Page 8 of The Death Wish

The foul language flowed.

‘Please sir, it’s been a quiet winter round these parts for travellers.’ Herbert rubbed at his cheek, smudging the dirt there, his uncertain eyes fixed on Silas.

‘Silas, come on.’ Pitch had given up trying to move Lalassu along, and was a few steps away. ‘Which way is the Rule then?’ he asked, of the basket-weaver.

‘Keep on heading that way.’ She gestured with a length of willow. ‘Big fancy sign and all, can’t miss it.’

But Silas still stood with Herbert. He took in the tattered state of the boy’s trouser hems, the hole in the toe of his boot, and how both horses seemed to gravitate towards him, one either side, and quite at ease. He was ready to declare his preference for the inn, when Herbert said something quite miraculous.

‘The Rule’s cook can’t cast a shadow on my Uncle Samuel’s cookin’. Do you sirs like baked goods? No one makes a pastry like my Pa’s Samuel.’

‘Good gods, fuck the Golden Rule.’ There was no damage done to Pitch’s hearing at least. ‘Why did you not say that to begin with, stupid boy?’

‘Pitch,’ Silas sighed, a wave of weariness striking him. ‘Dear god. What is wrong with you?’

‘I’m tired, filthy and bloody hungry, Silas. Why are we still standing here, talking with Henry when there are cakes to be had?’

‘Herbert.’ The boy certainly was not wanting for courage. ‘My name’s Herbert, mister.’

‘It truly doesn’t matter.’

The lad pulled back his shoulders, making the pail rattle with the earnestness of the move. He wiped a dirty hand against his threadbare trousers. ‘But bakin’ seems to matter a lot to you. And Uncle Samuel won’t be in the mood for cookin’ if he hears you’ve been terrible mean to me. I don’t think I want you two coming to my place after all.’

Silas wished in that moment he had one of those fancy cameras that were about, so he could take a picture of the utter astonishment upon Pitch’s face. The basket-maker was beside herself, laughing in such a way that reminded Silas of Tyvain’s guttural chortle. The soothsayer would likely come searching for them soon enough, telling them to hurry the hell up, but as pleasing as the company of friends was, Silas was growing rather fond of the idea of greater privacy.

Pitch swallowed hard, glancing at Silas before he spoke. ‘Herbert, my good fellow, we have had a rather piss-poor few days…months, really, and I am so tired I can barely see straight. We are dirty, rather battered, and well overdue a night on the cups. I apologise…for being such a bastard. But if you felt the way I do, you’d be a right cunt about things too.’ Silas grimaced, but said nothing. Bawdy as it was, Pitch’s explanation was not far wrong. ‘Your father’s inn sounds wonderful, and Samuel’s baking near to divine, and I can already tell from the gleam in my large friend’s eye here that he would very much like to take advantage of your offer. I hope you won’t let the fact I am an arsehole prevent Mr Mercer from getting what he wants. He deserves good things.’ In testament to his own exhaustion, Silas became teary, hearing Pitch speak so earnestly.

Herbert lips wobbled in an amusing show of consideration, his glance moving between Silas and Pitch. ‘Suppose you ain’t so bad then, not so bad as you try to be, anyways. And you do both look mighty tired.’

‘Like you cannot imagine,’ Pitch said. ‘Herbert, will you be so kind as to show us the way to the Churchill, so we might find somewhere to try and put ourselves back together?’

Herbert gave Pitch a solemn nod, and without another word gathered the horses’ reins, and led them on.

CHAPTER THREE

THE TRIPto the Churchill took them right by the Golden Rule, and Pitch was sorely tempted by the waft of ale that came from it. Silas spotted Tyvain before the soothsayer noticed them. She was seated inside near the window, pint in hand, slouched back in her seat, chatting to a fellow whose beard put Silas’s to shame, nearly touching at his ample belly. They were locked in conversation, and Tyvain looked for all the world like she was a local. Jane’s meandering walk had put her only just ahead of Pitch and Silas. She waited at the main doors as they approached. The sleeves of her shirt were dark with dampness, as were a few strands of her hair.

‘Did you bathe in the river?’ Pitch said. ‘Does the Golden Rule have no basins?’

She smiled, and something shifted within her hair. One of the sparrows peaked from between the strands. Odd woman.

‘Some of the asrai were rather exuberant when I chatted with them. The young ones tend to burst themselves when they are overly excited.’

Pitch felt Silas tense, and recalled something of the asrai being involved in distracting him in Sherwood Forest. He rubbed his hand over the ankou’s arse by way of a very different distraction.

‘What did they tell you of this place then?’ Silas asked, not nearly distracted as he should be, Pitch decided.

‘They are carefree, Silas. All is well.’ She glanced at Herbert who was staring at her rather wide-eyed. ‘Hello there.’

‘You’re beautiful,’ the boy declared, not a hint of abashment about him as he stood dwarfed by Lalassu’s powerful bulk.

Jane burst into an equally beautiful gale of laughter. ‘Thank you. And you are very handsome.’

‘Oh good gods,’ Pitch growled. ‘We’ll be at the Churchill. There is cake.’

He tugged at Silas’s awful heavy coat, but the ankou was unmoved.

‘What of Sybilla?’ Silas, ever the sensible one, enquired. ‘Shall I help you settle her in, Jane?’