Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

THE VILLAGE of Ambleside came into view precisely two hours and fifteen minutes later, as the day reached mid-morning and all the mist had vanished from distant hills.

They travelled along Stockghyll Lane, a narrow but neatly compacted roadway that eventually brought them alongside the River Rothay. Not so great or wide a river, but its waters sparkled with the coolness of the month, and the gurgling over smoothed rocks could be heard despite the clunk of carriage wheels. All geographical details were supplied by the grunting Isaac, whose clear resentment of them all was superseded by his unexpectedly prideful desire to enlighten them about their surrounds.

‘Caught a decent trout or two in those waters.' Isaac spoke with the nearest Silas had heard to enthusiasm. ‘And Beatrice cooked them up nicely and served them with an apple mash a man could grow well addicted to.'

Silas glanced at Tyvain who leaned out the carriage window. She gave him a look that told him she was equally bemused to hear the normally sullen Isaac divulging details of what amounted to a life beyond his carriage seat.

‘Ya have a taste for Beatrice's mash then, eh?' Tyvain said. ‘Ya sly dog, didn't think ya had it in ya.'

‘You don't know anything about me, hag.'

And no one could argue with that.

Ambleside was a quaint village of mostly slate stone houses, interspersed with the distinctive white stucco and tarred beams of several Tudor homes. As they entered into the village proper they came upon the particularly curious structure that Lalassu had weaved in her mane. A small bridge spanned a narrow section of the river, and upon it sat a tiny, two storey building of stone, with a rather worse-for-wear roof.

‘There's Bridge House, built over the water so as to avoid paying land taxes.' Isaac's grunt was approving. ‘Been everything from an apple store, to counting rooms for the local mills, a weavers, and last time I was through here, a cobbler had set up shop there.'

Pitch jerked to attention. ‘A cobbler? Lalassu, halt at once.'

He swung his leg over her neck, dismounting in one fluid movement.

‘Whatever are you doing?' Silas said.

Pitch made a grand flourish towards his feet. ‘Do you see those atrocities you all deign to call boots? A size too small and mouse-nibbled at the toe on the right? I'm going to bang on that man's door this instant and have him make me a brand new pair.'

Isaac had provided Silas and Pitch with coats, but he'd been unable to produce a pair of boots for Pitch's bare feet. That had involved sneaky work on Jane's part. Phillipa had scouted the village of Newchurch for sign of any boots left on doorsteps. With the morning being so early they'd been in luck, and the air elemental had used a brisk breeze to seconder a brown leather pair. Pitch had been unhappy instantly, of course, for the fit was tight and the colour not one he'd prefer, but the air was cold enough to redden everyone's noses and Silas had pressed him to wear them. Fire daemon, or no.

Now Pitch was striding off in those very same boots, putting on quite the exaggerated show of being in discomfort. He'd not limped this badly even when his troublesome hip was at its worst. Silas watched him with an exasperated smile.

‘What makes you think we have time for a cobbler to make you a pair of boots?' Jane stood by the riverbank, her breeze stirring the pussywillow that grew there. ‘That's a day's work.'

‘What makes you think I want boots? I shall have the finest shoes, and we'll stay for as long as it will take him.' Pitch called over his shoulder, the glorious fuchsia cloak fluttering around him. ‘The lake's been there for a long while, it can wait a day more.'

Jane looked to Silas, who shrugged. ‘I have no intention of getting between him and a decent pair of shoes.' And the village looked pretty as a picture…indeed, felt lovely as one too. For the first time since they'd set out from Pendle Hill his prickling of unease had subdued itself enough to allow him to consider taking a proper rest. Silas would breathe easier once he'd seen Charlie's face again, but Lalassu, and indeed, the scythe passed on no sense of urgency. The mare was calm, the blades quiet. He dared listen to that inner sense that told him…they were safe here.

That this was a different type of Sanctuary than the one they sought, but a sanctuary nonetheless.

A reward, perhaps, for all they'd done to ensure the survival of the Cultivation? Silas clutched at the small hope as though it were the crown jewels. But he was not a fool. He could only pretend to be one, and that would suffice for now. The village was far too pleasant for darker thoughts.

‘Does anyone have any coin?' Pitch had halted his stomp across the way, and began to backtrack. ‘I'd rather not pay the man with bodily favours, I shouldn't think you'd like that much, would you, Sickle?'

Silas would muster every lost soul from miles around to terrify the cobbler, if he so much as laid a finger on the daemon. Outwardly though, he faked a yawn and flicked a hand. ‘You are your own man, Mr Astaroth. I stake no exclusive claim to you.' But good god he'd like to. ‘You are a free man with freedom of choice.' That much at least was no lie.

Pitch burst into a gale of laughter, one tinged with surprise as much as mirth. ‘Truly? So what you're saying is you are done with me.' His pout should be outlawed.

‘Of course I'm not saying that.'

‘Could ya blame him if he was though, Astaroth?' Tyvain's chesty laughter rang out. ‘You're a handful.'

‘Rather more than a handful, I assure you.'

‘No one wants ta hear it, ya great plod,' Tyvain retorted.

As they debated where to take accommodations, with Isaac insistent that there was but one suitable public house, the Golden Rule, with a stout to sell your mother for, Silas's thoughts drifted.

He was tired, gravely so. Drained to the very core. Which was concerning, and irritating. Now was not the time to be anything but Pitch's greatest protector. They were so near to the end.

‘Silas?' Pitch's voice, close now, startled Silas. ‘Is everything all right? Do you sense something untoward?'

Silas hadn't realised that his horse had stopped moving, or that he had dug his fingers into its mane, clutching at the strands. He looked down at Pitch, the prince's eyes the most astonishing shade of green with the winter afternoon light.

‘Everything is fine,' he said, a little weakly.

‘No teratisms about?'

‘No, no. Nothing like that.' There was nothing upon the air to disturb his senses, certainly no Blight-ridden souls. The scythes were silent upon his finger. He ran the pad of his thumb over the metal. ‘This is a quiet place. I think…I think we are safe here.'

‘We are.' Pitch nodded, watching Isaac drive the carriage on. ‘Everything is…quieter here. Is it not?'

‘Very much so.'

Jane meandered along the riverside, the stirring of air amongst the pussy-willow billowing out behind her like an invisible gown. She was smiling, her hand lifted to where tiny sparrows fluttered about her, as though in some tittering conversation with the air elemental. Jane laughed, and Silas realised that was exactly what was happening.

Pitch stretched to lay his hand upon Silas's thigh. ‘But you're still frowning a little. You're not truly worried about the cobbler now, are you?' The light seemed to brighten when Pitch smiled in that way, lop-sided, entirely charming.

Silas laughed, rather self-consciously. ‘No, no. Besides, I meant what I said, I have no claim on you.'

Pitch's hand slid higher up Silas's thigh, fingertips delving at the crease of his hip. ‘I think we both know that is not the case.' The blood roared in Silas's ears, and he knew his blush ferocious. ‘Shall we carry on then? The shoes can wait, if I'm honest. I don't know about you but I'm desperate to get out of the horrid clothes that lie beneath this cloak.' He brushed his hand down the length of Silas's leg. ‘Are you with me, Sickle?'

‘I am.' Come what may.

‘Good. Whatever time is to be had here, I dare say it will be short. Best we make the most of it.'

Silas's desirous haze quickly cleared. ‘I wish it were not so.'

‘As do I.' Pitch leaned his full weight against Silas's lower leg. He smiled again but it was more strained. ‘But all things have an end, do they not? And unless the Hag has been regaling you with details of our future, neither of us know what that end shall look like.'

He stepped away, tilting his head down so that his hair covered his face, and whatever expression it held.

Silas hurried to dismount, his legs unsteady with the sudden grounding. ‘Tyvain has told me nothing, and I would share it with you if she had.'

‘Would you though?' Pitch studied him hard. ‘If what she had to say was not pleasant, would you tell me?'

‘Pitch, what is this about?'

He was aware of being watched, glances from passing villagers as he stood close to Pitch.

‘I'm simply curious, that's all. We deliver the simurgh to the Sanctuary, then what?' As he spoke his hand lifted to his belly, where his fingers moved against the bright colour of his cloak. ‘This godsforsaken task has been all-consuming, and seemed, quite frankly, impossible…until now. We have survived this far. I just wonder…' He darted his tongue over his lips. ‘I wonder if, perhaps, that silly idea of yours about the cottage in a deep dark woods might need some further considerations?'

Silas's chest tightened to hear the fragile hope in Pitch's words.

‘I'm not sure that…' Silas cleared his throat, and toyed with the loose reins. ‘I'm not sure that I said dark woods…'

‘You definitely said woods.'

‘Yes, but not dark. Unless that's what you'd prefer?'

‘Me? The one who was cast into an abaddon, the very definition of darkness?' A dim topic, but the prince was not sullen when he spoke, jesting with a lightness that had Silas breathing easier.

‘Then we agree the woods shall not be dark in the slightest. In fact I think we shall build this cottage in a glade, somewhere the light always falls upon it.'

‘Won't that be a tad annoying when it comes time to sleep?'

‘It won't be light at night.'

‘You said the light always falls –'

Silas sighed. ‘During the day, of course.'

Pitch bit at the corner of his lip, his grin absolutely wicked. Silas swept an arm about his waist, pulling him in. ‘You are truly sent to try me. I shall make you quite sorry for it later on.'

That, to his great satisfaction, drew a gasp from the daemon, emerald eyes widening. ‘Mr Mercer, you scoundrel, do not tease me so. You had me all in a lather last night but then fell asleep with my blue balls in your hand.'

‘A lie!' Silas leaned in very close, careful to share his words with Pitch alone. ‘It was your cock in my hand. And those balls were quite empty, I assure you, though it makes sense you don't recall as I think you were asleep before you finished spilling over me.'

‘That is a filthy mouth you have there, Mr Mercer.'

‘Isn't it? I've had a wonderful teacher,' A part of Silas was dying a silent death at being so horrifyingly forward, but good god it was bracing, and wondrously arousing to see it cause Pitch's eyes to shine. ‘I shall show you a few other things he taught me, once we are alone.'

Pitch's breath quickened, his chin tilting up, vibrant pink lips, with scant hint of old cuts and bruises, parting.

‘We're alone enough here.'

Silas lowered his head, deciding the brown horse was shielding them well enough to seek out a very brazen kiss in the middle of the village thoroughfare. Lalassu nickered, and a small voice spoke up.

‘That's the prettiest horse I ever did see, sirs. Can I pat her?'

With some confusion, and much regret, Silas lifted his head.

A thin chap with a dirty face and terrible scar upon his chin, along with an unfortunate cross-eyed gaze, stood nearby, with a tarnished pail in hand. He held his free hand lifted, fingers twitching, as though he fought an urge to touch at Lalassu before permission was received.

The mare took a step forward, a short burst of air from her nostrils coming before she nudged at the man's pail. Silas's horse pulled at the reins, seeking to join her, straining his muzzle towards the apparent treats. The man giggled, and it was such a childish sound that Silas found himself paying more attention to the chap. He was actually far younger than Silas had supposed, there under the grime on his cheeks.

‘They can smell the apple cores I just gave to the pigs.' He dipped his hand into the pail, and pulled out the sorry remnants of what once might have been an apple. ‘That's all I've got left. But if your master and his pretty friend want to take some rooms at my Pa's place, I can get you all the apples your heart desires.'

Pitch nudged Silas. ‘Did you hear that? He says I am pretty. He's not as dull-headed as he looks.'

The boy sniffed, his nose wet and running once more. ‘My name is Herbert, mister. And just cause you have beauty, don't mean you can be nasty to those of us who don't. My Pa says kindness don't cost nothin'.'

Pitch nearly choked on his own spittle, and it was all Silas could do to keep himself from laughing.

‘Very wise words, young man,' Silas said, which earned him a vicious poke in the side, one he ignored. ‘Your father has done well by you.'

‘Will you come stay then?' Herbert was utterly unperturbed by the unhappy daemon, which Silas found both amusing, and quite courageous. ‘I'm the best groom in the village, everyone will tell you. Your horses will gleam after I'm done with brushing them down. And we ain't half as expensive as the Rule.'

‘Go away, Harry.' Pitch tried to reach for Lalassu's dangling reins but the mare tilted her head.

‘It's Herbert.'

‘I don't care.'

‘Pitch.'

‘Silas?'

‘Be nice.' With Pitch glowering but holding his tongue, Silas turned his attention to the young man once more. Lalassu was enjoying a scratch behind her ear, her eyelid heavy, her head lowered so the youth could reach the spot. ‘Thank you, Herbert, but our companions are likely already at the Golden Rule, arranging rooms.'

‘You'd do better at my Pa's place. And he and my Uncle Samuel would be mighty happy to be hosting fellas just the same as them.'

‘Like us? I doubt very much they are the same at all,' Pitch scowled. ‘What the blazes are you on about?'

‘It's all right, you two together. I think its fine, and really nice. Don't matter the shape our affectamations come in. That's what my pa says.'

‘Do you mean affections?' Silas asked, amused.

The lad nodded vigorously. ‘That's the word.'

‘Oh good gods, this trite nonsense again,' Pitch groaned. ‘The sooner you purebreds decide to just fuck whoever you like and make no bones about it, the better, I say.'

‘Pitch,' Silas glared. ‘He's a child.'

‘Who knows exactly what I'm talking about, thanks to Pa and Uncle Samuel.'

‘My name is Herbert, and Pa says it's best I don't be doing any fornimications just yet, on account of being barely fifteen summers.'

‘Your father is a monster,' Pitch exclaimed. ‘It's called fornication, and you'd best get out there and get to it, boy. Dip that wick at once. To hell with Pappa.'

Silas grabbed Pitch's arm. ‘Will you stop?' He sought to sound stern but saw how much Pitch was enjoying the tease, the way a food connoisseur enjoyed dining in a fine restaurant. His impish happiness was a delight.

‘I'm trying to save Harold's life, Silas.'

‘My name's Herbert. Do you really think I should be doing that, mister?' he asked, another wet sniff coming. ‘The unholy things?'

‘The more unholy the better.'

‘Absolutely not, young man.' Silas decided the teasing must end.

The young fellow was simple, a true innocent, and Silas suspected his father was protecting him from the very things Pitch sought to encourage.

‘Sheer cruelty,' Pitch huffed. ‘Of the highest order, depriving Herman of bodily delights.'

‘My name's Herbert.'

‘I still do not care.'

‘But I do. I like my name.' The boy's bravery had Silas's thoughts shifting to Charlie with a pang. ‘And I'm real good with horses, and my Pa has the nicest inn you ever did see. It's called the Churchill. That's our name.'

‘Herbert tells you the truth. Always does. The Churchill is a right welcoming place.' A comely woman with the most astonishing brunette curls called out from the steps of a nearby residence, where she'd seated herself with a half-woven basket, preparing to finish the task. ‘But don't tell Paul at the Rule I'm taking any sides, there's no arguing his whisky is the cream of the crop in Ambleside.'

Pitch sucked in a breath. ‘Fuck the inn, Silas.'

‘Pitch, language.'

‘He'll hear a lot worse than that if you keep me from a whisky a moment longer. The others are probably already halfway into their cups by now. Let's go.'

He reached for Lalassu's dangling reins again, but again the mare denied him, shifting her bulk so he ended up catching his fingers on her stirrup.

‘Sodding bloody horse, do you wish to take a one way journey to the glue factory?' Lalassu stomped her foot, dangerously close to Pitch's boot. And the brown horse's flick of the tail was coincidentally near to his face.

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.