Cross had gotten their contact to arrange a meeting with a Spectral Sword in Kraken's Echo, the capital city of Shattersea. The Spectral Sword had been told that it was a significant political marriage, unquestionably the Order's remit, and little else. Fog Rolled In had expected that at the appointed time the Spectral Sword would be at the very least somewhere nearby, but according to the Paragon there were only two ancestral swords in the city. They settled at a café table anyway. Only a few of the Spectral Swords' abilities were known in Draper; it was quite possible that one of them had something like the Sword of Riddle's ability to make shortcuts through space.
Fog Rolled In was looking down to take a drink of their tea when the Paragon bristled suddenly at their side. Across the table, in a third seat that hadn't been there before, sat a bespectacled elder in the iridescent black mantle of a Spectral Sword. Fog Rolled In had to force themself not to rise in alarm; Blackwell’s Hand was halfway out of their seat, apparently tensed to spring, when Fog Rolled In clamped a hand over their arm. "Stand down. We're here to plan a wedding."
"Don't touch me," Blackwell’s Hand spat, jerking their arm away. But they dropped back into their seat.
The next moment, their expression cleared and they looked toward the Spectral Sword, laying both hands on the table, palms up. "We do apologize for the extreme reaction. You must understand, we've both been at war for a very long time." The most words Fog Rolled In had ever heard them say together, and sounding far more as Fog Rolled In had imagined they would, smooth and composed.
The Spectral Sword's face was carefully blank as they took their hat by the crown and tipped it toward the Hands, some gesture of greeting, perhaps. Then they hung it on the pommel of the six-foot-long two-hander strapped across their back, its point resting sideways against the floor. "I suppose we should apologize too, for scaring you. Bold didn't say who was coming, so you can imagine our surprise when Blackwell and Draper showed up. We wanted to make sure of you before we came to say hello. This is Sword of Phantom."
Fog Rolled In inclined their head. Their hand still itched to grasp the Paragon's hilt. They thought that Phantom was putting on an accent, but it was hard to tell what it might be concealing. "I apologize for the reticence," they said. "One cannot be too careful."
"Hmm," said Phantom. "I guess so. So you two want to be married." Their voice was heavy with skepticism.
"Yes," said Fog Rolled In.
Phantom looked to the Hand of Blackwell, whose face tightened.
"Of course."
"I only ask because I can see it's not going to be a happy marriage, and I know better than most that there are other ways to save soldiers."
Blackwell's Hand smiled bitterly and murmured, "It isn't to save soldiers."
Phantom raised their eyebrows at Fog Rolled In, who was wondering what those other ways might be.
"We may have different reasons but the method is the same. We will be married, and I know the Order prefers to witness such things personally."
"You're pushy too," said Phantom disapprovingly. Too? "Always get your way, don't you? It's going to get you in trouble one day soon. We'll marry you, because we want to see the war done with as much as anyone." They glanced again at Blackwell's Hand, raised their eyebrows slightly as if in query. Blackwell's Hand looked away. "Bold said you wanted to do it during the transit of Volcan."
"Yes."
"Cute. Anything you need from us aside from be there when the time comes?"
"No. We will provide our own broadcast equipment."
"And witnesses?"
"You will be witness enough for anyone, surely."
Phantom rolled their eyes and stood, seating their hat back on their head. "We'll be on our way, then, and see you here tomorrow." They turned and left, long gray braid swinging behind them.
Fog Rolled In stood too and said, "Come. We have a fitting appointment to keep."
The Hand of Blackwell followed quietly, walking upright and careless for the benefit of Kraken's Echo. What had happened to them? What could have happened now that hadn't happened in six years at war?
The tailor, Cimorene Mnore, was polite but nervous, and Fog Rolled In was sure he had noted their ill-fitting clothing. "I do hope it is to your satisfaction, Sirs, your personal tailor was... very particular. I can't help but wonder why you didn't leave it to her."
"Unfortunately, she was unable to get here in time."
Mnore gave them a pained look. "As you say, Sir. If you would be so kind as to change?"
Fog Rolled In was given to understand that Fischer had sent not only concepts but patterns to Mnore's shop. She had more experience designing clothing for duellists, and besides that she had never trusted anyone else with Fog Rolled In's presentation.
And her designs were impressive. The jackets were both shot-silk that shined in Draper blue and Blackwell green, not incidentally the colors of Terror. Fog Rolled In's was beaded with shimmering white swirls of cloud, the traditional Draper iconography for weddings, and their trousers and gloves were a pristine, slightly iridescent white as well. The Hand of Blackwell's jacket had been so densely embroidered with what looked like magnetic field lines in thick black thread that the underlying color was nearly hidden. The rest of the outfit was Heaven black velvet with only the tiniest beads representing stars, and the Sun bright and golden on their chest just over their heart. Knowing Fischer, this was the result of extensive research into Blackwell's aristocratic wedding customs. The pairing also unavoidably recalled a marriage of Terror and Heaven. The way things had been, and would be again some day—in the unlikely event that the epigons were correct that it was even possible to build New Terror.
The two suits should have been impossible to produce on two weeks' notice, given the amount of embroidery and beadwork, but Fischer had access to Fog Rolled In's considerable funds and there was very little that could not be accomplished by effectively hiring the entire artisan population of a moon. They already fit quite well, which seemed to unnerve the Hand of Blackwell; they were staring at their reflection while Mnore worked on Fog Rolled In, unable to help standing straight and proud in Fischer's masterpiece but transfixed rather than pleased.
"I took the liberty of having Fischer get your measurements from your tailor," said Fog Rolled In, which was a diplomatic way of saying that Cross had hacked Blackwell's central information network to get at them.
Blackwell's Hand glanced at Fog Rolled In with a furrowed brow, their expression alive enough to show how much they wanted to ask whether their tailor actually knew they were getting married today. But they said nothing, and turned back to staring at their reflection as if it held some crucial but encrypted information.
Fog Rolled In turned away from them and asked Mnore whether Fischer had sent jewelry recommendations. They had a great many errands to run today.