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

Rook’s ordered raids from ocean to ocean, or how the prisoners have been quarryin rock and fellin trees and forgin iron from Canada to Mississippi. But the orders will confirm what I’m sayin about New Orleans. They’re gonna make it sound like you’re bein done a favor, but once them prisoners show up, once they start droppin big-ass sections of fortified wall along the city perimeter, you’ll believe. If you can’t live with yourself at that point, come see me, and I’ll tell you the rest.

She looked neither sardonic nor angry, even though they had beaten her and killed at least seven of her friends that very day. No, she looked frightened. Something about the bags under her eyes, the lilt in her voice. Troy had been trained to spot falsehood, and he saw no lie here. She ain’t scared of us. But she’s scared all the same. Something transferred from this woman to his spine and rattled his bones. Why would anybody want another Purge? We’re winnin the war. Her information’s gotta be wrong.

He crossed his arms and tried to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. Who told you all this?

Stransky grinned. I told you. A runner. Call him a little bird that flew into town today. And back out again. You didn’t get us all, Gabe.

All right. Leave that for now. What do your people intend to do?

She looked at him as if he were mad. We’re gonna fight. What the fuck do you think we’re gonna do?

He waited, but she did not elaborate. He sighed and rubbed his temples. He had been chasing her for years, and now she knelt before him—Lynn Stransky, leader of the principality’s Troublers, a terrorist and a heretic. He should have been lying in bed with an iced tea in one hand and the Jonas Strickland Bible in the other or indulging himself with a rare drink at Ernie Tetweiller’s. Instead, he stood in his stuffy office, sweltering and uncertain. What if it were true? What if Matthew Rook had come to worship Jonas Strickland’s acts more than God Himself? From the perspective of generations, the Purge seemed almost theoretical, abstract. The thought of it happening here, to people Troy knew, to his town—he could not force his mind to travel that road. It was the difference between watching lightning play over the horizon and being struck.

Boudreaux unfurled a length of chain. Its clinking disturbed Troy’s contemplation. He shook his head. No. We won’t need that. Take her to a tower cell. I ain’t buyin your lies today, lady. Maybe you can peddle em some other time.

Boudreaux dragged Stransky to her feet and yanked her toward the door. She looked back at Troy. Like I said. Come see me when you learn who’s really lyin.

They exited, thumping up the stairs. Stransky’s cackles drifted down like the call of a carrion bird. Troy walked back behind his desk and sat in his chair. The day’s weariness pulsed through his legs and lower back. Hobbes took a seat across from him. He removed his hat and fanned himself, looking worried. And something stirred in Troy’s gut because Hobbes never worried.

So what do you think? Troy said.

Sounds like bull dung. But she believes it.

Troy nodded. I read it that way too.

Hobbes fanned himself a while. Troy stewed in his own sweat, thinking hard.

So what now? Hobbes said.

Troy took a deep breath. Go celebrate. We caught a big fish. Me, I’m gonna visit the sisters and sound them out. Maybe they’ve heard somethin.

And then?

Troy traced the loops and swirls of his desk’s grain. If the sisters supported Stransky’s story, things would change, irrevocably and fast.

If this rider don’t show up, he said, then Stransky’s a liar, and we can hang her. In public, where the rest of em can see. But if he’s real, we’re gonna listen close to what he says. If we don’t like it, seems we’ll have three choices. One, go along and let the city die. Either it’ll be Purged, or the prisoners will raze it to the ground. Two, try to get our populace outta town and abandon the city. If there’s enough guards comin, they might kill you and me and Gordy, but maybe we could save some of our people first.

When Troy fell back into silence, Hobbes said, And three?

Open rebellion.

Hobbes whistled, low and long. Rebellion’s a mortal sin.

Yep.

Hobbes chewed on the possibilities. The weight of the conversation pressed on them, as omnipresent as the city’s wet heat. A heap of bad choices, he said.

Yep. We gotta prepare for the worst.

How, without startin a panic? Don’t reckon we can just ask folks to move outta the city for a month or two.

We should start small. You, me, and Gordy already know. Ernie and Santonio. LaShanda Long and Willa McClure. That would give us the folks in charge of order, food, and weaponry, plus Willa’s information.

Anybody else?

Not till we get a better idea of what’s true and how our group feels about the options.

Hobbes nodded and passed a hand over his face.

Troy got up and headed down the stairs. He needed a meal and a cool bath and a quiet house in which to think. Not for the first time, he wished Lynn Stransky damned to hell for what she had said and done.

3

Troy and Japeth clopped down Camp Street in fading amber light. The gray’s hoofbeats echoed against the buildings. Two children dressed in deerskin sat on the walk, playing Go Fish. They glanced at Troy as he passed and then went back to their game. He had come here so many times that his presence no longer inspired awe, except when he shot somebody. Then, it seemed, everyone genuflected.

He reined up at the Church of the Sisters of Mercy and Grace, once known as St. Patrick’s. Just after the Purge, Jonas Strickland had outlawed all non-Christian religions and sent his new lords of order to slay any adherents who survived the