“And a raging scrotum face,” Nat said.
“Yes, no one wants that,” Archer said. “But no matter how the child turns out, it’ll give Larke an opportunity to take over all of Barden County when his rival dies and subject it to the same draconian taxes and cruel treatment as the rest of Larke County. They don’t deserve that.”
Briar remembered the farmers who’d shared their food with her and Archer—Grampa and Juliet and little Abie. They’d been squeezed so hard by the Larkes. But even if Archer didn’t want Jasper Larke’s dominion to spread, it still didn’t entirely explain why he knew so much about Tomas and Mae and Lord Larke himself. She remembered something Grampa had said as he’d fixed them a plate of food in the barn. He’d called Tomas the eldest son. Her theory about Archer’s identity began to solidify.
An owl hooted in the trees, bringing her back to the campfire and the outlaws and the sleeping prisoner dressed in Larke burgundy.
“This is all very enlightening,” Esteban said, “but it doesn’t get us any closer to achieving our goal of extracting the lady from Narrowmar.”
“True,” Archer said. “But now you all know what we’re dealing with and why it’s so important that we get there before the baby is born. Also, the lady herself might not be able to leap from rooftop to rooftop during the escape.”
“Lord Larke will stop at nothing to prevent her from being taken,” Jemma said. “He believes that baby belongs to him, regardless of the mother’s wishes.”
“And he knows we’re coming.” Lew gave the woods a dark glance. “We don’t operate in this county enough to justify a wanted poster in every town.”
“About that,” Briar said. “Why isn’t your face on the poster, Archer?”
Archer shrugged. “Yours isn’t either.”
“I haven’t been with you for long, but if Larke knows your team is here, he must be aware you are too.”
“Perhaps,” Archer said lightly.
Briar clearly wasn’t the only member of the team who didn’t know how Archer had gotten tangled up with Larke and Barden and their offspring. Nat squinted contemplatively into the middle distance, picking at a loose thread on his patchwork coat. Lew was scanning the woods as if expecting another attack. Esteban looked as if he were regretting signing up for their mission. Briar was beginning to think there weren’t nearly enough of them to pull off the job, even with her cleverest curses.
Archer rubbed his hands together briskly and nodded at the prisoner. “That’s enough storytelling for one night. Shall we wake this fellow up and see if he knows anything about our target?”
Esteban removed the curse stone from the prisoner’s skin, and the young man came to again, blinking at his captors as if unaware he’d been unconscious for the past few minutes.
“What’s going on?” he asked blearily.
“You were going to tell us about Narrowmar,” Esteban said.
“Oh.” The prisoner took a deep breath. “That’s a real story.” He looked around at them, perhaps assessing his chances of ever walking away from their campsite alive. They weren’t good. “If I tell you everything, will you let me join your gang? I reckon being an outlaw would be better than going back after that.”
Esteban snorted. “Why don’t you impress us with something useful, and we’ll consider your application?”
“All right.” The prisoner sat up straighter, looking less afraid already. “Narrowmar. Where do I start?”
The answer turned out to be nowhere. As he began to speak, his eyes suddenly bulged, and his face darkened. A horrible gurgling sound came from his throat. He reached for his neck, spasming like a grotesque puppet. Esteban jerked back in surprise.
“What’s happening?” Nat asked.
“He’s cursed.” Briar dropped to her knees at his side, searching his clothing for any sign of the offending painting. The boy reached for her with his bound hands, his eyes wide and rolling. “Hold still,” she ordered him. “I’m trying to help.”
She pulled back his collar and caught a glimpse of lead-tin yellow and bone black. The colors of illness and death formed a picture of a locked box—a curse to protect Narrowmar’s secrets. Briar tried to unbutton the prisoner’s coat, but the curse was too quick. He stiffened, and a final choking sound escaped his swollen lips. Then his eyes glazed over, and he fell straight backward onto the campfire.
The others leapt forward to grab him, shouting, and sparks filled the air. Briar dropped back, reaching reflexively for her satchel.
Archer drew his bow, training the arrow on the darkness. “Is there a curse painter out there?”
“I don’t think so,” Briar said. The smell of meat and burned fabric made her nauseous. “That curse prevents betrayal. If I had some purple I might have unraveled it in time.” She couldn’t look at the young soldier she’d been too slow to save.
Lew tried to revive the fellow, pumping his chest and listening for his breath, but it was no use. He sat back, shaking his head. A few sparks from the disturbed fire caught in his beard. “Poor lad. He was going to help us.”
“Why did they do that to one of their own men?” Nat asked nervously.
“Larke views his men as expendable. He always has.” Archer sounded angry, as angry as he’d been when they’d discovered the curse on New Chester. His knuckles whitened on his bow as he surveyed the darkness. The other members of the Larke patrol formed lumpy shapes in the firelight. At least they’d fallen in honest combat.
Briar glanced at the would-be outlaw and shuddered. No one deserved to perish like that. Worse, the curse that had taken his life
