The disobedience and the glory-hounding
Set the same day as the 'Fall over Nabol, shortly after the confrontation in the Bowl.
8-10/13-2006 (G'thon, J'cor):
Weyrleaders' Office
Much of the formal and informal business that concerns the weyrleaders is conducted here. As such, an effort has been made to keep this chamber comfortable out of respect for the long hours of work required to keep the Weyr running. The walls are bright with tapestries and the floors warm with thick rugs. A large sandtable holds pride of place in the center of the room, one half covered with a sheet of glass to serve as a writing surface. A second, smaller table holds whatever writing implements and record hides are needed by the staff. The chairs that ring this area are thickly cushioned but otherwise undecorated.
The stairs that led into the complex from the bowl continue up to the right, taking one into the Weyrleader's weyr. A large tunnel to the left curves down to the senior Weyrwoman's weyr, broken only by the smaller tunnel that leads to one of the junior's weyrs. The last tunnel, opposite the entrance, leads to the second junior's weyr.
Contents:
G'thon
Obvious Exits:
Council Chamber (CC) West Wing (WE) East Wing (EW)
North Weyr (NW) Weyrleader's Weyr (WL) Bowl (B)
The old man who inhabits, perhaps too much for the liking of some, the Weyrwoman's weyr is, for once, not haunting it. No, he's haunting the office instead, this wide open space with its sandtable and writing desk, the space that used to be his domain - and for the moment, may as well be again. He's taken a light dinner up here, or had it brought, and sups idly from cups of tea, soup, and sweet pudding, each with their own tidy silver spoon. Over his knee is bent a document, no doubt taken from records, and he reads it as if it contains the afternoon's news. But the hide is aged and cracked at the edges, unlikely to contain any so fascinating chatter; it's just G'thon's manner that makes it look like fascinating reading.
J'cor has had quite a day, which explains the slow tromp in his steps, usually so lively, as he descends from his own weyr. The smell of soup and tea alerts him as he gets closer, however, so his pace becomes a bit more energetic for the last few steps before he emerges into the office. His gaze goes straight to G'thon, taking him in at the same time as that hide. "G'thon," he greets with a nod. His smiles are in short supply just now, or he'd offer one of those as well.
As if he's been waiting on an appointment, G'thon flicks the hide up off of his knee with one hand and doubles it against his thumb. After setting aside his teacup, he presses a smart crease into the document's soft fold, then surrenders it to the table as well. "Weyrleader," says the dragonless bronzerider, then pushes himself up out of his chair. -He- has no lacking of small, one-sided smiles to offer today, so provides one. "Sit down and I'll get you soup. I brought up a whole bowl and cups." And so he did; the hearth bears the pot. It is split pea with pork. G'thon smiles still, game and pleasant, as if opening his own doors to counsel someone who sorely needs it.
J'cor does not take long to consider the offer of dinner: his hunger was at least part of the reason he noticed those soup smells so quickly. "Ah, yes?" His tone is pleased, but his face makes no effort to reflect it. "That was very kind of you. My thanks." He scans the assembled chairs and picks a comfortable one, with armrests and thick pillows, to pull up to the table. Not really a chair for the dinner table, that, but J'cor does not seem to mind.
G'thon strides over to the pot. From somewhere thereabouts he locates another cup and spoon, and takes out of the pot a ladle, and arranges this little repast for the other man. Eventually he turns, the soup-cup in hand, and pauses for a little moment. "Well," he says, as though there is really no good segue for what he is about to say, and indeed there is not: "That was a difficult little business." This said, he strikes out for J'cor and puts out the soup in one broad palm, for the other man to take directly from him. "From what I was able to overhear - and I'm sure there'll be more by morning - I think you must have spoken well. Still; I regret that this has occurred, especially now."
J'cor lets out a small breath, conceding the description 'difficult little business' for his day's activity. The soup bowl soon becomes the focus for his attention, as he wraps forefinger and thumb around the bowl's rim in a delicate, pincering movement to take it away. "I cannot imagine a good time for such a thing to occur, so I am willing to permit its occurence during such an especially bad one," he responds drily, setting the bowl down in front of him with as much delicacy as he used in picking it up. That done, he pinches his fingers together to relish the lingering heat picked up from the bowl, and meanwhile looks for a spoon.
"A good point," G'thon observes, and after a moment realizes the other man's pause for what it is - not waiting for a speech, nor thinking of words, but looking for silver - and heads back over to the hearth to collect from the same small collection of dinner-business that yielded the soup's cup, a spoon. "What will you do with them, now? I have to admit some feeling of responsibility for their behaviour, both the disobedience and the glory-hounding. At least it's -some- kind of dedication, but I had hoped to have left the wings - threecee excepted - in better condition for whatever man came after me." While saying this, he comes back to the table and lays down the spoon there within J'cor's reach, then at last retreats to his own chair and sinks silently, smoothly into it.
J'cor's eyebrows go up, oh-so subtly. Perhaps he is thinking, '/Some/ feeling of responsibility?' The Weyrleader doesn't comment on that, however, merely reaches forward to pick up the spoon. He dips it into the soup and answers while he waits for the liquid to cool. "I have already done as I intend to do with them. Anything further, and my heroes become martyrs." He pauses to bring the spoon to his face, holding it under his lip while he tests the heat. Not quite yet, so he raises his eyes to G'thon. "Frankly, your support in this matter, if made public, would be of great help to me."
The older man retakes his tea from the table and lifts it for a sip. He glances down at the cup afterward, as if it has somehow slightly betrayed him, but the pause is not so great as to prevent him taking another taste. After that one he murmurs in a rhetorical, thoughtful tone, "My support?" Clarity, then, makes him a little louder: "Is it true E'sere led them? I would have thought it - well, forgive me, sir, but I would have thought first of my own wingleader Ch'dais."
J'cor judges his soup cool enough, so he tries a mouthful. That he likes it is shown in no more than the small incline of his head, a short thanks to its provider; he doesn't linger over it or take another spoonful, not immediately, because there are matters to discuss. "Your support," he confirms. "It may help some to know that their former Weyrleader agrees with the decision, as well as with the punishment meted out to those who flew against that decision." G'thon's agreement, then, is assumed - or demanded - in that calm explanation. J'cor starts after another taste of soup, but before putting in his mouth, adds quietly, "E'sere led them. You would not have thought him likely?" No words on Ch'dais, but his eyes do narrow at the name. They remain so narrowed as he eats his soup and listens to the answer.
"It is a mild punishment," observes G'thon in even milder mein. "I would be hard pressed to find it anything but most generous; the kind work of a good man, concerned for his men." He raises the hand which does not contain his cup of tea and overturns it lightly, a long lingering flicker of pale fingers affording agreement apparent: his support. "Considering that the honor with which he goes to his new Weyrleader is at stake? Considering that I had agreed with G'mal that he would have a wing of Igen's most elite pairs to teach and learn from there?" So here is a little more history, then, of the transfer proposed and sealed. But G'thon seems a little impassioned, bringing him up to a level of emotion approaching that with which most men approach daily life, and goes on without pause to explain or reflect. "I am not surprised for him to have participated, no. But to lead it against your command - " The old man shakes his head, plainly disappointed.
J'cor lets his spoon tip back into the bowl, the handle resting lightly against his fingers while he muses and forgets to eat. "I should think he took a particular pleasure in leading it - against my command. His former wing comprised the majority of those who attended." The forgotten spoon slips from his loose grasp, prevented from falling into the soup only by its own length and the size of the bowl. The clink of its handle on the rim startles J'cor into picking it back up again, with a better hold. "I marvel only that he seems so determined to prove his worth before men he will no longer be leading. His punishment, perhaps, was the harshest one dealt this afternoon, because it has undermined him in that goal." He's holding the spoon, now, but still not using it: he just watches G'thon intently, spoon in hand.
If the prior weyrleader notices the ill-attended adventures of the spoon he gives little sign of it; he does lift his cup for another sip, then set it down on the table. "Ah," G'thon says, and it could just be thought that a little trace of disappointment resides in that small syllable. He looks up at the other man, eyes attentive but hardly so intent as J'cor's. Perhaps he is just a little bit sad: "You have already decided on reprimand for him, as their leader, then?"
J'cor shakes his head, remembering the soup long enough to fold his spoon through it, drawing bits of pork up from the bottom. "He had no right to lead those men, and no business calling himself one of them. His 'punishment,' as such, was simply to be reminded of that in their presence, and to be deprived the right to join them in their martyrdom." Having dredged up a fair amount of pork and peas, J'cor raises the spoon and remembers to eat.
"Ah," says G'thon again, and sounds less disappointed now; the little nod of his head might even be approving. He reaches out for one of the three cups that attend him, the pudding; his soup might as well be untouched, growing thick and cold there on the table. He turns the spoon through the pudding much like J'cor does his own through the soup; of course, the pudding is a dairy kind and has no thick or thin spots, no homogeneity to be gained by a little stirring. Clearly the old man thinks, watching the pudding swell and fall with the motions of the spoon, and as he thinks his endless brow grows increasingly furrowed, his eyes increasingly dark, the right-hand corner of his mouth increasingly downturned. At last he looks up and says, "And yet," as if he had not just wasted an interminable silence before speaking, "his behaviour presents me with more than immediate concern."
J'cor has gained what he would from that intent stare, so as G'thon retreats into his thoughts (and stirs his pudding), J'cor turns his gaze down to his soup, quietly waiting and eating away. The silence does not seem to trouble him; perhaps he was expecting the other man would say something eventually, for he appears unsurprised as he meets the look. He raises his eyebrows, true, but it's only a question, a prompt for G'thon to continue.
"I made my agreement with G'mal at a time when I felt E'sere was one of this Weyr's most trustworthy riders," says a very unhappy-seeming G'thon, looking back down at his dessert once he's spoken this much. Eyes downcast, mouth downturned, he lifts a spoonful from the cup and holds it there at ready, but speaks a bit more first. "I expected he would serve truly whomever earned his guard. But I fear now - " Whatever it is G'thon fears, it is fearsome - or shameful - enough that he requires that little gulp of pudding to steady him, to power him through explaining. So he eats, then returns the spoon to the cup and the cup to the table, and after swallowing at last looks up. "I think he may represent us a little poorly, you see. And that I will have done a man whose peer I once was, whose -friend- I perhaps still am, a great injustice." Pained, he gathers himself with a shaky breath before adding, "And I would have done you no good, either, for your part in it all."
J'cor slowly draws himself up as he listens, his mouth hardening into a thin, straight line. With deliberate care, he sets the spoon down in his bowl, the clink of contact much softer now as he controls its descent. "You fear - now," he repeats, drawing the last word sharply away from its companions. His hands fold together in his lap, elbows rested lightly on the arms of his chair. It's not quite a forbidding countenance - that would require some emotion, some hint of wrath or disapproval - but it's certainly not receptive to the old man's apparent difficulty in speaking his mind on the matter.
G'thon looks up. Whatever had been shaky, anxious, tremulous about this matter fades away. What takes their places is mild surprise, a mere sense of being taken aback, that the bronzerider should dare direct such dark demeanor at his person. And after that, the old man finds a very slight, patient smile with which to fix J'cor. "Sir. You will remember that I had not intended for a man of Igen to lead this Weyr. If I have ill-prepared it for you, you will be well served to keep in mind that I had less warning than I could have done well with. If you think E'sere is predisposed against you - so be it. I would wager any number of your men would have rather seen a Reachian in your stead." And as though he knows he speaks too much or too frankly, G'thon lifts a pale hand, steady and firm, to stay the other man lest he think to move against him. "You must not take it personally, sir, or it will be the end of you. It has no reflection on your capacity or your right here - none. Convince them you are Reachian now and you will have no -need- of punishments, no -need- of my vocal approval of them. I cannot advise you better than this."
J'cor does not, however, make any effort to interrupt, listening in stony silence as his eyebrows creep up towards his hairline. Even once G'thon has finished, he lets a few seconds fall, as though to make sure the other man has entirely spoken his mind. At last: "I assure you, I have no thought of blaming you for the attitudes my riders hold towards me. However, you yourself admitted some responsibility for the attitudes my riders hold - in general. I do not think it is a surprise to you that some harbor feelings of disobedience and - how did you put it? - glory-hounding." There is no real pause to remember here: J'cor is highlighting the quote, only. "It would surprise me very much, however, to learn that these concerns about E'sere were new to you, or that you did not consider them at least once before, when you contemplated the transfer in the first place. Is it the dramatic nature of his recent actions that motivates you to rethink, or have I misjudged?" His eyebrows make one last jump up at his hairline, but it evades them yet again and so they fall.
"These men have been through some rather spectacular - " G'thon is quick to begin his answer, but apparently too swift, because he must pause here and accomplish two things. First, a swift glance toward the stairs; second, a lowering of his voice. Impassioned or not, decorum first, always. "- failures," revealed at last the word requiring such stealth. "They have a need to prove themselves. I have considered, believe me, the likelihood that as much as I tried to prepare my wings for Threadfall, I in some ways failed them." And here his own brows are creeping up, one more than the other, as if he thinks it possible the other man would -not- believe he has considered it. "But E'sere has always performed above par, and his wing has been less harmed than most. He and his men are dedicated, absolutely, but E'sere, a glory hound? No. I never expected disobedience from him. Frank opinion if he felt my order was wrong, perhaps - but flagrant disregard? No." In all this speaking, G'thon has come to be leaning rather far forward, intent on conveying his message to his Weyrleader, and just now recognizes the strain in his back. So he straightens, composes himself, and sighs at last, "I am - disappointed in him, sir."
J'cor continues to sit still as a statue, but some of the coldness seems to have gone out of him. The real expression of this comes in his eyes: they remain somber, of course, and fixed on G'thon, but their focus has withdrawn, no longer boring into the other man with cold indifference. "And because of this disappointment, you are having second thoughts about sending him to Igen." This is his response: simple, short, unconcerned with the larger portion of G'thon's answer. His reaction to that portion can, perhaps, be read in that slight relaxation of his attitude.
G'thon's reply is equally simplified; there is no other appropriate response to so direct a statement. "Yes, sir." After that, he must content himself with taking up his tea, remembering it is cold and putting it down again, and getting the pudding instead. But moving the spoon tends to make small noises of silver against ceramic, so the man just sits there silently with the dessert in one long pale hand, waiting with a finally upraised glance for the word of his Weyrleader.
"I am not," J'cor says shortly, at the same moment he breaks out of his stiff posture and reclaims the soup spoon. He brings a bit of soup to his mouth, testing it - lukewarm, but he'll eat it. "The last thing I need among my ranks is a leader of rebels, and I doubt even E'sere would appreciate the favor: G'ric leads the wing now, and I will not remove his charge to reinstate an insubordinate. If you wish not to send him to Igen," and there's a faint emphasis on the word 'you,' "I will need to hear better reasons."
"Let G'ric lead it," replies G'thon without concern. "But sending E'sere to Igen under the terms of my agreement with G'mal - as one of our foremost wingleaders, to take up superior post there - I can't abide by it." The old man lets out what is, for him, a heavy sigh. It lasts at least two seconds and on the end of it he takes another spoonful of the pudding, then sets the cup and spoon aside. He is quiet for a while, mulling flavor and thoughts, before he speaks again; and then his speech is as thoughtful as his silence was. "Look. E'sere has the loyalty of a number of his men. If he goes now, and G'mal receives him - as I think he will have to - as a low wingrider, whatever of twocee remains loyal to him will think me a tyrant for having done it. They don't know he was meant for a better post. And then my word's no use to you at all."
J'cor slowly shakes his head, eyes on the soup as he continues to seek out some more mouthfuls. "I have seen the loyalty of his men. Given what he has done with it, that is not a factor in his favor - certainly not a factor in permitting him to stay. Will they think me any less a tyrant for giving his wing to G'ric?"
"Will they think you any less a tyrant for sending him away?" But G'thon's arguments have begun to shade into the hopeless rhetorical. The fire that drove him to speak in the bronzerider's defense is dying and the embers are only enough to keep the old man talking, not enough to keep him arguing. He settles back into his chair anew and takes up his soup-cup, finally, stirring it slowly and looking in with great dissatisfaction. "I will support your actions, sir," he says after a little while, sounding rather depressed. "Have you any specific words I might use, or any particular ears to which I should speak them, in mind?"
"If they will think me a tyrant either way," J'cor murmurs, a wry twist of a smile on his lips, "then they may as well think it without E'sere's help." Coming to the bottom of his soup bowl, he is silent for a few more moments while he finishes off the last of it, and then sets down his spoon and looks up at the other man. "No," he says simply, keeping it frank. After a pause, he offers, "I am sorry that it has come to such a straight, G'thon. I assure you, I do not hold you responsible for his choices today."
"I am sorry myself," says the older man, still staring at the stirring of his soup as if it were not his own hand that makes the motion. "I can't help thinking - " G'thon looks up, but is silent. For a moment it seems as if he's going to draw out another one of those long pauses and force his counterpart to ask him what he thought or dismiss him; but no, the wait is honest earned and after a swallow he continues. "That there may be something turns ago I said or did wrong to bring him to where he is now. I wish Lexine had - " This, he will not finish. He sets his soup aside and presses himself up out of the chair. "Well." With that syllable he is proud, tall, graceful. Long pale hands smooth nonexistent wrinkles from the hem of his shirt. "Too late for that now. Will you excuse me, sir, or have you more use of me?"
J'cor folds his hands in front of him on the table as he listens to G'thon's musings, but his expression is unhelpfully neutral. "That will be all, G'thon," he answers mildly. "Thank you."
8-10/13-2006 (G'thon, J'cor):
Weyrleaders' Office
Much of the formal and informal business that concerns the weyrleaders is conducted here. As such, an effort has been made to keep this chamber comfortable out of respect for the long hours of work required to keep the Weyr running. The walls are bright with tapestries and the floors warm with thick rugs. A large sandtable holds pride of place in the center of the room, one half covered with a sheet of glass to serve as a writing surface. A second, smaller table holds whatever writing implements and record hides are needed by the staff. The chairs that ring this area are thickly cushioned but otherwise undecorated.
The stairs that led into the complex from the bowl continue up to the right, taking one into the Weyrleader's weyr. A large tunnel to the left curves down to the senior Weyrwoman's weyr, broken only by the smaller tunnel that leads to one of the junior's weyrs. The last tunnel, opposite the entrance, leads to the second junior's weyr.
Contents:
G'thon
Obvious Exits:
Council Chamber (CC) West Wing (WE) East Wing (EW)
North Weyr (NW) Weyrleader's Weyr (WL) Bowl (B)
The old man who inhabits, perhaps too much for the liking of some, the Weyrwoman's weyr is, for once, not haunting it. No, he's haunting the office instead, this wide open space with its sandtable and writing desk, the space that used to be his domain - and for the moment, may as well be again. He's taken a light dinner up here, or had it brought, and sups idly from cups of tea, soup, and sweet pudding, each with their own tidy silver spoon. Over his knee is bent a document, no doubt taken from records, and he reads it as if it contains the afternoon's news. But the hide is aged and cracked at the edges, unlikely to contain any so fascinating chatter; it's just G'thon's manner that makes it look like fascinating reading.
J'cor has had quite a day, which explains the slow tromp in his steps, usually so lively, as he descends from his own weyr. The smell of soup and tea alerts him as he gets closer, however, so his pace becomes a bit more energetic for the last few steps before he emerges into the office. His gaze goes straight to G'thon, taking him in at the same time as that hide. "G'thon," he greets with a nod. His smiles are in short supply just now, or he'd offer one of those as well.
As if he's been waiting on an appointment, G'thon flicks the hide up off of his knee with one hand and doubles it against his thumb. After setting aside his teacup, he presses a smart crease into the document's soft fold, then surrenders it to the table as well. "Weyrleader," says the dragonless bronzerider, then pushes himself up out of his chair. -He- has no lacking of small, one-sided smiles to offer today, so provides one. "Sit down and I'll get you soup. I brought up a whole bowl and cups." And so he did; the hearth bears the pot. It is split pea with pork. G'thon smiles still, game and pleasant, as if opening his own doors to counsel someone who sorely needs it.
J'cor does not take long to consider the offer of dinner: his hunger was at least part of the reason he noticed those soup smells so quickly. "Ah, yes?" His tone is pleased, but his face makes no effort to reflect it. "That was very kind of you. My thanks." He scans the assembled chairs and picks a comfortable one, with armrests and thick pillows, to pull up to the table. Not really a chair for the dinner table, that, but J'cor does not seem to mind.
G'thon strides over to the pot. From somewhere thereabouts he locates another cup and spoon, and takes out of the pot a ladle, and arranges this little repast for the other man. Eventually he turns, the soup-cup in hand, and pauses for a little moment. "Well," he says, as though there is really no good segue for what he is about to say, and indeed there is not: "That was a difficult little business." This said, he strikes out for J'cor and puts out the soup in one broad palm, for the other man to take directly from him. "From what I was able to overhear - and I'm sure there'll be more by morning - I think you must have spoken well. Still; I regret that this has occurred, especially now."
J'cor lets out a small breath, conceding the description 'difficult little business' for his day's activity. The soup bowl soon becomes the focus for his attention, as he wraps forefinger and thumb around the bowl's rim in a delicate, pincering movement to take it away. "I cannot imagine a good time for such a thing to occur, so I am willing to permit its occurence during such an especially bad one," he responds drily, setting the bowl down in front of him with as much delicacy as he used in picking it up. That done, he pinches his fingers together to relish the lingering heat picked up from the bowl, and meanwhile looks for a spoon.
"A good point," G'thon observes, and after a moment realizes the other man's pause for what it is - not waiting for a speech, nor thinking of words, but looking for silver - and heads back over to the hearth to collect from the same small collection of dinner-business that yielded the soup's cup, a spoon. "What will you do with them, now? I have to admit some feeling of responsibility for their behaviour, both the disobedience and the glory-hounding. At least it's -some- kind of dedication, but I had hoped to have left the wings - threecee excepted - in better condition for whatever man came after me." While saying this, he comes back to the table and lays down the spoon there within J'cor's reach, then at last retreats to his own chair and sinks silently, smoothly into it.
J'cor's eyebrows go up, oh-so subtly. Perhaps he is thinking, '/Some/ feeling of responsibility?' The Weyrleader doesn't comment on that, however, merely reaches forward to pick up the spoon. He dips it into the soup and answers while he waits for the liquid to cool. "I have already done as I intend to do with them. Anything further, and my heroes become martyrs." He pauses to bring the spoon to his face, holding it under his lip while he tests the heat. Not quite yet, so he raises his eyes to G'thon. "Frankly, your support in this matter, if made public, would be of great help to me."
The older man retakes his tea from the table and lifts it for a sip. He glances down at the cup afterward, as if it has somehow slightly betrayed him, but the pause is not so great as to prevent him taking another taste. After that one he murmurs in a rhetorical, thoughtful tone, "My support?" Clarity, then, makes him a little louder: "Is it true E'sere led them? I would have thought it - well, forgive me, sir, but I would have thought first of my own wingleader Ch'dais."
J'cor judges his soup cool enough, so he tries a mouthful. That he likes it is shown in no more than the small incline of his head, a short thanks to its provider; he doesn't linger over it or take another spoonful, not immediately, because there are matters to discuss. "Your support," he confirms. "It may help some to know that their former Weyrleader agrees with the decision, as well as with the punishment meted out to those who flew against that decision." G'thon's agreement, then, is assumed - or demanded - in that calm explanation. J'cor starts after another taste of soup, but before putting in his mouth, adds quietly, "E'sere led them. You would not have thought him likely?" No words on Ch'dais, but his eyes do narrow at the name. They remain so narrowed as he eats his soup and listens to the answer.
"It is a mild punishment," observes G'thon in even milder mein. "I would be hard pressed to find it anything but most generous; the kind work of a good man, concerned for his men." He raises the hand which does not contain his cup of tea and overturns it lightly, a long lingering flicker of pale fingers affording agreement apparent: his support. "Considering that the honor with which he goes to his new Weyrleader is at stake? Considering that I had agreed with G'mal that he would have a wing of Igen's most elite pairs to teach and learn from there?" So here is a little more history, then, of the transfer proposed and sealed. But G'thon seems a little impassioned, bringing him up to a level of emotion approaching that with which most men approach daily life, and goes on without pause to explain or reflect. "I am not surprised for him to have participated, no. But to lead it against your command - " The old man shakes his head, plainly disappointed.
J'cor lets his spoon tip back into the bowl, the handle resting lightly against his fingers while he muses and forgets to eat. "I should think he took a particular pleasure in leading it - against my command. His former wing comprised the majority of those who attended." The forgotten spoon slips from his loose grasp, prevented from falling into the soup only by its own length and the size of the bowl. The clink of its handle on the rim startles J'cor into picking it back up again, with a better hold. "I marvel only that he seems so determined to prove his worth before men he will no longer be leading. His punishment, perhaps, was the harshest one dealt this afternoon, because it has undermined him in that goal." He's holding the spoon, now, but still not using it: he just watches G'thon intently, spoon in hand.
If the prior weyrleader notices the ill-attended adventures of the spoon he gives little sign of it; he does lift his cup for another sip, then set it down on the table. "Ah," G'thon says, and it could just be thought that a little trace of disappointment resides in that small syllable. He looks up at the other man, eyes attentive but hardly so intent as J'cor's. Perhaps he is just a little bit sad: "You have already decided on reprimand for him, as their leader, then?"
J'cor shakes his head, remembering the soup long enough to fold his spoon through it, drawing bits of pork up from the bottom. "He had no right to lead those men, and no business calling himself one of them. His 'punishment,' as such, was simply to be reminded of that in their presence, and to be deprived the right to join them in their martyrdom." Having dredged up a fair amount of pork and peas, J'cor raises the spoon and remembers to eat.
"Ah," says G'thon again, and sounds less disappointed now; the little nod of his head might even be approving. He reaches out for one of the three cups that attend him, the pudding; his soup might as well be untouched, growing thick and cold there on the table. He turns the spoon through the pudding much like J'cor does his own through the soup; of course, the pudding is a dairy kind and has no thick or thin spots, no homogeneity to be gained by a little stirring. Clearly the old man thinks, watching the pudding swell and fall with the motions of the spoon, and as he thinks his endless brow grows increasingly furrowed, his eyes increasingly dark, the right-hand corner of his mouth increasingly downturned. At last he looks up and says, "And yet," as if he had not just wasted an interminable silence before speaking, "his behaviour presents me with more than immediate concern."
J'cor has gained what he would from that intent stare, so as G'thon retreats into his thoughts (and stirs his pudding), J'cor turns his gaze down to his soup, quietly waiting and eating away. The silence does not seem to trouble him; perhaps he was expecting the other man would say something eventually, for he appears unsurprised as he meets the look. He raises his eyebrows, true, but it's only a question, a prompt for G'thon to continue.
"I made my agreement with G'mal at a time when I felt E'sere was one of this Weyr's most trustworthy riders," says a very unhappy-seeming G'thon, looking back down at his dessert once he's spoken this much. Eyes downcast, mouth downturned, he lifts a spoonful from the cup and holds it there at ready, but speaks a bit more first. "I expected he would serve truly whomever earned his guard. But I fear now - " Whatever it is G'thon fears, it is fearsome - or shameful - enough that he requires that little gulp of pudding to steady him, to power him through explaining. So he eats, then returns the spoon to the cup and the cup to the table, and after swallowing at last looks up. "I think he may represent us a little poorly, you see. And that I will have done a man whose peer I once was, whose -friend- I perhaps still am, a great injustice." Pained, he gathers himself with a shaky breath before adding, "And I would have done you no good, either, for your part in it all."
J'cor slowly draws himself up as he listens, his mouth hardening into a thin, straight line. With deliberate care, he sets the spoon down in his bowl, the clink of contact much softer now as he controls its descent. "You fear - now," he repeats, drawing the last word sharply away from its companions. His hands fold together in his lap, elbows rested lightly on the arms of his chair. It's not quite a forbidding countenance - that would require some emotion, some hint of wrath or disapproval - but it's certainly not receptive to the old man's apparent difficulty in speaking his mind on the matter.
G'thon looks up. Whatever had been shaky, anxious, tremulous about this matter fades away. What takes their places is mild surprise, a mere sense of being taken aback, that the bronzerider should dare direct such dark demeanor at his person. And after that, the old man finds a very slight, patient smile with which to fix J'cor. "Sir. You will remember that I had not intended for a man of Igen to lead this Weyr. If I have ill-prepared it for you, you will be well served to keep in mind that I had less warning than I could have done well with. If you think E'sere is predisposed against you - so be it. I would wager any number of your men would have rather seen a Reachian in your stead." And as though he knows he speaks too much or too frankly, G'thon lifts a pale hand, steady and firm, to stay the other man lest he think to move against him. "You must not take it personally, sir, or it will be the end of you. It has no reflection on your capacity or your right here - none. Convince them you are Reachian now and you will have no -need- of punishments, no -need- of my vocal approval of them. I cannot advise you better than this."
J'cor does not, however, make any effort to interrupt, listening in stony silence as his eyebrows creep up towards his hairline. Even once G'thon has finished, he lets a few seconds fall, as though to make sure the other man has entirely spoken his mind. At last: "I assure you, I have no thought of blaming you for the attitudes my riders hold towards me. However, you yourself admitted some responsibility for the attitudes my riders hold - in general. I do not think it is a surprise to you that some harbor feelings of disobedience and - how did you put it? - glory-hounding." There is no real pause to remember here: J'cor is highlighting the quote, only. "It would surprise me very much, however, to learn that these concerns about E'sere were new to you, or that you did not consider them at least once before, when you contemplated the transfer in the first place. Is it the dramatic nature of his recent actions that motivates you to rethink, or have I misjudged?" His eyebrows make one last jump up at his hairline, but it evades them yet again and so they fall.
"These men have been through some rather spectacular - " G'thon is quick to begin his answer, but apparently too swift, because he must pause here and accomplish two things. First, a swift glance toward the stairs; second, a lowering of his voice. Impassioned or not, decorum first, always. "- failures," revealed at last the word requiring such stealth. "They have a need to prove themselves. I have considered, believe me, the likelihood that as much as I tried to prepare my wings for Threadfall, I in some ways failed them." And here his own brows are creeping up, one more than the other, as if he thinks it possible the other man would -not- believe he has considered it. "But E'sere has always performed above par, and his wing has been less harmed than most. He and his men are dedicated, absolutely, but E'sere, a glory hound? No. I never expected disobedience from him. Frank opinion if he felt my order was wrong, perhaps - but flagrant disregard? No." In all this speaking, G'thon has come to be leaning rather far forward, intent on conveying his message to his Weyrleader, and just now recognizes the strain in his back. So he straightens, composes himself, and sighs at last, "I am - disappointed in him, sir."
J'cor continues to sit still as a statue, but some of the coldness seems to have gone out of him. The real expression of this comes in his eyes: they remain somber, of course, and fixed on G'thon, but their focus has withdrawn, no longer boring into the other man with cold indifference. "And because of this disappointment, you are having second thoughts about sending him to Igen." This is his response: simple, short, unconcerned with the larger portion of G'thon's answer. His reaction to that portion can, perhaps, be read in that slight relaxation of his attitude.
G'thon's reply is equally simplified; there is no other appropriate response to so direct a statement. "Yes, sir." After that, he must content himself with taking up his tea, remembering it is cold and putting it down again, and getting the pudding instead. But moving the spoon tends to make small noises of silver against ceramic, so the man just sits there silently with the dessert in one long pale hand, waiting with a finally upraised glance for the word of his Weyrleader.
"I am not," J'cor says shortly, at the same moment he breaks out of his stiff posture and reclaims the soup spoon. He brings a bit of soup to his mouth, testing it - lukewarm, but he'll eat it. "The last thing I need among my ranks is a leader of rebels, and I doubt even E'sere would appreciate the favor: G'ric leads the wing now, and I will not remove his charge to reinstate an insubordinate. If you wish not to send him to Igen," and there's a faint emphasis on the word 'you,' "I will need to hear better reasons."
"Let G'ric lead it," replies G'thon without concern. "But sending E'sere to Igen under the terms of my agreement with G'mal - as one of our foremost wingleaders, to take up superior post there - I can't abide by it." The old man lets out what is, for him, a heavy sigh. It lasts at least two seconds and on the end of it he takes another spoonful of the pudding, then sets the cup and spoon aside. He is quiet for a while, mulling flavor and thoughts, before he speaks again; and then his speech is as thoughtful as his silence was. "Look. E'sere has the loyalty of a number of his men. If he goes now, and G'mal receives him - as I think he will have to - as a low wingrider, whatever of twocee remains loyal to him will think me a tyrant for having done it. They don't know he was meant for a better post. And then my word's no use to you at all."
J'cor slowly shakes his head, eyes on the soup as he continues to seek out some more mouthfuls. "I have seen the loyalty of his men. Given what he has done with it, that is not a factor in his favor - certainly not a factor in permitting him to stay. Will they think me any less a tyrant for giving his wing to G'ric?"
"Will they think you any less a tyrant for sending him away?" But G'thon's arguments have begun to shade into the hopeless rhetorical. The fire that drove him to speak in the bronzerider's defense is dying and the embers are only enough to keep the old man talking, not enough to keep him arguing. He settles back into his chair anew and takes up his soup-cup, finally, stirring it slowly and looking in with great dissatisfaction. "I will support your actions, sir," he says after a little while, sounding rather depressed. "Have you any specific words I might use, or any particular ears to which I should speak them, in mind?"
"If they will think me a tyrant either way," J'cor murmurs, a wry twist of a smile on his lips, "then they may as well think it without E'sere's help." Coming to the bottom of his soup bowl, he is silent for a few more moments while he finishes off the last of it, and then sets down his spoon and looks up at the other man. "No," he says simply, keeping it frank. After a pause, he offers, "I am sorry that it has come to such a straight, G'thon. I assure you, I do not hold you responsible for his choices today."
"I am sorry myself," says the older man, still staring at the stirring of his soup as if it were not his own hand that makes the motion. "I can't help thinking - " G'thon looks up, but is silent. For a moment it seems as if he's going to draw out another one of those long pauses and force his counterpart to ask him what he thought or dismiss him; but no, the wait is honest earned and after a swallow he continues. "That there may be something turns ago I said or did wrong to bring him to where he is now. I wish Lexine had - " This, he will not finish. He sets his soup aside and presses himself up out of the chair. "Well." With that syllable he is proud, tall, graceful. Long pale hands smooth nonexistent wrinkles from the hem of his shirt. "Too late for that now. Will you excuse me, sir, or have you more use of me?"
J'cor folds his hands in front of him on the table as he listens to G'thon's musings, but his expression is unhelpfully neutral. "That will be all, G'thon," he answers mildly. "Thank you."