by Jordan Rivet
Someone cleared their throat beside her. Briar turned. Esteban, the mage, had spurred his scrawny black mare over to join her.
“Jemma says you have an injury.”
“Oh, yes.”
Briar glanced back, and Jemma gave her a sunny smile. Jemma rode close beside her burly red-bearded husband, Lew, who looked as warm and unassuming as a country innkeeper.
“I sprained my wrist falling out of a tree.”
“Give it here.”
Briar leaned partway out of her saddle and allowed the old mage to unwrap the grimy rags. Her wrist had swollen overnight, and she bit her lip as he prodded at the puffy flesh and the cuts on her palms. Her wrist jolted in his grasp with every step their horses took.
“Could this wait until we stop?” she asked, eyes watering.
“It’s best if we’re moving. It weakens the residual link.” Esteban lifted his spindly arm, revealing the faded ink.
The trace evidence of any spell he performed would wend its way back to the authorities via the spell on his tattoos.
“You’re a voice mage, right? What—”
“Quiet.” Esteban concentrated on her wrist, his eyes going glassy. He poked her flesh, tapping a line down the most swollen parts. Then he took a deep breath and began to sing.
Voice mages didn’t always sing. Words held power enough, and many practitioners were content to bark out their instructions and expect the magic to obey. Radner, the sleek-haired fellow who had accompanied Sheriff Flynn to Briar’s door, was one such voice mage. He had separated the words from the beauty entirely.
Briar had known voice mages with a wide variety of styles in her former life, but none had had a voice as beautiful or as sad as Esteban’s.
The song had no real words, just a rolling ribbon of syllables emitting from the mage’s throat in a soothing refrain. Within seconds, the bruises and cuts on Briar’s body faded away along with her lingering fatigue. The notes rose and fell in the most beautiful melody she had ever heard. She hardly noticed the torn ligaments in her wrist knitting back together, so entrancing was Esteban’s voice.
The entire forest paused to listen, the birds falling silent and even the wind seeming to still. When his voice faded away at last, the others had tranquil smiles on their faces, and Lew’s eyes were damp. Briar wasn’t the only one who felt the beauty as well as the magic of the song.
“Well? Is that sufficient?” Esteban asked, his speaking voice hoarser than ever.
Briar rotated her wrist without a single twinge. “It’s perfect,” she said. “That was beautiful work. When did you—”
“Don’t get hurt again. We can’t leave a trace too close to the target. You’ll just have to keep any future injuries.” Esteban kicked his ornate boots into his horse’s side and left Briar behind.
“Don’t mind him,” Nat said, taking the space Esteban had vacated beside her. “He gets extra grumpy after he does that. Takes it out of him, he says.” The boy took a robust breath of forest air, his patchwork coat straining at his round shoulders, and grinned at her with crooked teeth. “I feel pretty grand, though. Magic, eh?”
The others looked more spirited, too, as if the song had contained too much healing power to waste on just one injury. The bags had disappeared from their eyes, and a scratch she’d noticed yesterday on Archer’s cheek was gone too.
Briar couldn’t help feeling jealous of the voice mage. No matter how grouchy he was, Esteban had a form of magic so good, it was almost tangible. Why couldn’t she have been born with the ability to heal like that or even to write obscure but accurate prophecies, as fortune scribes did? Why could she only destroy?
Nat trotted off to pester Lew, giving Esteban a wide berth. The old mage hunched over in his saddle, an irritated vulture in expensive boots.
“He’s good, right?” Archer asked, drawing up beside Briar. His fine indigo coat hung open over a threadbare white shirt, and he rode the same horse as yesterday, a bay stallion with long legs and a star peeking out beneath its forelock.
“I’ve never heard anything like it,” Briar said. “Where did he come from?”
“Picked him up at a tavern in Chalk Port. He’d been wandering for a long time, and I reckon he needed someone to tell him what to do.”
“How does he help with the thieving, though?”
Archer winked. “Let’s just say he knows more than one song. We have to use his powers carefully on account of his license.”
“There’s no way to get rid of it?”
“None that I know of.” Archer looked over at her, his unruly blond hair stirring in the breeze. “I don’t suppose you could curse those tattoos off him?”
Briar frowned. She and her parents had never even considered becoming licensed, and she didn’t know that much about the tattoos. Curse painters rarely worked directly on human skin—their victims wouldn’t sit still long enough. “I’ll think on it. I don’t believe it has ever been done before.”
“Doesn’t sound like that’ll stop you.” Archer grinned. “You like a challenge, don’t you?”
“Depends on the prize.”
Archer’s grin widened. “Now you’re talking. We might get along yet.”
The party of six—seven including Sheriff, the dog—proceeded through Mere Woods along a route the outlaws seemed to know well, following hidden pathways and deer runs to avoid notice on the main road. Their destination, Mud Market, was located at the edge of the forest, a three-day journey from Sparrow Village and the Brittlewyn River.
The woods echoed with the chatter of birds and the murmurs of hidden creatures. The muggy heat marking the end of summer occasionally gave way to cooler gusts promising of autumn. Lew sometimes slipped away from the group, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his red hair, and returned with squirrels or rabbits to cook at night. He also gathered mushrooms and nuts to supplement their diet, filling a sack hanging on his saddle during the day and emptying it into the cookpot at night. They all took turns keeping watch, both for signs of pursuit and for the larger creatures that lurked in the darkness.
Archer’s crew wasn’t quite what Briar had expected when he’d first appeared at her door and threatened to report her to the sheriff if she didn’t take the job. She watched them closely throughout the three-day journey. They seemed to genuinely enjoy each other’s company, chatting amiably as they traveled through the forest.
Briar tried not to be drawn in by their camaraderie. She didn’t yet have a single jar of paint to her name, leaving her vulnerable among the strangers. They appeared friendly enough, but she believed they really would cut her throat if she crossed them. She slept at the edge of camp every night and stayed alert for any sign she needed to flee. She figured she had a better chance of avoiding the authorities’ notice if she stayed with the group until she acquired new paints.
Briar had been to Mud Market three times since moving to Barden County, always to purchase the same rare pigment. The town was located at a crossroads where two highways met—or what passed for highways in that remote part of the kingdom—and it was within a day’s ride of the river separating the Larke and Barden territories. The highways usually had fewer people than the quieter side streets of the city where Briar grew up, but enough traffic passed through there to support a midsize trading outpost—and for highwaymen to ply their trade, apparently.
“Remember when we hit that noblewoman’s coach near here last spring?” Nat asked Lew the morning they expected to reach Mud Market. They had camped in a secluded glade near a large, hollowed-out oak tree they’d used as a supply drop. Briar was eating breakfast with the two thick-shouldered fellows, who shared tales of their exploits as the sun rose over the oak.
Lew sighed. “I’d never seen so many fine silks.” He adjusted his scratchy brown vest, patting the pocket where he kept his notebook. “That lady screamed like a bobcat when we stole the jewels off her neck, though.”
Nat grinned, displaying his crooked teeth. “I reckon she screamed louder th
an Esteban that time I put a snake in his bedroll.”
“Don’t remind me.” Lew groaned. “My ears are still smarting from that one.”
“What did you do with the lady’s jewels?” Briar asked.
“Sold ’em and split the profits, except what Archer kept,” Nat said.
Lew tipped his hat and strode off to tend to the horses while Nat lingered beside Briar as she finished her tea. The round-shouldered young lad had often ridden beside her over the past few days, and she recognized the signs of a youthful crush. He probably didn’t meet many younger ladies in his line of work. Nat was too young for Briar, but she was sensible enough to use his interest to learn more about the crew—and their perplexing leader.
“Nat, what did you mean by ‘what Archer kept’? He gets a bigger share than everyone else?”
“We all get a fair share of the take, but Archer saves an extra portion for the team. He’s bleedin’ organized too, always talking about investments and the like.” Nat puffed out his chest proudly. “That’s what happens when you get yourselves an educated crime boss.”
“Where was he educated?”
“Dunno,” Nat said. “I reckon Jemma was his teacher or something. They’ve known each other longer than the rest of us.”
Briar had noticed Archer’s erudite vocabulary, but he could have picked that up from listening in on his marks. His accent was difficult to pin down. Sometimes he sounded as if he could be a prosperous merchant’s son, and other times he sounded as if he’d grown up working a fishing vessel out of Chalk Port.
She leaned toward Nat. “How did you meet them?”
“Mud Market. I was looking to get into the criminal business, you see. It sure beats raising pigs out by the border.”
“And you just asked around for gangs of thieves who might be hiring?”
“Not quite. Archer caught me trying to pick his pocket.” Nat grinned at the memory. “I thought my blood was going to spill right there in the street, but then Archer says, ‘You seem like an enterprising fellow. How would you like a job?’ So I say, ‘I don’t know what enterprising means, but if you’ll teach me a trick or two and promise not to slit my throat, I’m in.’ Then Archer says, ‘That’s enterprising enough for me. You’re hired.’”
“How old were you?”
“That was two years ago, so fourteen.” Nat picked at a loose string on his patchwork coat. “Archer himself ain’t much older than twenty, I reckon, but he tells folks he’s twenty-four. I seen him when he was barely shaving, so I know the truth.”
Briar poured herself another cup of tea, pondering the information. “Why is he in charge instead of Jemma or Lew?”
“I wondered the same thing in the beginning,” Nat said. “You’ll come to understand it soon enough. Jemma’s got the smarts, but Archer’s got ’em, too, and he’s got a certain kind of vision, we like to say.”
Briar was about to ask what Nat meant, but she realized she didn’t have to. Wherever Archer had come from, he gave the impression he knew exactly where he was going. Whether the adventure or the money or the challenge was driving him, she didn’t doubt he saw the way ahead clearly.
“And Lew?”
Nat shrugged. “I reckon Lew would rather work the land back in Twickenridge than take what others’ve earnt, but he’d never leave Jemma, and he’s a good man in a fight.”
“Do you fight often?”
“More than we ought to and less than we like,” Archer said, appearing suddenly between them and making Briar jump.
She hadn’t known he was so close. He looked very tall as he loomed above them.
“Nat, go have a word with Jemma. She has a list of things for you to pick up from the market. We’re all going in separately so as not to draw undue attention.”
Nat scrambled to his feet. “Sure thing, boss.”
“And Nat?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t talk about my business unless I give you permission.” Archer turned deliberately toward Briar so neither would miss his meaning. “Especially to strangers.”
“Ain’t she one of the crew now?”
“No, she is not,” Archer said. “She said herself she has no intention of joining our merry band. It would do you good to remember that.”
Nat’s cheeks reddened. “Won’t happen again, boss.” He gave Briar an apologetic shrug before hurrying over to join Jemma, who was sorting through half a dozen small purses jingling with coins.
Archer squatted on his heels beside Briar as if nothing had happened. Nerves fluttered through her belly like moths in candlelight. She couldn’t tell if he was angry about her efforts to dig into his past.
“You’ll be going in with me to meet your paint merchant,” Archer said.
“I thought we were splitting up to avoid attention.”
“If something goes wrong, we can pick up all our supplies in other towns except for this snail paste of yours. You can’t do the curse without this particular paint, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“Then I will accompany you to make sure we get it.”
Briar frowned. “I can go by mys—”
“I don’t trust you,” Archer said.
“Of course not.” Briar reached reflexively for the paint satchel that wasn’t there. “You’ve certainly made no effort to hide it.”
“That’s right.” Archer’s eyebrows, so much darker than his blond hair, drew together, and his voice took on a touch of menace. “Nat means well, but he is the least senior member of this gang. Ingratiating yourself with him won’t save you if the rest of us decide you’re a danger to us.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Now,” he went on in a tone that would have been appropriate for discussing the weather or the price of fish, “can you think of any problems we might encounter in Mud Market? Specific people who would recognize you, or anything like that?”
Briar tapped her fingers on her tin cup, considering how much to tell him. “I’ve been there a few times, but the supplier we’re going to see is the only person I’ve spoken to at length.”
“Does he know your profession?”
“He sells paints. He knows enough.”
“Trustworthy?”
Briar met his eyes. “I trust him more than I trust you.”
Archer fell silent for a moment. Then he adjusted the quiver of arrows strapped to his back and said, “If you plan on trying to escape, I suggest you do it now. If you wait until we’re in the market, when it could cause a scene, I’ll have to kill you.”
His tone remained light, but Briar suspected he meant it. He veiled threats in pleasantries just as Jemma did. Briar was more afraid of Jemma than of Archer, though.
“I don’t plan to escape,” she said evenly.
“Are you sure? You have a free pass if you take it now.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do, actually. I don’t want anyone on the team who’s not committed to the mission.” Archer’s mouth quirked in a half smile. “And I don’t want to be a murderer any more than you do.”
Briar was surprised to find she believed him. She examined the tin cup, tracing the simple etching with her fingers, and considered taking him up on the offer to leave. She didn’t want to go back to being worse off than when she’d first arrived in Barden County. Despite the threats and the layers of secrets, the pay for Archer’s job was too good to walk away from now that she had lost everything.
Besides, she wanted to see if she could break those spells. “I will keep my word,” Briar said at last. “You needn’t fear betrayal from me.”
“Good.”
He gave her a full smile that might have even been genuine, and for a brief moment she forgot all about the threats. Her fingers twitched as if she were about to paint magic.
“Well, you’d best go see Jemma,” Archer said, springing to his feet. “She has a baby for you.”
Briar dropped her tin cup.
Chapter 6
> Archer strolled toward Mud Market with Briar on his arm. He wore Lew’s broad-brimmed hat pulled low enough to block the noonday sun and hide his eyes. The heat of summer still lingered, rendering his itchy, rough-spun clothes far too warm. He carried a plain work knife at his belt, having left his bow and quiver behind. He felt a bit naked without them, truth be told. A blade of grass between his teeth completed the disguise.
At his side, Briar had a bundle of clothes stuffed beneath her faded, powder-blue dress, making her look at least eight months pregnant. Her thick hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and she’d adopted a remarkably convincing waddle. They looked like a young couple heading into town for supplies before the arrival of their bouncing bundle of joy.
“I don’t see why I have to be pregnant,” Briar muttered. “I could walk faster without all this extra fabric.”
“But you’re doing so well.” Archer patted her hand in what he imagined was a husbandly manner. “Besides, we shouldn’t rush. Country folk take their time in Mud Market. We don’t want to attract attention.”
“What kind of attention are you worried about?”
“We have prices on our heads for our audacious deeds. You probably do, too, by now, but no one is looking for a young mother.”
Briar glanced up at him through long eyelashes. “Have you done this before?”
“We tried, but the belly looks less convincing on Nat.”
They fell silent as a pair of farmhands joined them on the dirt road into town, greeting them with cautious nods. Archer nodded back, drawing Briar a little closer. He found he didn’t mind her warmth at his side, despite the heat of the day.
The northernmost tract of Mere Woods rose on their right and barley fields stretched to the left in a vast golden wave. The barley grew tall and lush, ripe for the harvest. Many farmers would send their workers to Mud Market for last-minute trades before the busy harvest season began, and the little town nestled between the woods and the fields was already bustling. Archer’s last visit to Mud Market had been nearly a year ago, but some things didn’t change.