[Log] Punchline
Who: R'vain, Sakher
When: Day 5, Month 8, Turn 3, 7th Pass
Where: R'vain and Ruvoth's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
What: Sakher spends four days reconnoitering the situation at Nabol, then goes to see R'vain. They talk semi-candidly over fine Nabolian cider.
Notes: Backdated.
Things are not good, generally speaking, at High Reaches Weyr. In a few days the Weyrleader and the wings will have to turn out at Sattle and keep Threadfall at bay; by then, go the rumors, there's going to /have/ to be something officially said about what's up at Five Mines. /Something,/ if normalcy is expected. Something.
So today, like yesterday and most probably like tomorrow too, the Weyrleader has been all but sequestered in his weyr. He has taken a couple of visitors. He has made a couple of trips. The presence of Ruvoth on his ledge and no other dragons with him is some assurance, not entire, that the red man currently works alone. By 'work,' it is meant that he seems to be writing a letter. A few hides set aside beneath a rubber suggest prior, failed attempts at this letter. The doors are thrown open, the drape to the ledge pulled wide, and crisp mountain air flows through-- welcome relief to stale breath and congested thoughts.
In the few days since the initial incident, Sakher has been less visible than usual, and more prone to pulling people aside for quieter chats than his usual flippant discussions of parties and plans. Now, finally, he has gathered his information and a small bottle to himself--one should never visit in such trying times without a gift in return--and now he makes his way to R'vain's weyr, after sending a messenger ahead that he intends to visit later. It's only polite, after all. The Nabol Lord's cousin arrives in the afternoon, knocking lightly as he pauses in the doorway for some recognition on the part of R'vain. "Weyrleader?" he queries lightly, with a small smile.
'Later' is inspecific enough to garner a host who's in the middle of writing Draft 18 of a letter when one arrives. R'vain allows himself the cranky luxury of finishing a sentence before looking up, expression dark if not entirely shocked. He was warned, of course. "Sakher," rumbles the big man, then looks down at the letter he's just added to. "C'mon in, siddown." The corner of his wide mouth twitches and his upper lip tries to curl, but R'vain apparently is close enough to approving of the text thus far to allow it to survive. He sets letter and quill aside in the letterbox, then upends the pile of rejects and remover unceremoniously into a withdrawn drawer of the desk. Finally he shoves himself upright and starts into the part of the weyr meant for seating, for taking guests. "Getcha something?" Bottle? Invisible.
"No, sir, that's not necessary," Sakher demurs as he moves inside with a nod toward the elder man. He steps closer to offer the bottle, noting, "I have brought my own refreshments--Nabolian cider, if you're familiar with it? One of our better vintages, a cut above most of what has been tithed to you, I will admit. Are you busy, Weyrleader? I hope I'm not intruding upon a very busy time for you?" There's little hiding that Sakher's usual curiosity is drifting a little more toward nosiness today, in the keener way he glances around, over R'vain, the weyr, and the clutter of work the man is working on.
R'vain's mouth tenses, but after a moment's lurkful pause with a huge paw splayed over the back of an armchair, he comes over to acquire from Sakher the bottle he's brought. "No expert on cider. Ain't t'your Lord's benefit f'you t'tell me it's fairer than th'tithe." This he points out with a flash of a grin; if Sakher's being nosy, the opportunity for the Weyrleader to be blunt is enough to make up for it. He stalks away to collect glasses. "Ain't as busy as I'd like t'be. You ain't any exceptional intrusion."
"Nabol has always tithed satisfactory goods to the Weyr, unless you find the quality not to your taste, Weyrleader," Sakher notes as he hands over the bottle, with a large smile. "If that should be the case, we would be more than willing to show you our better stores, at perhaps even a discounted price for the services you have wrought for us with your riders." A very generous offer, for the Nabolese, to be sure. The young man moves to seat himself, his gift delivered again. "Am I not?" he can then query. "I apologize: next time I will try to be more so--exceptional, that is. But I imagine you have met with more exceptional guests than myself of late; one young and distant cousin of Lord Nabol is likely to be quite run-of-the-mill, if I do say so myself." His brows arch slightly, as though he expects confirmation of that fact--or maybe the latter: of R'vain's recent meetings.
Generous for sure, though as R'vain will ask with head turned so he can flash again all those many teeth at the Nabolese fop, "That your offer t'make?" Two glasses, half-height, come out and up onto the desk; the Weyrleader opens the cider and pours twice, then returns to the seating arena with the drinks. "Don't be put out," he notes, still too much like grinning and not enough like apologizing, as he bends to offer one glass to Sakher. "One young and distant blah blah attending Caucus, y'mean," he adds upon straightening, emphasis on /Caucus/ as if it should be Sakher's claim to pride, and retreats into a chair of his own.
"Likely not, but it would be more impolite for the offer to be retracted," Sakher admits honestly, amused at the notion. "I should earn myself a stern look, but I am quite irrepressible in the face of those. And--yes, you've a point, of course, Weyrleader. I am attending Caucus. But so are many others, with closer claims to the Bloodline than I now can boast--though, please, do not think I am complaining. My once-dear elder brother, my former Lord Odern...." It's a rather pointed trailing-off, on Sakher's part: though he busies his hands with accepting the cider and lifting it to his lips for a small sip, his attention is on R'vain still, a little bit past polite attentiveness still.
"So many others at Caucus, conveniently close t'th'Weyrleader for a friendly chat? Not really." R'vain's suspicion is clear, expressed with a curling-back of his upper lip, a display of teeth that's not at all grinning in its demeanor. He steadies his mouth after a moment, lapping his lips, and tips up a sip of the cider. "Still not an expert," he remarks almost immediately-- he can have hardly tasted it-- "But it ain't at all bad." His broad shoulders flick up and roll back into place. "So."
Sakher, sipping his own glass again slowly, nods absently in answer to R'vain's remarks. "It is the study of a lifetime: good wines and ciders. I am no expert myself." Pause. "So," he agrees, lips pursing briefly. He leans forward after a moment, rustling in his chair as he slides both hands around the glass he holds in front of him. "I apologize, Weyrleader, if I am over-blunt, but I did have a question I thought I might bring up the next time I saw you." As though this meeting had been just a casual get-together all along. "The Weyr is suddenly brimming with talk of my brother the former Lord Odern, of his... residence at Five Mines... I of course take a great deal of interest in the words which concern my home, and my curiousity was understandably aroused by such gossip."
As if. R'vain entertains, by the twitch of upper lip and narrowness of green eyes, no possibility of innocence in their 'casual' get-together for cider and talk. "Understandably," he rumbles after Sakher's been the first to claim that word applies. "Not t'correct you or anything, but s'far as I know pretty much all Pern's talking about y'brother's residence," not the man himself, then? "just now. And you're curious." About?
"I've not had that contact with the rest of Pern," Sakher notes apologetically. "I am not so easily traveled as you, Weyrleader. But I am, or like to believe I am, an expert on gossip that I hear, and the fact I have heard so much in recent days makes one wonder what has spurred such reaction. Some come to ask me what my brother does; some stop talking to stare or--worse--not look at me at all when I enter a room. It is all very disconcerting, you see, sir, and I cannot help but feel that my home has become the butt of some joke I am not privy to." All very earnest, as he watches R'vain still with wide dark eyes.
"Your home ain't any joke t'me," replies the Weyrleader in a growl. "Nor do I think it's any joke t'Lord Nabol." R'vain sinks deeper into his seat, knees wide, arms going up on the arms of the chair. The cider-glass hangs a little bit tipped-- not enough to spill, barely-- in one lazy paw, but the other hand curls taut over the end of the upholstered surface. "May be that people ain't sure what t'say 'round you that won't offend, y'know. Y'got family at Five Mines." /Duh./
Sakher answers seriously, "Nor do I, Weyrleader. We both understand the seriousness of what happens there, what has happened there--in ways the general populace cannot comprehend. If it is any comfort, I am not so jingoistic as to dismiss out of hand an actual discussion about my home. I have family there, yes, and other acquaintances, but no man should be so blind as to consider that reason enough to support them."
"You want t'have a discussion," R'vain replies, sinking deeper-- his posture now may be described as a slouch-- "Y'welcome t'start. I ain't keen on saying anything t'offend you m'self, y'know." A pause, and a grin more game and sly than it probably should be suggests that there may be something under the suspicious surface more than just additional suspicion; it is an offering, anyway, from a man's man to-- whatever Sakher seems. "'Bout your /home/ anyway; no guarantees on anything else."
"You would not, sir," Sakher notes easily, though he seems pleased enough to lean back, to lift his glass to his lips again. "So, we will discuss. You may be frank with me, if you like: I am thicker-skinned than I look. Now, what has been... oh! I know something I had wondered about. The dragons keened the other day, but not in 'Fall; I was quite perplexed with it. And it seemed the beginning of the chatter I've heard, too, so perhaps it is an appropriate place for us to begin?"
R'vain snorts grinningly at Sakher's assurances of thick skin. The rest he receives with somewhat greater solemnity, even frowning by the end of the 'question.' "Dragons howled 'cause they knew some of th'own went between th'last time," the Weyrleader explains, a little tediously. "Weren't Reaches' dragons, per se. That's th'thing."
"No?" queries Sakher, his head tilting slightly. "I assumed the former; the latter rather confused me. Whose dragons were they, then, sir?"
"Nenuith's," comes back R'vain after only a beat; in that beat, only the narrowness of his eyes and their focus so fixed upon Sakher betrays any thought about how he might reply. "Y'know, Diya's queen's."
"I know the Weyrwoman Diya," says Sakher, with a slow and thoughtful nod. "Or have seen her. Gossip puts her on the western islands of late; she has returned, then. And with her... She hatched a clutch, did she not?" He speaks hesitatingly, as if he were only just working all this out for himself now. "And now they have come with her to my brother's home--and how many others, Weyrleader?" He taps his lips thoughtfully with a finger, though the question's mostly rhetorical. "So that is the joke. But we are not laughing, are we, Weyrleader?"
"There would've been a clutch, yeah. Th'bronzes heard her when she flew." There are little muscles beneath R'vain's eyes that twitch here, and the eyes themselves focus somewhere beyond Sakher's shoulder instead of on the man himself, now. "Six dragons and their riders, at least, died when they came across. Young ones. Hers. So no, I ain't laughing, sir. If it's a joke I ain't yet heard th'punchline."
"Did they," says Sakher. No inflection of a question this time. "Myself, neither. What shall we do about it, then, sir? Now that they have imposed themselves on the good nature of my brother--they take advantage of him. he would not do this on his own, I assure you: my brother is not like that. He was one of the strongest in favor of sending them away the first time; and he would not change his mind, would not call them back to him."
"Well, he's got his chance t'explain himself t'Lord Nabol," replies R'vain. "And t'Conclave, probably, if that don't work. But between you and me-- " The Weyrleader frowns more deeply, ruddy brows drawn low over slit-narrow eyes that refocus keenly upon the Nabolese noble. An unseemly length of silence happens, enough to draw doubt as to whether R'vain will in fact confide whatever 'between' he had introduced. "Look. Your brother's invited all kinds of rubbish and rabble there. I wouldn't make any assumptions."
Sakher's brows furrow intently then, and he scoots back forward. "All Nabol is rabble now," he replies, a hint of bitterness in his voice. "Too many people are still unable to rise above the baseness to which we were reduced, and it makes worse of them than they truly are. But that aside, my brother--I know him better than anyone else knows him. These Instigators, these exiles--no man on Pern would call them forth from their islands. They've murderers among them; the Weyr has sent its own to join them only this last turn: E'sere and the girl, the one who helped him. You will send them away, make them leave my brother in peace?" Pause. "Without them egging him on, manipulating and abusing him, I am sure that my cousin Lord Sorel should have a much easier time reasoning with my eldest brother."
"Lord Sorel's got t'have his shot at it before Conclave's goin' t'step in," R'vain replies, turning almost bland in his recitation of presumable facts-- again, tedious. "And Conclave's goin' t'have theirs before th'Weyrs do. But I've put our services at Sorel's hands, and if protecting your brother from his houseguests comes t'be our task, we'll find a way t'do it." The Weyrleader's shoulders lift and fall in a slow roll, and he slumps incrementally deeper-- somehow-- in his chair, uprighting the glass of cider as it comes into his lowering field of vision. "You think you can coax y'brother t'say something on his behalf, y'might want t'think about sending a letter now. I don't know what else I can tell you."
Sakher's brows furrow intently then, and he scoots back forward. "All Nabol is rabble now," he replies, a hint of bitterness in his voice. "Too many people are still unable to rise above the baseness to which we were reduced, and it makes worse of them than they truly are. But that aside, my brother--I know him better than anyone else knows him. These Instigators, these exiles--no man on Pern would call them forth from their islands. They've murderers among them; the Weyr has sent its own to join them only this last turn: E'sere and the girl, the one who helped him. You will send them away, make them leave my brother in peace?" Pause. "Without them egging him on, manipulating and abusing him, I am sure that my cousin Lord Sorel should have a much easier time reasoning with my eldest brother."
"Lord Sorel's got t'have his shot at it before Conclave's goin' t'step in," R'vain replies, turning almost bland in his recitation of presumable facts-- again, tedious. "And Conclave's goin' t'have theirs before th'Weyrs do. But I've put our services at Sorel's hands, and if protecting your brother from his houseguests comes t'be our task, we'll find a way t'do it." The Weyrleader's shoulders lift and fall in a slow roll, and he slumps incrementally deeper-- somehow-- in his chair, uprighting the glass of cider as it comes into his lowering field of vision. "You think you can coax y'brother t'say something on his behalf, y'might want t'think about sending a letter now. I don't know what else I can tell you."
"You have spoken to my cousin Lord Sorel, then," assumes Sakher, worrying his lower lip absently. "I do hope you will do so--protect my brother. He is, whatever his follies, my brother forever, and I do not wish harm on him: only reason." He releases a breath, then straightens slightly, sitting more upright in his chair. "I will draft a letter, then, to my brother and plead with him--I may ask my other brothers to do likewise, and hope that the volume of our cries moves him to proper action, if it suits you, Weyrleader?"
"We have," R'vain agrees, first off. He is quiet then, allowing Sakher to speak, to reply, to speak on; then he's quiet a little longer, staring frowningly across at the other man. He swallows, then shoves himself upright, clearing his throat with a low growling glurky sound. "If... y'think that's wise. We don't want t'encourage Odern-- or anyone-- t'take any unnecessary risks. If Diya has-- all of /them/ with her, they're dangerous. Most of all he needs t'send some kind of word t'Sorel or at least t'Conclave, something t'let th'Holds know what he's /doing/ in there."
"Then that is what I will tell him, with your leave, sir," Sakher says firmly. "It is the very least I can do, for my brother, for my cousin, and for you, Weyrleader. I have a great debt to all for where I am today, and this is certainly the least I can do to repay it: to do everything in my power to ensure that Nabol does not see any sort of--disgrace to rival recent ones, to protect our people and our reputation. You have no further plan than that, Weyrleader, to have my brother to speak with my cousin Lord Sorel or the Conclave? I do not want to misspeak in my entreaties, and jeopardize everything we work for. I imagine you would want to approve the content of any letter I do send?"
R'vain gives Sakher a very unhappy look, mouth drooping, brows drawn. He puts his elbows on his knees and leans forward, moving in slow motion, buying time with a sigh. "No. I wouldn't. That is exactly what I, speakin' as Weyrleader of th'Reaches, do not want t'do. And I ain't offering t'send it for you, either." Just to be clear. He splits a quick grin, but this should not be mistaken for a change of mood. "I'm just sayin' you want t'say something, you might want t'do it pretty quick."
"You don't?" Sakher says, looking surprised. "I would have expected--most of those I know in such positions as yours would like a hand in things such as this, but I suppose that's more the Nabol way than the High Reaches one?" He tilts his head slightly, fingers drumming inaudibly down the side of his glass as he studies R'vain. "I shall send it at once," he decides finally. "I will draft it tonight and have it ready to send tomorrow. What is our deadline, then, Weyrleader?"
"Maybe it's been th'Reaches way," says R'vain, voice dropping a bit. He never really whispers, but this way of speaking grates across his throat, rasping. "But it ain't mine, and it ain't th'Reaches' way now." His shoulders jerk up and his head jerks down. Cider in his hand is noted; then he raises the glass and tips it for a long swallow, the kind that requires a sigh when the glass goes down. "Ain't sure. Few days. Tomorrow's good."
"Indeed, sir," agrees Sakher, mentally filing this information away as he takes another drink himself, prompted by R'vain. "I will do so, then. Thank you for your kind advice, sir. I should... I realize you are busy, but... This is a situation very close to my heart, and I should like to keep--to remain knowledgable about goings-on, if you hear word from my cousin or the Conclave before I have the opportunity? And of course I will return at once if I should receive some reply from my elder brother."
The Weyrleader bends his head, as if he might hide the grin-- this one's genuine-- that sprawls across his broad mouth. "Or about y'home," rumbles he. "I'll keep y'posted."
"Thank you, Weyrleader," says Sakher then, with a bright smile for R'vain's compliance as he stands. "I very much appreciate your time, and your willingness to discuss such tender matters with me. I will leave you to your work now, and with luck return soon with favorable news for you. Good night, Weyrleader." He returns his glass, emptied, and then executes his traditional half-bow before making his exit from the weyr.