“You’d be surprised what comes of idle thinking, Moneo. I’ve never minded spending an entire day on things a human would not bother with for one minute. Why not? With my life expectancy of some four thousand years, what’s one day more
or less? How much time does one human life count? A million minutes? I’ve already experienced almost that many days.” Moneo stood frozen in silence, diminished by this comparison. He felt his own lifetime reduced to a mote in Leto’s eye. The source of the allusion did not escape him. Words . . . words . . . words, Moneo thought. “Words are often almost useless in sentient affairs,” Leto said. Moneo held his breathing to a shallow minimum. The Lord can read thoughts! “Throughout our history,” Leto said, “the most potent use of words has been to round out some transcendental event, giving that event a place in the accepted chronicles, explaining the event in such a way that ever afterward we can use those words and say: “This is what it meant.” Moneo felt beaten down by these words, terrified by unspoken things they might make him think. “That’s how events get lost in history,” Leto said. After a long silence, Moneo ventured: “You have not answered my question, Lord. The wedding?” How tired he sounds, Leto thought. How utterly defeated. Leto spoke briskly: “I have never needed your good offices more. The wedding must be managed with utmost care. It must have the precision of which only you are capable.” “Where, Lord?” A bit more life in his voice. “At Tabur Village in the Sareer.” “When?” “I leave the date to you. Announce it when all things are arranged.” “And the ceremony itself ?” “I will conduct it.” “Will you need assistants, Lord? Artifacts of any kind?” “The trappings of ritual?” “Any particular thing which I may not. . .” “We will not need much for our little charade.” “Lord! I beg of you! Please. . .” “You will stand beside the bride and give her in marriage,” Leto said. “We will use the Old Fremen ritual.” “We will need water rings then,” Moneo said. “Yes! I will use Ghani’s water rings.” “And who will attend, Lord?” “Only a Fish Speaker guard and the aristocracy.”
Moneo stared at Leto’s face. “What . . . what does my Lord mean by `aristocracy’?”
“You, your family, the household entourage, the courtiers of the Citadel.”
“My fam . . .” Moneo swallowed. “Do you include Siona?”
“If she survives the test.”
“But. . .
“Is she not family?”
“Of course, Lord. She is Atreides and. . .”
“Then by all means include Siona!”
Moneo brought a tiny memocorder from his pocket, a dull black Ixian artifact whose existence crowded the proscriptions of the Butlerian Jihad. A soft smile touched Leto’s lips. Moneo knew his duties and would now perform them.
The clamor of Duncan Idaho outside the portal grew more strident, but Moneo ignored the sound.
Moneo knows the price of his privileges, Leto thought. It is another kind of marriage-the marriage of privilege and duty. It is the aristocrat’s explanation and his excuse.
Moneo finished his note taking.
“A few details, Lord,” Moneo said. “Will there be some special garb for Hwi?”
“The stillsuit and robe of a Fremen bride, real ones.”
“Jewelry or other baubles?”
Leto’s gaze locked on Moneo’s fingers scrabbling over the tiny recorder, seeing there a dissolution.
Leadership, courage, a .sense of knowledge and order Moneo has these in abundance. They surround him like a holy aura, but they conceal from all eyes except mine the rot which eats from within. It is inevitable. Were I gone, it would be visible to everyone.
“Lord?” Moneo pressed. “Are you woolgathering?”
Ahhh! He likes that word!
“That is all,” Leto said. “Only the robe, the stillsuit and the water rings.”
Moneo bowed and turned away.
He is looking ahead now, Leto thought, but even this new thing will pass. He will turn toward the past once more. And I had such high hopes for him once. Well . . . perhaps Siona . . .
=== “Make no heroes,” my father said.
-The voice of Ghanima, From the Oral History