11

It was a chill morning, and the sun hadn’t even woken up yet as Mick moved through his house quiet as a burglar. He performed his routine with barely a sound, showering, brushing his teeth, dressing into the shirt he’d steam pressed the night before, and then gathering his stuff into his knapsack. He conducted this in the dark, not wanting any stray lamp light to spill under Ma’s bedroom door.

Only in the living room did he light a single glow lamp to ward away the early morning darkness. Sitting on the couch and tugging his boot onto his right foot, he mentally checked off everything needed for the journey ahead.

‘Fingerprinting Techniques for the Would-Be Sleuth’ to read on the way there?

Check.

Turkey and mustard sandwiches for lunch?

Got ‘em.

Jar of oat milk in case the Full Striding guard office doesn’t have anything non-dairy?

In you go, my oaty friend.

A creaking sound made him freeze in the act, as if he really was a burglar. It’ll just be Ma turning over in bed or something, he thought.

When no further sounds came, he guessed his luck was in. The last thing he’d wanted to do was wake her. Mick had called Healer Brown out to see about Ma’s insomnia, and the old quack had listed off a ream of things to try. Janey Morgan, up at Jack Cooper’s craftstead, was going to brew a sleeping draught that he’d prescribed. Until then, Ma just had to go to bed at the same time every night, do her meditations and her full body relaxation stuff, and hope the saints of sleep took pity.

The whole thing wasn’t his fault, of course, but Mick really didn’t want to be the one responsible for ruining what precious sleep she managed to get, though. Sitting on the couch, his boot in his hand, he listened intently for another moment or two, then allowed himself a sigh of relief. He hadn’t woken her up.

Then, footsteps told him that he’d hoped in vain. They stomped across the adjoining bedroom, before Ma’s door opened. A few steps later, this being a small, one-floor house, Ma appeared in the living room doorway.

“Sorry,” said Mick. “Tried being quiet.”

“S’good thing you’re going for your sleuth token, Micky. You chose the right side. You’d make a lousy thief.”

Sleuth was one name for the class that Mick was hoping to earn, though not all people with the token called themselves sleuths. When you started on the token program, you had to choose whether to be a sleuth, detective, or inspector. We were talking oranges, clementines, and tangerines here. Pretty much the same fruit, but each with its own advantages and drawbacks. Mick still hadn’t made up his mind what he’d choose. He guessed he would go with his gut when the time came. For sake of ease, however, a lot of people in Easterly referred to anyone who solved mysteries as a sleuth.

“Do you want a coffee, Ma?” he asked.

“Might as well, since I’m up,” she replied. “I’ll make it though, chuck. You finish getting ready.”

Ma got busy brewing up a pot on the glow stone in the kitchen, humming a tune that she’d made up herself. It didn’t have words, but the melody was as familiar to Mick as a drunken rendition of The Necromancer’s Funeral, which folks in the King’s Head liked to belt out every so often.

“How’s that coffee going, Ma?” he said.

“Quicker, now you’ve asked me about it.”

The stone took a while to heat up these days. Like lots of things around here, it needed replacing. It had been hard to do that on the wages he got working for Mr. Leabrook, fetching and carrying and running errands all damned day.

Maybe he could ask old Jack Cooper if he had any used glow stones going cheap when he went to the craftstead for the sleeping draught. Then again, it’d be much more pleasant to visit young Lewis on Coiner’s Way. He might have a smart mouth sometimes, but at least he was never grouchy with his customers.

Mick tied the drawstrings on his knapsack and then crossed the room, standing in front of the mirror to see if he looked like a sleuth. The man staring back at him was tall, with a runner’s leanness and a well-groomed moustache. He was wearing his best shirt, the burgundy one he’d bought for Sal Steven’s wedding a couple of months back. He’d opted for his denims instead of trousers, though. He’d checked the regulations through and through, and although trousers were preferred for sleuths, there was no real dress code. He was already nervous enough about today, and it felt like wearing clothes that were comfortable to him would take the edge off things a little.

Looking in the mirror, he couldn’t help thinking back now to a time, almost thirty years ago, when he’d watched his dad stand in that exact spot, wearing a suit he’d had tailored by Mr Flueitt, who used to own a tailor store on Coiner’s Way.

Dad had been so proud that night, standing there adjusting his tie, tightening it and then loosening it, struggling to get the knot right. He’d been sweating buckets about going to Full Striding. Even a young Mick could see that. But it wasn’t every night you got honored by the Guard Commission, was it? Forty years of service. It didn’t matter that he’d done it as a guard in Sunhampton, where even the rats asked permission before they broke into your larder. Mick’s dad was getting commemorated, and that was all that mattered.

That night, Ma had a meeting with a fellow solicitor, so Mick had gone with Dad and met all the guards and inspectors that came from all across Easterly. Then he’d watched his dad climb up onto a huge stage and shake the mayor of Striding’s hand. Mick remembered feeling such a flush of pride, watching Big Mick up there getting his commemorative guard coin.

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His eyes registered movement in the mirror, breaking him from happy memories. Looking into the glass, he could see the living room wall reflected back, where his dad’s commemorative coin was framed. Mick caught his Ma staring at him from over in the kitchen. She was leaning on a counter, chin resting on her hands, a big smile on her face.

“Ma!”

“If your father could see you now…” she said.

“That’d be a trick, all the way from ‘hampton cemetery.”

“Mick…” said Ma in her warning tone of voice, though she wasn’t mad. Mick had inherited his sense of humor from Ma. Not a dark sense of humor, but certainly gray. Her attitude was that you could laugh or cry at the bad things in life – sometimes both at once - but she’d rather laugh.

“Dad would think it was silly,” said Mick. “Going all the way out to Striding, just to get turned away. Everyone knows they recruit kids from colleges and the like. Most of the places on the program are filled already, they just don’t admit it. I’m too old.”

“If you’re too old,” said Ma, “what does that make me?”

“You, mother, are aging in reverse. You’ll look younger than me soon.”

“Flatterers are doing the seven devils’ work,” she said with a grin. Then, “Your father stood where you’re standing once, you know.”

“Well, sure. He lived here.”

She shook her head. “I mean he went to Full Striding for an exam, too. Tried to get on the sleuth class program.”

Mick turned around to face his Ma. “He did?”

She nodded. “Didn’t happen, of course. Must have been something he said in the interview.”

Yeah, and Dad’s weight, thought Mick. His father had been called Big Mick, and in that instance, the nickname was physically accurate. The sleuth class program was one place where that would really count against a person. There was a physical exam you had to pass as well as everything else, since you had to be in decent shape to become a sleuth.

“I think it would have meant a lot to him if he could have seen you get accepted,” said Ma. “He always used to love taking you on his rounds with him. He’d look forward to it all week. Always had a little extra pep those mornings.”

Rounds, for the head of guards in a place like Sunhampton, basically meant taking a walk down Coiner’s Way and saying good morning to the merchants. Mick had loved making rounds with his dad, too. No point skirting around it; the only reason Skinny Mick was the head of Sunhampton guards now was because Big Mick used to be.

“I better get going,” he said.

Ma approached him, reaching up to straighten his collar. It was already straight, but mothers needed to do that kind of thing, so Mick let her unstraighten it and then make it neat again.

“Good luck, Micky. Just take a deep breath whenever you get nervous. You’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, Ma. Take it easy while I’m gone. And don’t nap – you know what Healer Brown said about trying to set a sleep routine.”

“Get going, will you? It’d be just like you to miss the commuter cart.”

It wouldn’t be just like him, of course. They both knew how punctual he was. Mick took one last look in the mirror, then hefted his knapsack over his shoulder and headed toward the door. He’d only touched the handle when his mother spoke.

“Oh! What did you get for Zip’s birthday?”

“Her birthday?”

“Micky, for saints sake. I have to remind you your niece is turning thirteen? That’s an important age. Don’t tell me you didn’t get her anything.”

“I’ll pick something up in Full Striding. But I’ve really got to go. Bye, Ma. Love you.”

Mick left his and Ma’s little house, then cut down an alley that took him onto Coiner’s Way in less than two minutes. Even some seasoned ‘hamptoners weren’t aware of that alley shortcut, but Mick knew his hometown like the back of his hand. Better, in fact. The whole ‘back of the hand’ thing made no sense to Mick; who spent time staring at their own hands?

Coiner’s Way was dark, this still being a couple of hours before even the most enthusiastic merchants would start getting their stores ready for the day. Only two stores had lights in the windows, both of them next to each other. There was Lewis Cooper’s store, and Paisley Porter’s, right next door.

Mick’s guard senses started working, and he thought he better just make sure everything was alright. It wasn’t so unusual to see Ms. Porter in her store so early, since she was as dedicated a merchant as you could ever meet. But Lewis? By all accounts a hard worker, but not an early riser.

Mick pressed his hands against the window of Cooper and Cooper – Artificers of Renown. The lamp glow came not from the storefront but Lewis’s workshop at the back. Mick kept his vigilance for another second or two, then, seeing no movement, put it down to the artificer forgetting to turn his lamp off the evening before.

“You’re up early.”

The voice made him jump. Mick turned around to see Mr. Leabrook standing there. Today, as ever, Mr. Leabrook was wearing an impeccably ironed shirt, a tie that couldn’t have been fastened neater if a tailor had done it, and shoes that almost blinded you with polish. He’d never been spotted around ‘hampton in casual clothes. Not once. Mick suspected Mr. Leabrook had been born wearing clothes that made him look like a bank manager. He could imagine him now, a grouchy little baby wearing a shirt and a tiny tie.

“Mornin’, Mr. Leabrook,” said Mick, polite yet not bothering to hide a certain coolness.

“Surprised to see you up and about. Good timing, though. I need you to get to Perentee Publications as early as you can. If you’re on their doorstep when they open, so much the better. I need fliers for a meeting for the merchants to discuss-”

This was incredible. Had he forgotten what had happened the other week?

“I don’t work for you, Mr. Leabrook.”

“Oh, come on. Let bygones be bygones, I always say.”

Mick had never once heard Mr. Leabrook say that. The man could hold a grudge like his palm was coated in glue.

“Don’t have anything against you personally,” said Mick, “But I said what I said.”

“You’re off to Striding then, I presume?”

“I am.”

“Overheard your mother telling Martha Peters.”

Here it comes, thought Mick, bracing himself for whatever disparaging things that Mr. Leabrook had to say. He didn’t yet know whether he would react angrily, or take the high road. He guessed it depended on how much of an ass Mr. Leabrook felt like being today.

Instead of saying anything, Mr. Leabrook took something out of his coat pocket. It was a slim, rectangular box with a blue bow on it. “Look, as it happens, I didn’t run into you accidentally. If you won’t come back to work for me, then I at least hope you find your way onto the sleuth program. You were always a hard worker, Michael. And, I daresay, capable of much bigger things. It was a certain…well….perhaps…selfishness, that…”

Mick would almost have preferred that Mr. Leabrook be his usual belligerent self, because he found this new side of him hard to comprehend.

“Oh. Well, don’t worry about it,” he said, just wanting this strange niceness to stop.

“Open it,” said Mr. Leabrook.

Inside the box was a pen. Not an artificed pen or anything like that, but a very fancy one. Must have cost a pretty penny.

“I thought, being how thrifty you are, this is perhaps the kind of thing you want but wouldn’t spend out for.”

“It’s a beaut, Mr. Leabrook. It really is.”

Mr. Leabrook offered his hand. Mick took it, feeling like he was talking to a complete stranger now, yet one who perhaps it might be worth actually getting to know.

“Good luck, Michael.”