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.
“Which inn do you usually stay at when you’re here?” Archer asked when the two farmhands passed out of earshot.
Briar hesitated. “The Bumblebird.”
He barked a laugh. “Classy.”
“I’ve been short on coin.”
“Let’s take a room at the Window Inn, then.”
Briar stiffened, her grip tightening on his coat sleeve. “We can’t do that.”
“We’re not going to stay the night.” He patted her hand again, hoping she wasn’t about to bolt. “You need to rest your swollen feet before we brave the Mud Market. It’s the first thing a young couple like us would do after a hard walk, given your condition.” Archer had no idea if that was true, but he had his own reasons for the stopover.
“I mean we can’t go to the Window Inn.” Briar lowered her voice as they reached the stone plinth marking the town border, where a few local watchmen loitered, inspecting the new arrivals. “I cursed it last time I was here. Every fourth person who walks through the front door gets the runs.”
Archer choked on his blade of grass. “That’s a pretty nasty curse.”
“All curses are nasty.”
“Still, what did the Window Inn ever do to you?”
“Nothing. It was a job.” She looked up at him, eyes fierce. “But the owner used to harass the serving girls whenever he checked up on the place. Now he stays away, and his business is dying.”
“I wasn’t judging you for it,” Archer said, surprised by her vehemence. “Although you did tell me you’ve only talked to the paint seller here.”
Briar’s gaze darted to the side, as if checking for escape routes. He didn’t think her wariness meant she was afraid, but she picked her battles carefully. “I’m entitled to a few secrets.”
“Fair enough.” Archer decided not to push it. They needed the day to go smoothly. Bringing Briar into town with him was already enough of a risk. “Hasn’t the innkeeper noticed the pattern of illnesses?”
“Yes, but last I heard, they hadn’t found the curse. I put it in an inconspicuous spot.”
“Care to fill me in?”
The ghost of a smile crossed Briar’s lips. “It’s on the underside of a floorboard behind the bar. I put the barman to sleep with a small curse and pried up the board to paint the big one where no one would find it.”
“Clever.”
“Thank you.” Briar lapsed into thoughtful silence for a few paces, then she said, “I don’t talk about my work much.”
“That’s a shame. It sounds like you’re good.”
“There are no good curses.” Her brow wrinkled. “That’s the problem.”
“You’re skilled, then.” Archer gave her a friendly nudge, but Briar’s smile didn’t return. He was beginning to understand what she meant about only working for a particular type of client. She wanted to be a moral curse painter. What a life that had to be. He wasn’t sure it was even possible. The curse on the Window Inn’s owner, for example, would have negative repercussions for the customers and the servings girls who may find themselves out of work before long. Briar had set herself a difficult task.
They walked farther into town, the dirt streets around them coming to life with scurrying farmers and eager craftsmen, hawkers and gawkers, and merchants of all types. Mud Market took its name from the sprawling covered market located beside the banks of a narrow fork of the Sweetwater River. The river marked the boundary between Barden and Larke territory, and some believed the fork’s location made the town part of Larke’s land too. Fortunately for Archer and others of his ilk, the ongoing disputes over jurisdiction kept the authorities occupied, making Mud Market an excellent place to flout the law.
The end-of-summer rush swelled the town’s population by threefold. Many of the visitors were honest, hardworking farm folk, who stared wide-eyed at the crowds, intent on drinking in a year’s worth of humanity before returning to their isolated fields. The myriad distractions presented by Mud Market made the rural visitors easy targets, though Archer preferred not to steal from those who had little to begin with. He didn’t have a problem with stealing in general—that would be no attitude for a career thief—but he focused on wealthy people with soft hands and heavy purses. They made for more interesting targets, with their bodyguards and their strongboxes full of coin.
Abruptly, Archer recognized a corpulent merchant he’d once held up on the road outside of town. No fewer than six armed guards surrounded the fellow as he ambled toward them, heading away from the market proper. Archer quickly steered Briar down a side street.
“How did you put the barman at the Window Inn to sleep?” he asked as they cut through an alley beside a stable reeking of horse manure. “Did he let you paint his hand or something?”
“I used a scrap curse.”
“Eh?”
“It’s just what I call them,” Briar said. “You can paint a curse on something, like a scrap of canvas or a rock, and touch it to your victim to get the magic to affect them. It’s called the Law of Proximity.”
Archer glanced behind them, but the corpulent merchant was no longer in sight. He drew Briar out of the alley and into the next street over. “I didn’t know curse painting has laws.”
“Three,” Briar said. “The Law of Proximity is number two. It says that a curse applied to an object can affect any person who comes in direct contact with that object except the painter. There’s also the Law of Wholes—a curse applied to an object affects that object in its entirety,
