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."
Best she give him no reason to bite back at her, for the time being. Academically, Pela might have been interested to know how her own warding would naturally protect her in such an instance, but in a crowded room with people already on edge, she could foresee it being a spark to dry tinder. It was a good thing that she didn't feel pressed to rise so easily to the acerbic bait this stranger kept handing her.
"If I see any enfeebled boys and girls," she returned. "I shall be sure to tell them of your deep disapproval. Coming here was not my first choice either, but it wasn't... let's say, it wasn't phrased as a request."
Her sunny demeanor finally dims a little when he mentions the possibility of a war. It was a thought that had crossed her mind on the sail to Somerset as well, despite there being no real evidence yet of it. But to recall so many outlying magicfolk when seemingly nothing else had precipitated it? It wasn't completely implausible.
"Well," she says finally, looking back at the throng of waiting bodies in the room. "That would be disagreeable news, if it were true."
And here, at last, some spark gleams in the man's black eye. It's as if that dimming of her disposition had by some arcane transitive quality passed that slaked enthusiasm into him instead, as if he is pleased to have taken a chip out of her.
"Don't say that too loudly here, girl. Someone will overhear and call you a treasonous dissenter." The stick remains exactly where it is, but the man leans over by a half degree as if to relay a secret to her in confidence despite the assembly in the hall about them: "They still hang people for that charge, you know."
"It would be a frightening rope indeed which could noose any ward-witch," Pela says impishly. "But since your attitude seems predisposed to the worst of everyone and everything, I don't think I need to be concerned about that being the cause without evidence of it."
The clerk returns and "Cintri, Pela!" is among the calle out. Thus named, she slides back a few inches in order to clear his cane tip, the fabric of her shirt still minutely concaved where he'd had it pressed.
"Thank you for the diverting company. Perhaps we'll run into one another again."
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no subject
(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.
no subject
"If I see any enfeebled boys and girls," she returned. "I shall be sure to tell them of your deep disapproval. Coming here was not my first choice either, but it wasn't... let's say, it wasn't phrased as a request."
Her sunny demeanor finally dims a little when he mentions the possibility of a war. It was a thought that had crossed her mind on the sail to Somerset as well, despite there being no real evidence yet of it. But to recall so many outlying magicfolk when seemingly nothing else had precipitated it? It wasn't completely implausible.
"Well," she says finally, looking back at the throng of waiting bodies in the room. "That would be disagreeable news, if it were true."
no subject
"Don't say that too loudly here, girl. Someone will overhear and call you a treasonous dissenter." The stick remains exactly where it is, but the man leans over by a half degree as if to relay a secret to her in confidence despite the assembly in the hall about them: "They still hang people for that charge, you know."
no subject
The clerk returns and "Cintri, Pela!" is among the calle out. Thus named, she slides back a few inches in order to clear his cane tip, the fabric of her shirt still minutely concaved where he'd had it pressed.
"Thank you for the diverting company. Perhaps we'll run into one another again."