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way were as potent and unpleasant as a ticking parcel, but which nevertheless
drew the eye in the same way that a really bad accident does. One felt that one
would like to know their purpose, while at the same time suspecting that if you
found out you would really prefer not to have done.
Simon saw her expression and hastily shut the book.
Just some magic, he mumbled. Something I m wwwww-
- working said Esk, automatically.
Thank you. On.
It must be quite interesting, reading books, said Esk.
Sort of. Can t you read, Esk?
The astonishment in his voice stung her.
I expect so, she said defiantly. I ve never tried.
Esk wouldn t have known what a collective noun was if it had spat in her eye,
but she knew there was a herd of goats and a coven of witches. She didn t know
what you called a lot of wizards. An order of wizards? A conspiracy? A circle?
Whatever it was, it filled the University. Wizards strolled among the cloisters
and sat on benches under the trees. Young wizards scuttled along pathways as
bells rang, with their arms full of books or in the case of senior students with
their books flapping through the air after them. The air had the greasy feel of
magic and tasted of tin.
Esk walked along between Trestle and Simon and drank it all in. It wasn t just
that there was magic in the air, but it was tamed and working, like a millrace. It
was power, but it was harnessed.
Simon was as excited as she was, but it showed only because his eyes watered
more and his stutter got worse. He kept stopping to point out the various colleges
and research buildings.
One was quite low and brooding, with high narrow windows.
T-that s the l-l-library, said Simon, his voice bursting with wonder and re-
spect. Can I have a l-l-look?
Plenty of time for that later, said Treatle. Simon gave the building a wistful
look.
All the b-books of magic ever written, he whispered.
Why are the windows barred? said Esk.
96
Simon swallowed. Um, b-because b-books of m-magic aren t like other b-
books, they lead a
That s enough, snapped Treatle. He looked down at Esk as if he had just
noticed her, and frowned.
Why are you here?
You invited me in, said Esk.
Me? Oh, yes. Of course. Sorry, mind wandering. The young lady who wants
to be a wizard. Let us see, shall we?
He led the way up a broad flight of steps to an impressive pair of doors. At
least, they were designed to be impressive. The designer had invested deeply in
heavy locks, curly hinges, brass studs and an intricately-carved archway to make
it absolutely clear to anyone entering that they were not very important people at
all.
He was a wizard. He had forgotten the doorknocker.
Treatle rapped on the door with his staff. It hesitated for a while, and then
slowly slid back its bolts and swung open.
The hall was full of wizards and boys. And boys parents.
There are two ways of getting into Unseen University (in fact there are three,
but at this time wizards hadn t realised it.
The first is to achieve some great work of magic, such as the recovery of an
ancient and powerful relic or the invention of a totally new spell, but in these times
it was seldom done. In the past there had been great wizards capable of forming
whole new spells from the chaotic raw magic of the world, wizards from whom as
it were all the spells of wizardry had flowed, but those days had gone; there were
no more sourcerers.
So the more typical method was to be sponsored by a senior and respected
wizard, after a suitable period of apprenticeship.
Competition was stiff for a University place and the honour and privileges
an Unseen degree could bring. Many of the boys milling around the hall, and
launching minor spells at each other, would fail and have to spend their lives
as lowly magicians, mere magical technologists with defiant beards and leather
patches on their elbows who congregated in small jealous groups at parties.
Not for them the coveted pointy hat with optional astrological symbols, or
the impressive robes, or the staff of authority. But at least they could look down
on conjurers, who tended to be jolly and fat and inclined to drop their aitches
and drink beer and go around with sad thin women in spangly tights and really
infuriate magicians by not realising how lowly they were and kept telling them
jokes. Lowliest of all apart from witches, of course were thaumaturgists,
who never got any schooling at all. A thaumaturgist could just about be trusted
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