Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [180]
“You are about to discover my pleasures.” She caressed his face with a bony, clawed finger. “You’re going to enjoy this.”
“That is not possible, Honored Matre—”
She cackled. “Little man, I am an adept of the fifth order, a qualified member of the black veil. I can overcome any blockage of desire.” She grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the floor. She was too strong, and he could not fight her off. Smiling as she straddled him, Ingva said, “Now for your reward.”
The gnarled woman ripped his clothes away, and Uxtal prayed that he would survive this day. He whimpered. Years ago, at the very beginning, the Face Dancers had tried to protect him before delivering him to Bandalong, but Khrone had not shown himself here for some time. The Face Dancer had discarded the Lost Tleilaxu researcher as soon as he’d provided the Paul Atreides ghola. Khrone had simply left him at the mercy of the Honored Matres. The Face Dancers could do nothing to protect him from Ingva’s fury once she discovered what had been done to him.
With sinewy, greedy hands, the crone reached down, gasped, and then hurled him across the floor naked. “Castrated! Who did that to you?”
“Th-the Face Dancers. Long ago. I—I needed to concentrate on my work, without the temptation of an Honored Matre’s pleasures.”
“You disgusting, stupid little man! Do you know what you have denied yourself? What you have denied me?”
Uxtal slipped away, scrambling to retrieve the remnants of his clothing before she killed him out of sheer indignation. But Ingva moved like a panther to intercept him. “I have never been pleased with you, little man, and now you have made my job more difficult. Castration, however, does not render you utterly useless as a sexual slave. To an adept with my skill level, even a eunuch is not entirely unreachable. It will require extra effort, but I will imprint you anyway.” She pushed him back down to the floor. “You will thank me for this when it’s over. I promise you that.”
Uxtal argued, whined, and then screamed, but no one heard or cared.
The hunt has been a fundamental part of the natural order since life first emerged. The prey knows this as well as the predator.
—Bene Gesserit dictum
A
lone on their breezy observation platform above the giant aspen trees, the ghola of Thufir Hawat tried to absorb everything and see everything, adding details together for a correct summation and analysis. He was not yet a Mentat, but according to historical records, Thufir had the potential to be a great warrior, a strategist, and a human computer.
In his original lifetime, he had served three generations of House Atreides. After the fall of Arrakeen, the Harkonnens had captured him and used a residual poison to coerce him to serve the evil Baron. How I must have hated that! Back then, Thufir had been an old veteran, his mind heavy with a lifetime of service and battles . . . somewhat like the old Bashar. Young Thufir very much wanted to live up to those expectations.
Even here, safely high above the ground, he could smell blood in the air from the hunt. Two lanky Handlers stood guard at the base of the wooden tower to protect him and the Rabbi from the dangerous Futars and Honored Matres loose in the forest. Or were the Handlers simply making certain their two visitors didn’t go anywhere off-limits and didn’t see anything they weren’t supposed to see?
The anxious Rabbi paced across the open platform and peered down into the broad grove of silver-barked trees. Thufir had already made enough of an analysis of the old man to predict how he would react in a situation. Hardened by a lifetime of feeling wrongfully downtrodden, the Rabbi fought for his people while trying not to be seen as a victim. Most of all, he feared being indecisive, anything less than a leader.
Now the old man looked sickened and disappointed, as if his dreams of