"You, asshole, are leaving here tonight. Under armed guard." He jerked his head toward the door. "Corporal Rau's guard, to be exact. I strongly recommend you behave yourself. I'll have Ms. Murphy write a letter to General Kagg and President Stearns. If you're lucky, you might keep your commission. I hope not, but I'm used to being disappointed in life."
Now, he turned to Ivarsson. "The big problem—"
Ivarsson was shaking his head before Anse even started talking. "That will not work, Herr Hatfield. You will need Corporal Rau in Suhl, to serve as your adjutant while you assemble a new garrison. The existing garrison is now useless, here. I will lead them out—perhaps I should say, what is left of them—and take them to Grantville."
He nodded toward Felder. "I will take him with me, also. Under armed guard, since that is your wish."
He gave Felder that same cheerful smile. "I do not believe Captain Felder will object. That would disappoint me, and, alas, I do not share your stoical attitude toward disappointment."
Ivarsson looked all of his size, that moment. Felder seemed to shrink still further in his chair.
Anse thought about it. With the entire garrison gone . . .
In the real world, that meant the new "garrison" would just be the existing Suhl militia—the master craftsmen and their adult sons, those journeymen and apprentices who were from Suhl's citizen families. Not most of the Jaeger, since few of them would be citizens of the town.
Granted, the militia would make a far better force to maintain order than Felder's mercenaries had been. But they'd be completely unreliable if it ever became necessary to crack down on the town's gunmakers. Most of them were the town's gunmakers.
Not to mention that over half of the city council consisted of master gunsmiths.
A return remembrance of that long-ago, overly-rich, eight-layer chocolate dessert attacked his stomach.
But all he said was: "All right. That's how we'll do it."
January 27, 1633
Gretchen Richter came into Suhl five days later, early in the evening, through the middle of a snowstorm. Not quite a blizzard, but awfully close. When she marched into Anse's headquarters—Felder's old office—she looked like a walking snowball.
Insofar, at least, as a snowball could resemble a very large and good-looking bat, coldly furious at having been summoned from a much warmer clime.
"Where are they?" were the first words out of her mouth, as she started brushing the snow off of her heavy parka. She seemed entirely unconcerned with the mess she was leaving on the floor of Anse's office.
Anse didn't try to play dumb. "We've got two of them under guard, here in the stockade. We're pretty sure the other four scampered back to their villages."
"Two will be enough. Where is Blumroder's shop?"
Anse cocked his head, eyeing her skeptically.
"Don't be stupid, Herr Hatfield." Gretchen edged aside, allowing Anse a view of the doorway. Jeff Higgins was standing there. Just behind him, Anse could see the dark figures of several other men. One of them was Jorg Hennel; the others he didn't recognize.
"I brought my husband with me, as you can see. Surely you don't think he would be a party to any illegal violence."
The look Anse gave Jeff Higgins was almost as skeptical as the one he'd given Gretchen. There wasn't much left of the shy geek Anse could vaguely remember from the days before the Ring of Fire. A lot of the fat had been lost, replaced by muscle—and Higgins was a big man. What was more important was that his mental attitudes had been largely transformed over the past twenty months. By reality, by combat—and, probably most of all, by being married to Gretchen.
It didn't help any that Higgins was carrying a shotgun. It might very well be the same shotgun he'd used, not so long ago, to gun down a number of Croat cavalrymen in close-range fighting.
Suddenly, Jeff grinned. And if it wasn't what you could call a shy grin, much less a geeky one, there wasn't any menace in it, either.
"C'mon, Anse, lighten up," he said. "Gretchen's mission here is purely educational."
Anse grunted. "Educational," under the circumstances, was not entirely reassuring. Just a few days earlier, with the help of half a dozen Jaeger, Jochen Rau had "educated" the two soldiers who'd subjected Noelle Murphy to their leering attentions. Both of them had been so badly beaten they'd had to be taken out of Suhl on litters.
Fell down the stairs, Rau claimed.
Still . . .
"Okay," he said. "As long as there's no violence. I'll have Corporal Rau release the two CoC prisoners. Then he can guide you to Blumroder's shop."