39

Mick decided he didn’t have time to spend making trips to the Tillwright farm and Alderman Woot in Perentee to collect his fees. If he spent all his day chasing up invoices, he’d never get any sleuthing done. What he really needed was an administrative assistant, but he couldn’t afford one yet. As a middle ground, he wrote a few notes then went to the post office to see Connor Perry.

Connor had been Sunhampton’s head postmaster for years. He opened up the post office the same time every day like clockwork, even if he’d had fitful sleep thanks to his light sensitivity. He could reliably be found behind the post counter most times of the day, usually sorting through mail but sometimes reading a book. If he wasn’t there, he was out on post duties, though he and his assistant, Seelka Syrne, shared that part of the job.

“Would you like first class postage or second class?” asked Connor.

“What’s the difference?”

“One to two days delivery for first class, three to five for second.”

“Second class is cheaper, I take it?” said Mick.

“Naturally.”

“Ah, what the heck. Second, please. Actually…don’t suppose there’s a third class postage that’s even cheaper?”

Connor nodded. “We do.”

“I’ll send them by third class then please, Connor.”

“It’s called delivering it yourself. Doesn’t cost a penny.”

People paid their sleuths in different ways, Mick soon learned. Some of them liked to deal in actual coins, and would hand them over in bags, rolls, stacks, or by just placing them on his desk. Flo Anderson, for instance, used paying Mick as an opportunity to get rid of all her old change, remunerating him the full amount he was owed in coppers and silvers. Mick didn’t mind, though. Gold was gold, and you could get it changed at the bank for free. Besides that, Ma collected coins and getting so many of them let Mick look through to see if there were any editions she didn’t have yet.

Other folks preferred to use banking drafts, which he was reluctant to accept unless he knew the person well or had a solid reason to trust them. Call it wisdom, call it the aftereffects of spending time with Lena Coarty, but he was all too aware that banking drafts could be forged. Then again, so could coins, he guessed. Didn’t they just shut down a major copper coin counterfeiting set up in Hattersdale? Clever really; nobody expected anyone to go to the effort of forging copper coins rather than silver or gold, so they’d gotten away with it for years.

In any case, though Mick had healthy suspicions most of the time, he didn’t mind when Alderman Woot sent a banking draft in the post. He was the mayor’s assistant, for saints’ sakes. A good old, salt of the earth politician. If you couldn’t trust those folks, then who could you trust? Everyone in Easterly knew that.

With a bit more gold in his sleuth coffers, Mick did a few things. First, he treated Ma to a meal at the King’s Head. She asked him what she’d done to deserve it, and he said nothing – she just deserved it. Lavish, sure. But couldn’t a guy treat his mother from time to time?

He divided the rest of his earnings into pots. Not physical ones, as such, but he liked to know where his money was going. He set a quarter of it aside for regular business expenses, a quarter for the necessities of life, kept a modest sum for buying a few pieces of sleuthing equipment, and planned to take the rest to Full Striding Central bank, where he’d save it.

Lee Hunter called in at Mick’s office while he was dividing his cash, this effort represented by a series of sums scribbled in a notepad. When Mick explained what he was doing, Lee shook his head like it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

“What are you like? So you do all this work, and then…just save your gold?”

“That’s the idea,” said Mick.

“When do you get to spend it?”

“Well…most of it’s for my retirement.”

“You might never see your bloody retirement! Sorry to be so gloomy, buddy, but there’s a balance. What about the now? What about enjoying your life while you’re at your peak? Relatively speaking.”

“I keep in shape!” said Mick.

“I’m just saying, you should treat yourself. At least a little.”

“I go for beers with you, Spruce, and Nell. What’s that, if it isn’t treating myself?”

Lee paced around the office. It was a different kind of pacing to the one Mick normally practiced; Lee was just always full of energy. In fact, he only ever seemed to find calm when he was alone in a forest or woodland.

“That’s not a treat. Going for a nice ale is sort of….normal friendship maintenance. I mean that you should do something really nice for yourself. Like when I went out and bought myself that new bow. Didn’t need it. Already got half a dozen bows. But I’d worked hard, hadn’t I, and I really wanted it. What about when Nell came back from the West Grove East antiques fair with that grandfather clock that doesn’t even keep time right? Her cottage is barely big enough to fit it in, but she really liked it.”

Mick wondered if he really could spend some of his earnings on himself. On something he didn’t need, some item or other that he merely wanted. It’d feel strange. Even the idea of spending completely unnecessary gold made him inwardly recoil. Someone might say taking Ma out for dinner wasn’t necessary, not strictly. He and Ma didn’t need cod and fried potatoes at the King’s Head to carry on breathing, did they? But showing his mother he cared was a necessity - just a different kind. It wasn’t the same as splurging coins on himself.

“How’d it go with the bird business, anyhow?” said Lee. “When’s the trial?”

Mick felt his mood sour a little. “There won’t be one.”

“What?”

“The prosecution service felt there was no way to prove that Lena Coarty trained the birds to steal, or that she even knew they were bringing the jewelry back to her cottage. All she has to do is claim ignorance about the hiding place in her yard and the prosecutor would have better luck digging for gold nuggets with a spoon.”

“But the seeds she was feeding them. You said they were alchemical ones or something?”

Mick shrugged. “Lena told the inspector she had bought the seeds from a guy at a tavern. Couldn’t remember his name, couldn’t even remember the tavern. So she bought the seeds without knowing what they did, and she sometimes enjoys riding all the way to Perentee to feed the birds, is all.”

“What a crock of crap.”

“Way of the world, my friend,” said Mick.

“So that’s all you have to do to get away with something? Just…say you didn’t do it?”

Truth was, Mick had already been over this in his own head plenty of times, to the point he’d made a kind of peace with it. “She didn’t do any of the stealing herself, and we can’t exactly get the birds to talk. If she’d used parrots, well at least that’d be something.” He sighed, and continued, “It is what it is. At least we put a stop to the whole thing. Peoples’ jewelry is safe, Flo Anderson can enjoy her cereal, and I made nice progress towards my class.”

Though he hadn’t known it at the time, Lee Hunter’s words must have had an effect, because the next morning, Mick woke up with a single thought in his head: I’m going to treat myself today. He knew just the thing to buy, too.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

With this fixed firmly in mind, he headed across Coiner’s Way in the direction of Paisley Porter’s store. He was nervous yet excited, and he could already picture himself wearing one of the fancy coats that both Paisley and Jace had already tried selling him. They weren’t coats made specifically for a sleuth, but he thought they were the sort of thing a sleuth would wear all the same. The only thing he hadn’t figured out yet was whether to go for a black or dark brown one.

They say black is slimming, don’t they? Then again, folks already know me as Skinny Mick. And brown looks good on me. People have always said so. But a black coat does lend a certain mystery to a guy…

He was pulled from his thoughts by the clip-clop of horse hooves. He stepped aside and was ready to walk on, when he recognized the horse coming his way.

“Big Jimmy!”

Sure enough, it was him. Big Jimmy, who’d made for great company during his adventures in Perentee and his moorland stakeout. Farmer Barnes was leading him through Coiner’s Way by a lead rope attached to Jimmy’s halter.

As nice as it was to see Jimmy, he couldn’t say the same for Farmer Barnes. Mick didn’t dislike many people, and even of those who provoked the feeling in him, he usually tried to give them the benefit of the doubt. But Begbie Barnes had always stirred up a dark feeling in his gut, and he’d trusted his gut even before he became a sleuth.

It wasn’t that Begbie had done anything to Mick. He hadn’t seen him mistreating his horses, either. Honestly, he couldn’t say where the feeling came from, and that was why he did his utmost not to let it influence how he behaved. Now that he was a sleuth in training, it was even more important that he treat people fairly and as though they were innocent until he knew for sure it was otherwise.

“Morning, Begbie,” he said. “How’s the day treating you?”

“Mick.”

“See you’re out with Big Jimmy here. Or Large James, as he told me he sometimes likes to be called.”

Begbie Barnes didn’t even smile at Mick’s joke. Not that it would have brought a tavern audience into stitches, but still. It wasn’t the worst joke ever told in Easterly.

“Selling him on,” said Begbie. “Just taking him now.”

“You’re selling Jimmy?”

“Yes.”

Begbie was the biggest horse dealer in this part of Easterly. He bought them, rented them out, sold them. If there was a way to make money from a horse, he most likely had his hand in it. Though he treated his horses fair by all accounts, viewing them as stock that needed to be kept in good shape so he could earn maximum profit, he didn’t have any love for them.

Nothing wrong with that, of course. Nothing at all. Mick had once heard Jace Porter telling his niece, Paisley, how there was no room for sentiment in business. That was years ago, when she’d first arrived in Sunhampton and wasn’t even an apprentice merchant yet. Much later, he’d overheard Paisley giving her friend, Lewis Cooper, the very same pep talk.

Being of this school of business, Begbie Barnes had no time nor patience for unnecessary expenses. If his horses weren’t likely to make him much money by other means, he found a buyer for them. Simple as that. Did he really need to sell Jimmy, of all horses, though?

“Where’s Jimmy going?” asked Mick.

“Rocky Falls mine, just southwest of The Cove. They take all the nags they can get. I made a contract for a dozen, but then Spotted Clyde got sick, so Jimmy here needs to make up the numbers.”

Mick wasn’t naïve; he knew how the world worked. He knew how animals were used for all kinds of labor, and he himself had no doubt used, consumed, or eaten something that was a direct or indirect result of such things. But Big Jimmy, of all horses, getting sold to a silver mine where he’d be pushing mining carts and hauling stuff around all day?

Nope. No way, no how. Not in this lifetime. Sure, it was hypocritical to get so wound up over this one animal - what about all the rest of the beasts of burden in Easterly, after all? But he was only human, and he couldn’t help his feelings. He was also just one guy, that was the fact of it. Saving the world was unrealistic. Better just to do his best in his little parcel of it.

“How much you getting for Jimmy?” he said.

“Told you, it’s a contract for a dozen.”

“Alright,” said Mick, “What’s the total divided by twelve?”

Begbie squinted. “You’re awfully interested.”

“Look, I’ll give you two hundred gold for Jimmy right now.”

“Two hundred! You ever bought a horse before, Mick?”

“Well, no. But I’ve spent some time with Jimmy, and I know a few things about him. He’s lazy, he ain’t that strong, he’s about as obedient as a…wasp-”

“As a wasp?”

“Yup, and he’s dumber than a bag of rocks that’s been crushed into dust. All in all, if I made a list of horses to sell to a mining outfit, I wouldn’t even put Jimmy on it, let alone at the bottom. He’s dumb, weak, and he’s old.”

Mick glanced at Big Jimmy. Hope you can’t understand me, buddy. And if you can, that you know I’m lying, and it’s for your own good. He placed his right hand on Jimmy now, who responded by turning a little and brushing his head against Mick’s sleeve.

Begbie gave a tug on the reins. Not hard, not cruelly, but just enough to make Jimmy move away.

“What do I care? I promised them twelve horses, and they’re getting twelve.”

“You’ve got a reputation, Begbie,” said Mick. “Don’t just think about this one contract. If word gets around that Begbie Barnes sells old and useless horses-” he paused then, inwardly thinking, sorry, Jimmy, “then nobody’ll want to deal with you.”

Begbie glanced at Jimmy, then back at Mick. “I do have a couple of younger ‘uns I was umming and ahhing over including in the contract.”

“Every horse represents you and your business, Begbie. Remember that. They’re like a walking advertisement of you.”

“Fine. A thousand gold for Jimmy. He’s of good stock.”

“I ain’t a breeder, you told me you’ve got no use for him. Every coin you get from me for him is like free money,” said Mick.

“Five hundred.”

“Two hundred, and we part as friends.”

“Doubt we’ll ever be that. Fine, Mick. I don’t have time for this. Two hundred, right here right now, and we’ll call a deal a deal.”

Mick led Big Jimmy across town and to the King’s Head. He didn’t know if it was just coincidence, but he swore he could feel the wind sneaking in through the gaps in the protection of his old coat now. Maybe he could treat himself again in a few cases time, though. Buy himself a new coat then. Unless, that was, he bumped into a farmer selling a cow that he’d befriended recently, or something equally stupid. He needed to stop being so soft hearted, damn it.

At the tavern, Mick went to see Paul Parsnip. Paul ran the stable at the back of the tavern where guests hitched their horses and mules – and on one occasion a griffin – for ten gold per night. There was always a stable or two going free, and Paul said he could offer Mick a discounted rate of seven gold per night to keep Big Jimmy there. This wasn’t a livery, so they couldn’t offer a long-term guarantee of a place, but he’d let Mick pay for a month and see where they went from there.

“Seven gold per night to keep him here?” said Mick. “You’re robbing me blind. I could keep him in my garden for free.”

“Seriously? It’s seven gold per night.”

“All the coins count. My garden’s zero per night.”

“Oh yeah, Mick? What’s he going to eat?”

“Grass.”

“You got a garden that sprouts up anew every night, have you? A little field of magic grass that’ll sustain a horse?”

“Fine. I’ll go to the farmers market and buy hay wholesale. Bet I could get it cheaply.”

“Okay,” said Paul, “What about when it’s cold or raining or stormy? You gonna let Big Jimmy sleep in your bed? Because you don’t have a stable, as far as I know.”

“Damn it. Can’t you do it any cheaper?”

“Mick…I don’t think you’re realizing that seven gold per night to stable a horse is an absolute steal. I’m not pretending this is a livery-standard setup; it’s a stable at the back of a tavern. But c’mon. You know what kind of care I put into the animals that stay here. Seven gold for the reassurance Big Jimmy is cared for is the best deal you’ll ever see in this lifetime. In fact, when I save up for a livery of my own, I’ll charge four times that much.”

It was true. Paul Parsnip was renowned around Sunhampton for his obsession with horses, mules, donkeys. Anything that wore a saddle, in fact. When Big Jimmy wasn’t with Mick, there’d be no better place in Easterly for him.

All the same, seven gold per night…what an expense that was! And for the duration of Jimmy’s life! Mick had set out that morning to buy a nice coat for himself as a treat, but he’d given himself decades of obligation.

What the heck is happening to me lately? All this time I’ve been so careful with coins. Then I quit my job….I buy a damned horse.

Thing was, there was another part of his mind telling him that if he really, really thought about it, neither of these decisions had actually felt wrong. Not even though they went charging head on toward his old values, brandishing a long sword and roaring a battle cry.

Something stirred in his gut just then. A kind of prodding feeling, but from the inside. As though some inner instinct was telling him something.

“If this is such an amazing price, then a fella has to wonder why.”

“Ever heard of looking a gift horse in the mouth, Mick? Alec just wants to make the King’s Head a friendly tavern. Friendly to travelers, friendly to animals.”

“You’re not telling me the real reason.”

“I’m not?”

Mick hadn’t really known he was going to say that until he did, but there it was. And now, he needed to stick with it.

“You’re not,” he said with conviction.

“Alright, fine. Alec said lots of road folk only stop at a tavern where they can stable their animals, and that expensive stabling fees would make them look for another tavern. Perentee ain’t far, after all. It’s all about profit. Alec takes a hit on the stabling, but gets people paying for lots of food and drink when they’re inside.”

“Okay, then. It’s about money. That’s something I can understand.”

The tokens in his coat pocket vibrated then. Or at least, one of them did. Now wasn’t the time to look, but he guessed it was his blank Simple Interrogation skill token earning a little experience.

Weighing things up for a second or two more, he made his decision. He’d bought Jimmy. There was no going back from that, and now, it was his responsibility to make sure he enjoyed his twilight years as much as possible. That began with good lodgings. Living here at the tavern, under Paul Parsnip’s dutiful care, was perfect. Besides, he would just have to allocate Jimmy’s expenses into his budget, that was all. The rate really was so cheap that solving a case or two would cover it for a month.

After paying a month’s worth of stabling up front – and again briefly questioning what the heck was happening to him – he said a temporary goodbye to Jimmy and went on with the rest of his day.