I'lyan visits
Who: G'thon and I'lyan
When: Day 24, Month 10, first turn
Where: Weyrleader's weyr
What: I'lyan conveys M'arik's strange questions, and G'thon sows mild (of course, mild) dissent.
The tea of morning is a somewhat different affair than those teas of afternoon or evening. In fact, by the looks of it, it's better described as a substitute for breakfast. Someone has left a basket of dry currant biscuits and sticky sweet breads alongside the silver service atop the small rolling cart which presents the Weyrleader's habitual drink - and this gambit, this effort to get the old man to actually trouble to eat by tempting him with the sweetest stuff the kitchen offers this time of day, seems to have paid off. G'thon paces, a freshly unscrolled letter in one hand and a half-eaten sweetroll in the other. The rest of the man's mail is scattered carelessly from a courier's leather packet upon the desk in the corner, and he's got a low mutter going over whatever it is he's reading. Names of Holds - Ruatha and Boll among them - scatter among those murmurings, sourly spoken.
There is a noise in the outer corridor, a tread upon the stairs. There is a cautious knock on the half open door and a call of "Sir?" The voice is an unfamiliar one. "May I have a moment?"
The muttering ceases upon the echo of that small noise, and by the time the knock sounds out, G'thon has half-furled the letter in one long hand and has the other ready to sweep out an open-palmed invitation. "Of course. Would you care for tea?" On that offer he strides toward the cart and service, troubling only a moment to lay aside the letter upon the desk along the way.
I'lyan pushes open the door and comes on in. "I'm sorry to bother you, sir. I'lyan, Koriscath's rider of Benden." He glances about, "I'm not interrupting anything am I? And please, don't trouble yourself with the tea - this isn't really a social call."
"Tea," observes G'thon with a mild, chill smile, "Is never trouble." He takes a cup and saucer from the tray, setting the latter aside to hold his half-eaten sweetroll before taking up the pot to pour tea, apparently for himself. While his hands go about the ritual of pot and cup and saucer and amendments - a little milk, a little sweet - he speaks, voice even and low. "And I am grateful for a little interruption, sir. Some days it doesn't pay to read one's letters." He assembles cup and saucer, lifts them to blow across the surface of the tea and, also across that surface, eye his guest. "Have a seat?"
I'lyan inclines his head, a hint of a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. "I can sympathize with that, sir." He moves to take a seat. "A recent communication from Benden is the subject of my visit." Hm. Just before noon - he's a caucus student. He /should/ be in a class of some sort. "And though I'm interrupting, I hope I won't take up too much of your time. M'arik wished to ask you if the usual prohibitions against caucus students will apply when Nenuith rises? Or rather," he gives a wry smile, "He sent me in to do the asking and report back to him."
"One wonders why M'arik can't trouble to visit me himself," muses G'thon, and tips the cup up to take a sip of the tea. His long fingers, pale and awkward, become ghostly-graceful in the execution of this commonplace task; it is with religious care that the cup is handled, with perfect symmetry it is replaced in the saucer. As he lowers the tea, the Weyrleader offers I'lyan a warm smile, higher on the right side than the left. "Were I S'lien or M'lik or any of a host of Hold Lords, I expect I might be somewhat offended." He places the tea upon the tray and asks, as if this -were- a social call, thank you, "Are you sure I can't offer you tea? Pastry?"
I'lyan inclines his head. "Tea," he relents, and then says, "If he were to come himself, it would acknowledge some interests that he prefers to still leave private, both at home and abroad." He makes a gesture inclusive of High Reaches as a whole. "It could be disguised as a social call, but there are no secrets in a weyr. Where as I can come, speak to you, and most everyone would believe that I'm continuing to plead my case to be allowed to fly with your wings, even as a 'caucus student'." The 'air quotes' around those words are almost visible.
"Very good," approves G'thon in that same mild demeanor, and takes up the pot to pour a new cup. "Sweet? Milk? - Ah, of course. And with the Reaches' wings in such shape as they are, I assure you that I host young men from Caucus wishing to be added to our numbers on an almost daily basis now." That calm tone does not convey sarcasm well, and it seems to be the only voice with which the Weyrleader speaks; he glances up from the tea, however, and flicks upward one pale brow, and that gesture alone might serve well enough to dry out his statement appropriately. He offers out in one pale palm the dwarfed cup, a tiny spoon lain alongside on the saucer, and with the other hand waves a welcome at the sweetener and cream-pot on the tray. "As for M'arik's interests: I am sure his question is far clearer for your asking it than it would have been had he come in person - offense notwithstanding." Again with the lopsided smile.
I'lyan assures hastily, as he declines the offer of sweet or milk with a brisk shake of his head. "None taken. I'll be frank, sir. I don't like the position I'm in, but I do as my Weyrleader orders." He takes the tea as he speaks and points out, "I'm certain you do. And I'm just as certain that none of those come asking have ever served as wingleader or flight leader." His lips compress into a tight line. "It /is/ very frustrating. Seeing pairs die when you could help alleviate it. And all for politics. M'arik doesn't care if I fly with your wings - I wish you'd reconsider my petition."
I'lyan adds, with a bit of humor, "Fly with your wings, honing my own skills as well, sure. Fly after your gold... that's a whole 'nother story."
Both pale brows slide up now, leveling across G'thon's brow, setting a repeating series of curved creases up the length of that long forehead. "Actually," he replies with almost no inflection, "I have had a similar request from a onetime wingleader, and granted it. But I am relatively sure I have had no formal request from you," pause, "sir." For now, M'arik is apparently outside the realm of discussion.
I'lyan blinks. "I thought that the Weyrwoman - Diya - would have passed along my interest. I saw her the day after I arrived. I was looking for you but," He pauses and then says more smoothly, "I didn't understand that by accepting entrance to the caucus, I would be restricted to only flying resupply. It wasn't long after the troubles came to a head with your wings, sir," an oblique reference to the loss of his own dragon, "And she persuaded me not to bother you, and that the only way I would be flying with Reaches wings were if I requested a transfer." A pause and he asks hopefully, "/Is/ it a possibility you would be willing to entertain?"
"Ah, I see." G'thon has been called imperturbable; here, he earns the adjective. Those silvered brows settle back into place as he retakes his tea from the tray, slipping the uneaten half of his breakfast off of the saucer onto a napkin before starting a leisurely pace off toward his mail-strewn desk. "It never ceases to amaze me how many riders come to Caucus unaware of that restriction. It has been in place since the Caucus' inception; I have to admit that I can only wonder if your Weyrleaders have simply overlooked that detail in briefing you for your assignments." A faint smile plays again around the corners of G'thon's mouth, lifting the right-hand side somewhat more than the left, and wry light pales his hazel gaze - a gaze gone unfocused of a sudden. He pauses next to his desk, cup in one palm with the other hand's fingers poised at the cup's handle, and stares into an invisible distance. "Ah. I see," he adds, as if he has seen and understood something off in that faraway place, and turns to regard his guest anew. An apologetic tilt of his head accompanies a simple response: "No. Diya is correct. I may not break the rule of Caucus, nor needlessly endanger riders sent here on other Weyrs' goodwill; you would have to become a Reachian rider."
I'lyan says a trifle acidly, "I'm sure it simply slipped M'arik's mind." He frowns slightly. "And for political reasons, I can't." Lips purse, frustrated. "Is there any way I could help your weyr, sir? Short of an official transfer? I'm in an untenable position: I can't go against my Weyrleader, or my queenriders, but I cannot in good conscience sit idly by when I have the ability to assist you and your wings." He pauses and then asks, "If I were a caucus instructor, would the same prohibition exist?"
"If you cannot join our riders for political reasons," observes the older man, suddenly solemn, voice as bland as it can be, "then I fail to see the point of your Weyrleader's original question." And G'thon allows that statement to remain the whole of his observation for a long moment before allowing a slight smile to creep up the right side of his mouth, before allowing himself a brief indulgence in a sip of his tea. Then, perhaps to make clear that his habit of allowing certain questions to go unanswered is no accident, he asks, "Do you like the tea? It's an Igenite blend."
I'lyan hastily takes a drink of the tea, as his expression flickers to uncertainty. He's silent, the unshakable confidence visible in every line of his body draining somewhat. Emotions flicker quickly through his eyes and then he says, "Were I to ask for a transfer, would it be granted? Just for my own curiosity."
"It would be considered," replies the Weyrleader. Something about his demeanor has softened in that small time, perhaps a response to the drain of the bronzerider's pride. In any case, G'thon keeps at that small, lopsided smile throughout another sampling of his tea, then sets the cup and saucer down aside the hides strewn on his desk. "We would do well, in that case, to discuss your experience and - perhaps more importantly - your goals." Oh, but here one of those sly brows slips slightly up again, making him seem wry and droll again. "You must admit this has been a strange conversation, in that light, sir. I could come to the conclusion that M'arik would like a hand in the running of High Reaches Weyr." And for a moment it might seem G'thon would let that stand - then he's overturning a hand in a dismissive gesture and tipping his chin down as if expressing shame. "Ah, forgive me. I find since Hirth - I speak a little too harshly, sometimes."
"It would be considered," replies the Weyrleader. Something about his demeanor has softened in that small time, perhaps a response to the drain of the bronzerider's pride. In any case, G'thon keeps at that small, lopsided smile throughout another sampling of his tea, then sets the cup and saucer down aside the hides strewn on his desk. "We would do well, in that case, to discuss your experience and - perhaps more importantly - your goals." Oh, but here one of those sly brows slips slightly up again, making him seem wry and droll again. "You must admit this has been a strange conversation, in that light, sir. I could come to the conclusion that M'arik would like a hand in the running of High Reaches Weyr." And for a moment it might seem G'thon would let that stand - then he's overturning a hand in a dismissive gesture and tipping his chin down as if expressing shame. "Ah, forgive me. I find since Hirth - I speak a little too harshly, sometimes."
His expression switches from honest denial at the first to an uncomfortable one at the mention of the Weyrleader's loss. "No, please. I appreciate frank speaking." Something in his tone suggests that he might have been thinking along the same lines. "My experience is an open book, sir. I was a wingleader for three turns before the Pass began, and I was often given the 'difficult' cases. None of my riders - the ones I trained - have been lost to 'score, yet. Koriscath's caught Lamre's queen twice - good large clutches both times. After he caught the second time M'arik promoted me to his second wingsecond. The other - M'garid - is a brownrider. I've lead flights as well. Some good days, some bad." He leaves the question of his goals alone for the moment.
G'thon is patient - it complements well that imperturbable, emotionless, mild and oft-slightly smiling mein - but still, by the end of this list of accomplishments the Reachian weyrleader cannot help a slow, soft chuckle and a shake of his head. "Right now, then," he bemusedly remarks, but does not bother to explain that remark. Instead he leaves his desk and the tea there with it, heading anew for the seating area of his weyr; there he offers at last a chair to his guest with a wave of one hand. While he himself sinks into a seat in the embrace of the chair opposite, G'thon says as if all of that about the bronzerider's experience had not been put forth, "Frankly, then, how does it serve you to do M'arik's bidding at High Reaches?"
I'lyan follows a trifle more slowly, his expression pensive. It grows downright troubled at the last question, and he settles into a seat. "May I ask your opinion on the Caucus, sir? High Reaches hosts it, so that would suggest you are 'for' the establishment, the teaching." Two can play the 'non answer' game. Or did he in fact answer the older man's question?
"In my opinion," retorts G'thon - but no. He speaks readily, but rarely hastily, and certainly not now; so mild his voice, so pleasant his demeanor, it is impossible to aptly describe his reply as retort. Still: "The Caucus creates better politicians." And whether that is for better or worse hangs about in the air while the Weyrleader, comfortable beneath that hazy mantle of things unsaid, leans back in his chair and crosses a leg up over the other at the knee. "Have you found that's the case, in your experience thus far?"
I'lyan says neutrally, "That's an apt assessment. I assume you're aware of my Weyrleader's opinion on the subject. I imagine it came as a surprise when a Benden wingsecond was sent here. Littls say M'arik's own."
"I find that there is little in this world left that surprises me." G'thon's elbows slip up onto the arms of his chair and his hands stretch long and lanky over the forward curves of the upholstery there; one set of fingers begins a leisurely, silent drum. "Least of all Weyrleaders sending their brightest bronzeriders to a distant Weyr under cover of educational purposes, I'lyan. Perhaps instead of assuming that you must serve M'arik's purpose here, I should assume you subvert it?"
I'lyan huffs out a sigh. "Honestly? I don't know what to think anymore. M'arik doesn't believe in the Caucus. The Weyrwoman sent Ginny here - Lamre needs little polishing - and since we'd no others at the moment going through the program, I was sent to," he ticks off on his fingers, "Keep an eye on Ginny and make sure she wasn't, ah, influenced by any radical thoughts and two, evaluate whether the Caucus really is worth all the bother. Of your weyr, sir, I was given no directives." He pauses and then offers delicately, "There are others here who could give him more information directly related to the Reaches than I." He draws in a breath, settling back. "But now this game of cat and mouse with 'Fall, and now with the issue of Nenuith's flight - I'm beginning to have doubts."
G'thon's fingers fall still, their drumming silenced by something, perhaps, that his guest has said. "Would you like to enlighten me as to why Nenuith's flight is an issue?" His hand lifts from the arm of the chair and overturns, then settles again. "I understand you are sent to procure some answer for M'arik which either assures him that you may not risk becoming our Weyrleader - or that the rules of Caucus suddenly do not apply. What about this is an issue for you?"
I'lyan's words are slow. "I would think that, given what I've been told in the past, M'arik expects the caucus rules to be upheld. And that sending me to ask, and me reporting it back, both assures him of my loyalty and that the Reaches won't be 'poaching' me." He frowns. "Though some things you have said do put his actions in a different light." He shakes his head. "To be thrust into such a position here - as an outweyr rider - " he stops and shakes his head again, not liking the implications.
"You would be somewhat dependent upon your prior Weyrleader's support and advice," observes G'thon. "Especially given that the Reaches is what it is." He does not trouble to name that thing, though others have certainly done a good enough job of trying: 'mess' would be an adequate noun in the eyes of many. But the Weyr's leader just smiles and smiles on and on, mild and unshaken and even indifferent. "In any case, I believe those who oversee Caucus would be most displeased if I were to take it upon myself to alter the rules, so you may make assurance to M'arik that we expect the bronzeriders in attendance to exert every ounce of control they possess in our Weyr's next leaders' flight."
I'lyan nods slowly. "I'm beginning to see that side of the coin. It's... a difficult combination. My idealism, arrogance, the honest need for - shells, warm /bodies/ here to fly fall, ambition - I don't /want/ to believe I could be played so easily." He frowns. "If I have been, I would do the very predictable thing of asking for a transfer in anger. And playing into his hands. If I /haven't/ been, then a transfer will lose me my mentor. And should I find sucess here at the Reaches, his anger might make it all the worse for the Weyr's success in the long run." He rubs his forehead, the convolutions of the situation giving him a headache.
"I'lyan." For this one word, the other man's name, G'thon's voice drops low and even, abandoning the pleasant, musing loll of its usual tone to gently but firmly demand, in that single breath, complete attention. He waits not long to be sure he has it, and speaks again, quietly indeed. "You must decide what you want, and see clearly the steps between you and it. Then you must decide if you can commit yourself wholly to each of those steps in turn." The smile has gone at last and seems, now, quite likely to stay gone; there is a shadowy depth in the Weyrleader's eyes which brooks no judgement, but offers also no release from responsibility. "If you want Reaches, there is only one right step. You must take it, and willingly, with all the risk and loss explicit. If you want Benden, you must trust its leader to steer you well."
I'lyan's attention is, and has been, fixed on G'thon. "I did." There is an undercurrent of uncertainty in his tone, one that had been lacking when he entered this conversation. "I... hadn't thought to want Reaches. It's hard to consider a door you didn't know was there five minutes ago. And it's... not a decision that can be made quickly." He stops then and says, "You've known M'arik as a Weyrleader longer than I. Do you doubt your first reaction? That he was attempting to meddle in the Reaches?"
"Indeed." There is much here to be said about the uncertainty of any gambit which involves a knot won by dragonflight - but the current holder of that knot says none of it. Instead G'thon lets down his crossed leg and pushes himself up out of his chair. "I do not, I'lyan. M'arik does not care for the Caucus, and I think it is no small stretch to assume he does not care for some of our Weyr's ways, either. It is my best advice to you to consider how that might affect your choices while you are here."
I'lyan nods. "May I speak to you further about this? Once I've had some time to digest it all?" The request is quietly put.
"You may," provides G'thon, after which he strides off toward the tea-cart to begin the business of pouring himself a new cup, the first apparently forgotten or ignored on his desk across the chamber. "You may wish to have your confidence checked before then, however. Consider our own bronzeriders - and our queens - while you think."
I'lyan nods, rising to put his mug on the cart. "I will. Thank you, sir, for your time. I've taken up far more than I intended to." And come away with far more doubts than he thought possible. He inclines his head politely, before departing the way he came, his steps far slower and more hesitant than before.
When: Day 24, Month 10, first turn
Where: Weyrleader's weyr
What: I'lyan conveys M'arik's strange questions, and G'thon sows mild (of course, mild) dissent.
The tea of morning is a somewhat different affair than those teas of afternoon or evening. In fact, by the looks of it, it's better described as a substitute for breakfast. Someone has left a basket of dry currant biscuits and sticky sweet breads alongside the silver service atop the small rolling cart which presents the Weyrleader's habitual drink - and this gambit, this effort to get the old man to actually trouble to eat by tempting him with the sweetest stuff the kitchen offers this time of day, seems to have paid off. G'thon paces, a freshly unscrolled letter in one hand and a half-eaten sweetroll in the other. The rest of the man's mail is scattered carelessly from a courier's leather packet upon the desk in the corner, and he's got a low mutter going over whatever it is he's reading. Names of Holds - Ruatha and Boll among them - scatter among those murmurings, sourly spoken.
There is a noise in the outer corridor, a tread upon the stairs. There is a cautious knock on the half open door and a call of "Sir?" The voice is an unfamiliar one. "May I have a moment?"
The muttering ceases upon the echo of that small noise, and by the time the knock sounds out, G'thon has half-furled the letter in one long hand and has the other ready to sweep out an open-palmed invitation. "Of course. Would you care for tea?" On that offer he strides toward the cart and service, troubling only a moment to lay aside the letter upon the desk along the way.
I'lyan pushes open the door and comes on in. "I'm sorry to bother you, sir. I'lyan, Koriscath's rider of Benden." He glances about, "I'm not interrupting anything am I? And please, don't trouble yourself with the tea - this isn't really a social call."
"Tea," observes G'thon with a mild, chill smile, "Is never trouble." He takes a cup and saucer from the tray, setting the latter aside to hold his half-eaten sweetroll before taking up the pot to pour tea, apparently for himself. While his hands go about the ritual of pot and cup and saucer and amendments - a little milk, a little sweet - he speaks, voice even and low. "And I am grateful for a little interruption, sir. Some days it doesn't pay to read one's letters." He assembles cup and saucer, lifts them to blow across the surface of the tea and, also across that surface, eye his guest. "Have a seat?"
I'lyan inclines his head, a hint of a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. "I can sympathize with that, sir." He moves to take a seat. "A recent communication from Benden is the subject of my visit." Hm. Just before noon - he's a caucus student. He /should/ be in a class of some sort. "And though I'm interrupting, I hope I won't take up too much of your time. M'arik wished to ask you if the usual prohibitions against caucus students will apply when Nenuith rises? Or rather," he gives a wry smile, "He sent me in to do the asking and report back to him."
"One wonders why M'arik can't trouble to visit me himself," muses G'thon, and tips the cup up to take a sip of the tea. His long fingers, pale and awkward, become ghostly-graceful in the execution of this commonplace task; it is with religious care that the cup is handled, with perfect symmetry it is replaced in the saucer. As he lowers the tea, the Weyrleader offers I'lyan a warm smile, higher on the right side than the left. "Were I S'lien or M'lik or any of a host of Hold Lords, I expect I might be somewhat offended." He places the tea upon the tray and asks, as if this -were- a social call, thank you, "Are you sure I can't offer you tea? Pastry?"
I'lyan inclines his head. "Tea," he relents, and then says, "If he were to come himself, it would acknowledge some interests that he prefers to still leave private, both at home and abroad." He makes a gesture inclusive of High Reaches as a whole. "It could be disguised as a social call, but there are no secrets in a weyr. Where as I can come, speak to you, and most everyone would believe that I'm continuing to plead my case to be allowed to fly with your wings, even as a 'caucus student'." The 'air quotes' around those words are almost visible.
"Very good," approves G'thon in that same mild demeanor, and takes up the pot to pour a new cup. "Sweet? Milk? - Ah, of course. And with the Reaches' wings in such shape as they are, I assure you that I host young men from Caucus wishing to be added to our numbers on an almost daily basis now." That calm tone does not convey sarcasm well, and it seems to be the only voice with which the Weyrleader speaks; he glances up from the tea, however, and flicks upward one pale brow, and that gesture alone might serve well enough to dry out his statement appropriately. He offers out in one pale palm the dwarfed cup, a tiny spoon lain alongside on the saucer, and with the other hand waves a welcome at the sweetener and cream-pot on the tray. "As for M'arik's interests: I am sure his question is far clearer for your asking it than it would have been had he come in person - offense notwithstanding." Again with the lopsided smile.
I'lyan assures hastily, as he declines the offer of sweet or milk with a brisk shake of his head. "None taken. I'll be frank, sir. I don't like the position I'm in, but I do as my Weyrleader orders." He takes the tea as he speaks and points out, "I'm certain you do. And I'm just as certain that none of those come asking have ever served as wingleader or flight leader." His lips compress into a tight line. "It /is/ very frustrating. Seeing pairs die when you could help alleviate it. And all for politics. M'arik doesn't care if I fly with your wings - I wish you'd reconsider my petition."
I'lyan adds, with a bit of humor, "Fly with your wings, honing my own skills as well, sure. Fly after your gold... that's a whole 'nother story."
Both pale brows slide up now, leveling across G'thon's brow, setting a repeating series of curved creases up the length of that long forehead. "Actually," he replies with almost no inflection, "I have had a similar request from a onetime wingleader, and granted it. But I am relatively sure I have had no formal request from you," pause, "sir." For now, M'arik is apparently outside the realm of discussion.
I'lyan blinks. "I thought that the Weyrwoman - Diya - would have passed along my interest. I saw her the day after I arrived. I was looking for you but," He pauses and then says more smoothly, "I didn't understand that by accepting entrance to the caucus, I would be restricted to only flying resupply. It wasn't long after the troubles came to a head with your wings, sir," an oblique reference to the loss of his own dragon, "And she persuaded me not to bother you, and that the only way I would be flying with Reaches wings were if I requested a transfer." A pause and he asks hopefully, "/Is/ it a possibility you would be willing to entertain?"
"Ah, I see." G'thon has been called imperturbable; here, he earns the adjective. Those silvered brows settle back into place as he retakes his tea from the tray, slipping the uneaten half of his breakfast off of the saucer onto a napkin before starting a leisurely pace off toward his mail-strewn desk. "It never ceases to amaze me how many riders come to Caucus unaware of that restriction. It has been in place since the Caucus' inception; I have to admit that I can only wonder if your Weyrleaders have simply overlooked that detail in briefing you for your assignments." A faint smile plays again around the corners of G'thon's mouth, lifting the right-hand side somewhat more than the left, and wry light pales his hazel gaze - a gaze gone unfocused of a sudden. He pauses next to his desk, cup in one palm with the other hand's fingers poised at the cup's handle, and stares into an invisible distance. "Ah. I see," he adds, as if he has seen and understood something off in that faraway place, and turns to regard his guest anew. An apologetic tilt of his head accompanies a simple response: "No. Diya is correct. I may not break the rule of Caucus, nor needlessly endanger riders sent here on other Weyrs' goodwill; you would have to become a Reachian rider."
I'lyan says a trifle acidly, "I'm sure it simply slipped M'arik's mind." He frowns slightly. "And for political reasons, I can't." Lips purse, frustrated. "Is there any way I could help your weyr, sir? Short of an official transfer? I'm in an untenable position: I can't go against my Weyrleader, or my queenriders, but I cannot in good conscience sit idly by when I have the ability to assist you and your wings." He pauses and then asks, "If I were a caucus instructor, would the same prohibition exist?"
"If you cannot join our riders for political reasons," observes the older man, suddenly solemn, voice as bland as it can be, "then I fail to see the point of your Weyrleader's original question." And G'thon allows that statement to remain the whole of his observation for a long moment before allowing a slight smile to creep up the right side of his mouth, before allowing himself a brief indulgence in a sip of his tea. Then, perhaps to make clear that his habit of allowing certain questions to go unanswered is no accident, he asks, "Do you like the tea? It's an Igenite blend."
I'lyan hastily takes a drink of the tea, as his expression flickers to uncertainty. He's silent, the unshakable confidence visible in every line of his body draining somewhat. Emotions flicker quickly through his eyes and then he says, "Were I to ask for a transfer, would it be granted? Just for my own curiosity."
"It would be considered," replies the Weyrleader. Something about his demeanor has softened in that small time, perhaps a response to the drain of the bronzerider's pride. In any case, G'thon keeps at that small, lopsided smile throughout another sampling of his tea, then sets the cup and saucer down aside the hides strewn on his desk. "We would do well, in that case, to discuss your experience and - perhaps more importantly - your goals." Oh, but here one of those sly brows slips slightly up again, making him seem wry and droll again. "You must admit this has been a strange conversation, in that light, sir. I could come to the conclusion that M'arik would like a hand in the running of High Reaches Weyr." And for a moment it might seem G'thon would let that stand - then he's overturning a hand in a dismissive gesture and tipping his chin down as if expressing shame. "Ah, forgive me. I find since Hirth - I speak a little too harshly, sometimes."
"It would be considered," replies the Weyrleader. Something about his demeanor has softened in that small time, perhaps a response to the drain of the bronzerider's pride. In any case, G'thon keeps at that small, lopsided smile throughout another sampling of his tea, then sets the cup and saucer down aside the hides strewn on his desk. "We would do well, in that case, to discuss your experience and - perhaps more importantly - your goals." Oh, but here one of those sly brows slips slightly up again, making him seem wry and droll again. "You must admit this has been a strange conversation, in that light, sir. I could come to the conclusion that M'arik would like a hand in the running of High Reaches Weyr." And for a moment it might seem G'thon would let that stand - then he's overturning a hand in a dismissive gesture and tipping his chin down as if expressing shame. "Ah, forgive me. I find since Hirth - I speak a little too harshly, sometimes."
His expression switches from honest denial at the first to an uncomfortable one at the mention of the Weyrleader's loss. "No, please. I appreciate frank speaking." Something in his tone suggests that he might have been thinking along the same lines. "My experience is an open book, sir. I was a wingleader for three turns before the Pass began, and I was often given the 'difficult' cases. None of my riders - the ones I trained - have been lost to 'score, yet. Koriscath's caught Lamre's queen twice - good large clutches both times. After he caught the second time M'arik promoted me to his second wingsecond. The other - M'garid - is a brownrider. I've lead flights as well. Some good days, some bad." He leaves the question of his goals alone for the moment.
G'thon is patient - it complements well that imperturbable, emotionless, mild and oft-slightly smiling mein - but still, by the end of this list of accomplishments the Reachian weyrleader cannot help a slow, soft chuckle and a shake of his head. "Right now, then," he bemusedly remarks, but does not bother to explain that remark. Instead he leaves his desk and the tea there with it, heading anew for the seating area of his weyr; there he offers at last a chair to his guest with a wave of one hand. While he himself sinks into a seat in the embrace of the chair opposite, G'thon says as if all of that about the bronzerider's experience had not been put forth, "Frankly, then, how does it serve you to do M'arik's bidding at High Reaches?"
I'lyan follows a trifle more slowly, his expression pensive. It grows downright troubled at the last question, and he settles into a seat. "May I ask your opinion on the Caucus, sir? High Reaches hosts it, so that would suggest you are 'for' the establishment, the teaching." Two can play the 'non answer' game. Or did he in fact answer the older man's question?
"In my opinion," retorts G'thon - but no. He speaks readily, but rarely hastily, and certainly not now; so mild his voice, so pleasant his demeanor, it is impossible to aptly describe his reply as retort. Still: "The Caucus creates better politicians." And whether that is for better or worse hangs about in the air while the Weyrleader, comfortable beneath that hazy mantle of things unsaid, leans back in his chair and crosses a leg up over the other at the knee. "Have you found that's the case, in your experience thus far?"
I'lyan says neutrally, "That's an apt assessment. I assume you're aware of my Weyrleader's opinion on the subject. I imagine it came as a surprise when a Benden wingsecond was sent here. Littls say M'arik's own."
"I find that there is little in this world left that surprises me." G'thon's elbows slip up onto the arms of his chair and his hands stretch long and lanky over the forward curves of the upholstery there; one set of fingers begins a leisurely, silent drum. "Least of all Weyrleaders sending their brightest bronzeriders to a distant Weyr under cover of educational purposes, I'lyan. Perhaps instead of assuming that you must serve M'arik's purpose here, I should assume you subvert it?"
I'lyan huffs out a sigh. "Honestly? I don't know what to think anymore. M'arik doesn't believe in the Caucus. The Weyrwoman sent Ginny here - Lamre needs little polishing - and since we'd no others at the moment going through the program, I was sent to," he ticks off on his fingers, "Keep an eye on Ginny and make sure she wasn't, ah, influenced by any radical thoughts and two, evaluate whether the Caucus really is worth all the bother. Of your weyr, sir, I was given no directives." He pauses and then offers delicately, "There are others here who could give him more information directly related to the Reaches than I." He draws in a breath, settling back. "But now this game of cat and mouse with 'Fall, and now with the issue of Nenuith's flight - I'm beginning to have doubts."
G'thon's fingers fall still, their drumming silenced by something, perhaps, that his guest has said. "Would you like to enlighten me as to why Nenuith's flight is an issue?" His hand lifts from the arm of the chair and overturns, then settles again. "I understand you are sent to procure some answer for M'arik which either assures him that you may not risk becoming our Weyrleader - or that the rules of Caucus suddenly do not apply. What about this is an issue for you?"
I'lyan's words are slow. "I would think that, given what I've been told in the past, M'arik expects the caucus rules to be upheld. And that sending me to ask, and me reporting it back, both assures him of my loyalty and that the Reaches won't be 'poaching' me." He frowns. "Though some things you have said do put his actions in a different light." He shakes his head. "To be thrust into such a position here - as an outweyr rider - " he stops and shakes his head again, not liking the implications.
"You would be somewhat dependent upon your prior Weyrleader's support and advice," observes G'thon. "Especially given that the Reaches is what it is." He does not trouble to name that thing, though others have certainly done a good enough job of trying: 'mess' would be an adequate noun in the eyes of many. But the Weyr's leader just smiles and smiles on and on, mild and unshaken and even indifferent. "In any case, I believe those who oversee Caucus would be most displeased if I were to take it upon myself to alter the rules, so you may make assurance to M'arik that we expect the bronzeriders in attendance to exert every ounce of control they possess in our Weyr's next leaders' flight."
I'lyan nods slowly. "I'm beginning to see that side of the coin. It's... a difficult combination. My idealism, arrogance, the honest need for - shells, warm /bodies/ here to fly fall, ambition - I don't /want/ to believe I could be played so easily." He frowns. "If I have been, I would do the very predictable thing of asking for a transfer in anger. And playing into his hands. If I /haven't/ been, then a transfer will lose me my mentor. And should I find sucess here at the Reaches, his anger might make it all the worse for the Weyr's success in the long run." He rubs his forehead, the convolutions of the situation giving him a headache.
"I'lyan." For this one word, the other man's name, G'thon's voice drops low and even, abandoning the pleasant, musing loll of its usual tone to gently but firmly demand, in that single breath, complete attention. He waits not long to be sure he has it, and speaks again, quietly indeed. "You must decide what you want, and see clearly the steps between you and it. Then you must decide if you can commit yourself wholly to each of those steps in turn." The smile has gone at last and seems, now, quite likely to stay gone; there is a shadowy depth in the Weyrleader's eyes which brooks no judgement, but offers also no release from responsibility. "If you want Reaches, there is only one right step. You must take it, and willingly, with all the risk and loss explicit. If you want Benden, you must trust its leader to steer you well."
I'lyan's attention is, and has been, fixed on G'thon. "I did." There is an undercurrent of uncertainty in his tone, one that had been lacking when he entered this conversation. "I... hadn't thought to want Reaches. It's hard to consider a door you didn't know was there five minutes ago. And it's... not a decision that can be made quickly." He stops then and says, "You've known M'arik as a Weyrleader longer than I. Do you doubt your first reaction? That he was attempting to meddle in the Reaches?"
"Indeed." There is much here to be said about the uncertainty of any gambit which involves a knot won by dragonflight - but the current holder of that knot says none of it. Instead G'thon lets down his crossed leg and pushes himself up out of his chair. "I do not, I'lyan. M'arik does not care for the Caucus, and I think it is no small stretch to assume he does not care for some of our Weyr's ways, either. It is my best advice to you to consider how that might affect your choices while you are here."
I'lyan nods. "May I speak to you further about this? Once I've had some time to digest it all?" The request is quietly put.
"You may," provides G'thon, after which he strides off toward the tea-cart to begin the business of pouring himself a new cup, the first apparently forgotten or ignored on his desk across the chamber. "You may wish to have your confidence checked before then, however. Consider our own bronzeriders - and our queens - while you think."
I'lyan nods, rising to put his mug on the cart. "I will. Thank you, sir, for your time. I've taken up far more than I intended to." And come away with far more doubts than he thought possible. He inclines his head politely, before departing the way he came, his steps far slower and more hesitant than before.