Hugh J. O'Donnell

A freezing wind beat against the walls of the city of Carabos. It hurled gusts and flurries of hard-packed snow at the gray blocks of stone, plastering them with white patches. It howled like a frantic toddler, searching for the smallest crack in the city’s defenses.
Finding none, the weather settled on bringing misery to the travelers huddled below, tearing away unguarded hats and ripping at thick woolen cloaks. They had come from every corner of the great island of Elanterra, and lines of carts clogged the bare patch of ground in front of the gates. Some were piled high with fruits and vegetables raised out of season by the skilled Hillfolk farmers of the Tungal Hills. Others were loaded with coal mined by the stout Mountainfolk from Pherros. There were human-driven carts holding a grand assortment of goods, and there were others filled with travelers that wore so many cloaks and coats and scarves that nothing could be seen of them. And also in that crowd waited the Freelance Hunters, returned from their latest adventure, neither as rich or crowned in honor as they had hoped, but not without success, either.
They chattered their way through the checkpoint and finally entered the city gates, where the air warmed, and a gentle autumn breeze blew through streets as crowded as the gates.
The trio removed their thick traveling cloaks and carried them over their arms as they pushed their way into the crowd.
The city was a hive of activity. Hawkers shouted over each other, competing to sell their good from the backs of their wagons. Everything from soap to shoes was on offer. The good weather wouldn’t last, and the citizens of Carabos rushed to prepare for the coming blizzards and the party that came before them.
Outside the walls, ice and snow already clogged the roads, but in the Water City, the weather behaved as the Riverfolk Mage Lords wished. Due to their amphibious nature, Riverfolk weren’t a people made for the cold weather. The magicians in the city used their magic to keep winter at bay as long as possible, as every Riverfolk on Elanterra gathered in their ancestral city. From sundown to midnight on the solstice, every Riverfolk in the city, and nearly the whole population in all of Elanterra would parade from the city gates down to the shore of Crystal Lake, and disappear beneath the water for their winter sequestration. Once the last of their population was safely under the surface, the weather mages would end their spell, sealing the lake behind them with ice.
The rest of the city, the Humans, Half-Elves, Hillfolk and Mountainfolk of the city, along with the few others that defied common classification, would gather to see their supposed masters off, and what was once a solemn and holy ritual had slipped over the years into a raucous and well-loved festival.
As they made their way down the hill towards their rooms, the Freelance Hunters watched the city prepare for the celebration. In one alley, a group of Riverfolk youths were preparing the finishing touches on a float covered in flowers. In front of one tavern, a pair of laborers made a pyramid of barrels in preparation for lively outdoor business. Streamers hung from every street lamp, and the air was thick with baking pies and roasting meat. A few spectators were already camped out in the best spots, even though the parade was still several days away.
“Ugh, Parade Night,” Bingo Proudfoot complained, plunging his hands deep into the pockets of his long coat, which is still wore despite the more temperate climate inside the walls. Glory Bywater the group’s mage, stopped short and stared at him with her piercing blue eyes. Joachim Verne, the team’s resident warrior, who was tall even for Humans, nearly trampled them. The two Hillfolk were half his size, and while he was graceful in combat, he often found himself out of sorts with the pair.
“Bingo, how can you distain the New Year?” Glory demanded. “When I was a student at the Academy, we all lived for it! The bonfires, and the food, and the presents, and the floats, and the mulled cider. It is hands down the best night of the year!” The mage’s nostalgic smile seemed decidedly out of place.
“I’m sure you had a real benjo as a student. Your work was done for the year. The rest of us still had to make a living,” he grumbled. Her smile dimmed. There was an unspoken rule that the three of them didn’t talk about their pasts. They each had done things they regretted, or would sooner have others forget. The Proudfoots were a rough and poor clan, mostly made up of outcasts and orphans. She knew Bingo’s upbringing had been rougher than most as a foundling whose small size and quick hands had been put to nefarious use.
“But surely,” she ventured against better sense. “You must have some fondness for the holidays?”
“I’m just not ‘jolly,’ okay?” Bingo doubled his pace, attempting to force his way through the thick crowd, most of whom were at least twice his height.
“Joachim, surely you celebrated Solstice back home?” Glory asked. He frowned and stroked his bushy red beard.
“The snow had already packed us in by this time of year, but the whole village gathered for a feast on First Snowfall, if that’s what you mean.”
“You see? Everybody celebrates. Civilized folk need something to brighten the dark this time of year.”
Bingo sighed. “The dark was where I was raised. You know I was an urchin, yes?” His two companions nodded. “The orphanage wasn’t my salvation. That was where I learned my particular trade. And the headmistress made us work doubly hard on Parade Night. While you were toasting marshmallows and trading presents, I was cutting purses and fawning rigs. And the worst part was, we were always back and in bed before the snow fell. She was always one for curfew, the Headmistress.”
“Well, at least you had solstice dinner, right?”
“An extra portion of gruel, to keep our strength up.”
“A log fire? A wreath?”
“She kept the coal scuttle tightly locked, and never had an extra copper for anything so frivolous as decorations.”
“Presents?”
Bingo turned around and gave her a meaningful look. “I never celebrated Solstice in my whole miserable childhood, and I don’t intend to start now.”
The crowd carried them to their building, a three-story brick structure just off of Dock Street in a ward that insisted it was still respectable. The Freelance Hunters’ combination headquarters and apartment occupied half of the tenement’s top floor. They slipped into the dim foyer and were nearly to the stairs when their landlord, Mr. Gannet, burst from his office with a brown-paper package under his arm.
The Riverfolk man had silver-gray scales, a perpetually sour expression, and a penchant for tall hats that made him look like a dropped ice cream cone.
“Hello, Mr. Gannet,” Bingo said, and doffed his own cap.
“So the heroes have returned. Plundered any good tombs lately?”
“Well, we have to make our bones somehow,” Bingo quipped. Gannet pressed his thin lips together in what was definitely not a smile.
“This arrived for you today,” he said, holding out the box. “By Maile Man.”
“I simply cannot understand why people are so terrified of them. They deliver letters,” Glory said.
“They’re ten foot tall, hook-barbed, monstrosities created by the Mage Lords to protect their secrets,” replied Joachim.
“Well, certainly, but it isn’t as though they’re dangerous, as long as you’re polite and follow instructions.” Glory reached out to take the package, and Gannet lifted it out of her grasp.
“I was instructed quite explicitly to deliver this to Mr. Proudfoot.” Bingo took the package, profoundly surprised. “Eldritch delivery golems aside, Your rent is due,” Mr. Gannet said, recovering his composure. “I expected a deposit before you went on your latest, ahem, excursion.” His large, luminous eyes narrowed behind three sets of eyelids.
“We have it, Mr. Gannet,” Bingo started, then stared at his proffered hand. “But I just need to, er, convert it into more fungible coin for you. You’ll have it tomorrow?”
“I had better. I have much to do before Parading but don’t think I won’t toss you out before the freeze.” With that he retreated back into his office, leaving them in the hallway. They climbed the stairs to the third-floor landing and Joachim unlocked and opened the door. Bingo trailed behind, carrying the package as though it were cursed.
The apartment/headquarters wasn’t opulent, but it was big enough for the three of them. The main room was large and open. A hearth along the east wall provided heat. There was a pair of couches around it that served as both a living room and a space to entertain clients. It was separated from the kitchen and pantry by a low table. Glory’s laboratory took up the next corner, with strange, humming machines and gleaming glass beakers. Next to that was Joachim’s training area, and a round dining table next to the door. A dark hallway lead to the bedrooms and water closet. Riverfolk innovation meant that they had running water, even three stories up.
Bingo set the package carefully on the table. “Home sweet home,” He said. “Let’s hope it’s still standing in five minutes.”
Glory peeked around him to examine the package. “No return address. How mysterious. Who do you suppose sent it?”
Bingo made an odd little noise in his throat as he stared down at the package. “I recognize the handwriting,” he said.
Reaching a hand into the a hidden pocket of his greatcoat, he pulled out a black cloth bundle and unrolled it with a practiced flick of his wrist. The burglar’s tools didn’t make a sound as they landed on the table’s surface. Slowly, thoughtfully he picked through them, removing one tool and examining it before discarding it for another.
Finally, Glory reached the end of her patience. “For Barley’s sake, Bingo, who’s it from? And what are you picking through your gear for?”
Bingo straightened and looked her in the eye. “It took a lot of sweat, luck, and skill to get out from under the Proudfoot clan’s thumb. Most orphans don’t. They run up debts, get apprenticed, and before they can blink they’re in the life up to their eyeballs. I almost got tangled up, but I got myself free. And after five years of silence, Rosemary Proudfoot, my own dear orphan-master sends me a present. Do you want to bet it ain’t a trap?”