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

Troy saluted patrolling guards and stopped to chat with some workers on their way home. To make sure he was noticed, he paused for an hour at the river, alone on his bench. Citizens trudged past and greeted him. Near dusk, he eased through the shadows, street by street, toward the Church of the Sisters of Mercy and Grace. When he came upon the unbroken south-moving line of Troublers and guards, he pulled his hat low, turned up his collar, and stepped over the chains between two prisoners. No one hailed him. These new guards would not know his face, even if they could see it in the gloom. He hoped he would have the same luck getting back. Likely the guards would be too focused on their charges to worry much about a citizen.

Camp Street was mostly deserted, as usual. The few people who lived there kept strict hours so they could attend Mass. I bet Royster’s not gonna be happy with the size of our Catholic population. Maybe that’s another reason they picked New Orleans—the chance to drown so many Papists at once. Just one more bit of wrong in a great big pile of awful.

He slipped inside the church. Stransky waited on the front pew, staring into the votives’ light. She did not turn to greet him, even when the floorboards creaked. Her eyes were closed, as if in prayer. Troy crossed in front of her and took a seat to her right. She had bathed since he saw her last. The oil had been washed from her freshly combed hair, which hung straight down to her shoulders. She had scrubbed the dirt and grime from her face and arms. In her clean deerskin clothes, Stransky almost looked like a citizen.

She kept still for perhaps two minutes. Then she turned to him. Welcome back, partner, she said.

I can’t believe you got the gall to pray, after all you done.

Stransky laughed and slapped her knee. Then she stood and placed her hands in the small of her back, arching her spine. It crackled; she grunted. Not that it’s any of your goddam business, but I pray. I got my own religion, taught to me by my daddy and my granddaddy before him, until your buddy Ernie Tetweiller shot em down in the streets like dogs.

Troublers don’t care nothin for God.

Stransky looked as if she had been sprayed by a skunk. We don’t care nothin for the Crusade. There’s a big difference, in case you hadn’t noticed.

Troy shook his head. It wasn’t always like this.

She grinned. Wasn’t it?

She sat and faced him, crossing her legs beneath her as before. The deerskin hung from her body. Even though her face seemed fuller than it had in the tower, she still looked like a famine victim. Perhaps she was. Troy had spent much of his life guarding Crusade supplies from Troubler theft, damning the guerillas every time one of them stole food or water or weapons. Had their actions been just, Troy’s wrong? How could starving someone serve God?

Still, the woman had murdered.

Don’t talk to me about my own church, he said.

We got a Bible at our headquarters. It’s been passed down from ancient times, dog-eared and flimsy, disintegratin every day. It’s the real thing, not that cherry-picked piece of shit Strickland gave y’all. You should read it sometime. It might open your eyes.

I told you. I ain’t gonna debate my religion with a heretic.

You brought it up.

Troy took a deep breath. Don’t let her get to you. He exhaled. We got bigger problems. South of the river’s stuffed with prisoners and guards, and they’re bringin in the wall already built. I asked Royster about it. He clammed up.

Uh-huh. What do you plan to do about it?

Troy hated what he was about to say. Stransky watched him, expressionless. She’s lovin this. He sighed. We’ve been recruitin. Hidin as much explosives and ammo as we can. But we’re still gonna be outnumbered. The outlanders will have enough ordnance to blow those levees five times over.

She studied her nails as if they were discussing how best to mend a cuticle. And? she said.

And we need to get you back to your people. We need supplies. Combustibles, weapons, food stores, manpower.

Stransky smiled. Live together or die alone, huh?

Somethin like that.

They sat for a bit, watching the candles. When the sanctuary looked like this—no lamps, only the votives’ finicky light—it always seemed solemn and spooky, like a graveyard by moonlight. Yet the combination of comfort and fear could be useful. Safety and ease felt good, but fright kept your guard up. Soon, if they failed, the sisters’ steeple would thrust from murky water like a grasping hand.

She’s sweet on you, Stransky said.

Troy started. Huh? Who?

Stransky grinned. Sarah. I mean, the first time I said somethin, I was just ribbin you, but it’s true. She’s got enough nun in her to hide it, but it’s there. If you pushed her just a bit, I bet you could find out what’s under that habit.

Troy shoved Stransky onto her back and jammed his bent knee between her breasts, one hand on her throat, the other cocking a pistol, pressing the barrel against her forehead. You ever speak of her like that again, he said through clenched teeth, and I’ll blow your brains out.

Stransky cackled and flicked her tongue. Troy pressed the barrel harder, as if he meant to punch it through her skull. His grip on her throat tightened. Her face reddened. Bits of spittle flew from her lips. Yet still she laughed.

Then a voice broke through his anger. Gabriel Troy. You know I won’t have violence here.

Sister Sarah stood near the back door, blending into the shadows.

Stransky’s laughter had weakened. Saliva flecked her lips.

If I squeeze a little more, she’ll die laughin.

Instead, he uncocked his gun and holstered it. The barrel left a red O in Stransky’s skin. He let go of her neck and got off her.

She sat up, coughing and rubbing her