Hopeful Retirement (2)
Maxiburg City Hall. Maxiburg was a city with nothing noteworthy to see. It lay far from the central trade routes, and its average annual goods transaction volume was pitifully low. The only reason it was classified as a commercial city was that it was the sole flat plain in the entire Max province. Everywhere else was mountains, forests, swamps, basins, or valleys—places where wide roads were a pipe dream, and even gathering enough people to live was a challenge. If it had been a border region, it might have drawn heavy investment, but this spot sat in an awkward no-man's-land between the empire's core and the frontier. That meant no properly trained guards, and not even a decent detention cell. Forget the door a grown man could smash with a nudge; the junk piled inside was impossible to ignore.
Cain glanced back at the mayor. The man was trembling and chattering so badly that Cain had to repeat himself two or three times. “Clear out all the junk. Lock the door somehow. Send your soldiers to empty everything inside.”
Legally speaking, the Imperial Security Bureau wielded immense authority. Cain could seize command of Maxiburg's guards without issue. Of course, pulling that stunt would draw fierce backlash and criticism—from margraves, dukes, and knightly republic heads all itching for the throne. Cain knew the politics well enough, but with the mayor sweating buckets in pathetic terror, what choice was there?
“S-Sir… what if the knight breaks free…? How long can that rope hold Goetz…?”
Goetz was trussed up tight from head to toe. His skull was a mess of lumps from the beatings. The moment he woke, he'd start thrashing like a madman—no helping it.
“No need to slap 'sir' on a criminal. He's an imperial traitor. Summary execution's fair game anytime.”
The guards flinched and stared at Cain. Pitiful lot. The mayor looked ready to bawl at the slightest prod.
“Sir… could we speak privately? Somewhere quiet…?”
Cain wanted to shake his head. Instead, he cleared his throat. “Then fetch 'Grindstone' from outside city hall.”
“W-What was that?”
The mayor's eyes spun like saucers. Grindstone? Had the guy brought a hunting dog?
Luckily, Cain corrected himself. “Ah, s-sorry. Um… fetch the agent who came with me. Tell her I called—she'll come.”
How does a person get named Grindstone? The mayor followed orders anyway. The guard returned dragging a long-legged woman. She towered a handspan over Cain, with a smaller face and legs so long her hips hit at his waist. Her golden hair was pulled back tight, but loose, it'd probably be stunning.
“You called?”
Her voice was surprisingly delicate. Only then did the mayor really look at her face. Youthful, almost girlish, with plump cheeks that screamed baby fat.
“Got your sword?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Rest it on that bastard's shoulder. If he freaks out, warn him once. Keeps it up? Chop his head clean off.”
“Understood.”
Military-stiff tone, even for a soldier. Total mismatch. Voice like a little girl's, words like a green recruit's. Her elongated arm drew a blade thinner than a standard imperial sword, yet wickedly sharp. No shing—silent as death.
The mayor gawked back and forth between the leggy knightess and Cain. Cain offered a friendly smile. “Now, shall we chat?”
Cain waved off the tea. The mayor gulped his down like a man dousing a house fire with a bucket. Still parched, he hacked and coughed nonstop.
“We're grateful you captured Goetz von Bearinggen.”
Cain skipped correcting the 'sir' this time. One shout and the mayor might keel over.
“You're not seriously planning summary execution, are you?”
“Depends on that traitor's behavior.”
“S-Sir…”
“Cain.”
“Pardon?”
“Just call me Cain. Security Bureau agents use nicknames. Cain's fine.”
The mayor's eyes bugged out. Fair enough—Maxiburg was a backwater. Fancy title of mayor or not, step outside the province and folks would sneer, “Where the hell's that? Republic annex?” No wonder a lifelong local knew zilch about the capital's Security Bureau.
But the mayor loved Maxiburg. Like a farmer blind to the world beyond his fence but knowing every anthill inside it.
“If you execute him, do it outside city limits—on the highway.”
Cain eyed the mayor. The man glared back fiercely.
“Worried his bandit crew'll storm in?”
“Obviously. His record's flashy enough.”
Goetz had his own castle—small, but with moat, bridge, the works. Underlings numbered fifty at least, under a hundred tops. Problem was, no one knew where the damn lair was. Flip side: fixed base meant they could raid minor fiefs whenever.
“So?”
“Escort him out quick, or execute him outside.”
“Mayor.”
Cain steepled his fingers. “Both tricky. One: no soldiers. Just me and that… trainee agent. As you saw, she's short one for real manpower. Me, her, and my two pals can't handle Goetz's whole gang. Two: figured Maxiburg had at least one escort wagon. Records say so. But yours? A toddler could bust it open.”
The Maxiburg mayor just groaned in agony. Cain pressed on. “So here's my plan. Option one: summary execution here, head on a pike.”
“Ridiculous!”
The mayor caught Cain's look and backpedaled. “I mean… doable.”
Cain didn't take it as agreement. “Fine. Option two: dispatch a letter. Request escort from the nearest imperial military police. Figure a week rotting in your dungeon before they show.”
“Absolutely not! No way!”
The mayor finally bellowed. “His crew'll hit us the second they hear! Hoods up, sure—Eburg, Rophaburg, Dverburg! I heard how those three got trashed! Can't let Maxiburg end up like that!”
Cain stared pityingly. The mayor read it clear: Then what?
“Take Goetz and go. Right now.”
“That scary?”
The mayor slumped. “Agent… truth be told, even if it sounds disloyal to His Majesty, the capital's glittering power scares me less than Goetz's thugs torching us at midnight. Destruction's instant; law and justice? That's for the capital.”
Luckily for him, Cain didn't snap. No twitching brows, no “How dare you!” leap to feet. Just a weird expression.
What's that? Irritation? Anguish? Exhaustion?
Hard to read on a kid young enough to be his son.
“Got it.”
Cain slammed his palm on the armrest. “We'll clear him out pronto.”
“Really?”
“Really. But need half a day to prep. Your cooperation required.”
“Of course.”
The mayor nodded eagerly. He'd grant any request from this stellar Security Bureau agent. But the list that followed? Bewildering.
“Got it all?”
“Yes, yes.”
“We'll wait in the detention cell then. Excuse us.”
Cain rose and exited. The mayor jotted the requests in iron-gall ink before forgetting. He glanced at the open door, then sank into his chair with a sigh of relief. A breather before the secretary couldn't hurt.
What the hell was that guy?
The list looked insane no matter how he scanned it. Cain's face while dictating? Even weirder. Too tired for deep thoughts, the mayor rang the bell. In came the usual secretary—old, with a strangely melancholic mug. Suddenly, the mayor noticed it mirrored Cain's: thick boredom.
Not everyone in town loved Goetz. Plenty hated his guts. Luckily, the butchers were among them.
“Your requested items.”
The butcher hands plunked down hefty sacks. Already blood-soaked, sloshing wet. Thick crimson oozed onto the floor.
They bowed and left. Next, the blacksmiths.
“Here you go. More if needed.”
One wooden bucket held glue; the other, clothes and rope. Glue in abundance.
“This much is overkill, but…”
“Anything to help.”
Cain bowed gratefully. Last: a broad plank. Special feature—shackles for wrists and ankles, chained, size-flexible.
“Perfect. Mayor? Clear the detention cell?”
Guards and workers bolted out at his word. Mayor started to follow.
“You stay, Mayor.”
“Must I?”
“Your call.”
Gritting teeth, the mayor perched on a rickety wooden chair. Cain sighed deeply.
“Grindstone.”
The dutiful knightess still had her sword at Goetz's throat. Somehow warned, he glowered but didn't twitch.
“Yes, sir?”
“Sheathe it. Grab scissors and razor—shave his head and beard bald.”
Grindstone did exactly that. No complaint, sword away, tools in hand. Goetz squirmed, but Cain's staff twitch silenced him.
“Commencing.”
Stiff words, clumsy hands. Scissors slipped; hair sheared like weeds with dull blades. Goetz's eyes blazed, but “Our Grindstone's new to men's cuts and beards. Twitch wrong, scalp or jugular goes” shut him down meekly.
“Agent?”
“Yes.”
“Her agent's name… Grindstone?”
Grindstone's face stayed stone. Cain shot the mayor a what kinda idiot look.
“Obviously not. Nickname.”
“Then what do I…”
“Why call her at all?”
The mayor flinched, glancing at the knightess. Her baby face never wavered.
Shave and trim done.
“Good work.”
Her cheeks pinked faintly. “No, sir.”
“Keep watch.”
“Understood.”
Mechanical as ever, sword out. Cain rolled up his sleeves. The mayor gawked anew.
“Help me with this, Mayor.”
“Uh? What?”
“This.”
True to his rural-city-mayor roots, when Cain opened the sack—pig and cow guts, offal spilling out—the man didn't bat an eye.
“Grindstone. Gonna hurl?”
“Negative!”
“Speak up if you feel it.”
“Yes, sir!”
Goetz flinched. The knightess clearly suffered the stench but bellowed anyway. Her blade tip nicked his throat teasingly.
Cain yanked clothes from the blacksmith bucket. Twisted sleeve-ends and pant-legs tight, roped secure.
“What're you doing?”
“Let's make sausage. You and me, Mayor.”