The Unknown Package, Part 5 of 5

Tales of the Freelance Hunters, Season One

The morning of Parade Night dawned watery and gray with a hint of chill already in the air. Revelers lined up early, their spirits not the slightest bit dampened. Each vied for the best spots along the parade route. Strolling bards and merchants, food carts and beer wagons all did their best to separate the crowd from their coins. The urchins of the Proudfoot home did much the same, although with less fanfare and merriment.

The revelers all dressed for the festivities. Some wore feast-day best, while others wore colorful costumes as imaginative as the performers. Not to be outdone by Mage Lords, all the peoples of the city organized their own crewes and paraded through the streets with floats, musicians, and jugglers. While none of them would dare to claim that they were trying to outdo the Riverfolk, for whom this was a solemn and important part of their social calendar, the Human, Half-Elf, Mountainfolk, and Hillfolk all rattled their sabers at one another, with each faction trying as hard as the could to win the favor of the crowd. It was a display of wealth and power, and while there would be no official winner, they would spend the next three frozen months discussing little else than today’s events.

The Sun finally appeared late in the afternoon, as though casting one last look upon her Riverfolk children, and set red and sudden behind the western hill. It was the signal for the real parade to begin.

On the rooftops high above the city, it was the signal for another figure to begin a journey of his own.

He too was dressed for the occasion, in a tunic and cloak in shades of gray and blue so dark they were almost black. He carried a bulging sack that seemed too large for his Hillfolk frame but managed it as though it weighed nothing at all. In deference to the occasion, he wore a crown of black velvet antlers.

The figure moved silently from roof to roof, making his way from Dockside to Small-Town. He dodged rain barrels and hid behind chimneys as the occasional mage-summoned firework lit the darkening sky in garish flames. A few enterprising citizens with flat roofs camped above, but these he mostly avoided, and if they noticed him, they made no sign. Some things that were cause for alarm were perfectly reasonable on Parade Night.

It was barely full dark when Bingo found himself at the edge of Small-Town. He stood on the roof of a gray factory building, staring across the alley that separated it from the Proudfoot Home for Wayward Hillfolk Youth. Save for a single candle, the building was dark. That would be Mr. Simmons, the old night watchman. Bingo remembered him, and if nothing had changed, he would not be much of an obstacle. The townhouses on either side were dark. They’d been bought up and hollowed out by the family years ago, and were a collection of fronts, dead drops, and safehouses, littered with secret entrances and hidden tunnels. He watched them for a long time, but tonight nobody went in or out.

Bingo reached into a hidden pocket and pulled out a fledge. He twisted the legs flat and flicked a switch on the beak, opening it to reveal a hidden lens. He raised it to his eye like a spyglass and examined the rooftop, finding the best spot. He collapsed the fledge down again, making a few twists here and releasing a hidden catch there to reveal a grapnel and a coil of black silk cord. He hooked the roof on the first try, and a simple three-story tightrope walk later, he was standing on the roof of his childhood home. He spotted all the familiar hazards. Its shadowed tripwires and trapped flagstones were all right where he remembered them. He collapsed his fledge again and made his careful way across the stones. He ignored the false access door and instead made his way to an attic window. He flicked a tail feather and the fledge’s gem eyes projected a beam of soft, blue light. Producing the other fledge, he twisted a talon into a skeleton key. Under the faint illumination, he found the secret lock. It looked good, but Miss Rosemary had had plenty of time to upgrade things. He unlocked the door with a faint click, and the window swung outward on well-oiled hinges. He was glad to see he wasn’t the only orphan who’d found this passage out. Bingo slipped inside, reminding himself that while his actions were technically breaking and entering, they weren’t burglary. Just the opposite, in fact.

He began with the top floor, the boys' dormitory. The older boys were all still out, pinching wallets and fawning rings. Only the youngest were abed, and all of them were asleep. Quickly and quietly, he went about his work, leaving packages at the foot of each bed filled with candy and toys, along with warm winter clothes. Glory’s work was beyond reproach. Not only was the sack nearly as light as air, it always gave him exactly what he wanted every time he opened it.

He moved to the stairs, carefully avoiding the ones that creaked and the third from the top, which was rigged to break. He didn’t touch the handrail at all. He snuck past the snoring watchman, who was strategically positioned on the 2nd story landing between the girls’ and boys’ dorms. He looked as old and weather-beaten as he remembered. Bingo found a scarf and a bottle of something for him in the sack. He’d ruined a number of schemes in Bingo’s boyhood, but he’d always looked out for him.

The girls’ dorm was forbidden territory from his youth, but the layout was just the same. He distributed the rest of the gifts and moved on as quickly as he dared, the residual dread of being caught here of all places still hiding in his memories like fog in a valley. He made his way back to the stairs, and down to the ground floor.

He hung went straight to work in the massive dining hall, hanging streamers and tinsel. He covered the long tables with a feast, piling so many cakes and jugs of cider that he was afraid the ancient wood would collapse. He moved to the pantries and loaded them with a whole season’s worth of sausages, preserved fruit, and other goodies.

He looked into his sack and found only one gift left. 

The door to the Headmistress’s Office was stoutly locked and definitely trapped. It was the one room in the building that Bingo had never managed to break into as a child. Even now, it made him a little nervous. He brought out the fledges and got to work. True to form, Rosemary had no less than a dozen sensors, a sophisticated alarm mechanism he was mostly sure he disabled, and a hidden needle coated with itching poison. It wasn’t fatal, but you’d wish it was. But after a few minutes of work, Bingo was satisfied to hear nothing as the silent hinges swung inward. He pulled out a bouquet of hothouse-grown white roses, Miss Rosemary’s favorites. He left them, along with a note, on the perfectly neat desk, and paused. Doubtless, that desk was full of secrets. It might even have a clue to his birth parents. He’d left on such rotten terms with her, he’d never gotten a chance to see his file. She’d reminded him of that fact when he left. He bet she still had it in that big antique desk of hers.

But just as he moved towards the top drawer, he had a feeling like a gong sounding between his ears. Glory sent her signal. Rosemary and her urchins were on their way back, and there would be hell to pay if he was still here when they arrived. He didn’t take the time to reset the office door, but made his way quickly back up the way he had come and out through the attic.

From his perch on the roof across the alley, he watched them return, a tide of hill children in grubby black cloaks, led by Miss Rosemary, thumping her cane with every step. She looked older than he remembered. She fished into her coat for the big front door key, and they all shuffled silently inside like a line of ghosts.

When they reached the dining hall, the building erupted in light and noise. Bingo watched through the fledge in spyglass mode. Children ran everywhere shouting, laughing, and screaming. Some tried to purloin all the gifts before anyone else could. Others tried to take what they could from the other children. Some tried to cram as much food as they could into their faces before someone stopped them. It was a hurricane, with Miss Rosemary standing ancient and imperious in the center, with her great black hat and hickory stick. Bingo thought she leaned a bit more heavily on it than he remembered, and her face looked a bit more careworn.

She picked out a few of the older boys and girls to break up the fights and get everything organized. It was an efficient system, although it relied on more delegation than he remembered in his day. They got the children seated and started passing out plates and cups. A few of the older kids gathered up the scattered packages and redistributed them, making sure nobody was left out.

Miss Rosemary did an inspection of the rooms on the first floor, and Bingo had to admit to feeling a thrill as she stood red-faced and stunned before her open office door. She practically stomped to her desk. She raised her arms as though she were about to knock the roses in the trash, but instead, she sat down defeated in her chair and plucked up the card.

Bingo watched her expression go from rage to bemusement and finally to settle into a smile that seemed a little sad. She brought the roses to her nose and sniffed them before cutting a single blossom free and fixing it to her blouse. She stood with some difficulty and rejoined her charges.

The children were eating together, laughing and comparing new hats and gloves, or playing with their new toys in the candlelight. If it weren’t for the uniforms, they could be normal children on Parade Night.

Bingo watched for a while, tempted to rush down, and knowing it was a terrible idea. Those children didn’t need to see him. He’d done this deed to get clear of the debt, but he found himself feeling inexplicably light. 

He’d spent a long time running from his past, but it had come for him anyway. But as much as he’d hated that place, he felt something akin to affection, to freedom. He wasn’t running anymore. Bingo blinked away a few tears and set the fledges back in his cloak. Their weight felt comfortable at last.

There was a brilliant mage-work flash of light above, and bells started tolling midnight across the city. The parade was over, and the Riverfolk were sealing the lake behind them in a thick layer of ice. As the last chime faded, a snowflake drifted down and landed on Bingo’s gloved hand.

He watched it melt as he made his way down to the street. Somewhere, his friends were waiting for him. It was a new year, and the night was young. He would make the most of both.