That is the question. For that limn of the arcane certainly doesn't belong to the man sitting beside her; he's as cold and emptied of magic as a stone. —No, more than that, for the various rocks and trees and most stationary life of the world is often given to absorbing some latent murmur of magic. No, the man sat on the bench beside Pela is like the hole in a bucket through which magic passes through. And thus, rare that it must be for an object to be enchanted so, that modified ward must come from the stick with the silver snarling dog-faced handle itself.

(It is not a witch's ward, not really. More a magic of repulsion, cleverly laced into the metal and wood, and gently humming there where it's laid across her ribs. If he were to twist his hand, or jam it closer, perhaps the enchantment would nip discouragingly out as surely as if that cast dog's mouth had bitten.)

In answer to this question, the man smiles. It's not a particularly pleasant expression: all teeth, and a certain cold heat in the dark cast of his eyes which suggests he disapproves of its general trajectory.

"The administrators are behind," he says. "Because little girls and boys with their enfeebled Talents keep crawling from out of colonies like yours begging to be taught proper magic, and the College can't keep up with them. Some imbecile in the House proposed slaying two birds with one stone, and now Drayton's been saddled with sorting both the apprenticeships and you lot to satisfy the House's audit. But you're right. They're being shockingly incompetent with this whole horse trading business. Maybe when you go in, you can use your seashells to demonstrate some cleaner way of doing things."

So that's a no to her question, then.

Only after, impulsively, does he ad (far more conversationally, as if he's forgotten to that he's been insulting her)— "Who knows. Maybe they're starting a new war."

Wouldn't that be nice.