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

back, where we store some of our old documents. It’s been repaired just enough to keep it standin. It’s isolated enough so I should be able to sneak in and out easy, and I can’t see any reason they’d be watchin it. Our old crop statistics shouldn’t matter to Royster.

Twenty yards away, a group of guards noticed him. One saluted. Ford returned it. Then he turned Rachel and headed toward the archive. More light bled out of the day, leaching color and texture from the world. The houses, painted white or not at all, began to lose their sharp edges. The grass, nearly midcalf high in the neighborhoods awaiting their next landscaping day, metamorphosed from bright green to a kind of purple that would soon give way to grayish black. Dogs barked at him from behind fences. Children ran to the street and waved. He kept watch on his six, looking for a tail, but saw nothing. A handful of citizens passed on their way to or from work, but because the prisoners had not reached the area yet, no guards.

If anybody questions me about what I was doin here, I need to have a story ready. The archive looked even more isolated and forlorn than he remembered—the paint worn away, the paved walk disintegrating, the foliage overgrown. He looked about one last time, saw no one, and tried the door. It was old and warped and crumbling, a body whose soul had departed long ago. The knob nearly pulled free from the wood.

We should move our documents or repair this place. It’s a fire waitin on a spark.

Ford walked Rachel around the structure and hitched her to a ragged sawtooth oak that had seen one too many storms. Hopefully she don’t just rip it outta the ground and drag it down the road without me. Perhaps, as the sun set, the shade and the building would hide her long enough. He patted her head and then circled the building again.

Inside, it smelled of dust and animal. Even the air felt dirty. It was dim, but Ford’s eyes adjusted quickly.

A human shape sat on a crate ten feet away. It was small and strapped, sidearms tight against its hips. On the ground in front of it, a lumpy shape moved about.

When I seen you followin that trail, said Willa McClure, I figured you’d come here sooner or later.

The shape at her feet moved toward Ford and coalesced into Bandit the dog. Ford held out his hand. Bandit licked it and sat, scratching the back of his head.

Ford could not make out McClure’s expression. You trackin me?

You rode too fast for us to catch you.

Well, why were you tryin?

You got a nice ass.

Quit it. This is serious.

Last night, we seen some Crusaders take Vacla across the bridge.

Ford rubbed his strained, sleepless eyes. I was afraid of that. Is he at the base?

Yep.

How’d you get over there without the guards seein you?

The dog rolled onto his back. McClure came over and rubbed his belly. Didn’t try to get inside. Folks was moanin and screamin, so it didn’t seem like a good place to visit. But it didn’t matter. Just before sunrise, they carried Vacla down to the river and dumped him in.

Anger bloomed in Ford’s belly. You mean they drowned him like a stray cat?

No. He was already dead.

Ford sat on a crate, the hot and dusty air scratching his throat and nose. Sorrow squeezed his chest, making it even harder to breathe. I’ve known Vacla most of my life. Worked beside him for years. Ate at his table.

I know.

I wonder why they took him.

When them fellas was walkin back from the river, I heard one of em talkin about a Troubler in your camp. Somebody high up.

Ford took the girl by the shoulders. What did they say exactly?

McClure tried to pull away. Take it easy, she said. Bandit growled, low and ominous.

I need to know, Ford said, still gripping the girl. They’re takin my people and leavin me be. This is on my head.

McClure stared at him, silent. The dog stood, his hackles raised. After a moment, Ford released the child, who rubbed her shoulders. Damn, Santonio.

I’m sorry. But please. Tell me.

McClure scratched the dog’s back. Bandit lay back down.

Well, one of em said, That guy was tough. If they did to me what they just did to him, I think I would have talked, whether I was guilty or not. And the second man said, He must have been guilty. Clemens said he fought hard, even before he knew he was in trouble. And the first guy said, I guess Clemens was right. And if he isn’t, I won’t be the one that corrects him. And then they passed outta range.

Ford sat on the grimy floor, legs crossed beneath him. Vacla knew he was dead as soon as they kicked in his door. And even while they were killin him, he stayed true. How could I have ever thought about lettin folks like him die, even to save my soul? He blinked away his tears. He had no luxury for mourning, for indulging his shame.

No use in crossin the river, he said.

I reckon not. I’m sorry about Vacla.

Let’s get outta here. I’m sick of this air.

McClure clucked her tongue. Bandit shook his head and scratched at his jawline. Then he tensed. His hackles rose again, and he growled deep and low in his throat, looking at the door.

McClure raised a finger to her lips. Ford nodded. Bandit woofed softly, more like a grunt than a bark.

Ford went to the door and peeped out. The darkened sky shrouded the city. Streetlights fragmented the gloom. Candles danced in windows. He listened, slowing his breathing so not even his own body would mask a sign of trouble, but nothing sounded out of place. He waited and watched another five minutes. Bandit kept grunt-growling. McClure shushed him.

Finally, Ford motioned to the girl. I don’t think we can wait anymore. Get this information to LaShanda,