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 toward 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
