Debate On Demand
Location: Sefton's Room
Time: Late night on Day 10, Month 7, Turn 2
Players: Sefton and Roa
Scene: It has been a long day. It has been a long seven. It has been a long month. It has been a long turn. Roa seeks distraction from an unlikely source.
Sefton's Room
The primary advantage of this room is that it's big, and it needs to be. A large bed in one corner is piled up with furs, and next to it sits a long desk covered in piles of books, scrolls and hides. A battered sofa provides somewhere to sit, and thick tapestries and rugs ward off the cold, covering the better part of the walls and floor. A long stretch of bookshelves takes up most of the wall-space, Sefton's considerable library neatly housed there. A pair of chests sit near the base of the shelves, both open -- he's unpacked his books, but he still hasn't unpacked his clothes.
Contents:
It is late night, and the corridor is quiet and uninhabited, bar a couple of drudges scurrying along it, taking advantage of the absence of some of the occupants to clean. Sefton's door is firmly shut.
The little Telgari has had a rough time of it lately. Now, she's not even Telgari anymore. And while Roa isn't due to meet with the Headmaster for another four days (and while she canceled their last meeting, claiming sickness), she is walking down that mostly empty corridor, up to the familiar and quite shut door, and knocking. She is knotless.
There's just a long enough pause that the uncommitted might find a reason to imagine there's nobody inside. Then Sefton's voice rings out in his usual, mocking drawl: "Come." The door is unlocked, and inside he's at his desk. As casual as ever, the Headmaster's barefoot and rumpled, shirt as drastically in need of an iron as usual. He's got his head resting on one hand, raking his hair back from his eyes, and is studying something. A tray sits cooling beside him, untouched.
There is the faint noise of a door handle turning and then said door is pushed open and it is the diminutive weyrwoman who slips inside. The door is carefully closed as Roa observes the Headmaster at his desk. She has circles under her eyes though, actually, looks a bit better than she had, say, a seven ago. Her opening is far simpler than is usual. "Hello." And then, without invitation, Roa is moving to plop down on Sefton's couch.
At this hour, it's possible Sefton was expecting a different sort of company. He lifts his head with the beginnings of a grin, although it pauses as Roa's identity registers. There's a blink as he processes the fact that the woman before him is not the one expected, and then he's pushing away his work, and propping his chin on one hand to observe her. "Hello." It's not his usual greeting, but it's drawled in lazy imitation.
The girl sinks into the couch, legs curling up and tucking underneath her, leaning back into the cushions. Her head tips back, eyes closing. "I'm sorry to have come so late," she begins. The apology is halfhearted. Less. Quarter-hearted. Roa doesn't even comment on that smile that stopped as soon as he truly saw her. "I am in desperate need of an argument. Would you indulge me, sir?"
"You strike me as a woman in desperate need of a drink," Sefton parries, rising from his chair, and walking over to the bookshelves to remedy that lack. "A particular argument, or are you proving the claims of a thousand men, and confirming our notion that women simply enjoy bringing conflict into our lives?"
Eyes still closed, Roa's lips curl up into a smile. "Then I'm afraid I strike you incorrectly. But I will accept an offered drink if it is to come, part and parcel, with my request." A small pause. "The tree is doing well." And another as Roa reaches down to unlace her boots and kick them off. Be-socked toes wiggle with newfound freedom as the footwear falls to the floor. "Nothing particular, save that I am placing a ban on current events as topics. But anything else, sir. Anything you like. I am very agreeable just now, when it comes to selecting conflict."
"I will be sure to tell him," Sefton replies, altering his decision mid-reach, and going up to the top shelf. The hard stuff. "They are still speaking of marrying Kelar to someone," he observes, drawl slow, tonight. "What do you say to that, Roa?" Two glasses, cork out, drinks poured.
The weyrwoman's eyes open slightly. "I say 'good luck to them' then, sir. As I suspect unless that marriage will in some way drastically benefit your position or standing, it will not so much be happening."
"You have great faith in me, Roa," Sefton replies, turning with a drink in each hand. He crosses over to drop to a crouch before her, proffering hers, along with a measured inspection. "The power to do all things is not mine. Someone from Weaver, is the current thinking. We have great ties with that Hall. Perhaps he'll find someone pretty."
Slender fingers reach out and accept the glass, and it is cradled in Roa's hands. "I did not say you had the power to wrangle such an alliance. I just said that was the only reason Kelar would allow himself to be wed." She peers down at the liquid she now holds. It has a different smell than usual. No fruit tonight. "He will not marry anyone from Weaver."
"You think Kelar is in a position to refuse it?" Sefton laughs at that, remaining crouched before her for now, and raising his glass for a slow sip. It's hard stuff, and bitter. Not a good choice, for a woman as small as she. "Again, you have great faith, Roa. Weaver's Hall is at Boll. Many of our crops are sold to them. A good relationship is very important."
"Then I have great faith, sir. I suspect he will not outright refuse. I suspect he will bait and switch." Roa slowly lifts the glass to her lips and takes a tiny tentative sip. Which is followed quickly by a cough. Brows furrow as she reexamines the glass. But all she says is, "You have multiple brothers."
"Perhaps I like my other brothers better?" Sefton's question comes with an easy grin, head tilted to one side as he looks up at her. "Or perhaps there are worse things in the world than a pretty weaver, mmm?"
Now it is Roa's turn to laugh. "You do not," she chides. "Kelar is your favorite. He sends you relief from home and you send him letters. I think you are simply waiting to see how he's going to get out of it. I think you are bemusedly fascinated at watching him work his charm." The glass is turned slowly in her fingers, but not sipped from again. "Pretty weavers do not stay pretty for long. And beauty falls flat when it isn't matched with a suitable temperament."
"I taught him his charm," Sefton corrects her. "I know exactly how it works. Think, though, of the weaver in question." He comes slowly to his feet, stretching, now towering above her. There's a subtle alteration in his drawl -- a slight gain in speed, a thread of amusement. "It lies within Kelar's ability to bait and switch, as you put it. Her part of the decision will be made without reference to her opinion on the question at all."
"Did you?" Roa's head tips up so that she can follow the Headmaster as he stands. Her gaze does not demure, even when he looms. "He wears it differently." The glass is lifted, another tiny sip braved. Cough. "The weaver may indeed be trapped to her fate. Although, if she can wriggle out of it as well, she and Kelar probably -ought- to marry one another."
"He wears it far more charmingly, I should say," Sefton replies, with a hint of a smile. "Let us say, for the sake of argument, that the weaver cannot wriggle out of it. Perhaps she can, but that path, for now, is not where my interest lies. Her parents will decide for her, and perhaps Master Ghera as well."
One of Roa's hands reaches out to pat the spot on the couch beside her. An invitation to join. "I would say, instead of more charmingly, more sincerely. I believe he means it more, whether he does or not." But then she quiets as Sefton discusses the weaver in question. The weyrwoman nods once in acceptance of these statements. "Go on."
"Hmmm." She's caught Sefton there for a moment, and he favours her with a small, thoughtful frown. "We will return to that point at some later date," he promises. "But for tonight, you would like an argument. What I say -- and lest you think I merely provoke you, what I believe -- is this. I say it is better that Kelar's bride has the decision made for her. She has not been equipped to do so, even were she capable -- which is another debate in itself."
"Ahhh," Roa exhales softly. Her smile is a bit freer now. "I will take up the other end, then, and suggest that she has the right to choose freely. State your opening point, sir."
"What I say is this," Sefton informs her, finally moving over to lower himself onto the couch beside her, stretching long legs out in front of him, slumping comfortably. "I say that our hypothetical woman is not the best person to make a decision in this regard. She will have a husband chosen for her. I extend the point, and say that weyrs elevate their women, and give them a range of choice and autonomy they would be better off without."
Roa's eyes widen just a little bit before her head tips back and she's laughing. "Faranth, Sefton, seriously?" Her glass lifts in an offer to clink his. "You're on. You do, realize, however, that you've just stated that you'd like to overthrow the current way weyrs are run? How can a woman who is incapable of even choosing her own bed partner successfully oversee an entire Weyr?"
"Most seriously," Sefton drawls, tipping his glass in against hers, and then lifting it for a small sip. "Sadly, I am not in a position to alter the way weyrs are run, despite your near overwhelming faith in my ability to achieve all things. I will cede that a Weyrwoman provides a stability of leadership. Nevertheless, I hold to my point."
"Ah. Sadly. I do not know that I believe in your ability to achieve all things, so much as your ability to -want- all things." Roa's eyes are twinkling now. "Give me a why. The topic of 'too much freedom' is too broad. Let's start with a launching point. Something specific." The glass is lifted to her own lips. Sip. This time, she only clears her throat.
Nevertheless, she's sipping, and Sefton's lips twist to one of his smiles in approval. "Demanding little thing," the Headmaster observes, considering his drink for a moment. "I am afraid I will outrage you, Roa. You profess a great respect for my opinion at times. I challenge you to avoid scoffing at unwelcome opinions, and subject them to examination. I would begin by saying that I believe women are not as skilled at decision making. They allow too many factors to crowd in."
"We are debating. You won't...ah..." Roa's smile suddenly dims significantly, and while there is no more drinking from her glass, there is the sudden and intent examination of it. Demanding little thing. She swallows sharply and takes a deep breath before looking up and over at the Headmaster again. "It could be suggested that, rather than women allowing too many factors, men do not allow enough. Clarify the statement, please." She is trying her best to maintain the cheer of the last few moments, but it has become a struggle.
There's a brief glance of query for a moment, but Sefton does not delve -- unsurprising -- choosing instead to move on. "Men choose the most important factors, and make a decision. They do not allow themselves to become bogged down by endless consideration, but rather consider, decide, and implement. Men are more efficient, and better suited to making large scale decisions. Women can afford to dither when they are housekeeping. They cannot, in this arena."
"But you cannot know a woman's mind, not being one yourself, sir. How do you presume that women get bogged down by such things?" Roa's shoulders are relaxing again as she considers her next words. "And, if you read your history, you'll find that successful Weyrwomen are as common as successful Weyrleaders. Which is to say, not always, but often enough. And there are instances of women successfully running holds. We have female mastercrafters. Women, despite the added constraints society places on them, seem to be making their own way even so."
"I observe, and I suppose," Sefton replies, with a toothy grin. "I read my history, but I have no evidence that when weyrs have prospered, it has been down to the Weyrwomen who ran them. For all I know, these women took counsel, or were uncommon examples. We have one female Craftmaster, and hailing from Boll, I can assure you that working with Master Ghera is an experience unto itself. Women make their own way, certain. What I say is that, on the whole -- for exceptions can defeat any rule -- they are not as well placed for leadership as men."
"That is a difficult thing to argue insofar as there have been so few women leaders save in Weyrs where they're partnered with a man. So, I suppose we'll have to travel to the realm of the theoretical." Roa leans back into a couch with a slow sigh. "Women are better at leadership than men. They have more patience, they are less violent, and they are more capable of noticing details."
"Women's' patience is taken advantage of by those who would delay a decision. Women mistake the willingness to hear all voices for fairness. It is inefficient, and unnecessary. It weighs one down in an endless sea of information, making a decision no better, but infinitely more difficult to make. Details serve the same purpose. They confuse the issue, obfuscate what is important." Sefton grins broadly then, sliding his gaze sideways once more. "Violence is not limited to physical force. It is not without use."
"Details are crucial, or Reyce would not still be in etiquette classes," opines Roa bluntly. "They are the tiny giveaways. They are the clues that lead to the bigger picture. If you cannot read the details, you cannot effectively manipulate. Violence, when not physical, is something women are superior at compared to men. Women use barbed words better. Their timing is better. Patience and fairness are better to have in abundance than to lack them entirely, as many men do. As female greenriders demonstrate, women are perfectly capable of making split-second decisions, of fighting, and of succeeding in a regimented and male-dominated structure."
Sefton laughs, lifting his glass for a slow mouthful -- despite the kick, he relishes it, tilting his head to one side and then the other to wash it around his mouth before he swallows. "Women are forced to barbs and timing, unable to exert themselves as proper leaders. Greenriders, I would point out, are never in positions of leadership. Do not speak to me of the stamina of a green dragon, relative to one larger. Wings of greens and blues would be led by green or blue wingleaders, if any were capable. I have seen women crafters. I do not say women are without ability. Simply that they are ill-suited to decision-making, and leadership." A beat, a sip, and then: "I might add, I have excused Reyce from etiquette classes."
"Have you, now? How did he wrangle out of that? Greenriders may not get leadership positions, but they demonstrate a woman's capability to do more than is perceived." Roa leans her head back to stare up at the ceiling. "Justify Weyrwomen, then. They are wholly responsible for the maintaining of Weyrs. How do they manage, if they are so lacking?"
"Women work in the fields beside their husbands, work in crafts, become Master Crafters, one a Pass. I do not say they are incapable." Sefton tips his head back as well, slouching yet more comfortably, a rumpled pile of black beside her with a lazy drawl. "I moved him into a class I wished him to take. You will be taking it also. You, however, will not be escaping etiquette to do so." He lifts his head long enough for a sip, then rests his glass on his stomach. "Weyrwomen manage. Weyrs clearly do not flounder. They simply do not manage as well as men would. Resources are wasted, infighting continues."
Interest is sparked yet again and Roa's brows quirk a little upwards. After a moment of consideration she says, "Poor G'thon. I think it is too easy to say 'weyrs do not flounder but could be better. It is women who are to blame'. Many holds, while succeeding, could be better run, and they are all run by men."
"The day to day running of Holds could be better managed," Sefton concedes easily, eyes still on the ceiling. "Their leadership is a different matter. I say that the men who run our Holds, on the whole -- again, I declined to be defeated by exception -- achieve a great deal. They cut through the details that hold up women. The Conclave is an excellent example."
"But that is just a circular argument. You say that Weyrs are run well, but could be run better, and this is the failing of female leadership. You say Holds run well but could be run better, and that is the failing of specific individuals, rather than the male gender as a whole. I say that it proves that men and women are equally adept...or inept...at running large establishments and success or failure is based on the merits of each individual placed into the job. Gender does not enter into it." Roa pauses to lift her glass and take a sip all on her own. She licks her lips afterwards, frowning as she attempts to define anything pleasant about the flavor of the drink she holds. "As for The Conclave being an excellent example, if your argument is that men are direct and effective, I think the Conclave contradicts. Never have I heard of more hemming and hawing than when you put a group of Lords in a room together. Never have I heard of more careful verbal barbs, more secret manipulations, or more interest in minutia. I will also remind you that the Weyrs hold their own council, in which Weyrwomen participate, and I again see no difference between a council of authority with women and one without. I anything, I would suggest that the Weyr council is more direct. More as you propose male leadership to be."
"Oh Roa, Roa." Sefton sounds veritably distressed, one hand coming up to cover his eyes for a moment, then slide to massage the bridge of his nose. "Draw your distinctions more carefully, I beg you. Have I taught you nothing? A Weyr is co-led by a woman. A Hold is led by a man, with women in various management roles. I say that Holds and Weyrs could be improved in different ways, and that the need in each can be tracked to the differing roles that women play." He pauses for a sip, far less hesitant about the taste than she. "Given the magnitude of the decisions a Conclave must make, I would also say that they are positively streamlined."
Roa mms faintly. She leans over to set her glass down on a little table near the couch, apparently finished with attempting to like it for her companion's sake. Or, perhaps, his amusement. She props her elbow onto the couch arm, and settles her cheek on her fist. "I say that improvements in Holds and Weyrs can be tracked to individual choices of each leader and manager, and not to the failings of a whole gender. You may try to disavow exception, but I say there have been too many not to argue that they form a pattern of their own."
"Matching drinks is a courtesy," Sefton points out blandly, not bothering to hide the hint of a smile that tugs up one side of his mouth. "Others will not let you off as easily as I do." Nor, in fairness, are they likely to feed her this sort of poison. "I say that exceptions are the refuge of one who has nowhere left to go, and a signal of a rearguard action," he replies, drawl amused. "Make your point, however. What patterns do you see?"
"So is not cornering someone a third of your own body weight into keeping pace with an experienced drinker while imbibing hard and biting alcohol. What -is- your fascination with inebriating all of your students, anyhow?" The smirk is returned, the little weyrwoman not the least daunted by the chastisement. "The pattern I see, mostly, is education. Those who have it and have a vested interest in it go on to do better as leaders. Men and women both."
"Frail excuses, Roa. You are a third of /anyone's/ body weight, so I would expect no quarter there," Sefton replies, raising his glass to her. "I do not inebriate any of my students." A pause, and a smirk. "Well, barring Neiran, perhaps, but he must learn somehow. I do him a service, and entertain myself simultaneously." His grin is wicked as he baits her with those words, head tilted back so he can stare up at the ceiling. "The pattern you see is education? You show your age, Roa. The Caucus has been alive too short a time to give the women it has educated time to have any real impact. Or do you say they were educated elsewhere?"
"You made -Neiran- drink?" Roa's brows arch upwards and then draw down sharply. "Sefton..." there is, actually, a flash of plain and simple disapproval on her face. "I thought you only played at being cruel." Her lips press together, and then the topic is dropped. "I say, first, that the Caucus has been around for ten turns and graduation is in four. Women have been educated here and moved on to other things. The impact is beginning. Two, yes, that education can be found elsewhere. Blooded boys and girls learned their lessons long before Caucus appeared."
Sefton either doesn't catch the disapproval, or is unmoved by it, eyes still on the ceiling. "I am constantly baffled by the insistence of women that I only play," he replies, drawl richly amused. "I tell you outright that I do not, and still you refuse to believe me." A faint shrug, before he presses on. "Women have been educated six turns. Their impact is nowhere that I have seen. They are still too young -- they are in waiting, if they are anything. Set aside notions that the Blooded were educated before Caucus. Blooded women learned nothing to what they can now."
"Perhaps we don't believe you because you're rather good at lying." Roa shrugs. "In waiting," the weyrwoman muses with a tiny smile. "You know, I like the way that sounds. But women did get educated even before Caucus. Less often and it took more work, but absolutely they did."
"Roa, you wound me," Sefton replies, assuming a tone that suggests just that. "What evidence have you that I have lied to you on any matter? Or indeed, that I have lied to any man?" A beat, and a grin. "Or woman, at that." He lifts his head for a sip, then lets it flop back onto the couch once more. "In waiting. To be married, so that they can bear children. Or to make be exceptionally qualified journeymen, hamstrung by the fact that they simply do not have what is required to make Master."
"Or to become weyrwomen," Roa notes idly. "We are not debating -you-, sir. And I think I've shared my thoughts of you and your kin quite enough for one late night. The fact that women are, by and large, expected to marry and bear children or to remain in journeyman status is less a reflection of their own skills, and more a reflection on what the world wishes to see. It is not that they are incapable. It's that nobody wishes them to -be- capable. Ingenuity in women is not encouraged. It is, I would go so far as to say, squelched."
"It is a reflection of what the world wishes to see? It is entirely due to the fact that, for the most part, they are incapable," Sefton disagrees. "Where women manage ingenuity, they are lauded for it. It is simply that their sort of ingenuity is better suited to smaller tasks. Women remain journeymen because, for the most part, they lack the hardness, the leadership, the ability to focus directly enough to attain more. They allow themselves to be distracted. Women marry and bear children because that is what they are suited to doing, by temperament, by intelligence and by upbringing only because their upbringing is suited to their ability."
There is a long moment of consideration before Roa simply says, "I disagree. But, I cannot argue your comments. They're only unfounded opinions. I can throw mine back at you. We can do so all night. It's disinteresting." She leans over to flick at her glass *ping* without picking it up. "Try again, sir."
"You are no fun, Roa," Sefton replies, darker for a moment. "You are also in error, tactically. My opinions are based on assumptions, and you would do better to outline and challenge those assumptions individually than to simply refuse to engage. It gives listeners the impression -- right or wrongly, I should add -- that you have nothing to say to what you have heard."
"If you will recall, I came here for my own distraction this time, and not yours. But..." Roa nods slowly. "You're right. I flubbed it. I'm not in my best form tonight. I can, however, offer a consolation prize."
"Take heart, Roa," Sefton replies, lifting his head, and shifting to a more upright sitting position. One hand claps down on her knee -- companionably, no more -- and he comes slowly to his feet. "You are one of my exceptions. It is late, and you are distressed." This much he has observed, although he is yet to query the cause. He stretches, and drains his glass. "You already exceed most of my other students. What is my prize?"
It's a funny sound Roa makes. Something between a sigh and a chuckle. "I should shelling hope I am. I'd hate to think you'd waste your time trying to hold debates with an unintelligent, poorly tempered and badly raised baby-maker." Roa shifts a bit, but doesn't yet rise. She has something in her hand, drawn out from her pocket. "Catch." And the little shape is thrown in Sefton's direction. When he examines it, he will find that it is the knot of a junior weyrwoman. Of High Reaches. "It will be made public tomorrow afternoon. You've won a full twelve hours to strategize before anybody else even knows it happened."
"Oh Roa, I have done it," Sefton returns, offering a grin over his shoulder that's all teeth and no kindness. "But not tonight." One hand goes out to catch the knot, and he turns it over -- it takes only a moment's examination to identify it, but during that moment, his expression smoothes over to carefully blank. He considers it, turning it over in his fingers, processing. Then he lifts his head, curls in his eyes, to shoot her a broad grin indeed. "Oh, Roa. Well done."
"Have you? I'm glad to hear you realize you haven't -tonight-." Roa holds her hand out for the knot she's tossed his way. "Thank you. Let's hope, with my luck and the fate of foreign weyrwomen in this position, it wasn't a very big mistake."
"Oh, Roa." Sefton's laughing, patently delighted, turning to press her knot back into her hand. "A mistake? Roa, this is an opportunity Telgar would not have offered you under any circumstances. All you need now is just a little luck, and the opportunities that will be yours..." The Headmaster makes no effort to quell his grin. "You are due some luck, Roa."
"I am, I suppose." Now it is Roa's turn to study the knot, turning it slowly in her hands. "I hope to expend a bit of it on other things besides Tialith hitting the skies first but..." turn, turn. "She died," Roa murmurs quietly. "My good fortune is directly caused by her death. Her murder. I'm not even sure how I should feel about that. No." Her head lifts and the knot is tucked back into her pocket. "I know how I should feel. I'm disturbed that I feel something else instead." Roa scoots forward so her feet can hit the ground, and she can push up and into a stand. "Thank you for the company. The next time I arrive demanding intellectual stimulation, I shall try to pick a more civil hour."
"She came to see me, Roa." Sefton delivers this information quietly. "We discussed how she might change what we could both see unfolding. It was too late, but I advised her nonetheless, because she was the Weyrwoman, and she asked me. I did not anticipate the form her failure would take." He turns more fully as she comes to her feet. "My counsel, Weyrwoman, is available to you at any hour. Choose whichever you will."
"I have a hard time thinking anyone could have imagined it. It is unprecedented. Or, rather, it was." Roa exhales slowly, bending down to pick up and put her boots back on. She straightens upright before speaking again. "Lexine has returned as well. Sinopa will remain acting Senior. So, I am weyrwoman, and not Weyrwoman. Careful with your titles, sir," A tiny smirk, "and have a good night. What little of it I have left to you."
"I will be careful with many things," Sefton murmurs, dark eyes still gleaming. "So will you. I will make a fascinated spectator, Roa. I hope you will allow me to partner you for a step or two of the dance." His hand comes up in a salute not unlike that used by the riders of the weyr, his grin crooked. "Good night."
"Perhaps I shall," muses the newest Reachian quietly. "We shall see when the music truly begins." Her head tips into a low nod. "Headmaster." And Roa turns away and departs.
Time: Late night on Day 10, Month 7, Turn 2
Players: Sefton and Roa
Scene: It has been a long day. It has been a long seven. It has been a long month. It has been a long turn. Roa seeks distraction from an unlikely source.
Sefton's Room
The primary advantage of this room is that it's big, and it needs to be. A large bed in one corner is piled up with furs, and next to it sits a long desk covered in piles of books, scrolls and hides. A battered sofa provides somewhere to sit, and thick tapestries and rugs ward off the cold, covering the better part of the walls and floor. A long stretch of bookshelves takes up most of the wall-space, Sefton's considerable library neatly housed there. A pair of chests sit near the base of the shelves, both open -- he's unpacked his books, but he still hasn't unpacked his clothes.
Contents:
It is late night, and the corridor is quiet and uninhabited, bar a couple of drudges scurrying along it, taking advantage of the absence of some of the occupants to clean. Sefton's door is firmly shut.
The little Telgari has had a rough time of it lately. Now, she's not even Telgari anymore. And while Roa isn't due to meet with the Headmaster for another four days (and while she canceled their last meeting, claiming sickness), she is walking down that mostly empty corridor, up to the familiar and quite shut door, and knocking. She is knotless.
There's just a long enough pause that the uncommitted might find a reason to imagine there's nobody inside. Then Sefton's voice rings out in his usual, mocking drawl: "Come." The door is unlocked, and inside he's at his desk. As casual as ever, the Headmaster's barefoot and rumpled, shirt as drastically in need of an iron as usual. He's got his head resting on one hand, raking his hair back from his eyes, and is studying something. A tray sits cooling beside him, untouched.
There is the faint noise of a door handle turning and then said door is pushed open and it is the diminutive weyrwoman who slips inside. The door is carefully closed as Roa observes the Headmaster at his desk. She has circles under her eyes though, actually, looks a bit better than she had, say, a seven ago. Her opening is far simpler than is usual. "Hello." And then, without invitation, Roa is moving to plop down on Sefton's couch.
At this hour, it's possible Sefton was expecting a different sort of company. He lifts his head with the beginnings of a grin, although it pauses as Roa's identity registers. There's a blink as he processes the fact that the woman before him is not the one expected, and then he's pushing away his work, and propping his chin on one hand to observe her. "Hello." It's not his usual greeting, but it's drawled in lazy imitation.
The girl sinks into the couch, legs curling up and tucking underneath her, leaning back into the cushions. Her head tips back, eyes closing. "I'm sorry to have come so late," she begins. The apology is halfhearted. Less. Quarter-hearted. Roa doesn't even comment on that smile that stopped as soon as he truly saw her. "I am in desperate need of an argument. Would you indulge me, sir?"
"You strike me as a woman in desperate need of a drink," Sefton parries, rising from his chair, and walking over to the bookshelves to remedy that lack. "A particular argument, or are you proving the claims of a thousand men, and confirming our notion that women simply enjoy bringing conflict into our lives?"
Eyes still closed, Roa's lips curl up into a smile. "Then I'm afraid I strike you incorrectly. But I will accept an offered drink if it is to come, part and parcel, with my request." A small pause. "The tree is doing well." And another as Roa reaches down to unlace her boots and kick them off. Be-socked toes wiggle with newfound freedom as the footwear falls to the floor. "Nothing particular, save that I am placing a ban on current events as topics. But anything else, sir. Anything you like. I am very agreeable just now, when it comes to selecting conflict."
"I will be sure to tell him," Sefton replies, altering his decision mid-reach, and going up to the top shelf. The hard stuff. "They are still speaking of marrying Kelar to someone," he observes, drawl slow, tonight. "What do you say to that, Roa?" Two glasses, cork out, drinks poured.
The weyrwoman's eyes open slightly. "I say 'good luck to them' then, sir. As I suspect unless that marriage will in some way drastically benefit your position or standing, it will not so much be happening."
"You have great faith in me, Roa," Sefton replies, turning with a drink in each hand. He crosses over to drop to a crouch before her, proffering hers, along with a measured inspection. "The power to do all things is not mine. Someone from Weaver, is the current thinking. We have great ties with that Hall. Perhaps he'll find someone pretty."
Slender fingers reach out and accept the glass, and it is cradled in Roa's hands. "I did not say you had the power to wrangle such an alliance. I just said that was the only reason Kelar would allow himself to be wed." She peers down at the liquid she now holds. It has a different smell than usual. No fruit tonight. "He will not marry anyone from Weaver."
"You think Kelar is in a position to refuse it?" Sefton laughs at that, remaining crouched before her for now, and raising his glass for a slow sip. It's hard stuff, and bitter. Not a good choice, for a woman as small as she. "Again, you have great faith, Roa. Weaver's Hall is at Boll. Many of our crops are sold to them. A good relationship is very important."
"Then I have great faith, sir. I suspect he will not outright refuse. I suspect he will bait and switch." Roa slowly lifts the glass to her lips and takes a tiny tentative sip. Which is followed quickly by a cough. Brows furrow as she reexamines the glass. But all she says is, "You have multiple brothers."
"Perhaps I like my other brothers better?" Sefton's question comes with an easy grin, head tilted to one side as he looks up at her. "Or perhaps there are worse things in the world than a pretty weaver, mmm?"
Now it is Roa's turn to laugh. "You do not," she chides. "Kelar is your favorite. He sends you relief from home and you send him letters. I think you are simply waiting to see how he's going to get out of it. I think you are bemusedly fascinated at watching him work his charm." The glass is turned slowly in her fingers, but not sipped from again. "Pretty weavers do not stay pretty for long. And beauty falls flat when it isn't matched with a suitable temperament."
"I taught him his charm," Sefton corrects her. "I know exactly how it works. Think, though, of the weaver in question." He comes slowly to his feet, stretching, now towering above her. There's a subtle alteration in his drawl -- a slight gain in speed, a thread of amusement. "It lies within Kelar's ability to bait and switch, as you put it. Her part of the decision will be made without reference to her opinion on the question at all."
"Did you?" Roa's head tips up so that she can follow the Headmaster as he stands. Her gaze does not demure, even when he looms. "He wears it differently." The glass is lifted, another tiny sip braved. Cough. "The weaver may indeed be trapped to her fate. Although, if she can wriggle out of it as well, she and Kelar probably -ought- to marry one another."
"He wears it far more charmingly, I should say," Sefton replies, with a hint of a smile. "Let us say, for the sake of argument, that the weaver cannot wriggle out of it. Perhaps she can, but that path, for now, is not where my interest lies. Her parents will decide for her, and perhaps Master Ghera as well."
One of Roa's hands reaches out to pat the spot on the couch beside her. An invitation to join. "I would say, instead of more charmingly, more sincerely. I believe he means it more, whether he does or not." But then she quiets as Sefton discusses the weaver in question. The weyrwoman nods once in acceptance of these statements. "Go on."
"Hmmm." She's caught Sefton there for a moment, and he favours her with a small, thoughtful frown. "We will return to that point at some later date," he promises. "But for tonight, you would like an argument. What I say -- and lest you think I merely provoke you, what I believe -- is this. I say it is better that Kelar's bride has the decision made for her. She has not been equipped to do so, even were she capable -- which is another debate in itself."
"Ahhh," Roa exhales softly. Her smile is a bit freer now. "I will take up the other end, then, and suggest that she has the right to choose freely. State your opening point, sir."
"What I say is this," Sefton informs her, finally moving over to lower himself onto the couch beside her, stretching long legs out in front of him, slumping comfortably. "I say that our hypothetical woman is not the best person to make a decision in this regard. She will have a husband chosen for her. I extend the point, and say that weyrs elevate their women, and give them a range of choice and autonomy they would be better off without."
Roa's eyes widen just a little bit before her head tips back and she's laughing. "Faranth, Sefton, seriously?" Her glass lifts in an offer to clink his. "You're on. You do, realize, however, that you've just stated that you'd like to overthrow the current way weyrs are run? How can a woman who is incapable of even choosing her own bed partner successfully oversee an entire Weyr?"
"Most seriously," Sefton drawls, tipping his glass in against hers, and then lifting it for a small sip. "Sadly, I am not in a position to alter the way weyrs are run, despite your near overwhelming faith in my ability to achieve all things. I will cede that a Weyrwoman provides a stability of leadership. Nevertheless, I hold to my point."
"Ah. Sadly. I do not know that I believe in your ability to achieve all things, so much as your ability to -want- all things." Roa's eyes are twinkling now. "Give me a why. The topic of 'too much freedom' is too broad. Let's start with a launching point. Something specific." The glass is lifted to her own lips. Sip. This time, she only clears her throat.
Nevertheless, she's sipping, and Sefton's lips twist to one of his smiles in approval. "Demanding little thing," the Headmaster observes, considering his drink for a moment. "I am afraid I will outrage you, Roa. You profess a great respect for my opinion at times. I challenge you to avoid scoffing at unwelcome opinions, and subject them to examination. I would begin by saying that I believe women are not as skilled at decision making. They allow too many factors to crowd in."
"We are debating. You won't...ah..." Roa's smile suddenly dims significantly, and while there is no more drinking from her glass, there is the sudden and intent examination of it. Demanding little thing. She swallows sharply and takes a deep breath before looking up and over at the Headmaster again. "It could be suggested that, rather than women allowing too many factors, men do not allow enough. Clarify the statement, please." She is trying her best to maintain the cheer of the last few moments, but it has become a struggle.
There's a brief glance of query for a moment, but Sefton does not delve -- unsurprising -- choosing instead to move on. "Men choose the most important factors, and make a decision. They do not allow themselves to become bogged down by endless consideration, but rather consider, decide, and implement. Men are more efficient, and better suited to making large scale decisions. Women can afford to dither when they are housekeeping. They cannot, in this arena."
"But you cannot know a woman's mind, not being one yourself, sir. How do you presume that women get bogged down by such things?" Roa's shoulders are relaxing again as she considers her next words. "And, if you read your history, you'll find that successful Weyrwomen are as common as successful Weyrleaders. Which is to say, not always, but often enough. And there are instances of women successfully running holds. We have female mastercrafters. Women, despite the added constraints society places on them, seem to be making their own way even so."
"I observe, and I suppose," Sefton replies, with a toothy grin. "I read my history, but I have no evidence that when weyrs have prospered, it has been down to the Weyrwomen who ran them. For all I know, these women took counsel, or were uncommon examples. We have one female Craftmaster, and hailing from Boll, I can assure you that working with Master Ghera is an experience unto itself. Women make their own way, certain. What I say is that, on the whole -- for exceptions can defeat any rule -- they are not as well placed for leadership as men."
"That is a difficult thing to argue insofar as there have been so few women leaders save in Weyrs where they're partnered with a man. So, I suppose we'll have to travel to the realm of the theoretical." Roa leans back into a couch with a slow sigh. "Women are better at leadership than men. They have more patience, they are less violent, and they are more capable of noticing details."
"Women's' patience is taken advantage of by those who would delay a decision. Women mistake the willingness to hear all voices for fairness. It is inefficient, and unnecessary. It weighs one down in an endless sea of information, making a decision no better, but infinitely more difficult to make. Details serve the same purpose. They confuse the issue, obfuscate what is important." Sefton grins broadly then, sliding his gaze sideways once more. "Violence is not limited to physical force. It is not without use."
"Details are crucial, or Reyce would not still be in etiquette classes," opines Roa bluntly. "They are the tiny giveaways. They are the clues that lead to the bigger picture. If you cannot read the details, you cannot effectively manipulate. Violence, when not physical, is something women are superior at compared to men. Women use barbed words better. Their timing is better. Patience and fairness are better to have in abundance than to lack them entirely, as many men do. As female greenriders demonstrate, women are perfectly capable of making split-second decisions, of fighting, and of succeeding in a regimented and male-dominated structure."
Sefton laughs, lifting his glass for a slow mouthful -- despite the kick, he relishes it, tilting his head to one side and then the other to wash it around his mouth before he swallows. "Women are forced to barbs and timing, unable to exert themselves as proper leaders. Greenriders, I would point out, are never in positions of leadership. Do not speak to me of the stamina of a green dragon, relative to one larger. Wings of greens and blues would be led by green or blue wingleaders, if any were capable. I have seen women crafters. I do not say women are without ability. Simply that they are ill-suited to decision-making, and leadership." A beat, a sip, and then: "I might add, I have excused Reyce from etiquette classes."
"Have you, now? How did he wrangle out of that? Greenriders may not get leadership positions, but they demonstrate a woman's capability to do more than is perceived." Roa leans her head back to stare up at the ceiling. "Justify Weyrwomen, then. They are wholly responsible for the maintaining of Weyrs. How do they manage, if they are so lacking?"
"Women work in the fields beside their husbands, work in crafts, become Master Crafters, one a Pass. I do not say they are incapable." Sefton tips his head back as well, slouching yet more comfortably, a rumpled pile of black beside her with a lazy drawl. "I moved him into a class I wished him to take. You will be taking it also. You, however, will not be escaping etiquette to do so." He lifts his head long enough for a sip, then rests his glass on his stomach. "Weyrwomen manage. Weyrs clearly do not flounder. They simply do not manage as well as men would. Resources are wasted, infighting continues."
Interest is sparked yet again and Roa's brows quirk a little upwards. After a moment of consideration she says, "Poor G'thon. I think it is too easy to say 'weyrs do not flounder but could be better. It is women who are to blame'. Many holds, while succeeding, could be better run, and they are all run by men."
"The day to day running of Holds could be better managed," Sefton concedes easily, eyes still on the ceiling. "Their leadership is a different matter. I say that the men who run our Holds, on the whole -- again, I declined to be defeated by exception -- achieve a great deal. They cut through the details that hold up women. The Conclave is an excellent example."
"But that is just a circular argument. You say that Weyrs are run well, but could be run better, and this is the failing of female leadership. You say Holds run well but could be run better, and that is the failing of specific individuals, rather than the male gender as a whole. I say that it proves that men and women are equally adept...or inept...at running large establishments and success or failure is based on the merits of each individual placed into the job. Gender does not enter into it." Roa pauses to lift her glass and take a sip all on her own. She licks her lips afterwards, frowning as she attempts to define anything pleasant about the flavor of the drink she holds. "As for The Conclave being an excellent example, if your argument is that men are direct and effective, I think the Conclave contradicts. Never have I heard of more hemming and hawing than when you put a group of Lords in a room together. Never have I heard of more careful verbal barbs, more secret manipulations, or more interest in minutia. I will also remind you that the Weyrs hold their own council, in which Weyrwomen participate, and I again see no difference between a council of authority with women and one without. I anything, I would suggest that the Weyr council is more direct. More as you propose male leadership to be."
"Oh Roa, Roa." Sefton sounds veritably distressed, one hand coming up to cover his eyes for a moment, then slide to massage the bridge of his nose. "Draw your distinctions more carefully, I beg you. Have I taught you nothing? A Weyr is co-led by a woman. A Hold is led by a man, with women in various management roles. I say that Holds and Weyrs could be improved in different ways, and that the need in each can be tracked to the differing roles that women play." He pauses for a sip, far less hesitant about the taste than she. "Given the magnitude of the decisions a Conclave must make, I would also say that they are positively streamlined."
Roa mms faintly. She leans over to set her glass down on a little table near the couch, apparently finished with attempting to like it for her companion's sake. Or, perhaps, his amusement. She props her elbow onto the couch arm, and settles her cheek on her fist. "I say that improvements in Holds and Weyrs can be tracked to individual choices of each leader and manager, and not to the failings of a whole gender. You may try to disavow exception, but I say there have been too many not to argue that they form a pattern of their own."
"Matching drinks is a courtesy," Sefton points out blandly, not bothering to hide the hint of a smile that tugs up one side of his mouth. "Others will not let you off as easily as I do." Nor, in fairness, are they likely to feed her this sort of poison. "I say that exceptions are the refuge of one who has nowhere left to go, and a signal of a rearguard action," he replies, drawl amused. "Make your point, however. What patterns do you see?"
"So is not cornering someone a third of your own body weight into keeping pace with an experienced drinker while imbibing hard and biting alcohol. What -is- your fascination with inebriating all of your students, anyhow?" The smirk is returned, the little weyrwoman not the least daunted by the chastisement. "The pattern I see, mostly, is education. Those who have it and have a vested interest in it go on to do better as leaders. Men and women both."
"Frail excuses, Roa. You are a third of /anyone's/ body weight, so I would expect no quarter there," Sefton replies, raising his glass to her. "I do not inebriate any of my students." A pause, and a smirk. "Well, barring Neiran, perhaps, but he must learn somehow. I do him a service, and entertain myself simultaneously." His grin is wicked as he baits her with those words, head tilted back so he can stare up at the ceiling. "The pattern you see is education? You show your age, Roa. The Caucus has been alive too short a time to give the women it has educated time to have any real impact. Or do you say they were educated elsewhere?"
"You made -Neiran- drink?" Roa's brows arch upwards and then draw down sharply. "Sefton..." there is, actually, a flash of plain and simple disapproval on her face. "I thought you only played at being cruel." Her lips press together, and then the topic is dropped. "I say, first, that the Caucus has been around for ten turns and graduation is in four. Women have been educated here and moved on to other things. The impact is beginning. Two, yes, that education can be found elsewhere. Blooded boys and girls learned their lessons long before Caucus appeared."
Sefton either doesn't catch the disapproval, or is unmoved by it, eyes still on the ceiling. "I am constantly baffled by the insistence of women that I only play," he replies, drawl richly amused. "I tell you outright that I do not, and still you refuse to believe me." A faint shrug, before he presses on. "Women have been educated six turns. Their impact is nowhere that I have seen. They are still too young -- they are in waiting, if they are anything. Set aside notions that the Blooded were educated before Caucus. Blooded women learned nothing to what they can now."
"Perhaps we don't believe you because you're rather good at lying." Roa shrugs. "In waiting," the weyrwoman muses with a tiny smile. "You know, I like the way that sounds. But women did get educated even before Caucus. Less often and it took more work, but absolutely they did."
"Roa, you wound me," Sefton replies, assuming a tone that suggests just that. "What evidence have you that I have lied to you on any matter? Or indeed, that I have lied to any man?" A beat, and a grin. "Or woman, at that." He lifts his head for a sip, then lets it flop back onto the couch once more. "In waiting. To be married, so that they can bear children. Or to make be exceptionally qualified journeymen, hamstrung by the fact that they simply do not have what is required to make Master."
"Or to become weyrwomen," Roa notes idly. "We are not debating -you-, sir. And I think I've shared my thoughts of you and your kin quite enough for one late night. The fact that women are, by and large, expected to marry and bear children or to remain in journeyman status is less a reflection of their own skills, and more a reflection on what the world wishes to see. It is not that they are incapable. It's that nobody wishes them to -be- capable. Ingenuity in women is not encouraged. It is, I would go so far as to say, squelched."
"It is a reflection of what the world wishes to see? It is entirely due to the fact that, for the most part, they are incapable," Sefton disagrees. "Where women manage ingenuity, they are lauded for it. It is simply that their sort of ingenuity is better suited to smaller tasks. Women remain journeymen because, for the most part, they lack the hardness, the leadership, the ability to focus directly enough to attain more. They allow themselves to be distracted. Women marry and bear children because that is what they are suited to doing, by temperament, by intelligence and by upbringing only because their upbringing is suited to their ability."
There is a long moment of consideration before Roa simply says, "I disagree. But, I cannot argue your comments. They're only unfounded opinions. I can throw mine back at you. We can do so all night. It's disinteresting." She leans over to flick at her glass *ping* without picking it up. "Try again, sir."
"You are no fun, Roa," Sefton replies, darker for a moment. "You are also in error, tactically. My opinions are based on assumptions, and you would do better to outline and challenge those assumptions individually than to simply refuse to engage. It gives listeners the impression -- right or wrongly, I should add -- that you have nothing to say to what you have heard."
"If you will recall, I came here for my own distraction this time, and not yours. But..." Roa nods slowly. "You're right. I flubbed it. I'm not in my best form tonight. I can, however, offer a consolation prize."
"Take heart, Roa," Sefton replies, lifting his head, and shifting to a more upright sitting position. One hand claps down on her knee -- companionably, no more -- and he comes slowly to his feet. "You are one of my exceptions. It is late, and you are distressed." This much he has observed, although he is yet to query the cause. He stretches, and drains his glass. "You already exceed most of my other students. What is my prize?"
It's a funny sound Roa makes. Something between a sigh and a chuckle. "I should shelling hope I am. I'd hate to think you'd waste your time trying to hold debates with an unintelligent, poorly tempered and badly raised baby-maker." Roa shifts a bit, but doesn't yet rise. She has something in her hand, drawn out from her pocket. "Catch." And the little shape is thrown in Sefton's direction. When he examines it, he will find that it is the knot of a junior weyrwoman. Of High Reaches. "It will be made public tomorrow afternoon. You've won a full twelve hours to strategize before anybody else even knows it happened."
"Oh Roa, I have done it," Sefton returns, offering a grin over his shoulder that's all teeth and no kindness. "But not tonight." One hand goes out to catch the knot, and he turns it over -- it takes only a moment's examination to identify it, but during that moment, his expression smoothes over to carefully blank. He considers it, turning it over in his fingers, processing. Then he lifts his head, curls in his eyes, to shoot her a broad grin indeed. "Oh, Roa. Well done."
"Have you? I'm glad to hear you realize you haven't -tonight-." Roa holds her hand out for the knot she's tossed his way. "Thank you. Let's hope, with my luck and the fate of foreign weyrwomen in this position, it wasn't a very big mistake."
"Oh, Roa." Sefton's laughing, patently delighted, turning to press her knot back into her hand. "A mistake? Roa, this is an opportunity Telgar would not have offered you under any circumstances. All you need now is just a little luck, and the opportunities that will be yours..." The Headmaster makes no effort to quell his grin. "You are due some luck, Roa."
"I am, I suppose." Now it is Roa's turn to study the knot, turning it slowly in her hands. "I hope to expend a bit of it on other things besides Tialith hitting the skies first but..." turn, turn. "She died," Roa murmurs quietly. "My good fortune is directly caused by her death. Her murder. I'm not even sure how I should feel about that. No." Her head lifts and the knot is tucked back into her pocket. "I know how I should feel. I'm disturbed that I feel something else instead." Roa scoots forward so her feet can hit the ground, and she can push up and into a stand. "Thank you for the company. The next time I arrive demanding intellectual stimulation, I shall try to pick a more civil hour."
"She came to see me, Roa." Sefton delivers this information quietly. "We discussed how she might change what we could both see unfolding. It was too late, but I advised her nonetheless, because she was the Weyrwoman, and she asked me. I did not anticipate the form her failure would take." He turns more fully as she comes to her feet. "My counsel, Weyrwoman, is available to you at any hour. Choose whichever you will."
"I have a hard time thinking anyone could have imagined it. It is unprecedented. Or, rather, it was." Roa exhales slowly, bending down to pick up and put her boots back on. She straightens upright before speaking again. "Lexine has returned as well. Sinopa will remain acting Senior. So, I am weyrwoman, and not Weyrwoman. Careful with your titles, sir," A tiny smirk, "and have a good night. What little of it I have left to you."
"I will be careful with many things," Sefton murmurs, dark eyes still gleaming. "So will you. I will make a fascinated spectator, Roa. I hope you will allow me to partner you for a step or two of the dance." His hand comes up in a salute not unlike that used by the riders of the weyr, his grin crooked. "Good night."
"Perhaps I shall," muses the newest Reachian quietly. "We shall see when the music truly begins." Her head tips into a low nod. "Headmaster." And Roa turns away and departs.