Predictions
7-25-2006 (G'thon, J'cor, Yevide):
North Weyr
This is the sanctuary of High Reaches' senior Weyrwoman. It's been decorated in shades of blue and green with the occasional splash of sunny yellow for contrast. As with the Weyrleader's weyr, it's divided into sections according to work, leisure and rest. The desk and scroll-shelves take up a corner of the weyr with the sitting area in the opposite corner, brightened with hand-woven rugs done in a square key pattern. The bed is small but filled with soft quilts and sheeting.
To the right is the archway that leads out onto the ledge occupied by the Weyr's senior gold. It's large enough for her and for a number of slightly smaller visitors. Directly opposite the entrance tunnel is a smaller tunnel hidden behind a thick curtain. The air is warmer around that curtain, hinting at the tunnel's destination.
Contents:
Yevide
G'thon
Obvious Exits:
Northern Sky (NS) Hatching Sands (HS) Out (O)
Late morning, a lovely time for brunch. And brunch is prepared, though the table setting be strange. Not the food: tea, klah, scones, jam, eggs and molasses-sweet ham provided by the Weyr's kitchens will honor a new Weyrleader just as well as it will soothe a retired one. It's the service that's a little funny: three plates for savory food, three little ones for breads, three sets of silver and three cups for tea; three mugs for klah and three goblets of water. The number is not quite what the kitchen might have expected to bring up for the morning-after meal, but nevertheless there it is, spread out on the table where presumably Lexine once breakfasted. Just now, G'thon waits upon his companions for the morning, standing behind the chair he's apparently claimed - the one between the two others, so the new Leaders may face one another or perhaps play footsie beneath the table - mincingly preparing his tea-cup with sweetener and milk in readiness to pour tea.
J'cor, never to be caught looking anything less than his best, has clearly taken extra precautions to clean himself up for today: his hair is just faintly damp, and his cheeks have been shaven so closely that the skin is still a bit red. To emphasize his physical readiness, perhaps, he's chosen to come up from the office stairs, rather than flying to the ledge; encountering Yevide on the way only makes his plans the more perfect. The quiet murmur of their voices echoes up the stairway as they climb, then step into the room arm in arm. As with the day before, J'cor does not seem at all put out by the climb.
Not much evidence of Yevide's tenure yet; a heavy trunk, out of place in the middle of the weyr, the lid flung back to reveal gauzy cloth is about the limit of it. Evidence of something, though - as she enters, she's uncurling her hand from around J'cor's forearm, her murmur giving way to throaty laughter; here her balancing act begins, knuckles whitening briefly with that squeeze, before she's moving away from her Weyrleader slightly, lips curving to a warm smile for G'thon as she moves over to take a place by one of the chairs, surveying the table. "From the barracks, to this," she murmurs, one brow quirking. Either terribly impressed by the food, or waiting for one of the men to see to her chair for her.
G'thon looks up at the echoes of voices and footsteps. Whatever he might have first expressed upon hearing those sounds - two voices; two gaits - what expression he wears when the Weyr's new leaders enter is only the most welcome and warm of countenances. "Weyrwoman," says he, apparently ignoring Yevide's comment - though not her purpose; he steps to his left and tugs out that chair, while with his other broad hand he welcomes J'cor to his place across the table. Yes, this party has a seating plan. "Weyrleader." Through some magic of will, the old man manages to make this title sound wry, warm, even proud. Between last night and now, perhaps he has seen his way to approval. But then, for all that the Igen-bred bronzer brings the Weyrwoman here on his arm, it is G'thon who seems to have been waiting in her weyr. He can well afford to be jovial. "Won't you both join me? You must be starved."
J'cor's smile follows Yevide as she comments and steps away, then moves smoothly across to G'thon. "I should be happy to join you, sir." The title comes smoothly from his lips: not deferent, merely respectful. He moves to the indicated seat, pulling it out himself though he waits for Yevide to be the first seated.
Yevide has a smile for G'thon over her shoulder as she sinks into her chair, smoothing out her tunic slowly as she makes herself comfortable. Taking her time in settling, and taking the time, perhaps, to choose her words as well. "I, for one, am certainly ready to eat." A turn of etiquette classes - she must have learned, and yet her manners have an edge to them, fall slightly short of those of her companions. She's reaching forward for a scone even as the men seat themselves, curling fingers around it with another smile. "Still warm."
"The kitchen wishes to impress," observes G'thon with a dry smile in his voice; for a moment it curves his mouth as well, always higher on the right side than on the left. He waits for Yevide to be settled, then steps back to his own seat and pours tea for himself before sitting. "Tea for anyone while I have the pot? There's klah, of course." Not that he'll offer to pour -that-. He shifts his attention to J'cor while silently swirling the tiny teaspoon in his cup to blend the milk and sweetener with the reddish infusion just added. "I very much appreciate your willingness to begin what is likely to be a very busy day - a very busy seven, I'd wager - this way, Weyrleader. I must admit there are a few matters that I feel I haven't quite left as I would have wished to." He pauses to glance at Yevide; there is warm pride and, for the moment, approval there. "Perhaps I may be able to prove of assistance in some of these matters. Regardless, you shall have the best briefing I can provide. Please, take some breakfast and I'll talk while you eat - although first, have you any pressing questions I might be able to address?"
J'cor extends his tea cup across the table with a nod to the offered pot. His words, however, address business. "And I appreciate your willingness to advise me in these matters. I value your expertise, and of course I am delighted to make time for such a meeting. Please, do go ahead. I am sure my pressing questions will be answered in the course of our discussion." A pleasant smile works its way across his face, a bit too stiff to be entirely genuine but passing nonetheless.
The former Weyrleader's smile brings out sunshine in Yevide's own, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she returns it, gaze fixed entirely upon his face for a few moments. "Tea, please," she murmurs, one finger coming up to slide her own cup and saucer a few inches toward the old man. This achieved, she settles back in her chair, elbow resting on one arm, knuckles propping up her chin so that she can tilt her head sideways, sliding her gaze across to J'cor.
G'thon raises the pot and fills J'cor's cup, then Yevide's. More approval for those offered cups, little smiles for each of the Weyr's new leaders. "Sweetener," he observes, taking up the little dish that contains that, then two cream-pots; each is set down one by one in the table's middle. Perfect etiquette would demand they never touch the table but remain either in hand or on the tea-tray; but perfect etiquette would not expect three people at brunch. "Milk, cream. - Then without additional preamble, Weyrleader, allow me to begin with the issue of Yevide's own transfer. I am, as I said before, utterly grateful to you for your service to G'mal in completing that agreement. However, I had not expected to win two of his riders in the bargain - and I doubt he fully expected it, either." The prior weyrleader tips down his chin and casts a glance at J'cor, slightly dark, from beneath gray lashes before returning his attention to the little business of the meal. A warning, subtle, brief.
J'cor glances down at the table while G'thon introduces their auxiliaries, but he doesn't oblige himself of any. He takes a sip of the tea in its natural state, looking at his predecessor over the rim of the cup as he does so. The warning, therefore, does not go unnoticed. "One can never predict that vagaries of life," he murmurs, setting his tea down again with the tiniest clink of cup on saucer. Looking up from it, his gaze crosses briefly with Yevide's. "However unexpected, I am confident that Weyrleader G'mal will handle the results appropriately. But surely Igen is not something we need to discuss." He raises a brow just a fraction, and pauses to set a scone on his plate. "I am most interested in your predictions for High Reaches."
Neither, for Yevide. She simply tugs her saucer back towards her, slowly enough to keep the liquid level, and curls a finger through the handle to lift it to her lips, one palm cradling the saucer. For G'thon's mild reproof, a faintly impish smile from the Weyrwoman - not much of an apology, from the woman who caused this with just one word. For now, it would seem, she is content to watch her menfolk fence without intervention, observing from behind a teacup.
"And I shall give you my predictions," replies G'thon with a wry, sudden grin, one silvered brow arching high; it sends creases, upended curves, in a repeating pattern up the long, long slope of his forehead. But first he takes a sip of his tea, testing the mix of sweet and savor. A single, sparing nod approves. "I predict the wingleader E'sere will be transfered to Igen, as I have previously agreed with G'mal. On reflection... " He glances at Yevide, eyes warm but stern; the smile has slipped away. "...I believe he will not want any further recompense for the transfers thus made, but I expect you, J'cor," returning his attention clearly to the younger man, "can predict better how G'mal will think on that than I."
J'cor tears off a corner of the scone and smiles while he layers it with jam. "Perhaps so," he agrees mildly. "One wingleader for another is certainly a fair trade, and what I know of E'sere recommends him very highly." The indirectness of this answer covered, perhaps, by the fact that his scone is now jam-covered and requires him to eat it. He lets his gaze trail over to Yevide, an arched brow querying her opinion.
Yevide devotes herself to her scone, setting down her teacup so she can dig her fingers into the dough, breaking it open, gathering up crumbs between two fingers to pop them into her mouth. "Very highly," she agrees with a sniff, lips pressed together as though to subdue a smile as she reaches across for the jam. "He will make an excellent exchange, and our willingness to follow through - your willingness, J'cor - will be taken well, I'm sure."
"Fair. Not what we had agreed upon - but fair." G'thon's voice is again wry; it fairly sparks with the hide-dry crackle of dry humor. It affects the man with an aged seeming beyond even his appearance, his demeanor, his bearing. A sip of his tea is all it takes to smooth that creaky roughness away, to leave him bemused and ready to begin business anew. "I predict also - since you have asked me for my predictions - that you will want to select of your wings, one in each flight in which you may install your most trusted riders and leaders. From there you would work outward, but knowing you have three wings - your own and two others - safe to follow you in 'fall may ease your mind." He pauses to set down his cup in its saucer and to retrieve for himself a scone. "This is, of course, only my prediction."
J'cor smiles at Yevide's method of eating the scone, offering a nod to her reflections. His fingers pause, however, before he tears off a second piece of scone for himself, and J'cor looks up at G'thon with a slow, careful nod. "No doubt some reorganization of the wings will be necessary. For now, of course, I must learn my riders' strengths and loyalties before I presume to know their place."
And against G'thon's age, Yevide's youthful vigour. The woman has already nibbled pastries with kitchen girls this morning, yet now she's spreading jam thickly onto her scone, and washing a generous bite down with a mouthful of tea. "You shouldn't hesitate," she opines around a second mouthul, washing it too away before she continues. "Speak to G'thon, pick Ch'dais' brains. Flight leader knows." A pause, a quirk of her brows for Ch'dais' lost title.
"Indeed. Ch'dais is a good man." But not one about whom G'thon will say more. Instead he takes the most sparing, tiny bite of his scone before releasing the pastry onto his plate, where it becomes the only real food claimed by the man thus far. He takes up his cup again instead and raises it so its potent steam may ease his breath. "I have, for almost a turn now, been in near-constant contact with Benden regarding one of our other wingleaders, I'zul. Perhaps you are aware that three-cee's riders now fly, at will, with our other wings; three-cee itself is grounded. I have almost... " Another of those thoughtful pauses stretches into enough time for the man to sip from his tea before his words are selected. "...caused M'arik to be ready to retract I'zul's stay here. I - predict - that you might use me as your messenger to see that business complete."
"I did not say I would hesitate," J'cor gently corrects his Weyrwoman, "only that one step must come before the other. Rearranging the wings, if it be done well, is done best if it is done promptly." On the tail of which byzantine observation he finishes his second bite of scone, listening to G'thon and allowing a small frown to cross his features. "I have, naturally, heard of I'zul. The grounding of a full wing is of course unacceptable, and I would like to restore the confidence of its riders that they may resume their regular duties - I trust you have investigated the incident and, finding I'zul to be the problem, I also trust your judgment to arrange the matter honorably with Benden's weyrleaders. If you are willing to act as messenger, I am happy to employ you as such." He lifts his tea again, but waits for G'thon's answer before he'll take a sip.
How pleasing, when the men in her life work together. Yevide's satisfied smile chases away her response to E'sere's name, and one more bite disposes of her scone. "Promptly," she agrees, leaning forward to inspect the ham; if everything else is to be discussed carefully, and thought through delicately, the same cannot be said of Yevide's breakfast plans. "And I'zul promptly, too." A new note to that smile, her usually warm alto slightly clipped. "I want that man out of my weyr, and away from us. If M'arik will not have him diplomatically..." A one-shouldered shrug, and she pulls the serving plate closer.
"M'arik is the voice of the Weyrs," reminds G'thon with politically cool indifference, as if he were offering a footnote to a student standing at his elbow rather than chiding, however gently, the new Weyrwoman. "It behooves us to provide him with graceful means to withdraw I'zul. It has taken me some time only because I have not particularly wished to encourage Benden's Weyrleader to provide, in all good intents, a replacement. However - " With a gesture of his tea the older man offers this card to the younger one, smiling across the cup's rim. "- if you know of a man at Benden you might like to have in your forces, I would certainly look for an opportunity to mention his name to M'arik."
J'cor takes the sip of his tea, then, assured of G'thon's compliance. "I do not wish to trouble 3C's riders by asking them to accept another stranger from the same weyr to replace the man who lead them in that Fall." Assuming a High Reaches' sensibility already, J'cor sees no need to specify beyond 'that Fall.' "However, Benden has a good many skilled riders, some of whom I am acquainted with through my business there, and any of which could fulfill other important duties; I will give it consideration, and get back to you when I decide. Which will be shortly," he adds, with a smile to Yevide.
Yevide wrinkles her broad nose, childlike in her disdain, jetting a gust of air out through one corner of her mouth. "I am impatient, where that man is concerned," she concedes, shooting a sidelong glance at G'thon. "How you reign in yours, I do not know." And then, belated realisation that the decision now rests with J'cor? At any rate, a wry smile for that man as she helps herself to a slice from the serving platters, folding it in two between her fingers. "I should leave you two to discuss such things. I am not necessary to talk of wings, and fighting men." This, with that smile still trained on the one fighting man at the table, a carry-over of the affection of the night before.
"My impatience?" G'thon glances sidelong, smiling, at Yevide. There is real affection, soft and endeared, in that glance, however brief. Just for her he cocks a brow, as if to say: 'impatience? What is this impatience?' Indeed, when he speaks again to the Weyrwoman's latter comment, it is with dry warmth, as though inspired by her own homeland's daily heat. "Perhaps not, my dear, but I had to lure you in for breakfast somehow." And in so saying the prior Weyrleader might imply to the new one and his Weyrwoman alike that everything he has to say, the rest of his 'predictions,' shall be like these so far: wings, wingleaders, and the like. G'thon puts down his tea and offers out his hand as platform for Yevide's. Perhaps he has not noticed that smile, the one meant for J'cor.
J'cor has certainly noticed that smile, however, for he returns it with a moment of warmth that shines briefly through his stiff demeanor. "My dear weyrwoman, your presence and opinions here have been a pleasure. However, I can not keep you from your other duties, for certainly one of us will suffice to decide these matters." One of us, he says, and keeps his eyes - and smile - trained on her.
Such a delicate balancing act. As Yevide's mouth curves to further that smile for J'cor, she reaches out to rest her palm on G'thon's, pressing down for a moment. "I will leave you menfolk to your talk of wings," she tells them, playing nothing so much as the mother scolding a pair of boys. "And see about other things." Her fingers trail across G'thon's hand as she rises, but her glance takes in each of them in turn, chin lifted, measuring. "I shall speak to each of you later, I do not doubt." And then her motherly pretence is dropped so she can reach forward to claim another scone, tossing it up into the air, to catch it as she turns away from the table.
G'thon laughs softly, watching the exchange of smiles; he withdraws his hand once Yevide has drawn her fingertips across it, and laughs again, better, when she snares that last scone. "I do not doubt it myself, Weyrwoman. Thank you, and farewell for now." And then, with all appropriate attention to the business at hand, he turns to offer J'cor a quite somber expression. "As for the support wings: I think you will be well enough served by those leading them, though if you find you are very well served indeed you may wish to bring them up into the fighting wings."
J'cor's smile lingers as he watches her pick up that scone - and "I do not doubt it, either," he tells her in a murmur - but it trickles down into a somber expression to match G'thon when the other man addresses him again. "It is possible that I would do so, yes. I will of course have to meet with them, but for now it is good knowing that not all of my wings require a change." He lifts his tea, sipping thoughtfully as his gaze comes to rest the door Yevide left through.
G'thon inclines his head but once, a single nod for how good it is to know what he's just said. Over the rim of his teacup he watches Yevide disappear, then waits a few moments longer to speak again; in the interim he drinks tea and even picks off a tiny crumb of the scone to eat. "Now then," he says, once he's done with this pointless, time-consuming nibble, and fixes a steady stare upon the man with whom he now shares a private repast. "About Nabol Hold."
J'cor's gaze returns to meet the steady stare, his own expression flattening out into something approaching grimness. He nods. The topic does not seem to require immediate response from him, so he waits for G'thon to continue.
That lopsided smile tugs at the right-hand side of the prior weyrleader's mouth and something wry lights up his gaze, brightening it without conveying warmth. "I assume you are aware," and if J'cor is not he certainly will be now, "that Lord Odern has withdrawn tithe. Diya and E'sere spent considerable time visiting in efforts to smooth over whatever damage E'sere's heritage may have done, but the Lord is an extraordinary traditional man when it comes to matters of Blood purity." G'thon clears his throat softly and sets down his tea, as if mild disapproval - or impatience, supposedly uncharacteristic - clouds his formal demeanor. "In any case, Diya believes he must be tithing to Fort. He made it quite clear to her that he preferred their performance, so it seems reasonable to believe he seeks their service. As such we are providing courtesy coverage at the borders and roads."
J'cor allows himself the luxury of leaning back in his chair, but only somewhat, keeping his posture as rigid and formal as ever. He nods to indicate his awareness, but frowns at the same time; what exactly prompted the frown, he does not share, waiting patiently for G'thon to finish. "I see. And it is only the matter of E'sere's heritage, you believe, that prompted this - action?" J'cor's eyes are fixed on his predecessor's, but neither his face nor his voice gives any hint of emotion.
"Certainly Lord Odern was less than impressed with the 'fall over Nabol earlier in the turn." G'thon's voice is rueful. "I believe he will be pleased to see E'sere go - and I'zul as well - but it seems that a combination of concerns have led him to the path he's chosen. In any case, it is not my opinion that it is a path upon which we should intrude. If he owes tithe to Fort and we were to continue to provide coverage, we could be considered to be detracting from Fort's concern." The older man pauses, glances at the scone on his plate, glances at his tea, glances at the teapot. A wince comes out of nowhere and he flattens a palm on the table's edge, pushing back his chair a little as if he might rise. "Pardon me," he asides parenthetically, "I have to stretch often." So he stands, then takes his teacup with him to pace toward the hearth, a few steps from the table. "If he wishes to return to our coverage I would suggest we let him do so in his own time."
J'cor inclines his head graciously to G'thon's parenthetical, turning his own chair just enough that he's still facing the other man. "Indeed. I would have thought that Fort's other lords would protest such an action, given that it decreases the weyr's energy toward themselves, but of course that is their own affair, at this point." His voice, saying this, becomes musing - some words may not reach all the way to the hearth - but he draws it back up to continue: "Regardless, I certainly cannot promise him anything until I have had time to see to it that our coverage is, in fact, improved over that which displeased him. I agree with your assessment, then."
G'thon only chortles, lowly and beneath his breath. If he cannot make out all of the words, he seems to grasp enough of the general meaning to find strange humor in what the other man has said. He turns about, leaning a shoulder against the hearth's frame, and nods once. "Then we have covered Igen; Benden and Fort," he tallies, apparently content with this bending of the young Weyrleader's request for his predictions to concern High Reaches. "Of Ista I have no news. This brings us to Telgar." G'thon swirls his cup and looks down, watching the tea-silt move about in the bottom, telling fortunes. "Lexine intends to remain there. I don't think the change of leadership here will alter her plans. She has, after all, family there."
J'cor leans forward, helping himself to a slice of ham. "I am glad to hear she's happy there," he answers mildly, cutting at his little piece of meat. "And what else, of the weyr? I understand it was their weyrwoman, here for Caucus, that was injured at the Turnover gather."
"Roa." It's a short word, the little Telgari's name, but G'thon imbues it with a rich warmth that borders on affection. He shakes his head, still looking into the tea, then raises his chin so he can cast that gaze down the slope of his nose upon the bronzerider at the table. "You will need a junior weyrwoman you can trust, J'cor." The old man is using one of the variants of voice that served him so well as weyrleader: quiet but supported, capable of filling a room without effort, without need to yell. It is understated, natural enough that the use of the other man's name slips in welcome like a cool ocean breeze. "A tighter bond with Telgar would still serve us well. I would, if you are willing, visit on pretense of seeing Lexine - and make this proposal to S'lien on your behalf."
J'cor raises a brow, setting down his knee and fork and allowing the ham to wait for a bit. "And Roa is a weyrwoman I can trust." He says it drily, not making a question out of it, and fixes an eye on G'thon's response. Once he's said it, however, he quickly picks up the fork again and hefts his piece of ham. "Hmm. Benden, then Telgar," he comments, his eyes on the meat. "We will have switched roles, I think." The ham goes into his mouth and he lets his gaze return calmly to the other man.
G'thon laughs. It is short, but simple enough. "I have never yet hosted G'mal to discuss all we have done - not Yevide, nor E'sere. He keeps a firm and careful hand in the business of his riders, his wings - and there's no shortage of people willing to speak admiringly of how he's done so." The old man's eyes take on a light that better conveys his bemusement than his laugh ever could have, and with that warm sparkle he regards the young Weyrleader with something that might even approach fondness. "He sees fit to conduct his business at his Weyr and when I needed his word on a matter - he sent you! Can you blame me, when my situation is what it has been, for taking that example and looking to provide such service for you?"
J'cor's brow furrows, briefly, at the laugh, and he watches G'thon with some reservation apparent in his expression and the aloof way he holds himself. When polite society requires an answer, however, he furnishes a smile. "He knew he could trust me." J'cor says it simply, and without any curious inflection, but a question lurks behind the words: can I trust you?
The remark only makes the older man's eyes light more - but he fashions a somber expression and affords a singular nod to provide evidence that he understands precisely how serious the new Weyrleader must be. "I am suggesting actions which I wish to see done, which require meetings with men I already well know. If you wish these things done, you may trust me to do them because our wishes are, then, accordant." G'thon steps away from the hearth and comes back to the table. The gait that was stiff and slow on the way over is graceful and smooth on the way back; he has, as ever, refused to part with his dignity. "I propose these tasks to offer you evidence, Weyrleader, that I am worthy of your trust. Perhaps when they are done to your satisfaction, we can discuss more sensitive matters that we both might like to air."
J'cor turns his chair back as G'thon returns to the table, keeping his own expression carefully neutral while he listens. When the other man is done, he nods - slowly. "I wish to do what is best for High Reaches; your wishes being the same, I believe we can work together." Saying this, he gently pushes back the plate of his breakfast food, then looks back up. "Start with Benden, then, and I will decide whether or not to move ahead with Telgar once I've met with Roa, and have heard my Weyrwoman's opinion on her."
It is so fast that it could have been imagined: the tug of a smile at the corner of that somber mouth. Then G'thon is, as he was a heartbeat before, serious. He puts out his hand, though the other man has not yet risen. "Thank you," he replies, simply; the same regal grace with which he forces his stride to me smooth serves him well in accepting this, his new place in his Weyr's order. "I believe that concludes my debriefing. If you have any questions I might be able to answer, I encourage you always and anytime to ask them of me."
J'cor rises smoothly on cue to accept the offered hand. His handshake is firm; his palms warm but dry. "Thank /you/," he returns with a slight, delicate emphasis. "Your debriefing has been most helpful. Naturally, if you come across anything else which needs my consultation I will be pleased to make time for it. And we will have to meet again soon, to update our information."
Of grace there are several parts; here is one, humility. The older man bows his head, shaking it slightly, a dismissive gesture to deny those emphasized thanks. His handshake is likewise firm, but his hand is a vast dry plain, broad palm and long fingers, pale and chill as though age has robbed him of proper circulation. Of this, he seems unaware, and lifts his head to offer the younger man an earnest, if crooked, smile. "Of course, Weyrleader. I appreciate your time."
"And I, yours," J'cor replies with a nod, a gracious smile. "Thank you for breakfast," he adds, stepping back from his chair, before walking out of the room.
North Weyr
This is the sanctuary of High Reaches' senior Weyrwoman. It's been decorated in shades of blue and green with the occasional splash of sunny yellow for contrast. As with the Weyrleader's weyr, it's divided into sections according to work, leisure and rest. The desk and scroll-shelves take up a corner of the weyr with the sitting area in the opposite corner, brightened with hand-woven rugs done in a square key pattern. The bed is small but filled with soft quilts and sheeting.
To the right is the archway that leads out onto the ledge occupied by the Weyr's senior gold. It's large enough for her and for a number of slightly smaller visitors. Directly opposite the entrance tunnel is a smaller tunnel hidden behind a thick curtain. The air is warmer around that curtain, hinting at the tunnel's destination.
Contents:
Yevide
G'thon
Obvious Exits:
Northern Sky (NS) Hatching Sands (HS) Out (O)
Late morning, a lovely time for brunch. And brunch is prepared, though the table setting be strange. Not the food: tea, klah, scones, jam, eggs and molasses-sweet ham provided by the Weyr's kitchens will honor a new Weyrleader just as well as it will soothe a retired one. It's the service that's a little funny: three plates for savory food, three little ones for breads, three sets of silver and three cups for tea; three mugs for klah and three goblets of water. The number is not quite what the kitchen might have expected to bring up for the morning-after meal, but nevertheless there it is, spread out on the table where presumably Lexine once breakfasted. Just now, G'thon waits upon his companions for the morning, standing behind the chair he's apparently claimed - the one between the two others, so the new Leaders may face one another or perhaps play footsie beneath the table - mincingly preparing his tea-cup with sweetener and milk in readiness to pour tea.
J'cor, never to be caught looking anything less than his best, has clearly taken extra precautions to clean himself up for today: his hair is just faintly damp, and his cheeks have been shaven so closely that the skin is still a bit red. To emphasize his physical readiness, perhaps, he's chosen to come up from the office stairs, rather than flying to the ledge; encountering Yevide on the way only makes his plans the more perfect. The quiet murmur of their voices echoes up the stairway as they climb, then step into the room arm in arm. As with the day before, J'cor does not seem at all put out by the climb.
Not much evidence of Yevide's tenure yet; a heavy trunk, out of place in the middle of the weyr, the lid flung back to reveal gauzy cloth is about the limit of it. Evidence of something, though - as she enters, she's uncurling her hand from around J'cor's forearm, her murmur giving way to throaty laughter; here her balancing act begins, knuckles whitening briefly with that squeeze, before she's moving away from her Weyrleader slightly, lips curving to a warm smile for G'thon as she moves over to take a place by one of the chairs, surveying the table. "From the barracks, to this," she murmurs, one brow quirking. Either terribly impressed by the food, or waiting for one of the men to see to her chair for her.
G'thon looks up at the echoes of voices and footsteps. Whatever he might have first expressed upon hearing those sounds - two voices; two gaits - what expression he wears when the Weyr's new leaders enter is only the most welcome and warm of countenances. "Weyrwoman," says he, apparently ignoring Yevide's comment - though not her purpose; he steps to his left and tugs out that chair, while with his other broad hand he welcomes J'cor to his place across the table. Yes, this party has a seating plan. "Weyrleader." Through some magic of will, the old man manages to make this title sound wry, warm, even proud. Between last night and now, perhaps he has seen his way to approval. But then, for all that the Igen-bred bronzer brings the Weyrwoman here on his arm, it is G'thon who seems to have been waiting in her weyr. He can well afford to be jovial. "Won't you both join me? You must be starved."
J'cor's smile follows Yevide as she comments and steps away, then moves smoothly across to G'thon. "I should be happy to join you, sir." The title comes smoothly from his lips: not deferent, merely respectful. He moves to the indicated seat, pulling it out himself though he waits for Yevide to be the first seated.
Yevide has a smile for G'thon over her shoulder as she sinks into her chair, smoothing out her tunic slowly as she makes herself comfortable. Taking her time in settling, and taking the time, perhaps, to choose her words as well. "I, for one, am certainly ready to eat." A turn of etiquette classes - she must have learned, and yet her manners have an edge to them, fall slightly short of those of her companions. She's reaching forward for a scone even as the men seat themselves, curling fingers around it with another smile. "Still warm."
"The kitchen wishes to impress," observes G'thon with a dry smile in his voice; for a moment it curves his mouth as well, always higher on the right side than on the left. He waits for Yevide to be settled, then steps back to his own seat and pours tea for himself before sitting. "Tea for anyone while I have the pot? There's klah, of course." Not that he'll offer to pour -that-. He shifts his attention to J'cor while silently swirling the tiny teaspoon in his cup to blend the milk and sweetener with the reddish infusion just added. "I very much appreciate your willingness to begin what is likely to be a very busy day - a very busy seven, I'd wager - this way, Weyrleader. I must admit there are a few matters that I feel I haven't quite left as I would have wished to." He pauses to glance at Yevide; there is warm pride and, for the moment, approval there. "Perhaps I may be able to prove of assistance in some of these matters. Regardless, you shall have the best briefing I can provide. Please, take some breakfast and I'll talk while you eat - although first, have you any pressing questions I might be able to address?"
J'cor extends his tea cup across the table with a nod to the offered pot. His words, however, address business. "And I appreciate your willingness to advise me in these matters. I value your expertise, and of course I am delighted to make time for such a meeting. Please, do go ahead. I am sure my pressing questions will be answered in the course of our discussion." A pleasant smile works its way across his face, a bit too stiff to be entirely genuine but passing nonetheless.
The former Weyrleader's smile brings out sunshine in Yevide's own, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she returns it, gaze fixed entirely upon his face for a few moments. "Tea, please," she murmurs, one finger coming up to slide her own cup and saucer a few inches toward the old man. This achieved, she settles back in her chair, elbow resting on one arm, knuckles propping up her chin so that she can tilt her head sideways, sliding her gaze across to J'cor.
G'thon raises the pot and fills J'cor's cup, then Yevide's. More approval for those offered cups, little smiles for each of the Weyr's new leaders. "Sweetener," he observes, taking up the little dish that contains that, then two cream-pots; each is set down one by one in the table's middle. Perfect etiquette would demand they never touch the table but remain either in hand or on the tea-tray; but perfect etiquette would not expect three people at brunch. "Milk, cream. - Then without additional preamble, Weyrleader, allow me to begin with the issue of Yevide's own transfer. I am, as I said before, utterly grateful to you for your service to G'mal in completing that agreement. However, I had not expected to win two of his riders in the bargain - and I doubt he fully expected it, either." The prior weyrleader tips down his chin and casts a glance at J'cor, slightly dark, from beneath gray lashes before returning his attention to the little business of the meal. A warning, subtle, brief.
J'cor glances down at the table while G'thon introduces their auxiliaries, but he doesn't oblige himself of any. He takes a sip of the tea in its natural state, looking at his predecessor over the rim of the cup as he does so. The warning, therefore, does not go unnoticed. "One can never predict that vagaries of life," he murmurs, setting his tea down again with the tiniest clink of cup on saucer. Looking up from it, his gaze crosses briefly with Yevide's. "However unexpected, I am confident that Weyrleader G'mal will handle the results appropriately. But surely Igen is not something we need to discuss." He raises a brow just a fraction, and pauses to set a scone on his plate. "I am most interested in your predictions for High Reaches."
Neither, for Yevide. She simply tugs her saucer back towards her, slowly enough to keep the liquid level, and curls a finger through the handle to lift it to her lips, one palm cradling the saucer. For G'thon's mild reproof, a faintly impish smile from the Weyrwoman - not much of an apology, from the woman who caused this with just one word. For now, it would seem, she is content to watch her menfolk fence without intervention, observing from behind a teacup.
"And I shall give you my predictions," replies G'thon with a wry, sudden grin, one silvered brow arching high; it sends creases, upended curves, in a repeating pattern up the long, long slope of his forehead. But first he takes a sip of his tea, testing the mix of sweet and savor. A single, sparing nod approves. "I predict the wingleader E'sere will be transfered to Igen, as I have previously agreed with G'mal. On reflection... " He glances at Yevide, eyes warm but stern; the smile has slipped away. "...I believe he will not want any further recompense for the transfers thus made, but I expect you, J'cor," returning his attention clearly to the younger man, "can predict better how G'mal will think on that than I."
J'cor tears off a corner of the scone and smiles while he layers it with jam. "Perhaps so," he agrees mildly. "One wingleader for another is certainly a fair trade, and what I know of E'sere recommends him very highly." The indirectness of this answer covered, perhaps, by the fact that his scone is now jam-covered and requires him to eat it. He lets his gaze trail over to Yevide, an arched brow querying her opinion.
Yevide devotes herself to her scone, setting down her teacup so she can dig her fingers into the dough, breaking it open, gathering up crumbs between two fingers to pop them into her mouth. "Very highly," she agrees with a sniff, lips pressed together as though to subdue a smile as she reaches across for the jam. "He will make an excellent exchange, and our willingness to follow through - your willingness, J'cor - will be taken well, I'm sure."
"Fair. Not what we had agreed upon - but fair." G'thon's voice is again wry; it fairly sparks with the hide-dry crackle of dry humor. It affects the man with an aged seeming beyond even his appearance, his demeanor, his bearing. A sip of his tea is all it takes to smooth that creaky roughness away, to leave him bemused and ready to begin business anew. "I predict also - since you have asked me for my predictions - that you will want to select of your wings, one in each flight in which you may install your most trusted riders and leaders. From there you would work outward, but knowing you have three wings - your own and two others - safe to follow you in 'fall may ease your mind." He pauses to set down his cup in its saucer and to retrieve for himself a scone. "This is, of course, only my prediction."
J'cor smiles at Yevide's method of eating the scone, offering a nod to her reflections. His fingers pause, however, before he tears off a second piece of scone for himself, and J'cor looks up at G'thon with a slow, careful nod. "No doubt some reorganization of the wings will be necessary. For now, of course, I must learn my riders' strengths and loyalties before I presume to know their place."
And against G'thon's age, Yevide's youthful vigour. The woman has already nibbled pastries with kitchen girls this morning, yet now she's spreading jam thickly onto her scone, and washing a generous bite down with a mouthful of tea. "You shouldn't hesitate," she opines around a second mouthul, washing it too away before she continues. "Speak to G'thon, pick Ch'dais' brains. Flight leader knows." A pause, a quirk of her brows for Ch'dais' lost title.
"Indeed. Ch'dais is a good man." But not one about whom G'thon will say more. Instead he takes the most sparing, tiny bite of his scone before releasing the pastry onto his plate, where it becomes the only real food claimed by the man thus far. He takes up his cup again instead and raises it so its potent steam may ease his breath. "I have, for almost a turn now, been in near-constant contact with Benden regarding one of our other wingleaders, I'zul. Perhaps you are aware that three-cee's riders now fly, at will, with our other wings; three-cee itself is grounded. I have almost... " Another of those thoughtful pauses stretches into enough time for the man to sip from his tea before his words are selected. "...caused M'arik to be ready to retract I'zul's stay here. I - predict - that you might use me as your messenger to see that business complete."
"I did not say I would hesitate," J'cor gently corrects his Weyrwoman, "only that one step must come before the other. Rearranging the wings, if it be done well, is done best if it is done promptly." On the tail of which byzantine observation he finishes his second bite of scone, listening to G'thon and allowing a small frown to cross his features. "I have, naturally, heard of I'zul. The grounding of a full wing is of course unacceptable, and I would like to restore the confidence of its riders that they may resume their regular duties - I trust you have investigated the incident and, finding I'zul to be the problem, I also trust your judgment to arrange the matter honorably with Benden's weyrleaders. If you are willing to act as messenger, I am happy to employ you as such." He lifts his tea again, but waits for G'thon's answer before he'll take a sip.
How pleasing, when the men in her life work together. Yevide's satisfied smile chases away her response to E'sere's name, and one more bite disposes of her scone. "Promptly," she agrees, leaning forward to inspect the ham; if everything else is to be discussed carefully, and thought through delicately, the same cannot be said of Yevide's breakfast plans. "And I'zul promptly, too." A new note to that smile, her usually warm alto slightly clipped. "I want that man out of my weyr, and away from us. If M'arik will not have him diplomatically..." A one-shouldered shrug, and she pulls the serving plate closer.
"M'arik is the voice of the Weyrs," reminds G'thon with politically cool indifference, as if he were offering a footnote to a student standing at his elbow rather than chiding, however gently, the new Weyrwoman. "It behooves us to provide him with graceful means to withdraw I'zul. It has taken me some time only because I have not particularly wished to encourage Benden's Weyrleader to provide, in all good intents, a replacement. However - " With a gesture of his tea the older man offers this card to the younger one, smiling across the cup's rim. "- if you know of a man at Benden you might like to have in your forces, I would certainly look for an opportunity to mention his name to M'arik."
J'cor takes the sip of his tea, then, assured of G'thon's compliance. "I do not wish to trouble 3C's riders by asking them to accept another stranger from the same weyr to replace the man who lead them in that Fall." Assuming a High Reaches' sensibility already, J'cor sees no need to specify beyond 'that Fall.' "However, Benden has a good many skilled riders, some of whom I am acquainted with through my business there, and any of which could fulfill other important duties; I will give it consideration, and get back to you when I decide. Which will be shortly," he adds, with a smile to Yevide.
Yevide wrinkles her broad nose, childlike in her disdain, jetting a gust of air out through one corner of her mouth. "I am impatient, where that man is concerned," she concedes, shooting a sidelong glance at G'thon. "How you reign in yours, I do not know." And then, belated realisation that the decision now rests with J'cor? At any rate, a wry smile for that man as she helps herself to a slice from the serving platters, folding it in two between her fingers. "I should leave you two to discuss such things. I am not necessary to talk of wings, and fighting men." This, with that smile still trained on the one fighting man at the table, a carry-over of the affection of the night before.
"My impatience?" G'thon glances sidelong, smiling, at Yevide. There is real affection, soft and endeared, in that glance, however brief. Just for her he cocks a brow, as if to say: 'impatience? What is this impatience?' Indeed, when he speaks again to the Weyrwoman's latter comment, it is with dry warmth, as though inspired by her own homeland's daily heat. "Perhaps not, my dear, but I had to lure you in for breakfast somehow." And in so saying the prior Weyrleader might imply to the new one and his Weyrwoman alike that everything he has to say, the rest of his 'predictions,' shall be like these so far: wings, wingleaders, and the like. G'thon puts down his tea and offers out his hand as platform for Yevide's. Perhaps he has not noticed that smile, the one meant for J'cor.
J'cor has certainly noticed that smile, however, for he returns it with a moment of warmth that shines briefly through his stiff demeanor. "My dear weyrwoman, your presence and opinions here have been a pleasure. However, I can not keep you from your other duties, for certainly one of us will suffice to decide these matters." One of us, he says, and keeps his eyes - and smile - trained on her.
Such a delicate balancing act. As Yevide's mouth curves to further that smile for J'cor, she reaches out to rest her palm on G'thon's, pressing down for a moment. "I will leave you menfolk to your talk of wings," she tells them, playing nothing so much as the mother scolding a pair of boys. "And see about other things." Her fingers trail across G'thon's hand as she rises, but her glance takes in each of them in turn, chin lifted, measuring. "I shall speak to each of you later, I do not doubt." And then her motherly pretence is dropped so she can reach forward to claim another scone, tossing it up into the air, to catch it as she turns away from the table.
G'thon laughs softly, watching the exchange of smiles; he withdraws his hand once Yevide has drawn her fingertips across it, and laughs again, better, when she snares that last scone. "I do not doubt it myself, Weyrwoman. Thank you, and farewell for now." And then, with all appropriate attention to the business at hand, he turns to offer J'cor a quite somber expression. "As for the support wings: I think you will be well enough served by those leading them, though if you find you are very well served indeed you may wish to bring them up into the fighting wings."
J'cor's smile lingers as he watches her pick up that scone - and "I do not doubt it, either," he tells her in a murmur - but it trickles down into a somber expression to match G'thon when the other man addresses him again. "It is possible that I would do so, yes. I will of course have to meet with them, but for now it is good knowing that not all of my wings require a change." He lifts his tea, sipping thoughtfully as his gaze comes to rest the door Yevide left through.
G'thon inclines his head but once, a single nod for how good it is to know what he's just said. Over the rim of his teacup he watches Yevide disappear, then waits a few moments longer to speak again; in the interim he drinks tea and even picks off a tiny crumb of the scone to eat. "Now then," he says, once he's done with this pointless, time-consuming nibble, and fixes a steady stare upon the man with whom he now shares a private repast. "About Nabol Hold."
J'cor's gaze returns to meet the steady stare, his own expression flattening out into something approaching grimness. He nods. The topic does not seem to require immediate response from him, so he waits for G'thon to continue.
That lopsided smile tugs at the right-hand side of the prior weyrleader's mouth and something wry lights up his gaze, brightening it without conveying warmth. "I assume you are aware," and if J'cor is not he certainly will be now, "that Lord Odern has withdrawn tithe. Diya and E'sere spent considerable time visiting in efforts to smooth over whatever damage E'sere's heritage may have done, but the Lord is an extraordinary traditional man when it comes to matters of Blood purity." G'thon clears his throat softly and sets down his tea, as if mild disapproval - or impatience, supposedly uncharacteristic - clouds his formal demeanor. "In any case, Diya believes he must be tithing to Fort. He made it quite clear to her that he preferred their performance, so it seems reasonable to believe he seeks their service. As such we are providing courtesy coverage at the borders and roads."
J'cor allows himself the luxury of leaning back in his chair, but only somewhat, keeping his posture as rigid and formal as ever. He nods to indicate his awareness, but frowns at the same time; what exactly prompted the frown, he does not share, waiting patiently for G'thon to finish. "I see. And it is only the matter of E'sere's heritage, you believe, that prompted this - action?" J'cor's eyes are fixed on his predecessor's, but neither his face nor his voice gives any hint of emotion.
"Certainly Lord Odern was less than impressed with the 'fall over Nabol earlier in the turn." G'thon's voice is rueful. "I believe he will be pleased to see E'sere go - and I'zul as well - but it seems that a combination of concerns have led him to the path he's chosen. In any case, it is not my opinion that it is a path upon which we should intrude. If he owes tithe to Fort and we were to continue to provide coverage, we could be considered to be detracting from Fort's concern." The older man pauses, glances at the scone on his plate, glances at his tea, glances at the teapot. A wince comes out of nowhere and he flattens a palm on the table's edge, pushing back his chair a little as if he might rise. "Pardon me," he asides parenthetically, "I have to stretch often." So he stands, then takes his teacup with him to pace toward the hearth, a few steps from the table. "If he wishes to return to our coverage I would suggest we let him do so in his own time."
J'cor inclines his head graciously to G'thon's parenthetical, turning his own chair just enough that he's still facing the other man. "Indeed. I would have thought that Fort's other lords would protest such an action, given that it decreases the weyr's energy toward themselves, but of course that is their own affair, at this point." His voice, saying this, becomes musing - some words may not reach all the way to the hearth - but he draws it back up to continue: "Regardless, I certainly cannot promise him anything until I have had time to see to it that our coverage is, in fact, improved over that which displeased him. I agree with your assessment, then."
G'thon only chortles, lowly and beneath his breath. If he cannot make out all of the words, he seems to grasp enough of the general meaning to find strange humor in what the other man has said. He turns about, leaning a shoulder against the hearth's frame, and nods once. "Then we have covered Igen; Benden and Fort," he tallies, apparently content with this bending of the young Weyrleader's request for his predictions to concern High Reaches. "Of Ista I have no news. This brings us to Telgar." G'thon swirls his cup and looks down, watching the tea-silt move about in the bottom, telling fortunes. "Lexine intends to remain there. I don't think the change of leadership here will alter her plans. She has, after all, family there."
J'cor leans forward, helping himself to a slice of ham. "I am glad to hear she's happy there," he answers mildly, cutting at his little piece of meat. "And what else, of the weyr? I understand it was their weyrwoman, here for Caucus, that was injured at the Turnover gather."
"Roa." It's a short word, the little Telgari's name, but G'thon imbues it with a rich warmth that borders on affection. He shakes his head, still looking into the tea, then raises his chin so he can cast that gaze down the slope of his nose upon the bronzerider at the table. "You will need a junior weyrwoman you can trust, J'cor." The old man is using one of the variants of voice that served him so well as weyrleader: quiet but supported, capable of filling a room without effort, without need to yell. It is understated, natural enough that the use of the other man's name slips in welcome like a cool ocean breeze. "A tighter bond with Telgar would still serve us well. I would, if you are willing, visit on pretense of seeing Lexine - and make this proposal to S'lien on your behalf."
J'cor raises a brow, setting down his knee and fork and allowing the ham to wait for a bit. "And Roa is a weyrwoman I can trust." He says it drily, not making a question out of it, and fixes an eye on G'thon's response. Once he's said it, however, he quickly picks up the fork again and hefts his piece of ham. "Hmm. Benden, then Telgar," he comments, his eyes on the meat. "We will have switched roles, I think." The ham goes into his mouth and he lets his gaze return calmly to the other man.
G'thon laughs. It is short, but simple enough. "I have never yet hosted G'mal to discuss all we have done - not Yevide, nor E'sere. He keeps a firm and careful hand in the business of his riders, his wings - and there's no shortage of people willing to speak admiringly of how he's done so." The old man's eyes take on a light that better conveys his bemusement than his laugh ever could have, and with that warm sparkle he regards the young Weyrleader with something that might even approach fondness. "He sees fit to conduct his business at his Weyr and when I needed his word on a matter - he sent you! Can you blame me, when my situation is what it has been, for taking that example and looking to provide such service for you?"
J'cor's brow furrows, briefly, at the laugh, and he watches G'thon with some reservation apparent in his expression and the aloof way he holds himself. When polite society requires an answer, however, he furnishes a smile. "He knew he could trust me." J'cor says it simply, and without any curious inflection, but a question lurks behind the words: can I trust you?
The remark only makes the older man's eyes light more - but he fashions a somber expression and affords a singular nod to provide evidence that he understands precisely how serious the new Weyrleader must be. "I am suggesting actions which I wish to see done, which require meetings with men I already well know. If you wish these things done, you may trust me to do them because our wishes are, then, accordant." G'thon steps away from the hearth and comes back to the table. The gait that was stiff and slow on the way over is graceful and smooth on the way back; he has, as ever, refused to part with his dignity. "I propose these tasks to offer you evidence, Weyrleader, that I am worthy of your trust. Perhaps when they are done to your satisfaction, we can discuss more sensitive matters that we both might like to air."
J'cor turns his chair back as G'thon returns to the table, keeping his own expression carefully neutral while he listens. When the other man is done, he nods - slowly. "I wish to do what is best for High Reaches; your wishes being the same, I believe we can work together." Saying this, he gently pushes back the plate of his breakfast food, then looks back up. "Start with Benden, then, and I will decide whether or not to move ahead with Telgar once I've met with Roa, and have heard my Weyrwoman's opinion on her."
It is so fast that it could have been imagined: the tug of a smile at the corner of that somber mouth. Then G'thon is, as he was a heartbeat before, serious. He puts out his hand, though the other man has not yet risen. "Thank you," he replies, simply; the same regal grace with which he forces his stride to me smooth serves him well in accepting this, his new place in his Weyr's order. "I believe that concludes my debriefing. If you have any questions I might be able to answer, I encourage you always and anytime to ask them of me."
J'cor rises smoothly on cue to accept the offered hand. His handshake is firm; his palms warm but dry. "Thank /you/," he returns with a slight, delicate emphasis. "Your debriefing has been most helpful. Naturally, if you come across anything else which needs my consultation I will be pleased to make time for it. And we will have to meet again soon, to update our information."
Of grace there are several parts; here is one, humility. The older man bows his head, shaking it slightly, a dismissive gesture to deny those emphasized thanks. His handshake is likewise firm, but his hand is a vast dry plain, broad palm and long fingers, pale and chill as though age has robbed him of proper circulation. Of this, he seems unaware, and lifts his head to offer the younger man an earnest, if crooked, smile. "Of course, Weyrleader. I appreciate your time."
"And I, yours," J'cor replies with a nod, a gracious smile. "Thank you for breakfast," he adds, stepping back from his chair, before walking out of the room.