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

that do evil. And who is he that will harm you, if ye be followers of that which is good? But and if ye suffer for righteousness’ sake, happy are ye: and be not afraid of their terror, neither be troubled. Here, Peter assures every Crusader that our incomparable Father in heaven watches over us even in our darkest hours, when we feel most alone. When the temptations of the serpent himself hiss in our ears like the wind in the evening, and we are sorely tempted to listen. The Most High stands between us and the Troublers, between us and Satan, between us and utter destruction. And even when our pain seems unbearable, Peter says, we should rejoice. Suffering in God’s name is no suffering at all. It is our pleasure, our purpose, the very meat that nourishes us.

Hobbes grunted. Troy could relate; it seemed pretty easy for a man like Babb, swaddled in the robes of his privilege and living a life under heavy guard, to call pain and suffering a kind of pleasure. To speak of suffering as virtue as long as the pain fell on somebody else. And would those words still hold true when he that will harm you referred to your own superiors, in whom you had been taught to trust without question or hesitation?

Troy glanced down the row. Boudreaux nodded along, rapt. Santonio Ford muttered amens as Babb spoke of the Lord’s favor. LaShanda Long picked at a loose thread on her go-to-meeting blouse. Was she humming a nearly inaudible tune? What might she be thinking of?

The lord of order wondered where Willa McClure might be—fishing with a cane pole on the riverbank? Requisitioning vegetables from the fields? And Tetweiller—the old man likely lay under his backyard shade trees, sipping whiskey. Both of them probably felt little of the creeping uncertainty, the dread that weighed down Troy’s soul that morning. He envied them, and then his face reddened with shame. Sinning on the front row, while Babb reminded them of the Lord’s largesse.

In verse 17, Babb continued, Paul writes of our duty to the Most High. For it is better, if the will of God be so, that ye suffer for well doing, than for evil doing. Therefore, my friends, never lose heart. Always have faith. The worst moments of our short lives represent less than a passing instant to the eternal Father. Those moments have been decreed by Him from the beginning of time. Our smallest step on His unfathomable path. Even if we should fall into Troubler hands and find visited upon us the tortures of the damned, we go thence for His sake. His unblinking eye is ever on us. On the Bright Crusade. His face is our face. His strength, our strength. And though we sin and come short of the glory, He takes us in the palms of His hands and keeps us close. No darkness can quench the light of His love.

Someone in the back muttered an amen. Hobbes glanced back that way and then fell still. No one else moved, but despite how some congregants’ attention might have wavered, the air in the sanctuary felt charged with joy. The untroubled spirits of the people found solace in Babb’s words, in the Scriptures.

Troy wondered, though, if the Most High had put those verses in Babb’s heart for a different reason. Maybe God was speaking to Troy through the minister: Remember I am with you, though all the world abandon you.

Or maybe thinking that way was vanity.

Babb preached on the same theme another forty minutes. When the gathered adherents rose for the final acts of the morning service, Troy prayed for clear vision and clearer thoughts in these, the most uncertain days of his life.

4

Two weeks after his conversation with Sister Sarah, Troy reined up beside the Jesus statue and dismounted, tossing the reins to a groom. He had gone to the market on North Peters for dinner, but he still needed to peruse LaShanda Long’s latest reports. The sun was disappearing, the river turning black.

Jack Hobbes galloped into the courtyard and hailed Troy. Hobbes reined up beside him, his face red, the horse blowing and sweating.

What’s wrong? Troy said.

Been lookin for you, Hobbes said. He’s here.

Who’s here? Troy asked, knowing the answer.

Hobbes nodded at the Temple. The rider. The herald.

Troy took off his hat and fanned himself. I really hoped Stransky was lyin. Hobbes dismounted as the groom took his reins. Troy’s gray nickered, as if he could sense tension the same way he could smell a coming storm. Perhaps he could. The groom struggled to hold both horses as Troy and Hobbes walked away, not speaking. On either side of the Temple’s doors, burning torches had been thrust into brackets nailed into the wall. In the dusk and firelight, the men’s shadows capered, goblins loosed from unimaginable subterranea.

Inside, they shielded their eyes. Every lantern and torch had been lit. The Temple workers stood at attention along the walls as Troy and Hobbes skirted the front desk and walked down the center aisle toward the three men standing near the stairway door. Jerold Babb wore his official robes, his shoulders slumping under their weight. Gordy Boudreaux’s pistols were slung low on his hips. He held his hat and watched Troy and Hobbes, expressionless. The other man smiled, his eyes bright and intelligent. He was taller than everyone else in the room, and young too. Probably no more than twenty-eight, barely older than Boudreaux. His thick black hair spilled past his shoulders. Barrel chest, arms like a ship’s anchor chain. He sported faded trousers, dusty boots, and a soiled white cotton shirt loose at the throat.

Big boy, ain’t he? Hobbes muttered. About to bust outta that shirt.

Big don’t say nothin about quality, Troy said. Don’t let him scare you.

Ain’t scared. Just wonderin how many times you’d have to shoot him before he’d fall down.

The stranger’s smile widened, his teeth white