30

This being Sunhampton, a place where someone defacing a park bench was newsworthy, the mysteries were slow in coming. The fact was, if crime paid – which Mick always said it didn’t – then any self-respecting criminal would look elsewhere if they wanted to keep their pantries stocked and food on the table.

He had a few little riddles of his own to work on, but if he wanted to earn his five skill trees quickly, he’d need a lot more. And meatier ones, too. Ones that really stretched him, forced him to think hard about them. Lewis Cooper had once told Mick that the tougher his crafting projects, the more experience he got from them. Surely the same applied to a sleuth solving mysteries?

A few days went by, and not a single person crossed the threshold of his new office. It was with this in mind that he called on Paisley Porter’s store again one morning. She wasn’t there today, though. Instead, Jace Porter was standing behind the counter, rebinding an old book.

Mr. Porter used to be one of the richest merchants in this part of Easterly. He could still claim that title here in Sunhampton, but his finances had taken a hit recently. Something about an iron deal that went wrong. Mick had always thought of him as a busy guy, the kind of businessperson who only concerned himself in deals that brought in thousands of gold. A couple of months back, though, he’d opened a stall on the Sunhampton market. Book repairs – that was what he offered. If you had a treasured tome that needed rebinding or just sprucing up, then he’d do it for you.

“Michael Mulroon, as I live and breathe,” said Mr. Porter. He was a much cheerier fellow these days. Everyone said so. His new vocation was treating him well.

“Morning, Mr. Porter.”

“Oh, please. How long have we known each other?”

Some folks, no matter how long you’d known them, you just couldn’t think of them as anything other than mister or missus. Teachers, for instance. Whenever Mick saw one of his old teachers in town, he still thought of them as Mr. Kenwright, or Ms. Marble.

“Is Paisley around?” he asked.

“She’s at the Tillwrights’ farm. Jon Tillwright’s been making birdhouses. Looking to perhaps sell them here.” Jace looked down at a sheet of paper, as if there were instructions written down for him. “You’re a strapping guy, Mick. You’d look top notch in one of these coats. Try one on.”

Mick glanced at the paper and sure enough, he saw that Paisley had left a list of things that her uncle had to try selling in her absence.

Ought to be careful, he thought. A master merchant like Jace Porter, he’ll have me handing over all my savings if I don’t keep my wits about me.

“Still got life left in this yet,” said Mick, pinching the collar of his tattered coat. “Any idea when she’s back?”

“Not until later.”

“Righto. I’ll pop by tomorrow, perhaps.”

“Now hold on a second,” said Jace. “If there’s something you need, you came to the right place.”

“I wanted a bit of advice, actually,” said Mick. “Set me up a little sleuthing office on Bishop’s Way.”

“A sleuthing office?”

He nodded. “Figured people can come to me with things they need solving. I’ll charge them gold, earn experience toward my tokens, and whatever’s puzzling them gets straightened out. Everyone’s laughing.”

“Your tokens? What tokens are you working on?” asked Jace.

Mick explained how he was an apprentice sleuth now, hoping to earn his class so he could become an actual Easterly sleuth, with a full salary paid for by the State one day. One day soon, in fact, if he wanted to keep at least some of his savings intact.

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Jace set the book he was binding to one side, and took out a notepad. “Well, first things first, Mick. If you want to sell ice, you don’t go visiting the Berg people in the northern tundra.”

“Yup, I know there ain’t much crime here. I’m open to any kind of mystery, though. The experience I get is just as good. Just last week, I found a missing pig for Alister Tillwright. Someone stole his favorite hog.”

Jace looked alarmed. “Someone took Rohan?”

“Don’t worry. I got him back.”

“Phew. Well, then. Second things second. Do people know you’ve set up this office of yours?”

“Not yet,” said Mick.

“Golden rule of business; people need to know about it. I’d suggest a sign outside your office, for one thing. I’ll help you with that.”

Mick knew that one ability in the merchant class was adding crowd-drawing effects to their signage. Anyone could write ‘Boots for sale’ on a sign, for instance. But if a fully-classed merchant did it, it would magically draw more peoples’ attention and make them strangely aware that their current footwear was subpar.

Jace continued, “I’d also suggest getting a few fliers made. Preferably with a witty slogan.”

“Mr. Leabrook doesn’t like folks handing out fliers in the street. Says it makes Coiner’s Way look cheap.”

“Well, what he likes and what is allowed are two different things. Coiner’s Way Trading Regulations, point sixty-three: ‘Merchants can advertise their wares by way of signage, business cards, fliers, and sales promotions.’”

He ought to have guessed that Jace Porter would know this kind of thing. The merchants on Coiner’s Way were at war with Mr. Leabrook, the very man who was supposed to manage their interests. Mick had always tried to stay out of it, while secretly thinking that Mr. Leabrook was usually being unreasonable. Now, though, he was starting to doubt all his old thoughts. He even felt the need to defend the guy a little.

“Mr. Leabrook’s only trying to keep everything looking nice. You know, he just wants Coiner’s Way to stay as it is. Nice and quaint. Not like some of the places in Full Striding.”

“That’s by the by,” said Jace, giving a dismissive hand wave. “Get some fliers made. A few business cards. If people are going to come to you with their mysteries, then they need to know that you’re offering the service in the first place. What’s more, they ought to know where you are.”

Getting fliers made wasn’t going to be free. Mick toyed with the idea of making them himself. He even made a draft flier using a sheet of notepad paper. Only, his handwriting had never been great, and when he studied his finished flier, it looked unprofessional.

With this in mind, he went to visit a printer’s shop in Perentee. It was a small workshop sandwiched between the fishmonger on one side and the Fox and Hill tavern on the other, so that the air outside was a mix of stale beer and cod.

The printer was a lady named Jesssolu – no surname – and she’d been in the game since the saints were young, as she liked to say. A while back, Mick had helped her out. She’d been visiting Sunhampton for some Yulthor shopping, when she’d had one of her epileptic fits. Mick had taken a very basic healing course when he became the town guard, and he knew enough so he could make her safe until the fit passed, then took her to Healer Brown’s clinic.

“Hey, Jess.”

He caught her in the middle of messing around with her tinkered press. She was underneath it, working at something with a spanner.

“Miklaus!” she said.

Where she came from, that was the equivalent of his name. He liked it. Much fancier than ‘Michael.’

Jesssolu told him she’d print a hundred fliers with a twenty-five percent discount, and she’d throw in fifty business cards, too. All she needed to know was what to put on them. Mick told her the pertinent information.

“Need something at the bottom, too,” he said. “A slogan.”

He, Nell, Lee, and Spruce had talked this out over a few beers in the tavern. Given that was their choice of meeting venue, and the fact they were drinking Queen’s Sorrow, which was a 12% beer, their suggestions started out helpful and became increasingly ridiculous. When Lee Hunter had suggested that Mick’s slogan be ‘criminals will be hunted’, Mick had called it a night.

Funnily enough, it was Ma who’d given him the slogan he needed. “Don’t try to be too clever, Micky. That’s when you miss something obvious. Why not just tell people what you’ll do for them? ‘Hamptoners appreciate someone who’s straightforward.”

And so, at the bottom of Mick’s fliers and business cards, he’d simply gotten printed, ‘Mysteries, riddles, puzzles and more – Mick Mulroon will solve them all.’

Jesssolu told him no problem, she could get them printed while he waited. As long as he waited somewhere else – such as the tavern, for instance. The printing press needed a little tinkering with. Mick didn’t want to spend money on tavern food when he wasn’t all that hungry, but he respected a crafter’s need for space all the same.

“Gotcha. I’ll take a walk. Say, doesn’t Chris Crier work around here?”

“The man with the bell?”

“The very same.”

“Usually in the town square. Oh, Mick?”

“Yeah?” he said.

“Are you looking for a wife? My sister, you’d love her. She’s coming to Easterly, perhaps to stay. I can’t make promises. Perhaps she’d hate you. But she is around your age.”

Mick cleared his throat. “Uh, not looking for a wife at the minute, no.”

“Then a husband? My brother will be coming too.”

“Probably a lovely guy, but I’m just not looking to get hitched. Good to have options, though, so I’ll bear ‘em both in mind.”