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

an hour and a half and sometimes sputtered to a halt in half that time. After a final hymn and a brief benediction from Babb, the weary Crusaders would go forth into the city, there to fellowship and break bread. Once a month, Babb would deliver the Lord’s Supper. No Crusader ever spoke the word communion.

Now, on a weekday, with the sanctuary mostly empty, Troy passed down the center aisle. Two more doors were set into the back wall. The left-hand one led to a short hallway, which opened into the prison out back. The jail, which had been built in Strickland’s time, currently housed only twelve prisoners, most of them low-level Troublers. Troy passed through the right-hand exit, beyond which lay staircases any visitor allowed inside the sanctuary could use. They led to the second-floor offices of the deputy lords and to Troy’s headquarters on the third floor. The first Crusaders had installed those rooms where once there had been only balconies. They reinforced the walls and mounted shatterproof windows every few feet so officials could look over the ground floor. Hobbes and Boudreaux shared the office on the right, their walls covered with city maps, sketches of possible Troubler positions in outlying areas, routes to Baton Rouge and Lafayette and the entire southern region, hand-drawn wanted posters, weather forecasts, personal notes. Both men used mahogany desks that were stacked high with government documents, political reports, crop and water information, pest control memoranda.

On the left side of the second story, in Babb’s office, the minister’s cedar desk, enscrolled with Bible verses in calligraphy, never held much besides an inkpot and quill, a sheaf of paper, the Jonas Strickland Bible, and an in-progress sermon. The walls were bare except for a few pinned-up notes near the desk. Babb kept no other furniture except an oil desk lamp, a rack for his heavy robes of office, and two hard straight-backed chairs for anyone in need of counsel. Deep, plush rugs meant to ease the pressure on Babb’s creaky joints and spine covered most of the floor space. When the minister napped in his office, which was often, he slept on a rug, using his robes as a pillow. When he awoke, he would call out until Hobbes or Boudreaux or a passing Temple worker came and helped him up.

Babb met Troy as the lord reached the second-floor landing. The high minister’s hands trembled, but his voice rang out strong and deep. Gabriel, he said. Congratulations. May you purify your prisoner and send her to meet the Lord’s judgment scoured clean.

Troy touched a finger to his hat brim. Thank you, Jerold, he said, shouldering past the old man. Have a good evenin.

The lord of order’s office was located in the hollowed-out and armored third floor. According to the histories, the front wall had once housed a huge clock face, but it had been replaced just after the Purge with an enormous stained-glass rendering of Jonas Strickland holding a Bible in one hand and a sword in the other. This glass was both bulletproof and one-way so Troy could look over the expanse of Jackson Square all the way to the river. Documents and maps annotated in Troy’s neat and precise hand covered the office walls. His desk sat near the back wall, where visitors using the rear staircase could pass through the heavy oak door and pull up a chair. The lord kept his desk nearly bare; he liked to look his visitors in the eye, not barely glimpse them through mountains of reports.

Presently, Hobbes and Boudreaux sat on the desk, one at each corner. Lynn Stransky knelt before them, her head high, her greasy hair hanging like the strands of a wet mop. His padded straight-backed guest chairs had been pushed against a wall.

Where should we put her when we’re done here? The prison or a tower?

Troy’s humanity suggested the prison, but the cold and practical part of his mind already knew he would put Stransky in a tower. She was the kind of enemy of the state for which the place had been built.

Before that, though, she had to be interrogated.

I ain’t lookin forward to this. Shootin somebody in battle’s one thing. This other, it never seems godly.

The bare wooden floor creaked under Troy’s feet as he crossed the room, sat behind his desk, and glanced at Hobbes, who shook his head, indicating Stransky had not spoken. Her eyes were open, their piercing green eerie in the dim room. Troy leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest.

Hobbes and Boudreaux took positions on either side of Stransky, facing Troy. Hobbes hooked his thumbs into his gun belt. Boudreaux tucked his hands into his pockets. Both men’s faces were expressionless. Stransky stared at Troy’s breastbone.

We know who you are, Troy said. We got your description from Willie Grout when we took him outta Armstrong Park two years ago. See? You’re on my wall.

He cocked his thumb and indicated a wanted poster—painted, not sketched, and twice as big as the ones in the deputies’ offices. Stransky glanced at it. One corner of her mouth twitched. Ain’t that pretty, she said.

Troy cracked his knuckles. You can thank Willie if you ever see him again. That picture helped our source recognize you when you made your mistake.

What mistake?

Comin into my city without a mask.

Ain’t you the shit.

Reckon you never saw our lookout when you rode outta the bayou, but he saw you. And he came a-runnin. Now your riders are dead, and you’re all alone.

Stransky snorted. Boudreaux glanced at her and shifted his weight. Without looking at him, Stransky said, Don’t get fidgety, boy. I ain’t gonna bite your nuts off. Not today, anyway.

Boudreaux stilled, his face blank.

You’ve been spotted in a dozen different places over the last two months, Troy said. Sometimes in town, sometimes in the swamps. It ain’t like you to be so visible. Makes us wonder what kind of Troubler business needs that much of your personal attention.

I reckon