Hunters of Dune - Brian Herbert [187]
Murbella’s mind raced, and she seized the moment of astonishment and disbelief. “You had no qualms against following a Face Dancer! Now who is the fool? How many more of you are Face Dancers?”
Even as they fought the Valkyries, the remaining Honored Matres glimpsed the blank-faced creature that had been Hellica. More of the whores stuttered to a halt, staring in shock.
“Matre Superior!”
“She is not human!”
“Behold your leader,” Murbella ordered, strutting forward. “You obeyed the orders of a Face Dancer planted among you. You were deceived and betrayed!”
Only one of the Honored Matre guards continued to battle furiously. The Valkyries soon dispatched her, and Murbella was not shocked to see the fallen woman transform into a second Face Dancer.
Here, and on Gammu—how far had this insidious infiltration spread? Hellica’s provocative actions had somehow served the Face Dancers rather than the whores. Was it a plot spawned by the Lost Tleilaxu, or did it extend even farther than that? Who were the shape-shifters really fighting for? Could they already be a vanguard from the Enemy, sent into the Old Empire to assess and weaken the target?
All those rebel enclaves, the dissent and violence that drained the resources of the New Sisterhood. Could it all have been a plot to weaken humanity’s defenses? Setting them against each other, killing viable fighters to make them vulnerable so that the Enemy could wade in and finish the job more easily? With the main fight over in the city, more of her Valkyries streamed into the throne room, consolidating their hold on the gaudy Palace. Throughout Bandalong, Hellica’s remaining followers fought to the death, while the Guild Heighliner remained up in stationary orbit, observing the fray from a safe distance.
Her daughter Janess, looking battered but bright-eyed, led them. “Mother Commander, the Palace is ours.”
The enemy of your enemy is not necessarily your friend. He may hate you as much as any other rival.
—Hawat’s Strategic Corollary
W
ith the deadly hunt over and all five Honored Matres dead, Sheeana and Teg descended the wooden steps of the open-framed lookout tower. It had been an exhilarating, as well as unsettling, experience. Sheeana sensed that the young Bashar beside her wrestled with his own questions, extrapolations, and suspicions, but he could not voice any of them without the guards overhearing.
The Handlers were gathering by their Futars in the leaf-strewn clearing where the last Honored Matre had been torn to pieces in plain view. Hrrm and the black-striped Futar had fought over, then jointly brought down, the last of the terrible whores.
It had been a dizzying fight, with the two Futars circling, lashing out, and dodging the woman’s hands and feet. When she leapt high with a kick, Hrrm had reached out and caught her ankle with his claws, like catching a fish on a hook, and slammed her to the forest floor. Black Stripe had lunged in to tear out her throat. Scarlet droplets spattered the carpet of golden leaves.
Walking away from the observation platform, Sheeana and Teg went to stand by the Futars with cold, wary fascination. Recognizing her, Hrrm gave her a bloody grin, as if expecting Sheeana to come forward and give him a back rub. She sensed his need for acceptance, and for years she had been the only one to give it to him. Though the Handlers—the true masters—were there in the forest now, Sheeana said, “Excellent work, Hrrm. I am proud of you.”
A deep purr rumbled in his throat. Then he dug his face into the Honored Matre’s pale flesh and ripped out another mouthful of meat. Sheeana had not seen the other three Futars from the no-ship, but knew they must have joined the hunt as well.
Four of the lanky natives, including the Chief Handler, stood watching the grisly scene, apparently satisfied with the creatures’ performance. Orak Tho said,