Gold Throne in Shadow by M.C. Planck Page A

said, alarmed that anyone might think he did. This annoyed Christopher even more. Living under the likes of Black Bart had left the man with a far too healthy dose of respect for authority.
    â€œYou should,” Christopher told him. “I’m not going to cut your head off for asking questions, but if you let me walk into snake pit without speaking up, I might. After all, Faren sent you to me to give advice.” Advice he wasn’t sure he wanted to take.
    â€œThe regiment normally has two priests of the Bright Lady,” Karl continued. “Whose time is not consumed by the duties of command.” Damn it, whose side was he on? Well, the regiment’s, of course.
    â€œWe have an entire new regiment to outfit, come this winter,” Christopher countered, “and an old one to almost totally reequip. Plus I’m having some new, more expensive toys made. So, cost.”
    â€œSpeaking of new recruits,” Karl changed the subject, his opinions having been made known, “I am surprised they are not here yet.”
    â€œWho?” Christopher asked, confused. The new boys wouldn’t start training until midsummer.
    â€œThe hangers-on, my lord,” Torme explained, “the shiftless, the landless; free-booters and mercenaries. Because you are White, and a priest, they know they can expect healing and fair treatment.”
    â€œBecause you spent a fortune reviving commoners,” Karl said, “they will flock to you like fleas to a dog.”
    Svengusta tried to rescue him. “Because you will not pay them, they will flee just as quickly.” The men currently under his command were draftees, compelled to service for three years. Only Karl and the senior officers drew pay.
    â€œI want to start paying the men,” Christopher admitted sheepishly. “Not much, a few gold a year. Just some pocket change.”
    â€œWhich they will squander on women and drink,” Karl objected. Nobody had paid him for his two draft terms. “Do not waste your money.”
    â€œIt is not entirely without profit,” Torme intervened. “A salary excuses the Curate from expectations of sharing the spoils.”
    The man was sharper than he had appeared. And apparently taking to heart the command to raise unpleasant questions.
    â€œIt’s true,” Christopher sighed, though he hadn’t exactly thought of it in those terms until now. “I am not going to promote any warriors.” Tael was too valuable to waste on mere physical strength. He had guns for that.
    Torme looked at Karl with obvious concern, and perhaps even sympathy. Karl was pretty clearly the kind of guy who normally got promoted to warrior-ranks. But Karl’s face was bland, and Christopher knew that the young man wholeheartedly approved of his policy. It was a position far too foreign and difficult to explain, so Torme would just have to deal with it on his own.
    Everyone else, of course, already understood. Even the officers, the men who had come to him as mercenaries and now served as draftees, had long ago unconsciously accepted that they would never rise in Christopher’s service. They could not climb over Karl, and Karl was not going anywhere, not even to the first craft-rank of the warrior profession, a relatively trivial expense. In fact, several of the men had gone down the ladder, having died and been restored to life but not to their craft-ranks. Although they weren’t complaining about it.
    Torme papered over the awkward pause in the best possible way, by changing the topic. “Some of those who seek to serve will already be ranked,” Torme suggested. “One can rent for cheaper than one can buy.”
    â€œAnd buy you must,” Karl said. “It is unheard of that a man of your standing should be served by none lesser. Tongues will wag and for good reason: you are exposed. The love of your men is little buffer against the powers of rank.” The Invisible