Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [159]
Though he’d had little opportunity to practice flying, the Bashar obviously remembered his skills from his first life. When they touched down in a flower-spangled meadow, Sheeana barely felt a bump. Young Thufir Hawat sat in the copilot’s seat observing everything his mentor did.
The forest city’s main buildings were tall cylinders several stories high, made of golden-lacquered lumber like wooden organ pipes for a wilderness cathedral. Guard towers? Defensive structures? Or were these nothing more than observation platforms from which to gain an unblocked view of the serene and rolling woods?
All around them, the thick forest of silver-barked aspen derivatives was beautiful and healthy, as if the natives tended it with loving care. Previously, using the curt descriptions the Futars could give her, Sheeana had done her best to make the no-ship’s arboretum reminiscent of the home they remembered. As she looked at the sweeping aspen analogs around them, however, Sheeana saw that she had failed miserably.
Secure in the cargo chamber at the back of the lighter, the four anxious Futars rumbled and yowled, as if they sensed they were home and knew the Handlers were near. When the vessel’s side hatch opened and the boarding ramp extended, Sheeana stepped forward first. Teg and Thufir joined her on the soft grass, while the Rabbi hung back in the shelter of the lighter’s door.
She drew a breath of bitingly clean air laden with a resinous scent of wood pulp and old leaves, scattered sawdust, and rain. Tiny yellow and white flowers added perfume to the air. The endlessly recycled air aboard the Ithaca had never smelled so good, nor had the dry air of Rakis where Sheeana had been a child, nor even Chapterhouse.
Not far away, Sheeana saw figures atop the towers. Other silhouettes appeared behind small windows cut through the lacquered mosaic of flat boards. Lookouts signaled from the circular roofs. Horns blew with a vibrating blat, while strobing light signals flashed to moredistant receivers. Everything looked bucolic, natural, and refreshingly primitive.
When a delegation finally came forward, Sheeana and her companions got their first look at the supposed Handlers. As a race, the people were tall and thin with narrow shoulders and elongated heads. Their long limbs were loose, and bent easily at the joints.
The leader was a comparatively handsome man with bristly silver-white hair. Most striking was the dark band of pigment that ran across his pale face and around his green eyes, like a bandit’s mask. All of the natives, males and females, had the same raccoonlike pigmentation, which did not appear to be artificial.
As the group’s spokesperson, Sheeana stepped forward. Before she could say a word, she noted an instant spark of suspicion as the natives focused on her, assessing, condemning. Ignoring the Rabbi, the Bashar, and Thufir Hawat, they directed their sharp gazes at her. Only her. She became instantly alert, her mind racing. What had she done wrong?
Then, when Sheeana considered their ambassadorial party—an old man, a young man, and a boy, all of whom accompanied a strong woman who clearly assumed command—she suddenly realized her foolishness. Handlers had bred Futars to hunt down and kill Honored Matres. Therefore, they must consider the whores their mortal enemies. And when they saw her supposedly in charge of these men—
“I am not an Honored Matre,” she blurted out before they could draw an erroneous conclusion. “And these males are not my slaves. We have all fought the Honored Matres, and now we flee them.”
The Rabbi reacted with surprise, frowning at Sheeana, as if he couldn’t understand what she was talking about. “Of course you’re not an Honored Matre!” He had not noticed the undercurrent of suspicion.
Teg, though, nodded with quick understanding. “We should have known better.” Thufir Hawat also sorted through the information, reaching the same conclusion.