Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [182]
She lunged toward the second Handler, but the nearest Futar intercepted her to protect his master. The other two beast-men came closer, one of them limping. Seeing that she could not fight off the creatures, the Honored Matre grabbed the fallen stun-goad and bounded off into the forest again. Snarling, the Futars ran after her.
Thufir grabbed the Rabbi’s arm. “Quickly!” He went to the steep wooden stairs that would take them down to the ground. “Maybe we can help.”
The Rabbi hesitated. “But he is already dead, and it is safe up here. We should stay—”
“I am tired of being a spectator!” Thufir descended swiftly, two creaking steps at a time. The Rabbi came after him, grumbling.
When Thufir reached the ground, the remaining Handler guard was bent over his comrade. Thufir expected to hear the lanky man wailing in grief or shouting in anger; instead, he seemed more intent.
Unusual. Curious.
From far off in the forest came a bloodcurdling shriek as the three Futars cornered the Honored Matre again. She hurled obscenities. Thufir heard a crashing violence, a crack that sounded like breaking bone, terrible snarls followed by a brief scream . . . and then silence. After a moment’s pause, Thufir’s sensitive ears caught the unmistakable sounds of feeding.
Huffing great breaths, the Rabbi reached the base of the observation tower, and steadied himself by holding the wooden rail. Thufir hurried toward the Handler and his dead companion. “Is there anything we can do to help?”
Hunched over, the surviving Handler’s back suddenly tensed, as if he’d forgotten the two were there. He swiveled his head on a long neck and looked at them. The dark band was a heavy shadow across his eyes.
Then Thufir glimpsed the dead Handler lying on the ground.
The corpse’s features had shifted, changed . . . reverted. He was no longer tall and lanky, and his face was not streamlined; he had no black mask around his eyes. Instead, the dead Handler had grayish skin, dark, close-set eyes, and a pug nose.
Thufir recognized it from archival images—a Face Dancer!
The other Handler guard glared at them, then let his face revert to its neutral state. No longer human, but cadaverous . . . and blank.
Thufir’s mind spun, and he wished desperately that he had Mentat abilities. The Handlers were Face Dancers? All of them, or just a few? Handlers fought the Honored Matres, a common enemy. The Enemy. Handlers, Face Dancers, Enemy . . .
This planet was not at all as it seemed.
He flashed a glance at the Rabbi. The old man had seen the same thing, and though his horror and surprise had made him freeze for an instant, he seemed to be drawing the same conclusions.
The powerful Handler drew himself up and came toward them with his stun-goad.
“We’d better run,” Thufir said.
Even the most delicate plans can be thrown into turmoil by an impetuous action from our supposed masters. Is it not ironic when they claim that Face Dancers are shiftless and changeable?
—KHRONE,
communiqué to Face Dancer myriad
F
rom inside the reconstructed Castle Caladan, Khrone pulled his strings, played his roles, and moved his game pieces. The Face Dancer myriad had manipulated the Ixians, the Guild, CHOAM, and the Honored Matre rebels who still ruled Tleilax. They had already achieved many milestones of success. Khrone had traveled wherever he was needed, wherever he was summoned, but he always came back here to his pair of precious gholas. The Baron and Paolo. The work continued.
On Caladan, year after year, the group of machine-augmented observers sent regular reports to the distant old man and woman. Despite their bodily degeneration, they showed damnable patience, and still they’d found nothing to fault him for. Khrone was always watched by the patchwork observers, but never discovered. Even those hideous spies didn’t know everything.
The summons came to him from the castle tower, interrupting his work and concentration.