Discordant Apple-Chapter One (THIRD REVISION)

Discordant Apple
Chapter One

Lycurgus looked at himself in the big, grimy mirror that hung above the fireplace so as to inspect himself for Lord Ultralon’s guests. He had a wolf’s head, stubby prick-ears and brown fur covered his entire body from toe to nose. He had brushed his fur smooth but his scars were still visible, canyon like dents on his long muzzle from where his old master had broken it and shiny, extensive red ones on his left cheek and forehead from where Lord Ultralon had attacked him with a kettle and poker in rage. He presented quite a fearsome but sighed nonetheless and turned to the series of gaslights on the wall, reaching under each to pinch the tiny, ribbed knob that turned each glass covered lamp on. The series of twelve flared to life, lighting up the saloon whose French doors opened onto the balcony.

He watched as the circling carriage, horseless and flying, came into land on it, crashing with a thud and rolling to a halt over the cracked flagstones moss and hardy grass, the wheels catching on the tree roots that snaked across the stones, stretching out like fingers from the gnarled tree. He grinned as the driver, hunched over and cloaked in black, narrowly missed colliding with it. The latter swerved, smacking into the weed festooned brass fence instead and clanging against it like an impromptu doorbell; Lycurgus shook his head. He stepped forward, moving out of the shadows in time to see four figures, the Retrievers, masked and hooded in black, unfurl like smoke from inside the carriage, their driver jumping up and rapping on the roof to speed them up.

The wraith-like creatures quickly got to work, Lycurgus watching them. He clutched a bulging bag of gold inside his buckskin coat as he looked from the driver, who was impatiently drumming his gloved fingers on the carriage’s rooftop, to the aliens easing something small and quite narrow out of the carriage’s rear, barked at as they did so. The driver sounded nettled and as the box was held for him to inspect, he leant down and straightened out the black cloth on it, but not before Lycurgus saw unvarnished wood peeking out. The wraiths straightened up, hoisting the box to shoulder height, Lycurgus watching them closely as they began carrying it towards him.

He swung the fragile doors open for them, as silhouetted as the wraiths were indiscernible; one of the Retrievers nearly lost their footing, making the box to wobble and Lycurgus hop from foot to foot.

“Would you be careful with her?” Lycurgus snarled, “Lord Ultralon does not wish for her to be damaged or else there will be great pain for you all!”

Yellowy-grey clouds drifted overhead, backed by the mined moon. The wraiths approached the house at a slow crawl, seemingly moving in slow motion. The roots and cracked stones underfoot made the balcony fraught with danger to walk on, but the Retrievers eventually reached him, Lycurgus standing in the Yule marble doorway. It had been imported with a matching fireplace, window frames, moulding and even the saloon’s circuit board, the staggering cost of which Lycurgus could remember Lord Ultralon complaining about all too well. The snowy white doorway had been slotted into the red sandstone cliff face out of which the house was carved, making for a striking and showy look that contrasted sharply with the drab interior that had been left to gather dust and grime without Madame Aspatria ruling the house.
Lycurgus looked around, sneering as he stepped aside to let the Retrievers in. The saloon was in a sorry state. The golden teak floor was scratched and covered in mud and street muck and the antique furniture had been shoved against the walls and covered in musty dustsheets, the Retrievers stirring a heap of old ashes in the choking grate as they passed by.

“On here,” Lycurgus said, tapping the large, long mahogany dining table. It was the only uncovered piece of furniture in the saloon, filling up one corner as the wraiths slid the box coffin onto it and knocked the candelabrum flying. It landed with a brassy thump on the floor, the box taking up nearly the whole of the tabletop.

His wolf’s eyes glowed yellow in the gloom; Lycurgus showed no fear of the creatures, only contempt, as he pushed through them and laid his clawed, paw-like hands on the lid and gingerly pulled back the pall. He was somewhat nervous that something would jump out and tear him to pieces, and little did those around him know, but his fears were not entirely built on sand. He studied the splintery lid with morbid curiosity, studying the unadorned wood as though he could see a fascinating map before dropping the sheet.

Lycurgus returned his feral gaze to the dwarfish hearse driver hovering in the doorway.

“You are positive that she is undamaged?” He queried closely.

The driver shrugged and replied with a neither-here-nor-there tone of voice, “As far as I know, she is. A farmer outside of Berlin apparently found her sarcophagus in his potato field. She was in one of those effigy things-you know, white marble, like you’ve got round ‘ere.”

He nodded at the fireplace, his dark eyes surreptitiously sweeping the room, scanning it for anything he could steal and sell without the wolfman noticing.

“Well where is it then?” Lycurgus growled.

“Where’s what?”

“The effigy!” Lycurgus swept his arm around, “All I see is a wooden box-!”

He snarled as the driver looked at him like a gormless idiot.
“The effigy, you fool! The marble coffin-!”

“Other than it would never fit in me vehicle,” the driver answered, sneering, “And it would never be able to take off with it on board, effigies are very collective amongst the First Class. Surely,” and he waved around at the decaying house, “You can understand that. It was flogged by the time I retrieved the body, anyway, but I hear it got a lot of money at auction, despite that it had been damaged a bit-”

“Damaged?” Lycurgus repeated sharply.

“Nothing serious, mind,” the driver answered casually, “A nose knocked off here, a few fingers there…I suppose the plough prongs caught it. The farmer wrote a letter to a collector, but you know how the authorities have to come down and check for bodies…? Well, they found one, so they swooped and took it.”

He nodded at the coffin.

“Course, mummies aren’t easy to come by these days, what with the Fertiliser Crises of the 4180s,” the driver went on, “and don’t forget those that needed a special cabinet to be preserved-they all rotted. This one,” he nodded again, “wasn’t identified and nobody claimed the corpse, so when the two-and-a-half months were up-they sold ‘er.”

Lycurgus, whose furry paw had been gently stroking the box’s lid, froze.

“To whom?” He asked.

The small driver shrugged, replying disinterestedly, “Some fat Old Blood in France purchased the effigy, but the corpse went straight to Edinburgh Castle-”

“-which happens to be the leading political prison in Great Britain,” Lycurgus muttered darkly, “Whose Chief Warden is believed to be a raging necrophiliac. Wonderful,” he shook his head, “May I ask how the bloody Hell you managed to steal-?”

His squat guest smirked wickedly, and looked around at his creatures, who chucked very quietly with a hissing noise that raised the hairs on the back of Lycurgus’ neck. He growled softly, the former answering almost cruelly, “We just burnt his favourite mummy to ashes.”
Lycurgus frowned, disgusted. He smoothed the pall vainly to distract himself, glancing at the faceless Retrievers gathered around him in a half circle.

“And what,” he said, in a very low voice, “do these creatures want for their silence?”

“They will not be deported to their home planet,” was the driver’s rather uncaring reply, “I, meanwhile, was promised my fee-”

A velvet purse bounced off his hooded head with a clink of coins, and the little man scooped eagerly to pick it up. He tipped its guts out and counted his money, his face falling.

“-my fee in double,” he pressed angrily, “If I brought the stiff intact-!”

Lycurgus snarled again.

“You get what you’re given-!” He shouted back.

“I get what I agreed on or I take that carcass and sell it back to the Chief Warden of Edinburgh Castle!” The driver snapped, his creatures swishing ominously, “Or failing that, I could probably find a farmer or apothecary that would relish a bit of old mummy-”

His round, bald head retracted sharply beneath his woollen cowl as a second pouch of gold was hurled at him. He grabbed from the floor and, quickly counting the shiny metal rhombuses, nodded silently at Lord Ultralon’s chief servant, sneering. He jerked his head at his wraiths; they followed him, each of them filing out of the room one by one and clambering back into the hearse.

“If you ever say anything!” Lycurgus called out after them, “My Lord will make sure that up you end up in Edinburgh yourselves-!”

The horseless carriage spluttered into life and Lycurgus found himself drowned out by the noise of the semi-illegal engine farting acrid smoke. The driver twisted the wheel, reversing out of the fence and back into the twisted old tree before turning. The clouds above coagulated into a dirty mass; spots of toxic rain began to fall and Lycurgus grabbed the French doors, quickly slamming them shut and locking them. He watched as the rickety vehicle took off with a roar, rocketing off the end of the balcony and disappearing amidst the thick smoke that unfurled from the juddering exhaust pipe.

Soon it was little more than a dark fleck of soot and Lycurgus, convinced that it was gone, drew the heavy drapes, sneezing as dust filled his nose. The window panes were spattered with large gobs of murky water that ran down the doors, giving him pause for a moment as he made a mental note to kick the parahuman and get her to do some cleaning. He gave the coffin one last look whilst he was at it before trotting into a narrow, panelled hallway outside of the saloon. It too was lit by gas generated by organic material rotting in the Decomposition Chamber dug into the root of the cliff; like in the loggia, the light was greenish and smoky, allowing shadows to spring from the cobwebby corners.

Lycurgus’ hobnailed shoes clattered on the floor, tiled in a monochrome chequered pattern and covered in crud carried in from the street. The stairs he climbed were carved from the same orange sandstone as the house and were covered, although the carpet in question was hardly a thread thick from age and wear. It did nothing to muffle the sound of him bounding up the stairs and dodging the ancient suit of armour that stood sentry on the landing. He turned the corner, entering another corridor as dusty and shabby as the rest of the house. It was unlit but for a sliver of light sticking out from under the door ajar at the very end, which Lycurgus approached with sudden trepidation that grew with every step he took.

He pushed on the door and found himself in a dark room lit solely by the fire in the marble fireplace’s grate. A red armchair was placed squarely in front of it and a singed rug between them; as Lycurgus stepped closer, the heat from the roaring fire blistered his nose. He came to stand beside the chair in question, his threadbare sleeves brushing the velvet upholstery and his feet scuffing the wood covered floor as he bowed his head in respect of the occupant. He wrung his furry hands nervously and waited to be acknowledged, all the while glancing around warily at the faded green wallpaper as he made sure that there was no hired murderer hiding in the dark.

“My Lord,” he murmured reverently after several minutes’ silence, his worry mounting.

“Speak,” intoned Lord Ultralon.