“I can’t help but see it—”
Tal appeared then in the doorway. “You wanted me? By the way, I put on blue lenses. I thought it would be more appropriate—”
“Forget your eyes,” said Adrian, jettisoning courtesy in the urgency of the moment. “Look at this.” He pointed to a pink area on his nose.
Tal walked over and took a look. “It’s a pimple.”
“It’s huge,” said Adrian.
“It’s not even visible,” said Lucius, with a warning glance at Tal.
“It’s the size of a fully grown planetoid,” said Adrian, groaning again.
Tal walked over to a carved wooden bench nearby, sat down and crossed his legs. “And this is a man who controls the fate of four million people. I’m glad you’re focused on what’s really important.”
“Doesn’t anyone understand me?” cried Adrian. “Dammit, Tal, this is serious. I’m getting married today. And tonight we’re … what’s she going to think? I’ve barely even kissed the girl. Do I have to shove this, this eruption into her innocent face?” He felt the end of his nose experimentally. “Tell me honestly, Tal, am I being paranoid?”
“Yes. You’re being paranoid.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Lucius, meanwhile, had exited from the room and returned almost at once with a small glazed pot of brown stuff, about an inch in diameter. He extended it toward Adrian. “Here you are, sir, try this. I got it from Lady Joanna, and she’s close to your skin color.”
Adrian looked down at the jar as though it were an alien artifact whose safety was not yet proven. “I can’t wear that. It’s for ladies.”
From his chair Tal said, “Do you want to postpone the wedding? Or do you want to wear cosmetics? Or do you want to believe Lucius when he says it’s not noticeable?”
Adrian considered the matter for a moment. Then he reached for the jar.
St. Tom’s was filling up. Even by invitation only, there were far more people who thought they should be at the ceremony than actually had seats. Spider, to his delight and his mother’s pride, had gotten an invitation, even if it was for a seat way off to the side with people who were probably afterthoughts. You could barely see the Symbol from here, and Adrian and Iolanthe would most likely be blocked by that big Corinthian pillar, but here he was.
His mother would probably have a better view. The whole thing was going to be shown live on the big screen at Nemiah Circus, and Mrs. Hastings had gone there last night with three of her cronies to stake out a place to sit. Spider had suggested coming along—his ticket to the wedding showed a number that hinted he wouldn’t be anywhere near the couple—and his Ma had said, “Stratton Hastings, are you out of your mind? You’re the only person in our neighborhood with an invitation. I told everybody about it. Don’t you dare not go.” So he’d kept any moral qualms to himself. This was the first church he’d set foot in since his excommunication order, back when he’d run off to find the ghosts. Technically, of course he’d been reinstated … but if anybody found out he’d been fraternizing with demons, taking orders for pay when he wasn’t under any Diamond service obligation to do so … well, he knew, and it made him uncomfortable.
At least his concerns today were spiritual, he told himself. A wedding was no place for ghosts.
Saint Tom’s, like the Cavern of Audience, was a huge space cut into the rock that made up the inner frame of the Diamond. It had been used as a cathedral for hundreds of years. Tunnels came into it from scores of places; utility tunnels, water tunnels, tunnels for access to the rectory nearby, tunnels for service people, and other tunnels. High above the congregation a railed ledge ran around two walls of the cathedral; partly it went through the rock and was invisible to the people below, and partly it appeared as the bottom of two frescoes cut into the wall. Even with the railing at the frescoes, it did not look like a passageway. Nobody knew it was there but one or two church historians, who, if asked, could have explained that once upon a time a watch of priests used to oversee the sanctuary from there on holy days. In less kind years monitors had been placed there to watch the congregation and report any who seemed inattentive. Nobody asked these historians, though, because nobody knew about them or much cared.
It was to the first of these frescoes that the Salamander brought Tealeaf, to escort her to the wedding. Tealeaf usually avoided his company, as the Salamander was known far and wide to be crazy even for a ghost. But the gift of intuition that had taken her out of normal human society told her that he did not mean anything violent or sexual by this invitation, which made it pure sophisticated charm by Salamander standards. He said that he had a surprise, and there was an echo in the way he said it of her parents at Christmas. So she let him bring her through the ghost roads to court deck, through tunnels she’d never even heard of, until she stepped out on this ledge and saw an enormous space, banners, and a sea of people in fine clothes below. The murmur of the crowd as it settled in camp up to her like a single, swelling note.
“Thank you,” she said, turning to him at once. Her delight was plain in her voice. “It’s beautiful.”
He looked shyly pleased. They sat down together on the cold stone ledge, their legs against the railing, and peered out over their betters.
The Salamander considered in passing that if he’d met any of these people in the underdecks, dressed like that, he’d have killed them at once and gone through their purses. For her part, Tealeaf wished she’d known she was coming; she would have made an effort to find some water for washing.
As she gazed,
