Lord of Order

by Brett Riley

  As Ford hoed a row of carrots, Benn rode up on old Paladin, the horse Jack Hobbes had been using. Everyone’s best mounts, a whole remuda, had been corralled in the wetlands. Ford had not told the envoys about those horses. That had to mean something.

  Paladin had been Hobbes’s best horse once, but he had long since been put out to stud. Until pressed back into service after Dwyer’s arrival, he had capered about wherever the stable workers let him and took long naps in the sun. When Hobbes rode him again for the first time, he seemed changed—better posture, greater energy, even what appeared to be a more serious expression. Paladin had, in other words, acted like a soldier brought out of retirement. Now he had been confiscated. If the Most High was feeling merciful, the horse would not understand what was happening.

  You’re ridin my friend’s horse, Ford said. It sounded like an accusation.

  Benn spat. Jack Hobbes is no friend to any loyal Crusader. We suspect he and that old man have been conspiring with Gabriel Troy.

  Ford dropped the hoe. Suspect ain’t the same thing as prove.

  Benn smiled, though his eyes were humorless and cold. You know better than that.

  Yeah, Ford sighed. I reckon I do. But I’ve known them men all my life. I ain’t never seen em do anything but what would keep this town safe and righteous.

  But you can’t watch them all the time, can you? Not even a lord of order can do that, which is why the Troublers have been so—well, troublesome.

  I reckon so.

  Benn dismounted. He knelt and gathered a fistful of rich black soil. He let it fall through his fingers and dusted his hand on his pants. Mister Royster wants to name you the new lord of order.

  Ford had been drinking from his canteen. Now he almost choked. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Gotta be careful here. Showin weakness in front of this man is the same as doin it before Royster. Benn was shorter than Ford and seemed to be all but melting in the heat, but he radiated confidence. If we stay on this path, one of us will have to deal with him. I think I can take him hand to hand, but it ain’t guaranteed. I get the feelin that big belly hides some muscle.

  Gabriel Troy was the best lord of order this town’s ever had, Ford said. I know. I’ve studied the histories. Him turnin Troubler’s got nothin to do with his faith and everything to do with his love for New Orleans. He knew it better than any of us and loved it more. I can’t match that.

  Mister Royster thinks you can.

  I got too much on me already. Crops to work, traps to check, hunts to organize, the killin and the cleanin and the saltin and the smokin and the storin. If this was winter, I might be able to delegate the crops, but it ain’t winter. Find somebody else.

  Benn looked at him for a long time. Ford looked right back, eyes open and steady. The afternoon went silent around them. Even the birds held their tongues.

  Mister Royster will be disappointed, Benn said.

  I reckon he’ll understand. Somebody’s gotta feed all these folks y’all are bringin in.

  If Benn felt any true displeasure, he gave no sign. I’ll deliver your sentiments. Keep up the good work, Mister Ford.

  Ford drank again. Benn climbed back into the saddle—also one of Jack Hobbes’s old ones—and turned Paladin toward the road. After the deputy envoy ambled out of sight, Ford picked up the hoe and attacked the rows again, his back muscles aching. Later he would have to find his lieutenants and warn them to expect a new lord of order. The burgeoning prison would soon have its warden, one more step toward whatever fate awaited them all.

  23

  LaShanda Long handed her reins to a night groom in the Temple courtyard. It was nearly dark—time for her appointment with Royster. She looked up at the stained-glass window. Gabriel Troy no longer worked up there, probably never would again. She sighed. I’ve come to hate this place worse than sin. Ever since Dwyer rode into town, it’s brought us all nothin but pain.

  Earlier, she had been washing up after a day’s forging, every muscle aching, her right arm numb. Over and over in her mind, Troy fell from the bridge and disappeared. She imagined him washed up on shore, head split open, or floating far downriver, one of her own bullets lodged in his heart. She had tried to beat those images out of her head, the red-hot metal under her hammer shaping what would be a broadsword. It would stand nearly as tall as she did, too cumbersome for most people to wield, though Jevan Dwyer could do it.

  But then—speak of the devil, and he shall appear—a figure in the doorway blocked out the sunlight. Even with his features backlit, Dwyer was unmistakable—that muscular build, the long and flowing hair, the upright stance, legs shoulder-width apart, arms folded.

  Her hammer lay nearby. The partially finished sword rested on an anvil. Soot caked her arms and face. Her long hair was pinned back, the open-throated shirt revealing more of herself than Dwyer likely cared to see.

  She straightened and wiped her hands on her dirty pants. Not the best image for meeting someone high-level, but it would have to do. Royster had accepted her. The herald could take her or leave her.

  Dwyer stepped inside. Good day, Madame Weaponsmith. I hope you are well.

  She sat on a stool and drank from her canteen. I reckon I can’t complain. Yourself?

  Dwyer smiled, though he seemed rather sad. He pulled up another stool and sat. Then he took his multicolored 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 about as dangerous as a dead fly on a windowsill. He had driven Troy away. He had made her doubt her faith, the state of her soul. Babb had watched it all, approved it. He had taken his morning toast and tea with the scent of starving children’s rabbitlike turds in his nostrils. And now they wanted more. Well, I’m done. Let em lock me in the tower. Somebody else will have to kill Jack or Ernie or whoever they’re scared of now. She looked Royster in the eye but said nothing else.

  You speak true, Madame Weaponsmith, the envoy said. But your work is not yet done.

  So what’s next? she asked. When you name another one of my friends, I’ll spit in your eye.

  The city still needs a lord of order, Royster said. Troy was unfit, and Santonio Ford has refused the office. Thus, this cup passes to you.

  Royster was still smiling that shark’s smile, his hands folded on the desk. Even Babb grinned, revealing his crooked yellow old man’s teeth. Long sat in her chair, thunderstruck. She had expected another arrest order or even an assassination, but in some ways, Royster had named an even worse fate.

  I don’t know what to say. My duties—

  City records indicate you have often spent days at a time scouring the city and outlying areas for Troubler nests, which proves you are already familiar with strategy and procedure. It also indicates you can delegate. I assure you that you may continue to inspect your forges at will.

  I just don’t know—

  LaShanda, Babb said, we raised you better than this. The Most High’s will—

  Royster held up a hand, frowning. Babb shut up.

  Let me be frank, the envoy said. This is not a request. Mister Ford has refused, claiming he must concentrate on feeding the populace. Perhaps his people are not as well trained as yours. We cannot give the position to Mister Boudreaux. We are grooming him for different work.

  What about Jack Hobbes or Ernie Tetweiller? They’ve both got seniority.

  Babb looked away. Royster stopped smiling. Misters Hobbes and Tetweiller are no longer available.

  Long’s stomach knotted. Her hands trembled. Are Jack and Ernie dead? And what’s this other work they got Gordy doin? He’s been scarce as hen’s teeth lately.

  Can I ask what no longer available means?

  Royster’s voice was flat and even. They have been placed under house arrest.

  On what charge?

  Sedition.

  Not dead, thank God. Not dead. She did not know whether she could bear losing another close friend. I just can’t see that, she said.

  Has everyone in this city lost their minds? Babb cried. We do not question the church’s edicts.

  Please, Minister, Royster said, the edge in his voice belying the words. Madame, your faith in your friends is the reason you were not tasked with their arrest. But their taking office is out of the question. And Troy is dead. I could name someone new to the city, but I believe New Orleans’s citizens need continuity in leadership. Don’t you?

  He smiled again.

  Not for the first time, Long wondered whether she had ever seen an expression so insincere, so cold. He was thrusting this position at her as if it were fire and his own hair was catching. Who knew what might happen if she refused? House arrest at best, the towers or a bullet in the brain at worst. No choice. Some of us gotta stay free, don’t we? Or is that the devil talkin? Lord, it’s gettin so I can barely remember not bein all at sea.

  Royster was waiting.

  I reckon I accept, she sighed.

  Finally, some sense, Babb said, raising his hands, eyes closed. Thank You, Lord.

  Royster’s grin widened. He stood and stuck out his hand. Long got to her feet and shook it. Congratulations, Lord Long. May you smite the Troubler scourge wherever you find it.

  I’ll do my best to serve with honor. But you’ll have to pardon me if I don’t thank you.

  Royster let go of her hand and indicated her chair. They took their seats again. Royster patted his chest where he had been branded. Once our new prison is complete, you and Misters Ford and Boudreaux will take on the symbol of your earthly ascension so you may ride back to Washington marked as one of God’s greatest servants. As for tonight, we must discuss the city’s transition. Minister Babb, you may go.

  The high minister bowed and shuffled out, leaving Long to wonder what she might be called to do in the coming days.

  As she left the office, Benn and Clemens snapped to attention and saluted. Long returned the gesture but did not linger. She walked downstairs, thinking. Royster had not told her everything, of course. She would probably have to execute Hobbes or Tetweiller to earn that much confidence, which she would not do, no matter what. Still, the envo
y had said enough. The Crusade’s great wall would be completed sooner than anyone had suspected. The combination of careful planning and nearly unlimited prisoner labor had expedited it. After its raising, she would take control of the prison, which meant supervising her guards as they shot anyone who tried to scale the wall or tunnel under it or blow it up or use the river as egress. But as brutal as that task seemed, it was illusory, for Royster had also confirmed that charges had been set at key waterways across the city. The envoy claimed they were a fail-safe in case of a full-scale revolt. That sounded plausible, but thanks to Lynn Stransky, Long knew better. That ordnance would bring the killing waters down on the damned and the saved alike. And with everyone dead, what need would the Crusade have for a lord of order? Or a warden? Or her colleagues?

  If that’s the Crusade’s will, I should bow to it. Every lesson I was ever taught says so. Maybe that’s why I wounded Gabe. But a Purge. It’s one thing to read about the first one. It’s another to know I’m helpin kill tens of thousands of people, many of em the Lord’s own. How can that be right?

  She entered the sanctuary. The Temple workers stood at attention against the walls. They saluted in unison, eyes forward. She had never seen them act with such military precision. Sweet Lord. Somehow, somewhere, Royster must have started drillin em. Why? Temple personnel almost never fight.

  Maybe he was just keeping them busy, passing the time before their own sentences were carried out.

  They were still holding the salute when she passed through the Temple doors and into the courtyard. The guards outside saluted too. When she reached the hitching post, the grooms would likely follow suit. Word was spreading. A new lord of order reigned for the first time in years.

  24

  Night fell. The cold stars shone—ageless, indifferent to New Orleans and humanity and the turning Earth. Humidity hung heavy on the city. Sweat soaked Santonio Ford’s body as he sat his black mare with the gray socks, the only truly strong horse he had kept out of the remuda. The envoys seemed unlikely to confiscate it as long as Ford worked for them.