He lurched in front of Duncan just at the moment the box erupted in a firestorm. The front of the tavern blasted inward with a deafening report. Windows shattered, and the façade caught fire. The explosion ripped the innocent tavern maiden to pieces.
Paul’s shield deflected the hammer blow even as the shock wave hurled him back into Duncan. Shards of shrapnel, flaming wood, and razor-edged glass flew in all directions, but the shield dampened the blast and diverted the deadly debris from harming them.
Stunned, Paul staggered backward. Duncan recovered first and grabbed Paul, dragging him toward any nearby shelter.
Screams echoed up and down the street, growing louder. Pedestrians in front of the businesses fell bleeding and burning. Paul glimpsed several bodies thrown to the ground, some twitching, some motionless. Surging fire devoured the tavern.
As dust and smoke roiled out from the blast, a blizzard of leaflets drifted to the ground.
Before Paul could grab one of the drifting pieces of instroy paper, though, a second explosion rocked the opposite side of the street, where the baliset maker had been playing a love song. In slow-motion increments of time, Paul watched a gout of fire rip open the front of the shop, splintering and scattering the baliset maker’s wares while the shock wave flattened even more pedestrians, including a hapless family that had paused to look at a glassblower’s display.
Moments later, a block away, a third bomb blast roared out.
Duncan reached through the shield to seize Paul by the shoulders. “Come, young Master. It is my duty to keep you safe.” He added in a ragged voice, “And thank you for saving me. If you hadn’t activated your shield in front of me…”
“You saved me enough times, Duncan. But all those people, all the injured … We have to help.” Paul snatched one of the drifting sheets of paper. The durable material had survived the explosion. On the leaflet, he saw a crude drawing of a curled barra fern.
Duke Leto Atreides: You threaten my operations, attack my business. The barra ferns are mine. The ailar is mine. More will die if you keep interfering.
The note was signed by Chaen Marek.
Paul felt sick. He pulled away from Duncan, who kept trying to drag him away. “No, we do not run! We stay and help these people. We can’t abandon them.”
Duncan was a coil of spring-wound muscles, casting his alertness about like a sensor net. Before the Swordmaster could object, Paul insisted, “An Atreides does not run and think of his own safety first!”
“Spoken like your good father,” Duncan replied, resigned. “But I must keep you safe. Nevertheless, let us save whomever we can.” He glared at the leaflet. “Although right now, I can think of at least one person who needs to die.”
In its most logical form, all life can be viewed as a decision chart of positive and negative influences, as we attempt to reach an optimal determination. But not all decisions are logical, and it is on that path that trouble often lies.
—COUNT HASIMIR FENRING
On the outskirts of Arrakeen, Count Fenring waited at the designated meeting place, in the murky shade of an industrial building. Esmar Tuek and his smugglers were growing more and more mistrustful of him. That was understandable, considering the Harkonnen crackdowns under way, which had put normal Arrakis operations on edge.
For this encounter, Fenring wore a stained desert cloak and a stillsuit that had been provided by his contacts. The suit seemed a little loose on his slender frame, but it functioned well enough. For now, he left the nose plugs loose. He preferred to breathe without them. Following the surreptitious instructions, he’d smeared his face with streaks of dirt. Previous assignments had taught him how to disguise himself.
The Emperor demanded answers about the mysterious slippage of spice that bypassed his Imperial taxes and restrictions. Knowing his volatile lifelong friend, Fenring knew Shaddam would soon lose his temper and overreact, which Fenring had to stop at all costs. For now, he realized he didn’t need correct answers, as much as something that would satisfy the Emperor.
Grix Dardik was adamant that such a secret conduit existed, and Fenring believed these new pirates must be independent from his smugglers—Esmar Tuek would never be so foolish. Even so, the failed Mentat had not been able to track down the mysterious other operators. Where was the illicit spice coming from?
Someone would have to pay, publicly, for the offense, and the Emperor wasn’t particular, so long as he could declare that Imperial justice had been served. He had placed that burden on Count Fenring’s shoulders.
Thus, he had to dig deeper, root around the underbelly of society. He would have liked to bring Dardik along for this secret meeting with the smugglers, but too much was at stake, and the eccentric failed Mentat was unstable. Thus, Fenring would see Esmar Tuek alone.
The smugglers had moved to a secondary base after Baron Harkonnen had stepped up ruthless efforts to cut down on the illegal operations. Apparently, he also wanted to demonstrate his indignation about the missing spice, and so he went after any obvious target. It was futile, blunt-force meddling, and the harassment had driven Tuek’s smugglers deeper into hiding.
Fenring, though, would get to the heart of the matter. Through his Arrakeen contacts, he transmitted a message to Tuek, demanding a meeting. The smuggler leader feared a trap, with good reason, but the Count had agreed to security measures and given his own reassurances.
In the dusty side alley, now he could feel eyes watching him, making certain he had brought no guards or assassins. Fenring was amused by this, because he could personally deflect any efforts the smugglers might make against him. He kept both hands inside his dirty cloak, gripping stilettos in hidden sheaths.
Several large ornithopters flew overhead, buzzing toward the main landing field, and he heard the engines and rhythmic wings of a smaller ’thopter at lower altitude. Looking back over the rooftop, he saw an unmarked private aircraft approaching from the other side of the city. The ’thopter circled over the hardpan that separated Arrakeen from the basin protected by the Shield Wall. The smaller aircraft landed in a vacant lot not far away, exactly as he had expected. Fenring emerged from the shadows to meet the occupants.
As the articulated wings continued to beat slowly, two bearded men in cloaks swung down from the cockpit and bounded toward him. “It is time.” One seized him by the elbow and pulled him toward the craft. Fenring ducked under a moving wing as he clambered aboard. He was instructed to sit on the floor, while one man pressed a blindfold over his eyes.
Annoyed, the Count pushed the cloth away. “I refuse to permit this. I am the Imperial Observer on Arrakis.”
“Is that any reason to trust you?” The man dangled the blindfold. “Wear this, or Esmar will not see you.”
These men were Fremen, and he could tell they would not budge. Despite his resentment and suspicion, he allowed them to tie the blindfold in place.
He turned to his other senses and felt the ’thopter lift off with a vibrating thrum of wings. Having kept his nose plugs loose, he smelled dust and the ever-present bite of melange. The aircraft flew away from Arrakeen, banking multiple times to throw off his sense of direction, followed by periods of silent gliding. The two Fremen did not speak.
Fenring had a good internal sense of time, which he could use to gauge distance. He estimated that they flew for an hour in a principal direction, before the ’thopter landed.