Scourge by Terry Weston Marsh

Author:Terry Weston Marsh [Terry Weston Marsh]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Morgan James Publishing
Published: 2021-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 27

Lord Bertraks had consumed nearly her whole tray of pastries, Mousy saw with alarm. Was he a glutton? Or just nervous? People were often uneasy in the presence of Lord Nostromal of Dunnesmore.

The man’s bulk overspread the side chair in Nostromal’s parlor. Had he always been this large? Padding himself for protection, perhaps. From what? It annoyed Mousy that she could not stop analyzing people, especially the foul ones who frequently came in and out of the master’s presence.

“Surely, Lord Nostromal, you did not bring me to Dunnesmore to hector me again for your Amendment of Justice.” Bertraks’s mouth was full of pastry. “Although a sufficient quantity of these little delights might almost persuade.” He forced a laugh and popped another tart into his mouth, crumbs dribbling through the stubble on his double chin.

Nostromal, at his windowsill of orchids, trimmed some blemished leaves then pressed dirt around a bulb in one of the larger pots.

Axelrad lounged on a silk settee across the room, picking his blocky teeth with his dagger.

“I have heretofore voted with you on every issue since I first sat in the House of Overlords.” Bertraks sounded defensive. “But I hold with those who argued last session that your bill gives too much power to the Lord Chancellor.”

“Were I not the current Lord Chancellor, you would no doubt vote for these added powers.”

Bertraks started to agree, checked himself. He waved his empty wineglass at Mousy. She filled it, wishing she could close her nostrils like a river otter against the unwashed folds of flesh.

“Who do you think gave you your seat in the Assembly and the power you wield as Lord of the Castleford estate?” Nostromal stabbed a stake into one of the flowerpots. “And speaking of the late Lord Wellam Davenant, a young man named Geoffrey Davenant has been brought to my attention.”

Bertraks choked in mid-swig and coughed until his eyes watered. “That boy could not have lived.”

“How do you know?”

“No one survives the ‘neck of fire.’”

“Maybe you forgot the pitch. Or the torch.”

Mousy watched the man’s face turn almost as purple as the birthmark on his forehead. The ensuing silence burgeoned like a boil that must be lanced. Could an otter close its ears too?

Bertraks banged his glass onto the side table. “I myself set him on fire.”

Because I walk with a limp and am too shy to spit at a leafhopper, they think I’m also retarded, and confess murder in front of me.

Nostromal poured water onto one of his plants. “Did you not account for his body?”

“There was no need. No child could have survived the blizzard that night.” Bertraks wiped his palms on his paunch. “This Geoffrey must be someone else—an imposter, trying to claim my title and estate.”

Nostromal stared at Bertraks, and the silence built again to uncomfortable levels. The chamber door flung open. Lady Lorica stormed in, followed by Derina.

“My lady, please, I beg you, reconsider,” Derina said.

“Leave me at once,” Lorica hissed at her.

Derina took a few steps back but remained in the room.

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