Harding looked grateful, but inwardly, he scoffed.
What was the point of being the boss if you didn't rake in money? Was she going to take a page from the Church and give it away to the poor?
But this was exactly what the thugs wanted. Why else would they come to the Broken Mining District to work as enforcers, never knowing if they would survive the day? Apart from the bachelors who spent their pay as soon as they got it, who didn't send their share home?
Looking at the money in their hands—money they would normally have to risk their lives for a week to earn—the thugs forgot their old boss in an instant and pledged their loyalty to Joan.
Later, though, Joan regretted it.
The slave traders arrived with a large number of slave laborers waiting to be rescued.
Joan felt like a mercenary drained dry by a woman at the sight of a succubus, a Believer who had killed himself in despair just before the Gods returned, Illymoyas beholding the Elemental Planes' boundless gold, silver, and jewels—oh, even her metaphors were starting to sound like Annan's.
She could do nothing but stare at the slaves, drool, and kick herself.
Joan, Joan, why did you have to copy Annan? Now you've handed out all the money, and you can't even afford to buy the slaves...
Ask for it back?
Now that she had a boss's image to maintain, Joan couldn't bring herself to do it.
When the slave traders learned of her predicament, they generously offered to let her buy on credit. They would return tomorrow to collect.
Laborers held their value. Any gang needed them to turn a profit, so the slave traders weren't worried about them running off—and the traders were far stronger than the