(no subject)
7-15-2006 (Sefton, Reyce):
Sefton's Room
The primary advantage of this room is that it's big, and it needs to be. A large bed in one corner is piled up with furs, and next to it sits a long desk covered in piles of books, scrolls and hides. A battered sofa provides somewhere to sit, and thick tapestries and rugs ward off the cold, covering the better part of the walls and floor. A long stretch of bookshelves takes up most of the wall-space, Sefton's considerable library neatly housed there. A pair of chests sit near the base of the shelves, both open -- he's unpacked his books, but he still hasn't unpacked his clothes.
Contents:
Sefton
Obvious Exits:
Out
The door is half open -- perhaps an invitation, of sorts. The volume of the living caverns is dimmed slightly by the length of the passageway between there and here, but a low murmur still penetrates. Sefton's black-clad back is presented to that open doorway, the headmaster leaning over his desk. One hand props up his forehead, pushing curls away from his eyes. He is writing, drink close to hand.
Reyce makes a lot of noise tromping up the passage to Sefton's room, the thump of his boots announcing his presence before he himself does. His step slows, however, as he comes within sight of the door, and it's a moment before he steps into the half-open space it allows. Per the usual, he knocks his heel on the doorframe; somewhat less usual, he actually says something. "Teacher. Got a minute?"
Sefton lifts one finger for a moment, scratching out a few words further before he straightens in his chair, turns, and comes to his feet. "Reyce, good evening. A minute, I think I can spare. Two, in fact." A brief glance back over his shoulder at the hides lying on his desk. "I will take an interruption as a favour, in fact. In what manner might I assist you?"
Reyce pushes the door open the rest of the way, then, and steps in. His gaze moves past the instructor for a while, skimming over the bookshelves with a stormy frown, but snaps back when Sefton's finished speaking. "History teacher sent me. Need a book." He flicks a hand in the direction of the shelves. "You lend 'em out?"
"I do indeed," Sefton agrees, reaching back without turning his head to claim his glass. "Constantly concerned as I am about the academic welfare of my students. Can I fetch you a drink of something, perhaps?"
Reyce stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets. He shrugs. "Sure. Whatever's on hand." He looks past Sefton again, squinting at the books as though they presented some kind of threat. "Need something on early Pern. Founding of Fort, or whatever."
"Something on early Fort." Sefton repeats the request, tilting his head back to examine the offerings, brows coming together faintly in a frown. "Bailie's efforts at categorising my library really does transcend description." A pause, and a quirk of his lips that's almost rueful. "I wonder what colour that sort of book would be."
Reyce's hand comes out of his pocket for a moment, scratching stubble along his jaw; then it goes right back into hiding. An unhelpful shrug is as close as he comes to a response.
If silence persists, please add alcohol. The brief search is abandoned, and Sefton makes instead for that section of the shelving that bears a selection of bottles. "Something from Fort, then, in keeping with your current line of interest." Actions are matched to words, and a bottle is uncorked. "How have you been enjoying your history classes?"
Reyce frowns at the question, eyeing Sefton for a moment or two before he responds. "Haven't. Teacher's a jackass." Just to keep the conversation light and cordial. He shifts his attention onto the bottle, trying to catch a glimpse of the label.
"Always disappointing when that happens," Sefton murmurs, signally failing to defend his member of staff. The bottle is tilted obligingly -- Brandy, Fort's finest -- and then poured. "This reading is for your own edification, or your instructor's?"
Reyce's mouth quirks sardonically at Sefton's singular failure, but the focus of his attention is on Fort's finest brandy. Whatever causes him to pause at the sight of its label goes unexplained, as the question registers in time to distract him. "Mine, at my instructor's behest." The touch of formality in his words, combined with his overly mild tone, is a not very subtle snipe at Sefton's speech habits.
"Admirable, that you apply yourself to your studies regardless," Sefton returns, a quirk of his lips perhaps registering the jab as he offers the glass. "Did your sister enjoy her time with us during Turnover?"
Reyce scowls at the mention of his sister, reaching out to grab the drink in such a short, quick motion that only a Bendenite's reflexes (or those of a habitually unsteady drunk) prevent him from spilling. "Sure, teacher. Said she had a ball." He tosses down some of his drink, without much pause to savor Fort's finest.
"You cut a fine figure together," Sefton observes, taking more time over his mouthful -- the bottle is corked once more, set back on the shelf. "Where did your brothers celebrate? At Benden, I imagine?"
Reyce snorts at the compliment, peering down into his glass with an unreadable expression. "Yeah," he answers after a beat. A beat more, then he jerks his thumb at the couch behind him. "'m I gonna have to keep standing here or can I sit, teacher?"
Sefton's lips quirk once more, and he indicates the couch with a nod. "By all means, Reyce. Make yourself comfortable." For his part, Sefton swings his gaze back around to the bookshelf, presenting Reyce with his back once more. "No urge to return home on your part?"
Reyce settles into his seat with a careful concern for his alcohol that's completely out of keeping with his almost spilling it earlier. This, and the fact that he takes a sip of that drink once seated, gives him a long time to study Sefton and mull over his answer. "No need. I can get my ass kicked just as easily from here." He crosses his legs as he speaks, leaning back with contented grunt that's out of keeping with the sharp stare he's dealing his teacher's back. Of course, that stare will be gone instantly, should Sefton turn around.
Sefton is running one finger along a series of spines, leaning in to tilt his head sideways, examine a title, then resume the search. "I imagine their reach extends this far, yes," he agrees, tone almost absent-minded, drawl lengthening the words. "I'm not sure yours has quite the same range."
Reyce seems to have gathered what observations he needed from that stare, so now he actually settles into the seat. He props his drink-holding elbow up on the arm of the sofa, so it's both comfortably and conveniently holding that brandy close to his lips. "Be pretty pointless for them if it did, wouldn't it." Not a question - nor a very clear statement. He takes another drink, as quickly as the last.
"Still, no matter," Sefton continues, pulling a slim volume down from the shelf. "A steward's reach need not extent quite so far as his Lord's." The book is dismissed, slotted back into place.
Reyce opts to watch the books, now, rather than Sefton. The slim volume's rejection earns a faint snort from him. "Sure. Don't put too much effort into this book thing, teacher. I'm not planning to." His non-drink hand goes up to rub at his cheek.
"So definite, Reyce, on so many things." Sefton sounds sorrowful, imbuing his voice with regret too rich to be genuine -- and too quickly discarded. "Into which endeavours, then, do you intend on channelling your effort? I believe this is where our last conversation concluded. As good a time as any to resume it."
Reyce shrugs, his hand dropping down to the couch again. "No need for that, either. Our last conversation concluded with both of us saying nothing, and that's where this one's going to end up, too." He snorts into his glass as he says this, then takes a drink. There's just a bit of savoring to it this time, but only for the count of a second.
"Mmmm." Sefton contemplates that in silence for a moment, finally turning -- book in one hand, drink in the other. "Rather a waste of time, then. Let us do something productive, instead." A shake of his head clears his hair from his eyes, and they settle on Reyce's face. "Your brothers dislike us both. For different reasons, and to differing degrees, but significantly, in both cases. The feeling, on both counts, is mutual."
Reyce doesn't move when Sefton turns to face him, not even to change his faintly cynical expression or lower the glass from his lips. "No shit," he answers finally. The drink moves down. "And you suggest?"
"I do not suggest, yet," Sefton corrects, pausing for a sip from his own glass. "What I am interested in establishing is whether the conversation is worth pursuing. It pains me to be so blunt, but circling endlessly is an equally unattractive option. You are content, then, to serve? To take your place and advise your Lord?"
Reyce sets his drink down, balancing it carefully on the arm of the chair so he can free up his hands from holding it. Thus released, he leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees while he considers Sefton through narrowed eyes. "You really think you need to ask, teacher?" For all the suspicion in his gaze, his voice holds nothing more than curiosity.
"I really think," Sefton confirms, "that I need to ask. I understand this is hardly the sort of thing one advertises, but even so, your subterfuge has been so overwhelmingly subtle to this point, that one might almost mistake you for a student intent upon simply learning his lessons."
"Hmm." Reyce lets himself fall back against the couch, his hands dangling forgotten off the edge of the couch. "Subtle's not a word I hear much of. Thanks, teacher." He directs his gaze upward, staring at the ceiling with a thoughful frown. One of his hands twitches and he adds, "Answer's no, of course. Though a pissed-off Steward'd be as much inclined to take part as a pissed off Lord."
"Granted," Sefton murmurs, leaning back against the shelving. "Perhaps not a word you hear often, but I am optimistic, by nature." As Reyce's gaze goes up, Sefton's remains steady on the other man's face. "A Lord displeased with his lot," he continues, picking his way through Reyce's choice of language without repeating it, "is nevertheless a Lord. A Steward must do something about his position, if it displeases him."
Reyce's lip quirks at the careful rephrasing of his words, his eyes rolling down to meet Sefton's. "I think a Steward could do something /with/ his position, if something displeased him enough. He'd get fired for it, but that's not much of a shock at Benden, is it?" Not awaiting an answer, Reyce grunts and heaves himself back up to a sitting position. "Doesn't matter. Is this conversation gonna be worth the pain of your being so blunt or not, teacher?"
Sefton almost winces, shaking his head just ever so slightly. "Such things can be smoothed over after that man has been moved along, and if they are, he gives up his position for very little indeed." silence, speculative for a moment. "Where, then. Benden, or Greystones?"
Reyce /does/ wince, though only slightly, and not at Sefton's correction. "Benden," he says, reclaiming his drink. "Tenner's just such an upstanding guy that I'd hate to knock him off the seat," he explains drily. Squinting at his drink for a second, he tosses down what remains of it.
"Is that so?" Something in that amuses Sefton, and he nods towards Reyce's empty glass. "Benden, then. You'll want to find your brother a different wife. You'll want to find your sister a husband. Add to Benden's exports for the turn. Can I refill that for you?"
Reyce frowns a little at the outpouring of advice, his teeth snicking shut on a snappy comment. Instead he just offers his glass for a refill, absorbing the words in silence. "Okay. We discussed my reach. How exactly do you suggest I manage all that from here?"
Sefton claims the bottle, walking forward to pour a generous measure slowly into the other man's glass, twisting the neck to cut off the last two drops. "With those two elsewhere, your name will at least begin to enter the picture. A great deal would need to happen after that. Your little Lord might not do as well, without support. That would need to be seen to. You have other siblings." The headmaster backs up, stoppers the bottle, replaces it. "Quite a lot to do, Reyce."
Reyce watches Sefton pour in silence, though there's a brief bunching of muscles along his shoulders. "I asked how, teacher, not so much why. Believe me, I've followed the strategy." Past tense. He considers the glass solemnly, and for a long time, in much the same manner he must have considered that strategy. At last he says quietly, "Carina saw through me faster than you did. There are a couple of ways I might shut her up, but she may have already set the little Lord to work bringing my ass down." He crowns this announcement with a drink.
"There is one very effective way to shut her up," Sefton comments, raising his own glass to contemplate it. "She needs a husband. I do not say you can find her one, but putting a little distance between her and your brother would do no small harm. Whatever she has set in train, I suspect it continues in motion because of her continual attention." A slow sip. "That would be a great step forward."
Reyce shrugs, watching Sefton with a small frown. "Carina's well covered. The little Lord doesn't want her to go, so the only way to wedge her out of Benden is if she wants it herself. And she doesn't want anything less than a Lord or a Lord-to-be." A small, cynical smile slips across his face. "She also became blunt much faster than you did." Pause. "What's your opinion on bringing her here? Not as a student." Reyce keeps his expression mostly neutral, but his eyes narrow a bit.
Sefton laughs at that, white teeth flashing against dark skin. "Did she now? I suppose I will decide, in time, whether she had the right of it, or I did. Is she wedged so very firmly? There is nobody could make a decision for her? I have brothers myself, cousins. Unlikely Lords, but suitable matches." He wrinkles his nose for a moment -- a gesture perhaps picked up from Bailie, somehow -- dismissing that option for the moment. "At last, some sign of activity. Under what pretext would you bring her here?"
"I wouldn't. You would." Reyce raises his drink in pre-emptive salute to Sefton's generosity. He explains: "If it were possible for anyone else to make Carina's decisions for her, she'd be married three times by now. None to what she calls suitable matches. But she's not stupid, and she has some skills she could pass on to Pern's next generation of enthusiastic young hopefuls, if someone were to offer her a job. A job this close to Lord Samien can't hurt, either." Reyce's free hand goes up to rub along the stubble on his cheek. "Not an option I'd considered before. Might work, though I'm not sure how I like having her close enough to keep an eye on me."
"Might work," Sefton agrees, allowing a note of speculation to enter his drawl now. "Close enough to keep an eye on you, though. In theory, in a position of authority. There might..." A moment's pause for thought, and he rakes his hair back from his eyes. "What sort of position might she occupy, then? There is another option. I share your concern about being under such close scrutiny, but perhaps she might work with me."
Reyce's initial answer is no more than a raised brow - having paused for a drink while Sefton was speaking, his mouth is now full of brandy. He gulps it down. "I'd assumed she'd be a teacher. Her best subject's the same as yours, but given her upbringing she could just as easily do management or anything else that needed a warm body. What's your other option?"
"My job's taken, thank you." Another note of amusement in Sefton's voice, there. "We could slot her in somewhere. Else, a new position. My assistant. Take a little off my plate. I teach more classes than my predecessor. Or a role working with the Counselor. The possibilities are endless." A wave of his free hand dismisses them. "We bring her here, we play our game, and see what happens. Shall I do it?"
Reyce twists his jaw to the side, considering carefully - and for a long time. He also stretches his legs out and leans into the couch, because important decisions should only be made while comfortable. "Yeah," he says finally, dragging the word out. "Up to you where you put her. But yeah, bring her."
Sefton remains on his feet, shoulders resting on a line of books, marching in colour co-ordinated glory along the shelves. "I shall," he murmurs, eyes narrowed in thought, gaze fixed somewhere on the wall behind Reyce. "It slows them down a little, at least. There is your brother, though." A pause, a clarification. "The one with a mind of his own."
Reyce snorts at that. "They all have minds of their own; it's just a matter of quality. I would assume you mean Coren, though." He sniffs. "Been working on that. Carlin," by which informality one can assume he means the little lord, "eventually got the idea that Coren's been shamming his depression over Bailie - which, it turns out, he was - and they've been at each other throats a good six months now. Without Carina there to referee -" he shrugs. "Works out for the best. And as she's pretty much responsible for his /last/ engagement, I imagine she could be responsible for another one." He takes a drink of his brandy.
Sefton inclines his head to confirm Coren's identity, lips quirking briefly. A smile, not entirely kind. "I imagine at least a little of it was genuine," he murmurs, turning his head for a moment to examine the rainbow of books behind him. "Bailie is not an undesirable match." For reasons, one must assume, beyond her ability to colour-code things. "Then Carina comes here, and your brothers can play together for a little, see what games they come up with. Perhaps she will spot someone she fancies for Coren."
Reyce keeps his expression carefully neutral when Sefton mentions the merits of a match with Bailie, though there's just a flicker of dour amusement when the other man finishes speaking. "That's the idea. Fits together pretty neatly, doesn't it." He doesn't trouble himself to add a questioning inflection, though his brows do go up a fraction.
"I think," Sefton murmurs, drawing the words out thoughtfully, "that it does." His own brows rise, wry amusement. "Speaking frankly, Reyce. Whoever would have imagined the benefits? A pity it is suited to so few situations." The headmaster finishes his own drink, turning to claim the bottle, and speaking over his shoulder. "Where is our catch, then? If it fits so neatly together?"
"That we have to deal with Carina." Reyce has no problem finding the catch in this one: its saving grace is also its worst feature, for him. "She's going to wonder how I pulled this off, teacher, so if you've got anything worth blackmailing, I'd suggest you double-check and make sure its well-hidden."
Sefton grins -- that twist is still there, a suggestion of wolfish anticipation. "I saw her across the room at Turnover, Reyce. I was reminded, quite suddenly, of her grace, presence and other admirable qualities. Aware that perhaps Benden might bear me a suggestion of ill-will, and having become aware she would not be averse to the idea of a suitable match, I resolved to extend the hand of peace, as it were. Help her into a position from which she might secure such a match. A gesture of good faith. A gesture," and finishing pouring his drink, Sefton turns to raise his glass, "sure to displease her half-brother enormously."
Reyce plays his part well. He scowls, expelling a quick, heavy breath through his teeth. "Fuck you," he snaps, then downs his drink in a swift chug. He wipes his lips with the back of his arm. His level tone restored, he adds, "You'd have to sell that one. She'll wonder at the timing, but I think she could buy it."
"The Lady Sian labours on, in your case, I see." Sefton's observation is matched with a restrained sip, tone restrained, amused, a careful study in contrasts to Reyce's rough toast. "I shall sell then, Reyce. Even Blood must lower themselves to commerce from time to time. Leave that much with me. This is my game, and I understand the rules. From you, I would see a little more of yoru game. Your brother and sister are a beginning, no more."
Reyce shrugs, unperturbed. "The Lady Sian's labors are in a different area. My schedule's too full for her courses yet." If his pun was made consciously, Reyce gives no sign of it. He just scratches his jaw, another of his many unrefined gestures. "Answer a question first, teacher. Has helping me install myself as Lord become your plan for revenge, or do you have something else yet in mind?"
"You are a long way from that, Reyce," Sefton cautions, quite unnecessarily -- an aborted gesture, a dismissive wave of his hand pushes away that line of thought. "Revenge is a word to be used carefully, I should say. Not one I require. Let us call it a pre-emptive move, a precautionary measure. Does that enlighten you?"
Reyce shrugs again. "Sure, a pre-emptive move, but renaming it doesn't answer my question."
"Then no, it is not." A day for stripping aside the superfluous indeed. "I have no need for revenge. I have bested Benden, taken what Coren would have had, and what each of them would have seen him have. They will seek to undo me. Some of them are not stupid. It is worth actively seeking a more suitable outcome."
Reyce frowns at the phrase 'bested Benden,' but he doesn't interrupt. "Okay." He stays silent for a minute, rolling his empty glass between his palms. Then he grunts. "I need to keep the job as Steward, first of all. I need to be good at it. I need to help Carlin destroy himself, and get Coren out of the way somehow." He stops rolling the glass and sets it on his knee. "I looked into it. Any legally acknowledged bastard has the same rights as a son. Get the Lord Holders' Conclave to see it that way, and I'm third in line, proven capable of managing a hold. But it's iffy. What isn't?"
Sefton listens quietly, raising his glass to his lips without taking a sip. The headmaster is listening, and carefully. "It's iffy," he finally agrees. "Less so, with admirers on Conclave. Or allies. Or whatever you would wish to call such men. You are correct, though. Coren, and then Carlin. The former, I suspect, more difficult than the latter."
Reyce snorts softly. "See, and you thought you were doing me this big favor, stealing Fort from this half-brother I so hate. Yeah, Coren's tougher. I think the reason my father's never come out and /said/ Carlin's his heir is that he'd much prefer Coren, which makes removing the little Lord all the more complicated. I'm working on it. Maybe they'll take out each other," he suggests, though he doesn't sound particularly hopeful.
"I do hope you will forgive me," Sefton murmurs, failing to sound even a little sorry, "if I admit my first thought in pursuing Fort was not for you at all. He is certainly more of a challenge. Not quite master of his own fate, however. He can be married off. Carlin can..." A twist of Sefton's lips, a vague gesture with his glass. "Some scandal. In time."
Reyce's lip twitches up briefly in a smile. "Only giving context for my lack of sycophantic gratitude, teacher." Alas, Reyce's expanded vocabulary was clearly gained from his reading, as he pronounces 'sycophantic' with a long I. "Coren can be married off, but carefully. It could just as easily give him a powerful ally as it could a new home to piss around in. Carlin, I'm not worried about. It's just the timing, with him."
No comment from Sefton, no correction. "Benden," he murmurs, raising a hand and lifting one finger. "Fort." Another finger. "Southern Boll." Another finger. "How many more, as I pass my turns here, do you think?" Supreme confidence in that question -- arrogance, even. "I prefer to see you at Benden. A safe place can be found for your brother."
Reyce eyes Sefton coolly as he starts ticking off the conquests, answering his question only with a snort. "Glad to hear it, teacher." He stretches his legs, grown sore in repose, but continues to watch Sefton as he does so. "Why'd you leave Southern Boll?" he asks suddenly.
"You ask a great many questions this evening, Reyce," Sefton murmurs, not disapprovingly. "I left Southern Boll for an opportunity. And perhaps," and here the smile is rueful, "we all bow to others, from time to time. Does that answer your question?"
Reyce glances away with a shrug, his expression unreadable. His words make it more plain: "Considering how frank I've been about Benden politics, not really. Were you set to inherit, or what?" Good thing Sefton isn't disapproving of his many questions this evening.
"I do not intend to evade you by saying, Reyce, that that is a very difficult question to answer. I suppose I was considered the favourite." Sefton's weighing his words, pausing suddenly to offer a shrug more suited to one of his teenage students. "I was the favourite. It was not a certain thing. Bailie will finish her time here, I will marry her. Fort will be a certain thing, then."
Reyce looks back, keeping his eyes on Sefton's face throughout the whole response. In the end, he nods. "Okay." Simple as that; he offers no more.
"All this talk of marrying," Sefton muses, addressing himself once more to his drink. "You will need a wife, to make a good candidate, Reyce. A strong alliance offered."
Reyce clears his nose with a strong inward sniff. "Know that," he says. "Not much chance of a strong alliance, though, not where I'm standing now - anyone who could offer it, won't offer it to me. Nor do I hold out much hope for my father and Carlin, who've apparently been sorting my options, ever to agree on anything they sort."
Sefton inclines his head, pulling a face that's perhaps intended to indicate regret. "It's a tricky business," he allows. "I spent ten turns dodging it myself. I decided I preferred to make my own luck, so to speak. One might say that you're in the place for it."
Reyce snorts, but his gaze starts to wander away. "Sure, teacher. I'll keep an eye open."
"Both, perhaps." Sefton drains his glass, and reaches up behind him to set it down on the shelf. "And when they are not fixed on the female forms around you, perhaps you might fix them on this." The book is tossed towards the couch, arcing towards the cushions beside Reyce. "It's not such bad reading."
Reyce jumps when the book lands next to him, looking down at it quickly. Setting his glass down on the floor, he picks the book up and turns it over in his hands. "Not such bad reading, huh. Sounds promising." He lifts up the cover to peer at its title page, then lets it fall shut and puts it next to him. "Okay. Thanks, teacher." He shrugs back into his jacket.
"Indeed, Reyce." One hand comes up to rake Sefton's hair away from his eyes, and Benden's biggest problem is given another moment's careful contemplation. "I cannot add you to the list of students I have through here on a weekly basis. Hardly the hand of peace to your family we have discussed. Nevertheless, do stop by to return the book when you have finished it. I shall find you another." Which can, in time be returned. And so on.
Reyce, about to get up, pauses and falls back. "I don't think me borrowing books on any kind of regular basis is a good idea, teacher," he warns. "Thanks for the loan of this one, but I was sent here - there's a reason for it. Past this I've got no cause to fetch more, and past this," he jerks his thumb at the door, "I'm the same asshole as always."
A moment's silence, a breath slowly expelled, and as he shakes his head, the headmaster is laughing. "Just so, Reyce." Sefton pushes away from the shelves, lifting one hand in a variation of the salute their rider hosts offer each other. "Good night."
Reyce frowns at the laughter, but he neither joins in nor comments. "Yeah," is all he answers to the formal farewell, as he grabs his book and heads out.
Sefton's Room
The primary advantage of this room is that it's big, and it needs to be. A large bed in one corner is piled up with furs, and next to it sits a long desk covered in piles of books, scrolls and hides. A battered sofa provides somewhere to sit, and thick tapestries and rugs ward off the cold, covering the better part of the walls and floor. A long stretch of bookshelves takes up most of the wall-space, Sefton's considerable library neatly housed there. A pair of chests sit near the base of the shelves, both open -- he's unpacked his books, but he still hasn't unpacked his clothes.
Contents:
Sefton
Obvious Exits:
Out
The door is half open -- perhaps an invitation, of sorts. The volume of the living caverns is dimmed slightly by the length of the passageway between there and here, but a low murmur still penetrates. Sefton's black-clad back is presented to that open doorway, the headmaster leaning over his desk. One hand props up his forehead, pushing curls away from his eyes. He is writing, drink close to hand.
Reyce makes a lot of noise tromping up the passage to Sefton's room, the thump of his boots announcing his presence before he himself does. His step slows, however, as he comes within sight of the door, and it's a moment before he steps into the half-open space it allows. Per the usual, he knocks his heel on the doorframe; somewhat less usual, he actually says something. "Teacher. Got a minute?"
Sefton lifts one finger for a moment, scratching out a few words further before he straightens in his chair, turns, and comes to his feet. "Reyce, good evening. A minute, I think I can spare. Two, in fact." A brief glance back over his shoulder at the hides lying on his desk. "I will take an interruption as a favour, in fact. In what manner might I assist you?"
Reyce pushes the door open the rest of the way, then, and steps in. His gaze moves past the instructor for a while, skimming over the bookshelves with a stormy frown, but snaps back when Sefton's finished speaking. "History teacher sent me. Need a book." He flicks a hand in the direction of the shelves. "You lend 'em out?"
"I do indeed," Sefton agrees, reaching back without turning his head to claim his glass. "Constantly concerned as I am about the academic welfare of my students. Can I fetch you a drink of something, perhaps?"
Reyce stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets. He shrugs. "Sure. Whatever's on hand." He looks past Sefton again, squinting at the books as though they presented some kind of threat. "Need something on early Pern. Founding of Fort, or whatever."
"Something on early Fort." Sefton repeats the request, tilting his head back to examine the offerings, brows coming together faintly in a frown. "Bailie's efforts at categorising my library really does transcend description." A pause, and a quirk of his lips that's almost rueful. "I wonder what colour that sort of book would be."
Reyce's hand comes out of his pocket for a moment, scratching stubble along his jaw; then it goes right back into hiding. An unhelpful shrug is as close as he comes to a response.
If silence persists, please add alcohol. The brief search is abandoned, and Sefton makes instead for that section of the shelving that bears a selection of bottles. "Something from Fort, then, in keeping with your current line of interest." Actions are matched to words, and a bottle is uncorked. "How have you been enjoying your history classes?"
Reyce frowns at the question, eyeing Sefton for a moment or two before he responds. "Haven't. Teacher's a jackass." Just to keep the conversation light and cordial. He shifts his attention onto the bottle, trying to catch a glimpse of the label.
"Always disappointing when that happens," Sefton murmurs, signally failing to defend his member of staff. The bottle is tilted obligingly -- Brandy, Fort's finest -- and then poured. "This reading is for your own edification, or your instructor's?"
Reyce's mouth quirks sardonically at Sefton's singular failure, but the focus of his attention is on Fort's finest brandy. Whatever causes him to pause at the sight of its label goes unexplained, as the question registers in time to distract him. "Mine, at my instructor's behest." The touch of formality in his words, combined with his overly mild tone, is a not very subtle snipe at Sefton's speech habits.
"Admirable, that you apply yourself to your studies regardless," Sefton returns, a quirk of his lips perhaps registering the jab as he offers the glass. "Did your sister enjoy her time with us during Turnover?"
Reyce scowls at the mention of his sister, reaching out to grab the drink in such a short, quick motion that only a Bendenite's reflexes (or those of a habitually unsteady drunk) prevent him from spilling. "Sure, teacher. Said she had a ball." He tosses down some of his drink, without much pause to savor Fort's finest.
"You cut a fine figure together," Sefton observes, taking more time over his mouthful -- the bottle is corked once more, set back on the shelf. "Where did your brothers celebrate? At Benden, I imagine?"
Reyce snorts at the compliment, peering down into his glass with an unreadable expression. "Yeah," he answers after a beat. A beat more, then he jerks his thumb at the couch behind him. "'m I gonna have to keep standing here or can I sit, teacher?"
Sefton's lips quirk once more, and he indicates the couch with a nod. "By all means, Reyce. Make yourself comfortable." For his part, Sefton swings his gaze back around to the bookshelf, presenting Reyce with his back once more. "No urge to return home on your part?"
Reyce settles into his seat with a careful concern for his alcohol that's completely out of keeping with his almost spilling it earlier. This, and the fact that he takes a sip of that drink once seated, gives him a long time to study Sefton and mull over his answer. "No need. I can get my ass kicked just as easily from here." He crosses his legs as he speaks, leaning back with contented grunt that's out of keeping with the sharp stare he's dealing his teacher's back. Of course, that stare will be gone instantly, should Sefton turn around.
Sefton is running one finger along a series of spines, leaning in to tilt his head sideways, examine a title, then resume the search. "I imagine their reach extends this far, yes," he agrees, tone almost absent-minded, drawl lengthening the words. "I'm not sure yours has quite the same range."
Reyce seems to have gathered what observations he needed from that stare, so now he actually settles into the seat. He props his drink-holding elbow up on the arm of the sofa, so it's both comfortably and conveniently holding that brandy close to his lips. "Be pretty pointless for them if it did, wouldn't it." Not a question - nor a very clear statement. He takes another drink, as quickly as the last.
"Still, no matter," Sefton continues, pulling a slim volume down from the shelf. "A steward's reach need not extent quite so far as his Lord's." The book is dismissed, slotted back into place.
Reyce opts to watch the books, now, rather than Sefton. The slim volume's rejection earns a faint snort from him. "Sure. Don't put too much effort into this book thing, teacher. I'm not planning to." His non-drink hand goes up to rub at his cheek.
"So definite, Reyce, on so many things." Sefton sounds sorrowful, imbuing his voice with regret too rich to be genuine -- and too quickly discarded. "Into which endeavours, then, do you intend on channelling your effort? I believe this is where our last conversation concluded. As good a time as any to resume it."
Reyce shrugs, his hand dropping down to the couch again. "No need for that, either. Our last conversation concluded with both of us saying nothing, and that's where this one's going to end up, too." He snorts into his glass as he says this, then takes a drink. There's just a bit of savoring to it this time, but only for the count of a second.
"Mmmm." Sefton contemplates that in silence for a moment, finally turning -- book in one hand, drink in the other. "Rather a waste of time, then. Let us do something productive, instead." A shake of his head clears his hair from his eyes, and they settle on Reyce's face. "Your brothers dislike us both. For different reasons, and to differing degrees, but significantly, in both cases. The feeling, on both counts, is mutual."
Reyce doesn't move when Sefton turns to face him, not even to change his faintly cynical expression or lower the glass from his lips. "No shit," he answers finally. The drink moves down. "And you suggest?"
"I do not suggest, yet," Sefton corrects, pausing for a sip from his own glass. "What I am interested in establishing is whether the conversation is worth pursuing. It pains me to be so blunt, but circling endlessly is an equally unattractive option. You are content, then, to serve? To take your place and advise your Lord?"
Reyce sets his drink down, balancing it carefully on the arm of the chair so he can free up his hands from holding it. Thus released, he leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees while he considers Sefton through narrowed eyes. "You really think you need to ask, teacher?" For all the suspicion in his gaze, his voice holds nothing more than curiosity.
"I really think," Sefton confirms, "that I need to ask. I understand this is hardly the sort of thing one advertises, but even so, your subterfuge has been so overwhelmingly subtle to this point, that one might almost mistake you for a student intent upon simply learning his lessons."
"Hmm." Reyce lets himself fall back against the couch, his hands dangling forgotten off the edge of the couch. "Subtle's not a word I hear much of. Thanks, teacher." He directs his gaze upward, staring at the ceiling with a thoughful frown. One of his hands twitches and he adds, "Answer's no, of course. Though a pissed-off Steward'd be as much inclined to take part as a pissed off Lord."
"Granted," Sefton murmurs, leaning back against the shelving. "Perhaps not a word you hear often, but I am optimistic, by nature." As Reyce's gaze goes up, Sefton's remains steady on the other man's face. "A Lord displeased with his lot," he continues, picking his way through Reyce's choice of language without repeating it, "is nevertheless a Lord. A Steward must do something about his position, if it displeases him."
Reyce's lip quirks at the careful rephrasing of his words, his eyes rolling down to meet Sefton's. "I think a Steward could do something /with/ his position, if something displeased him enough. He'd get fired for it, but that's not much of a shock at Benden, is it?" Not awaiting an answer, Reyce grunts and heaves himself back up to a sitting position. "Doesn't matter. Is this conversation gonna be worth the pain of your being so blunt or not, teacher?"
Sefton almost winces, shaking his head just ever so slightly. "Such things can be smoothed over after that man has been moved along, and if they are, he gives up his position for very little indeed." silence, speculative for a moment. "Where, then. Benden, or Greystones?"
Reyce /does/ wince, though only slightly, and not at Sefton's correction. "Benden," he says, reclaiming his drink. "Tenner's just such an upstanding guy that I'd hate to knock him off the seat," he explains drily. Squinting at his drink for a second, he tosses down what remains of it.
"Is that so?" Something in that amuses Sefton, and he nods towards Reyce's empty glass. "Benden, then. You'll want to find your brother a different wife. You'll want to find your sister a husband. Add to Benden's exports for the turn. Can I refill that for you?"
Reyce frowns a little at the outpouring of advice, his teeth snicking shut on a snappy comment. Instead he just offers his glass for a refill, absorbing the words in silence. "Okay. We discussed my reach. How exactly do you suggest I manage all that from here?"
Sefton claims the bottle, walking forward to pour a generous measure slowly into the other man's glass, twisting the neck to cut off the last two drops. "With those two elsewhere, your name will at least begin to enter the picture. A great deal would need to happen after that. Your little Lord might not do as well, without support. That would need to be seen to. You have other siblings." The headmaster backs up, stoppers the bottle, replaces it. "Quite a lot to do, Reyce."
Reyce watches Sefton pour in silence, though there's a brief bunching of muscles along his shoulders. "I asked how, teacher, not so much why. Believe me, I've followed the strategy." Past tense. He considers the glass solemnly, and for a long time, in much the same manner he must have considered that strategy. At last he says quietly, "Carina saw through me faster than you did. There are a couple of ways I might shut her up, but she may have already set the little Lord to work bringing my ass down." He crowns this announcement with a drink.
"There is one very effective way to shut her up," Sefton comments, raising his own glass to contemplate it. "She needs a husband. I do not say you can find her one, but putting a little distance between her and your brother would do no small harm. Whatever she has set in train, I suspect it continues in motion because of her continual attention." A slow sip. "That would be a great step forward."
Reyce shrugs, watching Sefton with a small frown. "Carina's well covered. The little Lord doesn't want her to go, so the only way to wedge her out of Benden is if she wants it herself. And she doesn't want anything less than a Lord or a Lord-to-be." A small, cynical smile slips across his face. "She also became blunt much faster than you did." Pause. "What's your opinion on bringing her here? Not as a student." Reyce keeps his expression mostly neutral, but his eyes narrow a bit.
Sefton laughs at that, white teeth flashing against dark skin. "Did she now? I suppose I will decide, in time, whether she had the right of it, or I did. Is she wedged so very firmly? There is nobody could make a decision for her? I have brothers myself, cousins. Unlikely Lords, but suitable matches." He wrinkles his nose for a moment -- a gesture perhaps picked up from Bailie, somehow -- dismissing that option for the moment. "At last, some sign of activity. Under what pretext would you bring her here?"
"I wouldn't. You would." Reyce raises his drink in pre-emptive salute to Sefton's generosity. He explains: "If it were possible for anyone else to make Carina's decisions for her, she'd be married three times by now. None to what she calls suitable matches. But she's not stupid, and she has some skills she could pass on to Pern's next generation of enthusiastic young hopefuls, if someone were to offer her a job. A job this close to Lord Samien can't hurt, either." Reyce's free hand goes up to rub along the stubble on his cheek. "Not an option I'd considered before. Might work, though I'm not sure how I like having her close enough to keep an eye on me."
"Might work," Sefton agrees, allowing a note of speculation to enter his drawl now. "Close enough to keep an eye on you, though. In theory, in a position of authority. There might..." A moment's pause for thought, and he rakes his hair back from his eyes. "What sort of position might she occupy, then? There is another option. I share your concern about being under such close scrutiny, but perhaps she might work with me."
Reyce's initial answer is no more than a raised brow - having paused for a drink while Sefton was speaking, his mouth is now full of brandy. He gulps it down. "I'd assumed she'd be a teacher. Her best subject's the same as yours, but given her upbringing she could just as easily do management or anything else that needed a warm body. What's your other option?"
"My job's taken, thank you." Another note of amusement in Sefton's voice, there. "We could slot her in somewhere. Else, a new position. My assistant. Take a little off my plate. I teach more classes than my predecessor. Or a role working with the Counselor. The possibilities are endless." A wave of his free hand dismisses them. "We bring her here, we play our game, and see what happens. Shall I do it?"
Reyce twists his jaw to the side, considering carefully - and for a long time. He also stretches his legs out and leans into the couch, because important decisions should only be made while comfortable. "Yeah," he says finally, dragging the word out. "Up to you where you put her. But yeah, bring her."
Sefton remains on his feet, shoulders resting on a line of books, marching in colour co-ordinated glory along the shelves. "I shall," he murmurs, eyes narrowed in thought, gaze fixed somewhere on the wall behind Reyce. "It slows them down a little, at least. There is your brother, though." A pause, a clarification. "The one with a mind of his own."
Reyce snorts at that. "They all have minds of their own; it's just a matter of quality. I would assume you mean Coren, though." He sniffs. "Been working on that. Carlin," by which informality one can assume he means the little lord, "eventually got the idea that Coren's been shamming his depression over Bailie - which, it turns out, he was - and they've been at each other throats a good six months now. Without Carina there to referee -" he shrugs. "Works out for the best. And as she's pretty much responsible for his /last/ engagement, I imagine she could be responsible for another one." He takes a drink of his brandy.
Sefton inclines his head to confirm Coren's identity, lips quirking briefly. A smile, not entirely kind. "I imagine at least a little of it was genuine," he murmurs, turning his head for a moment to examine the rainbow of books behind him. "Bailie is not an undesirable match." For reasons, one must assume, beyond her ability to colour-code things. "Then Carina comes here, and your brothers can play together for a little, see what games they come up with. Perhaps she will spot someone she fancies for Coren."
Reyce keeps his expression carefully neutral when Sefton mentions the merits of a match with Bailie, though there's just a flicker of dour amusement when the other man finishes speaking. "That's the idea. Fits together pretty neatly, doesn't it." He doesn't trouble himself to add a questioning inflection, though his brows do go up a fraction.
"I think," Sefton murmurs, drawing the words out thoughtfully, "that it does." His own brows rise, wry amusement. "Speaking frankly, Reyce. Whoever would have imagined the benefits? A pity it is suited to so few situations." The headmaster finishes his own drink, turning to claim the bottle, and speaking over his shoulder. "Where is our catch, then? If it fits so neatly together?"
"That we have to deal with Carina." Reyce has no problem finding the catch in this one: its saving grace is also its worst feature, for him. "She's going to wonder how I pulled this off, teacher, so if you've got anything worth blackmailing, I'd suggest you double-check and make sure its well-hidden."
Sefton grins -- that twist is still there, a suggestion of wolfish anticipation. "I saw her across the room at Turnover, Reyce. I was reminded, quite suddenly, of her grace, presence and other admirable qualities. Aware that perhaps Benden might bear me a suggestion of ill-will, and having become aware she would not be averse to the idea of a suitable match, I resolved to extend the hand of peace, as it were. Help her into a position from which she might secure such a match. A gesture of good faith. A gesture," and finishing pouring his drink, Sefton turns to raise his glass, "sure to displease her half-brother enormously."
Reyce plays his part well. He scowls, expelling a quick, heavy breath through his teeth. "Fuck you," he snaps, then downs his drink in a swift chug. He wipes his lips with the back of his arm. His level tone restored, he adds, "You'd have to sell that one. She'll wonder at the timing, but I think she could buy it."
"The Lady Sian labours on, in your case, I see." Sefton's observation is matched with a restrained sip, tone restrained, amused, a careful study in contrasts to Reyce's rough toast. "I shall sell then, Reyce. Even Blood must lower themselves to commerce from time to time. Leave that much with me. This is my game, and I understand the rules. From you, I would see a little more of yoru game. Your brother and sister are a beginning, no more."
Reyce shrugs, unperturbed. "The Lady Sian's labors are in a different area. My schedule's too full for her courses yet." If his pun was made consciously, Reyce gives no sign of it. He just scratches his jaw, another of his many unrefined gestures. "Answer a question first, teacher. Has helping me install myself as Lord become your plan for revenge, or do you have something else yet in mind?"
"You are a long way from that, Reyce," Sefton cautions, quite unnecessarily -- an aborted gesture, a dismissive wave of his hand pushes away that line of thought. "Revenge is a word to be used carefully, I should say. Not one I require. Let us call it a pre-emptive move, a precautionary measure. Does that enlighten you?"
Reyce shrugs again. "Sure, a pre-emptive move, but renaming it doesn't answer my question."
"Then no, it is not." A day for stripping aside the superfluous indeed. "I have no need for revenge. I have bested Benden, taken what Coren would have had, and what each of them would have seen him have. They will seek to undo me. Some of them are not stupid. It is worth actively seeking a more suitable outcome."
Reyce frowns at the phrase 'bested Benden,' but he doesn't interrupt. "Okay." He stays silent for a minute, rolling his empty glass between his palms. Then he grunts. "I need to keep the job as Steward, first of all. I need to be good at it. I need to help Carlin destroy himself, and get Coren out of the way somehow." He stops rolling the glass and sets it on his knee. "I looked into it. Any legally acknowledged bastard has the same rights as a son. Get the Lord Holders' Conclave to see it that way, and I'm third in line, proven capable of managing a hold. But it's iffy. What isn't?"
Sefton listens quietly, raising his glass to his lips without taking a sip. The headmaster is listening, and carefully. "It's iffy," he finally agrees. "Less so, with admirers on Conclave. Or allies. Or whatever you would wish to call such men. You are correct, though. Coren, and then Carlin. The former, I suspect, more difficult than the latter."
Reyce snorts softly. "See, and you thought you were doing me this big favor, stealing Fort from this half-brother I so hate. Yeah, Coren's tougher. I think the reason my father's never come out and /said/ Carlin's his heir is that he'd much prefer Coren, which makes removing the little Lord all the more complicated. I'm working on it. Maybe they'll take out each other," he suggests, though he doesn't sound particularly hopeful.
"I do hope you will forgive me," Sefton murmurs, failing to sound even a little sorry, "if I admit my first thought in pursuing Fort was not for you at all. He is certainly more of a challenge. Not quite master of his own fate, however. He can be married off. Carlin can..." A twist of Sefton's lips, a vague gesture with his glass. "Some scandal. In time."
Reyce's lip twitches up briefly in a smile. "Only giving context for my lack of sycophantic gratitude, teacher." Alas, Reyce's expanded vocabulary was clearly gained from his reading, as he pronounces 'sycophantic' with a long I. "Coren can be married off, but carefully. It could just as easily give him a powerful ally as it could a new home to piss around in. Carlin, I'm not worried about. It's just the timing, with him."
No comment from Sefton, no correction. "Benden," he murmurs, raising a hand and lifting one finger. "Fort." Another finger. "Southern Boll." Another finger. "How many more, as I pass my turns here, do you think?" Supreme confidence in that question -- arrogance, even. "I prefer to see you at Benden. A safe place can be found for your brother."
Reyce eyes Sefton coolly as he starts ticking off the conquests, answering his question only with a snort. "Glad to hear it, teacher." He stretches his legs, grown sore in repose, but continues to watch Sefton as he does so. "Why'd you leave Southern Boll?" he asks suddenly.
"You ask a great many questions this evening, Reyce," Sefton murmurs, not disapprovingly. "I left Southern Boll for an opportunity. And perhaps," and here the smile is rueful, "we all bow to others, from time to time. Does that answer your question?"
Reyce glances away with a shrug, his expression unreadable. His words make it more plain: "Considering how frank I've been about Benden politics, not really. Were you set to inherit, or what?" Good thing Sefton isn't disapproving of his many questions this evening.
"I do not intend to evade you by saying, Reyce, that that is a very difficult question to answer. I suppose I was considered the favourite." Sefton's weighing his words, pausing suddenly to offer a shrug more suited to one of his teenage students. "I was the favourite. It was not a certain thing. Bailie will finish her time here, I will marry her. Fort will be a certain thing, then."
Reyce looks back, keeping his eyes on Sefton's face throughout the whole response. In the end, he nods. "Okay." Simple as that; he offers no more.
"All this talk of marrying," Sefton muses, addressing himself once more to his drink. "You will need a wife, to make a good candidate, Reyce. A strong alliance offered."
Reyce clears his nose with a strong inward sniff. "Know that," he says. "Not much chance of a strong alliance, though, not where I'm standing now - anyone who could offer it, won't offer it to me. Nor do I hold out much hope for my father and Carlin, who've apparently been sorting my options, ever to agree on anything they sort."
Sefton inclines his head, pulling a face that's perhaps intended to indicate regret. "It's a tricky business," he allows. "I spent ten turns dodging it myself. I decided I preferred to make my own luck, so to speak. One might say that you're in the place for it."
Reyce snorts, but his gaze starts to wander away. "Sure, teacher. I'll keep an eye open."
"Both, perhaps." Sefton drains his glass, and reaches up behind him to set it down on the shelf. "And when they are not fixed on the female forms around you, perhaps you might fix them on this." The book is tossed towards the couch, arcing towards the cushions beside Reyce. "It's not such bad reading."
Reyce jumps when the book lands next to him, looking down at it quickly. Setting his glass down on the floor, he picks the book up and turns it over in his hands. "Not such bad reading, huh. Sounds promising." He lifts up the cover to peer at its title page, then lets it fall shut and puts it next to him. "Okay. Thanks, teacher." He shrugs back into his jacket.
"Indeed, Reyce." One hand comes up to rake Sefton's hair away from his eyes, and Benden's biggest problem is given another moment's careful contemplation. "I cannot add you to the list of students I have through here on a weekly basis. Hardly the hand of peace to your family we have discussed. Nevertheless, do stop by to return the book when you have finished it. I shall find you another." Which can, in time be returned. And so on.
Reyce, about to get up, pauses and falls back. "I don't think me borrowing books on any kind of regular basis is a good idea, teacher," he warns. "Thanks for the loan of this one, but I was sent here - there's a reason for it. Past this I've got no cause to fetch more, and past this," he jerks his thumb at the door, "I'm the same asshole as always."
A moment's silence, a breath slowly expelled, and as he shakes his head, the headmaster is laughing. "Just so, Reyce." Sefton pushes away from the shelves, lifting one hand in a variation of the salute their rider hosts offer each other. "Good night."
Reyce frowns at the laughter, but he neither joins in nor comments. "Yeah," is all he answers to the formal farewell, as he grabs his book and heads out.