Heretics of Dune by Frank Herbert

The old woman spoke to Burzmali. “I think she can wear it well enough.” She began divesting herself of her dragon robe. To Lucilla she said: “This is for you. Wear it with respect. We killed to get it for you.”

“Who did you kill?” Lucilla demanded.

“A postulant of the Honored Matres!” There was pride in the old woman’s husky tone.

“Why should I wear that robe?” Lucilla demanded.

“You will trade garments with me,” the old woman said.

“Not without explanation.” Lucilla refused to accept the robe being extended to her.

Burzmali took one step forward. “You can trust her.”

“I am a friend of your friends,” the old woman said. She shook the robe in front of Lucilla. “Here, take it.”

Lucilla addressed Burzmali. “I must know your plan.”

“We both must know it,” Duncan said. “On whose authority are we asked to trust these people?”

“Teg’s,” Burzmali said. “And mine.” He looked at the old woman. “You can tell them, Sirafa. We have time.”

“You will wear this robe while you accompany Burzmali into Ysai,” Sirafa said.

Sirafa, Lucilla thought. The name had almost the sound of a Bene Gesserit Lineal Variant.

Sirafa studied Duncan. “Yes, he is small enough yet. He will be disguised and conveyed separately.”

“No!” Lucilla said. “I am commanded to guard him!”

“You are being foolish,” Sirafa said. “They will be looking for a woman of your appearance accompanied by someone of this young man’s appearance. They will not be looking for a playfem of the Honored Matres with her companion of the night . . . nor for a Tleilaxu Master and his entourage.”

Lucilla wet her lips with her tongue. Sirafa spoke with the confident assurance of a House Proctor.

Sirafa draped the dragon robe over the back of the settee. She stood revealed in a clinging black leotard that concealed nothing of a body still lithe and supple, even well rounded. The body looked much younger than the face. As Lucilla looked at her, Sirafa passed her palms across her forehead and cheeks, smoothing them backward. Age lines grew shallow and a younger face was revealed.

A Face Dancer?

Lucilla stared hard at the woman. There were none of the other Face Dancer stigmata. Still . . .

“Get your robe off!” Sirafa ordered. Now her voice was younger and even more commanding.

“You must do it,” Burzmali pleaded. “Sirafa will take your place as another decoy. It’s the only way we’ll get through.”

“Get through to what?” Duncan asked.

“To a no-ship,” Burzmali said.

“And where will that take us?” Lucilla demanded.

“To safety,” Burzmali said. “We will be loaded with shere but I cannot say more. Even shere wears off in time.”

“How will I be disguised as a Tleilaxu?” Duncan asked.

“Trust us that it will be done,” Burzmali said. He kept his attention on Lucilla. “Reverend Mother?”

“You give me no choice,” Lucilla said. She undid the quick fasteners and dropped her robe. She removed the small handgun from her bodice and tossed it onto the settee. Her own leotard was light gray and she saw Sirafa making note of this and of the knives in their leg sheaths.

“We sometimes wear black undergarments,” Lucilla said as she slipped into the dragon robe. The fabric looked heavy but felt light. She pivoted in it, sensing the way it flared and fitted itself to her body almost as though it had been made just for her. There was a rough spot at the neck. She reached up and ran a finger along it.

“That is where the dart struck her,” Sirafa said. “We moved fast but the acid scarred the fabric slightly. It is not visible to the eye.”

“Is the appearance correct?” Burzmali asked Sirafa.

“Very good. But I will have to instruct her. She must make no mistakes or they will have both of you like that!” Sirafa clapped her hands for emphasis.

Where have I seen that gesture? Lucilla asked herself.

Duncan touched the back of Lucilla’s right arm, his fingers secretly quick-talking: “That hand clap! A mannerism of Giedi Prime.”

Other Memories confirmed this for Lucilla. Was this woman part of an isolated community preserving archaic ways?

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