In which plans are firmed...
Sefton and Neiran put in place the finishing touches on the dark plans.
The senior politics class is dismissed -- it's a scene that's replayed so many times, now. Sefton sits at the front desk, or more accurately, on the front desk, legs hanging, hands curled around the edges of it as he listens to the responses of his students. And just now, he watches them file away, and disappear in ones and twos through the door, and out of sight. There's one in particular he watches -- the slender healer journeyman amongst them.
The Journeyman has eyes only for his notes, ignoring the sea of students that flows around him for the nearest exit. Only once the room has been silent for a time does he look up from his page and set his stylus aside, calmly registering that he's alone in the room with the Headmaster, and being observed. He watches the man in return for a moment, his hands taking up the motions of tidying up his desk to leave no traces of his presence; he stoppers his inkwell, wraps the tip of his stylus with a rag, orders scraps of hide. Then he says, "Headmaster," while his eyes read: I have things to say to you. Once he feels his message has been silently imparted, he rises from his desk and places his things in his bag, dons his scarf and coat, and walks up the aisle with slow steps towards Sefton.
Sefton waits patiently, watching the packing up and ordering without comment, legs slowly swinging. "Neiran," he drawls in reply, lifting one hand to rake his curls back from his eyes, as though he needs a better look at his student. He reaches for his own jacket, hooked over the chair behind him, and lifts it, sliding down from the desk. "Would you prefer to speak in my quarters?"
Although he's not wearing his trademark cassock at the moment and the walls around him are not the infirmary's, the face Neiran is offering to the Headmaster is undoubtedly his healer's face. It's but subtly different from his student's face, a little less inquisitive, more professional, and prepared to talk of blood and death and grim things. The Journeyman nods, murmurs, "I believe that would be for the best," and gestures airily for Sefton to precede him out the door.
"Indeed," Sefton murmurs, perhaps noting that slight shift in expression, that change. At any rate, he does precede the healer, and is silent as they make their way from classroom to quarters. A girl is just withdrawing from the Headmaster's rooms, arms full of sheets, and she pauses to begin a query as to whether he'd like -- but no. Sefton shakes his head, flashed her a grin, and ushers her away, so that he can take possession of the room himself, and turn to his student. "The door please, Neiran."
Even as the man from Boll is articulating his request, the Journeyman is stepping forward to take the liberty of doing just that. Once it is secured, he turns to the interior of the room and takes a few slow, deliberate steps, studying Sefton all the while. "You will forgive me if, due to the gravity of the situation, I choose to overlook the customary genteel confabulation which precedes the heart of the matter." It says it all: No thank you, I shall not be having a drink. I would not like to sit, either, truth be told. The only surrender to comfort is the loosening of his scarf from around his neck, exposing near-translucently white skin. He draws in a breath of the interior's room, and briefly examines the floor beneath his feet before returning his gaze to the Headmaster. If his prologue was a little tart, a little too rehearsed, he's settled his nerves now and speaks in his usual slow, lilting manner. "I...have come to a conclusion about the means to the end you have had me seek."
Sefton holds up under that examination, moving across to his desk, and settling in the seat, legs stretched out beneath it. "Just this once, the overlooking," he murmurs, a gleam of amusement surfacing in his dark gaze. Even now. "Very good," he continues, in the wake of Neiran's announcement. "You had better tell me about your conclusion, in that case."
Neiran seems to ignore that glimmer of amusement, addressing the man's forehead while he delivers his findings. "The essence of climbing oleander seeds contains a cardiac glycoside. Its use is advocated in managing angina pectoris, but it is...potentially hazardous if the dose is too large, or administered to a fragile heart. The minimum toxic dosage is amenably small, and it is without distinct flavor. It would be...simple, to administer it in a cup of tea."
The man's dark eyes drift down from Sefton's smooth forehead, alighting on his brown eyes. "He would perish in ten to twenty minutes, from either cardiac arrhythmia or respiratory failure due to the sheer toxicity of the tincture." That said, his thin lips press into a taut line, and his slender fingers find their counterparts on the opposite hand and lace themselves primly together.
Sefton's brown eyes are waiting, grave, and he inclined his head smoothly. Silent for some moments, the Headmaster eventually looks away, and studies his books, lips curving to a mirthless smile that's only a distant relation of his usual, easy grins. "A flower," he replies quietly, shaking his head -- his curls fall down into his eyes. "And a cup of tea. There is some irony there. I suspect the easiest course would be for both of us to be present. I am an impeccable witness, and you will be able to attest as to the swift and irreversible nature of his --" The man from Boll pauses, retrieving the phease, perhaps, and then choosing layman's terms instead. "Heart's failure."
Neiran nods twice; once to acknowledge the irony of the method of assassination, and once to acknowledge that their twin presence will be the best perfume over the smell of fish that might otherwise linger over the situation. There is something else troubling the healer, however. Even though he's shared the knowledge of the elixir he'll use to lay G'thon to rest, there must be more weight on his shoulders. After all, they're narrow, and when a rock is added to the load he usually shoulders, it's not too difficult for a perceptive man to see that he's forming the words to something else he's wanted to say a while.
"I wonder... while it is obvious we shall maintain the appearance of bystanders to the rest of the Weyr, will...it be different, in private? Will G'thon die under the illusion that his body is failing him, or did you have a mind to impart some final words to him on the truth of the matter before his last breath?" His lips close in a line, and press together sharply, briefly. "I wish to know so I am not shocked when the time comes."
Sefton is a perceptive man, and it must be that he sees Neiran forming his words, for he waits patiently, until they are spoken. His reply is quiet, drawled, imbued with a note of regret. "We do what we must, Neiran, but I have no speech to make. I have no words to say, other than that I am sorry. If you are asking whether you will see me gloat, then the answer is that you will not. We do what we must, but take no pleasure in it."
Neiran's eyes had fallen to the flooring after his question, but the response brings them up sharp. "I did not wish to imply I suspected you would gloat. On the contrary, I meant to wonder at whether or not you would see informing G'thon of the truth behind his death as a mercy. I am...disturbed that you would think me so tactless to question you in such a vein, and moreso displeased that you would believe I think you are so cruel as to revel in your victory with a dying man at your feet. With respect, Headmaster," he murmurs after the icy river of words has flowed by, couching his words only belatedly. A few blinks follow this, and the raising of his hand to his head. Fingertips flutter briefly at his temple, then delve into his leather hip pouch to retrieve a leaf and deliver it to his mouth with a smooth, continuous motion as thoughtless as breathing.
"I have water," Sefton murmurs, his drawl drawing those words out as well. It's a rare -- extraordinary -- exception to the Headmaster's rule with regard to this student's headaches. "I do not imagine that you would dream of gloating, Neiran, but I would be inclined to forgiveness, if you were to indicate that you harboured doubts as to my charity. You frequently disapprove -- this I know." He shakes his head, lifting one hand to rake his curls back from his eyes. "I had not in mind to tell him, no. I do not imagine he will, even at the last, appreciate that we do only what must be done. Let him have a more peaceful last thought, if that is possible."
"I disapprove, but do not always disagree," the Journeyman murmurs, the words halfway between something that wants to be heard and something that does not. He smoothes the front of his clothing as he draws in a long breath, filling his narrow chest to what capacity it can muster before exhaling slowly. His dark eyes quest briefly on the desk for any water he might lay claim to himself to spare Sefton the trouble, but finding none, Neiran's eyes invariably fall on the Headmaster again. "If you poured me a glass, Headmaster, I would be greatly appreciative. Please forgive me."
"Indeed," Sefton replies, which presumably constitutes forgiveness. The bottle he draws down from his collection is clear, and so is the liquid inside -- he splashes a glass full, and stoppers the bottle once more, setting it back, and allowing the healer several unexamined moments before he turns back. "How much time will you require to prepare, Neiran? When you are ready, I will contrive an invitation."
The Journeyman well recognizes that byword, and accepts it without a murmur of protest. He takes his time in approaching the water, drawing it to his mouth for a sip - it wouldn't do to seem too hasty about the whole affair. He swallows, and dabs his lips with the pad of a finger rather than lick them while Sefton is regarding him. The healer takes but a moment in supplying Sefton's answer, one second of hesitation fleeting by before it's buried beneath a firmer visage. "I am already prepared. If you called him to the chamber in the hour, it could be done then."
Sefton stands for a moment, watching the journeyman drink, dark eyes holding no trace of regret, of amusement, of mocking, or of anything identifiable. The absence of expression on the Headmaster's mobile face is more marked than any he might wear. "Then go now," he murmurs, "and return in an hour, Neiran." He moves, breaking from where he stands, to cross over to the door and open it. "A turn from now, you will take on a role as my assistant. I would like you to be present at a discussion of curriculum with our ethics instructor."
Like a participant at a masque, Neiran's emotions can still be seen if you look at his eyes, past the cultivated porcelain. The shock that registers behind the veil of neutrality shows how little he expected Sefton to actually take his readiness literally and put it to the test in calling on him this very hour. The healer takes another long, slow sip of water, and lowers the glass steadily to the desk's top once more. He watches Sefton go to the door, and is slow to approach the open doorway himself. Once there, he lingers on the threshold for a moment, hovering between simple obedience and departure or the option of a lingering moment of sentiment, perhaps a final question. Ultimately, he chooses the former. "As you wish, Headmaster," he murmurs, inclining his head once to the man. It goes without saying that Sefton should not forget their tea. Neiran departs to fetch the special ingredient and compose himself for the serving of it.
The senior politics class is dismissed -- it's a scene that's replayed so many times, now. Sefton sits at the front desk, or more accurately, on the front desk, legs hanging, hands curled around the edges of it as he listens to the responses of his students. And just now, he watches them file away, and disappear in ones and twos through the door, and out of sight. There's one in particular he watches -- the slender healer journeyman amongst them.
The Journeyman has eyes only for his notes, ignoring the sea of students that flows around him for the nearest exit. Only once the room has been silent for a time does he look up from his page and set his stylus aside, calmly registering that he's alone in the room with the Headmaster, and being observed. He watches the man in return for a moment, his hands taking up the motions of tidying up his desk to leave no traces of his presence; he stoppers his inkwell, wraps the tip of his stylus with a rag, orders scraps of hide. Then he says, "Headmaster," while his eyes read: I have things to say to you. Once he feels his message has been silently imparted, he rises from his desk and places his things in his bag, dons his scarf and coat, and walks up the aisle with slow steps towards Sefton.
Sefton waits patiently, watching the packing up and ordering without comment, legs slowly swinging. "Neiran," he drawls in reply, lifting one hand to rake his curls back from his eyes, as though he needs a better look at his student. He reaches for his own jacket, hooked over the chair behind him, and lifts it, sliding down from the desk. "Would you prefer to speak in my quarters?"
Although he's not wearing his trademark cassock at the moment and the walls around him are not the infirmary's, the face Neiran is offering to the Headmaster is undoubtedly his healer's face. It's but subtly different from his student's face, a little less inquisitive, more professional, and prepared to talk of blood and death and grim things. The Journeyman nods, murmurs, "I believe that would be for the best," and gestures airily for Sefton to precede him out the door.
"Indeed," Sefton murmurs, perhaps noting that slight shift in expression, that change. At any rate, he does precede the healer, and is silent as they make their way from classroom to quarters. A girl is just withdrawing from the Headmaster's rooms, arms full of sheets, and she pauses to begin a query as to whether he'd like -- but no. Sefton shakes his head, flashed her a grin, and ushers her away, so that he can take possession of the room himself, and turn to his student. "The door please, Neiran."
Even as the man from Boll is articulating his request, the Journeyman is stepping forward to take the liberty of doing just that. Once it is secured, he turns to the interior of the room and takes a few slow, deliberate steps, studying Sefton all the while. "You will forgive me if, due to the gravity of the situation, I choose to overlook the customary genteel confabulation which precedes the heart of the matter." It says it all: No thank you, I shall not be having a drink. I would not like to sit, either, truth be told. The only surrender to comfort is the loosening of his scarf from around his neck, exposing near-translucently white skin. He draws in a breath of the interior's room, and briefly examines the floor beneath his feet before returning his gaze to the Headmaster. If his prologue was a little tart, a little too rehearsed, he's settled his nerves now and speaks in his usual slow, lilting manner. "I...have come to a conclusion about the means to the end you have had me seek."
Sefton holds up under that examination, moving across to his desk, and settling in the seat, legs stretched out beneath it. "Just this once, the overlooking," he murmurs, a gleam of amusement surfacing in his dark gaze. Even now. "Very good," he continues, in the wake of Neiran's announcement. "You had better tell me about your conclusion, in that case."
Neiran seems to ignore that glimmer of amusement, addressing the man's forehead while he delivers his findings. "The essence of climbing oleander seeds contains a cardiac glycoside. Its use is advocated in managing angina pectoris, but it is...potentially hazardous if the dose is too large, or administered to a fragile heart. The minimum toxic dosage is amenably small, and it is without distinct flavor. It would be...simple, to administer it in a cup of tea."
The man's dark eyes drift down from Sefton's smooth forehead, alighting on his brown eyes. "He would perish in ten to twenty minutes, from either cardiac arrhythmia or respiratory failure due to the sheer toxicity of the tincture." That said, his thin lips press into a taut line, and his slender fingers find their counterparts on the opposite hand and lace themselves primly together.
Sefton's brown eyes are waiting, grave, and he inclined his head smoothly. Silent for some moments, the Headmaster eventually looks away, and studies his books, lips curving to a mirthless smile that's only a distant relation of his usual, easy grins. "A flower," he replies quietly, shaking his head -- his curls fall down into his eyes. "And a cup of tea. There is some irony there. I suspect the easiest course would be for both of us to be present. I am an impeccable witness, and you will be able to attest as to the swift and irreversible nature of his --" The man from Boll pauses, retrieving the phease, perhaps, and then choosing layman's terms instead. "Heart's failure."
Neiran nods twice; once to acknowledge the irony of the method of assassination, and once to acknowledge that their twin presence will be the best perfume over the smell of fish that might otherwise linger over the situation. There is something else troubling the healer, however. Even though he's shared the knowledge of the elixir he'll use to lay G'thon to rest, there must be more weight on his shoulders. After all, they're narrow, and when a rock is added to the load he usually shoulders, it's not too difficult for a perceptive man to see that he's forming the words to something else he's wanted to say a while.
"I wonder... while it is obvious we shall maintain the appearance of bystanders to the rest of the Weyr, will...it be different, in private? Will G'thon die under the illusion that his body is failing him, or did you have a mind to impart some final words to him on the truth of the matter before his last breath?" His lips close in a line, and press together sharply, briefly. "I wish to know so I am not shocked when the time comes."
Sefton is a perceptive man, and it must be that he sees Neiran forming his words, for he waits patiently, until they are spoken. His reply is quiet, drawled, imbued with a note of regret. "We do what we must, Neiran, but I have no speech to make. I have no words to say, other than that I am sorry. If you are asking whether you will see me gloat, then the answer is that you will not. We do what we must, but take no pleasure in it."
Neiran's eyes had fallen to the flooring after his question, but the response brings them up sharp. "I did not wish to imply I suspected you would gloat. On the contrary, I meant to wonder at whether or not you would see informing G'thon of the truth behind his death as a mercy. I am...disturbed that you would think me so tactless to question you in such a vein, and moreso displeased that you would believe I think you are so cruel as to revel in your victory with a dying man at your feet. With respect, Headmaster," he murmurs after the icy river of words has flowed by, couching his words only belatedly. A few blinks follow this, and the raising of his hand to his head. Fingertips flutter briefly at his temple, then delve into his leather hip pouch to retrieve a leaf and deliver it to his mouth with a smooth, continuous motion as thoughtless as breathing.
"I have water," Sefton murmurs, his drawl drawing those words out as well. It's a rare -- extraordinary -- exception to the Headmaster's rule with regard to this student's headaches. "I do not imagine that you would dream of gloating, Neiran, but I would be inclined to forgiveness, if you were to indicate that you harboured doubts as to my charity. You frequently disapprove -- this I know." He shakes his head, lifting one hand to rake his curls back from his eyes. "I had not in mind to tell him, no. I do not imagine he will, even at the last, appreciate that we do only what must be done. Let him have a more peaceful last thought, if that is possible."
"I disapprove, but do not always disagree," the Journeyman murmurs, the words halfway between something that wants to be heard and something that does not. He smoothes the front of his clothing as he draws in a long breath, filling his narrow chest to what capacity it can muster before exhaling slowly. His dark eyes quest briefly on the desk for any water he might lay claim to himself to spare Sefton the trouble, but finding none, Neiran's eyes invariably fall on the Headmaster again. "If you poured me a glass, Headmaster, I would be greatly appreciative. Please forgive me."
"Indeed," Sefton replies, which presumably constitutes forgiveness. The bottle he draws down from his collection is clear, and so is the liquid inside -- he splashes a glass full, and stoppers the bottle once more, setting it back, and allowing the healer several unexamined moments before he turns back. "How much time will you require to prepare, Neiran? When you are ready, I will contrive an invitation."
The Journeyman well recognizes that byword, and accepts it without a murmur of protest. He takes his time in approaching the water, drawing it to his mouth for a sip - it wouldn't do to seem too hasty about the whole affair. He swallows, and dabs his lips with the pad of a finger rather than lick them while Sefton is regarding him. The healer takes but a moment in supplying Sefton's answer, one second of hesitation fleeting by before it's buried beneath a firmer visage. "I am already prepared. If you called him to the chamber in the hour, it could be done then."
Sefton stands for a moment, watching the journeyman drink, dark eyes holding no trace of regret, of amusement, of mocking, or of anything identifiable. The absence of expression on the Headmaster's mobile face is more marked than any he might wear. "Then go now," he murmurs, "and return in an hour, Neiran." He moves, breaking from where he stands, to cross over to the door and open it. "A turn from now, you will take on a role as my assistant. I would like you to be present at a discussion of curriculum with our ethics instructor."
Like a participant at a masque, Neiran's emotions can still be seen if you look at his eyes, past the cultivated porcelain. The shock that registers behind the veil of neutrality shows how little he expected Sefton to actually take his readiness literally and put it to the test in calling on him this very hour. The healer takes another long, slow sip of water, and lowers the glass steadily to the desk's top once more. He watches Sefton go to the door, and is slow to approach the open doorway himself. Once there, he lingers on the threshold for a moment, hovering between simple obedience and departure or the option of a lingering moment of sentiment, perhaps a final question. Ultimately, he chooses the former. "As you wish, Headmaster," he murmurs, inclining his head once to the man. It goes without saying that Sefton should not forget their tea. Neiran departs to fetch the special ingredient and compose himself for the serving of it.