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

of fishing skiffs cut through the ripples like bullets through flesh.

Dwyer reappeared later that day. He knocked three times and entered Troy’s office without waiting for an answer. He took one of Troy’s straight-backed chairs, settled his thick frame into it, and took out his string.

Good morning, he said. What have you discovered about our egregious security breach?

Troy picked up his mug of coffee and blew on it, eyeing Dwyer over the rim. The herald’s face was impassive. You’d make a fine cardsharp, if anybody but Troublers gambled.

We got men combin the streets, Troy said. Nothin so far, but Stransky’s always been good at goin to ground. As for the others, you saw em. With them masks, there ain’t no way to find em unless we catch a prisoner that’ll talk.

Dwyer nodded, as if he had expected precisely this answer. The string skittered back and forth, hypnotic. Yes, he said. I’ve dealt with their ilk before.

I reckon Washington’s got it worse than we do. I feel for y’all.

My thanks. What else?

We doubled the guard and the street patrols with orders to engage and capture. If anybody even thinks wrong, we’ll get em.

Dwyer said nothing. The string metamorphosed into starbursts, a series of parallel lines, a circled letter A. Then he stood and went to the window and looked out. Troy fidgeted and sipped his coffee. He did not like the way Dwyer contemplated the water. If the herald discovered Troy and the others had met down there mere hours before the Temple assault, they might have to kill him.

Troy cleared his throat and said, I got some new munitions figures. We’re about sixty percent done with the inventory.

Dwyer turned back to him. The string had stopped moving, covering half his fingers like threadbare gloves. You’ll need to hurry. I expect the first arrivals in a day, perhaps two.

That soon?

Not soon enough. I have not seen your high minister. Dwyer glanced around the room as if Babb, heretofore invisible, might reveal himself.

Jerold seemed half dead this mornin, so I sent him home. He’s old, and he ain’t used to lookin down the business end of a pistol.

I hope he is well. I shall check back soon. Dwyer pocketed his string and offered Troy his hand. Troy stood and shook it. The herald started to leave, but he paused in the doorway and looked back. There is something to consider. You might ask your citizens about Stransky’s escape.

Troy frowned. Why would I ask them? What good would it do?

Because somewhere out there, in your city or beyond, someone knows. And because ferreting out a traitor might be worth the trouble of asking—harshly.

Harshly. Troy crossed his arms. I don’t know what you mean.

After a moment, Dwyer smiled. Never mind, he said.

When Dwyer was gone, Troy sat and closed his eyes. He sighed and opened his drawers. He took out the maps of the armories and spent the next hour calculating how long they could delay the final accounting. When he finished, he got up and walked to the window. The day was bright, the azure sky spotted with clouds. On the square, people came and went, oblivious, blind.

Troy drank the rest of his coffee and set the cup on the windowsill. Outriders in New Orleans as early as tomorrow. A demand for the inventory lists. He needed to speak with Lynn Stransky sooner than planned.

Sister Sarah met Troy at the entrance, her habit soaked with sweat. She looked up and down the street. Then she led Troy into the vestibule. Sunspots played across his vision like fireworks. A figure sat on the first pew.

That Crusader you’re babysittin better not have followed you, Sister Sarah said. I’ll burn this house down before I let him take it.

This ain’t my first picnic.

She turned and hugged him. He would not have been more surprised if she had sprouted wings. I’m glad you made it through that madness, she said.

Troy barely heard her. What would her hair look like, spillin over her shoulders? Her slim and graceful throat, her skin—but no. Sinful thoughts, more so because she believed herself wed to Christ Himself. If she wasn’t, I would have started somethin that would have damned us both a long time ago.

He wriggled out of her arms, feeling his face redden. Thank goodness she could not see it. She clasped her hands at her waist while he pulled out a soggy handkerchief and mopped his brow, leaving both his forehead and the cloth wetter than before. He lifted his chin in Stransky’s direction. She drivin you crazy?

Nothin we can’t handle. She had a visitor this mornin, so I expect she’ll have news. He was a dirty fella who looked like he needed a month of good meals.

Someone had lit the wall lamps. Votives burned on the altar, casting globular and shifting pools of light onto Stransky. She gazed at the hanging wooden cross, her head cocked to one side, her hair askew. Drop her into any other church in any other city and you might mistake her for a Christian. Just a good woman sitting on a strong pew, heart right with God and soul unstained with curses and thefts and bloody murders.

Troy and Sister Sarah stepped in front of Stransky. I was just admirin your decorations, Sister, the Troubler said. Fancy as shit. Oak?

Sister Sarah scowled. This is the last time I’m warnin you about your language. From now on, you can use it out yonder. In the light of day.

Stransky laughed. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. Say, do you wear panties under that getup?

Troy took Sister Sarah’s arm, pulling her closer to the altar. She looked like something out of a painting—unwrinkled, cherubic, her complexion like strong coffee shot with milk. He squeezed her upper arm, liking the feel of the hard muscle there, the strength.

I really appreciate you lettin her stay, he said.

Sarah lifted her hand to his face, her fingers rasping through his stubble, and said, If she