0001-03-07 - The Heart of Keroon

Thread hasn't fallen yet in Keroon, but the whispers of it around Pern have reached these walls and Sevyli sits behind the ornamental desk she rarely uses other than times her husband is away, either on Hold business, or as she suspects, pleasure. It is evening, but the glow baskets are freshly filled and it's pervasive light makes this dark, windowless room quite bright. She appears to be waiting, two glasses of something brown on the table, one in front of her, one across the way.

Claiven has been the right-hand of Keroon's Lord for longer than Sevyli has been alive. He's well into his sixties, now: a slender man whose greying hair shows more sign of his age than his trim, still erect, figure. He's had his fingers in more pies than most people even realise, but he's ever the subservient assistant: there to offer advice, not to interfere. There to guide, not force.

It's not his fault he's so easy to be guided by.

"Lady Sevyli," he says, after wrapping on the door with his knuckles. The question is implicit, but not offered outright; there's not even so much as an uplift at the end of her name.

"Claiven," is Sevyli's warm greeting. She doesn't rise but gestures to the seat across from him. "I appreciated the copy of the reports from our outer holdings," the ones presumably meant for her husband only. Straight to business it would seem, a distinct lack of furtiveness, in spite of her husband being out, indicating this may not have been the first time they've met as such.

Certainly, Claiven shows no surprise at his report having been thus appropriated. Certainly, he shows no surprise at being offered that seat, either.

He sits, reaching to wrap one slender hand around the edge of the glass set out for him, then leans back to regard Sevyli, brown eyes even and thoughtful.

"And what did you think of them, my lady? Were there any questions that came to mind?" There's a little bit of archness to his tone: the suggestion that, perhaps, he's playing a little game of his own.

Maybe she cried earlier about it. Maybe she had emotions then, when she read it.

But now?

Sevyli's expression is troubled. Her voice is curt, "They're all going to die." Her eyebrows arc up in response to his archness, and in her level gaze on Claiven hovers a question: What do we do about it?

"Yes," says Claiven, very simply.

He lets that hang for several long seconds, brown-eyed gaze meeting brown-eyed gaze.

Then: "We make sure they don't. Keroon cares for its own. Keroon is, and always has been, far bigger than one voice."

Sevyli rearranges some of the papers on her desk, as sparse as they are. "Have you spoken with your contacts at both Weyrs? You should drink something. We only have tonight to work on this before," her lips press flat, "The Lord returns from inspecting the breeds at Curved Hill tomorrow morning."

It's probably not obedience that has Claiven taking a sip from his glass, then transferring it from one hand to the other.

"I've spoken to everyone I can," he relates, with a moue of frustration that is not directed at Sevyli. "I've arranged some supplies. It's-- not enough. People need training. We need more men-- people-- to ride out and warn people. But doing so without alerting your husband, or undermining him, is proving problematic."

Sevyli is silent, her hands stilling over a piece of paper that lists, in excruciatingly neat handwriting, what preparations need to be done.

"Would either Igen or Ista be willing to provide people to supplement our grounds crews? Maybe," she ventures hopefully, "Bring a full crew in for a sum?"

It's Claiven's turn to be silent, to set his glass back down upon the desk and regard the lady cautiously. "Not a full crew," he tells her, running long fingers through what's left of his hair. "No one wants to be seen be acting against your husband's edicts. A few individuals, to help, perhaps. But more than that, and they risk Lord Laurent's wrath. Our position is not strong, my lady, but it would be worse were Laurent to attempt to play Igen and Ista off of each other, or worse."

"Claiven," the word is an exhalation, a fervent prayer in a world without religion. One hand comes up to bridge Sevyli's long fingers against her temple and thumb against her cheek. They've run through scenarios, and yet she brings up, "And if we do nothing, and let people die, you're sure even that wouldn't change Laurie's mind?"

"Sevyli." It's not often that the steward foregoes titles, but it's also not the first time: he does so to make a point, whether-- as in this case-- to acknowledge a position, or to raise something new.

"I'm sure. I wish I weren't. I've known your husband since he was a boy, and... he's many things, and stubborn is one of them. We don't have a choice. We have to do something, and we then have to make him feel... we have to play him, Lady. It's the only way."

It's not that his words weren't expected, but hearing them again (for the hundredth time) does not make the knowledge of her husband's very much known tendencies easier. Sevyli's eyes close and her hand braces against the side of her face a little more tensely.

"I have dower lands the old Lord granted me upon our marriage. How much would we need to pay people for their silence?" Fort's daughter looks up at Claiven and then away to one of the glow baskets in this closet of an office. "And how much to retain the right kinds of people to make good on our threats for silence?"

Claiven's silence is acknowledgement and grim acquiescence, all at once.

"The strip by the river," is what he says, identifying one small piece of those lands, easily separated from the rest. His tone makes it clear that he knows those lands, probably better than most in the region, aside, perhaps, from those who actually work the land, there on the ground. "Both will cost. It's a... bandage. A short-term fix. While we bring your husband around, if we can."

"Make it happen. In the mean time," Sevyli makes the broad order, trusting in Claiven explicitly. Her hand slides down her face and down to the glass, whereupon she sips. "I will protect you from Lord Laurent's wrath best I can after. Whatever the means I have." If she were weyrbred, she might wink lasciviously. As it is, she's resigned. "The latest report from Igen seems to indicate first Fall over Keroon will be in two weeks. Under the guise of gathering herbs, I've the kitchen staff clearing as much of the greenery around the Hold proper as I can. Your man with the Lord's caravan at Curved Hill, will he be able to convey these commands to the right people?"

The only acknowledgement Claiven gives is a nod: just the simplest of movements, really, though it expresses plenty. Lady Sevyli can consider it done-- and it will be. The past fifty-odd turns have certainly shown Claiven to be a savvy operator.

"He will," he promises. "He can be trusted, and he knows what he's about. We'll do everything we can, Sevyli - that much I can promise."

"If we can minimize death, I would be happy." Sevyli pushes aside one small stack and brings forth one singular sheet. "Can I trust the Headwoman?" The fact she doesn't know as of this many turns should be sign enough, but perhaps...

"It's not the immediate death I'm so worried about," Claiven acknowledges. "It's the next-winter death. The 'we've lost our herds and now what do we do' death."

But that's not news either, is it?

His hesitation over answering Sevyli perhaps speaks for itself. Even so; "I wouldn't. Kaladrie--" How to put this? "--would have liked to have caught your husband's eye, once upon a time."

He does, kindly, add: "She didn't. For the record."

'You don't have to cover for him,' is written all over her impassive face. It's what Lord Holders do, right? Her father. Her father in law. Who is she to find offense at it?

"Then I will have to trust you, Claiven, to find the appropriate people for me. We'll need to air out some rooms within the Hold itself, clean them and ready them for," Sevyli shakes her head, "Long term guests. Laurent would never turn away his own people. Especially those who have suffered at the hands of negligent dragonmen."

Likely, Claiven regrets giving any detail at all. Wouldn't it have been enough just to say no, no, don't trust the headwoman? But he didn't-- and now he needs to live with that expression, because adding anything will simply sound, now, like an excuse. His expression is serious, though, and the way he shakes his head.

"I'll see that it's done," Claiven promises. Likely, he has his people throughout the hold. None of this is a problem, when you've so many, many turns of manipulating a place's running.

Anything for Keroon.