Lord of Order

by Brett Riley

  If I can’t trust this man, I might as well let him brain me with that skillet.

  Mordecai, Troy said, that’s exactly how I see it.

  It’s a dangerous time to be us, the big man said, wiping his brow again. He went to Troy’s icebox and got the pitcher and poured himself another glass. Glad to know I’m not alone, at least. Lands, it’s hot.

  And apt to get hotter. Anybody else feel this way?

  Tommy Gautreaux. Antoine Baptiste. Laura Derosier. A dozen others, at least. They can’t even look at them prisoners. Might be more. I don’t know. We’ve all been too fidgety to talk much.

  Troy clapped Jones on the shoulder. Well, we need to start talkin. But this ain’t no small thing. We’re puttin our lives at hazard. Maybe our souls too.

  Jones laughed, but it sounded more like a groan. How’d we come to this sorry state?

  Troy refilled his own glass, and they retired to his living room, where he opened the shades to the sun. The two of them talked well into the morning.

  At dusk the next evening, Troy walked through the French Market, ruffling children’s hair and speaking to citizens picking up their daily quotas of fish and meat and vegetables, new wares from Long’s forges, extra rations, or equipment for special occasions. Soon the stalls would close for the night. Nearby a woman Troy could not place asked for extra vegetables, now that she had another baby to feed.

  I should know her name. And her kids’. We should know she needs more. Soon she and her children could be floating down Poydras or St. Charles.

  Troy walked down the road, stifling a yawn. He had barely slept in three days, and never peacefully since capturing Lynn Stransky.

  Reaching the steps leading to the river, Troy paused. Citizens headed home for the night passed and waved, saluted, tipped their hats. He acknowledged them all.

  I hope this wasn’t a stupid idea. Is it more suspicious if we’re seen socializin or if we ain’t?

  He sat on his favorite bench and watched the river winding toward the Gulf. The water had always soothed him. They rode upon it, fished in it, washed in it, drank from it. Crusade histories taught how the ancients had dumped waste into their waters until no one could drink without risking disease and death. Troy thanked God those days had passed. But lately he wondered how much of the histories was true.

  Did the Purge really cleanse this world, or drown it in blood? Did the first Troublers worship their dead machines? Were they all wicked? Or were they just mad with grief for all they had lost? Accounts of the Purge were vague, but he had always taken them on faith. Was I a fool? Is Rook the only madman we’ve served, or were they all this way?

  Long ambled up the walkway to his right, her lengthy stride and strong shoulders distinguishing her even in the gathering shadows. McClure and Bandit climbed the steps from the riverside. They reached Troy first. The girl touched her hat brim and then pointed behind Troy, who turned. From the direction of the Quarter, Tetweiller and Hobbes walked together in silence. McClure sat beside Troy on the bench, Bandit lying at their feet and pricking his ears as the others neared. Troy could barely see their faces in the gloaming.

  No one heard or saw Ford coming. One moment he was absent; the next, he stood beside Tetweiller, thumbs tucked into his belt.

  Anybody close? Troy asked.

  Just a few folks on the streets, Hobbes said.

  Can they hear us?

  Not unless they’re bats, Ford said.

  All right. Report.

  South of the bridge, some of the Troublers are dyin, said McClure. Mostly the real old and kids under five. The guards just unchain em and toss em on a pyre or dump em in the river.

  Jesus Christ, Tetweiller muttered. I wondered where that smoke and the goddam stink came from.

  Christ ain’t got nothin to do with it, said Troy. I’m more certain of that than ever. How about the rest of you? Any progress?

  I’ve got two dozen folks I can trust, Ford said.

  LaShanda?

  So far, about thirty, Long said. Every one of em knows others who can’t stomach this. If we had enough time, we could probably turn near everybody. But with things as they are, I’m as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin chairs.

  Ernie? Troy said.

  I’ve talked with twenty-five, thirty people who sounded ready to carve out Rook’s gizzard with a rusty spoon. I’ve been askin folks, real casual like, So what do you think about this here situation? And most of em answer. I reckon they figure they can be honest with an old man who drinks and cusses more than Stransky. Short answer—they’re pissed and scared.

  We can work with that, said Troy. Jack?

  Talked to half a dozen that seemed solid, but they weren’t sure they could get anybody else. Be proud of their loyalty any other time.

  Troy pondered the information. It sounded like a good start, but who knew how things would play out. Once the shooting began, men and women who seemed brave might cower or throw down their weapons and beg for mercy. Or the meekest child might slaughter a dozen Crusaders with a shotgun or a hunting knife.

  Well, he said, it won’t be just us at least. Keep your people recruitin, but only when they’re sure. I’d rather err on the side of caution than trust the wrong person and get us all killed. Jack, how about Gordy?

  Hobbes hesitated. Don’t know. Been keepin to himself since he took that trip across the bridge with yon envoys.

  You think he’s sidin with Royster? asked Long. Every time I see him, he’s with Benn or Clemens.

  Can’t believe that, said Hobbes. Do my heart good to know what’s wrong, though.

  Even if Gordy won’t fight, he’d never give us up. He just wouldn’t. Keep an eye on him, and let somebody know if there’s any change, Troy said.

  There’s a question nobody’s askin, McClure said. Couldn’t we just kill Royster and them? Then blow that wall to hell and gone?

  Wouldn’t do no good, Tetweiller said.

  Why not?

  Lots of reasons. One, Rook would just send some other assholes to finish what Royster started. And next time they’d bring an army. Trained fighters, not guards.

  But we’d have time to get ready.

  Ford put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. Ain’t enough folks in this town to fight the whole Crusade, nor even stand em off. Not without defenses, which we don’t have the time or labor to build.

  Right now Rook’s got a lot on his plate, Long said. But if we kill his envoys, he’ll be on us like stink on manure.

  Well, we’ll have to kill em sooner or later, won’t we? McClure asked.

  Uh huh, said Hobbes. Afterward.

  The child knelt and scratched her dog’s ears. After what?

  Me and Jack think the best way to handle this is to let em build their wall, Troy said. And then take it from em.

  For a moment, no one spoke. Then everyone talked at once.

  Hold on now, Long said. We’re gonna let em wall us in with a whole city of Troublers? That’s crazy.

  Damn crazy, said Tetweiller. Once that wall’s in place, we better be outside it, or we’re fucked.

  Not if we move at just the right time, said Troy. If we can keep Royster’s folks too busy to evacuate, maybe they won’t blow the levees. And while they’re fightin their way out, we can free the prisoners and take the city back.

  That’s a big if, said Long. Tryin to get that many people movin just right at the same time’s gonna be like herdin cats.

  Especially when they’re Troublers, Ford said. We never could turn our backs on em.

  Now hang on, Troy barked. They all fell silent. I know how you feel. But look at our options. Let Royster kill everybody? I can’t do it. Fight em right now? We got maybe a hundred people on our side against all them guards. Burn the wall and kill the envoys? It’s like Ernie said. That’s just a delay. But if we use all
our time to recruit and hide supplies and plan, we got a better chance.

  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, Lakeside. The sites of his birth, his raising, his life. Despite hurricanes and the blood that had soaked the ground, he loved these streets. The rich stores of grain and barrels of wine and canned preserves in New Orleans’s storehouses; the way the river chopped and thrashed in a storm; the landfill, with the rubble from the old times buried under its refuse, the twisted and rusting metal skeletons of strange machines, the crumbling mortar of once mighty buildings. Many times he had stood high on rooftops and tried to imagine New Orleans during the great burning—flying machines falling from the heavens, explosions rising ten stories high and spurting steel and human shrapnel in all directions, unimaginable ships stalling on the waters until their crews died of thirst or while careening rudderless onto shore, crushing all in their paths. Troy had helped build and repair dwellings and forges and tabernacles before he had ever picked up a gun. He had defended the city from Troublers and slept in her embrace almost every night of his life.

  Now it was over.

  At the river, he hitched the mare and sent a passing boy to procure a feedbag. The river glittered like a field of diamonds. No canoes or rafts or fishing boats, only a few Crusade patrol crafts gliding along, their lookouts armed with shotguns. Troy smelled gumbo and jambalaya, red beans and rice. His stomach ached with wanting. He tried not to think about what he might be forced to eat in the coming days.

  He sat on his bench near the river until the sun rode low in the west. Day workers headed home, passing the night watch and the lamplighters and the bearers of water barrels and fuel, fellow nodding to fellow, some pausing to shake a hand or speak to a neighbor. Sheep living among wolves none of them could even smell.

  Troy got up and walked back to the mare and unhitched her. Then he mounted up, rode over to Decatur, and waited.

  Soon enough, Ford and Long rounded the corner. He waved. Long pointed at him. They reined their horses thirty yards away.

  Lord, help us, Troy prayed.

  Everybody clear the street, Santonio Ford shouted.

  People stopped in their tracks and
gawked. Ford sat his roan with a rifle across his lap. LaShanda Long rode her favorite paint, a six-gun drawn.

  He means now, she cried.

  The crowd scattered, many glancing at Troy, confused. Seconds later, faces appeared in every window.

  Good. I hope they can hear us.

  Gabriel Troy, Ford said. Throw down your weapons in the name of Matthew Rook and the Bright Crusade.

  The mare nickered. Troy patted her neck. On what charge?

  Sedition. Mister Royster knows your heart.

  Does he now?

  Gabriel, please, Long said. If we don’t bring you in, somebody else will.

  Dead or alive?

  We’d prefer alive, said Ford. But it’s up to you.

  You got your duty, Troy said. I got mine.

  And with that, he drew his guns.

  Muffled screams from the closed-up buildings as Troy fired high over Ford’s head. Long’s and Ford’s horses reared up. Ford was nearly thrown. He saved himself by wrapping the reins around one arm and grasping the pommel with his other hand. The rifle struck the pavement. Troy turned the mare toward Poydras and spurred it. Ford’s rifle bellowed. He had recovered even faster than expected. The slug whizzed past Troy’s right ear, close enough to trim his hair. Long’s six-gun boomed, and a piece of pavement just under Troy’s mare’s back hoof disintegrated.

  Citizens hugged walls and dove into open doors as Troy rode past. He turned in the saddle and fired again, aiming down and to Long’s left. Father, please don’t let me hurt somebody.

  Long glared, her teeth set in a snarl. She fired again, and Troy’s hat flew off his head. His scalp burned. Something warm trickled over his ears. Heaven above, LaShanda.

  He turned. Several lengths back, Ford steadied the rifle on his forearm, the reins gathered in his trigger hand. Troy faced forward as he reached Claiborne Avenue and yanked his own reins, peeling west just as the rifle crashed again.

  They’re cuttin it too close. Maybe Royster got his hooks into em after all.

  Ford shouted for everyone to clear the streets, watch out, get outta the way.