We dumped the corpse, still wrapped in its rag cloth, into the big pit of the common graveyard, slipped the gravedigger some coin, and left the rest to him.

Some people believe the bodies of executed criminals carry magical power, so there are always bastards trying to dig them up. If you don’t tip the gravedigger, he won’t bother guarding it. Consider it part of operating expenses.

“Tomorrow there’s no execution scheduled, so I can finally get paperwork done.”

“Let’s do training instead, Company Commander.”

Lieutenant Crimine sounded dissatisfied, but since her idea of “training” is advanced perversion, I ignored her.

We left the graveyard and found a random eatery, barging in as a group. It was a pub serving light meals and cheap drinks.

The window seats faced the street, so I crammed my men into a table deeper inside. Officially no regulations forbade it, but the Ceremonial Battalion relaxing in public wasn’t something we wanted people to see.