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

nailed prepared wooden braces to the wall on the city side. Another group mounted ladders near the seam and hammered supporting planks onto the two sections, shoring up the connections. Finally they painted the wall with pitch, waterproofing it. Yet another bunch was already digging a trench for the next section, their bodies lean and filthy and glistening with sweat.

Benn sat his horse nearby, eating a slice of jerky. I hate to see these wretches loosed from their rightful places on the street, even for a work detail. But Mister Rook insisted the Troublers erect the wall themselves. And I admit it feels right.

Melton rode his dust-colored stallion and signaled to the field bosses, who turned to the Troublers, shouting orders that were met with groans and a grudging increase in effort.

Benn rode up beside Melton. Mr. Royster sent me to check your progress.

Melton hawked and spat a thick greenish blob that Benn looked at with distaste. I don’t know how Glau’s doing, but we’re on schedule. Maybe even a little ahead.

Glau was Melton’s counterpart at the other end of the wall. When the two crews met, the Crusaders would march the Troublers inside and erect the last section themselves. The heathens would await the flood they did not even know was coming while the Lord’s own celebrated, rested, and put this godforsaken piece of swamp behind them.

I visited Glau earlier, Benn said. He’s ahead of schedule.

Thank the Most High. This humidity is killing me. I feel like I’m trying to breathe soup.

Benn chuckled, but Melton was right. The air was thick and oppressive. It had gotten progressively worse as the herd of prisoners had trudged ever southward; since leaving Washington, Benn had seen upward of two dozen Troublers collapse, their filthy bodies dragged hither and yon by their mates still chained to them at the ankles. Now, more from the work crews fell every day, and anytime the Troublers stopped to help a fellow who had collapsed, the field bosses laid into them until they went back to work. It hardly seems charitable, but Mister Rook is closer to God than anyone. Gabriel Troy might be stupid enough to question his orders, but I’m not. I plan to kiss my wife and daughters again, and that right soon.

Mister Royster will be pleased, he said to Melton. Do you need anything?

Melton indicated the crew. Replacements. These rogues are almost played out.

I’ll make it happen. In the meantime, if these ask for a bath, give it to them. They stink worse than hell itself.

He spurred his horse and headed back toward the Temple.

15

That night, Jack Hobbes slipped through the clanking Troublers. He went afoot, just as Troy had ordered, his injured arm held tightly against his body. Later, he would hoof it back home or, if that seemed too risky, spend the night in the church. He was not worried about anyone asking why he looked so tired. No one slept well these days. Too much noise and too many problems.

Still, Hobbes dreaded the rendezvous with Stransky. She just plain bugged him, what with her looking at a man like she planned to fornicate with him and then bite off his head. She had looked at him that way, at least, both when they caught her and as they broke her out of the tower.

Well, we all got our crosses to bear. Ain’t never shirked mine.

The sisters’ spire rose against the half-moon sky. It had always seemed sinister, housing all those popish ceremonies and nuns’ cold faces. Would have run em out long ago if it had been my call. But I would have been wrong. They’re useful. Besides, Gabe and Sister Sarah are sweet on each other. Foolish, but when did love ever make sense?

Hobbes scanned the road, the outlying buildings, even the rooftops. He could not afford for anyone to see a deputy lord visiting the Catholics this late. If someone did, he would have to kill them, and he did not want murder on his conscience.

Unless it’s Benn or Clemens. Could shoot them bootlickers, dump em in the river, and sleep like a babe.

Nothing moved, so Hobbes sprinted down the street, up the steps, and through the double doors. The air in the sanctum was so hot it smelled burnt. Sarah was absent, but a bareheaded woman sat on the front pew, a lamp on the altar bathing her in a pool of muted light. He barely recognized her. Dark hair, clean and silky, spilled to her shoulders. Before, it had looked like a wet skunk pelt. With his good hand, Hobbes untied the rawhide holding down his gun. He did not like the thought of killing inside a house of worship, but he would do as he must.

He stepped on a creaky floorboard. She stood and turned to him, her face lost in the gloom.

Jacky, Stransky said as he walked up the aisle, cute as ever.

Hobbes scoffed. Might as well bury that bone. Got nothin to say about it.

She shrugged. Fine. Pull up a pew, asshole.

Stransky sat. She wore a pair of deerskin pants and a cotton top. Her face looked fuller. The sisters had been feeding her. Her skin was ruddy but clean. If she had been anyone else and they had been anywhere besides a church, Hobbes might have found her fetching.

He looked away. Remember she’s a rattlesnake.

She patted the pew and grinned. Hobbes cleared his throat and sat a good five feet away.

Ain’t much to tell, he said. But he told it anyway.

My people’s been watchin them prisoners and talkin to em all casual like, she said when he had finished. Most of em seem like what you Crusaders would call upright citizens. I think your boy Rook’s gettin a jump on the Purge by sendin a shitload of regular folks down here to drown.

Hobbes wiped sweat from his brow. Only got her word on this, but don’t see no sign of falsehood. Or maybe I just wanna