Logs:Nothing to Pardon
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| RL Date: 8 June, 2011 |
| Who: K'del, Rynien |
| Involves: High Reaches Hold, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Lord Rynien has an offer K'del is unlikely to refuse. |
| Where: Lord's Study, High Reaches Hold |
| When: Day 20, Month 12, Turn 25 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Braeden/Mentions, Issedi/Mentions, Shaie/Mentions, Tiriana/Mentions |
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| High Reaches would have to be completely cut off from the world to not hear of its Weyr's activities, which makes Lord Rynien expecting a visit from the Weyrleaders he tithes to. So he sits and waits behind his massive desk, pretending to be busy with his hides, though he glances up every once in a while to look to the door. He's watchful, patient even. K'del's visit is right on cue, really, heralded by the watchdragon greeting Cadejoth, and continued with brief exchanges that lead him, ultimately, to Lord Rynien's door. He leaves the knocking to his escort; the man does it with the efficiency of practice, announcing, when he swings the door open, "The Weyrleader here to see you, Lord Rynien. Shall I send him in?" As expected. Rynien shifts some more hides on his desk, the better to keep the escort waiting, before he looks up and nods his assent. A quiet man by nature, the steel grey of his gaze fixes onto the door, ready to latch onto the incoming Weyrleader. The escort drops his chin and pushes the door open for K'del to walk through, after which he'll close the door with a soft click. K'del has obviously dressed for the visit: clean leathers, an ironed shirt, his hair recently cut and his facial hair non-existent. He's formal as he nods his assent to the escort, crossing the threshold into the office with his shoulders drawn back and his head held high. A low nod towards Rynien, and then: "Lord Rynien. High Reaches' duties to your Hold." As those greys find the stiff leather of K'del's clean riding gear, the equally tall Lord rises, his fingertips rested against the top of his desk. A hand isn't offered, but there is a polite incline of his head that accompanies his, "And our Hold's duties to the Weyr." Formalities complete, he gestures to a seat, taking his before K'del's, saying as he does so, "We appear to have much to catch up on, Weyrleader." Taking the seat, K'del lets his hands linger about his knees, as though keeping them there will alieviate any tension that might (or might not) be lingering in them. "It's been a, uh, /eventful/ couple of sevens," he agrees, ever so careful to keep his expression regulated. "You've heard some, I'm sure. I'm afraid-- I don't know how /much/ has spread. They claim their ancestors hailed from your hold, Lord Rynien." A Lord's got to have his spies and Rynien doesn't seem to be all too surprised by K'del's revelation. "So I've heard," he confirms, "There's very little merit to their statements." The graying man smiles indulgently, his hands steepling beneath his chin before settling down into a fold in his lap. "I assure you, Weyrleader. I'm fairly certain I'd know if we had exiled so many." "I admit, I would generally believe that such a thing would be in our records, too," says K'del, undaunted by the way the conversation is heading thus far, though his brow has furrowed. Clearly: there's nothing in his records, either. However: "That said, my Weyrwoman and I received something... interesting, recently. Something that, I'm afraid, appears to back up their story." The indulgent smile freezes, a fleeting, ineffable emotion flickering through his eyes. "Oh?" is all Rynien returns with. Even with turns of practice, it's obvious K'del is not /completely/ comfortable with talking to Lord Holders this way: after all, he was raised more or less a farmboy from country Tillek. He swallows before answering, wiping his hands on his trousers in what is no doubt intended to be a subtle way. "We received a package of records. Lineages. River Bend, for one. Others. To be blunt, Lord Rynien, they support the story these exiles tell fully." His tone is more awkward than combative, though his brows raise at the end, an unspoken question. Apparently, Rynien's spies aren't so deep within the Reaches to be privy to the Weyrleaders' conversations or packages they've received and it displays quite clearly on the older man's face. "What exactly are you implying, my dear Weyrleader?" Sudden good humor infuses his words, as if to brush aside the seriousness of what K'del might say and to try and mask his initial reaction. "That they're related to us?" And by us, that can only be the royal us. K'del is not smiling. He licks his lips, instead, hesitating before he says, in a quiet, but firm voice. "I think that's exactly what I'm saying, yes: /some/ of them are related to you. I have references to a daughter of Lord Beradin, and a half-brother. And others. I don't know how it is that I received these things, or why they aren't in your records or mine - but here they are." Initially, Lord Rynien tries to stare K'del down -- as if by sheer force if eyeballs and will, he can magic the bronzerider and what he says out of existence. When that clearly fails, he clears his throat and shakes his head, "I don't know how we could verify such documents as anything but forgeries. Any clever mind with a decent hand could write it up." And yet, "But if there's merit to what you say-," the man begins to look troubled, and as such, rises to his feet to walk behind his chair. The stained glass casts its painted shadow onto the floor with winter's wan light behind it, and ironically, his feet stop as they stand atop a cherub's head. "Perhaps we might be able to make a deal, Weyrleader." K'del opens his mouth as if the argue the point: some way of proving (or disproving) the documents, presumably. He's forestalled, however, by the troubled look on Rynien's face, and keeps his quiet - his gaze following the older man - until he speaks again. "A deal, Lord Rynien?" The newly acknowledged fact that they might be relations of his hasn't changed Lord Rynien's initial plan, so carefully delineated in the hides tucked under the top ones on his desk. He's put thought into this after speaking with his advisors. With his wife. If anything, it's likely reinforced his decision and with a firm set to his expression, the son of the son of the son of the man who ordered the initial exile looks to K'del solemnly. "Keep them. Sequester them. Integrate them into your Weyr as workers, assets," a beat, "Candidates. Riders. Bind them to the Weyr fully and the next five turns of tithes to the Weyr will be more bountiful than you've seen. More than ample enough to provide for them as well as fill your stores for less congenial times." If K'del had any thought as to what the deal might be, it doesn't seem to have been anything like the one he's offered. He goes silent, his expression immovable except for his eyes, which show every sign of intent consideration. "Would you allow them to be officially pardoned?" he wonders, finally, an appraising glance given to the Holder. "Quietly, of course. Not necessarily immediately, of course, but once they are settled in to weyr life?" "No," Rynien turns to look out the stained-glass, past the head of a fat baby nestled amongst flowers to the purple-tinted sky. Abruptly, he turns and slides off exactly six of the hides and turns a contract around to K'del. "Pardoning would acknowledge their claims. And we don't acknowledge their claims as truth. In our minds," the middle-aged Lord taps a finger to a particular section, "There's nothing to pardon." Because they don't exist. "I suppose--" begins K'del, clearly thinking aloud, though he stops himself before he says too much. "I suppose that makes sense. They lived on the island, and now they don't." He leans forward to read the hides, his gaze following Rynien's finger to that particular section. There's something unreadable in his expression: he /seems/ genuinely interested in the proposal, but there's a faint hint of lingering doubt. "I'll need to discuss your offer with my Weyrwoman, of course. You terms are... very agreeable." "We could all benefit from this, Weyrleader. We've always had an affable relationship." Affable might be a little bit of an overstatement - they're certainly no Tillek, but then again, they're no Crom. "We would appreciate your kindness that would maintain the stability of our demesne, and repay it in turn. But please, feel free to speak with your Weyrwoman. We would appreciate her input in this matter." The man moves to a cart to the side with its crystal bottles and crystal glasses. "Would you care for a drink to fortify you before you leave, K'del?" It's clearly in K'del's best interests to agree with Rynien's statement, and so he does: nodding his agreement, despite the actual situation. "I can see the benefits to both of us," he confirms, measuring his agreement out with a thin, but not cold, smile. "Thank you; a small one, yes. I suspect I can guess my Weyrwoman's thoughts on this, but I would have to be a far stupider man not to seek her input, regardless. I promise: you will have you answer in short order." Two pours are complete, the liquid just barely filling the bottom of the crystal glass. Rynien comes up next to K'del and passes one over while his is cradled in the palm of his hand. "Your Weyrwoman isn't a woman to be crossed," remarks Rynien, bemused, "High Reaches Weyr seems to breed women of iron wills and sharp tongues." K'del accepts his glass along with a nod of thanks, lowering his nose towards it to give it an appreciative sniff. The smile that follows is genuine, albeit tinged with a small measure of ruefulness. "We do seem to attract them," he agrees. It's not /quite/ a correction. "I hope your lady is well? Your children?" "Shaie is well," says Lord Reaches fondly. "She worries over Issedi's impending marriage. She's been betrothed since she was five. She worries about never seeing her daughter again. /Mothers/." Rynien lifts his glass up in a toast to just those people: mothers. "Braeden continues to cause trouble down with his foster parents. We were hoping being at Tillek would help him work some of his energy out, but..." The man confesses his familial woes easily to the younger man. "Be glad your own children aren't of an age to cause too much trouble yet." Mothers! K'del can lift his own glass to that toast, and drink to it, too, his expression amused, but not overtly so. "I remind myself of that very thing every day, I admit. Though I'm afraid they don't call them the terrible twos without reason - as I'm sure you remember. I'm sure yours will sort themselves out in time." He swirls his glass, adding, after a moment, "I hope Issedi is very happy with her new husband." He seems to have relaxed in the Lord's presence: it's a good sign for that deal. "If only they remained two," laments the Lord. He can be generous with his emotions and bantering now that the businesss-end of this meeting is over. "A father hopes the best for his heir." He pauses and sighs into his glass, just testing the liquid with his tongue before dropping it again. "Well, hopefully a few more turns will polish Braeden up. At least," he concedes one point in the Weyr's favor, smiling wryly, "You don't have to groom your son to replace you later." K'del's smile is fond as, no doubt, he thinks of his boys. "If only," he agrees, lightly, before taking another short taste of his drink. "I'm grateful for that. There might be a certain stability to son-and-heir, and certainly, it's the way I was raised, but-- my boys will be whatever they want to be. I'm sure Braeden has turns and turns before he'll need to step into your shoes, Lord Rynien. Plenty of time." "Plenty of time," replies Rynien, though it's a little lackluster. Does he really lack such faith in his own son? The aging man clears his throat and lifts his glass once more, "To the future," and shoots the remnant drops back. "I have some business down among the cotholds later today that I should prepare for." K'del must pick up on that - surely he must. It doesn't show in his expression, though, and regardless, he's quickly dedicating himself to a nod, to that toast, and to the last of his drink. "Of course. I shan't keep you. Thank you, Lord Rynien. You'll have our answer in short order, of course." He rises, readying himself to leave. Rynien doesn't favor K'del with an actual response, merely inclining his head. "Joxer, please see the Weyrleader out and make sure to send with him a crate of our twenty-one year peach brandy. Clear skies, Weyrleader." Thus bribed, K'del heads on his way. That... wasn't so bad, really, was it? Oh ho ho, this is just the beginning. Ominous. But fair. Cue, evil laughter. But-- but-- oops. |
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