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

The armies will come anyway, Tetweiller said. Once Royster’s dead.

Odds will be better by then, Hobbes said. Hunt and fish and gather and harvest and forge until this whole city’s one big fortress.

Huh, Ford said. The wall’s just the kind of defense we can’t build ourselves in the time we got. Lord above, Gabe, it’s risky, but if we could pull it off—

We might be safe for the duration, Troy said.

No one spoke for a time. Something big splashed in the river. From the streets, guards’ voices drifted on the breeze as they talked of aching lower backs, the temperaments of the new arrivals, the weather, food. Crickets chirped. Bandit scratched himself. The girl rubbed the dog’s belly.

Well, I’m on pins and needles, Long said.

As are we all, Hobbes muttered.

There’s somethin else, Ford said. I can’t speak for y’all, but my conscience—it’s still eatin at me. What we’re doin now—we’ve always called it treason and heresy.

Lord, yes, Long said.

Everything feels wrong, Troy said. I can’t say it don’t. But we swore to protect our people. I can’t let Rook murder em.

The lesser of two evils, Long whispered. She turned to the water.

Yes, said Troy. That’s the best I can give you.

Ford spat and ran a hand over his face. He exhaled. There ain’t no best, he said. It’s all just one big heap of awful.

They fell silent again. The river gurgled.

Finally, Tetweiller sighed. Fuck it. I’m in.

Troy stood and shook his hand. Thank you, my good friend.

I’ll do my part, Ford said. Lord forgive me.

So will I, Long said. But it took her a moment.

Troy shook their hands. A great weight lifted from his chest. Okay, listen up. After tomorrow, we can’t meet like this anymore. Not all of us.

What’s happenin tomorrow? asked McClure.

Never you mind. It’ll look better if y’all don’t know.

My ass, Ernie Tetweiller said. Spill.

Just keep in mind, it’s all part of the plan, unless Royster hangs my body from the Temple walls. Keep doin what you’re doin. And have faith. Believe in our God and in each other.

God’s all well and good, McClure said. But I’ll put my faith in us.

LaShanda, if you and Santonio could hang back a spell, I’d appreciate it.

Soon everyone else dispersed. Troy gazed across the river’s dark expanse. After tomorrow, I might never see you again. Or you might be my grave. Well, I reckon I could do worse. Mother Muddy. His heart pounded. His throat had gone dry. Help me, Father. I can’t afford to be scared. I just can’t.

He turned to his chief hunter and his master smith. I got a task for y’all, he said.

Moonlight still streamed through his bedroom window when Troy woke. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and went to the kitchen, boiled coffee, and drank three cups, the steam and aroma driving away the fog in his mind. Back in his bedroom, he threw open the curtains to the rising sun and checked his spare six-guns and ammo. Four pistols lay scattered about the house with just enough shells to look suspicious. His clothes, his spare hat, even his father’s Bible remained where he had left them. When the Crusaders searched his house, it had to look as if he had planned to come back.

The supplies he had packed in his poke seemed pitiful, a piece of gauze on an amputated limb. If they find the caches I’ve been buryin, I’ll have to depend on Stransky. She’ll love that.

In the foyer, he looked back. His comfortable old furniture sat in mute witness to his departure as dust motes drifted through the air. Countless friends and visiting officials had sat on that couch, in those chairs. Life and memory as indelibly imprinted in the walls as the wood’s very grain. I’m probably never gonna see this place again. It’s been a good home. Tears blurred his vision. He wiped them away. He gritted his teeth and slapped himself on the cheek. Quit it. You ain’t got the luxury.

He turned, opened the door, and stepped outside.

The red mare with the white heart-shaped splotch on her hindquarters had been saddled and hitched. A good horse that might have grown to excellence, given more time, but the mare’s hourglass had emptied too. Troy wished he could have chosen an old warhorse with one foot in the grave, a good soldier ready for one last chase, like Japeth. But he needed something fast and lithe. Besides, Japeth deserves a better ride than we’ll get today.

He untied the mare. She snorted as he saddled up. They ambled along the streets, greeting citizens and the few outlander guards who bothered saluting. Most did not. Why bother? The town was theirs. Locals, even Troy, were blue ticks waiting to be picked off and squeezed to death.

The smells of beignets and croissants and fresh butter and jam rode the breeze. New Orleans culture you could eat. Troy rode to Roddy Trahan’s little cafe on Chartres and ate eggs and andouille and buttered croissants. A few tables away sat Jones, along with Tommy Gautreaux, a big-bellied fiftyish man who split his time between lamplighting and fishing for Ford; the Temple guard Antoine Baptiste, eating sausage and biscuits by the fistful, fuel for his dusky, powerful frame; Laura Derosier, the lanky forger of handheld bladed weapons, her sandy hair pulled back, her swan’s neck nearly as thin and corded as her arms. Before Troy left, he stopped by their table. They spoke of banalities, but Derosier winked at him, and Baptiste made a point of shaking his hand, not just saluting. They were finishing their last cups of coffee when he put on his hat and exited.

He rode toward the Temple and listened to his city—clinking and shuffling, the low sounds of construction from the wall, horses’ hooves on pavement, children running to their lessons or apprenticeships. He lingered in the old wards and the Central Business District, the Quarter, Treme,