He sat down and Norman Mote clapped his hands together, very softly and gently. "We thank you all, brothers and sisters. We trust that in the days to come you'll all find some way of putting back into Snakefish what you're taking out."
"Most generous little ville in the west," Krysty whispered sarcastically.
The service was complex and long. There were innumerable readings and prayers, not all of them centering on snakes. But most of them did. Some of the religious elements were more traditional, with hymns that were more recognizable. But again and again either Norman or Marianne Mote returned to the reptilian theme coiling, striking and crushing.
Their son, Joshua, preached a short sermon, which he read with stumbling difficulty from a series of large cue cards. He was in his early twenties, had sagging, unhealthy skin and puffy eyes, and wore a shirt of pale blue silk and a neck thong holding a large, polished nugget of turquoise. He was barefooted. Blond curls peeked out from under the brim of a black Stetson-style hat. His voice was faltering and high-pitched.
His reading was a supposed parable about a family who owned a lot of wheat but gave so much away that they began to run short and suffer themselves for their generosity.
"For wheat, read 'oil,' I guess," Ryan whispered to Krysty.
Swiftly becoming obvious was the extent to which the ville was divided. Baron Brennan had seemed a friendly and generous old man, but the roots of a long-buried bitterness were becoming exposed. And it was also becoming clear that the baron's hold on the power in Snakefish was as nebulous as the dew upon a summer pasture.
Joshua finished his reading and sat down again on his chair.
"Before our final prayer for the morning," Norman Mote announced, "I shall give out one or two important notices."
Ryan saw that there was a strip of wooden carving above the stage. The lettering, deeply incised and in shadow, was difficult to read. By putting his head on one side he was able to decipher it: The Ophidian Way Is the True Way.
"What's ophidian, Doc?" he muttered.
"Means to do with snakes. That's all," came the reply. "From 'ophis,' a snake in Greek."
"Please shut down on the talking during services, Brother Ryan," Norman Mote called with the sweetest and most conciliatory smile, a smile that fell a good few miles short of reaching his eyes.
"Sorry, Brother Norman," Ryan replied.
"The notices. Sister Laurentia is holding a clambake on Thursday next. Three in the afternoon, is it not, Sister? I see her nodding in the balcony there. Praise the Worm, Sister."
A faint "Amen" filtered down from the gallery above them.
"Some bad news. Zombie has reported to me that the base on the fringes of Death Valley has been raided twice more by stickies. I shall be talking to Baron Edgar to find out what he intends to do about this further incursion to our gas supply." There was a buzz of chatter. Ryan was able to see that Edgar Brennan was talking animatedly to Carla Petersen and to his nephew, Layton.
"Go chill the coil-bound mutie bastards!" someone yelled from the back. Ryan would have laid jack that it was the gun dealer, John Dern.
"Amen, amen to that, brother," Mote called, lifting his hands for quiet. "One more thing. At feeding last night, there was no sign of our beloved Azrael. Belial and the others came to the call, but not Prince Azrael himself."
"Could be shedding, Pa," Joshua Mote hissed from the rear of the platform.
"No, Apostolic Apprentice Joshua, no. It is the wrong time for Azrael to shed. No. It has happened before that he has missed a feeding."
"Maybe caught him a juicy stickie," Marianne Mote suggested.
"Maybe, my dearest. Maybe that. Anyway, I'd like eyes and ears kept open for any news of Azrael Twelve. That's all. We'll end on our usual prayer, brothers and sisters. Let us pray."
There was a series of pattered responses, similar to those that had opened the service. A final, swelling "Amen," and it was time to leave.
As they filed out, there was a double line of the Last Heroes, standing so casually out in the bright morning sunshine. Zombie caught Ryan's eye.
"Reverend Mote'd like a word, brother. His room at the back."
"I'd like to go and see him." He turned to the others. "Be out soon. Wait for me."
Zombie walked through the empty church, escorted by Riddler and Dick the Hat. Ryan strolled at his elbow, deliberately taking his time.
"Come on in," Norman Mote invited. "Zombie, you wait in here. Other two outside the door. Don't want to be interrupted till I say so."
The Mote family was relaxing in a suite of elegant rooms behind the temple. Norman was smoking a large cigar, feet resting on a table. Joshua was picking his nose and thumbing through a crudely colored porn mag. Marianne had changed into a loose gown of chem-cloud-pink chiffon that swirled loosely about her as she moved. Ryan couldn't help noticing that she hadn't been very careful about the fastening and it kept swinging open to show the top of her thighs. The reverend mother looked like she didn't believe in wearing panties.
"Nice church," Ryan said. "Good number of the folk of Snakefish there."
"Break their piss-ant knees if they didn't come," Joshua mumbled.
"Now, now." Norman smiled. "Boy will have his joke, Ryan. You understand that? You got any children of your own?"
He was taken off guard by the question. It had been such a long time since anyone had asked him that. Oddly Krysty had never asked him. She'd talked about their future together. Even kind of hinted that maybe one day she'd like kids. But she'd never asked him...
"No. I don't think..."
"You don't think, Ryan?" Marianne Mote laughed. Close up the resemblances he'd noticed were stronger. The gaudy queen with the dead eyes. And she was years older than he'd even guessed.
"That's right."
"Mean you don't know? Lots of little Ryans running around Deathlands looking for their long-lost daddy? I declare!"
Norman resumed control of the conversation. "Just wanted a word, Ryan. One or two folks say you and your... party look mighty like a load of mercies. What d'you say to that?"
"I say that I don't like answering the same question more than once."
There was a shocked silence in the room and, for the first time, Ryan realized that he was dealing with real power.
"Daddy asks a question, folks answer it," Joshua hissed.
"That's right," Zombie added. "Reverend Mote says 'jump' and you just say 'how high?' and do it."
But Norman wasn't thrown by Ryan's attitude. "Now this is the core and kernel of why I wanted a quiet word. I see that you seven outlanders have the look of... of folks that can handle themselves if there was any trouble. I just wanted to satisfy myself that you hadn't been hired by..." He paused then carried on. "By anyone in the ville to take their side if there was to be some sort of difficulty."
"Or firefight," Joshua said loudly.
"Yeah. A scale-blasted firefight," Zombie enthused, clenching his fists.
Marianne swept closer to Ryan, so that he could smell a cloying scent, overlaying the stale odor of her body.
"We don't believe it will come to that, Ryan. But you have arrived, no doubt by coincidence, at a key time for the ville. There is change in the air. Most of us believe that what comes from the ville belongs to the ville. All of it."
"The gas," Ryan said.
Norman nodded. "Indeed. Man of perception, Ryan Cawdor. I saw that right away. Now, if... let's imagine you might have been hired by someone." He raised up a hasty hand. "I know what you say about happening by. First time's happenstance. Second time it's pure luck. Third time and you're on your back staring up at the sky. We'd double whatever you'd been paid. Double it, clear and free."
"Bear it in mind," Ryan said.
Mote moved closer. "I'm not a man to fuck around with."
"Yeah," Ryan agreed, his voice flat and steady. "Stick your prick into my business, and you'll get it cut off."
"Yeah, Reverend."