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“- something -”
“- in the air, p-pollen maybe, or g-grass dust. Master Treatle has tried to find the cause of it but no magic seems to h-help it.”
They were passing through a narrow pass of orange rock. Simon looked at it disconsolately.
“My granny taught me some hayfever cures,” Esk said. “We could try those.”
Simon shook his head. It looked touch and go whether it would fall off.
“Tried everything,” he said. “Fine wwiwwi-magician I'd make, eh, can't even sss-utter the wowo-name.”
“I could see where that would be a problem,” said Esk. She watched the scenery for a while, marshalling a train of thought.
“Is it, er, possible for a woman to be, you know, a wizard? ” she said eventually.
Simon stared at her. She gave him a defiant look.
His throat strained. He was trying to find a sentence that didn't start with a W. In the end he was forced to make concessions.
“A curious idea,” he said. He thought some more, and started to laugh until Esk's expression warned him.
“Rather funny, really,” he added, but the laughter in his face faded and was replaced by a puzzled look. “Never really tthought about it, before.”
“Well? Can they?” You could have shaved with Esk's voice.
“Of course they can't. It is self-evident, child. Simon, return to your studies.”
Treatle pushed aside the curtain that led into the back of the wagon and climbed out on to the seat board.
The look of mild panic took up its familiar place on Simon's face. He gave Esk a pleading glance as Treatle took the reins from his hands, but she ignored him.
“Why not? What's so self-evident?”
Treatle turned and looked down at her. He hadn't really paid much attention before, she was simply just another figure around the campfires.
He was the Vice-Chancellor of Unseen University, and quite used to seeing vague scurrying figures getting on with essential but unimportant jobs like serving his meals and dusting his rooms. He was stupid, yes, in the particular way that very clever people can be stupid, and maybe he had all the tact of an avalanche and was as selfcentred as a tornado, but it would never have occurred to him that children were important enough to be unkind to.
From long white hair to curly boots, Treatle was a wizard's wizard. He had the appropriate long bushy eyebrows, spangled robe and patriarchal beard that was only slightly spoiled by the yellow nicotine stains (wizards are celibate but, nevertheless, enjoy a good cigar.
“It will all become clear to you when you grow up,” he said. “It's an amusing idea, of course, a nice play on words. A female wizard! You might as well invent a male witch!”
“Warlocks,” said Esk.
“Pardon me?”
“My granny says men can't be witches,” said Esk. “She says if men tried to be witches they'd be wizards.”
“She sounds a very wise woman,” said Treatle.
“She says women should stick to what they're good at,” Esk went on.
“Very sensible of her.”
“She says if women were as good as men they'd be a lot better!”
Treatle laughed.
“She's a witch,” said Esk, and added in her mind: there, what do you think of that, Mr so-called cleverwizard?
