“My lord,” he said, with most of his attention given to Sallis Arkley and Shari Frieden, seated side by side at the chamber’s table and smirking. “Forgive me. I did hope for a privy word with Lord Arkley before the Council’s business commenced.”

“No privy words are necessary,” said Sallis, relaxed as a cat. “I have been discussing patenting business with Lord Varen. We know you’re anxious for an answer on your magework, and now that a decision has been reached I’ll gladly give it. Both your patents are denied.”

It took every lesson of self-restraint he’d learned not to wipe the smirk from Sallis’s face with physical violence.

“Lord Arkley,” Varen murmured, reproving. “There is no need to gloat. I agree with your decision, but do show some consideration for a fellow councillor’s sensibilities.”

As Sallis made insincere noises of regret, Morgan stared at the floor. Varen was being too conciliatory for Sallis to have told him of their angry exchange of threats in the hot room. That meant the man’s interference extended only to Parnel Garrick, an action that, if challenged, could be passed off as undeliberate.

Which means I was right. Lord Arkley is vulnerable.

But not so helpless that he couldn’t strike a blow using his Council authority as a shield.

I cannot swallow this without protest. To accept defeat too easily will be to invite further aggression.

He looked at Brice Varen. “My lord, I am not convinced of Lord Arkley’s competence to judge my magework. Nor do I have faith in Lady Frieden. I request an impartial adjudication.”

Lord Varen silenced Sallis’s gobblings, and Shari Frieden’s shrill protests, with a sharp look and a raised hand. “You’re within your rights to do so, Morgan. But you’d subject all recent patenting decisions to scrutiny and doubt and thereby undermine confidence in this Council. Is that what you want?”

“I want justice, my lord. Am I to relinquish the rights granted to the least mage in Dorana for no better reason than I serve it as a councillor?”

Settling his clasped hands on the table, Varen took a moment to reply. “Morgan… were you not listening? I said I concur with this decision. The incants you submitted are not worthy. There is a roughness in the syllabic harmonics. And none of us was convinced of their wider application. In truth, though it pains me to say so, those incants are far from your best work.”

Stunned, Morgan stared at him. Not worthy? His magework?

Last night I transmuted a living flower. You doddering old fool, what would you know of worthy?

“Brice is right, Morgan,” Venette said behind him, her entrance into the chamber silent and unobserved. “You can do better. You will do better. And when you do, the work will be recognised. There is no vendetta here.”