Chapter Text
Kaitan's most expensive brothel was a sight to behold.
Feyd glanced about as he walked through it, noting the shimmering chandeliers, the large, vaguely amorous oil paintings hanging in their golden frames, the marble staircases which spiraled above his head. The plush carpeting swallowed up the sounds of his footsteps and made everything sound hushed and dignified. This brothel could compete with some of the older wings of the imperial palace.
Of course, the snobbish administration who ran this place didn't call it a brothel. Oh, no, it was a "pleasure house". They exacted a ridiculous fee just for the privilege of entrance and required a confirmation of one's noble lineage. Apparently, the elites of the imperium didn't want the unwashed masses mingling with them in their den of iniquity, daring to sully their pristine whores.
Feyd found this pompous fastidiousness laughable. In a way, Giedi Prime's unapologetic brutality had more sincerity to it. Anyone could visit a brothel there, provided they had the funds to pay for it, and if the overlords wanted to keep any whores for themselves, they simply appropriated them, adding them to their slave collections, with none of this silly fuss about protocol.
The thought of Giedi Prime made him briefly yearn for his old life, the good old days when he could satisfy his urges by finding decent opponents among the slave pits to fight and kill, capping off the rush of battle and injury-induced euphoria by despoiling some lovely new slave-girl, then devouring a meal and taking a contented nap under the black sun. He hadn't wanted anything more out of life back then, hadn't realized it was possible for him to want anything more. But now it seemed like an eon ago, before he'd been reduced to the plaything of a diabolical, power-drunk oracle who happened to inhabit one of the most sublime bodies the human race had ever produced.
In other words, Feyd currently found his life intolerable, and he hadn't yet fallen so far as to passively accept it. He was going to find deliverance, by hook or by crook.
They led him to the procuress's study, except obviously she was too self-important to call herself a procuress. She was the "mistress of the house": a short, plump, severe-looking woman whose strict, flat mouth appeared as though it never smiled.
She rose from her seat and curtsied deeply before him. "Baron Harkonnen, we are honored to have you. Allow me to introduce myself: I am known as Lady Octavia."
Feyd dropped himself down in the armchair before her desk, slouching in his most churlish manner. Any more of this stuffy, cloying atmosphere, and he would choke. True, he should have been used to it by now due to spending so much time at the royal court, but this was a brothel, for pity's sake. One would think they'd allow themselves a smidgen of looseness.
"I'm not Baron Harkonnen," he rumbled.
Her eyebrows rose as she returned to her seat, looking more disapproving than surprised. "Pardon me, my lord?"
"I'm Konstantin Harkonnen, a distant relative. Many people mistake us for each other. Family resemblance, you see."
He stared at her, silently daring her to challenge his bald-faced lie.
She barely missed a beat. "Forgive me for my mistake then, my lord. How may we serve you today?"
"I want your most beautiful whore."
"I must apologize, my lord," she said primly. "We do not keep any whores here, although I can direct you to establishments who do, if that is your wish."
Feyd nearly rolled his eyes. "Then I want your most beautiful courtesan."
"Beauty is a subjective measure, my lord. Would you like to view some of our most recommended young women, so that you may select one who is to your taste?"
"No," snapped Feyd in irritation. Why did everything have to be so complicated in this blasted place? He didn't want to waste his time having to choose between dozens of women.
"If I may make a suggestion, my lord," said Lady Octavia, "perhaps, if you would be so kind as to provide us with more details, we could assist you in finding what you seek."
"What kind of details?" asked Feyd, suspicious. If she began asking him about his favorite complexion in a whore, he swore to himself that he would storm out the next moment.
"Well, my lord," Lady Octavia laced her fingers together, "for what purpose do you desire this highly attractive courtesan?"
Ah, I can answer those types of questions, Feyd thought in relief. Perhaps this visit would prove to be fruitful after all.
"I want show a lover of mine that I care nothing for her."
He used the feminine pronoun intentionally. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone realizing who he was actually talking about.
"A former lover?" asked Lady Octavia, frowning.
"No. Yes. Well, maybe." Feyd cleared his throat. "We're... not currently actively engaged with each other."
"I see." She looked thoughtful. "And you wish to acquire an eye-catching woman to flaunt before her?"
"Yes, exactly!"
"Are you certain that would achieve your aim, my lord? Pursuing such an action might make it obvious to onlookers that you do, indeed, care deepy for your lover and are desperately trying to arouse her jealousy."
Oh, confound it all!
"You have a point," Feyd admitted begrudgingly. "What do you suggest I do, then?"
"That depends on your goal," said Lady Octavia. "Do you wish to rid yourself of your lingering affection for this lover?"
"Yes," Feyd said. It was only half a lie.
"And you'd like us to provide you with a pleasant distraction which might help time go by faster?"
"Yes, that sounds about right."
Lady Octavia hummed. "Would you rather have someone who shares a resemblance to your lover, or someone who is the complete opposite in many ways?"
Feyd tried to imagine what the complete opposite of Paul would look like. Demure? Guileless? Sweetly submissive? Or maybe hot-blooded and impassioned?
In any case, it didn't sound remotely enticing.
"Similar," he said.
Lady Octavia pulled a drawer open and produced some writing implements, deftly preparing them for use. "Very well, my lord. Would you like to describe your lover a bit, so we know what to search for?"
Feyd opened his mouth, thought for a moment, and closed it. He had no idea how to start describing Paul.
"Is she noble-born?" Lady Octavia began in a patient tone.
"Yes, of course." Feyd paused, wondering how to add anything without giving too much away.
Lady Octavia nodded, writing it down. "All of our courtesans know to play the part of a woman of high birth who is educated and accomplished. But I imagine you're interested in something beyond that, in the unique aspects of your lover which are revealed most deeply in private."
"Yes, I am."
"Then what is your lover like in private, my lord?"
Infuriating. Maddening. Detestable.
"Very... proud," said Feyd.
"Proud?" said Lady Octavia, her brow furrowing. "Do you mean vain of her looks? Or just generally conceited?"
"Not vain about her looks," said Feyd. "She doesn't care about that. That is, she's well aware of how good she looks, and she uses it to her advantage, but she doesn't spend much time admiring herself in the mirror, if you understand my meaning."
"I see..." said Lady Octavia. "How does this pride manifest, then?"
"She thinks I'm far below her, and she doesn't bother to hide her opinion."
Lady Octavia scribbled something to herself. "Does she like to give you orders?"
"Yes—" Feyd cut himself off. He'd never actually considered that question. "I don't know if she likes it, exactly. It's hard to tell with her. But she definitely considers it necessary."
"Does she employ various methods to control you, such as rewards and punishments?"
"Oh, yes."
"Does she use pain and humiliation during intimate moments?"
Feyd narrowed his eyes. "How do you know all this?"
"My lord," she said, her voice as formal as always, "you're far from the only one with such proclivities. It is exceedingly common."
"Huh." Part of Feyd was burning with curiosity and wanted to ask which nobles, exactly, shared his proclivities. But Lady Octavia would probably deny him due to confidentiality clauses or some such boring reason. "I see."
"We have courtesans who are trained specifically to appeal to your type of desires. Would you like to take a look at some of them?"
Feyd considered it. "I'm not sure it would work very well. If someone tries to control me but they actually can't, I'll end up killing them."
Lady Octavia's eyes widened slightly, but apart from that she remained composed. "Ah, that won't do. You'll need a Bene Gesserit-trained courtesan in that case. More expensive, I'm afraid."
"How much more expensive?"
"It varies from woman to woman."
"Give me the general range, then," said Feyd.
She did, which made him sit up in his seat.
"Do you feed these women exclusively spice?" he sputtered.
"No," said Lady Octavia, expression completely serious. "We provide them with a standard diet as prescribed by our Suk doctor. I can have a copy sent to you later, if you are interested."
"No need."
Feyd slumped back in his seat, feeling defeated. As tempting as it might be to employ such a courtesan just to try and get back at Paul, he had a feeling it would ultimately cause damage mostly to himself. He'd probably regret getting entangled with the Bene Gesserit, not to mention that employing such a courtesan for more than a couple of weeks would start putting a strain on his finances.
Lady Octavia was looking at him sympathetically.
"My lord," she said, "I can only offer the comfort that time heals all wounds, regardless of whether or not you find another woman to entertain you in the meantime."
The solution came to him just as he arrived back at the palace. It was so obvious in retrospect, he was shocked he hadn't thought of it sooner.
He headed straight to the palace libraries, searching them one by one, until he found his quarry.
She was sitting by a large window, her slender figure lovely as always in a cream-colored dress, the setting sun lending a shine to her golden hair, a line of concentration etched between her eyebrows as she scanned the contents of a book.
She must have sensed him watching, because she lifted her head. She looked startled for a split second, then nodded at him, retreating behind a mask of smooth politeness.
"Good evening, Baron Harkonnen."
"And to you, your highness."
She went back to her book, but Feyd knew she was tense, even if she hid it well. Feyd hummed to himself carelessly as he scanned the various titles, walking back and forth along the shelves, never getting too far away from her. It took the princess only ten minutes to crack.
"Are you looking for something?"
"Yes." Feyd continued to pace between the shelves.
"What is it?"
Feyd shot her a surprised look. "You'd like to know, your highness?"
"Well, considering the fact you're the last person I'd expect to ever find in a library, and that you're wandering around like a duckling who's lost his mother, then yes, I'd like to know."
No one had ever compared Feyd to a duckling before. He decided to take it as a promising sign.
"My officials on Giedi Prime keep telling me that we need military reforms. Apparently our fighting forces are so outdated and dysfunctional that we need to restructure and reorganize the whole damn system."
That much was true, so far as the steady stream of messages he got from them kept insisting.
"Then what are you doing here?"
"Well..." Feyd paused, as if hesitating. "I can't say we really got a well-rounded education on Giedi Prime. Everything has to be done there a certain way, or else you die. But I've been thinking that if we're going to change up the whole military system anyway, we might as well look at the past and try to learn from the mistakes of others."
It might have been his wishful thinking, but he thought he saw a glimmer of respect in her eyes.
"I see. But that doesn't explain why you keep searching the shelves dedicated to the history of fashion design."
"Oh," Feyd glanced back at the shelves in surprise, "that's what it is? No wonder I didn't manage to find anything useful."
Irulan sighed and stood up. "Come, I'll show you where the military history section is."
She led him to a row further down. "You're familiar with the classics, of course," she said, hand skimming over titles, "Kalan, Vernius, Nebiro, yes?"
"Who?"
She shook her head. "You really were raised by savages. Here," she pulled out a slender volume, "start with this. It's an accessible, lighter read by a modern scholar. It'll give you a good initial foundation to work off of."
He took it. "Thank you, your highness," he said in his most formal tone, giving her a light bow. He tried to emulate Lady Octavia's mannerisms, since for once he didn't want to appear mocking.
"You're welcome." She looked at him, as if trying to discern his motives, then gave him a wry smile. "You can call me by my name. Titles seem like a pointless formality when you share my husband's bed."
Not anymore, I don't.
But Feyd kept his expression polite and serious. "As you'd like it, Irulan. But that means you must use my name as well."
"Of course."
She returned to her book and paid him no more attention for the rest of the evening, but Feyd wasn't worried. He knew how to bide his time. He'd been taught patience by far worse tasks, since reading books would never be half so horrible as counting rice grains.
Time had yet to tell if his plan would work or not, but that didn't actually matter. He had the thrill of the chase to entertain him now.