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

Purge. His new world church absorbed every Protestant denomination. He marginalized Catholicism but did not outlaw it, perhaps knowing only his most radical followers would countenance the extermination of Christian peoples. Thus, the Sisters still existed and performed their ancient rites. In his capacity as lord of order, Troy had long ago learned that some Troublers attended those services, but they never broke Crusade law during Mass. He respected the Church’s status as a sanctuary, much to Jerold Babb’s displeasure.

It’s part of your duty to stamp them out, the old man was wont to say, jabbing a crooked, palsied finger at Troy. They are heretics.

Not even Rook calls the Catholics heretics, Troy usually replied. I won’t turn my gun on other Christians. And if we disrespect sanctuary, what’s to stop some Catholic from bombin our services?

Still, Babb lectured him about the Papists at least once a month.

The sisters’ priest was an octogenarian who, except during Mass or confession, barely stayed sober long enough to string two sentences together. Troy had conversed with the man perhaps five times and could not remember when he had last seen the old rumpot. He might have left town or died. Sister Sarah Gonzales truly led the church. At forty-two, she was New Orleans’s de facto Mother Superior, her elders having died or ridden away on missionary work. Sister Sarah’s contacts with Troublers meant she held valuable information. The problem lay in how to get it out of her. She feared no earthly power, not even Matthew Rook. She could not be convinced the Crusade acted as God’s earthly hand. She would not be tricked. One could only ask her what she knew and hope for the best.

Troy tied Japeth to a rusty metal post with a bulbous head, the previous function of which he could not fathom, and approached the church. He took off his hat, as he always did before entering, and glanced at the empty thoroughfare as a matter of habit, but the Troublers dealt their violence from the shadows, from around corners, from behind trees. They would not confront him in the open unless they could sneak a whole regiment onto Camp. And so, with no heretics to shoot, Troy pulled open the heavy doors and stepped inside.

Past the foyer and the swinging wooden doors leading to the sanctuary proper, darkness and the heat of closed spaces enveloped him. Up front, dozens of votive candles flickered on their bier. Weak sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows. Dark lamps hung on the walls. The pews sat empty, the confessional doors open.

He took a deep breath. Hello! he cried.

His voice seemed to fade in the soupy heat before it could travel ten feet. Sweat poured down his face. He wiped it on his shirtsleeve and walked down the central aisle, pausing before the votives. They sat side by side on old chipped saucers marred by scattered blobs of wax. Perhaps three dozen flickered. Seventy or eighty more were dark. Apparently Sister Sarah’s followers felt easy about their souls today. Often the altar appeared to be on fire. Troy passed his hand over the wicks. They flickered, though none went out. His shadow cavorted in the aisle, long and angular, somehow disturbing. No one answered him.

Reckon I might as well go. He thought of knocking on the closed door set into the back wall, but he had never been invited into the recesses of Sarah’s church and probably never would be. He turned to leave, but the door opened on creaking hinges. When he looked back, Sarah Gonzales stood there, hand on the doorknob, her dusky face curtained in her black habit’s coarse cloth. She held a lantern and wore a frown.

I’ve asked you a million times not to bring that gun in here, she said.

Troy looked down. He had slapped leather when she opened the door. He let his hand fall away from the weapon. And I’ve told you a million times, I don’t take it off. I’ve been known to bathe with it.

The way she carried herself, her assurance, her dignity, her commitment to her work and her people—she was stronger and more beautiful than anyone he had ever known, even when she angered him. Perhaps he even loved her, despite knowing they could never be together. Neither nuns nor lords of order took spouses or consorts, married as they were to their churches, their duty.

How could she stand to wear that habit in such heat? Troy had never seen her hair, though Sister Jewel had told him it was black and curly and long enough to reach her hindquarters. Even in the shifting light, her almond-colored eyes, her full lips, and the sharp slope of her nose aroused him. Shame burned in his breast. She considered herself a bride of Christ. Even if he did not share that conviction, honor bound him to respect it.

She hung the lamp on a hook and sat on the altar, hands in her lap. Just remember this is God’s house. Keep your fightin in the streets.

He sat on the nearest pew, facing her, elbows on his knees. I ain’t lookin to fight. I need information.

You know I won’t betray sanctuary or confession.

I caught my limit today. I reckon you heard we got Lynn Stransky.

Sister Sarah gestured dismissively. I doubt you’re foolish enough to believe it’ll change much. The rebellion is bigger than one person. Even her.

It’s too hot in here to debate, Troy said. The lantern flickered, though the air seemed still and dead. Perhaps their breath troubled the flame. Its light danced across Sister Sarah’s face, now revealing her eyes and mouth, now casting her in darkness. He looked away and waited for her to ask what he wanted, but she remained silent, as patient as time.

Stransky told us somethin that’s got me a mite concerned, he finally said.

I doubt she’d tell you anything true.

It ain’t her secrets she’s tellin.

Sister Sarah might have raised her eyebrows. Perhaps her mouth opened, just a little. What,