There were no children in the congregation. No one showed undue interest in the outlanders as they were shown to a bench on the left, about halfway from the front.

Zombie and his biker brothers acted as stewards, marshaling everyone into their seats, making sure that there was no smoking. They eventually lined up near the altar, looking like sec bouncers at a particularly unsalubrious gaudy house.

Ryan had been particularly interested in seeing what the Mote family looked like. Before the festivities had begun, during the period of waiting for their arrival, he had studied the inside of their strange church.

There was a large balcony toward the rear, which had been extended more recently to run around both sides of the old theater. The altar was on a dais, between old and faded curtains decorated with huge, golden tassels. The chairs for the members of the Mote family were more like thrones, covered in gilt and crudely carved in ornate, writhing snake shapes. The rear wall, behind the platform, was obscured by a bright mural.

"Delicate, isn't it, lover?" Krysty whispered, seeing where Ryan's eye was focused.

"Sure. Like having a war wag run over your face is delicate."

The painting centered on an absolutely massive mutie rattler. Bigger by far than the one that they'd butchered out in the desert, it had a silver collar with the name Mote blazoned across it in scarlet. In its jaws was a diminutive figure that was kicking its legs. There was a 3-D holo effect built into it that made the head swing hypnotically from side to side and the tiny feet wave helplessly.

Around the edge of the picture were a number of oil-drilling rigs, vanishing away into a distance that was blurred by a poor perspective. At the very edge there was a crude version of the Sierras, snowcapped, tumbling out of the mural.

The colors were extremely basic — glaring greens and crimsons, with sickly yellows and a sky of an eye-blinking and unreal blue.

Ryan's ruminations stopped suddenly when he realized that the prayers were over and Norman Mote was about to speak.

He stood a little above average height and weighed about two-forty. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, the mane of sculpted hair a uniform silver gray. His suit was also in light gray, skillfully cut to conceal his spreading waist and stubby legs. He had the puffy eyes of a regular and long-time drinker. The hands that gestured from behind the reading stand were soft and white, with manicured nails.

Norman Mote's voice was calm and friendly, warm and welcoming. Ryan immediately disliked and mistrusted the man.

"Mah dear, dear friends," he began, smiling broadly around the packed building. "Welcome to our little morning get-together. Blessed is the worm!"

"And blessed are the scales thereof," responded the congregation.

Jak was sitting to Ryan's right. He put his face closer and whispered, "Fucked if find chilled their double-best god, huh?"

Ryan nodded. There hadn't been any choice in chilling the giant mutie rattler, but that might not go down well if anyone in Snakefish found out about it.

Mote continued to smile around, rubbing his hands together in an odd washing motion. Ryan heard Doc whispering something about the perfumes of Arabia, but he didn't get the reference.

"We have new brothers and sisters to welcome to our humble gathering," Mote continued. "I will ask them to introduce themselves to us, one by one. Perhaps, Mr. Cawdor, you would care to begin to do the honors for us?"

"Sure, Reverend. Name's Ryan Cawdor and I'd like to thank the kindly ville of Snakefish for helping me and my friends."

"I'm Krysty Wroth and I'd like to back up what Ryan said. Thanks."

Norman Mote held up an imperious hand. "Such thanks do credit. But there are those in the ville who think that generosity begins at home. Too much kindness to those from outside means less wealth for those within Snakefish."

"Wealth isn't all," someone countered from the front of the congregation. Ryan was sure it was Baron Edgar Brennan or his brother, Rufus.

"Some say, some say," Marianne Mote called from her golden throne.

It was the first time she'd spoken, but the co-guardian of the temple made a big impression, just by sitting there.

She was short, struggling to make four-ten. Marianne was also struggling, by the look of her, to keep her waist down under forty inches. She wore very heavy makeup, which made her look like an aging gaudy queen. She was dressed in a loose, rustling gown of what was either snakeskin or a very clever imitation of it. And her belt was silver, like the collar that Ryan remembered all too clearly from around the throat of Azrael. She wore shoes with totteringly high heels. The piled-up hair was of a shimmering blond color — obviously a wig. Marianne Mote was one of the finest bits of mutton dressed as lamb that Ryan had ever seen.

Her eyes had the flat, incurious dullness of a killer shark.

Norman turned to her and gave a slight bow, moving to face the congregation once more. "I must apologize to everyone here in the name of the Great Worm for the interruptions. Pray carry on introducing yourselves, outlanders."

"John Dix. Good t'be here."

"Jak Lauren. Same."

"Richard Neal Ginsberg. I'd like to say that I appreciate the kindness shown to me personally. Good to see strangers treated so well. Thank you."

"Lori Quint."

"Theophilus Algernon Tanner." Doc bowed deeply to everyone around him and glanced up at the people in the balconies. "I've been to a lot of places and have seen a lot of things, which is better than seeing a lot of places and being a lot of things. I guess." The old man shook his head disappointedly. "Not tuned in for my kind of humor. Well, let it pass. So it goes. I'll simply add my own gratitude to those of you who've been kind to us."

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.