Lord of Order, Brett Riley [e ink manga reader .TXT] 📗

Sarah raised one eyebrow. Stransky agreed to that?

A man can hope. We plan to offer her and her people equal seats to even out the numbers. But we need a swing vote. Somebody we can trust, somebody who loves this city and all its people, who’ll always do what’s best for everybody. We need you.

Sarah sighed. For a moment, she looked up at the cross. Then she shook her head. I got too much to do already.

You wouldn’t have to give it up. You’d be addin to your ministry’s influence.

I ain’t no politician.

Me neither. But somebody’s gotta lead.

It don’t gotta be me.

You’re the only person me and Stransky will ever agree on. Please, Sarah.

She rubbed her temples. A bit of hair slipped out from under her habit, as Jewel’s had done. It looked auburn, but that might have been a trick of the light.

If Stransky agrees, I’ll do it until it interferes with my work here, she said. Then I’ll resign.

Troy nodded. Thank you.

You said it’s officially you and the others. What does that mean?

He picked at a scab on the back of his hand. It was hard to look at her and say these things.

You’re right about how we can’t beat the whole Crusade, he said. But we can cut off its head.

Her jaw tensed. You’re goin after Rook.

Troy looked her in the eye. She deserved that much, and more. Yeah. Him and his whole inner circle.

She shook her head. More violence. More death.

I don’t want it. But it’s them or the world.

Maybe somebody worse would take their places.

Who could be worse? They wanna kill nearly everybody on the planet. Again.

She laughed bitterly. So Gabriel Troy’s gotta stop em because nobody else is up to the task. What did I say about pride?

I don’t think I’m the only one who could. But nobody else is.

Her grip tightened. Nails bit into his flesh near the scab he had picked. Or maybe you’re lookin for a reason to keep doin what you’ve always done. Ride. Shoot. Kill.

That ain’t fair.

Are you sure?

Look. We’ve talked about it at length.

Well, now I feel better.

We’re gonna go to Washington and find somebody in authority, somebody who’s as horrified as we are. There has to be one. And then we’ll kill everybody that outranks him. Or her.

Sister Sarah turned away. Her free hand gripped the crucifix dangling on its leather lanyard. You want to stop mass murder by committin the same sin on a smaller scale.

He let go of her hand and took her face in both of his, turning her head, gently, gently, until he could look into her eyes again. I’m tellin you I don’t want this. I’m sick of death. But they ain’t gonna stop unless somebody makes em. And me—well, I’ve got too much blood on my soul already. Better me than some kid who’s still got a chance to see heaven.

Hundreds of miles between here and there, she said. All of em filled with Crusaders who want your head. You’ll die before you reach the capital.

I reckon so. But I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try. She pulled away. He reached out, tentative, as if trying to grasp a butterfly. He laid his hand on her shoulder, just enough to feel her flesh and bone underneath the habit, the heat of pumping blood, intake of breath. Life. I have to say it. When he spoke again, his voice quivered.

Sarah. I meant what I just said. But if somebody I cared about—somebody I loved—was to ask me, I’d stay.

For a moment, she said nothing. When she turned back to him, tears stained her habit even darker. She stroked his cheek, her fingers wisping through his four days’ beard. Sometimes, she said, I wish for you more than anything. Mother of God, forgive me. But I can’t abandon my vows to satisfy my own traitor heart. My duty is—I—I just can’t.

She stood and scurried across the room, her garments swishing like quick, excited breaths. A sound lovers might make as they touched. She put her hand on the doorknob and paused.

Sarah, Troy said. I—

My prayers ride with you. Be well.

Then she was gone.

Troy settled back against the pew. The back door was closed against him, just as it had always been and always would be. He stood.

Goodbye, he whispered.

Then he turned on his heel and limped out. The votives flickered in the breeze of his passing.

Before Dwyer and Royster came to town, Camp Street had mostly belonged to the sisters, who traversed the sidewalks, market bundles in hand, or rode one of the two horses they stabled nearby. Only the oldest hardliners had ever complained. Troy had always told himself he protected the sisters in the name of Christian mercy, but he had done it mostly for Sarah. He could admit that now. He would not meet God still lying to himself.

With Japeth hitched nearby and munching oats from his feedbag, Troy sat on the sisters’ front steps and noted the changes Royster’s coming had wrought. The Temple’s officers would have their hands full for months—filling residential requests, expanding crops, integrating Troublers into the trades, making sure everyone had enough food and clothing and water and shelter and peace. In anticipation, people wandered Camp in droves, sizing up empty buildings. Easily a hundred and likely twice that number, walking to and fro, talking and laughing, all ex-Troublers. Not so long ago, Troy would have killed them all or died trying. Now they nodded to him as they passed, and he nodded back. They shared the city. He could only pray it lasted.

Stransky and Hobbes rode up in a mule-drawn wagon and stopped next to the curb in front of Troy. Boudreaux sat in the back, bound with rope, his leg wound bandaged. As far as Troy knew, he had not looked anyone in the face since they pulled him off the wall. Not when they visited him in the Temple’s jailhouse infirmary, not when they tried to explain how