Sword of the Bright Lady by M.C. Planck

Karl’s warning with nothing more than an annoyed shrug. Christopher felt a great surge of relief. The Church he had joined demanded respect but did not inspire fear.
    â€œForgive my rustic humor, Pater,” Fenwick said. “Is the quality of my stable acceptable?”
    â€œIt will do,” Karl said. “But mind you, the Pater has other duties. You’ll care for his horse when he cannot. You’ll give it company and plenty of time in the yard.”
    â€œNo problem there,” Fenwick agreed. “My boys are entranced by the beast.” Although a dozen horses lived in the barn, not even the huge dray horses could compete with the stallion for sheer presence. “For hay, five copper a day is considered fair, Pater.” Karl nodded. “For the barley and oats your great steed expects with his hay, say five copper a day again.” Karl remained still, waiting for more. “Since you’re buying the grain from my barn, I’ll put in the stable, a paddock, and the loving care of my boys for nought.” Fenwick looked sourer with every word, but Karl was finally satisfied.
    This was a negotiation that Christopher was inadequate to contribute to, since he did not know the local currency or even how much he was being paid. “Can I afford that on a priest’s salary?”
    â€œYes,” Karl said, “although you will not eat much better than the horse.”
    Not a promising beginning. He would need money to make guns, a lot of money. One always did.
    He almost asked how much he could sell the horse for, but he could not bring himself to do it. Although he had only a passing acquaintance with the equestrian arts, the animal felt more familiar and real than anything else he had encountered in this world. It was, at least, one thing he could relate too.

    Back in the chapel, the soldiers had stacked and sorted his booty with admiration.
    â€œSuch fine arms will serve you well in the war,” the older one said. “If we could send all our lads out so finely dressed—”
    â€œThen they would be too burdened to run away,” Karl finished for him. “And they would all die, instead of only half. Plate and horse only mark a man as a target.”
    Though the younger guard was at least a decade older than Karl, he advanced his argument hesitantly. “The Pater is ranked. Surely he can stand the attention of the enemy.”
    â€œAye,” Karl said. “It is what rank is for.”
    This was not the war Christopher had signed on for.
    â€œHold on,” he said, “I thought I was going to be a healer.”
    Faren snorted. “You will be. Just from the front lines.”
    The chain-mail tunic that Karl had lent him was far more discreet. “How about a trade?” he said to Karl. “That junk for your chain mail.”
    Karl stared at him, flat-eyed, while the other soldiers guffawed.
    Christopher had already apologized enough for one night, so he plowed ahead.
    â€œI’m not joking. I don’t want it.” Never mind the constant reminder of Hobilar’s disgrace; Christopher doubted he could even walk in all that metal. “Sell it off or something, and let me buy your chain mail.”
    Faren was chuckling. “You twist a sharp barb, Pater. Karl ceded his mail to you the instant you stepped into the dueling ring. It was a gift, as it had to be, else Karl would have staked you in the duel and thus been subject to forfeit if you lost. And I see now,” Faren said, no longer smiling, “that you’ve played one on us as well. We can hardly claim a debt for your promotion, for the same reason.”
    â€œIt does not release him from the draft,” Karl said defiantly.
    â€œNo, of course not,” Christopher said, shamed. “I didn’t play anybody. I didn’t even know the rules until Karl told me.”
    â€œI see your point,” Karl said to Faren. “I pity the man who has him