Returning to Siona, Idaho bent to study the cut of Garun's brown robe, seeing a tightness in it dictated by a need to conserve fabric. The gray slick of a stillsuit could be seen underneath, exposed to sunlight which no real Fremen would ever have let touch his stillsuit that way. Idaho looked at the rest of the delegation, noting an identical parsimonious treatment of fabric. It betrayed their emotional bent. Such garments allowed no expansive gestures, no freedom of movement. The robes were tight and confining in the way of these entire people!
Disgust propelling him, Idaho strode forward abruptly and parted Garun's robe to look at the stillsuit. Just as he suspected! The suit was another sham-no arms to it, no boot-pumps!
Garun pulled back, putting a hand to the knife hilt Idaho had exposed at the man's belt. 'Here! What're you doing?' Garun demanded, his voice querulous. 'You don't touch a Fremen thus!'
'You, a Fremen?' Idaho demanded. 'I lived with Fremen! I fought by their sides against Harkonnens! I died with Fremen! You? You're a sham!'
Garun's knuckles went white on the knife haft. He addressed himself to Siona. 'Who is this man?'
Nayla spoke up: 'This is Duncan Idaho.'
'The ghola?' Garun turned to look at Idaho's face. 'We have never seen your like here before.'
Idaho felt himself almost overcome with desire to cleanse this place even if it cost him his life, this diminished life which could be repeated endlessly by people who had no real concerns for him. An older model, yes! But this was no Fremen.
'Draw that knife or take your hand off it,' Idaho said.
Garun jerked his hand away from the knife. 'It is not a real knife,' he said. 'Only for decoration.' His voice became eager. 'But we have real knives, even crysknives! They are kept locked in the display cases to preserve them.'
Idaho could not help himself. He threw his head back in laughter. Siona smiled, but Nayla looked thoughtful and the rest of the Fish Speaker troop drew into a close, watchful circle around them.
The laughter had an odd effect on Garun. He lowered his head and clasped his hands tightly together, but not before Idaho saw them trembling. When Garun peered upward once more, it was to look at Idaho from beneath heavy brows. Idaho felt abruptly sobered. It was as though some terrible boot had crushed Garun's ego into fearful subservience. There was watchful waiting in the man's eyes. And for no reason he could explain, Idaho remembered a passage from the Orange Catholic Bible. He asked himself: Are these the meek who will outwait us all and inherit the universe?
Garun cleared his throat, then: 'Perhaps the ghola Duncan Idaho will witness our ways and our ritual and judge them?'
Idaho felt shamed by the plaintive request. He spoke without thinking: 'I will teach you anything Fremen that I know.' He looked up to see Nayla scowling at him. 'It will help to pass the time,' he said. 'And who knows? It may return something of the true Fremen to this land.'
Siona said: 'We've no need to play old cultish games! Take us to our quarters.'
Nayla lowered her head in embarrassment and spoke without looking at Siona. 'Commander, there is a thing I have not ventured to tell you.'
'That you must make sure we stay in this filthy place,' Siona said.
'Oh, no!' Nayla looked up at Siona's face. 'Where could you go? The Wall cannot be climbed and there is only the river beyond it, anyway. And in the other direction, it is the Sareer. Oh, no... it is something else.' Nayla shook her head.
'Out with it!' Siona snapped.
'I am under the strictest orders, Commander, which I dare not disobey.' Nayla glanced at the other members of the troop then back to Siona. 'You and the... Duncan Idaho are to be quartered together.'
'My father's orders?'
'Lady Commander, they are said to be the orders of the God Emperor himself and we dare not disobey.'
Siona looked full at Idaho. 'You will remember my warning, Duncan, when last we spoke at the Citadel?'
'My hands are mine to do with as I wish,' Idaho snarled. 'I don't think you have any doubts about my wishes!'
She turned away from him after a curt nod and looked at Garun. 'What does it matter where we bed in this disgusting place? Take us to our quarters.'
Idaho found Garun's response fascinating-a turning of the head toward the ghola, shielding the face behind the Fremen hood, then a secret conspiratorial wink. Only then did Garun lead them away down the ditty street. -= What is the most immediate danger to my stewardship? I will tell you. It is a true visionary, a person who has stood in the presence of God with the full knowledge of where he stands. Visionary ecstasy releases energies which are like the energies of sex-uncaring for anything except creation. One act of creation can be much like another. Everything depends upon the vision.
- The Stolen Journals LETO LAY without his cart on the high, sheltered balcony of his Little Citadel tower, subduing a fretfulness which he knew came from the necessary delays putting off the date of his wedding to Hwi Noree. He stared toward the southwest. Somewhere off there beyond the darkening horizon, the Duncan, Siona and their companions had been six days in Tuono Village.
The delays are my own fault, Leto thought. I am the one who changed the place for the wedding, making it necessary for poor Moneo to revise all of his preparations.
And now, of course, there was the matter of Malky.
None of these necessities could be explained to Moneo, who could be heard stirring about within the central chamber of the aerie, worrying about his absence from the command post where he directed the festive preparations. Moneo was such a worrier!
Leto looked toward the setting sun. It floated low to the horizon, faded a dim orange by a recent storm. Rain crouched low in the clouds to the south beyond the Sareer now. In a prolonged silence, Leto had watched the rain there for a time which had stretched out with no beginning or end. The clouds had grown out of a hard gray sky, rain walking in visible lines. He had felt himself clothed in memories that came unbidden. The mood was hard to shake off and, without even thinking, he muttered the remembered lines of an ancient verse.
'Did you speak, Lord?' Moneo's voice came from close beside Leto. By merely turning his eyes, Leto could see the faithful majordomo standing attentively waiting.
Leto translated into Galach as he quoted: 'The nightingale nests in the plum tree, but what will she do with the wind?'
'Is that a question, Lord?'
'An old question. The answer is simple. Let the nightingale keep to her flowers.'
'I don't understand, Lord.'
'Stop mouthing the obvious, Moneo. It disturbs me when you do that.'
'Forgive me, Lord.'
'What else can I do?' Leto studied Moneo's downcast features. 'You and I, Moneo, whatever else we do, we provide good theater.'
Moneo peered at Leto's face. 'Lord?'
'The rites of the religious festival of Bacchus were the seeds of Greek theater, Moneo. Religion often leads to theater. They will have fine theater out of us.' Once more, Leto turned and looked at the southwest horizon.
There was a wind there now piling up the clouds. Leto thought he could hear driven sand blustering along the dunes, but there was only resonant quiet in the tower aerie, a quiet with the faintest of wind hiss behind it.
'The clouds,' he whispered. 'I would take a cup of moonlight once more, an ancient sea barge at my feet, thin clouds clinging to my darkling sky, the blue-gray cloak around my shoulders and horses neighing nearby.'
'My Lord is troubled,' Moneo said. The compassion in his voice wrenched at Leto.
'The bright shadows of my pasts,' Leto said. 'They never leave me in peace. I listened for a soothing sound, the bell of a country town at nightfall, and it told me only that I am the sound and soul of this place.'
As he spoke, darkness enclosed the tower. Automatic lights came on around them. Leto kept his attention directed outward where a thin melon slice of First Moon drifted above the clouds with orange planet-light revealing the satellite's full circle.
'Lord, why have we come out here?' Moneo asked. 'Why won't you tell me?'
