"Just a moment, sir," one of the guards spoke up. "Is the lady in your party Ms. Calandra Mara Paquin?"
Beside me, Calandra tensed. Randon turned his head leisurely to look at us, turned just as leisurely back again. "Yes, I believe it is," he acknowledged coolly. "Why?"
"I regret to say, sir, that I can't allow her to enter." There was no regret anywhere in the guard's sense that I could detect. "Governor Rybakov's orders."
"On what grounds?" Randon asked.
"On the grounds that she is a convicted felon, sentenced to death, sir," he said stiffly, distaste at both her legal status and her Watcher background coming through his official decorum. "The governor does not wish to have such a potential danger within her house."
There really wasn't any hope of appeal, and Randon knew it as well as the rest of us. But he was too pridefully stubborn to give up quite that easily. "She was assigned to my ship," he told the guard. "Placed therefore under both my care and my legal jurisdiction. I'll take full responsibility for her actions and behavior here."
"I understand, sir. I still can't allow her to enter."
Randon locked eyes with the man for a long moment, then turned slowly back to us and nodded to Duge Ifversn, behind me in rearguard position. "Ifversn, escort her back to the ship," he instructed the other. For a moment his eyes met mine, and I could sense him bracing for an argument. But there was no point to it, and I remained silent. "Turn her over to Seqoya and then come back."
Ifversn nodded. "Ms. Paquin...?"
Calandra turned away, not looking at me, and went with him. I watched them get back into the car, then looked back to find Randon's eyes still on me... his eyes, and an almost grudging touch of sympathy. I took a deep breath and nodded to him. Turning, he strode without a word between the guards and into the mansion.
Inside, we found ourselves in a high-arched hallway stretching probably half the length of the building itself. A greeter waiting just inside welcomed us to the governor's home and directed us to an open pair of double doors down the hall, while a second pair of guards relieved Kutzko of his puff adder needler clips and gave him a single clip of slapshots in return. It was standard security practice—guards usually preferred visiting shields to carry only nonlethal ammunition—and Kutzko surrendered to it with professional good grace.
The buzz of conversation was audible well into the hall... and as we reached the double doors it became instantly clear that Governor Rybakov wasn't merely going through the motions on this one. There were at least two hundred people milling around the ballroom-sized space, two hundred rich and influential people, judging by their clothing and deportment and the watchfulness of the unobtrusive shields shadowing many of them. Out of a total planetary population of perhaps four hundred eighty thousand—only half of whom lived in the Cameo/Rainbow's End corridor—getting two hundred of the upper class together in one place was a rather impressive accomplishment.
Randon realized that, too. For a moment he just stood at the doorway, looking around as if committing the room and its occupants to memory. Then, straightening slightly, he led the way into the room.
And all two hundred people turned to look at us.
It was the sort of almost surrealistic scene you sometimes hear about but seldom actually see. The loose knots of people standing nearest to the door spotted us first, their conversations dropping off into silence and then tautly whispered comments as they realized who it was who had just arrived. The sudden quiet made those beyond them turn, many of them repeating the first groups' reactions; until, within the space of a dozen seconds, the wave of notice had rippled across the entire room.
Leaving a blanket of quiet tension behind it.
I'd expected it, of course. After Aikman's obvious anti-Watcher prejudices and HTI's more subtle version of the same antagonism, I hadn't expected open-armed greetings from anyone on Solitaire... which was perhaps why it took me several heartbeats more to realize that the cautious attention wasn't directed at me at all.
It was directed at Randon.
There was no doubt, once I finally picked up on the signs. For every subtle movement of a person's face or body there's an equally subtle reaction from those looking at him; and in this case all the reactions I could see were keyed to Randon's movements, not mine.
Vaguely, I wondered why Randon Kelsey-Ramos should make all these people nervous.
The awkward gap lasted no more than a few seconds before an elegantly dressed woman glided toward us from the side. "Mr. Kelsey-Ramos," she nodded, her voice rich with the overtones of a Portslavan native. "I am Governor Lyda Rybakov, the Patri's representative on Solitaire; I bid you welcome."
Randon nodded back. "Thank you, Governor Rybakov. May I present to you my aide, Mr. Gilead Raca Benedar."
Rybakov was definitely an experienced politician. Her nod to me was almost as polite as the one she'd given Randon. At least outwardly. "Welcome," she told me.
"Thank you," I murmured, nodding back.
Her eyes shifted back to Randon. "We're honored to have you here, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos," she continued. "The Carillon Group is well known throughout the Patri and colonies, and we of Solitaire system are looking forward to working with you."
"I'm equally honored to be working with you," Randon said smoothly, throwing a glance around the room to include all the others in that statement. "If you're as diligent at commerce as you are in throwing receptions, Carillon will be hard pressed to keep up with all of you."
A loose, slightly strained chuckle swept the room. Rybakov smiled, the same faint strain evident there, too, and reached out to touch Randon's arm. "Come; let me introduce you to some of the other important people of our world. People much more important than I."
With Kutzko and me trailing a step behind, she led him farther into the room; and as if that was a signal, the buzz of conversation began again. But not quite the same buzz as had been there before. The aura of tension that had taken over at our entrance still lay like bedrock beneath it.
The first group Rybakov led us to consisted of five people—three men and two women—waiting in a loose semicircle and trying hard to look relaxed. "Mr. Randon Kelsey-Ramos, Mr. Gilead Benedar," the governor said, "may I present Danel and Debra Comarow; Dr. Sergei Landau; and Nady and Lize Arritt."
"Pleased to meet you," Randon said as they all exchanged nods. "Let me see: NorTrans of Starlit, I believe?"
A ripple of quiet surprise ran through them... as it did through me. I hadn't placed the names, but I'd certainly heard of NorTrans: one of the biggest corporations in the Patri and colonies, almost certainly the biggest with a license to operate in and out of Solitaire.
In other words, we'd found the leaders of the system's business community first crack out of the box. Glancing at Governor Rybakov, I saw it hadn't been mere chance.
"I'm impressed, Mr. Kelsey-Ramos," Landau said, and I could see the comment went for all of them. "I've always thought that I, at least, was too deeply buried in the NorTrans structure for even those inside the company to recognize my name."
Randon smiled. "Hardly, sir," he said. "Besides, my father has made something of a hobby of knowing exactly who the major business interests and people are on Solitaire. Some of that was bound to leak down to me."
It was the wrong thing to say. I couldn't tell why, but that much was instantly clear. Almost in unison the tension among the five of them shot up, and the groups nearest us again paused in their own conversations to listen in. "Well, we're certainly honored by your father's interest in us," Comarow said, his voice controlled but with a predator's caution beneath it. "Though speaking for myself, I'm always a bit nervous when someone knows more about me than I do about him."