“If we would walk that way, then we would have no need of talcum powder,” Doc muttered, as runic as ever.
“Looks to me like he’s carrying a raisin between the cheeks of his ass for charity,” Mildred riposted, making herself and Doc break out into muffled laughter.
Eduardo appeared not to hear them, shimmering along with immense dignity, reminding Ryan of a full-rigged galleon beating against the wind.
“Here we are.” They reached a long table at the center of the room. Ryan quickly counted twelve seats down each side, with one at the head and one more at the bottom. “Three of you on each side. It would be agreeable if the ladies could be split on either side. And you, Mr. Cawdor, here, close to the head. Captain Huston had expressly asked for you to be positioned near to him.”
“Mighty kind of him. How’s he know me?”
Eduardo gave him a brief, wintry smile. “The ways of the captain of the Golden Eagle are mysteriously his own, Mr. Cawdor. It is not for a lowly creature like myself to question him on that sort of matter. I might find myself being towed behind the Eagle over the shoals at the end of a knotted rope. Pray take your seats, and a waiter will soon be with you to determine your presupper drink requirements.”
Krysty sat next to Ryan, with Jak next to her. J.B., Mildred and Doc Tanner picked the three seats opposite, leaving empty seats near the head and bottom of the long, polished table.
“First ones here, lover,” she whispered.
“Mebbe means we can be the first ones to leave. I can’t say I like formal occasions like this.”
“When did you go to formal meals?” Jak asked.
“With Trader. Some of the time, not all of the time. When we had important meals with powerful barons. Never liked them. Least we don’t have a death threat here like we often did. Look at all these forks, knives and spoons. Never knew which are the proper ones to use.”
“Begin at the outside and work your way inward,” Doc offered, overhearing Ryan’s worry. “And watch what other people are doing.”
A tall, saturnine waiter appeared silently at Doc’s elbow. “Would any of you care for a drink while waiting for your host to join you?”
“That would be splendid. Most awfully kind. What can you offer us, my good man?”
“Most guests will take a glass of French champagne.”
Doc nodded. “That sounds admirable.”
He looked around at the others. “Six glasses of bubbly? Yes?”
“Champagne all around, if you please.”
The other guests were arriving, filling the remaining seats, introducing themselves to Ryan and his companions. All of them showed every evidence of wealth, power and position.
The seat at the bottom end of the table, opposite the empty captain’s chair, was taken by a red-faced elderly man in a black evening suit and white bow tie, pulled so tight it seemed close to strangling him. He introduced himself as Colonel Willoughby De Vere, who owned several thousand acres of best bluegrass country near Bowling Green, in the old state of Kentucky, where he bred racehorses.
He was traveling with his neurasthenic daughters, both in their late thirties. The colonel explained that their family doctor had urged them to take a vacation and get some fresh air. The pale-faced, pinched women sat silently, gazes fixed to the table, taking only a small glass of mineral water each. Their father asked for a mixture of brandy and champagne.
Two more guests were a husband and wife from Oregon, Baron Edgar Hooren and his wife, Deborah. They were in their late fifties and formally dressed, looking askance at the casual attire of Ryan and his party, though the baron was intrigued by the esoteric mix of blasters that they carried.
Ryan glanced at his wrist chron, seeing that it was ten minutes after seven. The only vacant seats were now the captain’s at the head of the table, and the ones on either side.
Eduardo came and asked if anyone wished for more refreshment, explaining that Captain Huston sent his apologies for his late arrival. “He sees over our mooring for night.”