Hahren’s mouth open and closed. He swallowed again, convulsive. “But don’t you see? To call the complaint spurious is to question Lord Jordane’s veracity. And he is a mage of impeccable lineage and social standing while she—”

“Is a College tutor. Which you know full well renders her social ranking irrelevant.” Letting the reminder sink in, Morgan sat again, slowly. “Lack of rank is not her crime. Have you any idea what is?”

Voln Hahren shook his head. “None.”

“Then I’ll enlighten you. Bellamie Ranowen is guilty of placing integrity above ingratiation, which is more than I can say for every other College tutor who has had the dubious pleasure of Tinette Jordane’s company in class.”

“Councillor?” Hahren’s cheeks paled. “I’m afraid I don’t follow your meaning.”

Oh, I think you do. “Lord Hahren, the Jordane girl’s magework is rudimentary at best. Certainly it’s not of the quality we expect in a highly ranked First Family’s offspring.”

Hahren indulged in more fish-like gaping. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying Jordane’s daughter is a throwback! A cripple!” You bleating fool. “I’m saying there has been a deliberate—let’s call it embellishment—of her scholarly achievements.” Because calling this what it is, outright fraud, would likely provoke you to spasms. “And it’s only come to light because Bellamie Ranowen, unlike her colleagues, is refusing to compromise her standards.”

Hahren looked close to vomiting. “Councillor, you can’t intend saying as much to Lord Jordane!”

“Why can’t I?”

“Because—because—” Hahren spluttered, close to incoherent. “He is one of the College’s most generous benefactors!”

“I know,” Morgan said, sneering. “And the reason why is now apparent. Coin-clinking Nevin Jordane thinks to purchase his daughter’s passage through the College. This complaint he’s lodged against Bellamie Ranowen is a base calumny designed to deflect attention from his profitless child. If it becomes common knowledge the useless girl’s a throwback, no Family will sanction marriage with her. The Jordane name will be sullied for generations to come.”

“You have no proof of this,” Hahren muttered, trembling fingers smoothing his lank hair. “And to make such a bold accusation outside this chamber—”

He smiled. “I see no need for the Jordanes to be publicly humiliated, provided there is no interference with my handling of the matter.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that Proctor Lowyn is on notice… and so are you. There’ll be no further gilding of Tinette Jordane’s wilted lily. Bellamie Ranowen is but one of the girl’s tutors. The rest will be privily advised that they can rank her according to her true skills with no eyebrow being raised or else face a summons to the Council, where they will be asked many inconvenient questions.”

“I see,” said Hahren, faintly. A patina of sweat gleamed on his brow. “And you think Lord Jordane will curtsy to this, do you?”