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

ain’t about our faith, he said. It’s about Rook’s fanaticism. Once the town’s sealed in, everybody’s dead.

Ford poured himself another glass. His hands trembled. I don’t see how a wall can keep the Troublers in unless we rip out everything they could use to build ladders. Even then, they could find a way. The guards would have to outnumber the Troublers four to one or keep em chained forever.

And if you’re gonna do that, Long said, why bother with a prison at all? Why not just execute em or chain em together limb to limb until they can’t move? There must be a reason they want em all in one place, other than convenience.

It’s symbolic, Ford said. So future generations will talk about New Orleans like we talk about Sodom and Gomorrah. Plus, you know how the Purge worked. Maybe Washington’s got hold of them plagues like Jonas Strickland used. Could be New Orleans is the test case.

Tetweiller rubbed one hand on his face. It rasped against his gray stubble. He had already thought of all this. So had Troy. And that meant Rook had too. Every second they sat here debating brought the massed Troublers and armed Crusaders closer. Once that mob arrived, it would be much harder to plan and much more tempting to give in.

So it’s over, Long said. We guard, or we die.

Tetweiller sipped again, for courage, and cleared his throat. Or it’s like you said. We don’t go along.

Long regarded him, her jaw set. Ford shook his head and slammed his fist on the wooden arm of the couch.

That’s heresy, Long said.

Like I told you. We’re just weighin all the options.

When can we see these orders? Ford asked.

When Gabe can talk to you without Dwyer lookin over his shoulder.

He could have left the orders here so we could see em now, Long said.

Tetweiller laughed. Sure. Pass around eyes-only documents. Good way to get hung.

You want us to talk heresy, but you don’t trust us with the proof.

It ain’t about trust, Tetweiller said. You think we’d be talkin at all if we didn’t trust you?

We. You, Ford said. Sounds like two sides to me.

Only if you make it that way. You need to decide where you stand.

The men’s gazes locked. Ford’s hunting knife glistened in the dim light.

On the way over here, I passed one of our armories, Long said. I saw Jack and Gordy’s horses outside.

Tetweiller watched Ford, the distance between the hunter’s hand and the knife. More orders, the old man said. They’re takin inventory of our explosives and our boats. Every .22 shell and leaky raft.

Ford and Long looked at each other, something passing between them.

Ford unsheathed the knife.

Tetweiller drew his gun, but Ford leaped from the couch and snatched it before he could fire.

Shit. I was kiddin myself. I’m too old to get even one of em. Sorry, Gabe.

Long drew her gun too.

Then Ford put one finger to his lips and handed the gun back to Tetweiller.

What the fuck?

The former lord of order listened. At first, nothing. Then, the soft sound of footfalls on the cracked and fractured concrete driveway, the click-click-click of spiked boots or claws. Someone was coming.

He signaled Ford and Long to hold their positions.

He turned and pointed his gun toward the entryway.

Someone knocked.

I think we know who it is, Tetweiller said, lowering his weapon.

He walked into the foyer, Long and Ford close behind. The old man opened the door. McClure stood on the front step, the Rottweiler at her heel. The dog’s pink tongue lolled onto his black-and-brown fur. The girl was dressed in the same cotton shirt and soiled trousers she had worn during the raid. Her face was dirty, her blond hair greasy and askew. Everyone holstered their weapons.

We’ve missed y’all down at the forges, Long said.

Tetweiller raised his eyebrows. Is that where she stays nowadays?

Only sometimes, at suppertime, Long said, grinning at the girl. Where you been?

The child, tall for a twelve-year-old and lean, took off her hat and beat the dust from it. Here and there. I was with these fellas at Loyola.

Tetweiller smiled. You sure were. Come on in. We’ll get y’all some water.

The adults stood aside. McClure headed for the kitchen as Tetweiller shut the door. They followed McClure as she sat at the table. Ford and Long joined her.

Gathered in a kitchen, chatting about their days, they could have been a normal family. Ain’t nothin normal about any of us, though. When McClure was two years old, a Troubler bomb killed both her parents, along with dozens of other citizens. As the city mourned, the girl slept on a cot in the Temple prison. She stayed a few years until, one day, she simply wandered off. No one could find her, not even the lord’s office. She had come back when she was good and ready, none the worse for wear and bearing news about a Troubler nest massing east of town. As everyone geared up, McClure wandered off again and set her life’s pattern. In a sense, every Crusader in the city had adopted her. She slept in spare rooms and storage buildings and stables. She hid in places no one ever discovered. She ate out of people’s gardens and from Ford’s crops, at the table of whatever Crusader she happened to meet near mealtime. No one knew where she had found the dog. It seemed tame, but no one in the city recognized it. McClure had just walked into Jackson Square one day, a pup at her side. They had been together ever since. They bathed in the great river. The girl would not enter a dwelling where the dog was unwelcome, which is why she had not been inside the High Temple since adopting him. She would never reveal how she got so close to the Troublers without getting caught, but her information was always good.

Tetweiller set a water dish on the floor. Bandit lapped at it. The girl took her glass and drank.

You need a bath, Tetweiller