From "Manual of Muad'Dib" by the Princess Irulan

There should be a science of discontent. People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles.
—from "Collected Sayings of Muad'Dib" by the Princess Irulan
Jessica awoke in the dark, feeling premonition in the stillness around her. She could not understand why her mind and body felt so sluggish. Skin raspings of fear ran along her nerves. She thought of sitting up and turning on a light, but something stayed the decision. Her mouth felt . . . strange.
Lump-lump-lump-lump!
It was a dull sound, directionless in the dark. Somewhere.
The waiting moment was packed with time, with rustling needle-stick movements.
She began to feel her body, grew aware of bindings on wrists and ankles, a gag in her mouth. She was on her side, hands tied behind her. She tested the bindings, realized they were krimskell fiber, would only claw tighter as she pulled.
And now, she remembered.
There had been movement in the darkness of her bedroom, something wet and pungent slapped against her face, filling her mouth, hands grasping for her. She had gasped—one indrawn breath—sensing the narcotic in the wetness. Consciousness had receded, sinking her into a black bin of terror.
It has come , she thought. How simple it was to subdue the Bene Gesserit. All it took was treachery. Hawat was right .
She forced herself not to pull on her bindings.
This is not my bedroom , she thought. They've taken me someplace else .
Slowly, she marshaled the inner calmness.
She grew aware of the smell of her own stale sweat with its chemical infusion of fear.
Where is Paul? she asked herself. My son—what have they done to him?
Calmness .
She forced herself to it, using the ancient routines.
But terror remained so near.
Leto? Where are you, Leto?
She sensed a diminishing in the dark. It began with shadows. Dimensions separated, became new thorns of awareness. White. A line under a door.
I'm on the floor .
People walking. She sensed it through the floor.
Jessica squeezed back the memory of terror. I must remain calm, alert, and prepared. I may get only one chance . Again, she forced the inner calmness.
The ungainly thumping of her heartbeats evened, shaping out time. She counted back. I was unconscious about an hour . She closed her eyes, focused her awareness onto the approaching footsteps.
Four people .
She counted the differences in their steps.
I must pretend I'm still unconscious . She relaxed against the cold floor, testing her body's readiness, heard a door open, sensed increased light through her eyelids.
Feet approached: someone standing over her.
"You are awake," rumbled a basso voice. "Do not pretend."
She opened her eyes.
The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen stood over her. Around them, she recognized the cellar room where Paul had slept, saw his cot at one side—empty. Suspensor lamps were brought in by guards, distributed near the open door. There was a glare of light in the hallway beyond that hurt her eyes.
She looked up at the Baron. He wore a yellow cape that bulged over his portable suspensors. The fat cheeks were two cherubic mounds beneath spider-black eyes.
"The drug was timed," he rumbled. "We knew to the minute when you'd be coming out of it."
How could that be? she wondered. They'd have to know my exact weight, my metabolism, my . . . Yueh!
"Such a pity you must remain gagged," the Baron said. "We could have such an interesting conversation."
Yueh's the only one it could be , she thought. How?
The Baron glanced behind him at the door. "Come in, Piter."
She had never before seen the man who entered to stand beside the Baron, but the face was known—and the man: Piter de Vries, the Mentat-Assassin . She studied him—hawk features, blue-ink eyes that suggested he was a native of Arrakis, but subtleties of movement and stance told her he was not. And his flesh was too well firmed with water. He was tall, though slender, and something about him suggested effeminacy.
"Such a pity we cannot have our conversation, my dear Lady Jessica." the Baron said. "However, I'm aware of your abilities." He glanced at the Mentat. "Isn't that true, Piter?"
"As you say, Baron," the man said.
The voice was tenor. It touched her spine with a wash of coldness. She had never heard such a chill voice. To one with the Bene Gesserit training, the voice screamed: Killer!
"I have a surprise for Piter," the Baron said. "He thinks he has come here to collect his reward—you, Lady Jessica. But I wish to demonstrate a thing: that he does not really want you."
"You play with me, Baron?" Piter asked, and he smiled.
Seeing that smile, Jessica wondered that the Baron did not leap to defend himself from this Piter. Then she corrected herself. The Baron could not read that smile. He did not have the Training.
"In many ways, Piter is quite naive," the Baron said. "He doesn't admit to himself what a deadly creature you are, Lady Jessica. I'd show him, but it'd be a foolish risk." The Baron smiled at Piter, whose face had become a waiting mask. "I know what Piter really wants. Piter wants power."
"You promised I could have her ," Piter said. The tenor voice had lost some of its cold reserve.
Jessica heard the clue-tones in the man's voice, allowed herself an inward shudder. How could the Baron have made such an animal out of a Mentat?
"I give you a choice, Piter," the Baron said.
"What choice?"
The Baron snapped fat fingers. "This woman and exile from the Imperium, or the Duchy of Atreides on Arrakis to rule as you see fit in my name."
Jessica watched the Baron's spider eyes study Piter.
"You could be Duke here in all but name," the Baron said.