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

string out of his pocket and knitted shapes and swirls and loops, his fingers like a pianist’s.

I had hoped, once I delivered my message, that Mister Royster would allow me to aid his mission or leave, he said. Instead, I have sat mostly idle. I’ve ridden through this city three times over. It truly is a beautiful place.

Yeah. Too bad it won’t last a month under prison conditions.

But ours is not to reason why, is it? We serve at the pleasure of our God and our divinely appointed leaders. And they have decided. I wish it weren’t so, but it is. As well try to stop the tides.

He really does seem sad. There’s humanity in those eyes. For a fella used to ridin the roads, stickin in one place makes this town his prison too. I could almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

His pectorals rippled under his tunic. Veins and tendons road-mapped his exposed forearms. He would have made a fine smith.

What’s your business? she asked. I’m about ready to drop.

Dwyer stood and put away his string. He bowed like a man asking for the next dance. Mister Royster still finds me useful as a messenger, it seems. He requires your presence in his office. Come at nightfall.

She raised her eyebrows. What for?

That, the envoy did not confide.

All right. I’ll be there.

Dwyer looked at the sword, his eyes bright and dazzling in the forge’s glow. Is this to be a broadsword?

That’s right.

I have always wanted one. I love the tales of the original Crusaders, who ventured deep into heathen lands and fought the devil’s spawn in their own streets. Perhaps one day you could make such a weapon for me.

I reckon anything’s possible.

Soon enough Dwyer excused himself, and Long spent the rest of the afternoon on the sword, trying not to think of Troy. Then she rode to her two-story wooden home on Esplanade’s 1900 block, her mind awash with images—Dwyer and Royster standing together before the Crusade flag, Bibles in hand; Troy’s body floating through the murk, neck broken, legs smashed; her heart and soul pulled in separate directions like the rope in tug-of-war. She hitched her horse to the gate standing in the shadow of the house’s beautiful design—white columns on the porch and second-floor balcony. The upstairs balustrade. The small flower garden near the walk, the cypress tree just off the street. Too much house for her. She had not wanted it. But Troy had convinced her to take it, knowing she often brought her work home, that she would need space to lay out the arrows and bows she hand-carved, the old guns she took apart and cleaned and oiled and reassembled while others spent their evenings with friends. Despite her initial reticence, she had been happy here. Now the cypress limbs shuddering in the breeze looked like Troy’s, flapping as he fell.

She washed up and rode to the Temple, thinking of conscience and duty.

The towers loomed, monuments to God’s strength and the Crusade’s mission. They were Royster’s, like the rest of New Orleans, the familiar made alien. A church from which even God had fled. She did not want to go in there. But when duty called, she had ever answered.

Long walked toward the front doors, wondering whether the guards would look her in the face.

They did. They even saluted. One of them opened the doors. At the front desk, Norville Unger stopped shuffling his ever-present papers and bowed.

Now what’s got into that old fool?

Near the back stairs, the personnel had lined up against the walls. They held stiff salutes. What to make of it all? Perhaps Royster had ordered them to observe all the niceties, another sign of Troy’s absence.

She took the stairs two at a time, ready to start the meeting so it could end. This place is so different. It might as well be on the moon. When she reached Troy’s office, Benn and Clemens stood on either side of the closed door, thumbs tucked into their gun belts.

Benn stepped forward. Good evening, Deputy Long. I hope your day went well. He stuck out his hand.

She shook it. Benn’s grip strength rivaled Santonio Ford’s. He might have been fat, but he was strong. That depends on what’s waitin in yonder, she said. You gonna let me in?

Certainly.

Benn backed away. Clemens had not moved. Their faces were fresh sheets stretched across a bed. She took a deep breath and stepped inside before she could change her mind. No one followed her.

Royster sat at Troy’s desk and grinned, as he had done so often since his arrival. Clad in his robes of office, Jerold Babb stood to Royster’s left, liver-spotted hands clasped at his waist.

Royster gestured to one of Troy’s straight-backed chairs. Long took it.

Good evening, the envoy said. I trust our Father has blessed you today.

I think that depends on what happens here, Long said for the second time in less than a minute.

Royster picked up a steaming mug of coffee and sipped it, watching her over the rim, eyes gleaming like a clever animal’s in torchlight. When he put his cup down, he said, Weaponsmith Long, can the Bright Crusade lean on your strength and depend on your heart? Or does the city of New Orleans hold sway over you, as it did Gabriel Troy?

Long clenched her teeth. What do I have to do, have a first-born child and sacrifice it on a stone altar? She breathed, exhaled, breathed, exhaled. I showed you where I stand when I chased my lord of order off a bridge, she said. And before that, I shot him.

LaShanda, Babb scolded. Haven’t we had enough bickering? Do you want Mister Royster to believe we are all malcontents?

Royster sipped coffee and watched her.

Long wanted to slap the mug out of his hand and scream. No, that was not true. She wanted to shoot him and toss Babb through the window. Royster had ridden into her city and filled it with so-called Troublers, many of whom seemed