Leto reacted with the first sound of lasguns. He swerved the Royal Cart off the road to his right, shifted from wheels to suspensors and drove the vehicle back like a battering ram into a clot of Face Dancers trying to enter the fray from his side. Turning in a tight arc, he hit more of them on the other side, feeling the crushing impact of flesh against plasteel, a red spray of blood, then he was down off the road into an erosion gully. The brown serrated sides of the gully flashed past him. He swept upward and swooped across the river canyon to a high, rock-girt viewpoint beside the Royal Road. There, he stopped and turned, well beyond the range of hand-held lasguns.
What a surprise!
Laughter shook his great body with grunting, trembling convulsions. Slowly, the amusement subsided.
From his vantage, Leto could see the bridge and the area of the attack. Bodies lay in tangled disarray all across the scene and into the flanking gullies. He recognized courtier finery, Fish Speaker uniforms, the bloodied black of the Face Dancer disguises. Surviving courtiers huddled in the background while Fish Speakers sped among the fallen making sure the attackers were dead with a swift knife stroke into each body.
Leto swept his gaze across the scene searching for the black uniform of his Duncan. There was not one such uniform standing. Not one! Leto put down a surge of frustration, then saw a clutch of Fish Speaker guards among the courtiers and . . . and a naked figure there.
Naked!
It was Duncan! Naked! Of course! The Duncan Idaho without a uniform was not a Face Dancer.
Again, laughter shook him. Surprises on both sides. What a shock that must have been to the attackers. Obviously, they
had not prepared themselves for such a response.
Leto eased his cart out onto the roadway, dropped the wheels into position and rolled down to the bridge. He crossed the bridge with a sense of deja vu, aware of the countless bridges in his memories, the crossings to view the aftermaths of battles. As he cleared the bridge. Idaho broke from the knot of guards and ran toward him, skipping and dodging the bodies. Leto stopped his cart and stared at the naked runner. The Duncan was like a Greek warrior-messenger dashing toward his commander to report the outcome of battle. The condensation of history stunned Leto’s memories.
Idaho skidded to a stop beside the cart. Leto opened the bubble cover.
“Face Dancers, every damned one'” Idaho panted.
Not trying to conceal his amusement, Leto asked: “Whose idea was it to strip off your uniform?”
“Mine! But they wouldn’t let me fight!”
Moneo came running up then with a group of guards. One of the Fish Speakers tossed a guard’s blue cloak to Idaho, calling out: “We’re trying to salvage a complete uniform from the bodies.”
“I ripped mine off,” Idaho explained.
“Did any of the Face Dancers escape?” Moneo asked.
“Not a one,” Idaho said. “I admit your women are good fighters, but why wouldn’t they let me get into. . .”
“Because they have instructions to protect you,” Leto said. “They always protect the most valuable. . .”
“Four of them died getting me out of there!” Idaho said.
“We lost more than thirty people altogether, Lord,” Moneo said. “We’re still counting.”
“How many Face Dancers?” Leto asked.
“It looks like there were an even fifty of them, Lord,” Moneo said. He spoke softly, a stricken look on his face.
Leto began to chuckle.
“Why are you laughing?” Idaho demanded. “More than thirty of our people. . .”
“But the Tleilaxu were so inept,” Leto said. “Do you not realize that only about five hundred years ago they would’ve been far more efficient, far more dangerous. Imagine them daring that foolish masquerade! And not anticipating your brilliant response!”
“They had lasguns,” Idaho said.
Leto twisted his bulky forward segments around and pointed
at a hole burned in his canopy almost at the cart’, midpoint A melted and fused starburst surrounded the hole
“They hit several other places underneath,” Leto said “Fortunately, they did not damage any suspensors or wheels.”