“To me, perhaps.”

“Do the Face Dancers know?”

“They suspect.”

“Then they are not as frightened as they appear.”

“Oh, yes, they are frightened. It’s just that they are braver than most people expect them to be.”

“Bravery can be so foolish,” she whispered.

“And vice-versa.”

She had favoured him with a measuring stare before returning her attention to the performance. Almost two hundred Face Dancers had survived unscathed. All of them had been pressed into the dance. The intricate weavings and posturings could fascinate the eye. It was possible to watch them and, for a time, forget the bloody preliminaries to this day.

Leto remembered this as he lay alone in his small reception room shortly before noon when Moneo arrived. Moneo had seen the Reverend Mother Anteac on to a Guild lighter, had conferred with the Fish Speaker Command about the previous night’s violence, had made a quick flight to the Citadel and back to make sure Siona was under a secure watch and that she had not been implicated in the Embassy attack. He had returned to Onn just after the betrothal announcement, having had no previous warning.

Moneo was furious. Leto had never seen him this angry. He stormed into the room and stopped only two metres from Leto’s face.

“Now the Tleilaxu lies will be believed!” he said.

Leto responded in a reasoned tone. “How persistent it is, this demand that our gods be perfect. The Greeks were much more reasonable about such things.”

“Where is she?” Moneo demanded. “Where is this…”

“Hwi is resting. It was a difficult night and a long morning. I want her well rested when we return to the Citadel this evening.”

“How did she work this?” Moneo demanded.

“Really, Moneo! Have you lost all sense of caution?”

“I am concerned about you! Have you any idea what they’re saying in the City?”

“I’m fully aware of the stories.”

“What are you doing?”

“You know, Moneo, I think that only the old pantheists had the right idea about deities: mortal foibles in immortal guise.”

Moneo raised both arms to the heavens. “I saw the looks on their faces!” He lowered his arms. “It’ll be all over the Empire within two weeks.”

“Surely it’ll take longer than that.”

“If your enemies needed one thing to bring them all together…”

“The defiling of the god is an ancient human tradition, Moneo. Why should I be an exception?”

Moneo tried to speak, found he could not utter a word. He stamped down along the edge of the pit which held Leto’s cart, stamped back and resumed his former position glaring into Leto’s face.

“If I am to help you, I need an explanation,” Moneo said. “Why are you doing this?”

“Emotions.”

Moneo’s mouth formed the word without speaking it.

“They have come over me just when I thought them gone forever,” Leto said. “How sweet these last few sips of humanity are.”

“With Hwi? But you surely cannot…”

“Memories of emotions are never enough, Moneo.”