Arkhus Lane - A Sinister Plot

1.1: Lockham
By now, the word has spread: Captain Lockham, undead, is striding through the city. There are fears that he has returned to re-enact his greatest task in life, and indeed he seems to be marching toward the palace. This concern is the reason for the cohort of Blackcoats, Lower Acheron’s law enforcers, who are now escorting the lurching Captain, his tattered body slowly healing over from the same dark magics that had restored movement to his frozen bones, his blue skin paling slowly back toward its natural colouring. For the moment, though, the ‘Coats leave him be; although dead, Lockham is causing no harm, and the curiosity of the crowd that now follows him overwhelms any terror they feel. Stranger things have happened in Lower Acheron.
Lockham continues on his path, oblivious to all but the shining light of his objective, glowing in the distance through the buildings that stand between. The Blackcoats keep pace with the unsteady, but quickening, corpse as it marches onto the southern end of Bedlam Bridge. Tonight, the Captain is crossing Hobbs’ Wake once again. In the darkness, away from the lamplight, nobody notices the pair of pinstriped figures peeling away from the crowd and disappearing into the night.

 

2. A Sinister Plot
Arkhus Lane stared at Seamus’ patterned face in bewildered shock as the boy told him of the recent, bizarre events that were still unfolding. Either the snoop was a liar of a calibre he had never before encountered, completely convincing; unreadable, or the unlikely tale he had just heard was the honest truth: Captain Lockham, leader of a failed revolution two years before, the man who had been executed upon the very steps of the palace, had been raised from his tomb and was loose in Lower Acheron. Strange as the tale sounded, facts were now clicking together in Lane’s mind, despite his lingering doubt, at a rate that would have impressed Grey; suddenly a lot more of the night’s events were making sense.

Lane hammered upon the door of his master’s house, a lofty mansion that had forsaken the option of expansive grounds in favour of its grand address: 14 Havisham Close, nestled amongst the city’s most pretentious locales. Ironically, or so considered Arkhus, the Grey residence was precisely that: there was not a splash of colour upon the eminent, bleak building, and the tiny strip of a garden that it towered over was a poor collection of dull shrubs that strove to avoid the eye as easily as Arkhus himself.
The door opened and Arkhus was met by the stern visage of Sebastian Grey.
‘Sir,’ Arkhus bowed in deference. ‘Something terrible is afoot.’
Grey harrumphed, his face scrunching behind the overpowering moustache, though Arkhus could not tell if it was a snort of acknowledgement, or a cynical chuckle at his overly dramatic introduction.
‘In that case, you’d best come inside,’ Grey said, grimly surveying the patches of shadow in the street over Arkhus’ shoulder. As he passed, Arkhus thought he saw the old man give a slight nod to the darkness, but before he could turn to look back at the street, the door had closed.   
Arkhus gazed in wonder as he was led deeper into Grey’s home, dazzled by the lavishly decorated interior; a powerful contrast to the house’s severe façade. It was his first visit to the Grey residence, as he had food and lodging at a boarding house with a number of other apprentices who, like himself, met their masters each morning at work. Lane observed Grey, considering the man’s exceptionally formal attire, despite the lateness of the hour. For a moment, he wondered if his master indeed owned anything other than the straightforward, well-cut ash-coloured suits, and if he in fact slept in one as well. If he slept at all, even.
He followed as his master strode down a hallway laid with a soft, ornate runner that, given his lack of knowledge in such matters, Arkhus could only assume came from somewhere to the south – Corroe, perhaps, or as exotic as the Kalomic Empire. The walls, painted a rich, imperious shade of navy blue, were hung with a great many pictures, all apparently drawn by the same hand. Meticulously detailed, they were unlike any artworks that Lane had seen before: close-ups of machines: levers and iron wheels; presses and looms. Obviously drawn with a working knowledge, they were far more like technical designs, and yet they were here, framed; given pride of place upon Grey’s hallway wall.
On any other occasion, Lane would have been compelled to ask his master about them, but the grim mood that the evening had taken since his discussion with Seamus stifled his curiousness. Sebastian Grey turned though a doorway, waiting on the other side and indicating for Arkhus to pass through before carefully closing the door behind them.

As Grey ambled over to a grand cabinet that stood against the side wall of the sitting room and produced a decanter of dark, red-orange liquid, Arkhus stood dumbly in the centre of the room, the pleasant fire making him suddenly aware that he had forgotten to shed his overcoat when he had entered the house. He considered doing so now, vaguely wondering where he could place it whilst maintaining a scrap of decorum.
‘Just on the back of your chair will be fine, boy.’ Grey indicated the two plush armchairs facing the fire, nodding with his head; hands occupied with two oversize snifters. Lane folded his coat over the chair, standing awkwardly to attention whilst his master handed him a glass, somewhat less awash with the richly coloured brandy than the one he retained, and sat, sinking into the chair luxuriously as he swirled the glass.
‘All the way from Mendelssohn’s Point, this,’ said Grey, jovially. ‘A damn fine drop.’ Looking up, he noticed Arkhus still standing nervously, staring at the glass he held inexpertly in his fingers.
‘Sit down, lad, you’ll have too much to say for you to stay up there. Don’t need to bother with ceremony here, what?’ He grinned, sipping from his glass as Arkhus struggled to not disappear entirely into the ridiculously soft chair.
‘Now, I think,’ he continued, ‘that you’d best tell me what you’ve found.’ His tone was gruff, though there was a tone of polite encouragement there that Lane found reassuring.
‘Well, sir, from Acksley Street, I trailed the pair right through Pelham Smythe toward the south side, where they entered the side door of a restaurant in Blackstone Street. I didn’t get a chance to look inside; they were out again by the time I caught up. Following them from there, I think they may have noticed me: they began taking a winding path that led toward the industrial district; it was obvious that they were trying to shake me, so I let them think they’d succeeded. Finally, they stopped in a warehouse on Marcher Street.’ Arkhus paused, smelling the brandy and taking a sip. It was good.
As he continued his story, he watched Grey’s face becoming more and more concerned, until the man paled at his mention of the thugs’ gruesome fate.
‘Green Horror? A Jerubim, by the sound of it,’ murmured Grey, appalled. ‘You mentioned a name. What was it?’
‘Redhand, sir,’ replied Lane, noting his master’s increasing discomfort.
‘Right, then. Go on.’ Grey’s pipe, unlit, waggled as he spoke, clenched tight between his teeth. Lane began to suspect that Grey had mistaken the mobsters for much pettier criminals, when he had suggested that Lane should tail them for a while.
‘From there, I decided I still had enough time to talk to Overture. When I found him, he was fairly upset, and it took me a while to get him to say why. When he did, he tried to get away with only two words: “Lockham’s back”.’ Grey’s eyes narrowed at the name. ‘Apparently he appeared in the slums near the southern docks, somewhere around dusk. Dark blue, fresh from the tomb. Since then, he’s been walking north. Seems to be healing up, apparently. Overture mentioned another name, but he was babbling and I didn’t quite catch it. Manor, or…’ Grey cut him off.
‘Maynard. A rogue mage, bit of a folk villain now. Got involved with dark arts, necromancy. Thirty years back he raised a host of the dead; brought the city to its knees. But it wouldn’t be him. Michael Sorrow ended his game. Anyway, it sounds like your thugs had this mage killed, so he probably wasn’t a major player in the scheme.’ Lane watched as his master stared into the fire for a moment, then stood abruptly, placing his glass on the table and moving to a cupboard, from which he filled his pockets with indistinguishable items.
‘I’m going to see what I can find about this Redhand character. You should stay here, boy, lay low for a bit, try to rest up. Tomorrow, we’ll have a lot of work to do.’ Grey waddled from the room with amazing speed, the door slamming behind him.
Arkhus Lane, suddenly finding himself alone, took another mouthful of brandy. It really was very good. Another mouthful, and the snifter was empty. Placing it on the table, next to Grey’s, and moving to stand up, Lane decided to explore his master’s house; perhaps take another look at the pictures in the hall.
He’d just close his eyes for a moment, first.

Reviews

[Stonewall]

I concur with Dermal... more would be very nice. Very smooth, though I did notice you used the word 'curiousness' with regards the paintings and wondered if 'curiosity' might be more apt? The former tickles the ear in a funny way, though I suspect the choice of word may be more about the character than anything else.

Your portrayal of something slightly sinister in Grey's character is coming out well. Very subtle, but enough to keep us worried, could maybe even be toned down very slightly depending on your long term intention for that character. If nothing else, it is easy to get a sense of Arkhus' discomfort.

Well done. More please.

[dermal_plating]

You have me sucked in. Chapter 3 please.