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

again. You know damn well what I need. I seen that fancy-pants jackass ridin our roads like God put em there just for him. Bad news?

The envelope inside Troy’s shirt felt heavy. He was probably sweating through it and ruining the orders. He pulled out the package and dropped it into his lap. Tetweiller glanced at it but said nothing, sipping his liquor.

Let’s start with Stransky, Troy said. She claims Rook’s plannin a new Purge, and he’s startin it here.

Troy expected the old man to sputter, curse, stomp. Not long before Tetweiller resigned, he had started cracking Troubler skulls before asking them to talk. One day, he came to work drunk. He fell onto Norville Unger’s desk in full view of the Temple staff. Troy and Hobbes had spent a few evenings in sweltering, darkened rooms like this one, speculating on what the Crusade would do with Tetweiller when word reached Washington. In the end, the old man had taken the decision out of their hands. Less than a week after the incident, he called Troy into his office and said it was time he spent his days gardening and reading old outlawed books confiscated from Troublers over the years. He had seemed relieved and happy. Troy believed the prospect of mass slaughter might drive the old man into such a rage he would need to be tackled.

Instead, Tetweiller took another sip and said, Huh.

Apparently that don’t shock you much.

Tetweiller shrugged. Not much surprises me these days. It ain’t like Matthew Rook’s known for his mercy and love.

Troy got up and poured a glass of water. As he sat back down, he said, If a citizen said that to me, they’d be behind bars in about five minutes.

Well, hell. I reckon you better arrest me then. Tetweiller drank, his eyes red and watery. Shadows played across his face, an indigo mask that shifted and pulsed like oil on a river.

Just be careful who you talk to, Troy said.

I ain’t talkin to nobody but you. Want some advice?

Troy had known this was coming as soon as he told Tetweiller about Stransky’s claims. The old man was full of advice, most of it good, some of it foolhardy. Sometimes both at once. Of course, Troy said.

Think real careful about who you trust. You may have to choose between the Crusade and your friends.

Everything I ever done, I done in the Crusade’s name. I can’t just turn my back on it.

Tetweiller struggled out of the chair, wincing and holding his lower back. Troy stood and went to help, but Tetweiller waved him off and stretched. His old joints creaked. Tetweiller was on the north side of seventy and could barely get out of bed on some days, thanks to years of riding a horse over concrete and asphalt. Plus, there was the bum leg some Troubler’s bullet had shattered, and the misery in his spine.

He was so strong when I was a kid. I reckon I’m lookin at my own future, if I live so long.

Finally, Tetweiller straightened. He put his hand on Troy’s shoulder. Ain’t nobody askin you to turn your back on nothin. I’m just tellin you to think for yourself. If Stransky’s blowin smoke up your ass, I’ll tie her noose myself. But if she’s right, it’s a different story.

You sayin you’d rebel?

Despite the booze on his breath, Tetweiller’s eyes looked sober. If they mean to murder God knows how many folks and turn my city to dust, yeah. I’ll stand against em. By myself if I have to.

After they had shaken hands, Tetweiller limped into the night, and Troy closed the door and turned the lock. His throat felt like a dirt road. He carried the lamp into the kitchen and poured a cool glass of water from the icebox. He drank it down and set the glass on the counter, where it would stay for perhaps ten hours until the cleaning crew arrived and washed, dried, and stored it. Most folks had to do their own dishes, but he and his officers never cleaned their own messes—although they were hardly ever home long enough to make any. Did the cleaning crews ever resent the lord’s officers? Was resentment even possible when service had always been the watchword of your life? Troy picked up the lantern and walked down the hall and up the stairs to his bedroom, where he undressed in front of the open window, letting the light breeze play over him. He felt grimy, new sweat layering onto the old, mixing with the day’s dust, forming a thin layer of mud that would stain his white sheets. But what of that? Amie Gerlach, who lived in an apartment barely bigger than Troy’s den, changed his sheets every day. Power, spotlessness, an icebox that was always cold, sinners’ lowered gazes, the big house, the respect of the men and women who followed him into combat, a sense of purpose and direction. The Crusade had given him everything. It had raised him to heights greater than he could ever deserve.

And now it was asking him to lead his people into devastation.

He had left the sealed orders and the lantern on his nightstand before undressing. Now he sat on the bed and took up the envelope and broke the seal. The orders were written in a neat, tight script.

Lord Troy,

I hope this letter finds you well. Please give my regards to your deputies, Jack Hobbes and Gordon Boudreaux, as well as your advisors and lieutenants. I know all their names and their occupations.

To business—by this time, you will have spoken to my herald, Jevan Dwyer, who should have informed you of my decision to use your city as the Crusade’s prison. Know that this decision was not made hastily. I have prayed and wept and sought counsel both heavenly and otherwise. New Orleans’s unique geography makes it one of the best two choices for this undertaking, the other being Manhattan island in New York, which seemed much