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

you’re bein done a favor, but once them prisoners show up, once they start droppin big-ass sections of fortified wall along the city perimeter, you’ll believe. If you can’t live with yourself at that point, come see me, and I’ll tell you the rest.

Troy tried to read the herald’s face, but Dwyer was all teeth.

What position? Troy asked.

Dwyer stood, his knees popping. He walked to the front window and looked out on the darkened city. Troy followed, Hobbes and Boudreaux flanking him. The square stretched toward the river, moonlight rippling across the water, shadowed buildings hulking in between. Here and there, people and horses moved about, their shapes little more than bits of concentrated shadow that occasionally solidified into recognizable figures as they passed under the streetlamps.

We are facing a great crisis, Dwyer said. Faithless wretches are abandoning the Crusade and joining the Troublers. In our major cities, you will find one corrupt and worldly grubber for every honest and righteous man. In their isolation, our rural citizens often backslide. The Troublers devastate righteousness and loyalty as the locust consumes fauna. Something must be done.

Yes, yes, Babb said, folding his hands and closing his eyes. Thank you, Lord, for Mister Rook’s clarity of vision.

Troy glanced at Hobbes and Boudreaux. What’s that got to do with us and our city?

Dwyer turned from the window. His grin had disappeared, as had his string. New Orleans is one of the few cities in which the Troubler threat remains mostly under control. We want your help with our problem at-large. We intend to turn New Orleans into the Crusade’s prison. The city is to be walled off. Its people will be our permanent guards. And you are to be our warden.

Praise the Most High, Babb said, raising his hands.

Hobbes grunted. Boudreaux coughed. And Troy, who felt as if the herald had shot him in the guts, could not speak.

Their city. The only home they had ever known, where Troy had learned to ride and shoot. Where his parents had died and he had found his calling. He had swum in the great river, had sat among the old sarcophagi and pondered the people who had once walked the streets, had explored nearly every building. He had spilled blood in New Orleans’s streets and chased Troublers through her French Quarter, her Central Business District, her Garden District, her wards. In the great storms that came almost every year, he had hauled sandbags and nailed windows shut and sat in rooms in the highest fortified buildings, listening to the wind rage and swirl. He had killed for New Orleans, had nearly died for her. And now they wanted to dump the country’s scum here, as if she were no more than a landfill.

For the first time in his life when presented with an order, Troy dissented. No, he said.

Babb gasped, his eyes like saucers. Boudreaux cleared his throat. Hobbes watched.

Dwyer’s face might have been carved out of marble. He did not even raise his eyebrows. Troy held his gaze.

When the herald spoke, his conversational voice shattered the silence as if he had shouted full throat. I’m not sure I understand you, Lord Troy. Are you refusing to follow an order from his holiness, Matthew Rook?

Of course not, Babb said. Are you, Gabriel?

I ain’t refusin nothin. But I wouldn’t be doin my job if I just up and agreed. We’ve all dedicated our lives to keepin this city safe. Now you’re tellin me you want to turn it into a giant rat cage. And how are we supposed to guard a whole city full of heathens? They’ll surely outnumber us.

Dwyer’s eyes narrowed. His brow furrowed, giving his face a hawkish cast. He loomed over Troy, glaring, his open hands at his sides. Troy crossed his arms. I could find out how good you are right now. If you’re faster than me, I might die, but these boys behind me would make sure I didn’t beat you to heaven by much. The deputies fanned out, clearing their lines of vision. Babb scooted away.

If Boudreaux and Hobbes worried Dwyer, he gave no sign. Lord Troy, he said, the city of New Orleans does not belong to you. It belongs to the Bright Crusade, which liberated it from the sinners of the old world—the addicts, the whores, the murderers and molesters and thieves and pagans. The honorable Jonas Strickland and our Crusader ancestors did that work, not you. Matthew Rook is Strickland’s recognized successor, our highest earthly authority. If he says this city is to be burned to the ground tonight, you should strike the first spark and fan the flames with your life’s breath.

I’d burn down the city in a heartbeat if it would be the best thing for the citizens’ lives, Troy said, his voice steady. Or their souls. That’s my real charge. So I ask you again. How are we supposed to live under the conditions you named?

Dwyer glared a moment longer. Then he sighed. My apologies. In my zeal to serve our God and the Crusade, I often forget the niceties of human interaction. It makes my job rather difficult at times.

Troy exhaled and crossed the room again, taking a seat behind his desk while Hobbes and Boudreaux followed and leaned against the wall, still flanking him. Dwyer took his chair. Babb sat beside him.

And you got my apologies for any disrespect, Troy said.

Dwyer nodded and smiled, those teeth winking like somebody had stuck six or eight lit candles down his throat. As for your concerns, he said, you must make peace with the changes this directive will bring. The buildings, the parks, the streets you have so scrupulously maintained will undoubtedly suffer. If the prisoners are smart, they will maintain your crops and your buildings for themselves, but no one can guarantee what Troublers will do. For all that, I am sorry, and I am certain Matthew Rook shares those sentiments. As for your people, I am not privy to the Crusade’s specific plan for