“Your Caladan drug killed my son! At first, the drug seemed less harmful than some of Raolin’s other vices, but you know the truth, don’t you? You lured him with a peaceful release, but it was like a hidden bomb. Now he is dead because of you. Dead! I held him in my arms as his life drained away in horrible convulsions from the vile drug you sell on the black market.
“I should declare a War of Assassins against House Atreides, here and now, but you saved my life on Otorio. That places me under an obligation to my own honor. I managed to escape on one of the only ships, along with Archduke Ecaz. Therefore, you have me under an unwilling life debt. But the Landsraad will know what you are, Duke of Caladan.”
A coldness seeped and spread within Leto, and he couldn’t fathom what he was reading. He did recall Atikk’s odd mention of “the Caladan drug” during the Imperial reception, but Jaxson Aru’s attack had swept the detail from his mind.
The message concluded. “You are forever the enemy of House Atikk, Leto Atreides. It will not be forgotten.”
That was all the letter said. No further explanation.
“Thufir!” he shouted. “Thufir Hawat!”
Leto rose from his desk and read the damning letter again, but it still made no sense. His immediate instinct was to pour out a message of sympathy, to somehow offer reparations for the loss of Raolin Atikk, but he did not dare. So much vengeful outrage dripped from the letter!
What was this Caladan drug, and how could Leto not know about it? Caladan was his planet, and he ruled it under the mantle of morality and reliability, and now his own reputation had been undermined. Clearly, he needed to get to the bottom of whatever this illicit activity was. The son of a Landsraad noble was dead. How many others had been harmed?
The Caladan drug?
The warrior Mentat strode into Leto’s study, flushed. He’d come running when he heard the summons. “Yes, my Lord Duke?”
Leto handed him Atikk’s vitriolic message. Hawat’s brow furrowed deeply as he read. The Duke stepped away. “Find out what is going on, Thufir. Identify this Caladan drug—who is manufacturing it, who is distributing it? How does it get offworld? Why did we not know about this … and how am I to blame?”
Hawat straightened, handed the letter back. “I will begin an investigation immediately.”
Suspicions have a way of becoming “facts,” even if they have no basis in truth.
—PRINCESS IRULAN, The Book of Muad’Dib
After he returned to Arrakis, Count Hasimir Fenring traveled to Carthag in the early evening. After the sun set, the air was cooler, the desert not so menacing, although the central Harkonnen city was still an ugly place. Fenring had spent enough years on this harsh planet to know when best to leave his lovely Arrakeen Residency. His mission to the Baron Harkonnen would be difficult enough.
Fenring stepped out of the overland flyer that had brought him from the spaceport wearing a pro forma stillsuit, but he refused to wear a face mask or inconvenient nose plugs. He inhaled a dusty breath, smelling the unpleasant fumes that the Harkonnen troops and equipment seemed to exude.
Fenring already missed Kaitain, but Shaddam had sent him back to his duties as Imperial Spice Observer, and he understood the importance of the task the Emperor had set for him. Though he liked to care for his lovely wife, Hasimir Fenring was not a man who needed to be pampered.
Moving quickly, he stepped into a waiting groundcar on the edge of the landing field and breathed a sigh of relief when the door sealed behind him. Since the Baron had dispatched the vehicle for him, Fenring did not need to give the driver instructions. Without a word, the man rolled the groundcar across the paved area and into the city.
Fenring hated the megalopolis where Baron Harkonnen maintained his headquarters. This crowded city, with its roadways and blocky buildings, was a magnet for heat and grime, making the place seem even more unpleasant. The air reeked of oil, sweat, and industrial odors, of filthy smoke mixed with dust. After the Richesian governors had left eighty years ago, the Harkonnens had brought their brute-force sensibility and manufacturing methods from Giedi Prime, leaving a stain that would last for centuries.
Fenring much preferred the older, more stately city of Arrakeen, where he had made an acceptable home for himself and his dear Margot, but he reminded himself this was not a pleasure trip. He had to deliver the Imperial decree about the new spice surtax, and the Baron would not be pleased.
In the downtown core of Carthag, the taller buildings rose above the hazy smoke of fabrication and repair yards for spice-harvesting machinery. The governor’s mansion was not as tall as the central Guild Bank structure, but stockier and more fortified.
As the escort car pulled up in front of the mansion’s guarded gates, Fenring saw two desiccated heads on spikes. Their darkening skin had blistered in the heat, and now in the gathering darkness, glowglobes spotlighted the gruesome trophies.
After being ushered past guard stations and inside the main structure, Fenring strolled into the fortified mansion with his Imperial credentials, in case anyone needed a reminder of his importance.
Baron Vladimir Harkonnen greeted him from the suspensor chair behind an ellipsoid desk in his spacious private office. The desk was made of jade-pink elaccawood, a replica of the original in his Giedi Prime office. He also kept a relief globe of the desert world here. Scrolls and filmbooks lined the walls.
Fenring sauntered forward, taking a seat without being invited. As he settled into the guest chair, though, he noted that the Baron had staged the furniture so he would be a head taller than any visitor. Fenring did not like to be in a subordinate position to this unpleasant man.
Baron Harkonnen was intimidating in his girth, with uneven discolorations on his face from a persistent, incurable malady. He wore a bandage on his forehead and a medcast on his left wrist and hand. Fenring immediately noted the details, confirming what he knew.
Shaddam was deeply suspicious of the Baron’s failure to attend the grand gala. After Jaxson Aru’s screed about breaking up the Imperium, the Emperor had begun to see signs of treachery everywhere, secret members of the Noble Commonwealth, sympathizers with the rebellion. Were the Harkonnens part of the brewing rebellion?
House Harkonnen had governed Arrakis with its lucrative spice industry for eighty-odd years. The Baron’s father, Dmitri Harkonnen, had ruled for years until his death, followed by the disastrous tenure of the Baron’s half brother Abulurd, before Vladimir Harkonnen himself took over the operations. By long tradition, a noble family was assigned to the desert planet for a century, although the Emperor could remove them at any time. But the profits—both on the books and under the table—were so extensive that few families willingly relinquished their siridar-governorship.
Seeing Fenring’s scrutiny, the big man lifted his med-wrapped arm. “I have not been feeling well. A minor accident left me with this injury. That is the reason I could not attend the Emperor’s gala on Otorio.”
“And such a fortunate coincidence, hmmm? How convenient you were away from Otorio when the attack happened.” Fenring leaned forward. “Exactly how were you injured?”
The Baron sniffed, then waved his wrapped hand dismissively. “Oh, just a little household accident. My suspensor belt failed me at a most inopportune time, and I fell on the stone stairway. Alas, for a person of my size, gravity is not my friend.” The fat man’s gaze drifted off, as if he were pulling a fanciful story out of the ether. “You can reassure the Emperor, though, that I am feeling better every day, and my work here has not suffered one bit.”