In which two steps forward are followed by one step back.

[lesefton]

Reyce and Sefton (Reycton?) drink and talk politics.


Late evening is about the only hole in the Headmaster's schedule, and so that is when he is to be found in his quarters. The door is not quite ajar as it usually is -- rather than offering a few inches through which one might glimpse the interior, it is pushed very nearly shut, as though it has simply failed to catch when pushed closed.

The tread of heavy boots is typically Reyce, the narrow edge of a slink to the fast stride is typically Reyce, but the nearly shut door is not typically Sefton, and it stops him short. Silence falls over the lower caverns hallway - the Bendenite is the only one who seems to agree with his teacher's schedule, that this makes for good visiting hours - while he stares at the door, and in that silence he stares at the nearly shut door. A heavy breath pushes through his nose, resignation and frustration both, and he backs up a step to turn and leave the door alone.

But his steps are a trademark, and the Headmaster is observant enough to have identified them. Or else he simply knows that someone hovers outside, and is not entirely averse to sacrificing this time of his own. His drawl rings out, in the usual, slightly bored challenge: "Come." Inside, he is barefoot, sprawled on his couch, with a book.

The retreat stops there, turns around. Reyce approaches the door and, since he has permission now, knocks it open with his boot. It's a substitute for his usual knock on the door, that step already having been passed. He knows well enough by now to look straight at the couch to find the headmaster, but he turns a quick, narrowly squinted gaze over the rest of the room before he says, "Teacher."

The room is its usual set of contradictions -- the bookshelves and bottles are neatly ordered, the bed has been made by someone else, and the desk and chest are piled high with ignored detritus. "Reyce," Sefton replies, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch, and straightening up so he can turn to regard his student, fingers coming up to rake his hair back from his eyes.

Reyce has shed the heavy black overcoat that's been following him around the weyr since winter snows set in, but his old leather jacket remains in place as always. It's the flap of this jacket from which he draws a letter, bended slightly under his guardianship, and sets it down on the arm of the couch, where Sefton can reach it. "This for you," he explains, drawing in one of his sinus-clearing sniffs as he leans back on the doorframe and watches his teacher process what will turn out be a lilac-scented, calligraphic, formal invitation to young Carlin's wedding.

Sefton notes his page, and closes the book, setting it down beside him. "Drink, if you like," he offers absently, nodding to the bottles and glasses lined up in front of a row of books -- a step towards informality, this failure to rise and see to the job himself. He inhales, raises a brow to pass some unvoiced opinion on the scent of the thing, and then opens it, dark eyes flickering back and forth quickly as he reads. "I suppose Bailie will want me in something colourful," he observes.

Reyce waits a beat before pushing himself off the door, long enough to take in the raised brow and the first moment of Sefton's reading. Then he's off to the liquor, his finger tapped down on the edge of the shelf while he draws his gaze along the labels there. The observation about Bailie draws another glance thrown over his shoulder, but Reyce dismisses it with a grunt and pulls down one of the cheaper bottles.

"Mmmm." Sefton concludes a second reading, and claims his own drink from where it was sat on the floor beside the couch -- he leans back, stretches his legs out in front of him, and then brings his curls down into his eyes once more, with another shake of his head. "What say you, Reyce?"

Reyce either noticed that drink or he really has no manners at all, for he doesn't offer to pour Sefton a drink after he pours himself one. Taking up the glass, he goes ahead and helps himself to the chair behind Sefton's desk - informal indeed, but at least the door swung (mostly) closed again behind him, blocking the sight of this theft from passers-by. "I don't care," he answers frankly, resting an elbow on the desk and his cheek on the bend of his hand that way. He has already taken the chair for himself, but he does raise his eyebrows now, as though to question whether his appropriation will be allowed.

Sefton lifts his brows too, but it's not in reaction to the move to annexe his desk. That goes by without comment, and he speaks only his reaction to the other man's words, drawl faintly amused. "Do you not suppose that you ought to care?"

The claiming of the desk allowed, Reyce drops his gaze away from the teacher and back to his drink, lifting it with his free hand to tilt before his eyes. "No," he answers, then draws in a sharp sniff that bucks him up when he throws back that first gulp from his glass. It's not as though it's an unpleasant taste - Reyce registers it with no more than a click of his tongue, which is approval if anything - but, well, his drinking habits.

Not the answer another would have given, and it seems this pleases Sefton -- he nearly had his brows down, but troubles himself to lift one now, dark eyes gleaming a moment. "And why is that, Reyce?" A hint of his Instructor's Voice -- the suggestion that this might be the beginning of a series of questions. Amusement too, though.

Reyce recognizes that Instructor's Voice, light as the hint may be, and his brows immediately drop low. Tilting his chin down, he swallows a small belch brought on by his drink-gulping and lets the air steam out his nostrils. That's the only sound he makes, however, in response; he stares at the teacher, eyes shadowed by the angle, but he doesn't make any effort to answer the question.

Inasmuch as Sefton's face can be relied on as a true barometer of his feelings, there's a glimpse of something like long-suffering patience there, just for an instant. "It is a reasonable question, Reyce," he points out, before addressing his attention to his own drink. More expensive, the Headmaster's choice.

Reyce's gaze remains lowered, but now his eyes begin to flick across Sefton's features. Whether he reads that barometer as a true one or not, it takes him a few moments more to compose his own answer. "Don't care what you ask. Way you ask, I don't like." A heavy sniff draws him out of his dark-eyed glower, his chin now raised so his angle on Sefton is going down, not up.

"Fussy, this evening," Sefton replies. "And short-sighted, if you set aside a worthwhile discussion over a matter of phrasing. Your brother will marry, Reyce, and will set about the business of producing heirs. Have you a comment to make on this subject?"

The edge of Reyce's lip quirks into a smile, but a thin, dry, and dark one. He leans back in the chair he has claimed, his legs stretching under the desk until his toes knock wood on the ohter side. "Always like that, teacher." He lingers a moment, punctuating the silence with the drum of his fingers where they lie upon the desk, a stare pinned levelly on Sefton, and then shrugs if off. "Yeah," he says, though yeah what, he does not say.

"I was under the false, but optimistic impression that we had moved along from these displays," Sefton observes, drawl turning bored once more. "If you have no desire to engage in a constructive conversation, Reyce, then so be it. I am disinclined to woo you."

"Disinclined to be wooed," Reyce responds, but his eyes glint with sharpness that makes up for Sefton's sudden boredom. "Your idea of constructive is you're teaching me. You haven't noticed, don't care much for your teaching. You want to talk, can talk - but we've been here before." His expression drops back into neutrality as he leans forward again, one hand bending for his drink and the other pressing down on the desk with the elbow held out straight.

"I know more about it than you do, I would venture to suggest," Sefton replies, uncharacteristically frank. "I ask, to ascertain your level of understanding. That allows me to find the correct level for the conversation -- to make what comment I think I ought, to add to your awareness. That, then, provides the basis for a discussion in which we might both take part." As though he is explaining something both simple, and obvious.

The straightened elbow kinks in, his arm allowed to rest along the desk. The first, frank sentence holds Reyce's attention for a little while, but then he lets himself get turned away by the prospect of a drink from his leg hand. Tossed back, and then nudged off on his sleeve as the other man continues to speak. "You're older than I am, smarter than I am, yeah." Where this comment came from is another of life's unexplained mysteries, but perhaps the fact that his frank tone echoes Sefton's first sentence gives it a little more basis. Perhaps also a hinted contrast with the next sentence, which is, "What do you want to know?"

"I want to know what you consider the implications of his wedding to be," Sefton replies, his air provocatively patient. "I have given you your beginning. He forms a solid alliance with Bitra, and will begin producing heirs promptly, if he has any sense." He pauses, brows drawing together then, as his lips twitch to a smile. "Scratch that. He will produce them anyway. I am sure someone will point out the need."

Reyce has been holding his glass just a few inches off the desk, seemingly forgotten in his hand since he drank from it. Now it clicks down lightly, remembered only long enough to be dismissed. "What I think," he begins, "is I don't know enough about Bitra. Got a good idea how it'll affect Benden, but that idea's worth about two months, that's it."

"And why have you a notion that only lasts two months?" Sefton stretches his legs out further in front of him, slumped in a manner that would have the etiquette instructor telling him off, were he only subject to such instruction. His glass is propped on his stomach, as he regards his student through his curls.

Reyce regards his teacher without the barrier of curls, a short sniff making his lips twist sideways. "'Cause that's when they start doing things, teacher," he replies, his voice never bothering to raise above a murmur.

Sefton lifts his glass once more, tipping his head back to swallow a slow sip, eyes closing. It is late in the day, and for a brief moment, he looks tired. Then his dark eyes are on Reyce once more, and that moment is gone. "Go on," he encourages.

Reyce is watching closely, however, and the moment's tiredness does not pass him by. He squints his eyes down, thoughtful, but neither condemning nor considerate. The squint shifts to a narrowing when the teacher's focus returns to him, but he leaves it to his expression to convey that moment's wariness, and his voice drops flat. "Can guess what they'd try. Can't guess what they'd get. And that's what makes the next move."

"Tell me what you guess they'd try," Sefton replies, lifting his glass finally, for another sip. "And then we will both see if we can guess what they might get, or at least whether we can define the range of possibiliies within which reactions might fall." Less Instructor's Voice, now. Closer to the drawl that makes Reyce an equal, and a co-conspiritor of sorts.

Reyce registers the tone of voice carefully, his eyes flicking back and forth across Sefton's features to take in the details while he speaks. "Carina aims for his wife because she's a rival. Cow her, alienate her, whichever works. Coren sees Bitra's the threat so he aims there, probably tries to get Carsin talking to him because he's still in Bitra. Curt doesn't get along with Carsin, knows he can't get help from him, but he keeps quiet to let Coren do the work while Cander and Cole spy on him."

Sefton contemplates all of this over another slow sip, exhaling in the wake of it. "I'd hoped he had enough life left in him to keep her busy bearing children," he murmurs, wry. "I suppose it was too easy. Coren will be more effective than the others, I think -- Carina aside. Perhaps he needs a wife of his own."

Reyce curls an arm out around his own glass, keeping it hidden in the crook of his elbow but dragging it a little closer to him. His hand bends in to take the handle, but he doesn't raise a drink yet. "She's pregnant," he points out, "but not that busy." A 'hrrm' sounds deep in his throat, pushing away the topic of his sister. "You've said that before, teacher, and I told you. I'm not a matchmaker."

"Very pregnant," Sefton amends. "Constantly pregnant, with twins. Next time we marry one of your sisters off, we'll pick a family that runs to multiple births." His own words amuse him, and rouse a dark gleam in his eyes. "Then what are you, Reyce? Action as well as desire is necessary to achieve the end you wish."

"A bastard, who sees Benden once or twice a turn," Reyce answers. There's a glitter of amusement there, leftover from the jest about Carina's pregnancy, but it's darker even than Sefton's. His hand closes about the handle and brings the drink up; he fortifies himself with a strong sniff, then takes a simple drink: no throwing. "I just set them up, and let them do the falling. Not sure I want to hurt Coren, though. He succeeds undermining Bitra, it's not a victory he takes credit for, but it helps me if they're weaker for it."

"Then I will leave you to your setting up, and your watching," Sefton replies, finishing his drink, and inspecting the empty glass thoughtfully. "You have no need of my counsel, and I am mistaken."

Reyce's drink was not quite finished, but a glance at Sefton's shows him an empty there, so he tilts his back again to follow suit. The drink, once finished, comes down to clink softly on the table as he sets it back. This time he offers no response, just sets his mouth in a flat, inscrutable line and stares at his teacher, balanced somehow between expectancy and dullness.

Sefton is not much interested in the inscrutable, it would seem, for he comes to his feet without much time for prolonged inspection of it, and crosses the room to reach up for a bottle once more. More expensive than the one Reyce chose.

Sefton is not much interested in the inscrutable, it would seem, for he comes to his feet without much time for prolonged inspection of it, and crosses the room to reach up for a bottle once more. More expensive than the one Reyce chose. "You make it difficult to assist you, Reyce," he murmurs, addressing the words to the bottle. "I tire of it, for tonight."

"Make it difficult because I'm fine, teacher." Reyce's eyes follow Sefton as he moves about the room, but though he finished his glass on time, he's not making the timely effort to leave, here. "Brought you the invitation because I'm told to. You got things to say on it, I'll listen, but otherwise I'm fine. Unless things change, I'm set with Benden till I get there. I'm /here/, now," he concludes, with a shrug to toss off that vague statement.

"If you intend on waiting until you are back at Benden, you will have waited considerably too late," Sefton replies, words punctuated by the glugging of liquid into his glass. "If you are obliquely suggesting I might have more conversational luck with you on the subject of the Reaches, Reyce, then consider my interest to have been engaged. If not, then I have very little time to myself at present, and I will see if my book has a more useful offering."

Reyce's brow furrows, but it's faint, more thoughtful than disapproving. A small sound clicks out from between his teeth; some idea thought, perhaps, and left unspoken while he turns the reel and finds a new one. His eyes flick down to watch alcohol fall into Sefton's glass, and by the time it's filled, he has an answer that he will speak. "Yeah, teacher. Here, not Benden." His gaze stays on the alcohol for a moment more, and only then raises to Sefton's face.

But there's no refill yet, and no offer that comes with it, unspoken, to stay and pursue the conversation. Sefton finally looks up, as he corks the bottle, to consider the question of their current home. "Here, we have Roa, and R'vain," he observes, laying down that new subject for discussion.

Reyce does not make a sound in his teeth this time, but muscles around his eyes do tighten, sharpening his attention narrowly on Sefton's face. The furrowed brow has smoothed by the time the other man turns around, but the focus Reyce does not try to change. "Not just them," he answers in the quiet voice that is, for him, conversational. "What came before."

"What came before was a period of instability on which, in a few turns, I plan on setting one of my more talented senior students to write," Sefton replies. "Fascinating, but I wonder if it will take that long for the dust to settle." His glass comes up for a slow sip.

Reyce's tensed muscles cool down, his expression relaxes while he watches Sefton. "Don't think it's that simple. Dust to settle. What happened's just unusually bad but I'm not sure it's unusual. Leaders are gone, same people aren't." His piece said, he draws his chin down at a sharp angle to regard his empty glass; not begging for refils, he simply picks it up and moves it out of the way so his arm can rest more comfortably and take up its old spot on the desk.

"It was the longest recorded wait of which I am aware for a new senior to rise." Sefton sips again, although he looks up to the shelves, now, where the bottles are. "It came on the heels of the Igenite episode, which is enough to keep a scholar occupied in and of itself. And that, on the heels of a dragonless Weyrleader. It is a stretch, I should say, to find the last time Reaches was stable. The ways in which it has not been so have been unusual, I would venture."

"My point," Reyce responds, in a tone of agreement, not argument. "Been bad, here. Seen it. And been some things to bring out the worst in it. Igen," he provides as an example, with a nod to the teacher who provided it. "Seems most everybody's relieved they got new leaders, but the new leaders got the old problems. Don't think it just settles, here."

"Of course it doesn't settle," Sefton agrees, bringing the bottle down now, and walking over to set it down on the corner of the desk. "Now it has a chance of settling, but that is no guarantee at all. What do you think they will make of it?"

Reyce shakes his head. "Don't know either of them well enough to say. Can't predict them. I think more limited," he says, and drags his arms together to fold across the desk in front of him. "What I can and should."

"What you can and should?" Sefton's drawl angles upwards in a brief, lazy query, en route to the couch so he can sprawl once more.

Reyce, again, follows his teacher's movements with patient eyes, waiting for him to drop to the couch before he attempts to speak again. "Like I said: here now. Caucus is, I am. Matters what happens."

"All right." Sefton's willing to buy into this, the slight increase in interest suggests. "Take as a starting point that a partnership including Roa is unlikely to abolish the Caucus. What impact on us do you imagine?"

Reyce's mouth twists down: a wry something, but not a smile. "Doesn't have to, and it still matters. Not interested in going back from a Caucus like it is now, lots of people in it leaving and outside it saying it's no good. Don't think you're interesting in heading one. It matters," he concludes in a murmur.

"I am not," Sefton admits, smile turning briefly wry. "Do you think that is what is said of our current effort?"

"Yeah," Reyce answers simply.

One brow goes up -- Sefton is pleased, or surprised, or some combination of the two. "You had best go on, then," he murmurs, lifting his glass to wet his lips once more. "And tell me what public opinion says."

"Can't," Reyce answers, shaking his head again. "Public opinion doesn't talk to me. I'm saying, that's what I think."

"Of course not," Sefton murmurs, animation subsiding. "Students were recalled, in the wake of the Weyrwoman's death. That number tapered off, and I have considered our comings and goings fairly regular, since that steadying. I would need to have Aida consult the records to be sure of that. I was not aware that public opinion considered that we were responsible for that, though."

Reyce raises a hand out of its crossed position, rubbing it hard along the stubble on his cheek. "Misspoke, teacher. Hang on." The hand moves up, and the fingers tap down to cover his eyes while he thinks. It takes him just a moment, and then he puffs a heavy breath that blows his cheeks out. "Not saying responsible for it. Saying weyr's bad name is the Caucus's bad name. I /think/," he adds, emphasizing the distinction carefully.

"I think too, to a certain extent," Sefton agrees. "The weyr's name, at least, is what convinces those who make such decisions that they ought to entrust the place with their charges. You think, then, that I ought to take an active interest in ensuring that the weyr runs well?"

Reyce, avoiding further misspeaks perhaps, keeps it simple this time through. He nods, and says, "Yeah."

The Headmaster considers this, raising his free hand to rake his curls back from his eyes, the better to study his student for a long moment. There's a dark gleam in dark eyes, and for a moment his mouth bends to a smile. "Fancy some practice for Benden?"

Reyce does not mind the long moment of study, meeting his teacher's examining gaze with ease and detachment. The smile merits a raised brow from him. "Getting it right, first," he answers in a low murmur, but explains no further than that.

Sefton desires it, though, and gestures for it with one hand. "It is a painful process, being required to constantly stop, backtrack, and ask you to make clear your impenetrable phrasing, Reyce. Get what right, if you will indulge me?"

Reyce's brow raises up further, and this time brings the soft turn of a smirk with it. "What I do and what I think. How I go about it." About to fall silent, his smirk pushes up into something more like a dry (or arid) smile and he says, "That's about as clear as I have it, teacher. You want more, might have to wait."

There's a brief twitch that suggests that Sefton would like more, but he refrains from the request. "Return next seven, Reyce," he drawls, the lift of his glass not concealing his grin. "And speak to me on the ways in which you would advise our new 'leaders to set about their task. I," he adds, more amused by this, "will be doing my homework as well."

Reyce unfolds his arms with a nod, his hands going down to brace him on the desk as he pushes the chair back. "Sure, teacher." Swooping the glass up from where he left it, the Bendenite crosses by Sefton's mini-bar and leaves the glass there, for easy clean-up later, on his way out to the door.

Sefton doesn't rise, but watches, dark eyes tracking his student until he's out of sight. After that, he drains his glass, and is grinning as he comes to his feet once more.