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

whose ancient purposes no one understood. Would the Crusaders leave the Troublers chained together when the floodwaters came? Each prisoner acting as the next one’s anchor. Hundreds of children had already trooped by, emaciated babes with dirty faces and hollow eyes. How could they all be hardened, fanatical Troublers?

If we got any chance to save em, we should try. Christ said to suffer the little children and let em come unto him. I don’t think he meant kill em to get em there faster. Or maybe this is just my moment in the Garden, and I ain’t got the courage to drink from the cup.

Troy had spent most of the morning thinking about impossible logistics: how to shelter and feed so many, how to help the sick, how his tiny band of Conspirators—Hobbes, Boudreaux, Tetweiller, Long, Ford, McClure, and whomever they could recruit between now and the end—could stop the Crusade. There was still time to abort, to fall in line like the good soldier he had always been, to trust his superiors and reject the evidence he had already seen. It was tempting beyond words. To fight the Crusade would put his soul at hazard, and his friends’.

No good answers, no rest. He had slept less than four hours a stretch since the day they took Stransky. Now he could barely keep his eyes open.

Dwyer ate his bloody steak, the rich red juices pooling on his plate. When he smiled, his teeth were pinkish, the incisors sharp. The sheer carnivorous pleasure of a man built to rend flesh.

Someone knocked. Door’s open, Troy called.

Boudreaux entered and bowed. The traditional genuflections for Dwyer’s benefit. Troy wiped his hands and mouth on his napkin and stood. Dwyer and Babb did the same.

I bid you greetings, Deputy Lord, Troy said. The formal words felt odd, like a misaligned jaw.

Boudreaux straightened. Greetings to you, Lord Troy. From his grace, Matthew Rook, I present the Crusade’s envoy, Lisander Royster.

A scarecrow walked in, so tall he had to duck under the doorframe, nearly as thin as the Troublers clanking down the streets. His nose looked long and sharp enough to chisel stone, his Adam’s apple like a small goiter. He was dressed in the long purple robes of Rook’s inner council and bore the Crusade’s sigil on both sleeves.

Royster bowed, his robes and loose undershirt falling open so Troy could see the brand of the cross on his chest. Greetings to you, Gabriel Troy, New Orleans lord of order.

Troy bowed. Royster’s deep green eyes shone even with his back to the sunlight streaming through the stained glass.

Troy had heard of Lisander Royster, who oversaw the Crusade’s darkest business—state executions, exterminating whole Troubler communities in the countryside. If the Crusade had ever christened a national lord of order, it would have been Royster, though he had never personally done any fighting. He was said to be naturally distrustful and without mercy.

I present the herald of Matthew Rook, Jevan Dwyer, said Boudreaux.

Dwyer and Royster bowed. Then they smiled and shook hands.

It’s good to see you again, Mister Dwyer, said Royster.

And you, sir, said the herald.

Boudreaux cleared his throat. I present the high minister of the New Orleans principality, Jerold Babb.

Babb and Royster bowed.

Welcome, said Babb. We’re honored to host such august presences. Whatever you need, just ask.

Royster laid a hand on Babb’s shoulder. My thanks, High Minister.

Babb shivered, perhaps in ecstasy.

Royster moved to the side, and Boudreaux said, Deputy Envoy Benn.

The man who entered was a foot and a half shorter than Royster. Built like a child’s kickball, Benn wore wool pants, scuffed boots, and a coarse and sweat-stained work shirt. His broad chest expanded with every breath, so much that Troy half expected the buttons to pop right off his shirt. His arms and legs looked thick and powerful. He bowed to Troy, an action that shortened him only marginally, and greeted the lord of order.

Troy bowed. Greetings to you, Deputy.

Benn shook hands with Babb and Dwyer. When he took his place beside Royster, Boudreaux announced, Deputy Envoy Clemens.

The last person to enter stood perhaps six feet tall. He was of average build. His thinning brown hair, gray at the temples, reached his shoulders. Like Benn, he dressed for work, not ceremony, which would have told any fool which envoy gave the orders and who actually labored. I don’t even have to see the brand to know they got it. I bet if Royster cut off his ear, they’d do it too. Clemens said his how-dos as Boudreaux hauled in three more chairs. Everyone sat except Boudreaux, who walked around the desk and stood beside Troy, hands clasped.

Gentlemen, Troy said, welcome to New Orleans.

Thank you, said Royster. His voice was deep for such a skinny man. He probably sang bass. For the duration of our stay here, we’ll need offices.

Troy gestured round about. Figured you’d want ours.

That would do nicely, but we don’t want to put you out.

Uh-huh. You’d dump us all in the river if it made your hindquarters a little more comfortable. No trouble. This is our hub. I reckoned you’d wanna stick close.

And you won’t have to travel for Sunday services, said Babb.

Many thanks, Royster said. Now. We are naturally prepared to answer your questions in the name of Matthew Rook. We know this is a traumatic time. Gentlemen?

Benn and Clemens nodded.

Troy had told Boudreaux to say as little as possible. That way, if any enmity resulted, it would fall on Troy alone. Besides, if Boudreaux spoke out of turn, the envoys would assume Troy could not control his people.

Well, said Troy, I admit we’re concerned. We grew up here. Good people have died for this town. Now we’re makin it a dump for Troublers. Kinda makes you feel like you wasted your life.

Benn narrowed his eyes. When my duty called me here, I left my wife and two children, but I thanked my Maker for the chance. If you’ve spent your life serving God, how could you consider that a waste under any