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 dirty street.

CHAPTER XLVII

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 grey 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.”