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

Hobbes stuck out his hand. Troy shook it. Stransky hugged Hobbes again. Troy wondered if the deputy would break her jaw. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, Hobbes hugged her back.

If that don’t beat all. It looked about as natural as a bear riding a horse.

Hobbes caught him looking and pulled away, clearing his throat. Stransky patted the deputy lord’s cheek, grinning.

You better get back before they notice you’re gone, Troy said.

Okay, Hobbes said. He tipped his hat. Ma’am.

Troy watched him go. I hope I see you again this side of heaven, my friend.

Stransky shook her head. Ma’am, he called me. Jesus Christ. She turned to Troy. You ready for this?

Ain’t got no choice.

If you’re playin me, my people will rip you apart.

I’d expect nothin less.

She clapped him on the shoulder—his wounded arm. He winced. Okay, then, she said. Let’s go get ready to pick a fight.

20

Boudreaux tried to ignore the prisoners’ moans, the stink of their fouled garments, the drone of flies buzzing over buckets of human waste. On the table before him lay an emaciated wretch. But for a few scraggly patches, the man’s hair had fallen out. His limbs were pine straw. The roots of his eight or ten remaining teeth showed. The rest lay on an old steel tray flecked with blood and rust. Boudreaux gripped the pliers hard, hoping they would break, but LaShanda Long’s smiths had made them well. Damn her for that. Damn her smiths. Damn me too. Me most of all.

Clemens whispered in Boudreaux’s ear. Don’t stop now. You’re getting to the good part.

This is hell, all right.

On the march, a guard’s canteen had disappeared. It had fallen to Boudreaux and Clemens to interrogate certain prisoners who had been chained in the vicinity. Of course, Clemens had only the guard’s word that the canteen had even existed. Perhaps the man had lost it or even thrown it away so someone would end up in a place such as this, facing someone like Boudreaux. For all anyone knew, the guard held some personal grudge against certain prisoners. Or perhaps he was just sadistic. Yet his word had been enough.

This man was somebody’s precious babe once. And now he’s here. His whole life led him to me, his destiny so certain it might have been prophesied in the Testaments. What kind of plan is that, and what kind of abominable god would conceive it?

The skeleton strapped to the torture table knew nothing about the canteen. That had been clear as soon as they had dragged him in by his wrists and thrown him on the table like a cut of meat. Yet there lay the man’s teeth, and here were the pliers, in Boudreaux’s hand. Because you had to ask. And ask. And ask again, each question punctuated with misery, until you heard the answer you wanted to hear. That was Boudreaux’s job now.

Once, he would have laughed at the very idea of a Crusader thief. Why steal when everybody had plenty? The notion would have seemed as foreign and exotic as a mountain in the Quarter. But now, after so many trips to this blight of a room, he could believe anything about anyone. Especially himself. He no longer recognized the face in his mirror—the hollow eyes, the gaunt cheeks, the oily and unkempt hair. The things he had done had poisoned his dreams, his faith. No love or charity here. No godliness, unless God’s insane. If this is justice, it’s sick and perverted. So are my friends, who passed me this cup. None of them so sick as me. Boudreaux had fallen to his knees night after night, begging God to give him a sign, to strike him down rather than let him hurt another person. Yet God had been silent, and for the first time in his life, Gordon Boudreaux could not accept the mystery. He had no one to lean on, no one to share his pain with. It seemed to matter little whether the Crusade drowned New Orleans or if Troy succeeded. Everyone was vile. Everything was senseless.

He isn’t going to tell us anything, Clemens said, if you plan to bore him to death.

Boudreaux clenched his teeth and managed not to twist Clemens’s nose off with the pliers like one might yank a bent nail out of a wall. Instead, he grabbed the man’s face and held the pliers an inch from his eyes. What was the prisoner’s name again? It had seemed so important before they—he—began pulling teeth. He searched his memory and finally found it.

Mister Potrello, he said. You can make it stop. Just tell us. Did you steal that canteen, or do you know who did? It’s one or the other, sir. You were chained right there.

The man tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He rasped and stared at Boudreaux without really seeing. Gah, he said. Gah. God.

He has no energy. They’ve starved him for weeks. Boudreaux leaned closer, caressing Potrello’s cheek. If you tell me, I’ll see you’re fed and given plenty of water. Come on now.

The man gargled and gagged and spat red-flecked white foam. His teeth yanked out, yet he barely bled. He was desiccating like a grape in July. Boudreaux looked in his eyes and saw in them all the universe’s despair, the cold cruelty that sistered imagination. In the end, Potrello only whined.

Clemens nudged Boudreaux. Get on with it. It’s the only way we can save his thieving soul from hellfire. Besides, he stinks. I want out of this room.

Boudreaux looked back at Clemens. I can jam these pliers through his eyeball. And then I can stab Mister Benn in the throat. The guards will get me, but the deputy envoys will die first. Maybe that’s the answer I should have given when they first brought me here. There’s no future for me. No old age. But maybe if I kill these cockroaches, I can save