[Log] Precedent Can Be a Very Dangerous Thing
Who: E'sere, G'thon
When: Day 22, Month 4, Turn 2, 7th Pass
Where: Senior's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
What: E'sere stops by to see G'thon, and the pair have an interesting conversation.
North Weyr
This is the sanctuary of High Reaches' senior Weyrwoman. It's been decorated in shades of blue and green with the occasional splash of sunny yellow for contrast. As with the Weyrleader's weyr, it's divided into sections according to work, leisure and rest. The desk and scroll-shelves take up a corner of the weyr with the sitting area in the opposite corner, brightened with hand-woven rugs done in a square key pattern. The bed is small but filled with soft quilts and sheeting.
To the right is the archway that leads out onto the ledge occupied by the Weyr's senior gold. It's large enough for her and for a number of slightly smaller visitors. Directly opposite the entrance tunnel is a smaller tunnel hidden behind a thick curtain. The air is warmer around that curtain, hinting at the tunnel's destination.
Contents:
G'thon
Obvious Exits:
Northern Sky (NS) Hatching Sands (HS) Out (O)
G'thon has, since Hirth died, become if anything milder-mannered than he was before. This is a matter of some wonder among those who admired the then-Weyrleader's always moderate and thoughtful approaches to dissent or challenge; it may even be a matter of some wonder (or dismay) among those who have found the man to be too retreating that his demeanor has held up so well. So it is that the old man is, when encountered alone in the Weyrwoman's weyr, a strange center of calm surrounded by the tension of a brewing storm. Nothing here is out of place except he himself. Inkwell, hides and stylus await with prim dedication upon the writing-desk; pillows are lush but tidy upon the inviting sofa Yevide favors while a single cushion softens a stiff high-backed chair more to her lover's tastes. But Yevide herself is absent, as is her Weyrleader, and G'thon stands by a side-table making the only noise the leaders' weyrs at the moment know: the soft 'tink tink tink' of a careless spoon in a ceramic cup. Something dusky underlies the strong spice of Igenite tea: pipe-smoke, a lingering and invisible tendril teasing the hairs in one's nose.
Scent and sights assail E'sere's senses at once as he steps from ledge to weyr, eyes scanning the rearranges room while a frown settles in place at his mouth. The room is familiar no longer, changed by its new inhabit, and not in any way that seems to please the wingleader. Still, quieting his features into expressionlessness before he makes his presence known with a light rap on the stone wall, E'sere stands still, reining his attention to the man at the changes' center: G'thon.
Tink tink tink. G'thon lifts the tiny spoon out of the cup and sets it aside on the saucer, then lifts the fresh-prepared tea, leaving the saucer behind. Stag as it were in the weyrwoman's weyr, his manners are his own. He cradles the cup in one long pale palm and turns around from the tray, and only then upon sighting E'sere realizes the sound of knuckles on stone for what it was and not some settling of furniture or breeze. "Wingleader," manages the old man after a moment's bright-eyed, brow-raised startle. He is not quite as swift as he should be to do it, but after that brief and telling hesitation he gestures toward the sitting area, a silent invitation. One brow crooks higher yet, sending creases up the length of his forehead. "So good to see you." Just as if he assumes it were he, some retired dragonless man, and not the weyrwoman that lives here the bronzerider has come to see.
"Sir." E'sere's traditional greeting is, perhaps, not as warm--not as deferential--as it once was, but, at least in the man's presence, he hasn't yet resorted to simple name, honorific or otherwise. Despite the invitation, he lingers, standing, by the doorway. "And you," he returns after a second--a pause to equal G'thon's. "How are you? I... had hoped you were in. Are you busy now?" The teacup is studied then, rather than the man holding it, though after that brief regard E'sere glances back to the man's face.
"I am - " G'thon looks down at the cup in his hand, mirroring the wingleader's gesture a moment late. Then he looks back up and his brows settle. "- left behind." His smile arrives, crooked and one-sided. "It's a good time. Would you like a cup?" He turns his other hand around and takes up the cup by its fine little handle between thumb and forefingers, then raises it in a gesture: join me, a toast. To tea, to impotency of power.
"So you are," E'sere agrees idly, giving the redecorated weyr another long look before his gaze finds the man opposite again. "Ah. Please," he answers the question, nodding once, simply. "I'm glad to see you're well, sir. It's... different here now, isn't it? The layout, I mean. It will always seem strange, I suppose, picturing someone other than Mother here," he offers idle musings while awaiting the drink.
G'thon is glad enough, it seems, of the opportunity to turn away from his guest and avoid eye contact for a while so as to repeat in part the ritual of tea. "It is. It's different in ways I had never imagined. Lexine kept it more - well, I didn't spend much time here when she was Weyrwoman." He pauses the tea-business to look into an unseeable distance; this may be apparent even from one-quarter profile. The smile is gone. "I visited her, by happenstance, a few days ago. Almost a seven now, I guess. How time flies. I brought her some tea." Very social of him. The old man turns around with two cups now; his own proper in its saucer, and a fresh one also ensaucered for E'sere. As the earlier, silent offer went unremarked and unacted upon, he iterates while crossing over to hold out the tea: "Would you like a seat?"
"I'm sure she appreciated that--the tea and your visit," E'sere remarks, nodding once more as he steps forward to accept the tea and to seat himself at last. "I've not had the opportunity to do so myself, what with my duties, you understand. What news from Telgar?"
"Duties and abbreviated moves cross-continent?" G'thon manages a wan smile for the other man. "I would that I could say I had a hand in that, E'sere." He shakes his head with mild rue and walks the long way around to pull up an extra chair from a little farther across the sitting area; neither man, apparently, is going to be using Yevide's sofa. "From Telgar. S'lien's himself. I went on J'cor's business and S'lien demanded I send him in the flesh." If this is an extremely digested version of the story the old man makes no hint of it; he just lets go of a little sad shrug, as if to say 'there is no hope for the likes of your cousin,' and sinks into his seat.
E'sere brushes off G'thon's latter words with a shrug, taking a small sip of his tea. "Well, you tried, at least, to undo it." A slight hesitation before the final word hints at a hasty rethinking of that single syllable. "That... That is S'lien, though," adds the wingleader, a wry smile twisting at his lips. "He'd not deign to consort with a messenger, even you. Unfortunate." Pause. Abruptly: "Mother won't be returning, will she?" he surmises.
"He barely deigns to consort with Weyrleaders," observes G'thon with what could only be considered the least of all possible notes of humor; by and large the statement is frankly meant. He lifts his cup from the saucer to a place just below his chin, dips his head and blows across the liquid's surface. "I think not," he says to the tea, not to his visitor, after that, and his brows descend slightly. "Not unless the wind were to change a great deal and - I really have nothing to say about the wind that might please her. How she suffers him I do not know."
E'sere nods slowly, drink resting forgotten against his knees as he focuses his study on G'thon. "I thought not," he echoes the man's words. "When after the flight.... Telgar must suit her better now." Or S'lien--E'sere's expression mimics some of the feeling behind the former bronzerider's. After a moment, he releases a breath and shrugs, noting, "If she's happy--that's all I could ask for. I'm sure it's much more relaxing at this point for her to be away from High Reaches. She can enjoy her retirement now."
"I'm not sure she's happy, precisely," returns G'thon through a wry bit of a smile, daring a glance up from his tea to gauge the other man's reaction before tipping up the cup for a sip. It provides also an excuse to close his eyes a moment, which he does. After, he sighs and adds, "She does, however, seem relaxed. So happy might not be too far around the corner, I'd hope. I wish I had more news for you, E'sere." He lowers the cup to the saucer; raises his gaze to the man. "And how fare you, aside from still Reachian, and that to our credit?"
"I should go see her," decides E'sere after a moment, thoughtfully. "I'll make time for that in the next couple of days; I'm sure she'd like to see me again. Myself, though? Ah. I fare well." He lifts his own drink again, taking a small sip of the cooling liquid within, before continuing, "I'm relieved, really, to be here still--and with my wing at that. I wondered, briefly, if Weyrleader Igen would see the light concerning it; he wanted to take it from me when I returned from my brief sojourn in Igen." His use of the mocking title is deliberate, probably intended to goad.
"I believe G'mal considered you to be a potentially very great benefit to his - " Oh. E'sere does not, then, mean Igen's Weyrleader. This realization comes to G'thon a moment too late, and he stops midway through his defense of the distant man's reasoning to allow a wry, lopsided smile for his gaffe. "I believe J'cor is smarter than that," he says after a moment, but no amount of crooked little grins will allow those words to sound like G'thon entirely feels this is a good thing. He looks back down at his tea, breaking effort at eye contact, allowing a certain small silence to stretch out. It is, for him at least, apparently uncomfortable.
"You'd know him better than I," agrees E'sere with an easy nod. "Perhaps I've simply the wrong measure of him. We've had little enough contact not of a strictly business nature." G'thon's blunder receives no comment, the wingleader passing it off with an indulgent smile and another slow sip of tea. He, at least, seems unbothered, unaffected by whatever troubles the other man's silence. "Your tea is excellent, as ever," he finally remarks, empty words to fill that silence.
The old man simply inclines his head; he -has- after all had more contact with J'cor, as the man's messenger. The compliment to the tea should be a relief, a welcome conversational gambit, but all G'thon can manage is a mild, wan smile look upward. "It's Igenite." Yes, that was probably evident. So for a moment he's silent again, lips pressed thin. Then he lowers the cup to the saucer and the saucer to his lap and leans forward a little, one elbow on the arm of the chair. "E'sere." His voice slightly softer. "Did you come here to see me? I could be entertaining you for some time before Yevide returns."
E'sere nods slowly in response to G'thon's words. "I though so; it reminds me of what the Weyrleader G'mal offered us that evening," he nods--apparently 'that evening' is distinct enough to warrant no further description. Raising his cup to his lips again, he lowers it before it ever has a chance to reach them, studying the cool tea remaining there. Finally: "I've no business with the Weyrwoman Yevide, no."
"J'cor, then." But G'thon offers this only as a formality; it is rhetorical, with a grim set of one of his more poorly made smiles, and he speaks only a moment afterward. One hand overturns to dismiss the very idea; surely E'sere would have gone searching elsewhere were it the Weyrleader he intended to find. Such is the strange of High Reaches, right now. "Is there something... you came to tell me, E'sere?"
In answer, E'sere has only a wry shake of his head, gaze sliding downward from G'thon to the tea he still holds, with no further inclination to drink it. "I... No, there's not," he finally answers the latter question. "I only thought to... I don't know. I felt like I should just stop by for a few minutes. If you've other business to attend to...?"
"I haven't." G'thon does push himself up out of the chair, though, gathering his tea in one ready palm, and walk with it over to the tray. "I wondered if you'd thought more about Nabol, or about your wing, or - I don't know. Any of it." That is a very broad topic, really, broader than the brooding and precise old man is wont to offer out. Knowing it, he frowns down at the tea service, then lets out a little sigh and sets his cup down on the tray. He puts his back to the table and leans into it a little, crossing his arms over his chest in a gesture more like wanting warmth than closing body language. "These are strange times," he says at last with a little wry twist, as if he somehow had expected them to be otherwise.
E'sere doesn't seem surprised to find G'thon has no more pressing matter, his expression not changing. Instead, he concedes, "They are. As for... Nabol--" he decides on that particular subject after a brief pause "--I... I have done what I can for them. Though I'd gladly do so again, if I could, we simply cannot. With Fort's decline..." He frowns, shakes his head. "My cousin Odern is a fool," the wingleader concludes after a moment. "If he is not willing to work with the Weyr, there is little the Weyr can do for him now, however much it, and I, desires to help."
"Fort surprises me," says G'thon, of a sudden, and shrugs again. This one is not dismissive; it is more like shaking off an unexpected chill. "The advantage was to them to accept Odern's maneuver, folly or otherwise. I had not expected M'lik to be uncertain enough of his capacity to persuade council that they would, in the end, decline." A shake of his head, another little sigh. There is a lot of hopeless 'what can you do' about the man today. "I believe J'cor will have the men cover the roads and borders. Perhaps - because you have made it obvious that it should be done - the shelters as well. But Nabol was a cropland - " And that, quite clearly, will be lost.
"M'lik is a good man," observes E'sere. "Perhaps he has some regard for our traditions, and the fact that Nabol belongs to the Reaches, whatever my cousin might wish." With that relationship now in the open, E'sere persists in referring to Odern by their tie. "But, true. What would the Council care, if Nabol chooses to defect from us? I've heard few enough qualms from them over recent events to believe they would begin protesting /now/."
"Yes. For traditions." G'thon does not seem particularly happy with this observation. He uncrosses his arms, turns about and takes up his tea from the tray. Then he puts it back down. Perhaps it's cold; perhaps he's lost his taste for Igenite spice. Whatever; he turns again and starts back for the chair, sliding a sidelon glance at E'sere as he goes. "Ah, they might. M'arik would, I think, not care so much about Nabol precisely as about the precedent it would set. To allow a Hold to simply up and move to their neighbor's coverage..." He sinks into the chair, facing E'sere again with a grim gaze indeed. "I can only imagine the trouble there'd be."
"I think," remarks E'sere easily, "it would create a call for more accountability from Weyrleaders, if they knew they must please their constituents or jeopardize the entirety of their tithes. Not, necessarily, a bad thing, but one which some would not be fond care to see, still. Precedent can be a very dangerous thing indeed." His own tea is by this point quite unappetizingly cold; after a brief glance to the cup and sauncer, E'sere leans forward to set them by his feet, not returning them to their tray presently.
A murmur in the back of G'thon's throat never seems likely to make it out in the form of words, and for a time he merely nods thoughtfully. His gaze is stuck upon E'sere's face, attentive to the speaker, but it seems unlikely that he's aware of the other man's features. For a short time, the man who was Weyrleader is a long way away. His return is sudden, punctuated by a flicker upward of pale brow. "You know, I believe I agree with you, E'sere. But I can't think that allowing Odern to just turn his tithe trains down the road the opposite direction is the way to allow Holds such power of choice. Some sort of formal request with appropriate followup; a presentation at council, perhaps. Still - " The other brow goes up too, now, and a slim pale hand finds its way to the arm of the chair to run out a silent drumroll of fingertips there.
"Still," E'sere repeats the other man's final word, nodding once, simply. He folds his hands neatly in his lap. "What would you propose, then? Sir?" A pause. He adds then, "It seems to me, though, that on occasions those more... proper channels are all too easily ignored by those who wish to do so anyway. A slap on a child's wrist, as it were: easily forgotten and ignored. Diplomacy is the vehicle of the reasonable, and I see fewer of those every day."
G'thon smiles that one-sided, dry smile. It almost reaches his eyes. "I can't say I've given it enough thought to say I have a 'proposal' in hand, E'sere. But I like the idea of a power exchange that offers control at the level of the power's foundation." -There- it is, that lately-elusive sparkle. The old man raises his hands from the arms of the chair and folds them in the before his midriff, elbows propped on the chair-arms still. "What would -you- propose? You are - wingleader - in perhaps a better position to make such suggestion than I."
"To whom, sir?" E'sere replies wryly, with a smirk half-amused at the suggestion. "Your good Weyrleader?" Not his. "The Council I have no part in? A word to my cousin at Telgar, perhaps? I've little enough influence on those who matter, as ever, /sir/. Your Weyrleader keeps--if not his own counsel--then at least not mine, were I even so inclined to offer it." E'sere, with a tight smile, shakes his head slowly. "On a personal level, I've nothing against him. In business matters, however, I am afraid we will never be able to see eye-to-eye."
Here is betrayal, however tiny: at the second use of 'your Weyrleader,' G'thon's nose wrinkles the slightest bit. But all he has to say is, softly, "I see." And he spends a little while doing little else, apparently, just looking across at the other bronzerider. "I do not like to think of social structure as a business," he says after that time, and his tone is museful, almost academic. "But I suppose it is the nature of politics to do so."
E'sere, observant, picks up on that snurl of G'thon's nose, though his expression is carefully schooled not to give away such information. Instead, he simply inclines his head toward the man, acknowledgement of his latter words. "It is our job--our duty," the younger man notes. "And what else /is/ business? It is not, at least, an onerous burden--to me, at any rate. High Reaches is my home."
"I would argue that politics is -not- our duty. Nor is it our business, when we are best used." G'thon is, for a strange moment, very solemn. Then, abruptly, he unlaces his fingers and shakes off the whole idea of what he's said with a wave of one hand. His head bends a little and he closes his eyes for a moment. "I'm just using up your time, Wingleader. There must be better purposes for it than listening to me talk as if I'm tutoring one of Sefton's students."
"What, then," begins E'sere, lifting a hand in staying motion as G'thon makes as though to usher him out, "would you consider it, sir? A hobby, a way to pass your days when one's true duty is unfulfillable?" Apparently, the question is rhetorical in nature, or he cares little for what response he might receive, for the young wingleader bends to gather up tea and saucer and rise in one smooth motion, stepping over to the tray to deposit the hardly-touched drink there.
"Yes," and G'thon is perhaps a little snappish here. "I would." Eyes open again, he watches attentively the younger man's movements, but says nothing else.
In return for those short words, E'sere has only a bland smile, turning from the tray to regard G'thon once more. "Good night, sir," he offers evenly in parting, nodding once toward the elder man as he turns to exit.
A farewell softens the most awkward of moments; it promises an ending to discomfort. G'thon inclines his head once and rises from his chair, only to incline it again. As gracious as he has ever been, he replies smoothly, even humbly. "Good evening, Wingleader. Thank you for coming by."