“Spider,” she said.
“What?” said the Salamander.
“Spider’s here. He’s sitting below.”
The Salamander got up on his knees and peered over the railing. “Where?”
She pointed to the very place where Spider sat in his borrowed finery dutifully wishing he could have wangled his mother an invitation.
The Salamander said, “I don’t see him. You can barely make out faces from here. How do you know it’s Spider?”
She turned her almond eyes to him and said, “I know. You know I know.”
He sat back down. Below them a train of priests started down the aisle. Another half hour of preparation followed before he leaned to her and said, in a low voice, “Best not tell Nicolet we came.”
The higher ranks of Opal priesthood had been invited to the wedding, but nobody expected them to come. It would be interpreted as lending their countenance to Diamond heresy. Other ranking Opal personnel were invited, however, including almost everyone in the current delegation. Will Stockton, having delivered Iolanthe to the wedding party and surrendered her into the hands of eight Diamond priests for the pre-ceremony, climbed the steps outside St. Tom’s to enter as a normal invitee. His duty was over. Barington Strife met him near the doors.
Will didn’t mind wearing the shirt, which was silk, but he hated the stupid red sash. It kept coming undone, and he had to keep stuffing it back into place and hoping the aristos weren’t looking at him. Will was a little on the tall and broad side, and die tailor had assured him the sash was extra-long. The tailor had lied.
Will bent a head toward Barington so they could talk privately, giving another poke to the sash as he did so. Maybe it would stay in place till he took his seat. “So where’s Hartley sitting?” he inquired.
“He didn’t come,” said Barington.
“What do you mean, he didn’t come?”
“He told the hierophant he wasn’t feeling well. I left him in his rooms.”
Will looked at Barington Strife; it was a tired, seen-it-all, Sangaree sort of look, and Barry knew what it meant. He protested, ‘The guy’s sick at home! What can he do? It’s not like he can cause any problems with anybody— everyone else in creation is at the wedding.”
Will sighed. He pulled the cursed red sash off and gave it to the other man. “Hold onto this for me, will you?”
“Sarge, you’re being a little paranoid, aren’t you?”
He probably was. But you gave extra rope to Hartley Quince at the risk of being hanged yourself. “Let me know how it turns out,” he said, as though the wedding were a sporting event.
“Yeah. I’ll put down bets for you. Sarge, I don’t know what you have against this guy, but except for a little smoke he hasn’t been in any trouble since day one of our arrival.”
“See you later,” waved Will, as he descended the steps. At the bottom there was a crowd of the uninvited who’d gathered to watch the upperdecks arrive in their wedding clothes and hired chairs. Somebody was selling pictures of the happy couple. Adrian’s visage was clearly lifted off his posters, and Iolanthe’s face a composite of every princess in a fairy tale. At least they got the hair color right. Will spied a thin-looking girl in a faded red dress, and said, “Here! Want to go to the wedding?” And he handed her his ticket. She looked at it uncertainly, and he grinned because her thoughts were stamped on her forehead: This man is probably crazy, and this ticket is probably counterfeit. “No charge,” said Will, and because he left without looking back, he never knew what she decided.
The pre-ceremony was a bloodletting, and Io had always felt queasy at these events. Hierophant Cole placed the metal leech on her forearm. It felt cold. After three minutes he took it off again, and Io swayed slightly and was helped to sit. Luckily nobody hissed to her (as they had been known to in the past), “For heaven’s sake, it’s only a few ounces.” The hierophant merely smiled sympathetically and continued his ritual, blessing the blood now inside the leech and handing it to a deacon for transfer to the cup.
Io gazed mutely around at the dome of the Church Office. It was only about forty feet in diameter, nothing at all compared to the grandeur of the cathedral itself, but at least one was close enough to see details and what one saw was reassuring. Sky-blue background with black bands partitioning the dome into sections; and at the base of each section, an illustration of one of the sacraments in the life of a Redemptionist. The fifth one, a quarter-way across the circle, was a wedding. Look, Io, she said to herself: It’s not like the ceremony is lethal. There are plenty more things to follow—look at the christening, doesn’t that look charming? I wish this were a christening, and all the fuss over with.
But, damn, if Adrian can stand it, I can stand it.
Bishop Kalend approached her as she was brought to the vestibule. He said in a low voice, “Iolanthe, Adrian tells me you had a bad reaction to your Confirmation.”
This took her by surprise. “Yes. I was sick for weeks.” How had Adrian heard, and how dare he discuss it with this stranger?
“A wedding should be happiest day in a young lady’s life, and I don’t want you to worry one bit about the ceremony. But you should know that people who have had bad reactions to their first exposure often have … the same, with their second.” Or worse, his voice seemed to imply. “I’ve brought you a little extra of the Sacred Breath. It should take care of any problems.” He uncovered
