Conclave
So many thanks to staff for indulging me with NPCs for this; I had such a blast doing these scenes, and never you mind that Reyce has exactly zero screen time in both of them.
10-18-2006 (Carlin, Samien [Benden]):
It has been a hard few days of haggling. Odern's relations are endless, nephews and cousins as well as sons brought up in the discussion, and endless also are the disagreements of Lords who've fostered those relations. Whenever agreement comes too close to being reached, someone will call a break - as now - to rest, refresh, and refer to their advisors; whenever the meeting reconvenes (as it will again in a half hour) all agreement has effectively dissolved. It is away from this frustrating atmosphere that Lord Carlin has retreated, taking to a small alcove set aside for snacks and drinks. At the moment, he is the alcove's only occupant, and by himself the bearded, balding Bendenite muses over an assortment of cookies and a glass of water.
It is the refreshments, surely, that draw the fair young Lord here. They are, at some of these intervals, his tools: little trifles he may carry on a plate in one hand with which to tempt the dainty fingers of dainty daughters and lure the gentry's maids into conversation. It would not be, of course, the privacy of these little alcoves, nor the fact that this one is all but deserted, that he craves; after all, when his initial sweeping glance of the space confirms that it has one occupant, he does not put up his nose and beg away with just a little nod or a word polite. Instead he sweeps on in and takes up a plate, prim fingers lifting cookies into seducing patterns in triad designs - carob, rice, fruit, carob again and repeat - two layers deep. He could never, would never, eat them all himself. But he will, while he arranges the sweets, greet his elder well. "I consider the peach ones exceptional, sir. Might I bring you one, or anything else?"
"The peach ones?" Lord Carlin repeats, in a boom, as he leans forward to look at the selection of cookies Samien is picking out. A slim grin quirks its way through his beard - his own daughter has encountered Lord Samien on one of his seductive rounds, and no doubt he recognizes the ploy from her calm and dispassionate description. "Wouldn't have figured you for a sweets man, Samien," he teases anyway, that slim grin working its way up to a full one. His gaze slides sideways to the other lord, eyes sparkling with impish good humor. Lest the tease cause too much discomfort, he waves it away before long. "Ah, but I'm fine. Tell you the truth, I'm looking for the little jellied ones you had here yesterday. You'd think I'd recognize them, but then perhaps I ate them all." Settling for a simpler cookie, draped in chocolate but jelly-free, the Bendenite pinches it between his fingers while he examines it. "Faranth knows I've had ample opportunity." Pop, in his mouth it goes.
Samien is, as ever, slim, tall, pretty, impeccably coiffed and perfectly pressed. He picks up one last cookie, one of the peach ones; it will not match the design he's created on the plate. He holds it up instead, first as a sample and second as an example. "I delight in sweet things - in moderation, sir," replies the Lord High Reaches, and nips the cookie neatly in half. Chewing, he rounds the table so he can lean against one of the alcove's inside walls. As predicted he simply holds the plate, but the other half of his single cookie goes down the hatch before he speaks again. "We have most certainly had enough chances to stretch our legs. I should like to stretch our fingers, sir, and wet our nibs too, and be done with this ugly business - but I must admit I see no likely end to it myself, so we must struggle on. At least we have good company to see us through the storm." A little tip of his fair chin there to the good Lord Benden, eyes alight with perfect mischief.
Carlin rolls out a low, rumbling chuckle in response to the other Lord's flattery, his own eyes squinching with the mirth of it. "And at times you've better company than the rest of us, I'd wager," he teases (again) shamelessly, crossing his thumb under his fingers till it taps - subtle, yet significant - his wedding ring. Another chuckle shakes him as the finger withdraws and he goes back to examining cookies, this time following Samien's cue to take one of the peach ones. He turns it about between thumb and forefinger while he considers. "And not enough time for that, either. Can't let this fussing go on forever, though, can we - next it'll be another Hold, another Gather, another round of potty breaks for old Darshan." This time his laughter doesn't rumble moderately, but /booms/ as he throws back his head (and throws back the cookie with it), his non-water-holding hand crossing over his belly to hold it still against his chuckles.
"If Darshan lasts that long," replies Samien with the poisonous politeness he is mostly rumored, not known to possess. He inclines his head once, voice gentle, smile so dry it must be assumed - if one is being polite - that he means the remark as a jest. Samien does not take every opportunity to fork his tongue; the timing of this exploitation must be significant. A beat later he laughs, however, a bright and featherweight stuff spun of silk and honey, hardly a match to the Lord Benden's booming and incapable of lasting so long. "As much as I would favor an excuse to see all of my friends and companions again so soon, sir, I do wish to see this matter done this seven. I have not the mind for these negotiations and I must admit they tire me." He has to wait a moment here so he can look a little tired.
Carlin's chuckles are subsiding by that point - hand still on his belly, but head down - and the poisonous yet humorous comment registers on his features with a brief raise of his eyebrows, but no halt to his rumbling mirth. The cookie gets crunched at the side of his mouth, little bits of crumb puffing out with his laughter to lodge themselves inconspicuously amidst the ever-accumulating gray hairs of his beard. "Nor I, man, nor I," he agrees once the cookie's finished and his laughter ebbs away. Amusement remains written in the wrinkled lines around his eyes, though, and in the warmth of his baritone voice. "It really is these little breaks that get us. Just when you're on the edge of a vote-" SNAP! Lord Carlin, who orders sons and servants around by the snap of his fingers, is well-practiced in making that sound startle. "Off for a break. I'm of a mind to sit them down and lock all the doors. Or, barring that," he allows with a devil's grin, "to submit a proper motion on the matter." His voice takes a faint turn here, less of the bumbling Bendenite and more of an educated Lord in his diction. In Samien's presence, such a change must fall just short of mockery - and it does - but irony is well-bred, so it's irony he uses.
Samien's startlement is Carlin's to command; the snap of the Benden Lord's fingers draws up the younger man's head and draws his gaze, which is about as much shock as the Lord High Reaches is given to displaying when the matter at hand doesn't involve his mother. Slight as it may be, the effect is likely what Carlin wanted: he has the young man's rapt attention by the time his speech slides into the formal. "There would have to be exceptions," murmurs Lord Samien, after a moment. Perhaps he really is tired, cutting to the chase as soon as the hunting horn is blown. "As part of the motion. Darshan, obviously. How - extensive might such a - " He has the word, and uses it, but he gestures with the cookies upon its speaking, as if he might so very easily concur that he used the wrong word should his elder correct him. "- sequestering need to be, then, to inspire dedication to the topic?"
That moment before the murmur is all Lord Carlin needs to become conveniently distracted by the cookies, as he hunches over the table to pick through them. No pretense of politeness here: if someone else gets to eat a cookie touched by the great Lord of Benden, well, that's their lucky day, and Carlin touches plenty on his way to finding one he wants. "Exceptions?" he murmurs, in return. "What exceptions?" The devil's glint is hard to catch, now that he's hunched over, but he adds a quirk of bearded lip to emphasize for clarity. "After all, this is a pressing, urgent matter." If there's a joke at Lord Darshan's expense to be detected in his answer, it's just there: his tone becomes mildly urgent when his word does, throwing with it a child's hint of an unmentionable need to pee. Aside from that, the Ruathan Lord gets spared Benden's attention: "Who among us wouldn't stay in as long as it took to resolve Nabol's stability?" His hand makes a sudden dive through the platter, pulling up a rounded cookie with a spot of red in it. "Ah!" Carlin exclaims, delighted. "A jam."
If Carlin won't laugh at his joke, Samien will: more of that candyfluff stuff, a little chuckle to charm and delight, though surely only a few of his butterfly girls would find the Benden lord's jest amusing. "I might not have," he says after that, in due time, while his guest searches for and finds his desired treat. Just as his laughter was weightless, so are his words; all of the solemnity and adulthood they require may be conveyed quite simply by the level and icy regard, the blessing of High Reaches' Blood, with which Lord Samien fixes the older man. He is indifferent, of a sudden, to cookies. "But I host our Conclave, and I host the season's gather. And I would stick us to a decision, Carlin," not 'sir' just now, "with the dearest of pins. That said, I will not have my Hold viewed as a cell or prison. I will not inappropriately inconvenience these Lords together here. There must be washrooms, and food at the ready. We may dine at the same table at which we argue, but we -will- dine." He spares only a moment to wet his lips with a dart of his tongue, then allows a prim little smile to bend them. "I suggest we move the Conclave from the hall into the master library. My private bath will serve us by the outer door, and I will have our meals brought to us, and water every hour."
Carlin is patently undismayed by the Reachian's composed and tactful scolding, all his attention focused on the cookie before him. He turns it in, giving it a little wiggle of hello before he takes a snipped bite of it, neatly cutting it in half so he can examine the jelly on the inside. He seems engrossed in this, and yet his response is ready immediately once the younger man allows him to speak it: "Samien, you are no fun at all." His eyes flash up to the Reachian, but if his response creates an unease, he passes it off quickly with a broad grin that glints teeth against his heavy beard. "And you don't trust me. Come, would I ask you to raise the ire of our peers, when that would only make agreement harder to reach? Think sense of me." An eyebrow quirks briefly, but his eyes squint down with amusement shortly after, and he munches the last piece of his cookie. Crumbs go fluttering everywhere now, since he doesn't bother to stop chewing when he speaks. "I offer stirring speeches about devotion and expedience and concern for Nabol's people. You offer a host's most gracious accomodations - the most comfortable chairs, the best food, an endless -" he tilts back and forth the water glass in his left hand - "supply of drink, and we have everything we need to have the decision made by day's end." Cookie-free now, his hand goes up to brush away the crumbs stuck in his beard. "Desperate measures only, of course. I'd save such a ploy for the last day. And I would bring them on their own accord, or not bring them at all. Well?" The eyebrow goes up again and he waits, expectant.
Samien at last unleans from the wall and executes a bizarre little bow. It is courtly, to be sure, as he might do inviting a lady to dance: head bowed, right foot out and ankles turned, knees bent a bit, nothing more. "The last day only, sir. I would of course support such a little inconvenience with every - convenience I may provide; of this you have my word." Straightening, so that it is apparent the gesture so small and grand was made to cement his pledge, the Lord High Reaches turns his shoulder to Carlin and slips again 'round the table, but pauses there on the other side. "But sir, I did offer." Brilliance and mischief do little, now, to lend his deep cool eyes warmth; nor does the skip of a wink he allows. He has mere minutes left to rid himself of cookies and acquire whatever he may in return, but lifts his chin and waits a moment, as if his elder must dismiss him before he can take his leave.
Carlin's accord is much less formal, another of those easy chuckles rolled out from his endless supply. "And I did make stirring speeches," he returns, a laugh still rippling his words. "But I will make them again." He turns back to the table, leaning over it and making a stir through the cookies as he endeavors to find another of those jam ones he likes so much. It is a dismissal, and yet - over his shoulder he advises absently, "You should consider my daughter, Samien. She scolds me very nicely also." No gentle chuckle this, but a round booming laugh to rival that one from earlier - a laugh that almost makes him spill his water, in fact. Not that Carlin seems to mind.
"I am sure I shall do so, sir," replies Samien, amicable if dry. Having had his dismissal, Reaches' young lord delays no more in slipping away, leaving his guest with a little smile and a sparkling eye, and then just his back, that too soon disappearing down the stretch of the hallway.
10-18-2006 (Pindan [Nerat], Carlin):
Lunchtime has the gathered ensemble of Blood moving about, putting together meals from far too many choices, and talking with one another. Lord Pindan of Bitra is standing with an empty plate in one hand, studying the choices with a gaze more thoughtful than such decisions really warrant. He is a rather plain looking man. Average height, average build, dark hair, dark eyes. It could maybe be easy to forget he's in the room at all, save for the way his comments always manage to sneak in and jab just so at most Concalve meetings. And, naturally, those jabs are usually aimed at Odern. So perhaps his general quiet throughout the morning's meetings had something to do witht he fact that his favored victim is in absentia. Finally, with a small sigh, Pindan selects the basics. Meatroll. Redfruit. Mug of ale. A man of simple tastes, or perhaps a conscious attempt to counterbalance his younger brother's extravagant displays of, well, you name it.
Then Carlin is his weyrshare's opposite: big height, big belly, big beard, big smile - big man. He opted for a bathroom break before coming to eat, which explains why he's late to the lunchroom. It is, perhaps, less a product of his effusive personality than of his role in the assembly of this affair that makes his entrance such a noteworthy one: the Lords of Pern are too subtle to stop what they are doing and look, but there is a distinct flicking of eyes in his direction. And of course he enjoys it. He revels in it, though he is as subtle as his watchers: he pretends not to see any glances, and simply broadens his grin as he joins Pindan by the lunch table. The back of his hand, newly washed from the bathroom break, smacks against his palm with a wet crack that punctuates his hearty, "Well, Pindan! Here we are." He steps up next to the Bitran and shoots him a grin, reaching distractedly for food - much less picky than the other man, he chooses simple cheese and crackers for now.
"It would seem that way, Carlin." The younger man glances up and over as Benden arrives, as if, perhaps, he had not noticed the entrance of the other man. Plate filled, he waits for Carlin to settle on his choice before moving over to select an empty table and sit. The process is slow enough that the invitation is apparent. One ofthe meatrolls is picked up and bit into. Chew. Watch.
Carlin's grin only broadens at the other's mild reply, allowing his sidelong gaze to slide back to the table. It's quite the assortment that Samien's set out for them, and once he starts paying attention to it, Benden's Lord has quite a bit of interest in selecting the choicest tidbits and tossing them haphazardly onto his plate. Only once he's satisfied that he has at least one sample of the most intriguing foods does he take Pindan's implied invitation to sit at his table - and if the invitation wasn't intended, that's just too bad for Pindan. "Well?" He throws the word out expectantly as he thumps into his chair, as though there hadn't been a pause of several minutes between Pindan's last comment and his current prompt. "You're leaving us all hanging, man. What do you /think/?"
Chew chew. Pindan studies the jovial Lord Benden with his dark eyes, masticating his food thoroughly before swallowing. "I think you've got your work cut out for you, Carlin. I think," bite, chew, swallow. "that I am content to leave things as they are. Odern's an idiot. He's always been an idiot. Now he's just an ill-favored idiot."
Carlin squints down on a happy little smile, not in the least bit perturbed by Pindan's cynicism. "Well, you left that decision rather to the last minute, didn't you?" he asks, adding a short bark of laughter to take the edge off his tease. He turns down to his plate, picking up a piece of cheese with an almost comical delicacy - meaty fingers, tiny slabs of cheese, and breakable crackers do not mix - and plucking it down on top of a cracker. "It's a piss of a situation for anyone, Pindan," he offers - the words are solemn, but his tone is not at all. "Not really a question of favor, but of ability." He raises the cracker towards his lips, but before biting it one index finger frees itself to tap against his temple significantly. Then he pops the cracker in.
The way Carlin eats is studied. The way he speaks is studied. Pindan comes from a gambling family, and he has learned how to look for tells, and how to keep his own to himself. The meatroll, half-eaten, is set down and fingers flick against one another to brush crumbs off and onto the plate. "Waited until the last minute? I didn't think anybody doubted my views of Odern." A faint smirk. "I don't like this line you're treading, Benden. Since when does a Concalve decide the aptitude of a Lord's ability? We do that before a succession. We do that to nudge an old man into stepping down. Odern is neither."
Carlin does everything effusively, so there's much to be studied in his actions. The cracker gets crunched while he listens, lips pressed together at the end to see whether any crumbs got stuck in his beard on the way in; finding none, he starts to set up another cracker. "Benden?" he demands suddenly, his voice booming suddenly into the relaxed atmosphere of the lunch room. The glances this time are less covert, because such an exclamation is a justifiable cause of curiosity; again, though the man who prompted the stares ignores them. "Let's not be unfriendly, Pindan." By now, his voice has dropped back to normal levels, so that only the most blatant eavesdroppers could pick him up. "I've a name, you've one - we're discussing the future of Pern over a very pleasant lunch. Have you tried these crackers? You wouldn't think crackers could be excellent, but they are." He holds his newly cheese-topped prize out to the other Lord, giving it a tempting wiggle.
"Let's not be patronizing either, Carlin. If I want crackers, I'll take some for myself." Then, a bit belatedly "Thank you." The attention, Pindan could have done without but, well, he's sitting with Carlin. That hope was over before it began. "I don't like it," he says simply. "I'm not for it."
Carlin's eyebrows raise at the response, and he turns his cracker back towards himself with a shrug. The two (lord and cracker) get to stare at each other for a half-second before Carlin pops it into his mouth, and this time he crunches down it hard enough to send the crumbs flying, yes indeed, into his beard. "Just pointing them out, Pindan. I understand you wanting to have a go at me, but it's lunch time after all. Surely you realize that part of my clever plan to convince you begins with an assault on your senses." Amusement twinkles in his eyes as he watches the other man, his gaze steady and still untroubled by the Bitran's concern for the topic. "Damn good crackers." Pointlessly, perhaps, since he's soon to eat another, he brushes the bits of cracker from his beard.
"Well, that's a kindness at least," muses Pindan with a faint smirk. "If the crackers are worthy, this gathering won't have been a total waste." At the splay of crumbs, Pindan leans back a bit to keep the crumbly debris from getting near him. His own meal continues to go mostly untouched. "Please consider my senses assaulted, Carlin. Proceed to the next step of your clever plan, Lunch is only an hour, after all."
Carlin answers the faint smirk with a brilliant grin, adding a very quick hint of a wink on the end of it. The grin wipes off, however, and he affects a look of dumb innocence - patently fake, and meant to be so - at the invitation. It's really more of an interruption than a change: within seconds, his grin is back again, and he's slipping cheese on his next inevitable cracker. "Well, you capitulated so easily. Here I thought I'd spend the lunch hour wooing you." A bark of laughter, then, and he stuffs the cracker in, drawing his fingers back along his lips to pick up the crumbs before his hand leaves his mouth. He flicks them off over his plate. "Can't have silence at the table, though, can we? Give me an argument, Pindan, and we'll spar over it."
There is a slow exhalation. A weary sigh. "I'd rather not waste time dancing around it. Here's what it copmes down to..." Pindan scoots forward a bit, voice lowering a touch. Not everyone needs to hear this. "One. I don't like the precident it would set. I said that already. Two. I have no qualms with Odern making a villian out of himself. In fact, it serves me rather well. Let him sit on his tithes if he wants. The worse he is, the better off I am. Finally, there's no one you could set over Nabol that would give me a better advantage than Odern." Brows lift and hands clasp lightly. "So. Woo me, Carlin." Another man might not be able to get away with those last couple of words, but Pindan's deadpan is flawless. An honest gambler, is he. He knows when to put his cards on the table.
Carlin goes poking through his food while he listens, but at least he has a concentrated frown on his face this time, and adds an occasional nod to show that he understands the frank points laid out before him. At last, his decision is: noodle salad. Grabbing a fork, he scoops up a generous quantity of food and lets it hang there, one curly noodle dangling distractingly off the edge, while he at last turns his gaze directly onto Pindan. "The precedent's the same as the one for senile Lords: Odern's not fit to Hold. As for how you look, you'll look pretty bad once I make you look bad. So I suggest you get your ass in gear and start thinking about which of Odern's /successors/ suits you best." The dangly noodle falls off his fork with a small, audible plop, drawing a frown from Lord Carlin. "Damnit." He stabs the thing and stuffs it, along with other noodles, into his mouth. "My wife tells me I get grumpy when I don't eat," is his suddenly mild, almost (but not quite) apologetic explanation.
"Ah. Listen Carlin, do you think if I was the only one who felt this way, I'd be so frank with you?" The plopped noodle is peered at before Pindan looks back up at the man keeping his company. "I'm not, and I don't suggest you push too hard to sully my reputation." His gaze drifts, now, down to his own unfinished meal. "Carsin's been keeping some interesting company. Company that I have been good enough to keep discreet. For the sake of our friendship."
And another booming laugh greets the threat, Carlin throwing his head back and keeping his laugh up for some time. "Oh, come, he could give me just as much of a return on your Gavin - only, you'd care, Pindan, and I don't. The lad knows better than to make with other boys, and that's the last I care about; he can whore about all he likes." He holds up a hand, though, waving it while he regains composure after that booming laughter - and of course, it drew more attention to their conversation. "But I don't push to sully your reputation. Rather, you should push, to improve it." The fork tilts down to point at Pindan for a moment, pinning him, then delves into the noodles. "This is a popular thing. Nabol's refugees have gone all over Pern - you must have some of your own - and they're making a stir about Odern. Their Lord has failed them, where are the other Lords to protect them?" he mimicks a higher voice, apparently one of the refugees, before plumping noodles into his mouth. "Mm." This a bite. "And where the weyr? Well, High Reaches won't fly without tithe, and that leaves a gaping hole right over Nabol Hold for - I assume you've heard who else flew Nabol." A sharply arched eyebrow awaits Pindan's confirmation, and a pause in the chewing of food.
Pindan's eyes narrow just slightly at the laughter and composure is regained as Carlin continues. He's listening. He's hearing, but at that last he is outwardly curious. "I had heard three wings. Riders from High Reaches mostly, but not exclusively. A respectable showing, for what it was." One eyebrow quivers, but does not actually lift. "What else?"
Carlin keeps his response, for once, simple. "Instigators."
Pindan's eyes narrow again. "That's impossible. They couldn't...they're stuck. Over there." Far far away. "How do you know it's not just useless gossip?" Suddenly, the half-eaten meatroll is picked up, another good chunk torn off by white teeth. He chews as he waits for more information.
Carlin's helpful moods are short-lived, and this one is already gone. A broad grin, pasta stuck at one bottom corner, greets the other Lord's disbelief, but there's at least a wry element to his cheer. "Every useless gossip claims his sources are trustworthy, Pindan, but I won't bore you with mine. Investigate your own, if you like, and confirm if you like, but for now let us rely on our logic and consider the possibility first of all. We know there's been contact - a Reachian queen. They can hardly be stuck, with that kind of a contact. We know Nabol is a weak point - she knew, when she left. And it cannot be long before the weyrs tire of Odern enough that they are willing to let the consequence fall. Only, they are no longer the only ones interested in making a point." A pause here, but it's not dramatic: Carlin has noticed the noodle in his teeth, and must pause to pick it out. After he does, his fork goes back to the plate, already scooping around for another generous forkful. "So?" he prompts over the scraping sound of his silverware. "Do you act before it becomes a problem, Pindan, or after?"
Pindan's jaw works slightly. "If it's true," and indeed there is quite a stress on that first word. -If-. "I don't see how it ultimately changes anything overmuch. If Odern won't tithe, I can't imagine him inviting criminals into his yard. Nabol can't continue this way indefinately and -they- can't set foot on the ground without getting sent right back where they came from or worse. It's troublesome. It's not dire." He dusts his hands off over his plate again. "Odern's choices are bad, but they're not senile. We move against him, what's to stop a conclave forming for the next unpopular decision? We must be left to run our holds as we see best fit. How do you keep this from being the first of many such oustings? It could slide that way. You have to admit that."
Carlin rolls out a low chuckle, delaying his answer while there's food in his mouth. Even the chuckle forces him to raise a finger up, poke a stray noodle piece back from his beard. "Certainly. The only thing one can predict about posterity is that it will be stupid." Another chuckle interrupts the thought, as Lord Carlin sets down his fork and starts picking through for a new finger food to sample. He alights on an odd little roll with meat tucked within. "But Odern's decisions go far beyond the bounds of unpopularity, and if he is not precisely senile, he has invented his own version of madness. What unpopular decisions will you make, Pindan, that will leave your Hold and your people exposed to the danger of Thread? Meanwhile, burrows will go uncontrolled - more of a problem for say, Samien, than for you or I - " he quirks a brows at this, squinting his eyes down over the thought - "but a problem, and our own Holds will be carry the weight of more refugees fleeing the area." Then he leans forward, the little finger-food still clutched in his fingers, but uneaten; he suspends it over his plate. "And we would be wrong, to think that the Instigators need to set foot on the ground to do damage. That was our lesson the first time." On this somewhat cryptic warning, Carlin leans back, yielding Pindan the table, and pops the meat-wrap into his mouth.
"I think we all learned our lesson from the last time," is Pindan's clipped response. "I still think 'madness' is too easy a thing to interpret. There may be reason this time. But, as you say, posterity is stupid." And Carlin is awarded one of those small smirks for the phrase. "And if this is done now, it sets the expectation that it can be done again. On the one hand, perhaps that will keep the rest of us doing our duties to the Weyrs. But it will also have some young sod trying to get a rival hauled off his title for convenience sake."
Carlin toys with his next finger-food, rolling it open and giving the meat inside a light poke with his fingernail. A small quantity of juice from it leaks onto his fingernail, and this he examines casually before wiping it off on the edge of his plate. "As I say," he agrees, "posterity is stupid. If you are looking for a standard, Pindan - well, I'm hardly the last word, am I?" A beaming, bearded smile is turned upon him, and lasts to warm his coming words. "But I, for one, would not like to set standards in stone, if that is what you're fishing for. What standards would we set? That a healer verify Odern's madness? Healers are easier to bribe than a whole Conclave full of Lords. Should we define 'negligence' as endangering one's people? Well, that's necessary sometimes, we both know it." His piece of food gets rolled back up, however ineptly; the edges do not quite stick together the same way. "Judgment call, is what it is." He has to fight to get the tiny wrap to his mouth in one piece, cupping his hand under it and bringing it to his mouth that way.
"That is precisely my point, Carlin. It can't be defined. It can't be pinned down. It can, and mark me, will be, abused." Pindan sighs softly, "And it isn't just you, is it? It would be all of us. You worry about Instigators in the air? I say what you propose to do is far more dangerous." Pindan leans back, arms crossing over his chest, dark eyes studying the Lord of Benden. "Still. If it doesn't stop, we'll lose more than a Turn's worth of Nabolese crops on our tables. How would you make this worth my while?"
Carlin's sudden grin takes on the undeniable aspect of the devilish, as he shushes Pindan with a finger laid across his lips. "Ah," he begins, in the dark rumbling voice one might use for telling kids a scary bedtime story, "but I am the more insidious danger, so I will get away with it. Yes?" The darkness is gone, only a bright, clean exuberance and a laugh to take its place. "We might debate it endlessly, but then we'd have no time for lunch." Of course, they're already awfully close to the end of the lunch hour, and no doubt Carlin decides to point this out deliberately; certainly he directs a small, slightly saddened gaze down at his food, so much of which he didn't get to sample. "So your question. How would I make it worth your while? Shall I single-handedly elect your most favorable candidate? Or give discounts on my best wines? No, Pindan, the benefits are as I've already told you. Secure your hold, and do it such that the people celebrate you. What more you want - eh," he shrugs, "seek for yourself. Don't ask me such questions."
"You get away with it if we allow it," concedes Pindan. "My hold is secure and my people are content enough. I don't need to play hero to have their good graces." Huff. "You dragged us out here, Carlin. You want this thing done. You need me to do it." The Bitran is sitting up and brushing off his hands a final time. "Lunch isn't almost over. It is over. Think on what you're doing, Carlin. Think on why I'd want to do it with you." He pushes his chair back and rises. It is a rare opportunity for Pindan to peer down at the larger man. "I'll see you at dinner."
Carlin, predictably, evinces no qualms about Pindan's efforts to loom over and remonstrate with him. A toothy grin meets the gambler's calculating gaze, and he salutes the idea with a little wink and a small tilt of his head. "Looking forward to it, man, looking forward to it!" His booming voice is back again, giving a mild start to other lunchroom Lords who had thought themselves safe from his exuberance. He, however, remains in his seat; there are at least a few minutes left, and damned if he won't eat the food while he has them.
10-18-2006 (Carlin, Samien [Benden]):
It has been a hard few days of haggling. Odern's relations are endless, nephews and cousins as well as sons brought up in the discussion, and endless also are the disagreements of Lords who've fostered those relations. Whenever agreement comes too close to being reached, someone will call a break - as now - to rest, refresh, and refer to their advisors; whenever the meeting reconvenes (as it will again in a half hour) all agreement has effectively dissolved. It is away from this frustrating atmosphere that Lord Carlin has retreated, taking to a small alcove set aside for snacks and drinks. At the moment, he is the alcove's only occupant, and by himself the bearded, balding Bendenite muses over an assortment of cookies and a glass of water.
It is the refreshments, surely, that draw the fair young Lord here. They are, at some of these intervals, his tools: little trifles he may carry on a plate in one hand with which to tempt the dainty fingers of dainty daughters and lure the gentry's maids into conversation. It would not be, of course, the privacy of these little alcoves, nor the fact that this one is all but deserted, that he craves; after all, when his initial sweeping glance of the space confirms that it has one occupant, he does not put up his nose and beg away with just a little nod or a word polite. Instead he sweeps on in and takes up a plate, prim fingers lifting cookies into seducing patterns in triad designs - carob, rice, fruit, carob again and repeat - two layers deep. He could never, would never, eat them all himself. But he will, while he arranges the sweets, greet his elder well. "I consider the peach ones exceptional, sir. Might I bring you one, or anything else?"
"The peach ones?" Lord Carlin repeats, in a boom, as he leans forward to look at the selection of cookies Samien is picking out. A slim grin quirks its way through his beard - his own daughter has encountered Lord Samien on one of his seductive rounds, and no doubt he recognizes the ploy from her calm and dispassionate description. "Wouldn't have figured you for a sweets man, Samien," he teases anyway, that slim grin working its way up to a full one. His gaze slides sideways to the other lord, eyes sparkling with impish good humor. Lest the tease cause too much discomfort, he waves it away before long. "Ah, but I'm fine. Tell you the truth, I'm looking for the little jellied ones you had here yesterday. You'd think I'd recognize them, but then perhaps I ate them all." Settling for a simpler cookie, draped in chocolate but jelly-free, the Bendenite pinches it between his fingers while he examines it. "Faranth knows I've had ample opportunity." Pop, in his mouth it goes.
Samien is, as ever, slim, tall, pretty, impeccably coiffed and perfectly pressed. He picks up one last cookie, one of the peach ones; it will not match the design he's created on the plate. He holds it up instead, first as a sample and second as an example. "I delight in sweet things - in moderation, sir," replies the Lord High Reaches, and nips the cookie neatly in half. Chewing, he rounds the table so he can lean against one of the alcove's inside walls. As predicted he simply holds the plate, but the other half of his single cookie goes down the hatch before he speaks again. "We have most certainly had enough chances to stretch our legs. I should like to stretch our fingers, sir, and wet our nibs too, and be done with this ugly business - but I must admit I see no likely end to it myself, so we must struggle on. At least we have good company to see us through the storm." A little tip of his fair chin there to the good Lord Benden, eyes alight with perfect mischief.
Carlin rolls out a low, rumbling chuckle in response to the other Lord's flattery, his own eyes squinching with the mirth of it. "And at times you've better company than the rest of us, I'd wager," he teases (again) shamelessly, crossing his thumb under his fingers till it taps - subtle, yet significant - his wedding ring. Another chuckle shakes him as the finger withdraws and he goes back to examining cookies, this time following Samien's cue to take one of the peach ones. He turns it about between thumb and forefinger while he considers. "And not enough time for that, either. Can't let this fussing go on forever, though, can we - next it'll be another Hold, another Gather, another round of potty breaks for old Darshan." This time his laughter doesn't rumble moderately, but /booms/ as he throws back his head (and throws back the cookie with it), his non-water-holding hand crossing over his belly to hold it still against his chuckles.
"If Darshan lasts that long," replies Samien with the poisonous politeness he is mostly rumored, not known to possess. He inclines his head once, voice gentle, smile so dry it must be assumed - if one is being polite - that he means the remark as a jest. Samien does not take every opportunity to fork his tongue; the timing of this exploitation must be significant. A beat later he laughs, however, a bright and featherweight stuff spun of silk and honey, hardly a match to the Lord Benden's booming and incapable of lasting so long. "As much as I would favor an excuse to see all of my friends and companions again so soon, sir, I do wish to see this matter done this seven. I have not the mind for these negotiations and I must admit they tire me." He has to wait a moment here so he can look a little tired.
Carlin's chuckles are subsiding by that point - hand still on his belly, but head down - and the poisonous yet humorous comment registers on his features with a brief raise of his eyebrows, but no halt to his rumbling mirth. The cookie gets crunched at the side of his mouth, little bits of crumb puffing out with his laughter to lodge themselves inconspicuously amidst the ever-accumulating gray hairs of his beard. "Nor I, man, nor I," he agrees once the cookie's finished and his laughter ebbs away. Amusement remains written in the wrinkled lines around his eyes, though, and in the warmth of his baritone voice. "It really is these little breaks that get us. Just when you're on the edge of a vote-" SNAP! Lord Carlin, who orders sons and servants around by the snap of his fingers, is well-practiced in making that sound startle. "Off for a break. I'm of a mind to sit them down and lock all the doors. Or, barring that," he allows with a devil's grin, "to submit a proper motion on the matter." His voice takes a faint turn here, less of the bumbling Bendenite and more of an educated Lord in his diction. In Samien's presence, such a change must fall just short of mockery - and it does - but irony is well-bred, so it's irony he uses.
Samien's startlement is Carlin's to command; the snap of the Benden Lord's fingers draws up the younger man's head and draws his gaze, which is about as much shock as the Lord High Reaches is given to displaying when the matter at hand doesn't involve his mother. Slight as it may be, the effect is likely what Carlin wanted: he has the young man's rapt attention by the time his speech slides into the formal. "There would have to be exceptions," murmurs Lord Samien, after a moment. Perhaps he really is tired, cutting to the chase as soon as the hunting horn is blown. "As part of the motion. Darshan, obviously. How - extensive might such a - " He has the word, and uses it, but he gestures with the cookies upon its speaking, as if he might so very easily concur that he used the wrong word should his elder correct him. "- sequestering need to be, then, to inspire dedication to the topic?"
That moment before the murmur is all Lord Carlin needs to become conveniently distracted by the cookies, as he hunches over the table to pick through them. No pretense of politeness here: if someone else gets to eat a cookie touched by the great Lord of Benden, well, that's their lucky day, and Carlin touches plenty on his way to finding one he wants. "Exceptions?" he murmurs, in return. "What exceptions?" The devil's glint is hard to catch, now that he's hunched over, but he adds a quirk of bearded lip to emphasize for clarity. "After all, this is a pressing, urgent matter." If there's a joke at Lord Darshan's expense to be detected in his answer, it's just there: his tone becomes mildly urgent when his word does, throwing with it a child's hint of an unmentionable need to pee. Aside from that, the Ruathan Lord gets spared Benden's attention: "Who among us wouldn't stay in as long as it took to resolve Nabol's stability?" His hand makes a sudden dive through the platter, pulling up a rounded cookie with a spot of red in it. "Ah!" Carlin exclaims, delighted. "A jam."
If Carlin won't laugh at his joke, Samien will: more of that candyfluff stuff, a little chuckle to charm and delight, though surely only a few of his butterfly girls would find the Benden lord's jest amusing. "I might not have," he says after that, in due time, while his guest searches for and finds his desired treat. Just as his laughter was weightless, so are his words; all of the solemnity and adulthood they require may be conveyed quite simply by the level and icy regard, the blessing of High Reaches' Blood, with which Lord Samien fixes the older man. He is indifferent, of a sudden, to cookies. "But I host our Conclave, and I host the season's gather. And I would stick us to a decision, Carlin," not 'sir' just now, "with the dearest of pins. That said, I will not have my Hold viewed as a cell or prison. I will not inappropriately inconvenience these Lords together here. There must be washrooms, and food at the ready. We may dine at the same table at which we argue, but we -will- dine." He spares only a moment to wet his lips with a dart of his tongue, then allows a prim little smile to bend them. "I suggest we move the Conclave from the hall into the master library. My private bath will serve us by the outer door, and I will have our meals brought to us, and water every hour."
Carlin is patently undismayed by the Reachian's composed and tactful scolding, all his attention focused on the cookie before him. He turns it in, giving it a little wiggle of hello before he takes a snipped bite of it, neatly cutting it in half so he can examine the jelly on the inside. He seems engrossed in this, and yet his response is ready immediately once the younger man allows him to speak it: "Samien, you are no fun at all." His eyes flash up to the Reachian, but if his response creates an unease, he passes it off quickly with a broad grin that glints teeth against his heavy beard. "And you don't trust me. Come, would I ask you to raise the ire of our peers, when that would only make agreement harder to reach? Think sense of me." An eyebrow quirks briefly, but his eyes squint down with amusement shortly after, and he munches the last piece of his cookie. Crumbs go fluttering everywhere now, since he doesn't bother to stop chewing when he speaks. "I offer stirring speeches about devotion and expedience and concern for Nabol's people. You offer a host's most gracious accomodations - the most comfortable chairs, the best food, an endless -" he tilts back and forth the water glass in his left hand - "supply of drink, and we have everything we need to have the decision made by day's end." Cookie-free now, his hand goes up to brush away the crumbs stuck in his beard. "Desperate measures only, of course. I'd save such a ploy for the last day. And I would bring them on their own accord, or not bring them at all. Well?" The eyebrow goes up again and he waits, expectant.
Samien at last unleans from the wall and executes a bizarre little bow. It is courtly, to be sure, as he might do inviting a lady to dance: head bowed, right foot out and ankles turned, knees bent a bit, nothing more. "The last day only, sir. I would of course support such a little inconvenience with every - convenience I may provide; of this you have my word." Straightening, so that it is apparent the gesture so small and grand was made to cement his pledge, the Lord High Reaches turns his shoulder to Carlin and slips again 'round the table, but pauses there on the other side. "But sir, I did offer." Brilliance and mischief do little, now, to lend his deep cool eyes warmth; nor does the skip of a wink he allows. He has mere minutes left to rid himself of cookies and acquire whatever he may in return, but lifts his chin and waits a moment, as if his elder must dismiss him before he can take his leave.
Carlin's accord is much less formal, another of those easy chuckles rolled out from his endless supply. "And I did make stirring speeches," he returns, a laugh still rippling his words. "But I will make them again." He turns back to the table, leaning over it and making a stir through the cookies as he endeavors to find another of those jam ones he likes so much. It is a dismissal, and yet - over his shoulder he advises absently, "You should consider my daughter, Samien. She scolds me very nicely also." No gentle chuckle this, but a round booming laugh to rival that one from earlier - a laugh that almost makes him spill his water, in fact. Not that Carlin seems to mind.
"I am sure I shall do so, sir," replies Samien, amicable if dry. Having had his dismissal, Reaches' young lord delays no more in slipping away, leaving his guest with a little smile and a sparkling eye, and then just his back, that too soon disappearing down the stretch of the hallway.
10-18-2006 (Pindan [Nerat], Carlin):
Lunchtime has the gathered ensemble of Blood moving about, putting together meals from far too many choices, and talking with one another. Lord Pindan of Bitra is standing with an empty plate in one hand, studying the choices with a gaze more thoughtful than such decisions really warrant. He is a rather plain looking man. Average height, average build, dark hair, dark eyes. It could maybe be easy to forget he's in the room at all, save for the way his comments always manage to sneak in and jab just so at most Concalve meetings. And, naturally, those jabs are usually aimed at Odern. So perhaps his general quiet throughout the morning's meetings had something to do witht he fact that his favored victim is in absentia. Finally, with a small sigh, Pindan selects the basics. Meatroll. Redfruit. Mug of ale. A man of simple tastes, or perhaps a conscious attempt to counterbalance his younger brother's extravagant displays of, well, you name it.
Then Carlin is his weyrshare's opposite: big height, big belly, big beard, big smile - big man. He opted for a bathroom break before coming to eat, which explains why he's late to the lunchroom. It is, perhaps, less a product of his effusive personality than of his role in the assembly of this affair that makes his entrance such a noteworthy one: the Lords of Pern are too subtle to stop what they are doing and look, but there is a distinct flicking of eyes in his direction. And of course he enjoys it. He revels in it, though he is as subtle as his watchers: he pretends not to see any glances, and simply broadens his grin as he joins Pindan by the lunch table. The back of his hand, newly washed from the bathroom break, smacks against his palm with a wet crack that punctuates his hearty, "Well, Pindan! Here we are." He steps up next to the Bitran and shoots him a grin, reaching distractedly for food - much less picky than the other man, he chooses simple cheese and crackers for now.
"It would seem that way, Carlin." The younger man glances up and over as Benden arrives, as if, perhaps, he had not noticed the entrance of the other man. Plate filled, he waits for Carlin to settle on his choice before moving over to select an empty table and sit. The process is slow enough that the invitation is apparent. One ofthe meatrolls is picked up and bit into. Chew. Watch.
Carlin's grin only broadens at the other's mild reply, allowing his sidelong gaze to slide back to the table. It's quite the assortment that Samien's set out for them, and once he starts paying attention to it, Benden's Lord has quite a bit of interest in selecting the choicest tidbits and tossing them haphazardly onto his plate. Only once he's satisfied that he has at least one sample of the most intriguing foods does he take Pindan's implied invitation to sit at his table - and if the invitation wasn't intended, that's just too bad for Pindan. "Well?" He throws the word out expectantly as he thumps into his chair, as though there hadn't been a pause of several minutes between Pindan's last comment and his current prompt. "You're leaving us all hanging, man. What do you /think/?"
Chew chew. Pindan studies the jovial Lord Benden with his dark eyes, masticating his food thoroughly before swallowing. "I think you've got your work cut out for you, Carlin. I think," bite, chew, swallow. "that I am content to leave things as they are. Odern's an idiot. He's always been an idiot. Now he's just an ill-favored idiot."
Carlin squints down on a happy little smile, not in the least bit perturbed by Pindan's cynicism. "Well, you left that decision rather to the last minute, didn't you?" he asks, adding a short bark of laughter to take the edge off his tease. He turns down to his plate, picking up a piece of cheese with an almost comical delicacy - meaty fingers, tiny slabs of cheese, and breakable crackers do not mix - and plucking it down on top of a cracker. "It's a piss of a situation for anyone, Pindan," he offers - the words are solemn, but his tone is not at all. "Not really a question of favor, but of ability." He raises the cracker towards his lips, but before biting it one index finger frees itself to tap against his temple significantly. Then he pops the cracker in.
The way Carlin eats is studied. The way he speaks is studied. Pindan comes from a gambling family, and he has learned how to look for tells, and how to keep his own to himself. The meatroll, half-eaten, is set down and fingers flick against one another to brush crumbs off and onto the plate. "Waited until the last minute? I didn't think anybody doubted my views of Odern." A faint smirk. "I don't like this line you're treading, Benden. Since when does a Concalve decide the aptitude of a Lord's ability? We do that before a succession. We do that to nudge an old man into stepping down. Odern is neither."
Carlin does everything effusively, so there's much to be studied in his actions. The cracker gets crunched while he listens, lips pressed together at the end to see whether any crumbs got stuck in his beard on the way in; finding none, he starts to set up another cracker. "Benden?" he demands suddenly, his voice booming suddenly into the relaxed atmosphere of the lunch room. The glances this time are less covert, because such an exclamation is a justifiable cause of curiosity; again, though the man who prompted the stares ignores them. "Let's not be unfriendly, Pindan." By now, his voice has dropped back to normal levels, so that only the most blatant eavesdroppers could pick him up. "I've a name, you've one - we're discussing the future of Pern over a very pleasant lunch. Have you tried these crackers? You wouldn't think crackers could be excellent, but they are." He holds his newly cheese-topped prize out to the other Lord, giving it a tempting wiggle.
"Let's not be patronizing either, Carlin. If I want crackers, I'll take some for myself." Then, a bit belatedly "Thank you." The attention, Pindan could have done without but, well, he's sitting with Carlin. That hope was over before it began. "I don't like it," he says simply. "I'm not for it."
Carlin's eyebrows raise at the response, and he turns his cracker back towards himself with a shrug. The two (lord and cracker) get to stare at each other for a half-second before Carlin pops it into his mouth, and this time he crunches down it hard enough to send the crumbs flying, yes indeed, into his beard. "Just pointing them out, Pindan. I understand you wanting to have a go at me, but it's lunch time after all. Surely you realize that part of my clever plan to convince you begins with an assault on your senses." Amusement twinkles in his eyes as he watches the other man, his gaze steady and still untroubled by the Bitran's concern for the topic. "Damn good crackers." Pointlessly, perhaps, since he's soon to eat another, he brushes the bits of cracker from his beard.
"Well, that's a kindness at least," muses Pindan with a faint smirk. "If the crackers are worthy, this gathering won't have been a total waste." At the splay of crumbs, Pindan leans back a bit to keep the crumbly debris from getting near him. His own meal continues to go mostly untouched. "Please consider my senses assaulted, Carlin. Proceed to the next step of your clever plan, Lunch is only an hour, after all."
Carlin answers the faint smirk with a brilliant grin, adding a very quick hint of a wink on the end of it. The grin wipes off, however, and he affects a look of dumb innocence - patently fake, and meant to be so - at the invitation. It's really more of an interruption than a change: within seconds, his grin is back again, and he's slipping cheese on his next inevitable cracker. "Well, you capitulated so easily. Here I thought I'd spend the lunch hour wooing you." A bark of laughter, then, and he stuffs the cracker in, drawing his fingers back along his lips to pick up the crumbs before his hand leaves his mouth. He flicks them off over his plate. "Can't have silence at the table, though, can we? Give me an argument, Pindan, and we'll spar over it."
There is a slow exhalation. A weary sigh. "I'd rather not waste time dancing around it. Here's what it copmes down to..." Pindan scoots forward a bit, voice lowering a touch. Not everyone needs to hear this. "One. I don't like the precident it would set. I said that already. Two. I have no qualms with Odern making a villian out of himself. In fact, it serves me rather well. Let him sit on his tithes if he wants. The worse he is, the better off I am. Finally, there's no one you could set over Nabol that would give me a better advantage than Odern." Brows lift and hands clasp lightly. "So. Woo me, Carlin." Another man might not be able to get away with those last couple of words, but Pindan's deadpan is flawless. An honest gambler, is he. He knows when to put his cards on the table.
Carlin goes poking through his food while he listens, but at least he has a concentrated frown on his face this time, and adds an occasional nod to show that he understands the frank points laid out before him. At last, his decision is: noodle salad. Grabbing a fork, he scoops up a generous quantity of food and lets it hang there, one curly noodle dangling distractingly off the edge, while he at last turns his gaze directly onto Pindan. "The precedent's the same as the one for senile Lords: Odern's not fit to Hold. As for how you look, you'll look pretty bad once I make you look bad. So I suggest you get your ass in gear and start thinking about which of Odern's /successors/ suits you best." The dangly noodle falls off his fork with a small, audible plop, drawing a frown from Lord Carlin. "Damnit." He stabs the thing and stuffs it, along with other noodles, into his mouth. "My wife tells me I get grumpy when I don't eat," is his suddenly mild, almost (but not quite) apologetic explanation.
"Ah. Listen Carlin, do you think if I was the only one who felt this way, I'd be so frank with you?" The plopped noodle is peered at before Pindan looks back up at the man keeping his company. "I'm not, and I don't suggest you push too hard to sully my reputation." His gaze drifts, now, down to his own unfinished meal. "Carsin's been keeping some interesting company. Company that I have been good enough to keep discreet. For the sake of our friendship."
And another booming laugh greets the threat, Carlin throwing his head back and keeping his laugh up for some time. "Oh, come, he could give me just as much of a return on your Gavin - only, you'd care, Pindan, and I don't. The lad knows better than to make with other boys, and that's the last I care about; he can whore about all he likes." He holds up a hand, though, waving it while he regains composure after that booming laughter - and of course, it drew more attention to their conversation. "But I don't push to sully your reputation. Rather, you should push, to improve it." The fork tilts down to point at Pindan for a moment, pinning him, then delves into the noodles. "This is a popular thing. Nabol's refugees have gone all over Pern - you must have some of your own - and they're making a stir about Odern. Their Lord has failed them, where are the other Lords to protect them?" he mimicks a higher voice, apparently one of the refugees, before plumping noodles into his mouth. "Mm." This a bite. "And where the weyr? Well, High Reaches won't fly without tithe, and that leaves a gaping hole right over Nabol Hold for - I assume you've heard who else flew Nabol." A sharply arched eyebrow awaits Pindan's confirmation, and a pause in the chewing of food.
Pindan's eyes narrow just slightly at the laughter and composure is regained as Carlin continues. He's listening. He's hearing, but at that last he is outwardly curious. "I had heard three wings. Riders from High Reaches mostly, but not exclusively. A respectable showing, for what it was." One eyebrow quivers, but does not actually lift. "What else?"
Carlin keeps his response, for once, simple. "Instigators."
Pindan's eyes narrow again. "That's impossible. They couldn't...they're stuck. Over there." Far far away. "How do you know it's not just useless gossip?" Suddenly, the half-eaten meatroll is picked up, another good chunk torn off by white teeth. He chews as he waits for more information.
Carlin's helpful moods are short-lived, and this one is already gone. A broad grin, pasta stuck at one bottom corner, greets the other Lord's disbelief, but there's at least a wry element to his cheer. "Every useless gossip claims his sources are trustworthy, Pindan, but I won't bore you with mine. Investigate your own, if you like, and confirm if you like, but for now let us rely on our logic and consider the possibility first of all. We know there's been contact - a Reachian queen. They can hardly be stuck, with that kind of a contact. We know Nabol is a weak point - she knew, when she left. And it cannot be long before the weyrs tire of Odern enough that they are willing to let the consequence fall. Only, they are no longer the only ones interested in making a point." A pause here, but it's not dramatic: Carlin has noticed the noodle in his teeth, and must pause to pick it out. After he does, his fork goes back to the plate, already scooping around for another generous forkful. "So?" he prompts over the scraping sound of his silverware. "Do you act before it becomes a problem, Pindan, or after?"
Pindan's jaw works slightly. "If it's true," and indeed there is quite a stress on that first word. -If-. "I don't see how it ultimately changes anything overmuch. If Odern won't tithe, I can't imagine him inviting criminals into his yard. Nabol can't continue this way indefinately and -they- can't set foot on the ground without getting sent right back where they came from or worse. It's troublesome. It's not dire." He dusts his hands off over his plate again. "Odern's choices are bad, but they're not senile. We move against him, what's to stop a conclave forming for the next unpopular decision? We must be left to run our holds as we see best fit. How do you keep this from being the first of many such oustings? It could slide that way. You have to admit that."
Carlin rolls out a low chuckle, delaying his answer while there's food in his mouth. Even the chuckle forces him to raise a finger up, poke a stray noodle piece back from his beard. "Certainly. The only thing one can predict about posterity is that it will be stupid." Another chuckle interrupts the thought, as Lord Carlin sets down his fork and starts picking through for a new finger food to sample. He alights on an odd little roll with meat tucked within. "But Odern's decisions go far beyond the bounds of unpopularity, and if he is not precisely senile, he has invented his own version of madness. What unpopular decisions will you make, Pindan, that will leave your Hold and your people exposed to the danger of Thread? Meanwhile, burrows will go uncontrolled - more of a problem for say, Samien, than for you or I - " he quirks a brows at this, squinting his eyes down over the thought - "but a problem, and our own Holds will be carry the weight of more refugees fleeing the area." Then he leans forward, the little finger-food still clutched in his fingers, but uneaten; he suspends it over his plate. "And we would be wrong, to think that the Instigators need to set foot on the ground to do damage. That was our lesson the first time." On this somewhat cryptic warning, Carlin leans back, yielding Pindan the table, and pops the meat-wrap into his mouth.
"I think we all learned our lesson from the last time," is Pindan's clipped response. "I still think 'madness' is too easy a thing to interpret. There may be reason this time. But, as you say, posterity is stupid." And Carlin is awarded one of those small smirks for the phrase. "And if this is done now, it sets the expectation that it can be done again. On the one hand, perhaps that will keep the rest of us doing our duties to the Weyrs. But it will also have some young sod trying to get a rival hauled off his title for convenience sake."
Carlin toys with his next finger-food, rolling it open and giving the meat inside a light poke with his fingernail. A small quantity of juice from it leaks onto his fingernail, and this he examines casually before wiping it off on the edge of his plate. "As I say," he agrees, "posterity is stupid. If you are looking for a standard, Pindan - well, I'm hardly the last word, am I?" A beaming, bearded smile is turned upon him, and lasts to warm his coming words. "But I, for one, would not like to set standards in stone, if that is what you're fishing for. What standards would we set? That a healer verify Odern's madness? Healers are easier to bribe than a whole Conclave full of Lords. Should we define 'negligence' as endangering one's people? Well, that's necessary sometimes, we both know it." His piece of food gets rolled back up, however ineptly; the edges do not quite stick together the same way. "Judgment call, is what it is." He has to fight to get the tiny wrap to his mouth in one piece, cupping his hand under it and bringing it to his mouth that way.
"That is precisely my point, Carlin. It can't be defined. It can't be pinned down. It can, and mark me, will be, abused." Pindan sighs softly, "And it isn't just you, is it? It would be all of us. You worry about Instigators in the air? I say what you propose to do is far more dangerous." Pindan leans back, arms crossing over his chest, dark eyes studying the Lord of Benden. "Still. If it doesn't stop, we'll lose more than a Turn's worth of Nabolese crops on our tables. How would you make this worth my while?"
Carlin's sudden grin takes on the undeniable aspect of the devilish, as he shushes Pindan with a finger laid across his lips. "Ah," he begins, in the dark rumbling voice one might use for telling kids a scary bedtime story, "but I am the more insidious danger, so I will get away with it. Yes?" The darkness is gone, only a bright, clean exuberance and a laugh to take its place. "We might debate it endlessly, but then we'd have no time for lunch." Of course, they're already awfully close to the end of the lunch hour, and no doubt Carlin decides to point this out deliberately; certainly he directs a small, slightly saddened gaze down at his food, so much of which he didn't get to sample. "So your question. How would I make it worth your while? Shall I single-handedly elect your most favorable candidate? Or give discounts on my best wines? No, Pindan, the benefits are as I've already told you. Secure your hold, and do it such that the people celebrate you. What more you want - eh," he shrugs, "seek for yourself. Don't ask me such questions."
"You get away with it if we allow it," concedes Pindan. "My hold is secure and my people are content enough. I don't need to play hero to have their good graces." Huff. "You dragged us out here, Carlin. You want this thing done. You need me to do it." The Bitran is sitting up and brushing off his hands a final time. "Lunch isn't almost over. It is over. Think on what you're doing, Carlin. Think on why I'd want to do it with you." He pushes his chair back and rises. It is a rare opportunity for Pindan to peer down at the larger man. "I'll see you at dinner."
Carlin, predictably, evinces no qualms about Pindan's efforts to loom over and remonstrate with him. A toothy grin meets the gambler's calculating gaze, and he salutes the idea with a little wink and a small tilt of his head. "Looking forward to it, man, looking forward to it!" His booming voice is back again, giving a mild start to other lunchroom Lords who had thought themselves safe from his exuberance. He, however, remains in his seat; there are at least a few minutes left, and damned if he won't eat the food while he has them.