever he was supposed to think about that Lucasta was smoothly excusing them and leaving the young people to their tea and conversation. He was about halfway down the hall when he tried, “But—”

“They don’t want us around,” said Lucasta. “We know their parents, we’re no fun. They’ll be fine.”

“Baradas looked like he—”

“I know. I saw it, too.”

He looked at her. “Did you?”

She laughed. “Nihal knows, he’s his best friend. So I know, too. I think he was admiring her from afar before, and now with recent events…”

Raúl groaned. “God almighty.” We just dealt with the last infatuated fool and now we’re getting another one…

“It’s not the end of the world, Raúl. He’s a good kid. He wouldn’t press anything untoward.” They stepped out on the north balcony terrace, which was mercifully free of onlookers. “My advice? Let it be. Meddling will just make it worse.”

He was affronted. “Meddling?” But then, he had just been thinking of a dozen ways he could nip this in the bud.

“If all those years ago your brother had been trying to steer you away from talking to me, do you think that would’ve worked?”

Raúl leaned on the stone balustrade and exhaled deeply. No, it would not have worked. Lucasta knew that. It was her gift, she saw people in all their contradictory glory quite easily. “Why is it you’re always right?”

“Well in this case I have a little more distance from it,” she admitted drolly. “But I appreciate the compliment.”

He looked at his watch. “I’ll give them twenty minutes to talk. And then I’m going back in. Just to sit there in a corner and clink my teacup noisily.”

“Well, you’re welcome to that.” She strode around the balcony, admiring the view. And then she took a breath, her amusement converted to something more serious. “I am glad they’re both all right. I’ll not ask about the specifics, but is it over? Will they stay safe?”

He drummed his fingers, thinking.

Ordos had been caught. But the next threat was out there, somewhere. And though Raúl’s cheops game had been improving, he still could only see a few moves ahead.

Finally he said. “I hope so.” Because the alternative to hoping was fear. Fear all the time.

“Well,” said Lucasta, “I won’t say never to worry again. But worry less. If all your friends are like the playwright and the mentat, your worries should be afraid of you.” She hesitated. “Mentat Jacamar. I couldn’t help notice that she…works well with you.”

He blinked. She was, in her gentle way, asking something. He shrugged. “She’s a good friend. A good ally.”

“She’s Atreides.”

He tilted his head. “You think that’s a problem?”

“Not on its own, no. But…well just look at the political climate currently. They’re in trouble.”

He hadn’t looked at today’s reports, true. But he knew what she meant. The general status, in the most optimistic of lights, was that the conditions on Arrakis were turbulent. And that the Atreides’ standing in the Imperium was delicate. Jacamar had hoped her raid would put a hobble on the Harkonnens for awhile, but there were a lot of moving parts in rotation. He was curious. “You say that like you know something.”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know,” she mused. She plucked a leaf from a vine winding up onto the balustrade. “But I was at my brother’s house a few days ago. He was concerned about a shipment arriving to Kaitain. He does business with the Harkonnens, they’re very particular sometimes.” She fiddled with the leaf, turning it over in her hands. “It was uniforms. You know Eudora manufactures military uniforms for half the Imperium? So it was Harkonnen uniforms. The only problem was, they weren’t bound for Giedi Prime. Someone was going to pick them up here.” She shook her head, loose strands of dark hair catching the wind. “So I don’t know. But something’s not right. And I can only think of a couple reasons the Harkonnens would be sending their own uniforms to anyone here on Kaitain. And none of them are good for the Atreides.”

 It was possible. Horrifyingly possible. He thought of the lone man striding down the riverside, steps as fluid and purposeful as a Laza on the hunt.

“I know I just told you not to worry. But…if she’s someone you worry about, I would be worried.”

She’s right, it didn’t mean anything. It didn’t give a clear motive, or a timeline, or a certainty. But he could still tell Jacamar. Maybe something would click in her strange and scary mind and suddenly she would know what, when, and how to fix it.

But he wondered…could he fix it?

He was thinking of cheops, pieces moving between levels. Sometimes all it took for Jacamar to win was a piece he’d forgotten about, one that was sitting three levels up. Just when he thought he had her in retreat, her pawn or her bishop would drop down and obliterate his carefully laid plans. And then her king would escape unscathed.

Could I give her a way out? If it all went to hell?

Vidal was here now, and Raúl had the glint of an idea. He wasn’t a Mentat, and maybe it was stupid, paranoid, waste of an idea. But Vidal was always wanting him to find something practical to do. And he could think of one way, an ironclad legal way, to give her a pawn waiting to drop. If he applied himself and bent a few rules. 

I owe her now, he thought. He was still worn and dull. But there was still something he could do.

“Thanks, Lu.” He stepped away from the railing. “Will you keep an eye on the young ones? I’m going to miss out on the teacup-clinking.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Possibly something smart. Wish me luck.”

Chapter Text

Chirp.

It sounded like the contact call of a cliff-fisher. Bird native to Caladan…safe on Caladan…

Chirp.

Sonya shifted. Caladan. The word coalesced, a grain of sand becoming a pearl with layers of moonlight lacquer.

I am not on Caladan, she thought.

Blearily she opened her eyes. Around her were the wood-paneled walls of her room. A snug, quiet nook in the Atreides Embassy barracks hardly big enough for her bed, desk, and a cabinet. On the wall were a few shelves weighed down with books. On her desk a neat line of working knives, a half-finished bird carving, and a cold cup of tea. On the ceiling a small glowglobe burned a dim orange, almost ready to fail.

Fixed to its port on the wall, the communicator chirped a third time, its screen flashing.

She stared at it. Around her it was quiet, the deep quiet that came sometime after midnight. What are the chances that this message has good news? Virtually nil.

Sonya groaned and rolled over, snatching up the communicator. Contact: ibn-Wobiha. Message: Meet at Dun Meadow waste facility ASAP.

Fuck. This was going to be bad.

Not much later, with a coffee buzz and Merritt in tow, she arrived. Ibn-Wobiha was waiting for them at the gate. The night watchman whined. She passed him a generous purse of solaris to smooth the way. Satisfied, he hitched up the gate and let them in. He held a red-lensed lantern. “Follow me,” he grunted.

They went in single file on the berm-path with the watchman, Ibn-Wobiha, Sonya, and Merritt behind. Surrounding them were orderly mountains of refuse cut through by runnels of leachate, shadowed by the baleful eye of distant floodlights. The smell was horrendous, bad enough that it seemed to burn her nostrils and sour the back of her throat. Every now and then there was a shift or a fall of debris. The work of a legion of rats, scrabbling and hissing at the passing of the red light. Farther off, a dog howled and was quickly joined by a choir of packmates. Merritt stopped abruptly, tracking the sound.

A rusty laugh sounded from the watchman. “They won’t bother us, gel.” He patted the crude scattergun slung across his back. “They know better, they do.”

Merritt mumbled to Sonya, “He doesn’t fill me with confidence. If he were such a good shot then why are there still dogs to be heard?”

They picked up the pace. “He wouldn’t kill the dogs unless he had to,” reasoned Sonya. “Something has to keep the rats in check. Come on, keep up.”

Finally they came to a small fenced area, with a utility shed and a monitoring station to measure off-gassing and leach wells. In the open space were three shapes, each covered in a tarp. The nightwatchman, wisely incurious, stepped away to harass the rats.

Ibn-Wobiha faced them warily. “Corinth police will pick up the cadavers in the morning. If it’s who you’re looking for I imagine it’ll just get the incinerator instead of a case number. Best work fast.” He pulled off the tarp from the middle. “Is this your man?”

The stench, if it was still possible, became worse. By the light of her pocket glowglobe she examined the eyeless face of a young man. An unfortunately familiar young man. She nodded, and gestured to Merritt.

The operative unshouldered her field bag and knelt, pulling out tools and sample kits. As Sonya acted as scribe, the personal effects were collected, wounds were mapped, and state of decomposition noted. As much as they could gather without making obvious autopsy marks. A picture formed from the progression of rigor, extent of scavenging, and maturity of the microfauna. And very particular patterns of marks, signs that might’ve been obliterated with further scavenging.

Merritt finally packed the last of her samples. “I might learn more from testing, but…we both know this was no accident or misadventure.”

No, indeed. A broken hyoid and ligature marks on the throat were signs of strangulation. A common death for traitors and spies.

“Last I heard he’d been working on a new restoration. An oil portrait of Emperor Elrood the Third. He’d been looking forward to finishing it.” She wasn’t sure why she’d said that out loud. Meaningless rambling, really. But she wondered if the restoration would continue. Who would finish it? Or if the painting would be quietly put away, to languish moldering in its original vault. The old man in the portrait limping on in faded memory, while the young man who’d tended it would be forgotten and turned to ash.

Another set of howls, closer. From the berm, the nightwatchman swore mightily and flashed his lantern in the direction of the sound. “Time to go!” was his rough call.

Ibn-Wobiha led them out. “I’m sorry it wasn’t a better answer. Nenna said she was still hoping for the best, but told me to look out for the worst.”

“We choose the questions, we don’t choose the answers. But thank you. At least we have an answer.”

On the ride back to the Embassy, Merritt was compiling her notes in the passenger seat. “Why now, do you think?”

Sonya signaled a left turn even though the street was empty. She’d been wondering the same thing. “The signs of freezing?”

“Yes.” Merritt was tapping he notebook with her pen. “Someone kept him on ice, only to dump him now. He’s been thawed out less than a day, but he’s been dead for longer than that. Probably before he was reported missing. So why now? They must’ve known that we’d be looking for him.”

It was a good question, and Sonya liked none of the possible answers. “A message, maybe. Or they figured it didn’t matter anymore if he was found.” The option of the Imperials getting sloppy wasn’t to be entertained.

Merritt nodded. “A message for us, for Ardas’ keepers. Maybe the action is the message. ‘It doesn’t matter what think or what you do, it doesn’t matter anymore.’”

In the dark groundcar on the gaily lit, vacant highway, the words had a strange weight. Sonya attempted no reply.

Finally the other woman grunted and went back to her report. “Arrogant bastards, aren’t they?”

At the Embassy, the guard checked their credentials and waved them through. Merritt handed over her report and went to wear off her caffeine and rachag at the training rooms. Sonya let herself into the office building, determined to finish the night’s work.

By the time the incident report had been filed it was a ripe and eerie two hours to dawn, dark as the bottom of a well and silent as a tomb. In her desk chair, she stretched and listened to the cracks popping up her spine. She was surrounded by windowless walls and armored filing cabinets, insulated from the outside world. Sometimes she wished that she could stay in this room. Certainly it was safer, simpler, quieter. Just numbers and facts and theories chained together with shining, cool links of reason.

But the caffeine was fading and now she had a choice. Try to go back to sleep or get some more coffee. In another hour it would be her favorite time again and she could run the uncertainty out of her system. She pushed herself out of her chair.

Along the hall, lights from a few offices were still lit. Intelligence work never sleeps, much as it should wish to. The crack under Blake’s door was glowing, so she tapped on his door. Might as well give the news now rather than later.

“Enter.”

Inside was the usual state. Neat stacks of paper, a pile of code cylinders, and an incongruous paperweight made from blown glass. He’d joked once that he kept it in case he needed something heavy and free from sentiment to throw at something. Blake was leaning back in his chair reading something.

He looked up through his spectacles at her. “Ah Jacamar. More invigorating news?”

She told him briefly their findings for the night.

He barely registered it, merely looked back to his report. “Well, we expected that didn’t we? That’s the hero’s death for spies now, isn’t it?”

An unpleasant bolt of guilt shot through her. She thought again of that unfinished restoration of Elrood the Third. Tersely, “If you have no new orders, sir, I’ll see myself out.”

“Wait—” He took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. And sighed. “I’m sorry Jacamar. I forget you’re not as jaded as I am. Or maybe it’s a sign of the times.”

She shrugged. It was an irrational reaction she’d had. She could blame it on the hour. “I was expecting it, sir.”

“Yes, but expecting it is different than seeing it.” The old spymaster sighed again. “He was a good lad. He didn’t deserve that.”

What Ferdinando Ardas deserved, neither of them could say. But Sonya did not press upon it.

“Am I to expect that you’re going to pull another Delambre stunt?” he asked.

She’d told him all the details, of course. Well, maybe not everything. Not that she’d been at knifepoint at the beginning. She said nothing.

“Wildly improvisational, for you,” he commented. “Should I be concerned?”

She considered. Then, “No, sir.”

“Hmmm.” Blake set the report in his hand down on the ‘read’ pile and picked up another. “Well, don’t make a habit of it. I’m glad you were able to assist, but I much prefer it when you’re planning things out in advance.” He smiled wryly at his paper. “Carry on, Jacamar. Resist dumping in all the sugar into your coffee, won’t you?”

“Sir.” She excused herself, closing the door behind her.

Her boots echoed down the hall and down the stairwell. Outside was the half-night of the Embassy grounds Sonya stood on the steps, breathing in the warm summer air and the soft quiet.

Her body wanted rest. Vigilance was taxing. It was always one stutter-step from paranoia. She was freed from missions, for now. But there would be more tomorrow—there was always more tomorrow—and she had little time to just listen to the night wind as it ruffled the crowns of the holm oaks and snapped idly at the Atreides pennants. The city beyond the walls was at low ebb, the lull between heartbeats. Around her were the dreamy constellations of exterior glowglobes, illuminating pathways and entrances with soothing orange lights.

There were four moons in the sky over Kaitain. But the rotation was wrong, she saw none of them at this hour. An empty sky.

I miss the stars, was that thought again.

It’d been a wonder, her first night on Caladan. She had made it through fetid cargo holds, made it through stern guards and customs checks, made it through the scrutiny of Hawat and his furnace-bright eyes. He had told her she could stay and she was still reeling from that. She’d been still reeling from the fact that he had given her a key to her own small room, had a healer prepare a balm for her raw-striped arm, had shown her where she could take meals with the rest of the household staff. And that though she’d tried to sleep on her too-soft bed, she’d found herself instead tiptoeing out into the corridors with the giddiness of somehow living without curfew. When she turned a corner she nearly walked into a guard and squeaked in panic. But the guard only stifled a laugh and touched his cap in salute. Confused, she stumbled backwards out the hall door and into the cold air outside. Half-expecting doom.

But doom did not arrive. And above her, the night had become a miracle.

She had read about stars, what the universe really looked like. Her mother’s songs often told of them, remembering a time before stain and smoke. But Giedi Prime had not prepared her for this. And she had been too busy hiding in all the dark corners of heighliners and passenger terminals and cargo ‘thopters to find a viewport.

The night sky over Caladan was deep, velvety, and whorled with jewels of light. And she’d sat there on the stone steps and stared at it with wide eyes. The kindly guard dropped a woolen cloak about her shoulders and she’d stayed out staring until her bare toes went numb.

And though she had been alone in a strange land, the stars had said softly: There is hope here.

Kaitain, for all its marvels and wealth, was a cheap imitation. And looking up at this blank, mute sky only brought her disgust and unease.

She shook herself free of reverie and sighed, massaging her neck. To the mess hall then, she thought. I need coffee like Arrakis needs water.

Her feet knew the way. One, two, three steps…

And then the night cracked open.

Chapter Text

The flaring light caught Sonya’s eye. She turned to see it fully. The main gate limned in red. Then, FIRE—

Sound and tremor crashed through the air and the ground, a splinter slower than light.

She was far enough away to keep her feet. But she was blinded, blinking rapidly to try clearing her sight. Not a stoneburner, was her wild thought. She would see again, if she could just keep breathing. Her hand gripped her kindjal hilt, but she resisted drawing.

She was blinded, but she was beginning to see. An attack on an embassy, it must—

Check your assumptions, she thought, forcing order over tight panic. It is by will alone…

She fumbled in her pocket, finding the comm and shoving it into her ear. It was tuned the House security frequency. Harsh sounds of battle language confused her at first. They rarely used the spoken language, only the more workaday hand-signals. But after a second she began sorting and understanding. Her sight was clearing.

“Main gate under attack! Five enemy groundcars, a hundred enemy—”

“—Harkonnen battle flags. All guards to stations—”

A hundred at the main gate. And there would be others at the auxiliary gates. She looked within, calculating. Atreides combatants numbered 73. Fewer, as some were still in the field. Roster check: 52. All staff were trained, but they would be cooks, janitors, clerks. Not enough to repel this.

“—no answer from CorSec. Repeat distress signal—”

A waste of time. Corinth police was not likely to come, or at least come in time. This was brazen, but…this was the Emperor’s city. He would give the Harkonnens time to do his dirty work, as long as it was contained to these grounds. No air support, at least.

As to who in the Harkonnen contingent would be leading this attack? She only knew of one asshole who would strike an embassy.

She switched over to the team’s channel. In battle language, she queried. “Jacamar to Blake?”

“Blake here. Operational?”

“Affirmative.”

“Aid the west gate. If gate compromised, rally point at this hall. Keep checking this channel.”

She looked up and behind her, saw him outlined at the second-story hall window.

“Affirmative.”

“Alea iacta est.”

There was no direct translation for that phrase, or at least no translation they knew. Battle language changed, refitted frequently to maintain its integrity against outsiders. But this meant fight well, let them come, long live the Duke, and a dozen other meanings. That remained eternal.

She saluted. This she could do. She could run, she could fight. She had been practicing for a long time. It is by the juice of sapho the thoughts acquire speed…

She ran west, passing buildings and hedges and flickering glowglobes. The gate drew closer. She heard a fight. In the last few steps she slowed and flipped on her shield. The wall shield here was still intact. The west gate was ajar and a squad of guards were holding the breech as two more dragged an injured man between them.

“Inside, now!”

“—lock it down—"

The guard captain—Aetos, she remembered—spotted her. “Jacamar! Take Kazan, he has a message for Lord Laskaris.”

“Aye, sir!” Outside through the gate were the remains of a crashed Atreides groundcar, and beyond two more groundcars crawling with people. Already there were corpses of Harkonnen dead were strewn before the threshold, a few Atreides lain out among them. Stunner darts pinged off the closed gate. She darted in to drape the injured man’s arm across her shoulders and supported his waist, then hurriedly limped him out of the line of fire and deeper into the complex.

“They’re coming…they’re coming,” he mumbled dazedly. It was Kazan all right, one of Elman’s agents among the smugglers. He’d must’ve come in on the morning heighliner from Arrakis. His head was bloodied, probably from the groundcar crash, and he was shaking. His breathing gurgled slightly, a chest wound somewhere.

“Just hold on—”

“To Laskaris—take me to Laskaris—” He had a death-grip on a code cylinder.

He needed an infirmary. But the administrative hall was closer. Blake was there, and she remembered the light being on under Laskaris’ door.

“All right.”

She was on the approach. A hundred meters but it felt like kilometers. Around her the complex were alive with activity. The barracks emptied in record time, the motor pool revved with groundcars for transport. Shields rippled to life on the living quarters and guard stations. In her ear were commands, numbers, dire reports. The battle at the main gate had intensified, pushed inward.

From her right there was movement, the shape of a man. The insectoid shell of Harkonnen light armor glinting. She maneuvered them both behind a holly hedge and set Kazan down silently.

She drew her kindjal, stepping lightly to intercept. She was a winged shadow, talons ready. She slipped beside him whisper soft. Blade slow past the shield. Quick into the inner thigh. Twisted, ripped out again. He toppled with a shriek and dropped his sword, vainly trying to stop the bleeding. He twitched his last on the ground. The lips acquire stains…

The way was clear again. She picked up the longsword, pulled up Kazan with a grunt, and hurried forward.

She was dragging Kazan up the steps when a second explosion rocked behind them. The west gate, gone. Tanner and Merritt opened the door. Behind her were more running feet. Tanner swept past them sword in hand, engaging the enemy. By the time Laskaris had pulled Kazan off her and inside, two more Harkonnen lay dead in the courtyard.

Inside the hall, they laid out Kazan on the ground. The light inside showed the injuries in full color. The flowing blood on his scalp was a distraction. The wound to his chest was worse. The stains become a warning…

Kazan’s eyes flew open, and he choked out, “Message…”

“Code cylinder,” she rasped, and Kazan pressed the container into the Lord’s waiting hands.

Sonya ignored it, instead yanked down a wall banner and made a dressing for the wound. Outside, the sounds of battle were approaching. She wiped the blood from her hands. She would need dry hands, a tight grip. She lurched to her feet to join Tanner at the door, nerves humming. A frenzy of orders were flooding her comm, descending into chaos.

Behind her, Laskaris was silent. Too silent.

She turned back.

The coding paper was unrolled in his hands. He stared at it.

“What is it?” she asked.

He did not react.

“What is it?” she barked.

“The Duke…the Duke is…”

Impatient, feral, godless, she stalked forward and ripped the paper from his hands.

Arrakeen fallen. Duke Leto confirmed dead. Heir and Lady unaccounted for. Prepare for an attack.

She blinked. She had guessed, now she knew. Later she would examine this moment, the moment from which there was no turning back. But for now, she acted.

“Blake!”

Blake came down and read it, too. He cursed, the foulest curse he could utter. But he had his orders. “Burn the files,” he said.

Sonya started at the highest-level offices. Forced the codes on each door, triggered the self-destruct sequences for the data within. File cabinets buckled under the stress, belching forth cinders as the coding paper disintegrated into fine, useless soot.

Her own office…she opened it properly. Plucked a few essentials from its contents, along with the one and only thing she could call a talisman. She’d kept it in her desk drawer, where she could see it when she selected a pen or retrieved a stack of coding paper. It was an ill thing of tainted origin. Too shadowed to be kept where she rested, to be among her books and carvings. But it was sharp and silvered and had helped her survive. Cast a last glance at the clean, shining surfaces. Forced the palm-lock. Registered the metallic-burn smell peculiar to burning code paper. And moved on to the next door.

And the next. And the next. Until she ran out of doors.

Outside, the battle drew closer. Downstairs, the tense quiet of the entry hall was broken by an argument.

“—but we can still fight!” That was Merritt, still in her training clothes, her shield still on and a spear at the ready.

“I gave you an order,” growled Blake.

Out the window an Atreides groundcar made a precisely reckless half-turn, suspensors whining with the strain as it rollicked to a stop with its nose pointed west. Sideris was in the driver’s seat, looking back at them.

Karras entered the hall, breathing hard and covered in darkening stains. Blood dripped down the length of his lowered longsword. Ansel was looking on, checking the activity outside.

Blake looked to Karras, to Merritt and Ansel. “Erinys. I briefed you all, you know it.” His eyes flashed. “Go to ground. Rise when you can. The rest of us will make our stand here.”

Laskaris stood from where he’d knelt at the messenger’s side. Kazan had slumped over, dead.

They looked at her as she neared. As if she could make sense of this, as if numbers and facts might sway them. The scrutiny shook her. It was a hard, terrifying thing to be seen. And outside she could feel the world galloping towards them, ready to throw them down. Quick and clean or brutal and hideous. “The Duke is dead." She heard herself say. "His son may not be. We must be ready to aid them.”

All of them flinched as another explosion—closer— shattered the east windows with its shockwave.

“Go!” shouted Blake.

Like a fast-running tide they swept out the door, collecting each other into the flow. Ansel sprang into the passenger front. Karras and Merritt vaulted into the rear bench seat and drew their stunners.

Sonya looked back. Laskaris stood at the door, entranced by the burning remains of a fading place. The Lord picked up a spear from a fallen Harkonnen soldier. Blake loomed, pushing her along by force of his focus.

“Una salus victis, Jacamar,” he rumbled. Fire reflected off the round lens of his spectacles.

 And as she jumped into the back of the groundcar, the words engraved themselves. Sure as inkvine in a whip-scar.

…it is by will alone I set my mind in motion...

Chapter Text

Sonya held onto the present. Wind whirring past her cheeks. Courtyards red and guttering. The hum and whine of the groundcar’s suspensors. She ripped her attention from behind and aimed it ahead.

Sideris was picking up speed. Brute force and split-second timing would be needed.

The west gate was torn open, dead men decorating the ground in uneven piles. Stunner bolts flicked off the groundcar’s forward shields and the invaders were forced to dive out of the way or be crushed.

“Everyone, brace!” called out Sideris, flooring the accelerator.

In the back, she, Merritt, and Karras hunkered down and found a good grip. On the control console Ansel cranked up the shield actuator and the air around them hummed. The vehicle had an open top but top-of-the-line shields.

Sideris bore down, swerving deftly as Harkonnen soldiers fired darts and tried lofting slowfall grenades in their path.

“Brace!”

The car bounded through the debris blocking the gate, forcing aside soldiers and knocking over the shatter-breach that must’ve been used to pierce the gate. The uneven terrain tilted the groundcar into a cluster of bollards, rocking them to a halt.

“Are we—” Ansel was looking over the console, Sideris frantically working the gear shift.

Karras leaned over and checked the clearance of the suspensors. “Back it off at an angle, Sid!”

The two enemy groundcars that secured the rear of the Harkonnen advance were momentarily stunned. Then there were shouts, and men leaped from the cars with swords drawn.

“Get us loose!” barked Karras.

Sonya unzipped the bag of essentials she’d saved from her office. She dug out a slowfall grenade and thrust it into Merritt’s hands. “I’ve got one more, don’t waste this!” To Ansel she said, “Cut the shield, quick!”

Merritt flashed a wicked grin, and with a sure arm lobbed the grenade towards the nearer of the two groundcars. Shield contact flared red. Inside the shield, a panicked scramble. And then an explosion blackened within its invisible box.

Sideris whooped as their groundcar lurched free of the bollards. In the aftermath, the second groundcar was mobilizing and a third had backtracked from the embassy grounds. It was flying a battle-standard, the Harkonnen blue griffin quartered with a three-ringed gold chain. Gulon’s standard.

Briefly she saw her enemy. He saw her, too. In the uncertain light of battle there was the shape of his too-smooth face, contorted and shifted. She saw him gesture to his guards and to his driver. As Sideris pulled away, the two remaining groundcars split off their offensive, turning to follow the flight of a handful of spies.

“What now?” shouted Merritt.

“Keep running! Spaceport, terminal entrance!” ordered Karras. “Ansel, get us there!” To Sonya, “Got any more surprises in that bag?”

The chase was on. Ansel had his portable comm unit—he never went anywhere without it—and he was scanning frequencies and redirecting Sideris’ path. Sideris rocketed through the quiet embassy district, veered onto the main highway, and tore up the road to the spaceport. The early morning was progressing. Still dark, but the working-class delivery trucks and service vehicles were beginning to create traffic. Gulon’s two groundcars were keeping pace, slowly gaining.

Ansel shot up in his seat. “Get off here! This exit!”

“But we’re still—”

“Just do it!”

It was an exit shy of the spaceport. But as they diverted down off and along the frontage road, they looked over to see a mass of flashing emergency lights and a flipped delivery truck blocking the highway.

“An accident?” asked Karras.

“Doesn’t matter!” shot back Sonya. Her own mind had mapped out this route, too. It was risky, but it could work. The streets converged into ordered city blocks, business and service centers and warehouse spaces ringing the outskirts of the spaceport. Heighliners ran at all hours and the streets here were always busy. By necessity they were slowing down to thread the traffic. Their pursuers had grown from two to three groundcars, Gulon’s vehicle safely dropped back to the rear. From the two lead cars darts started arcing, testing the range.

“Get ready!” she growled. She had extra cartridges of explosive-tipped darts, and she, Karras, and Merritt were loaded. Only five shots each, but it would have to do. The low velocity of dart-weapons made firing downwind an advantage. The enemy were in their range before they were in the enemy’s. “Now!”

They let fly, each trying for the weak parts. The drivers were shielded, but the suspensors ports could only be protected so much. As they wove between cars and gunned through intersections, turbulence resurged. A third dart from Sonya got the front right suspensor of one vehicle and another from Merritt took it entirely out of commission. Karras’ practiced hand obliterated the second car’s engine, which thunked out and collided with a parked groundtruck.

Three more blocks…

Two more blocks…

“Watch out!”

Merritt was almost thrown as a glancing blow from another car spun them wildly. Karras and Sonya both grabbed for her and kept her from falling. A fourth Harkonnen groundcar had shot narrowly past them and almost ended the flight. The new groundcar turned quickly, ready to bear down on them.

“There!” pointed Ansel.

They pivoted off the main street and aimed for an alleyway. In her mind’s eye, it would work.

“Stop it here!” she shouted. “At the mouth!”

The car stuttered to a halt, wedging itself across the narrow gape of the alleyway. The five of them leapt down and out of the streetlights.

“Here!” Sonya hurriedly shoved a small carrybag into each of their hands. “Solaris and papers! And make sure to ditch your weapons before getting onto Guild grounds! Go!”

“But what about—”

She pulled the last item out of her bag. A slowfall grenade.

Karras saw it. “Go! Follow the plan!”

The others bolted down the alley, running on military priorities.

“Don’t wait too long,” Karras said, and then started after them.

It had a solid heft in her hand. Sonya paced off her optimal effective distance, about thirty meters. And she waited. Twenty seconds, thirty, forty…

And then the whine of another groundcar drew near. A cautious approach with the silhouettes of soldiers against the glow of the street.

She threw and ducked down with ears covered and eyes shut. The blast roared and a rain of debris shot past. She was briefly disoriented when she got to her feet. She still heard shouting and orders. Harkonnen battle language.

Darts ricocheted off the wall next to her. She flinched and ran. Behind her, shouts and footsteps followed her. She was the closest of their prey, and they were jeering. The chase was almost done and they were ready for their prize. It was dark here, so dark.

But it was the dark of the morning. She’d been running like this every chance she got. She might be smaller and shorter than most Harkonnen thugs. But I am still Atreides. And right now I can fly.  

Ahead was blocked by a fence. The noise of the bright street beyond. Alley fence street port safety—

Every muscle burned, air raced ragged in her lungs. She threw away her kindjal, sliptip, stunner. But she pushed harder. Faster. At the last second she cranked the setting on her shield belt, overloading it. She launched herself at the fence. Profanity flew as darts glanced off her fluxing shield. She was at the top when bodies slammed into the fence, tipping her to the ground. She rolled, popped up, and ran full-tilt into traffic.

She dodged screeches, horns, anti-grav hums. Just blurred objects she needed to escape. Ignored the startled looks of people unloading at the terminal entrance. After she burst through the doors she glanced back. Six pursuers on foot and a groundcar skittered up on the curb. Gulon and his security team piled out. Gulon shouted and they all tore up the steps.

Shit—

No city police, no Guild security, nothing. Rules weren’t going to help her if there was no one here to enforce them. Rules wouldn’t save her if they managed to drag her back to Giedi Prime. She dove further inside, slipping through the crowd past the ticket counters of the front lounge.

More shots. People churned in panic, yelling, running, flattening to the ground. Her shield had shorted out completely. But she was still a moving target. She saw Karras up ahead, and the rest beyond him.

Almost there—

Sirens activated. Security grills dropped and locked into place. Blocking access to customs and the security checkpoint. Locking her out.

Fuck—

In her mind, all the shining paths snapped and went dark. She had no cutteray, nothing to break the lock. She attacked the grill. She screamed her frustration. But the metal did not yield.

On the other side, Karras had backtracked. He took in her position, face falling.

“Keep to plan, get them to safety,” she panted.

“But what about—” He tapped his temple. It was a cold thing to ask, even in that mild way, and from the regret on his face he knew that. It was well known that Mentat knew too much. Always too much. She knew every safehouse, every code, every last operative in the Atreides. She was now a security risk.

“They won’t.” She wheezed bitterly. “I plan ahead.” She made a sign with her hand, a two-point jag of her fingers over her ribs. There was nothing forward, only back. And she would not be going back. Then she made the salute, heart to head.

Karras nodded, understanding. He saluted back and ran.

Sonya turned away, smiling a little. At least she had managed to give them a chance.

Ten Harkonnen soldiers approached, spread out in formation to prevent her escape. Their weapons were trained. They awaited orders.

She was shaking and she was winded. But she stood straight-back and tall. If this was the way it would end, she was going to rob them of victory. She dug her nail into that spot on her left palm. Began the count. Una salus victis…the only hope for the doomed is no hope at all...

Gulon walked up, red-faced and in his glory. He was smiling, drawing it out. “So accomplished—”

“Hold!”

Reflexively she released, spoiling the countdown. She knew that voice, strident though it was. A figure bulled through the line, knocking soldiers off-balance. Delambre.

Gulon snarled, a dog with his hackles up. “What the hell are you doing here!”

Delambre moved to block their line of sight. Clearly, loudly, he said, “I’m retrieving one of my citizens.”

“Your—” Gulon sputtered. “What?”

To the room, “I am Lord Raúl Delambre, Envoy of House Delambre and a Peer of the Court of His Supreme Majesty the Padishah Emperor Shaddam the Fourth. This citizen, Sonya Jacamar, is under the sanctuary of House Delambre under Paragraph 7, section 2 of the Great Convention.” He flapped a beribboned piece of paper in his hand. “Fealty was signed yesterday.”

“Liar! She was Atreides. Atreides is dead!” He pointed vehemently over Delambre’s shoulder. “That is my property. This is your last warning. Step aside.”

“No.”

Distantly, there was still screaming, running feet. Sonya felt her own breath, the drumming in her chest, muscles twitching.

“Stun them!” shouted Gulon.

No one complied. Most were lowering their stunners. Then, thankfully, more people joined them. Guild Security forces surrounded them. Demands were made, weapons dropped. Quickly it was found that neither she nor Delambre were armed. The Guild Agent Wendan Kinney hustled forward.

“It appears you were right, Lord Delambre,” mused the agent. “What a fine mess. And Jacamar in the center of it. Curious.” He turned to Gulon. “Care to explain yourself, sir?”

For a few minutes they watched the man justify his claims. Explosion at the Embassy… pursuit of Atreides combatants…sanctuary forfeit with lack of Ducal heir…prior claims of property. With the adrenaline rush burnt out Sonya began to tick and quiver with fits of chills and exhaustion. Only stubbornness was keeping her upright. Occasionally Kinney would interject with a bland question. Specifics on times, orders, etc.

Eventually Gulon came to the end of his narrative and Kinney to the end of his questions. Kinney lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Finally, “So, to summarize, you commenced an attack on Atreides embassy soil on Kaitain, pursued a suspected Atreides combatant to attempt capture. Along the way you endangered Imperial citizens and property. And then you came armed into a Guild Neutrality Zone. And then ordered that weapons be discharged within said zone.”

“I—”

“All for a person who is no longer an Atreides vassal.”

“That, no—”

“Yes,” confirmed Kinney. “I’ve seen the paperwork myself. It’s genuine.”

Gulon’s face was marbling, he choked on his own anger.

All those cheops games and Delambre had finally learned to plan a few moves ahead. He must’ve forged her signature and kept the paperwork ready. Any other time she’d be proud. But she was in a void with no room to think beyond the moment. She could feel it pressing in on all sides.

A security man spoke a few words in Kinney’s ear. To the assembled he said, “Fortunately, it seems no one on Guild property was seriously injured. Though one visitor broke an ankle and another was concussed. They are being treated. Lord Gulon, you have violated Guild Protocol and broken neutrality afforded under the Great Convention. We will detain you and your men until the Burseg of Corinth City can negotiate your release or transfer.” He looked over at her. “Mentat Jacamar, I release you into the custody of Lord Delambre. You are both free to leave the property.”

“Thank you,” said Delambre.

“NO!”

Sonya flinched. Gulon’s face twisted so much he seemed no longer human. He lunged forward and two Guild security staff restrained him.

“You’re mine, girl! You can’t escape it—" The Lord was on a tirade, after the first phrases she could barely understand the words frothing from Gulon’s mouth. His face contorted, cartoonish, unreal. A small man. A dangerous animal. And a petty, spoilt child who wanted the one toy he’d been denied.

Nothing, really. Nothing compared to the abyss of terrible things that had happened here and on Arrakis. They’re all dead. You saw it coming and you still couldn’t stop it. She might’ve pressed her palm again and not let up. Instead, out of her ragged throat rasped, “Go to hell.” And she walked away.

His voice followed her. Words again forming, “What are you selling this time girl? I’m sure it’ll be good practice for what I have in mind. Like mother like daughter—”

And then they were outside, the doors cutting off the rest. Here, order was slowly returning. Corinth police were directing traffic, Guild security interviewed witnesses with business-like detachment. Just another day, another minor disturbance in this jewel of the Empire.

Like there was nothing wrong.

She stopped, swaying on her feet. The sky was lightening at the edges with the encroaching dawn. In her mind’s eye she could see this light casting over familiar embassy steps, fires still burning and Harkonnens piling the dead.

And she could see soldiers bearing the hawk emblem dripping dark blood out onto pitiless sands, numbering in the thousands. Duke Leto, he of dignity and justice, now empty and sightless and a trophy for some palace wall. And Hawat—and Gurney—and Duncan—

Her mother had been a surprise. It had stolen up on her, quick and edged. It happened.  

But this was worse. Like goddamned prophecy. She had seen the possibility, and now it was a breathing terrible reality. She had gotten smarter and stronger and more capable and now—she saw her friends as clearly as she saw her own bloody hands—it had happened again.

More biohazard bags. More to burn. More to—

She lurched away, dropping to her knees and heaving up the too-vivid images of her own fucked-up mind onto a flowerbed. The world around her blurred out, and she was reduced to the spasm of her abdomen, the acid burn in her throat, and the sour dregs of used coffee spilling out on the ground.

Distantly there was a familiar voice and a steadying hand on her shoulder. It was an anchor line. Something else to focus on. After a few more dry heaves, her head was clearing she got herself back. Weak and sweaty and tear-stained as she was.

“Are you injured?” Delambre was asking.

She spat and wiped her face on a sleeve. “No,” she croaked. Tiredly, she looked up and spotted a Guild medic hurrying toward her. She grimaced, thinking of lights in her eyes and stupid questions and disposable blankets. She shifted, trying to get her feet under her. “I need to—”

“I’ve got you,” he said, hauling her up. “We’re getting out of here.”

Chapter Text

Raúl was standing on an observation deck of the Delambre frigate, looking into the innards of the Guild heighliner as other craft taxied into docking positions. Tygath had found him and was wasting no time in expressing his doubts.

“I’m not sure you understand how reckless this is. Taking in the Atreides Mentat.” The baoding balls clacked in the Mentat’s hand.

This is going to piss me off, isn’t it? he thought grimly. Then, It’s Tygath, of course it is. He sighed. “Then explain it to me.”

“Fine. I’ll use small words to be sure you understand. Let me tell you what Jacamar is. Jacamar is a dog that has lost its collar. Don’t let the Mentat façade fool you. She started as a cur on the streets of Harko. And when she got free of that she found herself a way to channel her talents and her hatred into a constructive purpose. A collar, service to the ideals of the Atreides. But with collar gone there’s nothing to stop her from biting the first hand that tries to feed her. What collar have you and Vidal given her? Why should she serve you?”

Oh, I would pay money to have him say that to her face. He wouldn’t stand a chance. “I haven’t given her a collar. Why the hell would I do that?”

“Fool!” hissed Tygath. “She was already prone to instability. Vengeance? What do you think that will do to her? Take an ordinary soldier and give them vengeance and they’ll blow up a palace. Give a Mentat vengeance and they’ll dismantle an Empire. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not,” he spat, finally raising his voice. He turned to Vidal, who had been listening and brooding over his coffee. “She saved Mireia. Sure as I’m standing here. And if I hadn’t intervened she would’ve been…” Dead, she would’ve been dead. The ink had barely been dry on the fealty papers when word came in of an attack at the Atreides Embassy. If an embassy on Kaitain was forfeit then there was only one place that could be safer: Spacing Guild property. It’d been close. Too close. She’d told him that she’d never be taken alive by Harkonnens and he knew her well enough to know that she’d taken steps to ensure that. That tic he’d noticed, ever since the day Arrakis had been given to Atreides. Something with the left palm. “I owe her. We owe her. What was I supposed to do?”

Tygath’s tone turned venomous. “She chose, at a critical time, to leave her duties and assist you with recovering the girl. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? What does she have to gain?”

“She wasn’t involved until I asked her to be.” A small lie. But why is he so determined about this? He keeps inventing new suspicions. First the marriage scheme for the young Atreides, now the shelter of another House Major?  “We know that the kidnapping was all the young Ordos. Even you agree on that.”

“Enough,” rumbled Vidal. “Tygath, I understand your concerns. But the winds are changing. The Atreides were overrun by Harkonnen and Imperial forces. We know it, and the other Houses either know or suspect it. It can’t be ignored.” He set the cup down decisively. “The Emperor killed the best of us. Why? Because he couldn’t accept that Atreides was rising and that he’d have to accept the end of the Corrino paternal line one way or another.” He rose from his chair and paced. “It can’t be undone. But we must make sure it isn’t repeated. Against us, or any other House.” He looked to Raúl. “And unless I’m mistaken, Sonya Jacamar is going to be key in that endeavor. Like it or not, Tygath.”

“Sire, I must protest. She’ll draw attention. She’s dangerous—”

“So are you, Master Tygath. But we manage.” The Mentat and the Count exchanged a look, one that weighed and measured. Perhaps it was not a look between friends, but it was certainly one in which understanding had been earned through long and thorough acquaintance. Finally, the Mentat gave an exasperated sigh and bowed his head. “Good,” said Vidal. “Please Tygath, take your rest. I must speak with my brother.”

The old Mentat left the room, gliding out in his robes and taking the clacking and chiming with him.

“Tygath’s not wrong,” Vidal said slowly. “He’s seen much in service to our family. All the mistakes and successes. I know you know that. So, you must have a lot of faith in her to go against his judgment.”

Raúl nodded.

"Very well. Tygath has been very clear in outlining the risks. She can stay under our fealty, but only as long as it does not threaten the safety of our people. I’m trusting you to know the tipping point, should it come to that. You understand?”

He nodded again.

“Then it’s decided.” Vidal gave a deep sigh. The silver in his hair stood out in the running lights of the observation platform, the low light accented the lines and shadows around his brow and eyes. But he did smile, if a little tiredly. “I think we’ve all had enough of Kaitain for awhile. Make sure your friend is settled. The folding may be seconds, but I swear I still feel the distance.”

A few corridors away, Raúl found Jacamar sitting on her bunk in her cabin. As evidence of the trunk at her feet and the cold-weather clothes neatly piled on top, Jacinda and Mireia must’ve already paid their respects. When he asked if she needed company, she shrugged. He pulled up a chair and watched her slowly pull a penknife open and closed. Open and closed. He asked her what she was thinking about.

“Funeral customs vary,” was her reply.

Sonya did not elaborate right away. The day had been spent doing paperwork at first the Spacing Guild office and then at the Delambre embassy, passing in a numb fog. Further news had fed her more data, confirmed some points and detailed others. The Duke was indeed dead. Worse, the heir Paul Atreides and the Lady Jessica had been captured and then lost to the ruthless maw of a coriolis storm. Harkonnen forces raised their flags over Arrakeen, Carthag, and Arsunt. The Atreides forces were scattered, killed or captured. Few had bribed their way off-world and were refugees. A planet-wide pogrom had begun, killing Fremen on sight. And, as she had figured, the Atreides embassy on Kaitain had been razed.

She opened and closed the penknife, listening to the click. Mechanically she said, “Funeral customs vary,” she repeated. “It’s a human thing, for the most part. Find a way to remember our dead. Customs vary by culture and environment. I was thinking of what happens to the Atreides dead. At the embassy. Now that the ground belongs to Harkonnens.” Her teeth bit that last. The anger was still there, and right now it was about all she was capable of feeling. Everything else felt absent, or distant. “I was thinking that Harkonnens would burn them. They burn everything. If they think it could be fuel. And then they move on.” She could still see the outlines of crematoria, smoke and cinders drifting up alongside smelters and factories.

In his chair, Delambre seemed to be searching for something reassuring to say. She was grateful when he decided to stay silent.

“But—different cultures and different environments.” She sighed, rapping the end of the closed knife against her palm. “Caladan tradition is for burial under stone. And great feasts and songs to celebrate the deeds of those departed. To show we are thinking of them and living for them.”

It was a tradition Sonya had embraced, in her own way. Her mother had sung for everything. For her work, because her voice gave her a slim margin of privileges that had helped her stay alive and keep her child safe. For the other brothel girls, who were sick for home and needed comfort. For Sonya, to give her hope of a life beyond the stinking slums of Harko City. And sometimes just for herself, because it took her away from the present for a little while. Sonya did not sing much, but when she did she was thinking of her mother and Dror and Alma.

Delambre finally found something to say. “On Ardea, we bury our dead. Stone marker for names and dates. Then we plant flowers or trees over them to give them new life in a new form.” He paused. “But we don’t sing of them. And we don’t say their names aloud again.”

“Why is that?”

Raúl knew why, but he’d never had to explain it to someone. People just knew, it was tradition. He supposed Vidal or Anaís must’ve told him something of it after their mother died. He felt his way through the answer. “It’s because…names have power. They summon you when you’re alive. They summon you even when you’re dead. And it’s unwise to summon the dead.”

She snorted. “The dead can’t hurt you.”

Oh yes they can. His mother hurt him, because without her their father had no word or hand to redirect or soften his mercurial temper. His father hurt him because when he died he left behind a court full of suspicion and festering wounds. Jacinda’s brothers—good, loyal, jovial men he had looked up to—hurt him because they’d died when Raúl had gone where he was told and not where he knew he needed to be. War had surrounded them all in the nameless dead. And they most certainly could hurt you. He sighed. “What I meant is that naming them keeps them alive, but not in the way that helps. It encourages…unhealthy behavior.”

She clicked open that knife again, idly. “Gurney Halleck. Duncan Idaho. Thufir Hawat—”

“You don’t know that they’re dead,” he interjected. “What is it you say…check your assumptions?”

Sonya acknowledged this was true. They were all unaccounted for. She tried to believe they could be alive somewhere. But believing that would mean they were suffering somewhere, which was worse. She closed the knife again, tapping it against that spot on her left palm. “The ‘unhealthy behavior.’ You mean vengeance, correct?”

He exhaled heavily.

“Yes, of course it does.” She fixed him with a hard stare. “Doesn’t make you a saint, does it? Considering you would’ve killed me if I’d harmed Mireia. And you might’ve done for Ordos because of the threat of it.”

He didn’t bother denying it. But he looked down at his hands, trying and failing to cover up…unease? Discomfort? Guilt. 

Belatedly, she thought that her bluntness might be mistaken for accusation. "It's a natural response," she added. 

Finally he said, “Yes, well. No one’s ever accused me of sainthood. And I…I’ll admit I’ve not been my best lately. Old habits, old fears I suppose. But thankfully I’ve had an annoying Mentat around to set me straight.”

“I see.” She closed the knife. Through the numbness she felt…gratified? It was a warmth that seemed too much for such a small service. Her lip twitched up. “Well, I’ll be sure to tell Tygath the next time I see him.”

Delambre nodded. He pulled a flask out of his jacket and took a sip. Then he offered it out to her.

Hesitantly, she took the flask from his hand. She took a pull of it herself. An herbal liqueur. It had much in common with gin, though more concentrated with a spiced trace of fire. Maybe a bit sweet for her taste, but it could grow on her. “All right I have to ask,” as she handed back the flask. “How did you get the papers? That kind of paperwork is murder, even for me.”

He took a deeper swig. “Oh, it was no trouble at all. Step one: accept the post of Immigration Minister from my dear brother. Step two: fake a signature. Step three…well I haven’t figured out what step three is yet. I don’t think Vidal’s going to let me wriggle out of this.”

Bored dilettante to peak bureaucrat would be a rocky transition. But he had the basic skills, assuming the paperwork didn’t bury him alive. Sonya clamped her jaw down, trying not to laugh. Instead, “If it’s any consolation, your sacrifice is appreciated.”

“Well ‘appreciate’ by helping me get the hell out of it, if you can.” He grimaced. “Though I suppose you’ll have higher priorities. Care to share?”

Erinys. She had been thinking about all day, all through the fog. It would taste delightful to her in its raw and bloody form. And she could do it. Between the funds allocated and her skills in anticipating CHOAM markets, she had the solaris needed for a handful of guerrilla cells. If Karras’ team and other teams had made it, she had the people necessary to set thorns in the Harkonnen hide.

But Erinys as it was would not make her welcome on Ardea. And, logically, the begrudging cooperation of House Delambre’s resources and Tygath’s intelligence network would magnify her efforts four-fold. A compromise in appetites would be necessary.

And if at the end of the day it delivered more damage to the masters of Giedi Prime and Kaitain, then who am I to argue with logic? she thought.

It was something to tell herself, at least. Right now the only way through this was to have a goal. She had done it before. Sonya’s goal and her mother’s hope had gotten her off Giedi Prime and onto Caladan. And while Sonya’s hopes had guttered out on the spaceport floor, she could still set goals. Goals she would be fitted for. Goals with calculations and knifework.

So, not vengeance. Right? What to call it, then?

“I have some ideas for justice. If there is such a thing.”