Curse Painter (Art Mages of Lure Book 1)

by Jordan Rivet

  Briar took pity on him. “I’ll need some paints.” She tapped a finger on her lips, considering the stocks and the whittling guard. The longer Archer stayed there, the higher the chances that one of them would be recognized. “And I’d better get my purple before the market closes. Don’t move until I get back.”

  Archer bared his teeth, and she grinned sweetly at him before walking away.

  The paint seller was a diminutive man called Gideon with sun-browned skin and dark, bristly hair. A wide grin split his face nearly in two when she waddled toward him, holding her belly.

  “Miss Briar, what a treat this is! Come, sit. You must rest.”

  “I’m all right. I just need to—”

  “Please, take this stool. I’ve been sitting all day.”

  Gideon ushered her onto the three-legged wooden stool behind his stall and proceeded to fuss over her while she tried to order the necessary paint supplies as quickly as possible. The stall consisted of a table covered in jars of pigment—some mixed with oil and some still in their dry forms—and larger containers stacked on the ground for those who purchased their pigments in bulk. Racks nailed to either side of the table held string-wrapped bundles of paintbrushes ranging in size and shape, from fat brushes for painting walls all the way down to little slivers of horsehair for inscribing minute details on porcelain cups.

  “Do tell me all about your happy news,” Gideon insisted, only half paying attention as Briar pointed out the colors she needed. “You must not have been showing last time you were here. I apologize for not congratulating you sooner! Babies are such a delight.”

  Briar was surprised at how happy Gideon was about her pregnant belly, and she had to invent a whole origin story for it as she selected her paints. She chose some that were premixed with linseed oil in case she didn’t have time to make her own on the road. To her relief, he had the marine snail purple in stock.

  “You and your new man must dine at my home,” Gideon announced as he weighed the jar of costly purple paint. “My wife and I have three children, and my darling will surely have some good advice for you.”

  “That’s very kind, but—”

  “It’s nothing! A young mother needs support. Your own parents aren’t around, are they?”

  “I … no, they died years ago.”

  Gideon clapped a hand over his heart. “Then you must join us!”

  Briar didn’t want to offend him, but Archer was waiting on her, and she couldn’t explain his current condition without inviting awkward questions. Besides, she didn’t want to introduce him as her “new man.” She pleaded swollen feet and illness and finally got Gideon to pack up the paints and brushes in a burlap bag.

  “That’s the last of it. Be careful with the purple, now,” Gideon said as he handed her the heavy bundle. “It gets harder to find all the time.”

  “I’ll only use it for special projects.”

  He nodded approvingly. “And watch out for yourself on the road. There’s bandits and thieves about.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  Gideon kept a hand on the burlap bag, as if he didn’t want to let her go. “Sometimes the authorities are as bad as the bandits.”

  Briar frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “We Mud Marketers like to think of this as neutral territory, but both Barden and Larke’s men think they’re in charge lately. You don’t want to be caught in the middle, especially with a baby on the way.” He hesitated. “And you may want to consider taking a break from your profession for a while.”

  “Oh, I—”

  “You don’t need to confirm or deny anything, Miss Briar.” His gaze flitted around the emptying market. “You should know Sheriff Flynn is expected in town tonight, though.”

  Briar’s fingers curled around one of her new paintbrushes. “When?”

  “He was supposed to be here before dark.” Gideon glanced meaningfully at a gap in the market canopy, where the last hint of daylight was disappearing from the sky. “I should discuss it with my wife, but if you need somewhere to stay until your child is born, we can offer you refuge.”

  Briar stared at him in surprise. She’d never expected such kindness from a mere acquaintance. The Sparrow Village blacksmith’s betrayal still stung, and she knew Archer and the others had only taken her in because they needed something from her.

  Her heart swelled, a lump knotting in her throat. She hadn’t thought she had a friend in the world, but Gideon was opening his home to her despite knowing about her illegal vocation. He might help her with more than just a place to stay if she asked. He could lend her paint supplies until she started earning money again, giving her a chance to start anew.

  Briar looked toward the stocks, where Archer was waiting for her—and for the sheriff he didn’t know was coming. Could she abandon him and their scheme now that she had another option?

  No, she had struck a bargain, pure and simple. When the job was finished, she could walk away. She didn’t want to be beholden to Gideon or anyone else. Besides, Archer needed her.

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Gideon,” she said at last, “but I need to start for home this evening.” Briar gently tugged the burlap bag toward her and gave his pigment-stained hand a brief squeeze. “Thank you for the offer and the warning. I … I really do appreciate it.”

  Gideon smiled kindly. “Take care of yourself, Miss Briar. I hope I’ll see you here again.”

  She bade him farewell and hurried back toward the stocks, staggering under the weight of the burlap sack. Archer looked decidedly grumpy, his blond hair drooping, forlorn bits of silk poking through the stocks around his reddened wrists. Briar hoped Esteban could be persuaded to fix his bruises and the crick in his neck.

  The thought of the others made her pick up her pace despite being laden down as she was with the paint supplies. It was growing darker, and the sheriff could arrive at any minute. Jemma and the crew would be worried too. Briar and Archer should have been back long before sundown.

  She was almost to the square when three men marched into it ahead of her, cutting off her path to Archer. They wore the mustard-brown uniforms of Lord Barden’s household retainers and carried heavy iron halberds. Briar veered off sharply, taking refuge behind a stack of barrels at the edge of the square.

  The men headed straight for Archer.

  “Look what we have here, lads.”

  “Well, if it isn’t the prodigal thief himself.”

  “I reckon it is.”

  The whittling watchman stood up, but at a look from the leader of the gang, he made himself scarce, hurrying off toward the public privy. Briar poked her head out of her hiding place to observe the three men.

  The leader swaggered over to Archer and leaned against the stocks. “Looks like he’s come down in the world.”

  “Even farther than the last time we saw him,” said his companion, an unkempt-looking man whose mustard-brown surcoat hung open, the lapels splattered with mud.

  The leader gave a nasty smile. “I used to say this one was a social climber—”

  “Climbing in the wrong direction,” Archer interrupted. “Yes, we’ve all heard that one, Pratford.”

  The leader’s grin widened, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “You’re going to be in trouble when his lordship gets here.”

  Archer paused for a beat. “Lord Barden’s here?”

  “Ain’t you heard his daughter’s been taken?” The one with the muddied uniform leaned on his halberd. “He’s recruiting someone to save her.”

  “Is that right?”

  Briar winced at the faux surprise in Archer’s voice.

  She spread the contents of her burlap bag on the ground, only half listening to the conversation. She broke the seal on a new jar and began painting an image on one of the barrels. The deepening darkness made it hard to see the colors. Her fingers tingled with magic, and sweat broke out on her forehead. She didn’t have much time.

  “I bet that just twists your gizzard, don’t it?” as
ked the leader, Pratford, his voice turning poisonous.

  “What does, boss?” asked the third man, who sounded much younger than the other two.

  “This young fella had his eye on Lady Mae for his own self.”

  Briar paused halfway through a second curse.

  “I heard something about that,” the unkempt one said. “Might have had a shot, too, if he still had his papa’s riches.”

  Pratford gave an unpleasant chortle. “I reckon his papa would share some of those riches if we delivered the prodigal son to him.”

  “I highly doubt that,” Archer said.

  “Ah, don’t be so hard on yourself.” The leader patted Archer’s head, smearing the rotten vegetables. “If your papa don’t want you, he might still pay for your head.”

  The unkempt man hefted his halberd. “Worth a try, ain’t it?”

  Briar finished the second painting with a quick flourish and stepped out from behind the stack of barrels. “I highly doubt that.”

  The youngest man jerked upright in surprise, and the others turned as she walked toward them. She began a silent countdown. Ten … nine …

  Pratford took a lazy step forward, no longer leaning on the stocks. “Who’re you?”

  Briar faced him dead on, her hands buried in the folds of her skirt. “I’m the reason you are going to walk away and forget you ever saw this man.”

  Pratford chuckled, and his companions relaxed their grips on their weapons. Sensing they weren’t about to stab her, Briar strode directly to Archer and planted herself beside him, one arm holding her rag-filled belly, the other hidden in her skirt.

  “Took you long enough,” he muttered.

  “I had to prepare a few things,” she shot back, still counting down. Six … five …

  “Would you look at that?” Pratford walked a few steps farther from the stocks to slap his unkempt friend on the shoulder. “A lady coming to rescue Archer, the big bad thief.”

  The other man laughed lasciviously. “She’s a cute thing, ain’t she?”

  “And with child?” Pratford revealed his ugly, yellow-toothed grin. “Well, that’s a scandal if I ever seen one. Does she know who your papa is?”

  “Shut up,” Archer hissed.

  The men laughed. Briar wanted to know what else they had to say about Archer and his father, but she had already set the curses in motion.

  Three … two …

  The first explosion was small, just enough bang to make the men turn toward the pile of barrels.

  “What was that?” gasped the young, scrawny one.

  “It came from that barrel,” Pratford said.

  The unkempt man clutched his halberd. “I ain’t never heard an empty barrel make a ruckus like that.”

  While they were talking, Briar hurriedly scrawled a curse with the loaded paintbrush she’d concealed in her skirt onto the iron lock holding the stocks closed. She smelled linseed oil and a whiff of smoke, then the metal gave a faint hiss and began to melt.

  Pratford whirled at the sound. “Hey, what are you—”

  The second explosion erupted from the bottom of the stack of barrels, that one with enough bang to send Barden’s men stumbling backward. The barrels careened toward them, bouncing on the hard-packed dirt.

  “She’s some kinda mage!”

  “She’s a witch!”

  “Grab her!”

  “Are you mad? Don’t touch her.”

  Briar ignored them, focusing on her painting. The curse finished eating through the lock, and the metal pieces fell to the ground with dull clunks. She hauled open the stocks and tried to help Archer stand. He got to his feet stiffly, brushing off her assistance.

  She was about to berate him for being too stubborn to accept her aid when a third explosion took her by surprise. It wasn’t one of hers.

  Chapter 8

  Archer didn’t know for sure whether Briar would help him until the first barrel exploded and she tackled the iron lock with a paintbrush. He wouldn’t have blamed her for using his predicament to escape. His team would free him from the stocks eventually, but he hadn’t expected to feel so embarrassed to be seen like that. By her, specifically.

  Archer was mulling that over as the second, larger explosion sent barrels tumbling across the square. He rubbed his wrists and wiped tomato juice out of his hair, trying to hide how sore he was. It wasn’t as bad as the three days he’d spent in the stocks on a prior occasion, all things considered, and he didn’t want to look any more pathetic in front of the curse painter than he already did.

  Then the third explosion erupted across the market.

  “Did you—”

  “Wasn’t me,” Briar said.

  Archer swore, wondering what else could go wrong.

  “I heard the sheriff’s coming to town,” Briar said. “Could be his pet voice mage.”

  “Just what we need.”

  Shouts came from the direction of the third explosion along with the thud of boots and the rattle of halberds.

  “We don’t want to stick around to find out.” Archer grabbed Briar’s hand and began hobbling for cover.

  “Wait, I need my bag.”

  “Leave it.”

  “We can’t do the mission without those paints.”

  Archer released her hand, wincing at the delay. As quick as a squirrel, she darted back to where she’d left her supplies. Wide-eyed faces peeked out from beneath tables in the market, watching the commotion. The erstwhile watchman poked his head out of the privy then shut himself right back inside. Barden’s retainers were still crouching as if they expected the barrels to leap up and pummel them.

  Briar gathered her stuff hastily, but those few seconds cost them.

  “There’s the witch!” one of the men called, leaping to his feet. “Get her!”

  “Hurry!” Archer shouted. “I’ll carry that.”

  Briar dashed toward him with her sack of paint supplies. She looked ready for a fight, teeth bared and eyes blazing. Archer took the bag and slung it over his aching shoulder, grunting at the weight, then he and Briar flew toward the opposite side of the square and into the market.

  Barden’s lackeys gave chase, brandishing their heavy halberds and shouting obscenities. Archer and Briar raced up a narrow aisle, Archer overturning tables every few paces to slow their pursuers. Textiles and rare spices spilled in the dirt, their vibrant colors marking Archer’s passing. Market vendors shouted oaths to rival those of their pursuers.

  The townspeople were another story as they hastened in the opposite direction, toward whatever chaos had erupted across town. They barely noticed the pair running from the mustard-uniformed goons.

  Archer led the chase out of the market and bolted down the main road, Barden’s men close on his heels. The streets were crowded with shoppers and revelers, making it difficult to find a path through the throng. The heavy sack thudded on Archer’s back with each stride.

  “They’re catching up,” Briar called.

  “This way!” They turned down a side street. More men in mustard-brown surcoats were gathering ahead of them. Archer pulled up sharply, skidding off balance. How many were there?

  “Okay, not this way.”

  They turned again, ducking in and out of little alleyways, continuing their frantic flight through town. Archer’s shirt stuck to his sweaty skin, and his chest heaved. Adrenaline washed away the soreness from the stocks. Briar kept pace with him despite the changing directions.

  They careened down another side street, where halberds caught the light of a dozen torches.

  “There’s another group!” Briar shouted. “They’re everywhere!”

  Archer growled in frustration. They couldn’t afford to be caught. They had so little time left to complete the mission.

  A familiar sign caught his eye on a nearby building, an arrow piercing a wine goblet in the hand of a muscular woman. Laughter and music spilled out of the doorway.

  “Cut through that tavern.”

  Briar sprinted tow
ard the raucous tavern. She held the door open for Archer and the load on his back, then they charged through the crowded bar together. Farmers in from the countryside gaped at them, and merchants’ guards glowered over their cups. Archer recognized a few of the guards from other jobs. Great. Now even more people would know he’d been in Mud Market. He might as well have pinned his itinerary on every village noticeboard in the outer counties.

  “Go left!” he yelled as Briar darted nimbly through the throng ahead.

  His own progress was less graceful, and he accidentally knocked over a tavern wench as he barreled after Briar. The woman let out an indignant squawk.

  “Sorry!” he shouted as the churn of carousers hid the woman from view.

  Up ahead, Briar broke through the crowd and skidded to a halt at what appeared to be a blank wall. She turned to face him, her hair a wild halo around her face, her eyes as bright as twin moons.

  She sure is pretty. The thought stopped Archer in his tracks. Why had he babbled like an idiot about the pleasures of his company earlier?

  “You said go left,” Briar said, snapping Archer’s attention back to their plight.

  “There’s a panel underneath that yellow chair,” he wheezed. “Give it a tug.”

  Briar scrambled beneath the chair, dropping her rag-cloth baby belly so she could move more easily. There was a click, and a hidden door in the wall popped open, revealing an opening no bigger than the chair. Briar dove through it without hesitation.

  “Good,” Archer said, following on her heels. “Turn right at the end of the …”

  His words died in his mouth as he stumbled out of the secret entrance and found two of Lord Barden’s men waiting in the alley. One was Pratford, the leader of Archer’s erstwhile harassers. The other was Mage Radner himself.

  The voice mage seized Briar’s frizzy hair before she could take two steps.

  Pratford sneered at Archer, showing off his yellow teeth. “Think you’re the only thieving bastard who knows about that wall, eh?”

  “He is still an amateur, for all his cheek,” said Mage Radner calmly.

  The mage had a fistful of Briar’s hair. Archer didn’t dare advance. Radner wasn’t using his magic yet, but one wrong move … Radner’s hand raised, pulling Briar’s hair taut. She let out a whimper.