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Authors: Frank Herbert

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BOOK: God Emperor of Dune
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“The girl’s repeating it now,” Anteac said.
“Why wasn’t I summoned?” Anteac looked up at her fellow Truthsayer, thinking that Luyseyal might be one of the finest practitioners of the
art
but she remained too conscious of rank. Luyseyal was young, however, with the sensuous oval features of the Jessica-type, and those genes tended to carry a headstrong nature.
Anteac spoke softly: “Your acolyte said you were meditating.”
Luyseyal nodded, sat down on the pallet and spoke to the messenger. “Continue.”
“The Face Dancer said he had a message for the Reverend Mothers. He used the plural,” the messenger said.
“He knew there were two of us this time,” Anteac said.
“Everyone knows it,” Luyseyal said.
Anteac returned her full attention to the messenger. “Would you enter memory-trance now, girl, and give us the Face Dancer’s words verbatim.”
The messenger nodded, sat back onto her heels and clasped her hands in her lap. She took three deep breaths, closed her eyes and let her shoulders sag. When she spoke, her voice had a high-pitched, nasal twang.
“Tell the Reverend Mothers that by tonight the Empire will be rid of its God Emperor. We will strike him today before he reaches Onn. We cannot fail.”
A deep breath shook the messenger. Her eyes opened and she looked up at Anteac.
“The Ixian, Yake, told me to hurry back with this message. He then touched the back of my left hand in that particular way, further convincing me that he was not …”
“Yake is one of ours,” Anteac said. “Tell Luyseyal the message of the fingers.”
The messenger looked at Luyseyal. “We have been invaded by Face Dancers and cannot move.”
As Luyseyal started and began to rise from the pallet, Anteac said: “I already have taken the appropriate steps to guard our doors.” Anteac looked at the messenger. “You may go now, girl. You have been adequate to your task.”
“Yes, Reverend Mother.” The messenger lifted her lithe body with a certain amount of grace, but there was no doubt in her movements that she knew the import of Anteac’s words.
Adequate
was not
well done.
When the messenger had gone, Luyseyal said: “She should’ve made some excuse to study the Embassy and find out how many of the Ixians have been replaced.”
“I think not,” Anteac said. “In that respect, she performed well. No, but it would have been better had she found a way to get a more detailed report from Yake. I fear we have lost him.”
“The reason the Tleilaxu sent us that message is obvious, of course,” Luyseyal said.
“They are really going to attack him,” Anteac said.
“Naturally. It’s what the
fools
would do. But I address myself to why they sent the message to us.”
Anteac nodded. “They think we now have no choice except to join them.”
“And if we try to warn the Lord Leto, the Tleilaxu will learn our messengers and their contacts.”
“What if the Tleilaxu succeed?” Anteac asked.
“Not likely.”
“We do not know their actual plan, only its general timing.”
“What if this girl, this Siona, has a part in it?” Luyseyal asked.
“I have asked myself that same question, have you heard the full report from the Guild?”
“Only the summary. Is that enough?”
“Yes, with high probability.”
“You should be careful with terms such as
high probability,
” Luyseyal said. “We don’t want anyone thinking you’re a Mentat.”
Anteac’s tone was dry. “I presume you will not give me away.”
“Do you think the Guild is right about this Siona?” Luyseyal asked.
“I do not have enough information. If they are right, she is something extraordinary.”
“As the Lord Leto’s father was extraordinary?”
“A Guild navigator could conceal himself from the oracular eye of the Lord Leto’s father.”
“But not from the Lord Leto.”
“I have read the full Guild report with care. She does not so much conceal herself and the actions around her as, well …”
“She fades,” they said. “She fades from their
sight.
”
“She alone,” Anteac said.
“And from the
sight
of the Lord Leto as well?”
“They do not know.”
“Do we dare make contact with her?”
“Do we dare not?” Anteac asked.
“This all may be moot if the Tleilaxu … Anteac, we should at least make the attempt to warn him.”
“We have no communications devices and there now are Fish Speaker guards at the door. They permit our people to enter, but not to leave.”
“Should we speak to one of them?”
“I have thought about that. We can always say we feared they were Face Dancer substitutes.”
“Guards at the door,” Luyseyal muttered. “Is it possible that he knows?”
“Anything is possible.”
“With the Lord Leto that’s the only thing you can say for sure,” Luyseyal said.
Anteac permitted herself a small sigh as she lifted herself from the stool. “How I long for the old days when we had all of the spice we could ever need.”
“
Ever
was just another illusion,” Luyseyal said. “I hope we have learned our lesson well, no matter how the Tleilaxu make out today.”
“They will do it clumsily whatever the outcome,” Anteac grumbled. “Gods! There are no good assassins to be found anymore.”
“There are always the ghola Idahos,” Luyseyal said.
“What did you say?” Anteac stared at her companion.
“There are always …”
“Yes!”
“The gholas are too slow in the body,” Luyseyal said.
“But not in the head.”
“What’re you thinking?”
“Is it possible that the Tleilaxu … No, not even they could be that …”
“An Idaho Face Dancer?” Luyseyal whispered.
Anteac nodded mutely.
“Put it out of your mind,” Luyseyal said. “They could not be that stupid.”
“That’s a dangerous judgment to make about Tleilaxu,” Anteac said. “We must prepare ourselves for the worst. Get one of those Fish Speaker guards in here!”
Unceasing warfare gives rise to its own social conditions which have been similar in all epochs. People enter a permanent state of alertness to ward off attacks. You see the absolute rule of the autocrat. All new things become dangerous frontier districts—new planets, new economic areas to exploit, new ideas or new devices, visitors—everything suspect. Feudalism takes firm hold, sometimes disguised as a politbureau or similar structure, but always present. Hereditary succession follows the lines of power. The blood of the powerful dominates. The vice regents of heaven or their equivalent apportion the wealth. And they know they must control inheritance or slowly let the power melt away. Now, do you understand Leto’s Peace?
 
—THE STOLEN JOURNALS
 
 
 
“Have the Bene Gesserit been informed of the new schedule?” Leto asked.
His entourage had entered the first shallow cut which would wind into switchbacks at the approach to the bridge across the Idaho River. The sun stood at the morning’s first quarter and a few courtiers were shedding cloaks. Idaho walked with a small troop of Fish Speakers at the left flank, his uniform beginning to show traces of dust and perspiration. Walking and trotting at the speed of a Royal peregrination was hard work.
Moneo stumbled and caught himself. “They have been informed, Lord.” The change of schedule had not been easy, but Moneo had learned to expect erratic shifts of direction at Festival time. He kept contingency plans at the ready.
“Are they still petitioning for a permanent Embassy on Arrakis?” Leto asked.
“Yes, Lord. I gave them the usual answer.”
“A simple
‘no’
should suffice,” Leto said. “They no longer need to be reminded that I abhor their religious pretensions.”
“Yes, Lord.” Moneo held himself to just within the prescribed distance beside Leto’s cart. The Worm was very much present this morning—the bodily signs quite apparent to Moneo’s eyes. No doubt it was the moisture in the air. That always seemed to bring out the Worm.
“Religion always leads to rhetorical despotism,” Leto said. “Before the Bene Gesserit, the Jesuits were the best at it.”
“Jesuits, Lord?”
“Surely you’ve met them in your histories?”
“I’m not certain, Lord. When were they?”
“No matter. You learn enough about rhetorical despotism from a study of the Bene Gesserit. Of course, they do not begin by deluding themselves with it.”
The Reverend Mothers are in for a bad time
, Moneo told himself.
He’s going to preach at them. They detest that. This could cause serious trouble.
“What was their reaction?” Leto asked.
“I’m told they were disappointed but did not press the matter.”
And Moneo thought:
I’d best prepare them for more disappointment. And they’ll have to be kept away from the delegations of Ix and Tleilaxu.
Moneo shook his head. This could lead to some very nasty plotting. The Duncan had better be warned.
“It leads to self-fulfilling prophecy and justifications for all manner of obscenities,” Leto said.
“This … rhetorical despotism, Lord?”
“Yes! It shields evil behind walls of self-righteousness which are proof against all arguments against the evil.”
Moneo kept a wary eye on Leto’s body, noting the way the hands twisted, almost a random movement, the twitching of the great ribbed segments.
What will I do if the Worm comes out of him here?
Perspiration broke out on Moneo’s forehead.
“It feeds on deliberately twisted meanings to discredit opposition,” Leto said.
“All of that, Lord?”
“The Jesuits called that ‘securing your power base.’ It leads directly to hypocrisy which is always betrayed by the gap between actions and explanations. They never agree.”
“I must study this more carefully, Lord.”
“Ultimately, it rules by guilt because hypocrisy brings on the witch hunt and the demand for scapegoats.”
“Shocking, Lord.”
The cortege rounded a corner where the rock had been opened for a glimpse of the bridge in the distance.
“Moneo, are you paying close attention to me?”
“Yes, Lord. Indeed.”
“I’m describing a tool of the religious power base.”
“I recognize that, Lord.”
“Then why are you so afraid?”
“Talk of religious power always makes me uneasy, Lord.”
“Because you and the Fish Speakers wield it in my name?”
“Of course, Lord.”
“Power bases are very dangerous because they attract people who are truly insane, people who seek power only for the sake of power. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Lord. That is why you so seldom grant petitions for appointments in your government.”
“Excellent, Moneo!”
“Thank you, Lord.”
“In the shadow of every religion lurks a Torquemada,” Leto said. “You have never encountered that name. I know because I caused it to be expunged from all the records.”
“Why was that, Lord?”
“He was an obscenity. He made living torches out of people who disagreed with him.”
Moneo pitched his voice low. “Like the historians who angered you, Lord?”
“Do you question my actions, Moneo?”
“No, Lord!”
“Good. The historians died peacefully. Not a one felt the flames. Torquemada, however, delighted in commending to his god the agonized screams of his burning victims.”
“How horrible, Lord.”
The cortege turned another corner with a view of the bridge. The span appeared to be no closer.
Once more, Moneo studied his God Emperor. The Worm appeared no closer. Still too close, though. Moneo could feel the menace of that unpredictable presence, the Holy Presence which could kill without warning.
Moneo shuddered.
What had been the meaning of that strange … sermon? Moneo knew that few had ever heard the God Emperor speak thus. It was a privilege and a burden. It was part of the price paid for Leto’s Peace. Generation after generation marched in their ordered way under the dictates of that peace. Only the Citadel’s inner circle knew all of the infrequent breaks in that peace—the
incidents
when Fish Speakers were sent out in anticipation of violence.

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