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

they had captured the leader of New Orleans’s Troublers. All in all, the day was going well.

2

They walked their horses down St. Charles, through Lee Circle, and onto Camp Street, passing water bearers hauling barrels from the Mississippi and crews carrying fuel for the populace’s stoves and lamps. Sanitation teams emptied chamber pots and drove wagons of sealed waste-filled barrels across the bridge and down Jean Lafitte Boulevard. There they would dump their casks into the canal, where the waters might lead to Mud Lake, Barataria Bay, the Gulf of Mexico.

When Troy’s company turned onto Canal and then Decatur, Stransky stirred. Troy kicked Japeth, his gray, into a fast trot. The others followed, and when Stransky regained consciousness in the Quarter, her grunts as the animal’s spine drove into her abdomen kept time with the hoofbeats. Near the Temple, they passed more and more armed guards.

I wonder if it’s time we made the Cabildo an armory, Troy thought. Seems a waste, makin all these folks take two extra trips every day, checkin out their weapons off-site and back in again eight hours later.

As the officers of Order passed, the guards saluted, most of them eyeing Stransky with the kind of awe and horror usually reserved for gods or devils. Grown men and women scattered like chaff in the wind. Children ducked behind parents’ legs or into the shadows of stoops. Soon enough, the company trotted through the gates of Jackson Square. They reined their horses and dismounted on the pristine grounds, tying their animals to the hitching posts erected around the statue depicting Jesus with outstretched arms.

Troy had searched the official histories and found no mention of any Jackson connected with New Orleans. His identity—indeed, his whole life—had blown away like dust before history’s winds, like the origins of so many street names, bodies of water, whole territories. In any case, the square belonged to Jesus now, in fact if not in name.

Hobbes and Boudreaux untied Stransky and shoved her toward the High Temple as a groom scurried across the grounds. He saluted Troy. Your orders? he asked.

Rub em down and feed em.

Yes, sir. Should we shoot the infidel’s mare?

No. That law’s a relic. The animal ain’t at fault for what her rider did.

The groom saluted again and turned to the horses. Ford and Tetweiller stood nearby. McClure had slipped away as soon as they had mounted up back at Loyola. She would reappear when she wanted. She had been living like that for years.

Troy first turned to Ford, the dreadlocked man with the muscular arms, the deerskin shirt, the alligator boots, the bear’s teeth necklace. Ford had supervised the city’s hunters for ten years, and though he was only thirty-seven, he had more experience spilling blood than even old Tetweiller, much of it from animals, fish, fowl. Today, as always, Ford had fought well and killed cleanly, but, as always, his eyes revealed his inner sadness. In all the wide world’s principalities, Troy wondered, is there another chief hunter who hates to kill?

Couldn’t have done it without you, Troy said, sticking out his hand.

Ford shook it. You hear anything else about the proposals?

The Dallas principality’s high minister had recently and publicly urged Rook—the Supreme Crusader, who lived in Washington, D.C.—to legitimize Catholic rituals, arguing that a Christian was a Christian, no matter how the person got baptized or took the Lord’s Supper. Troy liked the idea but doubted Rook would ever go that far.

Nothin, he said. I reckon we’ll just have to keep prayin on it.

Ford looked as if he were about to say something, but then he saluted. Yes, sir.

Bag that. Old friends ain’t gotta sir me.

Okay, Gabe.

Speak your mind, Santonio. Somethin’s got you in its teeth.

Ford looked toward the river for a while. He seemed tired. Rook scares me, he said. From what I’ve heard, every suspicion in Washington turns into an accusation, and every accusation becomes truth. If that’s how it is, we’re buildin our house on sand.

Tetweiller, walking over and catching this last, said, And here I thought you always followed orders.

Ford frowned. I always have. Obedience is faith, right? But if Rook keeps takin the hardest line, we’ll have a Stransky in every neighborhood. There’s gotta be a middle ground. I think that’s where most folks live.

Ain’t you philosophical, Tetweiller said. Especially for a fella that won’t have kids of his own to send into this future he’s so worried about.

Ford looked as if he wanted to punch the old man. Instead, he turned away.

Don’t know why Ernie aimed so low with that comment, but he’s right, Troy thought. We gave up any chance for kids and families when we took our vows. Just like the Catholic priests and nuns. Weird how the brass ain’t ever seen that similarity.

Still, Ford had a point, too. From what Troy had seen in his own life and gleaned from past lords’ journals, the Crusade had grown more secular over time. Now Rook ruled in Washington, isolated, surrounded by acolytes, digging himself deeper and deeper into the old dogmas, pushing when the tides of most people’s lives pulled. If those trends continued, revolution would be inevitable. If Rook had his way, they would all be wearing sackcloth and ashes by next year. Infertile ground in which to plant the future.

Still, Troy was a lord of order, not a theologian. He clapped Ford on the shoulder. That’s a worry for another day. I gotta see to Stransky. Be well, my friend. After Ford had saddled up and trotted through the gates, Troy turned to Tetweiller. Thanks, Ernie. I don’t know what we’d do without you.

The old man scoffed. Horseshit. You could have got anybody to lay on that roof and take potshots at them polecats. You’re just too goddam sentimental to let me stay home and drink.

As always, Troy ignored the old man’s salty tongue. You think Santonio’s right?

Tetweiller’s face was lined and creased, his eyes deep set, his bushy white eyebrows waving