At your disposal
Reyce talks to Sefton about his academic future, and while they're at it, Nabol. Progress is made, and an offer of sorts, but the latter is not accepted.
2-10-2007 (Reyce, Sefton):
The light that spills from Sefton's doorway draws students like moths to a flame. One such moth has not long departed when a new one arrives, the muttered grunt of greetings passed off between the two as they cross paths in the hall. Reyce continues on to the doorway, the ring of his boots stopping abruptly when he's just outside it. A breath spills heavy from his nostrils before he steps forward to kick his boot against the frame, as usual, as he slips up to the part-open entry.
"Come," Sefton drawls lazily -- the Headmaster stands by his desk, this one piled as high as that in his office, but out of Aida's reach, far more disordered. He's leaning forward, weight on both hands, dark curls in his eyes as he peruses whatever it is on the surface that's caught his attention. "Please pour yourself a drink, Reyce. I will be just a moment." He doesn't look up, to offer that greeting. Perhaps nobody else periodically tries to kick his doorframe down.
Reyce is unique like that. Permission granted, he sidesteps his way inside, pausing again when he's just through the door to cast another look around the room and assess what, if anything, has changed. His observations earn no comments, however, as he moves to obey his teacher and pour himself a drink, a bottle selected from the shelf with less hesitation than usual - some habits do change - and poured into a tumbler. He falls quiet then, waiting where he stands to watch his drink and wait for Sefton to finish staring at whatever's on his desk.
The place is as it has ever been, more or less -- bookshelves neat, desk and couch a mess, the bed made neat by someone else. The owner of all these things turns a page, frowning faintly as he runs his gaze down it, almost idly -- certainly, he cannot be reading all the words written there in neat, sloped handwriting. Then, with a shake of his head, the book slaps closed, and the man lifts a hand to rake his curls back from his face. "Forgive me, Reyce. I am at your disposal."
Reyce's eyes lift from his drink, but he's silent a moment, shifting his weight against the shelf he leans on. He processes the closed cover of the book against his own inner reflections, coming to a decision with a drawn sniff. "You're busy, teacher, won't take long. Thing about my -" he pauses for the right word - "studies, here. That's all." A shrug rolls off him as he glances up to find Sefton's eye.
Sefton's eye waits helpfully, dark gaze fixed politely on the other man as he straightens up entirely for the desk -- it does not hold Reyce's gaze, but that is because he is obliged to look down in order to find his own drink, reclaiming it with a lean. "Then I am indeed at your disposal," he confirms, moving out from behind his desk with a slow, back-arching stretch that suggests he's been bent for some time. "Enlighten me."
Reyce stays where he's planted himself, though his eyes track Sefton as he moves around the desk. It's a student's question he's asking, and it's his student's manner he adopts, obedient if somewhat grudgingly so. Ergo, he recites. "Arrangement with the guy before you, Headmaster, was I'd finish here in three turns." He pauses here, eyes squinted as he flicks a scan of features back and forth across Sefton's face. "Want to make it four. Regular term."
"Master Jerion," Sefton murmurs by way of quiet correction, although there's no real discipline in his drawl. He has no flicker of a reaction for the request, surprise, pleasure or otherwise. He simply nods, lifting his glass to his lips to swallow a mouthful before he speaks. "How are your classes progressing, against the previous plan?"
Even without discipline in the correction, Reyce flares his nostrils for a quietly exhaled breath as a nod acknowledges the man's title and name. There's resignation to it, not frustration. "Going all right," he judges, though he tosses a look down at his drink when he does so. The look precedes a drink, tossed back with his usual swiftness. "Finished what I need, most of it."
"It would be helpful if you were behind," Sefton points out, puffing out his cheeks to exhale slowly. "I suppose I could write to your father and tell him that I have grown so exceedingly fond of you that I am not yet willing to give up the sight of your face. Saving that, some academic reason seems helpful."
"Rather you didn't," Reyce answers, his voice a dry imitation of the formalized tones that are so often practiced in etiquette classes. He lowers the drink again, bending his elbow into the shelf he leans on and using that to hold his arm up. "Grades aren't good," he offers. "Requirements done but need - " a snick of distaste - "polish."
"You said it," Sefton murmurs, amusement flashing in his dark eyes over the rim over his glass. "I am, as ever, your servant. I will see to it." His lips quirk then, matching the amusement in his eyes. "It would not serve you so ill to devote some of the time you will spend here pursuing just that thing."
Reyce's brow furrows when Sefton declares himself his servant, his gaze allowed to evade the amusement by looking elsewhere while he takes another drink. "Not interested," he says, sighing alcohol as he finds himself speaking so suddenly after drinking. "In polish." His gaze finds its way back to the teacher now, and he shrugs. "Doesn't work for me."
"As you like, then," Sefton murmurs, his broad shoulders lifting in a brief shrug. "I would have said that your current approach does not serve you either, but perhaps you will pursue a third way. Is there any other way in which I can assist you?" Another sip, as the Headmaster eases down to sit on the edge of his desk, reaching behind him to steady a pile of hides almost automatically.
Reyce does not contest the ineffectuality of his present methods, letting his mouth flatten into a line as he admits the suggestion. "Something like that," he answers the hypothetical third option, though it's that teetering pile of hides he answers to. A distraction, only, before he looks at Sefton once again. A long silence holds him in reserve now, his drink - and a possible excuse for his scrutinizing silence - left unaddressed at his side. "Something else," he says when he decides to speak, however warily and slowly. He draws himself out of his lean against the shelves, pulling into a quick stretch before he turns a heavy look on the door he left open when he entered. "You're busy, though, can leave off."
Sefton allows the silence to draw out without protest, although his drink is not so ill-used, and does not suffer for lack of attention. "Some small amount of time is my own, to use as I please," he observes, as lazy as ever. Slow, but for entirely different reasons. "This is just such time, and I choose to spend it listening. Please, do speak on."
Reyce nods to acknowledge this, yet he doesn't speak on; not immediately. He continues to consider the door, drawing in a quick sniff before he moves to knock it shut with elbow. As the latch clicks quietly into place, he shifts aside to lean against the wall, foregoing the couch. "Keep hearing stuff about Nabol, teacher. This place Five Mines. Not enough, what I hear." His chin tugs up, a hint of defiance (or defense). "Thought you might hear more. Be a favor to me, you said any of it." Enough words; time for a drink.
In silence, Sefton watches his student cross the floor, and the quality of his attention shifts faintly, but perceptibly, as the latch clicks into place. "I thought you had already asked your favour," he observes -- if his audience were another man, and the two were closer, it would be a tease. Just now, perhaps it is grinning bait, instead. "Odern is there," he continues, after a beat. "Is what I hear."
Reyce holds the drink in his mouth, this time, long enough that by the time he finally swallows it down he has to release a little hiss afterwards. Any distaste that lingers in his expression is quickly swept away by the pronouncement of that infamous name, which he greets with a flat nod. "What I hear, too. And people going there. With him, to him, something else - don't know that."
"Nabol is in ruins. They lost crops, livestock, harvest -- it would be easier to tally what they managed to get undercover in time," Sefton replies with a small shrug, although his drawl has turned grave. "For those who have the means to move, there's little call to remain where they are. Berrigan tells me some wish to cross the border to Fort. Others will turn to Odern, if Sorel does not watch. It is unsurprising."
Reyce puffs his cheeks when this dire pronouncement begins, letting air out of them slowly (and quietly) over time as the explanation continues. He runs out of air a few moments before Sefton runs out of words, but even so he holds silent, not taking in a new breath until that final statement has been said. "Mining hold," he murmurs as the newly taken breath leaks out of him. "Can't eat the metal." His eyes narrow with distracted thought.
"No," Sefton agrees. "But if he has not food, he is no worse off than the rest of Nabol. Perhaps he is better, because he has something to trade. Or he will, if he can revivify the mines he has there. He will need, of course, to find trading partners." And on that, the Headmaster's tone is neutral.
Neutral though the tone may be, it attracts Reyce's attention immediately. "Think he can?" he wonders, his eyes flicking across Sefton's teachers as he falls back into silence.
"I am sure he can," Sefton replies quietly, dark eyes gleaming with a spark of something that's almost hidden by his curls. "He will be producing metal. Sorel is not yet strong enough to overshadow those who might othewise hesitate to build connections. Unless some other lend their name to the ban, I should say it is certain he will trade."
Reyce, most likely, expected that answer, and he accepts it with a small sigh breathed lightly through his nose. "There was a ban, probably would trade anyway. Under." The hand that does not hold his drink, slices out, palm flattened and held low in some obscure gesture; under the radar, possibly. "So, probably no good." Another silence, then, "Remember, looking him up before, Nabol's supposed to have lot of money built up and never spent. Sorel's not using it, would think Odern took it with him, what he could."
"Sorel lacks the authority, and others lack the motivation," Sefton replies. "Odern was ill prepared, but there would have been enormous confusion at Nabol in the wake. As others followed him, I do not doubt they retrieved various things from their hiding places, and that many of those were valuable. The Nabolese are a breed of their own." He pauses, sips, swallows. "So Odern has marks, and a mine we imagine he is opening, and the experience -- say what you will, and we both do -- to find those who will trade. What of that?"
Reminded by Sefton's sip, Reyce brings his own drink up for a quick swallow, gulped down this time without any effort to prolong the experience. "Does well, like he's set up to, he gets more people. Can't keep them where he is, probably, wouldn't fit; have to position them other places, maybe holds surrounding. Still look to him, though, do what he says. Sorel allows it or not, he's holder over them by fact. Keeps doing well, gets more people, gets more power. Won't matter what he's supposed to have, he can get away with what he wants to."
"Maybe holds surrounding," Sefton agrees. "Maybe Fort's border, do not think Berrigan does not watch it. Do not think I do not watch it. It would be better if Sorel were to do something about it, rather than others. If he wishes to turn his people's obedience back to where it belongs." The Headmaster puffs his cheeks out, exhaling slowly, as though in faint irritation. "If he does not, we will."
Reyce tilts his chin, dropping his eyes into shadow while he processes the irritation Sefton allows to show. "Better," he agrees. His voice has dropped along with his chin, into a low murmur. "But might not. So Fort comes in before it's a problem, or after." A short sniff brings his head back up, and his eyebrow raises with it.
"And Ruatha," Sefton observes absently. "Timing depends on how fast he builds, and what he does. Sending in guards, or any enforcement, is undesirable. It signals that Sorel cannot hold his own, and although that is clearly true, to announce it openly is another thing. He will be counselled, first."
Reyce turns a brief look on the couch that stands next to him, shifting to the side as he lifts his knee to lean into it. His drink gets turned between his fingers for a while, the gentle sloshing of alcohol his only response for a moment as he thinks. "Could do same as Odern," he suggests finally, watching Sefton. "Hasn't got the marks, or metal, but every person leaves for Odern leaves their land with him. Other people, poor, haven't gone to Odern yet, don't have marks of their own for land, but Sorel could start something. Loan it free, they work their way up, some turns later buy it from him. Could be counselled that way."
"Could indeed be counselled that way," Sefton agrees, drawing the words out slowly, his drawl making the most of every vowel. "I will speak so, should my counsel me sought." A faint grin, as he glances down to his glass, tilting it to watch the liquid run inside it. His counsel will be sought, of course. He is confident. "You do have the makings of a fine steward, Reyce. As some men use their stewards, at any rate."
Reyce's eyes draw into a tight squint, at first, but his expression loosens with a blink when Sefton decides to pass on that counsel. A nod and a low grunt, appreciation, greet it before he tilts back a drink. "Okay," he greets the compliment, somewhat less appreciative of this than he was of the former, but he does follow it up a bit better. "Thanks." Looking up to meet Sefton's eye, he shrugs.
"Am I to claim it for myself, or might I say that I, in turn, had counsel from another?" Sefton's question is idle -- his mind is still half elsewhere, dark eyes on his drink as he tilts it this way and then that. "You lost your last opportunity. This one, you could make more of."
Idea imparted, necessary exchange of thanks complete, Reyce was starting to become (slightly) at ease, and that cannot be allowed. He jerks his nose up with a truncated sniff and a wariness at odds with the idle manner of the question, his eyes flicking rapidly back and forth across the headmaster's features while the fascination of liquid tilting in a glass allows him to do so with impunity. "Might say that," he answers finally, although the words are slow.
One hand comes up, so that Sefton can flick it in a vague dismissal of that gathering tension -- put it away, the gesture says. He has gauged that it exists with a single upward glance, before returning to his examination of his drink. "What do they want for you, back at Benden? Does your brother genuinely desire that you return and act as his Steward?"
Reyce's shoulders bunch, but it's a prelude to a settlement. The gesture registered somehow, and now somehow the build-up of more tension leads him to relaxation as he eases it, one muscle at a time. "No," he admits, rolling a shoulder back even as he speaks. "Early term was my idea, when I got here. Probably Carlin'd like it, I stay longer."
"Longer term than that," Sefton murmurs, in that slow, drawn-out drawl that signals -- or does to the practiced interpreter -- some thought underway that is larger than others, or of more moment. "If he thought that you would not return to Benden -- joyous news, an irritation, or a reaction dependent, perhaps, on your alternative destination?"
Perhaps Reyce might be practiced enough to interpret the momentous thought that lurks beneath Sefton's slow words, but at the moment his own moods distract him, and all the headmaster's curious slowness earns is an eye pinned on him briefly before Reyce closes them both and rolls both shoulders together, settling them finally. "Don't know for sure. Probably he'd -" register another point in Sefton's sentence at this moment. Having just made such an effort ot repress his wariness, he fights down its return, taking a swift drink from his glass and letting it swish between his teeth before he swallows it. "Than what, teacher?" is his new approach.
"A longer term absence than the extra turn of study I will propose to him," Sefton elaborates, still studying his drink.
Reyce's nostrils flare, taking in breath audibly. There's little enough left to his drink by now, but he draws it out as far as he can, turning the glass up to his lips and letting a slow trickle of liquid through while he watches Sefton in heavily controlled silence. He waits for the headmaster to elaborate further on his own.
And soo Sefton is obliged to continue, still rolling his drink in slow circles. "If I were to propose to him, or to suggest or imply, or some variant that lies somewhere on the scale between those things, that you might absent yourself from Benden for the foreseeable future, do you know what his reaction would be? Or your father's?"
Sooner or later (and rather sooner), Reyce runs out of alcohol to delay his own response, and in the middle of Sefton's explanation has to set the drink down, finished, on the arm of the couch beside him. "My father's either yes or no," he judges simply. "All I can say for him. Carlin, probably first like keeping me away, later be suspicious why I'm doing it." And here, though the arched eyebrow makes the implied question clear enough, Reyce goes ahead and asks bluntly, "Why would I be doing it?"
"Knowing you, Reyce, you would not be doing it at all, because it would mean accepting an offer of assistance, and you are disinclined to do such things," Sefton murmurs, finally looking up. Thoughtful phase complete. "A steward can be an accountant, and a manager of ledgers, or he can something significantly more. A personal advisor, confidante, strategist. To be so requires the desire to serve his Lord, and that is something you lack. I cannot conceive of you harbouring sufficient respect for any man to do such a thing."
Reyce's mouth twists sideways, wry while he listens. He pulls the expression straight again before he answers, in a flat tone, "Can't work for you, teacher. Going to be Benden's Lord, can't have a desire to serve Fort." Although he echoes the other man's words, he has the decency not to fall into one of his usual imitations when he does.
"If you go home, a turn early or a turn late, and keep ledgers for your brother, you will never do more," Sefton replies, as though he speaks the most obvious truth imaginable. And to punctuate his words, he finally lifts his glass, and drains it.
"Keep ledgers for my father," Reyce corrects, swift but not sharp. After that, he waits in silence for Sefton to finish draining his glass, his own gaze held steady in case eye contact ever comes his way.
"Your father will not make you his steward, I wouldn't think," Sefton murmurs, turning his gaze from his empty glass to the shelf full of bottles, as though contemplating the options lined up there. "He will make you your brother's, to assist him with his duties as heir. Closely supervised, of course. I do not imagine he is blind to the abilities and limitations of each of you."
Denied eye contact, Reyce lets a heavy puff of breath flap his lips and settles for staring straight ahead at nothing. "Can't work for you, teacher. Can't work for Fort, can't work for you. Call it my problem, my attitude, whatever, answer's the same."
Sefton moves then, shifting his weight off the desk, and crossing over to reach up for the tall, thin bottle on the end, and turning away so he can set his glass down on the shelf, and pour. "What would you call it, Reyce, if you were obliged to find a name for it?"
"My interests," Reyce responds.
"Keep speaking," Sefton prompts, a note of boredom entering his tone for the first time. "I do not wish to draw teeth."
Reyce breathes out another heavy note, this time through his nose. "Already said, teacher. You're looking for a steward, need a man who's loyal to you, does what you say and wants to. That's not me. First loyalty's to Benden. And what I want's to be Lord there. Told you that before. You say my father won't have me as steward, too many limitations, but in the same breath suggest you might. Doesn't work, teacher. I'll get the job at Benden, hold it, work from there."
"I have said a number of things, but I do not believe I have asked you to be my steward at any point," Sefton replies, turning his head for a moment, as though his words must be clearly heard. "I observed you would be very good at the job. Certainly, I think it is a pity that it is not the one you want. I think it would suit you better, ultimately. I think you would be happier." His broad shoulders lift in a brief shrug, as he turns back to his work. "What I did was explain the range of work a steward might undertake, from playing with numbers to playing with entire Holds and more. I said that your father will offer you one sort of role. I asked what he would say if you went elsewhere, to take up a different sort -- or if you said you planned to do so."
For all his efforts to restrain himself, Reyce is slowly growing frustrated, clearly. He holds himself silent for a moment until the evidence of his frustration has burned down from his eyes, waiting until he trusts his control over his voice to say (in stripped, level tones), "And why would I do that."
"To give your father," Sefton replies -- as though stating the simplest thing in the world -- "incentive to offer you something more than what you will have under your current circumstances. Would you like another drink?"
Reyce glances down at the glass he's left resting on the couch arm, but shakes his head. "Like to hear what you're thinking in specific, teacher. Don't feel like pulling teeth, either."
That, abruptly, prompts Sefton to laugh, and his laugher is still audible in his voice when he replies, warming his drawl. "Let him think that he needs to tempt you home. You, of all men, allowing yourself to be taken for granted, Reyce." The bottle goes back up on the shelf, and the Headmaster turns.
Reyce, thanks to Issa, has developed a tolerance for being suddenly laughed at, although his only return is to twist his lip up along with a quick sniff. His expression settles back into place with a twitch, neutral for the Headmaster when he turns. "How?" Reyce wonders simply.
"Have I not been clear?" So well, they're getting along. Clearly Sefton feels the need to impose on that mutual goodwill, although again, it's with that grin that would, if Reyce were a friend, be a tease. "Stay another turn. Speak to your father. Tell him I have made you an offer. Let him win a point over me, which will please him, by having you in the end. To have you, and be sure that I do not, he will offer you something better than adding and subtracting for your brother. You musut have something more, or else you can resign yourself to that fate for far longer than you wish."
Reyce not being a friend, he lets that teasing grin roll off him in his newfound neutrality. It doesn't break until Sefton's finished speaking, whereupon perhaps Reyce trusts more in his own self-control, for a subtle shift in manner brings him out of that neutral shell and back into his sullen self. "Said that to him, you made an offer, I might take it, think that'd piss him off. Don't know he'd care enough to outbid you, but know I can get him to give me the job I'm sent here for at least, even if he has thought of shunting me to Carlin."
"I am sure you know him best," Sefton replies, lifting his free hand -- the one not holding the glass -- so that, palm up, it can indicate his innocence in the matter. "Consider the conversation closed. I will speak to him about having you for the extra turn, and discuss the possibility of attempting to cover you in at least a thin veneer of civility, while you compensate for some grades that fell below requirements."
Picking up his empty glass, now the conversation draws to a close, Reyce considers the liquor cabinet - such a tempting place to leave said empty glass- and Sefton's proximity to it. He ends with his eyes on Sefton's face, offering a nod to confirm the message he will be bringing Reyce's father about his extra turn, and then takes unfair advantage of that open hand the other man was using just to gesture. He steps forward and offers his glass to the hand, slipping his fingers up to hold just the top of it, which allows room for Sefton to take hold of the bottom. "Okay," he says, and, "Thanks." He'll wait, watching his teacher, for the glass to be taken, but as soon as it is he'll head for the door.
"I am at your disposal," Sefton murmurs, returning, circular, to his earlier words. He takes the glass, inclines his head, and turns away to set down both glasses, as Reyce departs.
2-10-2007 (Reyce, Sefton):
The light that spills from Sefton's doorway draws students like moths to a flame. One such moth has not long departed when a new one arrives, the muttered grunt of greetings passed off between the two as they cross paths in the hall. Reyce continues on to the doorway, the ring of his boots stopping abruptly when he's just outside it. A breath spills heavy from his nostrils before he steps forward to kick his boot against the frame, as usual, as he slips up to the part-open entry.
"Come," Sefton drawls lazily -- the Headmaster stands by his desk, this one piled as high as that in his office, but out of Aida's reach, far more disordered. He's leaning forward, weight on both hands, dark curls in his eyes as he peruses whatever it is on the surface that's caught his attention. "Please pour yourself a drink, Reyce. I will be just a moment." He doesn't look up, to offer that greeting. Perhaps nobody else periodically tries to kick his doorframe down.
Reyce is unique like that. Permission granted, he sidesteps his way inside, pausing again when he's just through the door to cast another look around the room and assess what, if anything, has changed. His observations earn no comments, however, as he moves to obey his teacher and pour himself a drink, a bottle selected from the shelf with less hesitation than usual - some habits do change - and poured into a tumbler. He falls quiet then, waiting where he stands to watch his drink and wait for Sefton to finish staring at whatever's on his desk.
The place is as it has ever been, more or less -- bookshelves neat, desk and couch a mess, the bed made neat by someone else. The owner of all these things turns a page, frowning faintly as he runs his gaze down it, almost idly -- certainly, he cannot be reading all the words written there in neat, sloped handwriting. Then, with a shake of his head, the book slaps closed, and the man lifts a hand to rake his curls back from his face. "Forgive me, Reyce. I am at your disposal."
Reyce's eyes lift from his drink, but he's silent a moment, shifting his weight against the shelf he leans on. He processes the closed cover of the book against his own inner reflections, coming to a decision with a drawn sniff. "You're busy, teacher, won't take long. Thing about my -" he pauses for the right word - "studies, here. That's all." A shrug rolls off him as he glances up to find Sefton's eye.
Sefton's eye waits helpfully, dark gaze fixed politely on the other man as he straightens up entirely for the desk -- it does not hold Reyce's gaze, but that is because he is obliged to look down in order to find his own drink, reclaiming it with a lean. "Then I am indeed at your disposal," he confirms, moving out from behind his desk with a slow, back-arching stretch that suggests he's been bent for some time. "Enlighten me."
Reyce stays where he's planted himself, though his eyes track Sefton as he moves around the desk. It's a student's question he's asking, and it's his student's manner he adopts, obedient if somewhat grudgingly so. Ergo, he recites. "Arrangement with the guy before you, Headmaster, was I'd finish here in three turns." He pauses here, eyes squinted as he flicks a scan of features back and forth across Sefton's face. "Want to make it four. Regular term."
"Master Jerion," Sefton murmurs by way of quiet correction, although there's no real discipline in his drawl. He has no flicker of a reaction for the request, surprise, pleasure or otherwise. He simply nods, lifting his glass to his lips to swallow a mouthful before he speaks. "How are your classes progressing, against the previous plan?"
Even without discipline in the correction, Reyce flares his nostrils for a quietly exhaled breath as a nod acknowledges the man's title and name. There's resignation to it, not frustration. "Going all right," he judges, though he tosses a look down at his drink when he does so. The look precedes a drink, tossed back with his usual swiftness. "Finished what I need, most of it."
"It would be helpful if you were behind," Sefton points out, puffing out his cheeks to exhale slowly. "I suppose I could write to your father and tell him that I have grown so exceedingly fond of you that I am not yet willing to give up the sight of your face. Saving that, some academic reason seems helpful."
"Rather you didn't," Reyce answers, his voice a dry imitation of the formalized tones that are so often practiced in etiquette classes. He lowers the drink again, bending his elbow into the shelf he leans on and using that to hold his arm up. "Grades aren't good," he offers. "Requirements done but need - " a snick of distaste - "polish."
"You said it," Sefton murmurs, amusement flashing in his dark eyes over the rim over his glass. "I am, as ever, your servant. I will see to it." His lips quirk then, matching the amusement in his eyes. "It would not serve you so ill to devote some of the time you will spend here pursuing just that thing."
Reyce's brow furrows when Sefton declares himself his servant, his gaze allowed to evade the amusement by looking elsewhere while he takes another drink. "Not interested," he says, sighing alcohol as he finds himself speaking so suddenly after drinking. "In polish." His gaze finds its way back to the teacher now, and he shrugs. "Doesn't work for me."
"As you like, then," Sefton murmurs, his broad shoulders lifting in a brief shrug. "I would have said that your current approach does not serve you either, but perhaps you will pursue a third way. Is there any other way in which I can assist you?" Another sip, as the Headmaster eases down to sit on the edge of his desk, reaching behind him to steady a pile of hides almost automatically.
Reyce does not contest the ineffectuality of his present methods, letting his mouth flatten into a line as he admits the suggestion. "Something like that," he answers the hypothetical third option, though it's that teetering pile of hides he answers to. A distraction, only, before he looks at Sefton once again. A long silence holds him in reserve now, his drink - and a possible excuse for his scrutinizing silence - left unaddressed at his side. "Something else," he says when he decides to speak, however warily and slowly. He draws himself out of his lean against the shelves, pulling into a quick stretch before he turns a heavy look on the door he left open when he entered. "You're busy, though, can leave off."
Sefton allows the silence to draw out without protest, although his drink is not so ill-used, and does not suffer for lack of attention. "Some small amount of time is my own, to use as I please," he observes, as lazy as ever. Slow, but for entirely different reasons. "This is just such time, and I choose to spend it listening. Please, do speak on."
Reyce nods to acknowledge this, yet he doesn't speak on; not immediately. He continues to consider the door, drawing in a quick sniff before he moves to knock it shut with elbow. As the latch clicks quietly into place, he shifts aside to lean against the wall, foregoing the couch. "Keep hearing stuff about Nabol, teacher. This place Five Mines. Not enough, what I hear." His chin tugs up, a hint of defiance (or defense). "Thought you might hear more. Be a favor to me, you said any of it." Enough words; time for a drink.
In silence, Sefton watches his student cross the floor, and the quality of his attention shifts faintly, but perceptibly, as the latch clicks into place. "I thought you had already asked your favour," he observes -- if his audience were another man, and the two were closer, it would be a tease. Just now, perhaps it is grinning bait, instead. "Odern is there," he continues, after a beat. "Is what I hear."
Reyce holds the drink in his mouth, this time, long enough that by the time he finally swallows it down he has to release a little hiss afterwards. Any distaste that lingers in his expression is quickly swept away by the pronouncement of that infamous name, which he greets with a flat nod. "What I hear, too. And people going there. With him, to him, something else - don't know that."
"Nabol is in ruins. They lost crops, livestock, harvest -- it would be easier to tally what they managed to get undercover in time," Sefton replies with a small shrug, although his drawl has turned grave. "For those who have the means to move, there's little call to remain where they are. Berrigan tells me some wish to cross the border to Fort. Others will turn to Odern, if Sorel does not watch. It is unsurprising."
Reyce puffs his cheeks when this dire pronouncement begins, letting air out of them slowly (and quietly) over time as the explanation continues. He runs out of air a few moments before Sefton runs out of words, but even so he holds silent, not taking in a new breath until that final statement has been said. "Mining hold," he murmurs as the newly taken breath leaks out of him. "Can't eat the metal." His eyes narrow with distracted thought.
"No," Sefton agrees. "But if he has not food, he is no worse off than the rest of Nabol. Perhaps he is better, because he has something to trade. Or he will, if he can revivify the mines he has there. He will need, of course, to find trading partners." And on that, the Headmaster's tone is neutral.
Neutral though the tone may be, it attracts Reyce's attention immediately. "Think he can?" he wonders, his eyes flicking across Sefton's teachers as he falls back into silence.
"I am sure he can," Sefton replies quietly, dark eyes gleaming with a spark of something that's almost hidden by his curls. "He will be producing metal. Sorel is not yet strong enough to overshadow those who might othewise hesitate to build connections. Unless some other lend their name to the ban, I should say it is certain he will trade."
Reyce, most likely, expected that answer, and he accepts it with a small sigh breathed lightly through his nose. "There was a ban, probably would trade anyway. Under." The hand that does not hold his drink, slices out, palm flattened and held low in some obscure gesture; under the radar, possibly. "So, probably no good." Another silence, then, "Remember, looking him up before, Nabol's supposed to have lot of money built up and never spent. Sorel's not using it, would think Odern took it with him, what he could."
"Sorel lacks the authority, and others lack the motivation," Sefton replies. "Odern was ill prepared, but there would have been enormous confusion at Nabol in the wake. As others followed him, I do not doubt they retrieved various things from their hiding places, and that many of those were valuable. The Nabolese are a breed of their own." He pauses, sips, swallows. "So Odern has marks, and a mine we imagine he is opening, and the experience -- say what you will, and we both do -- to find those who will trade. What of that?"
Reminded by Sefton's sip, Reyce brings his own drink up for a quick swallow, gulped down this time without any effort to prolong the experience. "Does well, like he's set up to, he gets more people. Can't keep them where he is, probably, wouldn't fit; have to position them other places, maybe holds surrounding. Still look to him, though, do what he says. Sorel allows it or not, he's holder over them by fact. Keeps doing well, gets more people, gets more power. Won't matter what he's supposed to have, he can get away with what he wants to."
"Maybe holds surrounding," Sefton agrees. "Maybe Fort's border, do not think Berrigan does not watch it. Do not think I do not watch it. It would be better if Sorel were to do something about it, rather than others. If he wishes to turn his people's obedience back to where it belongs." The Headmaster puffs his cheeks out, exhaling slowly, as though in faint irritation. "If he does not, we will."
Reyce tilts his chin, dropping his eyes into shadow while he processes the irritation Sefton allows to show. "Better," he agrees. His voice has dropped along with his chin, into a low murmur. "But might not. So Fort comes in before it's a problem, or after." A short sniff brings his head back up, and his eyebrow raises with it.
"And Ruatha," Sefton observes absently. "Timing depends on how fast he builds, and what he does. Sending in guards, or any enforcement, is undesirable. It signals that Sorel cannot hold his own, and although that is clearly true, to announce it openly is another thing. He will be counselled, first."
Reyce turns a brief look on the couch that stands next to him, shifting to the side as he lifts his knee to lean into it. His drink gets turned between his fingers for a while, the gentle sloshing of alcohol his only response for a moment as he thinks. "Could do same as Odern," he suggests finally, watching Sefton. "Hasn't got the marks, or metal, but every person leaves for Odern leaves their land with him. Other people, poor, haven't gone to Odern yet, don't have marks of their own for land, but Sorel could start something. Loan it free, they work their way up, some turns later buy it from him. Could be counselled that way."
"Could indeed be counselled that way," Sefton agrees, drawing the words out slowly, his drawl making the most of every vowel. "I will speak so, should my counsel me sought." A faint grin, as he glances down to his glass, tilting it to watch the liquid run inside it. His counsel will be sought, of course. He is confident. "You do have the makings of a fine steward, Reyce. As some men use their stewards, at any rate."
Reyce's eyes draw into a tight squint, at first, but his expression loosens with a blink when Sefton decides to pass on that counsel. A nod and a low grunt, appreciation, greet it before he tilts back a drink. "Okay," he greets the compliment, somewhat less appreciative of this than he was of the former, but he does follow it up a bit better. "Thanks." Looking up to meet Sefton's eye, he shrugs.
"Am I to claim it for myself, or might I say that I, in turn, had counsel from another?" Sefton's question is idle -- his mind is still half elsewhere, dark eyes on his drink as he tilts it this way and then that. "You lost your last opportunity. This one, you could make more of."
Idea imparted, necessary exchange of thanks complete, Reyce was starting to become (slightly) at ease, and that cannot be allowed. He jerks his nose up with a truncated sniff and a wariness at odds with the idle manner of the question, his eyes flicking rapidly back and forth across the headmaster's features while the fascination of liquid tilting in a glass allows him to do so with impunity. "Might say that," he answers finally, although the words are slow.
One hand comes up, so that Sefton can flick it in a vague dismissal of that gathering tension -- put it away, the gesture says. He has gauged that it exists with a single upward glance, before returning to his examination of his drink. "What do they want for you, back at Benden? Does your brother genuinely desire that you return and act as his Steward?"
Reyce's shoulders bunch, but it's a prelude to a settlement. The gesture registered somehow, and now somehow the build-up of more tension leads him to relaxation as he eases it, one muscle at a time. "No," he admits, rolling a shoulder back even as he speaks. "Early term was my idea, when I got here. Probably Carlin'd like it, I stay longer."
"Longer term than that," Sefton murmurs, in that slow, drawn-out drawl that signals -- or does to the practiced interpreter -- some thought underway that is larger than others, or of more moment. "If he thought that you would not return to Benden -- joyous news, an irritation, or a reaction dependent, perhaps, on your alternative destination?"
Perhaps Reyce might be practiced enough to interpret the momentous thought that lurks beneath Sefton's slow words, but at the moment his own moods distract him, and all the headmaster's curious slowness earns is an eye pinned on him briefly before Reyce closes them both and rolls both shoulders together, settling them finally. "Don't know for sure. Probably he'd -" register another point in Sefton's sentence at this moment. Having just made such an effort ot repress his wariness, he fights down its return, taking a swift drink from his glass and letting it swish between his teeth before he swallows it. "Than what, teacher?" is his new approach.
"A longer term absence than the extra turn of study I will propose to him," Sefton elaborates, still studying his drink.
Reyce's nostrils flare, taking in breath audibly. There's little enough left to his drink by now, but he draws it out as far as he can, turning the glass up to his lips and letting a slow trickle of liquid through while he watches Sefton in heavily controlled silence. He waits for the headmaster to elaborate further on his own.
And soo Sefton is obliged to continue, still rolling his drink in slow circles. "If I were to propose to him, or to suggest or imply, or some variant that lies somewhere on the scale between those things, that you might absent yourself from Benden for the foreseeable future, do you know what his reaction would be? Or your father's?"
Sooner or later (and rather sooner), Reyce runs out of alcohol to delay his own response, and in the middle of Sefton's explanation has to set the drink down, finished, on the arm of the couch beside him. "My father's either yes or no," he judges simply. "All I can say for him. Carlin, probably first like keeping me away, later be suspicious why I'm doing it." And here, though the arched eyebrow makes the implied question clear enough, Reyce goes ahead and asks bluntly, "Why would I be doing it?"
"Knowing you, Reyce, you would not be doing it at all, because it would mean accepting an offer of assistance, and you are disinclined to do such things," Sefton murmurs, finally looking up. Thoughtful phase complete. "A steward can be an accountant, and a manager of ledgers, or he can something significantly more. A personal advisor, confidante, strategist. To be so requires the desire to serve his Lord, and that is something you lack. I cannot conceive of you harbouring sufficient respect for any man to do such a thing."
Reyce's mouth twists sideways, wry while he listens. He pulls the expression straight again before he answers, in a flat tone, "Can't work for you, teacher. Going to be Benden's Lord, can't have a desire to serve Fort." Although he echoes the other man's words, he has the decency not to fall into one of his usual imitations when he does.
"If you go home, a turn early or a turn late, and keep ledgers for your brother, you will never do more," Sefton replies, as though he speaks the most obvious truth imaginable. And to punctuate his words, he finally lifts his glass, and drains it.
"Keep ledgers for my father," Reyce corrects, swift but not sharp. After that, he waits in silence for Sefton to finish draining his glass, his own gaze held steady in case eye contact ever comes his way.
"Your father will not make you his steward, I wouldn't think," Sefton murmurs, turning his gaze from his empty glass to the shelf full of bottles, as though contemplating the options lined up there. "He will make you your brother's, to assist him with his duties as heir. Closely supervised, of course. I do not imagine he is blind to the abilities and limitations of each of you."
Denied eye contact, Reyce lets a heavy puff of breath flap his lips and settles for staring straight ahead at nothing. "Can't work for you, teacher. Can't work for Fort, can't work for you. Call it my problem, my attitude, whatever, answer's the same."
Sefton moves then, shifting his weight off the desk, and crossing over to reach up for the tall, thin bottle on the end, and turning away so he can set his glass down on the shelf, and pour. "What would you call it, Reyce, if you were obliged to find a name for it?"
"My interests," Reyce responds.
"Keep speaking," Sefton prompts, a note of boredom entering his tone for the first time. "I do not wish to draw teeth."
Reyce breathes out another heavy note, this time through his nose. "Already said, teacher. You're looking for a steward, need a man who's loyal to you, does what you say and wants to. That's not me. First loyalty's to Benden. And what I want's to be Lord there. Told you that before. You say my father won't have me as steward, too many limitations, but in the same breath suggest you might. Doesn't work, teacher. I'll get the job at Benden, hold it, work from there."
"I have said a number of things, but I do not believe I have asked you to be my steward at any point," Sefton replies, turning his head for a moment, as though his words must be clearly heard. "I observed you would be very good at the job. Certainly, I think it is a pity that it is not the one you want. I think it would suit you better, ultimately. I think you would be happier." His broad shoulders lift in a brief shrug, as he turns back to his work. "What I did was explain the range of work a steward might undertake, from playing with numbers to playing with entire Holds and more. I said that your father will offer you one sort of role. I asked what he would say if you went elsewhere, to take up a different sort -- or if you said you planned to do so."
For all his efforts to restrain himself, Reyce is slowly growing frustrated, clearly. He holds himself silent for a moment until the evidence of his frustration has burned down from his eyes, waiting until he trusts his control over his voice to say (in stripped, level tones), "And why would I do that."
"To give your father," Sefton replies -- as though stating the simplest thing in the world -- "incentive to offer you something more than what you will have under your current circumstances. Would you like another drink?"
Reyce glances down at the glass he's left resting on the couch arm, but shakes his head. "Like to hear what you're thinking in specific, teacher. Don't feel like pulling teeth, either."
That, abruptly, prompts Sefton to laugh, and his laugher is still audible in his voice when he replies, warming his drawl. "Let him think that he needs to tempt you home. You, of all men, allowing yourself to be taken for granted, Reyce." The bottle goes back up on the shelf, and the Headmaster turns.
Reyce, thanks to Issa, has developed a tolerance for being suddenly laughed at, although his only return is to twist his lip up along with a quick sniff. His expression settles back into place with a twitch, neutral for the Headmaster when he turns. "How?" Reyce wonders simply.
"Have I not been clear?" So well, they're getting along. Clearly Sefton feels the need to impose on that mutual goodwill, although again, it's with that grin that would, if Reyce were a friend, be a tease. "Stay another turn. Speak to your father. Tell him I have made you an offer. Let him win a point over me, which will please him, by having you in the end. To have you, and be sure that I do not, he will offer you something better than adding and subtracting for your brother. You musut have something more, or else you can resign yourself to that fate for far longer than you wish."
Reyce not being a friend, he lets that teasing grin roll off him in his newfound neutrality. It doesn't break until Sefton's finished speaking, whereupon perhaps Reyce trusts more in his own self-control, for a subtle shift in manner brings him out of that neutral shell and back into his sullen self. "Said that to him, you made an offer, I might take it, think that'd piss him off. Don't know he'd care enough to outbid you, but know I can get him to give me the job I'm sent here for at least, even if he has thought of shunting me to Carlin."
"I am sure you know him best," Sefton replies, lifting his free hand -- the one not holding the glass -- so that, palm up, it can indicate his innocence in the matter. "Consider the conversation closed. I will speak to him about having you for the extra turn, and discuss the possibility of attempting to cover you in at least a thin veneer of civility, while you compensate for some grades that fell below requirements."
Picking up his empty glass, now the conversation draws to a close, Reyce considers the liquor cabinet - such a tempting place to leave said empty glass- and Sefton's proximity to it. He ends with his eyes on Sefton's face, offering a nod to confirm the message he will be bringing Reyce's father about his extra turn, and then takes unfair advantage of that open hand the other man was using just to gesture. He steps forward and offers his glass to the hand, slipping his fingers up to hold just the top of it, which allows room for Sefton to take hold of the bottom. "Okay," he says, and, "Thanks." He'll wait, watching his teacher, for the glass to be taken, but as soon as it is he'll head for the door.
"I am at your disposal," Sefton murmurs, returning, circular, to his earlier words. He takes the glass, inclines his head, and turns away to set down both glasses, as Reyce departs.