Chapter Text
Feyd-Rautha closed the distance to watch Paul Atreides die.
And then—there was pain, immediate and extraordinary. Paul angled his crysknife outward, not upward, so that it did not skewer into Feyd-Rautha’s heart, but instead one of his lungs, collapsing it. Suddenly, he was struggling to breathe, gasping Paul’s air. He held Paul close, gripping the back of his neck with cramped, twitching fingers.
He wanted to laugh. He’d never felt so much vicious joy in loss, ecstatic to have been tricked in such a way. But he couldn’t seem to get enough air.
Paul drew out the knife and drove it down into the joint connecting Feyd-Rautha’s arm to his shoulder. Another brilliant, perfect shock of pain; his grip on Paul’s neck spasmed and dropped. They both sank slowly to their knees, Paul mostly holding him upright, trembling himself, but determined; he wanted to make sure Feyd-Rautha knew that he'd held back. These were not killing blows, but they could have been.
“You're a soft touch, Atreides,” Feyd-Rautha rasped.
“You think—I’m foolish enough—to kill the new Baron of House Harkonnen—when he can still be of use to me?” Paul wheezed. Each pained breath was like a moan.
Feyd-Rautha laughed a terrible scraping laugh. “I won’t behave, cousin.”
“You won’t—have a choice.”
Paul let him fall. Feyd-Rautha slumped to the side, bleeding heavily, gasping in shallow hitches, but alive. And from his place on the floor—the second Baron of House Harkonnen to have been made a pathetic, helpless maggot—Feyd-Rautha watched Paul get to his feet and limp to the emperor.
*
Instead of a cell, Feyd-Rautha had been placed in an Arrakeen bunker, guarded by solemn-faced, blue-eyed rats. He was watered and fed, but only enough to keep him alive.
A Suk doctor, who must have been previously employed by House Corrino, would come to look at his wounds. She was an older woman with a stern, carved face, the diamond on her forehead faded with long years of service. She smeared pale grainy salves on his wounds, which he watched her make by his bedside. She forced him to drink a foul-tasting concoction which ripped him from consciousness and kept him physically docile, unable to lash out—but in his mind, he imagined cutting the hands from the wrists that maneuvered him.
He didn't know how much time had passed between Paul’s knife sliding into his body and his existence now, chemically chained to this bed. There were dreams. There were always dreams, but before, he had forgotten most of them upon waking, or dismissed their bizarre reflections from his conscious mind. But here, there was nothing else to cling to—nothing to do but sleep and suffer the doctor’s attentions. There came a point where he wasn’t sure whether he slept or was awake and simply hallucinating. And in all those dreams, awake or asleep, he saw blue eyes, so absurdly blue, obscured by dark curls—a slender figure whipping in a great wind, walking in sand or across the stars, sweeping in and out of the edges of his vision like a pendulum, different every time.
And a Voice.
Wᴀᴋᴇ ᴜᴘ.
Feyd-Rautha’s eyes opened.
He turned his head and saw Paul there, standing like a living shadow in the middle of the room, between the dusty bright long bars of sunlight coming in from the slit windows. The only color to him was in his eyes, glowing out like stars from a pale, shrouded face.
“Atreides,” Feyd-Rautha rasped. Licked his lips, dry and cracked. “Are you real?”
I dreamed of you.
I think I dreamed of you before I met you.
“I’m real.”
Paul walked toward him through a beam of sunlight, which turned him human again, and sat on the edge of the bed. He ran his fingers across the bandages that wrapped Feyd-Rautha’s shoulder and torso, the look on his face caught between contemplation and satisfaction. Feyd-Rautha tried to raise his head, his arm, to catch him, but found them both pinned to the bedding. Whatever drug the Suk doctor had given him, it was still there, restraining him, turning his muscles to useless liquid.
“Is it done, then?” he asked, with effort. “Your little tantrum.”
“The Great Houses have retreated for now. There are other matters to attend to before we give real chase.”
Feyd-Rautha grunted, unimpressed. “What happened to Rabban?”
“He fled too,” Paul said. “Back to Giedi Prime.”
“You’re going after him.”
“Yes. We’re going to bring Giedi Prime under our control.”
“You say that like it will be easy.”
“It won't be. But that’s where you come in, Baron. You’re going to help me do it.”
Feyd-Rautha laughed a grinding, mocking laugh. So that was why Paul had kept him alive—to pry open his mind, betray his House, and hunt down his cowardly brother. “Am I,” he said.
“You will. The Beast must die for his part in the murder of my father and the conspiracy to liquidate House Atreides, but House Harkonnen may survive if you do exactly as I say. Swear fealty to me, and you’ll become a ward of House Atreides, under my lawful protection, until Rabban is dead. You have my word that I will not betray that oath. Not like Shaddam Corrino did my father.”
“You’d make of me a pet.”
“I’d make you a duke, if you earn it. Until then, you cannot be trusted to walk free, but you must walk with me. So I will hold your leash. It’s the only way.”
“Ah,” Feyd-Rautha breathed. “Not a pet, but a slave.”
Paul’s lip curled. “It's a more generous offer than you deserve,” he spat, then collected himself. “Consider the terms. I will not negotiate. Refuse, and House Harkonnen dies in the dark, dishonored and forgotten. No one will mourn the name.”
Feyd-Rautha grinned up at his captor. The new Emperor of the Known Universe. The terrorist Muad’Dib. His uncle’s murderer. His future master. The Rat Messiah. He who had silenced Shaddam’s Truthsayer. Paul, the witch’s son, who had learned their ways, and used them now to bait him. This was a beguiling farce, the same trick every one of those witches played on the men they wished to manipulate, whispering sweet lies in their ears.
“I see you, Atreides,” he said. “I know what you want. Even if I chose death, you’d force me to accept. You don’t just want me alive, witch-spawn. You need me alive.”
The corner of Paul’s lips twitched humorlessly. His eyes burned blue-within-blue, luminous and wicked. The Voice did not layer his words, but the threat of it vibrated in the air, like a whisper; clawed fingers held above the strings of an instrument, ready to be plucked.
“Yes, I do,” he admitted. “And alive is how I’ll keep you, cousin. But the manner of that existence is up to you. So choose wisely.”
*
For the wedding, Paul no longer smelled of foul desert stink, the sweat-piss-shit of recycled bodily fluids, despite the air being thick with it, wafting off the Fremen gathered to witness the marriage ceremony. He wore an Atreides dress uniform under a long dark coat, but there was a whiff of spice to him still, all around him, betraying his clean imperial exterior.
Feyd-Rautha had been given a half-dose of the drug that had previously bedridden him, so he could still walk, but it had rendered him infuriatingly weak and woozy. His wrists had been cuffed behind his back, which made his wounds ache—that was fine, the pain was good, it kept him present—but his mind moved like molasses, and there was a strange, drifting unreality to everything; it was almost as if he saw each footstep he took before he took it, heard each sound as a before-echo.
He was flanked by two strong female rats, and after Paul and Irulan had exchanged their tedious, toothless, obligatory vows, they pushed him down to his knees before Paul. He shook his head to try to clear it, but instead, he reeled from vertigo, and had to close his eyes to recenter himself.
Someone was speaking.
“—autha Harkonnen,” the voice said—one of Shaddam’s previous retinue, a young herald still dressed in Corrino colors. “You are called upon by your emperor Paul Muad’Dib Atreides, known also as Usul, son of Duke Leto Atreides and the Reverend Mother Jessica Atreides, to swear fealty to him, the Lisan al-Gaib, Protector of Arrakis and Padishah Emperor of the Known Universe. Do you accept?”
He thought of Paul’s crysknife sliding gracefully into his uncle’s fat throat, simple, clean, merciless, like butchering a pig. Then, that same knife, the blade that had been inside his uncle, piercing his own flesh, claiming and commanding it, while Paul panted in pained gasps against his lips.
“I accept,” Feyd-Rautha ground out.
“Upon what artifact will you swear?”
Feyd-Rautha looked up. Paul did not extend his hand, his ring, to be kissed. Instead, he put forward his boot.
A murmur spread through those assembled—of condemnation or approval, he could not tell. Paul looked down at him like he was an insect, a crawling thing. He remembered telling his brother kiss or die; that rush of righteous, scathing power. Now he was in Rabban’s place, and his thighs flexed with delight, even as he bared his teeth; he couldn't be certain what he was feeling, but it ate at him like rage did, or like lust, or both. There was no other recourse.
He bent forward and put his lips to Paul’s boot.
It was clean, polished, but still smelt strongly of Arrakis: hot sand, hot air. Traces of spice. He touched his tongue to the leather, tasting it.
“Good,” Paul said, soft, like he was talking to an animal. When Feyd-Rautha raised his head, he put his hand against Feyd-Rautha’s scalp, warm, save for the sting of cool metal from his ducal ring. “Now speak your oath, cousin.”
He thought of slicing the tendons behind Paul’s knees and dropping him. But with what kindjal? He had none. He struggled to remember the words.
Uncle would not have required words.
“Here do I swear, by mouth and by hand, unwavering service to my undoubted sovereign,” he said, at last.
“And I swear to you, Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, to protect and defend you, for as long as you keep my faith, and I remain your sovereign lord and emperor. So say I, Paul Muad’Dib Atreides.”
But Paul wasn’t finished. He motioned to an attendant, who brought forward a flat box. Inside was a thin band of leather and steel punctuated with red-orange glowing segments—a Giedi-made suspensor collar, used to corral unruly slaves.
Paul snapped it perfunctorily around Feyd-Rautha’s neck, then tested the fit. It was snug, but there was enough space for Paul to get a finger between the leather and Feyd-Rautha’s skin. His fingers were warm, his fingernails blunt. Sand beneath them, still. Feyd-Rautha’s heart clenched and unclenched. He chest rose and fell with each gulp of air. He wanted to kill something; he wanted to fuck something. He wanted to fuck something until it died.
Then Paul unsheathed his crysknife. At last, thought Feyd-Rautha, delirious, but Paul only nicked his thumb on the blade and anointed Feyd-Rautha with his blood, a smudge between the brows, a practice long used by the Sardaukar to symbolize their binding devotion to the emperor.
“Therefore, in the eyes of all gathered here, I name Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen a ward of House Atreides—my sworn brother and my promised blade, to defend my House from all who mean it harm, and to be wielded without mercy against my enemies.”
He took Feyd-Rautha’s jaw in hand, forced it open, and smeared his slit thumb against his tongue.
He didn't linger long enough to get bitten, but Feyd-Rautha could not have snapped down even if he wanted to—he groaned, momentarily overcome by the pulse of foul desire that went through his cock and up his spine. The earthy leather taste of Paul’s boot was replaced by iron and spice, bright enough to sear his palate. Lightning strikes of shattered images lit up the cloudy blur of Feyd-Rautha’s mind—snatches of important things. Shadows moving in shadows.
He tried to hold on to that taste, but it fled him as he swallowed.
It was dead silent in the hall. Every living being, save for Paul and his new empress, radiated displeasure. Feyd-Rautha could feel their hatred on his skin, scorching. There was one rat, an older man, grizzled and bearded, who looked at Paul with deep love, and at Feyd-Rautha with deep loathing. Stilgar, Paul had called him—the leader of the sietch Feyd-Rautha had razed and desecrated.
He must truly need Feyd-Rautha, to give such grave insult to his followers as this.
The thought was comical. Feyd-Rautha felt his body trying to force out a laugh, but it wouldn’t come. He could only look up at Paul’s face, breathing hard.
Paul broke the silence. “Rise,” he said, and the collar dragged Feyd-Rautha to his feet, like a dog on an invisible leash. It pulled him around, made him stand by Paul’s side. To his other side stood Irulan, statuesque, who did not look at him—she must have known already what Paul was going to do. Perhaps they'd discussed it beforehand. Perhaps she’d counseled him to do it.
And all around him, he saw those burning blue-within-blue eyes, blurring together, held back only by their love of Paul, their boy-prophet.
Paul stepped forward, speaking the language of his followers, incomprehensible to Feyd-Rautha’s ears. Then he said, “Our work is not yet done. Paradise awaits us still. Tomorrow, it begins. I will need you ready.”
“We are ready, Muad’Dib,” said Stilgar, with feverish conviction. “For whatever comes.”
*
Now he wore the collar, there was no need to drug him anymore.
In the early morning, when the stone halls were still cool from the night air, the Suk doctor took him to the bathing room his uncle had once occupied. Its square stone bath was filled with the same dark, oily fluid—a familiar sight, but an empty one. The doctor unwrapped his bandages, stained with drainage and blood, and helped him into the tub.
He sank into the oxygen-rich fluid, feeling it glue into the wounds, working to repair skin and tendons and muscle. Harkonnen bodies were built to heal, flooded and enhanced with chemicals from birth to help them survive in the harsh polluted landscape of their homeworld. This mixture, made with clays and oils native to Giedi Prime, tailored especially to Harkonnen physiology, must have been left over from Uncle’s reserves; it would take several of these baths to heal, but that was still an order of magnitude less time than it would take for a non-Giedi native to recover from two stab wounds.
But he couldn't smell the oil now without thinking of the Baron.
His jaw clenched as he soaked. After his gladiatorial fight, his uncle had come to his rooms still smelling of the stuff—fresh from the bath Feyd-Rautha had threatened to drown him in. He’d sucked his nephew’s cock slow and sweet like it was a delicacy, something tender to be tasted, savored. A private birthday gift, he’d said, for the show of a lifetime.
For they both knew his greater gift of Arrakis was no true gift—it was a responsibility, a test, one that could be failed to utter ruin.
“I remember when you fit in my mouth so easily,” the Baron rumbled afterward, having swallowed everything. “Such a sweet morsel you were. Now you've truly grown.” He licked his lips like he'd consumed a feast. The memory caused Feyd-Rautha’s groin to stir, but his chest ached with something that quickly rotted and soured.
He put his skull back against the lip of the tub. Expelling the breath from his tender lungs, he sank below the surface.
There were no slaves to take him in their mouths, to attend his cock, and his dominant arm was limp and useless. Still, he used that hand to stroke himself beneath the oil, an idle pace with no purpose but to experience enough directionless pleasure to complement the pain of moving his arm, and lulled himself into a gratifying doze. In time, he heard indistinct footsteps outside. The double doors swung open, and a muffled voice spoke his name, muted by the oil in his ears.
Feyd-Rautha surfaced and saw Paul standing there at parade rest, his hands behind his back.
“Get dressed and come with me,” he said.
“I’m busy,” Feyd-Rautha drawled.
“It wasn't a request.”
The suspensor collar rose, and Feyd-Rautha rose with it. Fluid ran over and out of the holes in his body—smaller now, but still in need of salve and wrapping, his cock half-hard and dripping. The collar dragged him forward so that he knelt back down at Paul’s feet, undignified. The doctor moved forward to wipe him clean of the black residue, inspect his wounds, and reapply his bandages. She ignored the rudeness of his erection entirely, blank-faced, but Paul looked him over with a critical, raking eye, like a farmer inspecting the cattle he meant to slaughter that season.
“When will he be fully healed?”
“A matter of days, Your Majesty,” said the doctor.
A nod. “Thank you, Doctor Khar. You may go.”
She bowed and went, but Paul stayed, unmoving.
Feyd-Rautha could feel himself hardening further beneath Paul’s unblinking blue stare, the stone unforgiving against his kneecaps, the memory of Paul’s blood on his tongue. Yet the indignity of the position he was forced to maintain roused something within him, the same furious heat he’d felt when he’d been formally collared. He squeezed his cock, still slick, and pursued the urge, pulling with renewed purpose. Soon enough, the sterile medicinal smell of his uncle faded, replaced by the bright hot tang of Paul’s spice-seasoned scent.
“You’re just an animal, aren’t you,” Paul murmured. His disgust felt like a caress.
“You’ve collared me like one,” said Feyd-Rautha, short of breath now, inflamed by the act of forcing Paul to witness something he found repellent. “How should your animal call you now, cousin? Brother? Father? Master?”
Paul’s eyes flicked down, observing the vulgar performance for a handful of seconds before returning his gaze to Feyd-Rautha’s face. There were a thousand different eyes in Paul’s gaze, all of them a different shade of blue. It was all the attention, all the vicious judgment, he could ever want. Feyd-Rautha felt his orgasm start to crest, faster than anticipated.
“Sᴛᴏᴘ,” Paul said, speaking in a horrible many-Voiced chord, in as many Voices as there were eyes, and Feyd-Rautha’s body seized, its orgasm halted. He panted, held on the precipice. “I ғᴏʀʙɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜʀsᴇʟғ.”
The next thing he knew, his arms hung by his sides, clenched into fists. He had never wanted to strangle the boy more than he did right then; if he could move, he would shove his cock down his throat to stop his Voice, use his witch mouth as a sleeve and choke him on Harkonnen come.
Paul raised his boot, put the heel on the floor, the toe levered between Feyd-Rautha’s thighs, not touching. A threat. Feyd-Rautha froze, his entire body going tense; the muscles in his arms and thighs flexed in anticipation. He stared at that boot and felt saliva gather in his mouth, felt his breath come short.
But Paul did not lower his boot. He held it there for a moment, hovering, then took it away again.
Feyd-Rautha’s face warped into a snarl. “You rat-fucking cocktease.”
“Gᴇᴛ ᴅʀᴇssᴇᴅ,” Paul said, turning to leave. “I'll be waiting outside.”
In a daze, he saw himself move, his body following the order while his mind drifted, unmoored, in a semi-conscious state; his neglected cock flagging now that his pleasure had been thwarted. He experienced himself dressing mechanically in the clothes the doctor had left for him—Fremen clothes, he realized, beiges and browns in soft wraps and drapes; foreign, flimsy material. He tied them as he would tie Harkonnen clothes, clumsy fingers searching for clasps and hooks that weren’t there, making do with knots.
At the end of the bizarre fugue, he realized he had left the room and was standing outside of the doors, where Paul was waiting for him. The expression on his face was as serene and flat as the cool stone they walked upon, yet Feyd-Rautha still sensed amusement; a faintly mocking air.
“You’ll learn the right way,” was all Paul said, looking him up and down.
Something snapped in him, some whip crack of rage, and Feyd-Rautha launched himself at Paul’s throat.
Paul didn’t use the Voice to stop him then; he raised a hand and the collar jerked Feyd-Rautha backward until his skull cracked against the far wall. He wheezed, clutching the collar; the force of it had bruised his windpipe.
Paul stepped up. He tilted his head as he regarded Feyd-Rautha, seeing almost through him, piercing, seizing. The Voice left his lips in a melody, slithering and subtle; the sound of it curled in his ears like perfume.
“Yᴏᴜ'ʟʟ ʟᴇᴀʀɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ'ʟʟ ʙᴇʜᴀᴠᴇ.”
*
The war room was crammed with bodies—rat warriors all speaking in their chittering rat language, although recently it had begun to sound more like the squawking of crows over carrion. Irulan, Stilgar, Halleck, and Paul’s Bene Gesserit mother stood there, hawk-eyed. As Paul entered, there went up a unified cry of “Muad’Dib!” and several of the leaders made gestures like they were cleansing themselves with invisible water. Paul held up a hand, and they quieted, but Halleck went up to them both, looking murderous.
“My lord, what is he doing here,” he hissed, darting a look at Feyd-Rautha.
“He’s going to help us take Giedi Prime,” Paul murmured. “It’s the path of least resistance. I’ve seen it.”
“Well, I’ve seen his kind stab us in the back more times than I’d care to count. This is not wise.”
“It's the necessary choice,” said Paul, with such steely, unshakable confidence it made Feyd-Rautha want to snatch the knife off Halleck’s belt and shove it into Paul’s spine just to prove him wrong. Instead, he looked at the blade with manufactured longing, obvious enough to catch Halleck’s attention; and when Halleck noticed and put a hand on the hilt with an expression of contemptuous challenge, Feyd-Rautha winked at him.
Halleck fumed. Paul moved past them toward the war table, but Feyd-Rautha lingered. The scar on Halleck’s face, half-hidden by his beard, had caught the light, glistening, as if it were still healing: an inkvine scar. If he licked Halleck’s cheek, he wondered if he could taste its rot.
He leaned in. “Who gave you that pretty thing?”
“Funny you should ask,” sneered Halleck, narrowing his eyes.
So it was Rabban. “Ah, Rabban,” he whispered, with mocking commiseration. “Some consider my brother’s treatment of slaves to be too cruel, but you should count yourself lucky, Gurney Halleck. I would have carved a smile in your guts and fucked it with your severed cock.”
Halleck whipped around and snarled, “Watch yourself, pale pig. His Majesty might have spared you, for some godforsaken reason, but put one hoof out of line and I’ll butcher you myself.”
Feyd-Rautha smiled, daring him to make good on his threat, but Paul’s voice rang out sharply, calling, “Gurney. Report.”
Halleck collected himself, turned, and stepped up to the table, which now showed a hologram of Arrakeen: the whole city was laid out in miniature with key locations lit up in orange. A Corrino Mentat stood by Halleck’s side, murmuring under her breath, controlling the display. Halleck cleared his throat.
“The spice fields are well-protected, my lord, and we’ve fortified the refinery. Harvesting operations have ceased until the Spacing Guild promises its complete cooperation.” The hologram shifted out to show the planet and its satellites; two moons and a heighliner. “The Arrakis heighliner is ours; we took it early this morning with little trouble.”
Paul nodded. “And the Navigator?”
“She agrees to assist us free of charge so long as she and her attendants are provided with the necessary amounts of spice.”
“How considerate. I doubt the rest of the Guild will be so obliging, but it’s a start.” He turned to the gathered crowd of leaders and announced, “Soon, we will be launching an offensive on Giedi Prime. My ward, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, will be instrumental in orchestrating this offensive. General Harkonnen,” and Feyd-Rautha saw Halleck twitch like he’d been stabbed, and he burst out, “God’s sake, my lord, first you invite this—this ghoul into your House, now you make him a general? There is—”
A crysknife was out and pressed against Halleck’s throat before he could continue. “You question the Mahdi’s wisdom?” said one of the rats, a small one with deep frenzied eyes, and the murmurs erupted once more—some angry, some approving.
Paul said something in the rat language, unperturbed yet authoritative, which seemed to calm the mood, and the rat put his knife away, but not before nicking himself with its blade and murmuring a low oath.
“Peace, friends,” said Paul, switching back to Galach. “I have seen the way, and I will point the way; am I not Muad’Dib, who has guided you to victory? Have faith.” He looked at Halleck with a glint of wry humor, then around at the rest. “And to any who find fault with my decisions: let them speak. I will hear their counsel.”
There was another wave of murmuring, but no one spoke out. Not even Stilgar. Halleck’s jaw clenched, but he nodded to Paul, yielding, and turned his glare back on Feyd-Rautha. Many followed suit, sizing him up; they did not like him, did not trust him, and wanted him dead, but they would listen to him, because Paul had told them to.
Feyd-Rautha gave them all a wide, black smile.
These starving desert dogs eat out of the palm of his hand, he thought. He feeds them lies and they gag for more. Soon they’ll be too rabid to control. But that, of course, was how Paul Atreides had toppled Shaddam IV Corrino, how he would dismantle the Landsraad, how he would conquer everything—through witchcraft and adoration, not through fear. Fear had played its part, and would play it for years to come, but fear was not what had amassed Paul his army; blinding, all-consuming, fanatical love had. He had conquered through ecstasy.
Feyd-Rautha dragged his finger along the rough-hewn stone of the Arrakeen war table. Yes, pleasure was a powerful motivator. He knew that well enough. A week ago, he had killed a weak man in this very room and fed his parts to his darling girls, who were now no doubt rotting under the desert sun like his uncle. Stray droplets of blood from the advisor’s slashed neck were still there, remnants of his own reckless pleasure, dried and flaking against the pad of his finger.
Not one of these rats had wanted to spare the water to wash the browned blood away. They would rather keep the stains than pretend it was ever clean.
“General,” prompted Paul, an almost-thrum in his words. “Your insights.”
Feyd-Rautha let the moment stretch, growing tight and tense as a drumhead. He paced around the table, soaking in the sea of condensed, simmering rage. It was only when the atmosphere had heated to a boiling point that he broke the silence, locking eyes with Paul.
“Uncle stockpiled spice for years before he launched the attack on Arrakeen,” he said. “Rabban will be able to bribe the Spacing Guild with those reserves for some time. You’ll want to liberate that stockpile first, quietly, and then strike hard, when he panics. And he will panic.”
Paul's approval felt like cool water down a parched throat. “How long will those reserves last?” he asked.
“Five standard years. Six, maybe. If he’s smart.”
“Which he isn’t,” growled Halleck.
“No, he isn’t,” said Feyd-Rautha, with dark amusement.
“And where is it kept?”
“Deep underground. We built our own refinery some seventy-odd years ago—yes, right under the Guild’s nose—and skimmed small amounts of spice off the top of our reported yield every harvest, taking it back to the Barony to refine it ourselves.” A murmur of malcontent sifted through the room like sand. “We made another twenty billion solaris per year from what we sold to CHOAM at a discount, but we spent most of that fortune on military transport when preparing for the assault on Arrakeen. Rabban will want to move the product off-world as soon as possible. Somewhere secret. He can’t afford to lose the spice; it’s the only way he can make enough income to keep resisting you. He knows it's his only bargaining chip.”
Paul turned to Irulan, who was observing Feyd-Rautha with immaculate, expressionless poise. “Irulan, have you received word from Corrinth?”
Matter-of-factly, she said, “Loyalties have fractured, as expected. There are those who support your claim through me, but most of House Corrino still refuses to accept you.”
“Then you’ll persuade them. Mother, Stilgar, go with Irulan to Kaitain. Do what you can to make the transition a smooth one—there need not be bloodshed. I’m sure they would prefer to hear their options from their empress.” He looked at Stilgar. “But if diplomacy fails, then capture the city and rout all who refuse to swear fealty; if plotting must be done against me, I will not have it done from the Corrino seat of power. In either case, you will make it clear that the capital has moved.”
Stilgar inclined his head. “Muad’Dib.”
“I will go to Giedi Prime with Gurney and Feyd-Rautha to depose Rabban and reclaim the Harkonnen spice reserves. Once the Spacing Guild is under our complete control, it will only be a matter of time before the other Houses are forced to kneel.”
“And if they don't?” asked Feyd-Rautha, but he knew the answer already, and had only asked it to see the shadow of vengeful purpose cross Paul’s face.
“They’ll kneel,” Paul said.