Call of Arcadia

by Annathesa Nikola Darksbane

  The suns were bright and high as she stepped outside. Jone walked some of the winding, compact back streets first, getting a feel for the town, but also loosening up her muscles and getting in some more peace and exercise before daring the busy, voluminous city center. Her arm hurt Abyssally where her bicep had suffered the hammer blow, and her movements with it were stiff, imprecise, and achy. Was that supposed to happen to the dead? Her shoulder had blossomed into a nasty bruise of its own as well, dark and sore to the touch, just like she’d predicted.

  “Oh, come on. You’re not actually dead, you know.”

  Jone paused in an empty side street and sighed aloud. “That would mean a lot more,” she said quietly, “if I could trust you, you know. Or even knew what you were, whence you came, and what you knew of me.”

  It didn’t answer though Jone was fairly certain it stayed with her.

  She briefly broke into a jog, but it only convinced her that a shopping trip was her next priority; the only serious exercise she was going to get without some more supportive undergarments was an exercise in painful frustration.

  Stepping into the middle of Estori’s busy marketplace was akin to dunking her head into a bucket of cold water, but she adapted quickly. The constant bombardment from all sides of warm bodies talking, shouting, moving, and jostling was one thing, but the strange prevalence of what, to her, was high technology put her far more out of her depth.

  There was a surprising array of goods on offer in the town’s thriving marketplace, even with a fair number of stalls and stores unopened or unclaimed. Jone had originally taken Estori to be much more of an isolated city that it was, partially due to having such a tiny dock for a coastal town. But it seemed like the wide, hard-packed, well-traveled road winding its ribbon way through the city center made up for it, as well as the far-flung net of farmers, scavengers, foragers, and outlying homesteads.

  Jone passed by weavers and seamstresses hawking clothes of all sorts. A better balanced greatsword than the one strapped to her back beckoned, much like the articulated breastplate beside it that caught her eye. Steel-toed, iron-heeled boots called her name; surely there were some small enough to fit her feet properly. It seemed it would be a simple matter to find what she sought—but first things first.

  Jone got her bearings and homed in on a section of the market she’d memorized the previous day, buying a red silk pouch along the way. She came to a stop at a familiar merchant’s stall, waiting for the crowd to clear and for the exuberant, red-garbed man to notice her.

  “Ho, there!” he called, finally laying eyes on her after Jone spent several patient minutes waiting. It wasn’t his fault—Jone was simply shorter and less remarkable than the rest of the crowd. Even her claymore was as tall as she was. “Well, if it isn’t the heroine of the Heartfire! Got to admit, it has a ring to it! What can I do you for?” He smiled down at her, a merry twinkle in his eyes.

  Jone shook her head. “I’m not here to buy, sir.” A careful toss lofted the clinking red money pouch onto the table next to his arm. “I’m here to confess to a crime.”

  The hefty gentleman's smile faltered as he processed what she’d said and connected the dots. Then he glanced side to side, as if looking for witnesses, and palmed the purse deftly away into a sleeve. “Well, now, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, young lady. I misplace my belongings all the time, you know? So kind of you to return it, though.” His smile returned, full force and then some. “That’s a rare form of honesty, right there.”

  Jone opened her mouth to protest, but the merchant put a finger to his lips and shushed her. “My dear girl, you should be commended, not arrested, no matter what Officer Carlyle might think.” He chuckled, deep from the belly. “If I’d known I could have paid out that paltry sum and be rid of those brigands weeks ago, I’d have done so in an instant. Now here, would you like some fresh pie? Or perhaps…”

  Overwhelmed but grateful, Jone walked away a quarter hour later with her fourth slice of pie—each one of a different flavor—a silver hair clip shaped like a dragonfly, and some tall woolen socks.

  Encouraged and happy, Jone sampled the city. It was pleasant at first; she went after new breeches, leggings, tunics, and undergarments, pausing to acquire something to munch on from a street vendor each time her stomach rumbled, which was often enough over the course of the day. Her unending hunger and hollow stomach still bothered her, but she managed to ignore it. She purchased the exact type of boots she wanted, resized to fit while she waited, and even obtained a new belt and harness for her claymore. The leatherworker even gifted her with an expensive backpack for free.

  That’s when it became too apparent for her to continue ignoring it: the people of the city were treating her like a celebrity. Jone was surprised that word had traveled so quickly and wasn’t certain it made any sense. Not everyone seemed to recognize her, but many did, with rumor spreading and more of the citizenry identifying her by the hour. Some didn’t approach her, instead pointing or glancing and speaking about her from a safe distance. Others went out of their way to come and shake her hand, or clap her on the back out of nowhere. The old man selling salamander skewers refused her money with a knowing glance and wink, familiarly calling her by name.

  Jone wasn’t sure she liked it at all.

  She’d already decided to make an early end to her outing and head back to the Heartfire, when she ran into someone. Literally. It was hard to see over her armload of goods, and she glanced away at just the wrong time to see them coming and avoid them. Her purchases spilled into the dirt, and a quick glance made her tense up as she noted the black and silver uniform of the city watch. “I'm sorry, sir, I didn’t mean—”

  “Nonsense, ma’am. I should have been more careful.” To Jone’s surprise, the young guard offered her a quick, slight salute, rested his halberd on the ground, and bent to help her regain her possessions, steadfastly ignoring her attempts to tell him it wasn’t necessary. “I’m glad I saw you though, ma’am. The Mayor asked me to keep an eye out for you. Said he wanted to speak to you at the Heartfire later tonight, an hour or two before the Dark sets in. If you don’t mind.”

  Jone nodded as he piled her arms full with a friendly smile. “I’ll be sure to do so. Thank you.” He hustled away, and so did she, before things got any stranger.

  - - -

  Jone crossed her legs on the bed and closed her eyes. Her room at the Heartfire was the closest thing she had to a refuge, at the moment; even in the common room, eyes were beginning to follow her in increasing quantities. Had the tale of her intervention really been blown so far out of proportion? Was Esmeralda suffering the same overblown fame?

  If so, from what she’d seen of the woman so far, she was probably enjoying it far more than Jone was.

  Adrienne had been more than happy to help her manage her new clothes upstairs, as well as to go through them and talk about how nice they’d look on Jone. She’d managed to get Adrienne to take back most of her lent garments as well, save for a couple that “would look far too good on you.” Although she enjoyed the bubbly serving girl’s company, she’d finally gotten the barmaid to leave her be, citing a need to rest.

  Jone had made it this far by complete accident, but what now? The lingering threads of some greater purpose were still anchored to some deep part of her being, and she didn’t know what, or how, or why. All of the mysteries surrounding her revival yet dangled, out of reach, and her undying hunger was blunted, but never sated for long. Something was still missing. But what?

  Thus, the meditation.

  Jone relaxed, dropping back inside herself. It was more difficult than she thought it should have been, not knowing who that person was; whence had she even learned this art, to instinctively fall back on it for aid? But regardless, the world slowly fell away around her, replaced by the comfort and dark of her own mind, quiet and peaceful.

  There was no way to seek answers, but perhaps they would come to her instead.

  Images flickered at
the edges of her thoughts, fleeting like gossamer, impossible to grasp. So she didn’t try. Some of them she observed and recognized, though, like the charcoal face with the short pitch hair and solid onyx eyes. Or the razor-sharp flashes of memory from last night, not nearly as disorienting now that they didn’t assault her from a position of ambush.

  Without trying, those images floated closer, unbidden. She could see through them, like mirror shards that reflected another time, another place, another…her. As they drew near, she heard the name again: Arcadia. A place she knew. It felt familiar, and its mention stirred other, deeper feelings, emotions of all sorts that drifted through her without an anchor.

  Perhaps if she waited them out, patient and without trying to force it, they would drift to her again, become part of her conscious memories once more. Perhaps the longer she did this, the more would float to the—

  A knock at the door ripped her from her trance. Jone’s irritation was short lived; she smiled as Adrienne stuck her head in immediately after the second knock.

  “Mayor’s here to see you,” the barmaid informed her. She made a face. “Those other two are already waitin’ with him, same table as normal.”

  Jone nodded. If all three of them were involved, it likely had to do with Commander Carlyle’s investigation. “Thank you, Adrienne—”

  “Adie,” she cut Jone off with a hint of color in her cheeks.

  Jone nodded again. “Adie,” she continued with a smile. “Would you mind—”

  “Getting you something to eat sent down?” The serving girl giggled before bouncing off. “Already on it,” echoed cheerily down the hall.

  Jone smiled all the way downstairs.

  - - -

  “Glad you could make it, miss Jone,” the Mayor smiled, running a hand through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. Adrienne followed her over, setting a large bowl of spiced and diced pork and potatoes in front of her with a wink.

  “That looks good,” Esmeralda said, scooting her chair close and sticking a fork into Jone’s bowl. She plundered a potato and leaned back casually. “Hey, by the way. Clothes look nice. Yesterday’s were better.”

  Jone blinked, at a loss. Samantha just smiled serenely, closing a thick book as the Mayor cleared his throat.

  “I just wanted to let the three of you know that you’re cleared of all charges,” he said. “As I expected, the investigation turned out wholly in your favor, and the men you fought yesterday are now in custody, due for an Elizabethian regional patrol to pick them up in, oh, about four and a half weeks.” He half smiled, half sighed.

  “Time to look for other places to go,” Esmeralda commented. Samantha and the Mayor both glanced at her. She shrugged.

  Jone felt similarly. But there were complications. “How far is Arcadia from here, Sir?”

  He considered, eyeing her, then shrugged. “We’re at the edge of Gallia, so only a few days to the port of Lisboa in Hispania. Then a few more onboard a vessel. Depends on the speed of your transport, in both cases.” He eyed her consideringly. “Thinking about leaving?”

  Jone shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, sir. I mean, I like it here, but…”

  The Mayor shook his head. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, young lady. I understand.” He glanced around at the three of them. “But you’ll need more money for the trip.”

  Jone nodded. With her current unruly appetite and lack of supplies, she’d already come to that conclusion herself.

  “Fortunately,” the Mayor continued, “I have just the thing to take care of that.” He opened a wide, square pouch on his belt and unrolled a weathered parchment. “Nicolas Joseph de Crequy.” He smoothed the paper out on the table, anchoring it with the corner of his tankard. It had the aforementioned name written across the top in lifeless, machine-lettered font, followed by a sepia-and-black picture with the word “bounty” big and bold across the bottom. The number that followed it, according to Jone’s calculations, was absurdly large.

  The Mayor tapped the picture. “Let’s call it a favor for a favor, shall we?” he said quietly, his gray eyes shrewd.

  “Hah!” Esmeralda laughed. “Everyone wants something. Never fails.”

  The Mayor cut his eyes to the dark-skinned woman. “I want my people to be okay. And in her,” he nodded towards Jone, “I recognized…someone who I thought could take care of it. The two of you were an unexpected bonus.”

  The Lady Bellamy leaned in, a hand forestalling any of Esmeralda’s commentary. “And we are included fairly, Mayor?” He nodded. “Then I see no reason not to accept. The money would go to a good cause. Namely, ours.” She smiled at Esmeralda, who grinned and nodded. “I assume these men trouble Estori in some way? Or do you simply bear them a grudge?”

  The Mayor grunted. “You say that like there’s a difference.” He sighed, looking at Jone. “When the Elizabethians assumed control of the mainland, forcing the major nations to concede to their hegemony, a lot of restrictions came with it. Anyone recognized as a former ‘insurrectionist,’ namely, anyone of note who fought against the Elizabethian occupation was declared a traitor, and it was deemed illegal to give them sanctuary for any reason.”

  Esmeralda and Lady Bellamy nodded; it looked like everyone else already knew this story. Why, then, was he repeating it for her sake?

  “They also banned any use of advanced military technology, save by Elizabethian troops or with Elizabethian warrant,” the Mayor continued, still mostly looking toward Jone. “The problem is, those same people they’d just outlawed, well, they didn’t have much reason to respect that second proclamation. They were dead if caught either way, more likely than not. So, even now, we have a lot of bandits with a lot of power and nothing to lose by surviving any way they can in this brave new world.”

  Jone considered. “Why does the Elizabethian military not hunt these people down, then? Surely Lady Carlyle has the ability to authorize such a search even if they deny you the ability.”

  Lady Bellamy shook her head. “It’s never that simple, I’m afraid. The Elizabethians don’t have the manpower to patrol the mainland, not against groups that can disappear into the terrain at will. It’s not as simple as bringing massive firepower to bear against cities, which generally are too large to move or hide.” Her eyes flickered.

  “And I’ve tried sending for aid from Lisboa,” the Mayor added. “And, just as the Lady says, it’s never that simple.”

  After a moment of consideration, Jone shook her head. “You needn’t pay me for such a task, Mayor. I would do it gladly, save for the necessary supplies to make it there and back again.”

  Esmeralda's head thumped onto the table. Jone thought she might have been crying.

  The Mayor laughed. “While I appreciate the thought, that’s the only fortunate part of this whole scenario. I won’t have to. All bounties are paid by the new government. It all comes out of Eternal Queen Elizabeth’s unending pockets.” He took a sip of cider. “Unfortunately, it can’t be paid here, either. Miss Carlyle doesn't have access to those kinds of funds. You’ll have to go to Lisboa.”

  “Convenient enough,” Bellamy commented with a glance at Jone, then the Mayor. “I think we were all headed that way anyway.”

  - - -

  Jone frowned at her backpack. It was large, made of different sections cunningly woven together with leather straps so as to collapse and expand, to an extent. She just wasn’t certain it could hold a bedroll, the new clothes she’d bought, and all the food she was likely to need.

  In fact, she hoped it could hold all of the food by itself.

  She jumped as the door to her room slammed open one final time, Adrienne standing framed in the doorway, hands on hips and a glower on her fair, pretty face. “An’ you were just gonna tip-toe on out, without even saying goodbye?” she demanded.

  Jone looked down, sheepish, at the piece of paper she’d left on the end of the bed, covered in her own precise script. “I...I just don’t like saying goodbye, I suppose.”

  The
barmaid’s frown softened and she stepped inside. “Well, come on down. Knowing how hungry you are, we whipped you up somethin’ special to last.”

  Between the innkeep and Adrienne, they stuffed a shocking amount of travel-ready food into Jone’s backpack. She hoped it was enough; gazing at the contents, Jone had a feeling she’d never much enjoyed munching jerky. But at least she could chew it while she walked and hopefully keep her unholy stomach from rebelling.

  Adrienne’s hands slowed as they finished the work, flopped over the backpack’s top, and tied it shut. “Well, I guess that’s it.” She started to lift it and huffed. “Heavy, ain’t it.”

  Jone shouldered her way into it. It was pretty heavy, but it would be okay. It’d get lighter as she traveled, and she wasn’t afraid of hard work. She’d been wanting for more exercise, anyway. Another stop on the way out, and she’d have everything she should need. “Thank you both. For everything.” She smiled especially at Adrienne.

  She made it out into the main room, nodding toward Esmeralda and the Lady Bellamy, who waited by the door, armed with supplies of their own. But she didn’t make it far before Adrienne grabbed her by the shoulder, spun her around, leaned in, and planted a kiss right where cheek met lips. Jone rocked back on her heels, stunned.

  “You take care of yourself, Jone. And you’d better not forget me!” The barmaid turned, red-faced, and disappeared into the kitchens like a musket shot, the cheers of a few early morning patrons hot on her heels.

  Dazed, Jone joined her new traveling companions, both of whom were smiling. To be more precise, Samantha was smiling with polite amusement; Esmeralda was grinning and clapping. “Wow. Where do I get one of those?” She laughed all the harder as Jone got redder and redder; at least, until the Lady Bellamy slapped the back of her head.

  “Ow,” the dark-haired woman replied. “Seriously, where’s mine?”