I expected no less.
12-8-2006 (G'thon, Reyce):
G'thon and Miniyal's Quarters
The floors of the two rooms that make up these private quarters have slightly faded, woven rugs laid out upon them to protect bare feet from cold stone. The blues and reds mingle and make up most of the color in the main room. A broad, tall bookshelf dominates one wall and is filled with many bound volumes collected by the rooms' occupants. Near a small iron stove is set a small table with four chairs arranged around it. By this is a tea cart with all required accoutrements upon it. A red divan waits opposite the bookshelf, a bit worn but still in good repair, ready for an evening's reading or conversation. Near the divan is a small work desk where writing implements share space with a small sewing basket.
The bedchamber is as neat and tidy as the main room. The bed is made with a dark blue blanket folded neatly at the foot atop the furs. Two wardrobes vie for what little space there is and perhaps it is the lack of space that makes things tidy. Or maybe the occupants are just neat. The rugs match those in the main room.
By default, Gans suggests caucus students come by at teatime. If asked, this is the time for which invitations are made; for various reasons it makes it simpler to ensure Miniyal will not be present to feel awkward about whatever topics might be discussed, nor to feel awkward about simply being present.
At teatime today, the door to their apartment is cast slightly ajar. From that space rich tendrils of a heady and spicy tea may be scented. If today's guest doesn't like to drink the stuff perhaps he'll settle for inhaling it. Perhaps he'll have to.
Inside, the room's (currently) sole occupant is reposed in the seat behind the writing desk; the divan and two of the chairs that normally accompany the table as well as the tea-cart have been arranged conveniently around the writing-desk and the stove, like a little sitting room at a hearth. Cozy. Tidy, too, except for the enormous roll of that hide he takes notes on in class leaning against the side of his desk. He takes tea, the cup in one hand; a book, not unpredictably, to distract himself in the other.
Today's guest is, if nothing else, prompt. He is not especially eager to be there, and though the sound of his footsteps clearly announces his approach to the door, they stop sharply just outside it. Reyce stares at the crack in the doorway for a second's more of stoney silence, then lifts the back of his knuckles to it. They strike it once on contact, but rather than repeating the knock he just pushes the door open, creating more of a space in which he can examine the room and the person inside it. "Teacher?"
"You know, I have need of another title like I have need of a hole in my head," remarks that droll voice from within the room, immediately apparent as Ganathon's, impossible to mistake for any other's. Only after speaking does he uncross his legs and sit forward, releasing the book and cup by turns onto their places on his desk, then rise and aim strides for the tea-cart. "Come in, won't you, Reyce? I have tea if you'd like it, and brandy if you wouldn't, although I must tempt you with a mix of the two. There's a hook by the door if you have a coat." Only now does he look up, with one hand on the teapot, to ascertain whether he -does- have a coat; to ascertain in fact that he -is- Reyce. "I hope the day finds you well."
Reyce draws in a short sniff over the droll remark, but he's not unduly concerned by it. His eyes continue to trace over the room, taking in details of this tea-time set-up and just barely paying attention to the other man's words. Indeed, when it's his turn to speak he almost seems as though he didn't hear that first comment at all, responding simply with, "Fine, teacher. Prefer the brandy." Now only does he step through the door, taking up the coat he's slung over his arm and making use of the coathook that's offered to him.
"Brandy it is." And Gans slips a hand off the teapot to upturn lowballers instead, two of them; they're completely out of place with the tea-things, as is the crystal flask which will presumably give up brandy to the glasses, but they're there, prepared, expected. "If you would close the door? Assuming, of course, you intend to discuss lessons. If you've come simply for company then it shan't matter if one of your fellow classmembers were to walk by. And how is Issa?"
Reyce would close the door, but he would do it after throwing a backwards glance over his shoulder to scan the teacher's face. His own eyes have narrowed suspiciously, the social pleasantries producing quite an opposite effect in him. "Doing fine," he answers, washing the suspicion in his expression out of his voice. Returning his attention to the door, he knocks it closed and turns his back to lean on it for a brief moment and highlight his choice. "Talk about the assignment you gave. 'Social injustice.'" Occasionally given to imitations when he quotes someone, the Bendenite muffles this response, yet he wrings a note of distance through the last two words, pushing the choice of them away from himself.
"Glad to hear it." Gans inclines his head once while unstoppering the flask. "Social injustice," he agrees, in what is absolutely his own voice, so Reyce need make no further efforts to avoid mocking him; he's done it himself. "Would you care to begin speaking, then?" One glass is poured; then the other. He takes up one and comes around the side of the cart with it, waiting there for Reyce to consider joining him: here, come sit and you get brandy as reward. And whether you come or not, you get dry self-indulgence: "Or by 'talk' do you mean that I should orate? I assure you I can do so." A warning, of course, brightly given.
Reyce gives a quiet, cynical snort, but nothing to explain it. Adequately tempted by the brandy, he moves off the door and approaches his teacher, keeping his posture rigidly upright when he meets the other man's eyes, takes the glass, and retreats with a nod of unspoken thanks. He blinks off the bright warning, his expression otherwise masked as he bends over a testing sip of the brandy, and when G'thon finishes he lifts again, lips pressed into clammed up silence while he nurtures his response. Not much of a pearl that comes out, though, when the Bendenite goes straight to his reason for being here: "Lords can take land away from minor holders." There. Assignment done.
"Very good. Sparing. Deft. I expected no less." Or, as it were - and as, by the sudden wryness with which Gans regards him for a moment, eyes bright, one brow a bit arched, one hand stretching to gain the second brandy glass, it might seem he's thinking - no more. In keeping with sparing conversation, he manages to keep his response relatively brief, spending most of the time it takes him to speak it in walking around to the chair he abandoned behind the writing-desk. "And what standard of ethical behavious would you say this defies?"
Reyce, as G'thon walks around to his own chair, sidesteps carefully to the one nearest himself. He does not claim it, however, or at least not fully; setting his free hand on the back of it, he leans into the thing while he waits and watches his teacher. "Standard?" he repeats the word quietly, not bothering to lift his voice even as the distance between them increases. "It's mine, teacher." He turns a look down into his glass of brandy, tilting it towards him to watch it slide around the glass before, drawing a short sniff, he drinks again.
Reyce does not sit; Gans, however, is in the process of being seated when Reyce's voice makes its next sparing contribution. That contribution is strong - or unexpected - enough that he balances himself suddenly with a pale palm on the surface of the desk, half-bent, and looks up; and then he thinks better of sitting, and straightens slowly, brows rising. "Indeed." It is not quite a question, but conveys adequately enough that he is impressed. Not, however, impressed enough to make exception to the apparent purpose of the assignment: in a moment he smiles, and raises his brandy as if prepared for a sip. "Then I expect you are capable of explaining it in terms that others might be able to find relevancy in?"
Reyce hoods his eyes, which are still aimed down at the brandy. He finished his drink some small while ago, but he continues to hold the glass up to his mouth. Brandy laps against his upper lip, beading on the stubble there; once the glass gets drawn away, he draws his lip in and drags off the moisture as he presses it into his bottom lip. "Sure," he concludes. Lifting his eyes to his teacher, his brows go up in an inquiry that doesn't form into words.
"Demonstrate," suggests the older man, mildly, and at last sips from his own glass - slowly, that he may regard Reyce from behind the raised rim.
Reyce nods, dropping his eyes to the chair he's still not sitting in. He passes his brandy absently into his right hand, the one engaged in leaning on the chair, so it's less accessible for another drink. In no rush to respond, he considers his options calmly over the next fifteen seconds or so. The quick drawing in of a sniff announces when he's ready. "Minor holder's the one works the land. Probably wants to pass it to his sons: has that to think about. Maybe got it from his father, so it's the only thing he's trained for." Chin still tipped down, he raises his eyes to the other man. "Whole life's tied up around it but he could lose it all, it's convenient for somebody else."
When that sniff sounds, Gans finishes his drink; he does not lower his glass until Reyce seems to be finished with his explanation. "Accurate. Empathetic." Gans sounds, again, somewhat impressed. It takes him a moment to get farther; he leans just enough that he can reach the desk before him with the heel of the glass, and set it down there. Straightening, he speaks as if musing, but his tone could not be considered rhetorical. "Am I then meant to understand that the standard is thus: that he who works for something, and who is most invested in its success, should have a right to its possession?" Only upon the end of this does he glance up again at the younger man, as though witnessing his presence might prove distraction to his efforts to reply.
Reyce lowers his gaze again at the sounding of that response, letting the two simple words roll over him unmarked. When the next glance up shows that his teacher has straightened, he does so as well, shifting himself off the chair and bringing his glass into the cup of both his hands. As though this meeting were more formal than it is, he tugs his chin up and fixes his gaze sharply on a point that's not quite G'thon, though it lies somewhere in his vicinity. The simple, "Yeah," that comes out of him, however, stands at contrast with the tightness of his posture.
"Very well. You will need to propose your standard; to argue that this standard is valid; and to use your example to support it." Gans pauses, his posture completely still; he possesses a casual grace with this formality which defies tension or discomfort, and yet he does tip up his chin and look at Reyce from the advantage of that large slope of his nose, and smile a little bit, one-sided. Drily: "I have not yet determined if we shall do this in the full class or in smaller groups. I had not quite expected so many students when I designed the work."
Reyce's gaze refocuses on G'thon, going past the block of his nose to find the other's eyes. "Argue it's valid how?" he inquires. His chin ticks a small ways down; though the formality of posture remains, it has shifted into a more engaged mode - for all that he ignores that final, dry comment.
"Valid as a common ethical standard." Reyce's chin goes down; Gans' goes up, and then up comes his glass, too, for a sip. After it, quickly, he explicates a bit: " - a desireable one, not necessarily one we already observe. One we -should- observe; and why."
Reyce tilts his eyes down to his glass, reminded of its presence by G'thon's sip. His rolls it between his palms, eventually transffering it back to the grip of his right hand, and then brings it up for a drink of his own. "Not sure what you'd mean by 'observe' and what I'd mean by it are the same thing, teacher." His words curve out around the glass, which blocks his mouth as his hand hovers nearby to wipe brandy off his lip with a thumb. He's a messy drinker today.
"'Adhere to,' in this context, Reyce." A pause, and then he lowers his glass, and his chin too, and regards this student with one of his gravest expressions - it would be almost sad, if it were not so much an expression of abiding disappointment. "Will we be forever discussing semantics? Do you actually find me so verbose - I will concede that in present company I must seem so - that my meaning is this badly obscured?"
Reyce shakes his head, a small breath puffed out from his cheeks. When his focus moves off the glass and back to G'thon, finding the disappointment there, he tugs his chin back and deliberately squints down his eyes. "Not fucking with you, teacher," he says, after a beat. The curse should introduce an element of more casual, if not even presumptuous exchange; the latter may be true, but Reyce can and does make his cussing sound formal. "I don't think we should adhere to it. Be aware of it. That's all."
The curse sends his brows up, but for -this- offense there is neither disappointment nor even surprise; the expression that obliges those eyebrows high on the long slope of his forehead is that of acceptance, and it's confirmed with one small nod. "Very well, then." A pause, and at last he steps back and sinks into his seat, without troubling to invite (or demand) his guest do anything similar. But he does relax quite completely into his chair's embrace, crossing his legs as he's wont to do, cradling the glass in his palms. "So would you suggest - to me, not in presentation - that there are standards of ethics which we should observe, but not obey?"
Reyce is ever an odd and incomplete little echo of the man across the room, so when G'thon sits in his chair, Reyce moves directly behind his. He leans his arms over it, the glass once again cradled between his hands, though the fingers have gone rather loose on it. His positioning here gives him a slight height advantage over G'thon, but the impact of it's lessened by the distance across the room - the vertex is far away, so the angle is less steep. "Might say it in presentation, too. But yeah." He pulls in the corners of his mouth, drawing back further words to let his teacher weigh in.
"And this is one of them." Rhetorical, but thoughtful. The former weyrleader leans a little deeper into his chair, slipping his elbows back onto its arms, lacing long pale fingers around the curve of his glass. He is too slender for it to rest against his stomach well, but the ghost of that pose is there, perhaps remnant from a day when there was more to him than there is now. "Do you propose that the standard would be followed in most cases, but that exception is allowed? I think I could - I think we have - argued that exceptions to all ethics occur." A trace of a smile, wan. "I am not sure, but I think you might be saying that the standard should exist in theory, but be wholly disregarded in practice."
Reyce, quite careful with his words now, lets another long silence fall in front of his answer. And another one follows it: "No." His eyes meet G'thon's across the room, holding off a reply while he formulates the rest of his denial. "Saying I don't think it should limit what's done. Other things involved. Think a Lord who decides to take away land's got to have in mind he's fucking somebody over, and if he does it, needs to know he's weighing his own reasons above them. Know for sure if it's that important to him."
Gans' chin comes up again, but there is nothing about the way in which he regards Reyce that suggests any discomfort in the angle of incline his gaze suffers to meet eyes with the younger man. There is an incremental growth in that trace of a smile, however. "Then it is an ethical rule, and exceptions should be made according to further and more complex standards; still, ethical ones. You would, then, be presenting - if you agree - that the standard is valid as you've just defined its validity; I think, however, your original statement of injustice could bear adjustment."
Reyce does not move, yet he pulls away from that traced smile, withdrawing into himself. When he does act, it's at odds with his words: along with a single slow shake of his head, he says, "Sure." Since it doesn't bother G'thon to look up to him, he goes ahead and shifts up a bit more, straightening his arms from shoulder to elbow which brings his lean a little closer to the chair. "How's it need adjustment?" he asks, clearly unbothered by the need for revision.
"I believe the injustice you've described actually has to do with the damage done to the lesser holder at the whim of a higher Lord," replies Gans. There is thoughtfulness in his words, a certain giveaway that he has not quite defined what he wants to say yet - and then, when he has, it's given away only with the raising of his brows and a quiet, 'Ah.' He leans forward and gives up his glass to the desk, then gets to his feet. "I believe it should more directly reflect the loss of place, of work, of turns and lives invested; as it stands it reflects land rights or something having to do with ego, but you mean a bit more than that, and your further discussion suggests something particular about why and how the Lord might make his decision." He pauses here to provide his dry little grin, brows resettling. "Whim."
Reyce concedes that final word, perhaps, with a little sniff and snort combination. One elbow lifts from the chair, bringing his glass with it for another drink of brandy. His glass runs low, but he doesn't seem to notice - or care. "Twelve words," he says, after the beat that falls over his drink. "And I'm fine talking about the land. Stuff you said, and I said, gives reasons it's injustice." This time he does not push the word away so wholly, but he does pause after it, as though considering his use of the word; and to judge by the faint wrinkle of his brow and the curve of his tongue between his teeth, he still doesn't like it much. "But the problem is the land. And I didn't say whim, either." Perhaps, then, not so much of a concession.
Gans is, if the failure of his dry little grin to go away is any indication, unmoved. "Not, then, the lives?"
Reyce restates himself, without change in posture or tone. "That's the reason. Land's the problem."
"Interesting," replies Gans, without any effort to offer agreement; but the smile remains. "It is your argument, Reyce, and I shall mark you on how persuasively you make it; if you choose to go with what I perceive as a harder line than necessary, I cannot complain. Perhaps your peers will surprise me." Now, with this wryly said, he can afford to let go the smile. He takes up instead his teacup from before and with it comes around to the cart. "Have you any questions, then?"
Reyce draws off his chair when G'thon goes to the tea cart, the last drink of his brandy thrown back while the teacher occupies himself with tea. "No." He breathes the word out with a puff of alcohol, leaning forward to set the glass on the table in front of him (and his chair). A glance and eyebrows raised to the other man check for allowance.
It's not as though Gans is watching where the glass goes. Perhaps someone else picks up such things. In fact it might seem entirely as though his eyes are on the tea: there is a ritual to be performed in its preparation, see, and he's attentive to it. "Very well."
Reyce, since he cannot catch eye contact, soon enough just sets the glass down. He backs off from it, his elbow catching the chair and pulling it just a small ways so it makes a noise. Lest that not be enough warning of his imminent departure, he says, "See you, teacher," before he heads to reclaim his coat and walk out.
G'thon and Miniyal's Quarters
The floors of the two rooms that make up these private quarters have slightly faded, woven rugs laid out upon them to protect bare feet from cold stone. The blues and reds mingle and make up most of the color in the main room. A broad, tall bookshelf dominates one wall and is filled with many bound volumes collected by the rooms' occupants. Near a small iron stove is set a small table with four chairs arranged around it. By this is a tea cart with all required accoutrements upon it. A red divan waits opposite the bookshelf, a bit worn but still in good repair, ready for an evening's reading or conversation. Near the divan is a small work desk where writing implements share space with a small sewing basket.
The bedchamber is as neat and tidy as the main room. The bed is made with a dark blue blanket folded neatly at the foot atop the furs. Two wardrobes vie for what little space there is and perhaps it is the lack of space that makes things tidy. Or maybe the occupants are just neat. The rugs match those in the main room.
By default, Gans suggests caucus students come by at teatime. If asked, this is the time for which invitations are made; for various reasons it makes it simpler to ensure Miniyal will not be present to feel awkward about whatever topics might be discussed, nor to feel awkward about simply being present.
At teatime today, the door to their apartment is cast slightly ajar. From that space rich tendrils of a heady and spicy tea may be scented. If today's guest doesn't like to drink the stuff perhaps he'll settle for inhaling it. Perhaps he'll have to.
Inside, the room's (currently) sole occupant is reposed in the seat behind the writing desk; the divan and two of the chairs that normally accompany the table as well as the tea-cart have been arranged conveniently around the writing-desk and the stove, like a little sitting room at a hearth. Cozy. Tidy, too, except for the enormous roll of that hide he takes notes on in class leaning against the side of his desk. He takes tea, the cup in one hand; a book, not unpredictably, to distract himself in the other.
Today's guest is, if nothing else, prompt. He is not especially eager to be there, and though the sound of his footsteps clearly announces his approach to the door, they stop sharply just outside it. Reyce stares at the crack in the doorway for a second's more of stoney silence, then lifts the back of his knuckles to it. They strike it once on contact, but rather than repeating the knock he just pushes the door open, creating more of a space in which he can examine the room and the person inside it. "Teacher?"
"You know, I have need of another title like I have need of a hole in my head," remarks that droll voice from within the room, immediately apparent as Ganathon's, impossible to mistake for any other's. Only after speaking does he uncross his legs and sit forward, releasing the book and cup by turns onto their places on his desk, then rise and aim strides for the tea-cart. "Come in, won't you, Reyce? I have tea if you'd like it, and brandy if you wouldn't, although I must tempt you with a mix of the two. There's a hook by the door if you have a coat." Only now does he look up, with one hand on the teapot, to ascertain whether he -does- have a coat; to ascertain in fact that he -is- Reyce. "I hope the day finds you well."
Reyce draws in a short sniff over the droll remark, but he's not unduly concerned by it. His eyes continue to trace over the room, taking in details of this tea-time set-up and just barely paying attention to the other man's words. Indeed, when it's his turn to speak he almost seems as though he didn't hear that first comment at all, responding simply with, "Fine, teacher. Prefer the brandy." Now only does he step through the door, taking up the coat he's slung over his arm and making use of the coathook that's offered to him.
"Brandy it is." And Gans slips a hand off the teapot to upturn lowballers instead, two of them; they're completely out of place with the tea-things, as is the crystal flask which will presumably give up brandy to the glasses, but they're there, prepared, expected. "If you would close the door? Assuming, of course, you intend to discuss lessons. If you've come simply for company then it shan't matter if one of your fellow classmembers were to walk by. And how is Issa?"
Reyce would close the door, but he would do it after throwing a backwards glance over his shoulder to scan the teacher's face. His own eyes have narrowed suspiciously, the social pleasantries producing quite an opposite effect in him. "Doing fine," he answers, washing the suspicion in his expression out of his voice. Returning his attention to the door, he knocks it closed and turns his back to lean on it for a brief moment and highlight his choice. "Talk about the assignment you gave. 'Social injustice.'" Occasionally given to imitations when he quotes someone, the Bendenite muffles this response, yet he wrings a note of distance through the last two words, pushing the choice of them away from himself.
"Glad to hear it." Gans inclines his head once while unstoppering the flask. "Social injustice," he agrees, in what is absolutely his own voice, so Reyce need make no further efforts to avoid mocking him; he's done it himself. "Would you care to begin speaking, then?" One glass is poured; then the other. He takes up one and comes around the side of the cart with it, waiting there for Reyce to consider joining him: here, come sit and you get brandy as reward. And whether you come or not, you get dry self-indulgence: "Or by 'talk' do you mean that I should orate? I assure you I can do so." A warning, of course, brightly given.
Reyce gives a quiet, cynical snort, but nothing to explain it. Adequately tempted by the brandy, he moves off the door and approaches his teacher, keeping his posture rigidly upright when he meets the other man's eyes, takes the glass, and retreats with a nod of unspoken thanks. He blinks off the bright warning, his expression otherwise masked as he bends over a testing sip of the brandy, and when G'thon finishes he lifts again, lips pressed into clammed up silence while he nurtures his response. Not much of a pearl that comes out, though, when the Bendenite goes straight to his reason for being here: "Lords can take land away from minor holders." There. Assignment done.
"Very good. Sparing. Deft. I expected no less." Or, as it were - and as, by the sudden wryness with which Gans regards him for a moment, eyes bright, one brow a bit arched, one hand stretching to gain the second brandy glass, it might seem he's thinking - no more. In keeping with sparing conversation, he manages to keep his response relatively brief, spending most of the time it takes him to speak it in walking around to the chair he abandoned behind the writing-desk. "And what standard of ethical behavious would you say this defies?"
Reyce, as G'thon walks around to his own chair, sidesteps carefully to the one nearest himself. He does not claim it, however, or at least not fully; setting his free hand on the back of it, he leans into the thing while he waits and watches his teacher. "Standard?" he repeats the word quietly, not bothering to lift his voice even as the distance between them increases. "It's mine, teacher." He turns a look down into his glass of brandy, tilting it towards him to watch it slide around the glass before, drawing a short sniff, he drinks again.
Reyce does not sit; Gans, however, is in the process of being seated when Reyce's voice makes its next sparing contribution. That contribution is strong - or unexpected - enough that he balances himself suddenly with a pale palm on the surface of the desk, half-bent, and looks up; and then he thinks better of sitting, and straightens slowly, brows rising. "Indeed." It is not quite a question, but conveys adequately enough that he is impressed. Not, however, impressed enough to make exception to the apparent purpose of the assignment: in a moment he smiles, and raises his brandy as if prepared for a sip. "Then I expect you are capable of explaining it in terms that others might be able to find relevancy in?"
Reyce hoods his eyes, which are still aimed down at the brandy. He finished his drink some small while ago, but he continues to hold the glass up to his mouth. Brandy laps against his upper lip, beading on the stubble there; once the glass gets drawn away, he draws his lip in and drags off the moisture as he presses it into his bottom lip. "Sure," he concludes. Lifting his eyes to his teacher, his brows go up in an inquiry that doesn't form into words.
"Demonstrate," suggests the older man, mildly, and at last sips from his own glass - slowly, that he may regard Reyce from behind the raised rim.
Reyce nods, dropping his eyes to the chair he's still not sitting in. He passes his brandy absently into his right hand, the one engaged in leaning on the chair, so it's less accessible for another drink. In no rush to respond, he considers his options calmly over the next fifteen seconds or so. The quick drawing in of a sniff announces when he's ready. "Minor holder's the one works the land. Probably wants to pass it to his sons: has that to think about. Maybe got it from his father, so it's the only thing he's trained for." Chin still tipped down, he raises his eyes to the other man. "Whole life's tied up around it but he could lose it all, it's convenient for somebody else."
When that sniff sounds, Gans finishes his drink; he does not lower his glass until Reyce seems to be finished with his explanation. "Accurate. Empathetic." Gans sounds, again, somewhat impressed. It takes him a moment to get farther; he leans just enough that he can reach the desk before him with the heel of the glass, and set it down there. Straightening, he speaks as if musing, but his tone could not be considered rhetorical. "Am I then meant to understand that the standard is thus: that he who works for something, and who is most invested in its success, should have a right to its possession?" Only upon the end of this does he glance up again at the younger man, as though witnessing his presence might prove distraction to his efforts to reply.
Reyce lowers his gaze again at the sounding of that response, letting the two simple words roll over him unmarked. When the next glance up shows that his teacher has straightened, he does so as well, shifting himself off the chair and bringing his glass into the cup of both his hands. As though this meeting were more formal than it is, he tugs his chin up and fixes his gaze sharply on a point that's not quite G'thon, though it lies somewhere in his vicinity. The simple, "Yeah," that comes out of him, however, stands at contrast with the tightness of his posture.
"Very well. You will need to propose your standard; to argue that this standard is valid; and to use your example to support it." Gans pauses, his posture completely still; he possesses a casual grace with this formality which defies tension or discomfort, and yet he does tip up his chin and look at Reyce from the advantage of that large slope of his nose, and smile a little bit, one-sided. Drily: "I have not yet determined if we shall do this in the full class or in smaller groups. I had not quite expected so many students when I designed the work."
Reyce's gaze refocuses on G'thon, going past the block of his nose to find the other's eyes. "Argue it's valid how?" he inquires. His chin ticks a small ways down; though the formality of posture remains, it has shifted into a more engaged mode - for all that he ignores that final, dry comment.
"Valid as a common ethical standard." Reyce's chin goes down; Gans' goes up, and then up comes his glass, too, for a sip. After it, quickly, he explicates a bit: " - a desireable one, not necessarily one we already observe. One we -should- observe; and why."
Reyce tilts his eyes down to his glass, reminded of its presence by G'thon's sip. His rolls it between his palms, eventually transffering it back to the grip of his right hand, and then brings it up for a drink of his own. "Not sure what you'd mean by 'observe' and what I'd mean by it are the same thing, teacher." His words curve out around the glass, which blocks his mouth as his hand hovers nearby to wipe brandy off his lip with a thumb. He's a messy drinker today.
"'Adhere to,' in this context, Reyce." A pause, and then he lowers his glass, and his chin too, and regards this student with one of his gravest expressions - it would be almost sad, if it were not so much an expression of abiding disappointment. "Will we be forever discussing semantics? Do you actually find me so verbose - I will concede that in present company I must seem so - that my meaning is this badly obscured?"
Reyce shakes his head, a small breath puffed out from his cheeks. When his focus moves off the glass and back to G'thon, finding the disappointment there, he tugs his chin back and deliberately squints down his eyes. "Not fucking with you, teacher," he says, after a beat. The curse should introduce an element of more casual, if not even presumptuous exchange; the latter may be true, but Reyce can and does make his cussing sound formal. "I don't think we should adhere to it. Be aware of it. That's all."
The curse sends his brows up, but for -this- offense there is neither disappointment nor even surprise; the expression that obliges those eyebrows high on the long slope of his forehead is that of acceptance, and it's confirmed with one small nod. "Very well, then." A pause, and at last he steps back and sinks into his seat, without troubling to invite (or demand) his guest do anything similar. But he does relax quite completely into his chair's embrace, crossing his legs as he's wont to do, cradling the glass in his palms. "So would you suggest - to me, not in presentation - that there are standards of ethics which we should observe, but not obey?"
Reyce is ever an odd and incomplete little echo of the man across the room, so when G'thon sits in his chair, Reyce moves directly behind his. He leans his arms over it, the glass once again cradled between his hands, though the fingers have gone rather loose on it. His positioning here gives him a slight height advantage over G'thon, but the impact of it's lessened by the distance across the room - the vertex is far away, so the angle is less steep. "Might say it in presentation, too. But yeah." He pulls in the corners of his mouth, drawing back further words to let his teacher weigh in.
"And this is one of them." Rhetorical, but thoughtful. The former weyrleader leans a little deeper into his chair, slipping his elbows back onto its arms, lacing long pale fingers around the curve of his glass. He is too slender for it to rest against his stomach well, but the ghost of that pose is there, perhaps remnant from a day when there was more to him than there is now. "Do you propose that the standard would be followed in most cases, but that exception is allowed? I think I could - I think we have - argued that exceptions to all ethics occur." A trace of a smile, wan. "I am not sure, but I think you might be saying that the standard should exist in theory, but be wholly disregarded in practice."
Reyce, quite careful with his words now, lets another long silence fall in front of his answer. And another one follows it: "No." His eyes meet G'thon's across the room, holding off a reply while he formulates the rest of his denial. "Saying I don't think it should limit what's done. Other things involved. Think a Lord who decides to take away land's got to have in mind he's fucking somebody over, and if he does it, needs to know he's weighing his own reasons above them. Know for sure if it's that important to him."
Gans' chin comes up again, but there is nothing about the way in which he regards Reyce that suggests any discomfort in the angle of incline his gaze suffers to meet eyes with the younger man. There is an incremental growth in that trace of a smile, however. "Then it is an ethical rule, and exceptions should be made according to further and more complex standards; still, ethical ones. You would, then, be presenting - if you agree - that the standard is valid as you've just defined its validity; I think, however, your original statement of injustice could bear adjustment."
Reyce does not move, yet he pulls away from that traced smile, withdrawing into himself. When he does act, it's at odds with his words: along with a single slow shake of his head, he says, "Sure." Since it doesn't bother G'thon to look up to him, he goes ahead and shifts up a bit more, straightening his arms from shoulder to elbow which brings his lean a little closer to the chair. "How's it need adjustment?" he asks, clearly unbothered by the need for revision.
"I believe the injustice you've described actually has to do with the damage done to the lesser holder at the whim of a higher Lord," replies Gans. There is thoughtfulness in his words, a certain giveaway that he has not quite defined what he wants to say yet - and then, when he has, it's given away only with the raising of his brows and a quiet, 'Ah.' He leans forward and gives up his glass to the desk, then gets to his feet. "I believe it should more directly reflect the loss of place, of work, of turns and lives invested; as it stands it reflects land rights or something having to do with ego, but you mean a bit more than that, and your further discussion suggests something particular about why and how the Lord might make his decision." He pauses here to provide his dry little grin, brows resettling. "Whim."
Reyce concedes that final word, perhaps, with a little sniff and snort combination. One elbow lifts from the chair, bringing his glass with it for another drink of brandy. His glass runs low, but he doesn't seem to notice - or care. "Twelve words," he says, after the beat that falls over his drink. "And I'm fine talking about the land. Stuff you said, and I said, gives reasons it's injustice." This time he does not push the word away so wholly, but he does pause after it, as though considering his use of the word; and to judge by the faint wrinkle of his brow and the curve of his tongue between his teeth, he still doesn't like it much. "But the problem is the land. And I didn't say whim, either." Perhaps, then, not so much of a concession.
Gans is, if the failure of his dry little grin to go away is any indication, unmoved. "Not, then, the lives?"
Reyce restates himself, without change in posture or tone. "That's the reason. Land's the problem."
"Interesting," replies Gans, without any effort to offer agreement; but the smile remains. "It is your argument, Reyce, and I shall mark you on how persuasively you make it; if you choose to go with what I perceive as a harder line than necessary, I cannot complain. Perhaps your peers will surprise me." Now, with this wryly said, he can afford to let go the smile. He takes up instead his teacup from before and with it comes around to the cart. "Have you any questions, then?"
Reyce draws off his chair when G'thon goes to the tea cart, the last drink of his brandy thrown back while the teacher occupies himself with tea. "No." He breathes the word out with a puff of alcohol, leaning forward to set the glass on the table in front of him (and his chair). A glance and eyebrows raised to the other man check for allowance.
It's not as though Gans is watching where the glass goes. Perhaps someone else picks up such things. In fact it might seem entirely as though his eyes are on the tea: there is a ritual to be performed in its preparation, see, and he's attentive to it. "Very well."
Reyce, since he cannot catch eye contact, soon enough just sets the glass down. He backs off from it, his elbow catching the chair and pulling it just a small ways so it makes a noise. Lest that not be enough warning of his imminent departure, he says, "See you, teacher," before he heads to reclaim his coat and walk out.