Call of Arcadia

by Annathesa Nikola Darksbane

  Jone froze. The truth was, of course, that she had been the instigator. Perhaps a proper confession and explanation would, at the very least, secure the dark-haired woman’s freedom. Preempting the expected protests of the disembodied voice, she opened her mouth to do just that.

  “Hold! Hold on!” A man’s voice smothered the first sounds out of her mouth, as an older, distinguished gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair jogged up, stopped within arm’s length of the female officer, and paused to catch his breath. Jone noticed a polished mayor’s badge of office displayed proudly on his chest, sitting atop a well-cared for uniform of black, gray, and silver: Gallian colors.

  “Galla preserve us,” the man said, bending over to better regain his wind. The red-haired soldier narrowed her eyes at the mention of the dead goddess, but didn’t say anything. It was just an expression, after all, and no grounds for an arrest or inquisition on its own. “Don’t just throw them in irons right off. You haven’t even asked any of the witnesses inside, have you? Or what about their side of the story?” The mayor straightened, looking between them, his canny eyes settling on Jone. “What about you, young lady? Who started this?”

  Young lady? How old am I? Jone blinked away the thoughts, relegating them to the back of her mind. She stalled as she opened her mouth, suddenly nervous, her throat going dry. She didn’t like to lie and didn’t feel she could convincingly do so in the face of the sharp-eyed officer still training a musket on her head. On the other hand, there was still the draw of some greater purpose, whatever it was, that being stuck in a cell wouldn’t serve.

  “If she were doing her job, it’d be obvious.” The dark-haired girl spoke unbidden, drawing all eyes. “They were trafficking contraband, assaulting the citizenry, and preventing lawful reports to the local authority by threat of force. It’s all there, plain as day, if she’d bother to look. That girl,” she nodded to Jone, “was simply standing in defense of the people you were busy failing.” She eyed the officer disdainfully.

  “I like her. At least someone here has some sense.”

  The Elizabethian officer bristled, but the Mayor looked to Jone once more. “Is this true?”

  Jone took a deep breath. “It’s not the way I’d put it, sir, but those men were trespassing on your people’s rights. I stood against them in the only way I could without allowing them to kill me for it and then tell you whatever tale they damn well pleased. If there’s any price to be paid for that, I’ll gladly pay it.” Viewed from a different angle, the truth changed shape. Jone hated that.

  Gesturing her men to stand down, the officer stepped forward, getting close enough to scrutinize Jone face to face, peering down, studying her. Jone swallowed hard and tried not to sweat, with only a mild amount of success. The officer turned away, but not before tilting her head and furrowing her brow, as if she’d seen something in Jone’s eyes that she couldn’t explain...or wasn’t sure she liked.

  The officer moved to stand similarly in front of the dark-skinned woman, who had, unbidden, put her arms back down, standing with hand on hip as if bored. Jone cringed a little on the inside as she yawned in the crimson-haired Elizabethian's face.

  “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” The officer leaned in, not quite getting within arm’s reach of the obviously dangerous woman like she had with Jone. “Your features, that hair—I’ve seen your likeness somewhere before.”

  Instead of backing down, the shorter woman stood on her toes, bringing her face closer to the officer’s, her eyes glittering with abrupt anger. “Are you seriously saying what I think you’re saying? That just because I’m Ecuadorian, I look familiar? Like you can’t tell us apart? That’s a mound of garm shit, and you know it.”

  “That’s not what I’m—”

  The Mayor cut across the female officer’s angry rebuttal. “Please don’t profile visitors to my city, Commander.”

  The tall woman took a step toward him, looking outraged and insulted. “I’m not—” she shook her head. “This is my investigation, Mayor, and—”

  “And you wouldn’t want me to report a failure to thoroughly follow through, would you, Miss Carlyle?” The Mayor stepped past her with a friendly smile, putting a hand on Jone’s shoulder. “This doesn't have to be such a convoluted matter, Commander. I’ll take these two under my responsibility while you finish your investigation. For now, they can stay confined to the inn, and if what they say is true, they have no reason to leave.” He glanced between them, then back to the red-faced Commander. “I’m certain you’ll get to the truth of the matter soon enough, Miss Carlyle.”

  The Elizabethian officer didn’t respond aloud, her face still hot with indignant anger. Then she simply straightened and saluted sharply, turned on a heel and departed gesturing for her guards to fall in and accompany her.

  Jone breathed out a long-held sigh of relief.

  “That is correct, isn’t it girls?” The mayor raised his eyebrows as the dark-haired woman joined them. “You wouldn’t run off and leave me twisting in the wind, now would you?”

  Jone blinked, taken aback. “Of course not, sir. I would never—”

  “Nah. You can trust us, mister mayor.” The dark, emerald eyed girl sauntered over, throwing an arm around the mayor’s shoulders.

  He eyed her with a hint of suspicion, slowly shrugging the arm off. “We should talk.”

  - - -

  Sunlight slanted through the inn’s high windows, blooming brightly across the floor as the four of them seated themselves at a corner table, the same one the four slavers had been seated at before. By the time they’d gotten themselves settled, The Commander and her guardsmen had already come and gone, taking the fallen into custody—or to the local apothecary to have their wounds seen to.

  Though the Commander still watched them with caution and suspicion, their story had held up so far. To Jone’s semi-surprise, the innkeeper and a couple of the larger patrons had indeed stood over the men and made sure they didn’t leave—with makeshift clubs taken from broken furniture. Now that the slavers’ intimidation and threats had come to naught, they people inside had seemed happy, even eager, to enforce a little bit of local justice, as well as give steadfast testimony in Jone’s defense. She’d gotten more than a couple of appreciative arm clasps or pats on the shoulder since she’d reentered; it was such a far cry from her original reception that it left her bewildered and almost disoriented.

  “Here you go!” Her earlier distress wiped away, Adrienne was the picture of gleeful cheer as she dropped steaming hot plates of the daily special onto the round wooden table in front of them. She’d fetched another set of waitress’ clothes at some point, and Jone was surprised to see that the two of them could, from what she could tell, now pass as sisters if they so desired. “On the house, as much as you want.” She winked at Jone in particular, who tried not to blush. “Except for you, Mayor. You still have to pay.”

  The older man chuckled. “I see how it is. No respect for an old man that works too hard and talks too much.” He grinned. “Put it on my tab, please.”

  As the smiling serving girl disappeared into a tavern now bustling with rumor, energy, and customers, the dark-haired girl leaned forward, lowering her voice casually. “Hey, thanks for getting that ass off our backs, Mayor.” She dragged one of the steaming serving platters to her side of the table, pushing aside the other dishes and claiming it for her own.

  He shrugged with a smile, cutting a proper portion of meat for himself and selecting one of the mead-filled tankards. “Oh, Scarlett’s not so bad. Elizabethian overseers in these smaller towns and cities have a foul reputation, but she's really just enforcing the rules she's handed. She’s doing the best she can—there's not much wiggle room these days.” He sighed, his smile turning tired.

  “Eh, they’re all slaves, chained to the same system,” the girl replied. “If you’re not working to fix it, you’re part of the problem.” The Mayor frowned.

  “Es,” the tall, pale, refined woman spoke up, her voice
educated and cultured, melodic and precise. “Please shut up while you’re ahead.” She leaned across the table, reaching under her sleeves and rubbing chafed, now-free wrists. With nothing to back up her lingering suspicions, the Elizabethian officer had granted them temporary freedom, and with it the right to their share of the plunder from the defeated criminals. Now the two women were dressed, having reclaimed their rightful property and then some.

  Jone had found little desire for most of her rightful share, but she’d decided to keep the two handed claymore, along with a couple fat pouches bulging with silver coin. Those were things she had a purpose for.

  “My name is Samantha Segare Bellamy,” the taller woman said, extending a hand to Jone and shaking it properly, then mirroring the action with the Mayor. Fully dressed, she was an impressive figure, as suited her cultured tone and Elizabethian surname. Her long, lustrous ebony hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, exposing the noble features of her pale, statuesque face. Thin-rimmed glasses perched upon her nose, shielding her intelligent, steel-gray eyes with glass and reflected light.

  Her larger breasts rode high on her chest, pressed upward and supported by an intricately detailed corset of hard, fine leather and steel—a torso garment that was half fashion, half armor. Her long-sleeved blouse, while superficially similar to Jone’s borrowed one, was obviously soft silk, yet interwoven with silver and steel thread, a deceptive piece of material that again served dual purposes. It was also, Jone imagined, incredibly expensive. Tall leather boots, bare thighs, and a small, stylish hat that perched on the side of her head rounded out the outfit, every inch the noblewoman’s garb.

  The Mayor shook her hand gently, eyebrows raised. “The Samantha Bellamy? I have to admit I’m surprised to see someone of your...stature here. Much less traveling as a captive. Especially since, last I heard—”

  “Things change, Mayor,” Samantha cut across smoothly. “There are reasons for everything in this day and age, I assure you.” The Mayor released her hand, glancing around the table, eyes lingering on each of the three of them in turn. Then he shrugged.

  Her mouth still stuffed to the brim, the dark-skinned girl glared at Samantha, mumbling something unintelligible. She was dressed far more simply than the other woman—and far more obviously armed. A wide, sheathed blade rested at her side, and a bandolier with four loaded pistols and several small, dangling spheres draped over her chest, tightly bound to her own armored corset. Her garment came up higher, covering and accenting her small breasts and toned body with its simplicity, more heavily reinforced and much less embellished than Samantha’s. Skin-tight, open-sided, laced leather leggings hugged her hips and thighs, leaving very little of the shape beneath to the imagination.

  Like everyone else, she was taller than Jone, though she was still shorter than anyone else in the room save Adrienne. Her wild, voluminous black hair was now barely restrained by a few bits of blood-red ribbon, the mass of dreads and thick, loose hair constrained just enough to stay barely clear of her face. Her dark, exotic complexion darkened around her eyes, setting off the lively, dark emerald within. Her arms were bare and toned, if not quite as strong looking as Jone’s own, while her overall form was much more lithe and acrobatic. Fingerless leather gloves, made for combat, revealed similar scars to those on Jone’s weathered hands.

  “Shhhhh,” the taller woman reiterated to her companion. “No one can hear you over your lack of manners, anyway.” She smiled around the table. “My friend, long-time associate, and traveling companion is Esmeralda Thresh. She’s thrilled to meet you both, I assure you.”

  Esmeralda grumbled something that, to Jone, sounded like an obscenity, before shrugging and turning her eyes back to the plate.

  The Mayor eyed her for a long moment, then drained the last half of his tankard of mead in a single long draught.

  “My name is Jone,” she inserted simply into the unexpected silence, not understanding the cause of the sudden tension but hoping to lighten it anyway.

  Samantha nodded pleasantly and smiled, while the Mayor took her hand, shaking it with firm appreciation. “Jone, is it?” He looked her over, studying her face, and looked thoughtful. “Well, it seems I ultimately have you to thank for ridding my city of these blackguards.”

  Jone shook her head. “I only did what anyone would do.”

  The Mayor shook his head firmly in turn. “Nonsense, which is why no one else did it. It takes a person of fortitude to take the first step, especially these days. Once one person locates their courage, it makes everyone else more apt to find their own. But someone always has to be the first.” He smiled. “At any rate, I’ve been looking for a way to rid the city of those wandering ruffians for what feels like far too long. But they always had things well enough in hand to avoid the ire of good Commander Carlyle; I was simply afraid that they would do something…” he trailed off, looking at Adrienne bobbing happily through the crowd, “unforgivable before the Commander had legitimate reason to act. You struck the head from the serpent as it were. For that, you have my deepest gratitude.”

  “See? What do I keep telling you?” The voice paused. “That’s right, you have no idea, because you don’t remember any of it.” A sigh of wind moved the hair at the nape of Jone’s neck, sending a tingle down her spine. “Anyway, the point is, sometimes your ‘wrong’ thing is actually the ‘right’ thing. In disguise. Or something. I dunno, I’m bored now.” Jone blinked as the voice retreated and the void returned.

  “Are you alright, Miss Jone?” The Mayor asked, his old, tanned face creased with lines of concern.

  Forcing a smile that looked more certain than she felt inside, Jone nodded. “It’s just been a long day, sir. That’s all.”

  He nodded, moving to rise. “Understandable. Well, the three of you may eat and rest as you like; please enjoy Estori’s hospitality with no worries about payment. We’re all grateful for what you’ve done.” Standing, he nodded to the three of them. “Just don’t leave town until Officer Carlyle finishes her investigation, please. Easier for everyone that way.” Lowering his voice, he smiled slyly. “Now, it’s time for me to go speak with a few people, and make certain the story we’ve told her holds up under close scrutiny. Ladies.”

  Jone blinked, startled by his implications, as the Mayor inclined his head to them and left, his last glance a thoughtful look at her two mismatched companions.

  Esmeralda chuckled. “Not bad, mister mayor, not bad.” Jone shifted as the woman looked her over, as if sizing her up in detail.

  “Well,” Samantha sat back, melting into the hard-backed skyoak chair as if exhausted. “I’m simply glad all of that worked out, which you have our gratitude for as well. Freed, clothed, fed, and now with the assurance of a nice bed in the immediate future.” She smiled, obviously satisfied. “I even found my makeup.” She sat a small chest on the table, patting it fondly. “Tomorrow, old friend. Tomorrow.”

  Esmeralda snorted as if amused, rolling her eyes. But Jone sat forward, suddenly curious. “A make-up kit? Truly?” Such things, as far as she knew, were rare. Samantha must be well-off indeed.

  “Not so uncommon as they once were,” the raven-haired lady replied, as if responding to Jone’s thoughts. “You may look it over, if you like.” She slid the small, worked ebonywood chest partway across the table, turning it to face Jone.

  “Actually, might I borrow the mirror from it?” Jone chewed her lip. She already disliked having to weigh her every action, second guessing and wondering how out of place each question or comment might sound. “For a moment only, if you would.”

  The Lady Bellamy smiled permissively, gesturing to the box. “Of course. Go right ahead, my dear.”

  Carefully, Jone pulled the box over, opened its odd, skull-shaped latch, pulled apart the three shelved tiers, and walked her fingers through the contents until she found the mirror. Holding up the square of silver-backed, polished glass, careful to keep it over the table lest she drop it, she gazed for what felt like the first time upon h
er own face.

  It was like looking at a stranger’s visage. No different from peering at Samantha’s fine features or into Esmeralda’s intense green eyes, save for the logical knowledge that these were undoubtedly her own. Stubbornly, she set her jaw, pushing back a wave of disorientation before it could dizzy her and become outwardly visible.

  Her hair was still an utter, disheveled mess, something she intended to remedy as soon as possible now that the inn’s facilities were at her disposal. A proper bath was also on the list of tonight’s events. Jone rubbed at the specks of blood still decorating her fair, tanned features like freckles, but only managed to smear and mix them with streaks of sweat and dirt.

  Since it was a simple matter to look at herself objectively, she did so: she supposed that Jonelise was a pretty enough girl, perhaps even attractive—or was that hubris, to say so of oneself? Either way, her features were simple, but offered a plain beauty that she should consider herself fortunate over. Her eyes were deep, dark brown, and she stared the mirror-Jone’s down until she could partway convince herself that those dark eyes were, perhaps, her own.

  Tilting the mirror down revealed exactly how much Adrienne’s outfit accentuated—and revealed—her figure, and she blushed. Her bust was noticeably larger than any other in the room, and dwelling on that fact made her redden all the more, especially considering how much the low-cut, off-the-shoulder garment revealed. One bare, strong, tanned shoulder sported an old, white line of a scar that disappeared down into the blouse; the other, a nasty black bruise, still spreading from the earlier mace impact. Tomorrow that will hurt, she knew. Likewise, the top of her shirt dipped enough to reveal the upper edge of the rough, prominent scar that ran under her left breast and across her heart.

  “So, Jone,” Samantha’s voice startled her out of her thoughts, and she fumbled the mirror; her attempts to catch it before it hit the table only sent it tumbling forcibly into the upper tier of the makeup chest, bowling over little jars and bottles and sending them all rolling.