Esk sat on Treatle’s wagon, talking to Simon who was steering inexpertly while the wizard caught up with some sleep behind them.
Simon did everything inexpertly. He was really good at it. He was one of those tall lads apparently made out of knees, thumbs and elbows. Watching him walk was a strain, you kept waiting for the strings to snap, and when he talked the spasm of agony on his face if he spotted an S or W looming ahead in the sentence made people instinctively say them for him. It was worth it for the grateful look which spread across his acned face like sunrise on the moon.
At the moment his eyes were streaming with hay fever.
“Did you want to be a wizard when you were a little boy?”
Simon shook his head. “I just www—”
“—wanted—”
“—tto find out how things www—”
“—worked?—”
“Yes. Then someone in my village told the University and Mmaster T-Treatle was sent to bring me. I shall be a www—”
“—wizard—”
“—one day. Master Treatle says I have an exceptional grasp of th-theory.” Simon’s damp eyes misted over and an expression almost of bliss drifted across his ravaged face.
“He t-tells me they’ve got thousands of b-books in the library at Unseen University,” he said, in the voice of a man in love. “More b-books than anyone could read in a lifetime.”
“I’m not sure I like books,” said Esk conversationally. “How can paper know things? My granny says books are only good if the paper is thin.”
“No, that’s not right,” said Simon urgently. “Books are full of www—” he gulped air and gave her a pleading look.
“—words? — ” said Esk, after a moment’s thought.
“—yes, and they can change th-things. Th-that’s wuwuw, that wuwuw—whha-whha—”
“—what—”
“—I must f-find. I know it’s th-there, somewhere in all the old books. They ssss—”
“—say—”
“there’s no new spells but I know that it’s there somewhere, hiding, the wwwwwuwu—”
“—words—”
“yes, that no wiwiwi—”
“—Wizard? — ” said Esk, her face a frown of concentration.
“Yes, has ever found.” His eyes closed and he smiled a beatific smile and added, “The Words that Will change the World.”
“What?”
“Eh?” said Simon, opening his eyes in time to stop the oxen wandering off the track.
“You said all those wubbleyous!”
“I did?”
“I heard you! Try again.”
Simon took a deep breath. “The worworwor—the wuwuw—” he said. “The wowowoo—” he continued.
“It’s no good, it’s gone,” he said. “It happens sometimes, if I don’t think about it. Master Treatle says I’m allergic to something.”
“Allergic to double-yous?”
“No, sisssisi—”
“—silly—” said Esk, generously.
“—there’s sososo—”
“—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 hay fever 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, marshaling 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 t-thought 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 self-centred 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?
“My dear good young lady, am I supposed to be shocked? I happen to have a great respect for witches.”
Esk frowned. He wasn’t supposed to say that.
“You have?”
“Yes indeed. I happen to believe that witchcraft is a fine career, for a woman. A very noble calling.”
