Voluntary Retirement (4)
For two straight days, Cain had been run off his feet. He got dragged into executive meetings where they grilled him publicly on exactly how he'd handled the case, had to write up his full statement, and schedule interviews with the law professors and grad students lined up outside the Security Bureau building. Those professors and grad students were practically salivating to catch even a glimpse of his shadow.
There was a reason for that. The Imperial Security Bureau was an agency dedicated to serving the Empire, under the direct command of the Emperor. Meaning its power fluctuated wildly at the whims of imperial authority. Ironically, nobles like the Pre-Sequor harbored mixed feelings toward the Bureau. They coveted its immense authority—the access to intelligence across the entire Empire—but hated being spied on with it.
So the nobles tried to "tame" the Bureau to their tastes. The most elegant, high-class method? Lawsuits. The complaints were petty yet inventive, absurd yet legally sound by legal mind standards. As a result, the Bureau was swamped with suits ripe for legal debate. And debates made for prime thesis material. Wait a month for a standard paper, three for a conference presentation, six for a full dissertation—no exaggeration, just cold facts.
Thanks to the Bureau, the Empire's law, admin, and poli-sci professors lived happily ever after. Grad students suffered, sure, but at least they weren't tormented by writer's block or lack of sources. The gold mine was right there—just bring a spoon. Imperial law grew ever more refined, political theory advanced, and admin texts got full rewrites every year. Printers reaped the benefits too, as law books and textbooks thickened annually.
So Cain didn't sweat the lawsuits piling up against him. Just follow procedure. Submit the statement to Admin, they'd redact sensitive bits—names, places—and hand it to the grad students outside. A slick legal opinion would arrive in under a month. Submit that to the Imperial Court, and done. Especially this case—tenured profs were circling it. Was the Empire's criminal duel law a net gain or loss? Was applying imperial treason charges to knights abusing it justified? Gold for them.
The Bureau wasn't some place you could quit on a whim anyway. To prevent retirees spilling fresh intel to foreign powers or rival nobles, you had to clock in at a secret imperial "safe house" for a year—until your knowledge went stale. Other uses too, but anyway. The suits wouldn't drag past six months. Cain would walk free, Goetz too, and the rich with bad reps would pay up legally. Lawyers happy, papers pouring out, printers booming.
Of course, that meant finishing this damn statement properly.
In the Fourth Division office of the Imperial Security Bureau, Cain focused on writing. The paper was still blank—he couldn't even scribble his name. Every time he touched pen to page, bile rose in his throat. Finally, he sighed, dipped the pen back in the inkwell, leaned back in his chair, and dozed off.
Five minutes tops.
"Imperial Security Bureau Fourth Division, Captain Cain?"
A man's voice—thick, heavy baritone. Cain mumbled, "Yeah."
"I'm putting you on express trial."
Same voice, but the inflection shifted just a hair. Like white shoes versus off-white. Cain replied flatly, "Why."
"Why? 'Cause you got a bonus—you owe us a round!"
No time to even yelp. Two burly guys grabbed him, bear-hugging tight.
"Boss! You nabbed Goetz? Classic you!"
"Man, it's been forever! You're skinnier! Penalty's a keg of beer and five plates of pork shoulder—deal?"
Voices echoing front and back, Cain couldn't think straight. "Let go, you assholes! Dizzy here!"
Backfired. They squeezed harder.
"Aw, boss is so bony from not eating—we gotta fix that, bros! You used to shrug this off easy!"
"Right? Age is for drowning in booze, like you always said!"
"Why am I your bro?"
"Shouldn't I say that?"
They shut up. Cain had elbowed their solar plexuses. No real damage to those thick muscles, but the twins hammed it up anyway.
Cain looked down at the left one. Straw-blond hair, blue eyes, chubby cheeks. "Boehm."
Right one. Same. "Bom."
Boehm and Bom. Twin agents from central Mirdenburg—famous for prime coal mines. No clue who was older; they both claimed it.
"When'd you get back?"
"Just now!" Boehm bellowed cheerfully. "Rolled in from the north. Thought I'd freeze my ass off up there. Shivering back to HQ, and everyone's buzzing about you?"
"Spill on Goetz! Sword? Staff?"
Cain eyed the brothers like they were nuts. "Whetstone say nothing?"
They glanced at each other, snickering. "You know Whetstone? 'Can't discuss that.' Lips sealed."
"Probed a bit—'Ask the captain; he's op lead.' Kid's mouth tighter than palace walls."
Cain approved inwardly. Silence was an agent's virtue. But worry crept in too. Lily's silence bordered on mutism. Maybe her White Blood Knight Order dad's parenting—absolute obedience to superiors.
Didn't have to raise her like a wind-up toy, though.
"Anyway, boss. You didn't even buy Whetstone dinner?"
Boehm chided. Cain's eyes narrowed. "Who buys who."
"C'mon, boss. You see how she looks at you? She was all at attention: 'Can't discuss.' With this dopey grin..."
"Ugh, dude. No need for impressions."
Bom swung a fist; Boehm dodged easy. But Bom kept poking slyly. "Boss, what's wrong with our Whetstone? Family loaded, rack stacked, ass stacked. Issues?"
"Cheeks stacked too," Boehm chimed.
Bom shook his head. "Nah, baby fat. Gone by twenty-five, tops. She's twenty-two. Boss, hate tall girls?"
"Nah."
"Younger ones? Eight years too much?"
"Nah."
"Then what?"
"Your catastrophic sense of language."
Cain crossed arms. Twins cracked up, clutching bellies.
"Why? Works great on northern hicks. Old Empire gag from ten years back—still kills there. We prepped with the dictionary."
Infiltration gig, huh. Cain mused. North republics sniffing alliance vibes lately. Twins probably building contacts, sources. Month-long op—not heavy.
"Boss, imagine the wedding pic. White Blood Knight Order head's second daughter—founding hero sword clan—with a rising Security Bureau star."
"You maniacs."
"Seriously, snag her while she likes you. Rare breed—tight-lipped, stubborn, no games, deep and fiery inside. Flip that switch? Gone for good. Been dumped by one; I know."
"Maniacs."
But Cain yanked open his drawer, grabbed his wallet bulging with cash. "Gotta cure that mouth with booze and meat. Hey, Boehm—where you—"
Boehm bolted. Bom grinned. "Division dinner after two months—gotta bring Whetstone. Obvious, right boss?"
Cain considered stopping it, then shrugged. Retirement talk sober? Nah. Better buzzed, stuffed, then spill.
Bustling district eateries had solid soundproofing—not for secretive regulars, but 'cause they were old forts, armories, powder kegs. Thick walls, low ceilings, but roaring hearths and steady crowds kept it toasty. Warmth seeped into the Fourth Division's private booth.
"So, tore open the mystery letter on the mail coach. Sneaky-like."
Boehm speared fatty pork shoulder—beer-braised, gaminess steamed off with booze, bitterness cutting the richness.
"Know what it said? 'One flea in this letter. No flea? Someone opened it.' Thought I was losing it. Dim moonlight—couldn't tell if there was one."
"What'd you do?"
"Stripped buck-naked, searched everywhere. Nada. Stuffed a straw-pile flea from the stables. Itched like hell."
"Pfft."
First time—Whetstone actually laughed out loud. She'd been silent smiles till now.
Bom smirked. "Hilarious, right? Get this—you'll be shirtless flea-hunting next year too. North, east—who knows. West, south maybe."
"Year after," Cain corrected. "Six months in. Foreign ops need a year minimum. Domestic till then."
"Oh yeah, her first gig? Probationary. How'd it go?"
Cain nearly blurted, then clammed up. Whetstone's eyes sparkled.
"Did... good."
He muttered despite himself. Her face flushed crimson. Twins grinned knowingly.
"Aw boss, don't be coy. Whetstone—your take? Felt ace or ass? Objective."
"Many shortcomings."
No hesitation. Boehm topped her glass. "Why? Humble?"
"No. I contributed little to Goetz's capture. Captain handled most; I just watched."
"Yeah, lacking. Shitty shave and haircut too."
Cain tossed in casually. Now her ears burned.
"...Sorry..."
"Whoa, kid—loosen up! Joke. Drink up. To the Fourth—toast!"
Boehm led; Bom raised glass. Cain and Whetstone clinked. Cain's eyes misted a bit.
When to drop it. What to say. Timing slipped.
"Anyway. Whetstone... y'know."
Boehm lowered his voice. Her eyes lit up again. Cain tensed. What bullshit now?