Lord of Order by Brett Riley (the reading list book TXT) 📕

cups, taking away dirty dishes and replacing them with clean plates and utensils. Everyone ate as if they had starved for years, and though Troy had enjoyed the gumbos and such the Troublers had fed him, he had missed the city’s food.

As he helped himself to fire-grilled steak and oven-baked potatoes, he pondered those around him.

Lynn Stransky, her hair washed and combed back from her forehead, talked through mouthfuls of food and elbowed Jack Hobbes every time she told an off-color joke. Hobbes, clean and groomed, sat at his ease beside her. Something about them, the way they leaned in to share a word, the glances when one passed a dish. Good for y’all. What would Sarah’s hair look like, falling loose past her shoulders or wafting in a breeze? Jack Hobbes or Lynn Stransky or both might die out there. What would happen if one survived the other?

Ernie Tetweiller wore his usual three days’ growth of white beard, now clotted with the fatty drippings of roast duck. He still serves four or five days out of seven. The old man could have spent all his time drinking his precious whiskey and eating fatty meats and cursing, but he had stood with Troy, and now he planned to ride with the rest of them. At his age, and given the nature of their enterprise, he would likely never see his city again, even if the rest of them somehow made it back. And so, whenever Troy could catch the old man’s eye, he raised his glass and smiled. And Tetweiller smiled back, meat caught in his teeth.

Santonio Ford had been quiet much of the night. The recent campaign had required much of him, as devout a servant of God as ever there was. In his future lay even more weight for his conscience. I hope you can find your peace again, my friend.

LaShanda Long sat opposite Ford and joined in the revelry as much as anyone, but it was clear she struggled with her own heavy heart. Much of the populace might never trust her. Perhaps they would remember her years of loyal service and the strength and plentitude of the weapons she had provided. Or perhaps they would not.

Willa McClure had chosen a seat between Ford and Tetweiller, Bandit lounging under the table and snapping up the scraps people dropped for him. The girl had brushed off Troy’s suggestions that she and Bandit stay and help the proxies run the city, saying, You ain’t got nobody else that can do what I do. Santonio’s quiet, but he’s bigger. Troy could not argue with that, but he kept picturing McClure lying dead in a ditch.

She deserves better. Lord, please watch over this child. Bring her home, even if the rest of us die hard. Your will be done.

Was it even right to call her girl? She had been through as much as most people Tetweiller’s age. What was the precise measure of a woman?

Jerold Babb sat apart from the others, silent and meek and blushing. His place at the table stemmed from respect for his office, not because the man belonged in their company. He had sided with Royster and, in the city’s eyes, was party to all those deaths, to all that would have come with the flood. He moved like an even older man. Had he scourged himself? Or did guilt have weight?

You followed your heart and the teachins of your church. I just hope you’ll help Mordecai and them keep the peace.

And their absent friends—Gordy Boudreaux and his injured mind, his sickened spirit. Sister Sarah, wrapped in the arms of the Lord as surely as her body was wrapped in the habit. What would happen to them?

Troy blinked away the tears that wanted to come. As always, he had to be strong, the rock all the world’s waters could not wear away, the oak no lightning could split or burn. He was the lord of order. No matter how tired, he would lead them forward until they won or died. There was no third choice. Not in this world.

When Norville Unger slipped into the room, Troy stood. All right, y’all, he said. It’s time. Norville?

Unger held up a sheaf of paper and a quill pen. He sat and smoothed the paper on a corner of Troy’s desk and dipped the pen into an inkwell. One by one the rest of them stood.

Troy went first, saluting his fellows. I, Gabriel Troy, Lord of Order of the New Orleans Principality, name Mordecai Jones my proxy. May he serve long and well.

So say we all, said everyone, even Stransky.

And so it went around the table. Lynn Stransky named Bushrod, ignoring Troy’s dark looks. Ernie Tetweiller named Ruth Longfellow, a woman steadfast and true, a butcher by trade who had ridden in many posses. Even Stransky recognized the name. She had probably seen Longfellow through a rifle scope.

Jack Hobbes named Loudon Grimm, a steelsmith who had likewise fought Troublers in streets and swamps. Grimm stood nearly six and a half feet tall and could heft an anvil on his shoulders. Troy wished he had sent Grimm after Jevan Dwyer. His own face would have fared the better for it.

In Boudreaux’s stead, Hobbes and Tetweiller named Cecily Fitzhugh, a fisherwoman with a head for figures and a draw as quick as anyone’s. She also helped in the markets, making sure everyone’s belly was full, their shelters sound. It was understood among those at the table that Fitzhugh would serve while Boudreaux remained with the sisters. If he ever chose, he could take his rightful place.

Santonio Ford named Liv Tetweiller, a cousin of Ernie’s who had distinguished herself as a hunter.

LaShanda Long named Benson Ruddiger, her best metallurgist. The man had no leadership experience, but she believed he could learn on the job.

Willa McClure controlled neither territory nor trade, so she named no proxy. And in any event, who could replace her? She sat and listened, feeding Bandit under the table, keeping her