Lord of Order

by Brett Riley

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 my soul. If I can’t, at least they’ll be in hell a few minutes longer than me.

  He raised the pliers.

  But Clemens caught his hand. No. We’re done with teeth.

  Boudreaux tensed. His free hand balled into a fist.

  A knock at the door. Benn opened it. Half a dozen armed guards stood in the hall.

  Despair clenched Boudreaux’s guts with icy claws. Too many guns to assure the deputy envoys died. Surely even his godforsaken life was worth more than a half sacrifice.

  His fist unballed.

  Yes? Benn said to the guards.

  Message from Mister Royster, said the leader, a man of medium build and middle age and a scarred, weather-beaten face. After you’re done here, you’re to ride straight to his office for debriefing. No stops.

  Certainly, Benn said. Have you gentlemen ever seen an interrogation like this?

  No, sir.

  Well, come and watch. You may need to perform one someday.

  The guards entered and crowded around the island. Their body heat, their sour sweat wafted in the close quarters. Half of them grinned. The others showed no emotion at all.

  Watch this, said Clemens. He bent over the table and unbuttoned Potrello’s pants and yanked them down, exposing the man’s genitals, which looked as shriveled as the rest of him, the scrotum retreating into a patchy nest of pubic hair, the penis a dead worm on a hot thoroughfare. Clemens grabbed Boudreaux’s hand and fit the pliers around Potrello’s scrotum. Then the deputy envoy stepped back. Now we’ll see how badly he wants to hold on to his sin.

  Potrello stared at the ceiling, eyes sunken. His mouth worked as if he were gumming a piece of steak. Perhaps he prayed.

  A tear slid down Boudreaux’s cheek.

  Potrello found the strength to scream again after all.

  21

  In the square, the sun blazed on grooms and landscapers, guards and pedestrians ambulating through their prosaic lives. Lisander Royster watched them all through his window. Sweat covered every inch of the envoy’s body, but he had never felt more refreshed. Foul Troubler pollution poured into New Orleans, which would soon become the world’s grandest chamber pot. Moreover, according to Mister Clemens, Gordon Boudreaux had made great strides as an interrogator. When Troublers raise their filthy heads from the globe’s gutters after the coming Purge, Mister Rook will have another loyal man who can make anyone talk or send them to hell knowing what pain really means. Ford and Long had proven their loyalty. Benn had found Troy’s blood at the spot where he jumped. Half the town had seen him run to ground. The other half had no doubt heard of it. Another blow to the Troubler cause, another demonstration of the Crusade’s might. The only danger lay in those who might see the lord of order as a martyr.

  We will not make that mistake with Hobbes and Tetweiller. We needed the symbolic value of disgracing Troy publicly, and he took advantage of that, perhaps salvaging some measure of dignity in death. We will neutralize the others quietly and without violence. They can roast in this hellish heat and then drown with their fellows. New Orleans belongs to the Crusade.

  The plan for the new Purge had, at first, seemed dangerous, perhaps even insane. Even God Himself had destroyed the world only once. The Scriptures spelled that out, even the ones deemed safe for public study. The original Purge had been the global catastrophe prophesied in John’s great Revelation. Jonas Strickland had simply given the apocalypse a little nudge. Ever since, the Crusade had controlled the earth in God’s name. The Troublers had been marginalized, hunted, purified through pain. Why did the world require a third cleansing? Royster had prayed about it, meditated, consulted the Crusade’s histories and the Scriptures. In the end, he had come to realize what he should have known all along—that Matthew Rook had been chosen for a reason. His will was commensurate with God’s. Questioning him was heresy. Royster had spent three days fasting in his chambers, scourging himself, and praying for forgiveness. And when he emerged, he had been broken anew on the wheel of the Lord’s pleasure.

  Now he watched the blessed and the doomed milling together. Father, I pray their hearts are right with You, because most of them will face Your judgment right soon. I will send them to You myself, in Your name and in the name of Matthew Rook.

  Had Gabriel Troy faced a similar crisis of conscience? Probably, but he had failed his test. He had pretended to serve the Crusade, but he had loved this city more. Now he almost certainly lay at the bottom of the river, food for fish, flotsam in the currents. Good riddance.

  Benn entered. Report, Royster said.

  Yes, sir. The crews have completed approximately sixty percent of the wall. Lord Rook was wise to have ordered the sections constructed all those months ago.

  Of course he was. What else?

  The rest of the Troublers and their guards will arrive as scheduled. No one reports any significant obstacles or delays.

  Good. And Hobbes? The old man?

  Within the hour, they will be neutralized.

  Royster smiled.

  Boudreaux stumbled out of the interrogation chamber and through the holding facility. Prisoners jeered or begged for release or simply lay staring at the walls and moaning. Outside, the sky clear and beautiful, the young deputy lord ran to the side of the building and vomited a ghastly stew of bile and water and half-dissolved bread. Then he straightened and stumbled to the hitching post, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He untied his horse and saddled up and rode through the streets, ignoring everyone who spoke or saluted or threatened to kill him if I ever get outta these goddam chains. The horse carried him home through a city buzzing with miserable, gibbering half-life. As the sun set, they reached his yard, where he unsaddled the horse and hitched it. The saddle he dumped on the porch, waving the grooms away. It could sit there all night. Who would dare take it?

  He left the door open and walked into the dim living room, unbuckling the gun belt and tossing it on the couch, weapons and all. Since assuming his post, he had never taken off his guns unless he was going to bed or taking a bath, and even then, he kept them nearby. Now, that seemed as pointless as everything else. Screams echoed in his mind. How many emaciated wrecks like Kouf and Potrello were scattered about the city?

  Boudreaux passed through the kitchen, shedding clothes, first his hat and shirt, then his boots and socks and pants. Naked, he entered his back yard, his stark white torso and legs juxtaposed with the deep tan of his face and hands. A child’s half-finished finger painting.

  He walked to the middle of the yard and fell to his knees, craned his head back, and howled.

  Lights flickered in nearby houses. Faces appeared in windows and just as quickly vanished, the lights extinguished. Crickets chirped. Mosquitoes buzzed. Summer heat lay on him like a damp quilt.

  What did I do to deserve this? he cried, tears on his cheeks. Where are You? When no one answered, he said, Then kill me. If I’m so worthless in Your sight, just strike me down and be done with it. Don’t let em use me like this.

  Again, no answer, save for the buzzing insects.

  Boudreaux’s chin dropped to his chest. He stayed on his knees, sobbing, for some time. When he finally stood
, nothing had changed. Ephemeral grief, invisible pain, a wind made of razors. The night sounds seemed like a curtain that parted as he walked and closed behind him again, unaffected. As if he had never been there at all.

  Gordon Boudreaux walked inside. Lantern light flickered in his bedroom window most of the night.

  That same evening, Jack Hobbes found Clemens and a dozen Crusaders on his porch. The guards sipped from their canteens and looked at Hobbes as if he were a skunk that had just sprayed their mothers. Clemens had been squatting on his heels. Seeing Hobbes ride up, he straightened to his full height and spat.

  Hobbes’s hands twitched. Might be worth dyin just to see the hole between his eyes.

  Instead, he dismounted. A guard with a handlebar mustache and a black wart on his neck stepped off the porch and came down the walk. Hobbes handed the reins to the man, whom he did not recognize. Take him to the livery, Hobbes said. He needs a rubdown and a feed bucket.

  I don’t take orders from you, the man said.

  Better make it there unharmed too. Otherwise, I’ll find you. Same goes for the saddle and bags.

  The Crusader tensed. Hobbes stroked the handles of his pistols with his fingers and smiled.

  Do it, Clemens barked, irritable. I have places to be.

  The guard cleared his throat and snatched the reins without looking at Hobbes and led the horse away.

  Reckon I can kiss the ammo in them bags goodbye.

  The other Crusaders stepped into the yard and surrounded him, hands on their sidearms. Hobbes scoffed. Nobody better not shoot, or you’ll kill each other.

  Clemens met him in the middle, expressionless but for his eyes, which sparkled with madness. Jack Hobbes, for suspicion of treason against Lord Matthew Rook and the Bright Crusade, you’re under arrest.

  Hobbes looked at the sky as if checking for rain. His fingers stroked his grips again. Got proof of this here treason?

  Clemens stepped closer, practically daring Hobbes to make a move. You’re a long-time associate of the cowardly traitor, Gabriel Troy.

  Hobbes locked eyes with the deputy envoy. If Gabe Troy was a traitor, so’s your mother.

  Clemens looked as if he wanted to eat Hobbes’s kidneys in a pie, but he made no move. Troy’s gone, he said. Your friends Ford, Long, and Boudreaux have proven their loyalty—to the Crusade. You haven’t.

  Sure their mommas would be right proud, except they’re dead. Supposed to take me to the towers?

  If it were up to me, we’d nail you to your roof and let your brain cook like bacon. But Mister Royster wants you confined to your house until further notice.

  Ain’t that lovely.

  Sweat fell into Clemens’s eyes. He wiped it away as if he wanted to kill it too. Hand over your weapons and go inside, or we’ll cut you to pieces.

  Hobbes looked at each guard as he spoke. Don’t know when the Crusade started eatin its own. Wonder what happens when somebody decides y’all ain’t loyal enough?

  The guards said nothing, though he fancied one or two might have glanced away.

  You have ten seconds to surrender those guns, Clemens said. Starting now.

  Hobbes stroked the grips one more time, slowly, his index fingers easing toward the trigger guards. Clemens’s jaw tightened.

  Then Hobbes unbuckled his gun belt and held it out to the deputy envoy. Here, boy. Try not to scuff em.

  Clemens took the weapons. Too bad. I was hoping you’d fight.

  Hobbes tipped his hat. Sure you did. Maybe one day we can see how tough you are without all this backup. He walked toward the house, shouldering Clemens hard as he passed. The guards followed him, breaking into groups and surrounding the house. At the door, Hobbes glanced back over his shoulder. This ain’t over.

  Yes, Clemens said. It is. For you, and for all Troublers.

  The two remaining guards positioned themselves on either side of the door and waited, watching, their bodies humming with tension, perhaps fear.

  Across the street, Mordecai Jones and Tommy Gautreaux observed the proceedings. Gautreaux’s white shirt clung to his corpulent body like skin. He spat black tobacco juice and nodded. Jones touched a finger to his hat brim.

  Hobbes tilted his chin upward an inch.

  Jones and Gautreaux walked away. Clemens turned, but there was nothing to see except the sweaty backs of two men who might have been anybody.

  Hobbes opened his door and went inside.

  Ernie Tetweiller sat on his couch, windows closed, curtains pulled, doors locked. A lit lantern sat next to him on an end table; in his lap, a bottle of moonshine confiscated from a Troubler nest no more than a month before Jevan Dwyer arrived. Tetweiller took out the cork and swigged. The liquor burned his throat and set fire to his stomach. He should not have been drinking. His guts often pained him and sometimes sent a little blood to garnish his stool. He needed a stiff belt, though. It had taken all his self-control not to shoot Benn when the son of a bitch showed up with a cadre of guards and demanded Tetweiller’s sidearms.

  If you was a man, you would have come by yourself, Tetweiller had said.

  Benn’s face had been blank, his round body soaked in sweat. I don’t have to prove anything to you, old man. Turn those pistols over or draw them. Let’s have done with this.

  Benn had not particularly seemed to enjoy the duty. If he had, Tetweiller probably would have drawn and gotten himself killed. He did not like the deputy envoy, but Benn was better than the other one, that Clemens. Solid as a cypress stump, Benn is. Might be he ain’t the worst swingin dick the Crusade could have sent, but it don’t stop him from lickin Royster’s boots like a trained dog.

  When Benn held out his hand, the ex-lord turned over his guns and came inside, wondering if anyone would notice how the pistols looked a bit too old, too worn. If they got an eye for such things and they ain’t too full of their own hot air, they might wonder. But I think they’re pretty damn sure they got us right where they want us. Why pay close attention to bugs you done squished? The guns he surrendered had been his worst pair, confiscated from his first-ever arrested Troubler nearly fifty years ago, and they had been in pretty poor shape even then. That Troubler lived in a drainage culvert. The only thing wetter and rustier than them guns was the man himself.

  Tetweiller had cached most of his weapons around the city, along with his share of the other supplies they had prepared in anticipation of Royster’s arrival. He had kept one extra pair of six-guns, his favorites, and a good supply of ammo hidden beneath the floorboards under his bed. Even if the Crusade quartered as many as three guards in the house, he believed he could take them out and fetch those guns, for he knew the layout even in pitch darkness, the location of every object he might weaponize. He knew where he might hide for a few moments and where he would be vulnerable.

  Jack ain’t part of Royster’s little circle either. I wonder what’s happened to him. If they try to arrest him, will he let em? Are they crazy enough to gun him down in front of God and everybody? Maybe they’ll take him—us—across the river, like they did with Gordy. And Gordy came back different.

  Then there was Laura Derosier and Antoine Baptiste. Troy had said those two were recruiting for the Conspiracy. Had they just happened to be walking across the street when Benn showed up, or had they come to witness? Derosier had not made eye contact. She just passed by, head bobbing on the end of that long neck like a pigeon’s, but Tetweiller had seen the bulges in her pockets and under her shirt. She probably had more knives on her than a porcupine had quills. Baptiste had nodded to Tetweiller as they passed.

  The old man took another drink of the moonshine and grimaced. It was powerful stuff, even to someone more used to alcohol than any Crusader should have been. Maybe I should save the four bottles stashed in the icebox. They’ll make fine incendiaries if it comes to that. I’d hate to burn this house down, though. Too many good memories. He thou
ght of Gabriel Troy, whose own house had been burned to the ground on Royster’s orders. Tetweiller had gone to see it and came home to find Benn and his lackeys. Where you at tonight, Gabriel? Did that bitch Stransky shoot you in the goddam back as soon as you cleared the city, or did she really show you her nest? So much was uncertain. Stuck here, he might know nothing until the floodwaters came or the guards out front burst in and shot him.

  He took one more drink and recorked the bottle. Then he set it on the end table beside the lamp and settled back, feeling the alcohol work its magic. Perhaps in the light of morning, things would seem clearer.

  22

  Before dawn, Santonio Ford rode to the sisters’, hoping for a word with Sarah Gonzales. Gabe always seemed more at peace after talkin with her. Maybe she can do somethin for me. But when he arrived, the sanctuary doors were locked. That had never happened before. He knocked four or five times. No one answered. He circled around and tried the back door. It was locked too. Ford waited until the sun came up, but no one stirred. He mounted up and rode through the neighborhood, stopping at Catholic residences. No one answered. They had cleared out overnight.

  Later, as Ford tended his crops, the sun shone brighter than it had any right to, given the suffering under it. At least we’ll die on full stomachs. The work helped him focus on what had happened during that chase. Troy in his sights, the old thrill of the hunt, his blood singing, a perfect clarity of mind and senses, the exhilaration when he aimed, the triumph when his bullet grazed one of his oldest friends. He had shown more loyalty to Gabriel Troy than to any other earthly man, but hunting him had still been hunting, what he had been made for, what he loved.

  Until that moment, he had known in his heart that Troy was right. He still wanted to believe it. He intended to meet his trusted lieutenants, to have them recruit. He even planned to reach out to Hobbes’s and Tetweiller’s people, now that the men had been arrested. But was he doing all that to help Troy or to compile information for Royster? Dangerous avenues, doubt on all sides. And in a situation like this, doubt could get you killed.