Lord of Order

by Brett Riley

  The woman was late, and Ford had no idea who she was, beyond the fact that she was a Hobbes subordinate. How could you know you were being set up when you did not even know whom to look for?

  Willa McClure had arranged the meeting for three hours after sunset, plenty of time to get home and settled, to sneak out. Plenty of time for the heat to enervate the night guards. Yet the woman had not arrived. If she got captured or just changed her mind and stayed home, I don’t know what I’ll do. But I don’t know what I’ll do if she shows up either. I’m goin through the motions in two different worlds, servin both the Crusade and the Conspiracy with half conviction.

  This meeting would be the forge in which he would craft his future.

  He hoped the woman’s appearance would coincide with some affirmation of what was right, but so far, hidden deep in the shadows under Armstrong Park’s trees, he had seen nothing unusual. The incoming Troublers had not yet reached the park, but they would soon. Every waterway would be guarded, each sentry ready to kill any citizen who tried to leave. Except for the rare diplomatic trip to Baton Rouge or Lafayette, Ford had never traveled more than twenty miles from the city’s borders. Now he probably never would. The wall inched farther around New Orleans every day, like a great snake ready to squeeze the life from them all. Once it was completed, either the Troublers would slaughter everyone or Royster’s guards would.

  All the Troublers Ford had seen—the ones he had killed, the countless numbers who had lived since the ancients’ time—surely some of them had envisioned grander acts than stealing a bushel of grain or blowing up a building or assassinating an official. An end to the Crusade itself, the establishment of a Troubler nation, a new world religion. Yet the Crusade endured. Was that the sign Ford needed? Or was the Troublers’ undying opposition the true signal?

  Approaching hoofbeats—a shadowed figure ambled toward him. He gripped the crossbow across his lap. If the rider were an unknown Crusader, Ford would have no excuse for sitting in the dark, alone and long past curfew. He would have to put a bolt through the person’s throat before they could cry out. His heart beat heavily in his chest.

  Forgive me, Father God. This is what we’ve come to. Murder from ambush. None of us justified.

  But as the rider drew closer, Ford recognized the way she sat her horse, the outline of her body—Nella Charters. Hobbes had handpicked her to ride with them on several raids of suspected Troubler nests in his territory. Good in the saddle. A fine shot. Brave and true. Still, with so much at stake, Ford kept one hand on the crossbow. If she made a move, he would get only one chance.

  She reined her horse next to Ford’s and whispered, That Clemens fella picked tonight to ride through our neighborhoods. Took me a while to slip through, but I don’t think he saw me.

  And what if he did?

  Charters pulled her shirt away from her body and flapped it and fanned herself with her other hand. I reckon I’d be under arrest, she said. We’d know by now if they followed me.

  Ford’s mare nickered and sniffed the new arrivals. He patted her neck. I reckon so. How’s your husband and them?

  Ready to spit nails. Some outlanders came by and told us we’d have to move. We knew it was comin, but Lars near about throttled a guard anyway. It’s the only home we’ve ever known.

  And your young uns?

  We’re tryin to keep em in good spirits, but it’s hard, lyin to em.

  Sometimes lies are necessary, Ford said and hated himself for it. Forgive me my own lies, Father God. Help me find the kind of surety Ernie and Jack and the envoys have. He could see the fruit his actions bore as if with two sets of eyes—Royster’s face, blood dripping from a bullet hole in the forehead; Gabriel Troy’s body floating out to sea, nibbled by sharks and gulls.

  Charters watched him. Where y’at?

  Fine.

  She seemed about to press the matter, but she let it drop. So Jack’s stuck in his house. What now?

  That’s the question of a lifetime. We keep on goin and hope things turn out right. What can you tell me about y’all’s operation?

  Jack contacted around a dozen of us, and each of us found half a dozen more. I’m estimatin, you understand. Everybody’s been goin down the line like that. I’m hopin we’ll have time to turn half our people before the end. We’ll have to hope the rest throw in with us once the shootin starts.

  Or that they sit it out at least.

  Yep. Speakin of that, some folks are just gone.

  Gone?

  Charters’s horse snorted. She patted its neck and whispered to it. As in disappeared. No idea if the guards took em or if they just snuck out after dark. Most of their stuff’s still in their houses.

  Ford pondered that. If Royster were winnowing down New Orleans’s population in secret, time was even shorter than Ford had believed. He had seen no New Orleanians in chains, but they could have been taken over the bridge in the night, one family at a time. Or they might have ducked into the bayous to join the Troublers. Fled to Mississippi or Texas or across the ocean.

  Ain’t no way this is good. Every day we find out we know even less than we thought.

  From a few blocks over, raised voices. Ford and Charters fell silent. He could not tell whether they came from the Quarter or deeper in Treme. A gunshot echoed through the streets, then a scream, more shouts, an angry chorus. Definitely Treme.

  The guards just shot somebody, Charters said. And the prisoners ain’t happy about it. We better get on.

  Let’s meet back here in three days, Ford said. Keep doin what you’re doin. Bring me some solid numbers if you can, and any news. If you can’t come, send Lars.

  Will do. You heard anything about Troy? Is he dead or alive?

  Ford said nothing for a moment. Then, his voice barely audible even in the close quarters, he said, Ernie was supposed to meet him after the bridge, but then Ernie got arrested. So I don’t know. None of us do.

  Three nights later, Ford was back in Armstrong Park. He had gone to the stables to get the mare, but once he saw her, he stared at her for a long time and moved on. Instead, he had picked Thessalonians, his oldest horse that could still bear a rider. Thess and Ford had ridden down rabbits, deer, Troublers. Once they had even brought down a bear, Thess charging the creature against all instinct and sense. They had watched sunrises and sunsets, stood in knee-deep grassy meadows, warmed themselves by the same fires.

  Still, if someone had asked Ford why he took Thess instead of the mare, he would not have been able to explain. His gut told him Thess was right for this job, and his gut had seen him through a lifetime of blood fighting. Good to hear it talking again.

  From somewhere nearby, the acrid smell of burned meat, a scent that stuck in the back of your throat. Frogs and crickets sang nocturnes while squirrels and cats and raccoons chased each other through the shadows.

  It was an hour past the meeting time, and no sign of Charters.

  Somethin’s wrong.

  Ford gathered his reins.

  But before he could spur, someone came running down the street, crouching low and hugging the shadows. Ford reached into his saddlebags and took out the pistol fitted with the suppressor. He could have brought the crossbow again, but when he had reached for it, he had picked up the pistol instead. Faster firing, faster reloading. He had no reason to think he would need such a weapon, but his gut had insisted.

  Still, shooting human beings, even the vilest Troubler, had always made him feel dirty, especially from ambush. And then I was justified, or believed I was. I beseech you again for clarity, Father God. The running figure was closer now, a distinct outline instead of a moving glob. The body, the hair, the gait seemed both familiar and female. Gotta be Charters. She’s afoot. That’s bad. He laid the pistol across his saddle. Then he folded his hands across the pommel and waited.

  Charters spotted him and trotted over, panting and sweat
y, her long brown hair matted against her skull.

  So, Ford said. How was your day?

  She bent over, hands on her knees. They know, she croaked.

  Know what?

  That somebody turned. They’re lookin hard at all of us.

  It felt as if Thess had kicked Ford in the guts. No one had mentioned any new suspicions. What had happened over the last three days?

  How do you know they know? he asked.

  They doubled our guards and took some folks away for interrogation. Everybody’s scared to death.

  Is this your answer, Father God? The Conspirators had calculated the most likely times when a guard’s back might be turned, when the noise of the prisoners would drown the sounds of whispered conversation, but in Hobbes’s territory, it had come to naught.

  Who slipped up? Ford asked.

  I don’t know. Charters panted and gasped. She tried to spit, but the saliva was too thick and stuck to her chin. She wiped it away.

  Well, who did they take?

  A whole passel of folks.

  Who, blast it?

  Charters stood upright and glanced over her shoulder. Tommy Gautreaux’s cousin Lorne. And his wife. And their boys.

  Even the children.

  Yeah. Even them.

  Do the envoys have our names?

  No.

  Thank the Father. I—

  Coldness engulfed his innards.

  Charters looked toward the street again. Then she turned back to him, wiping sweat from her brow. Even in the dark, she seemed to sense his apprehension. What? she said.

  How could you know?

  Know what?

  That they ain’t got our names?

  She hesitated. Because if they knew about us, we’d be dead or in chains.

  Charters’s clothes stuck to her as if they had been tarred there. Yet she trembled—just barely, but noticeable to Ford’s hunter’s eye. And she kept looking at the street, as if she expected Matthew Rook himself to pop out from behind the park’s gates.

  What’s wrong with you? Ford asked. You’re skittish as a doe.

  I just told you, she said, still looking away. They’re watchin us.

  The coldness spread through Ford’s chest and down to his testicles. Something was happening here.

  Then how’d you get away at all? he asked.

  I fell in with a bunch of em headin for chow. They never noticed when I slipped away.

  Just because I ain’t Jack Hobbes don’t mean you can lie to me.

  She said nothing for a moment. Then she sighed. I told em it would never work.

  Ford went for the silenced pistol, but her arm flashed out, and hot pain ripped across the back of his hand. He jerked back, knocking the gun off the saddle. Warm blood splashed onto his pants, his horse. Thess whinnied and backed away.

  Charters held a butcher’s knife, her legs shoulder-width apart and bent at the knees. She stood perhaps four feet away.

  Ford cradled his injured hand against his chest. How long you been with em?

  Charters stepped closer. Thess nickered and danced back, as if the woman were a rattlesnake. I ain’t with em, she said. Not in my heart. But the other night, a patrol caught me comin home. They took Lars. They took my kids.

  Despair hammered Ford’s chest like physical blows. Where?

  To the old compound across the river. Stuck em in a cell with one bunk and one chamber pot, no food or water.

  Bright red arrows of pain shot from Ford’s hand all the way to his neck. And this is how you get em out.

  Charters slid closer. Thess backed away.

  Part of you wants to get caught, she said, sounding sad and resigned. I’ve heard it in your voice. You got doubts.

  Don’t presume to know my heart.

  She tossed the knife from hand to hand. All right. But I ain’t goin back without you.

  He scanned the shapeless ground for the pistol. If he lived through this, he could not leave it.

  Keep her talking. And what if you do? he asked.

  They chain my kids together and toss em in the river. While they’re still alive. Then they send me Lars’s head.

  There it is. I was selfish enough to ask for a sign, and now Nella’s payin the price. The Crusade eats its young. I’ll ask you again. You owe it to Jack to tell the truth. Do they know our names?

  Not from me. The deal is, I give em my contact in the park. I didn’t even tell em who you was. Like you said. I owe Jack.

  You really think they’ll honor the bargain? Ford asked. On the ground, a shape that might have been his pistol. They’ll kill your family and torture you until you give up every name you know.

  Maybe. But if there’s a chance to save my kids, I’m takin it. Get off the horse.

  She stepped forward. Thess backed away.

  Give me a day, Ford said. I’ll figure out a way to save your family.

  You couldn’t even save Troy, and he wasn’t in no fortress. She continued to toss the knife back and forth, easing closer, closer. We were fools to think we could beat em, Santonio. Just give up. Maybe we can save our souls.

  Thess circled away from her. Ford tried to keep track of that shape on the ground. Don’t do this, he said. I can just leave. Tell em I never showed.

  I told you. I can’t go back empty-handed. Now get down from there.

  Ford looked past her. I reckon they followed you.

  They’re hangin back. I convinced em you’d hear em all comin, so they gave me ten minutes to bring you in. Or gut you. Now it’s almost up. Get off that horse before I hamstring you where you sit.

  Ford dismounted. His six-guns bounced against his thigh. He hoped he could draw faster than she could close the distance. There’s gotta be a way outta this. For both of us.

  She moved past a break in the trees, revealing herself in the moonlight. She was weeping. This is the best I can do—this knife. I told em I was better with a blade than a gun, so you got a fair chance. If I get you, maybe it saves my family. If you get me, they can’t say I didn’t try. Maybe they’ll pity my kids.

  She came forward and slashed at him. Ford dodged.

  If they had pity, he said, they wouldn’t do this to you in the first place.

  Shoot me or die, Santonio. Right now.

  She leaped forward, thrusting the blade at him. It missed his throat by millimeters.

  From the south, a dull glow—torches, a couple of dozen at least. Charters turned the knife over in her hand, the blade pointed at her elbow.

  Ford did not draw.

  Charters bared her teeth, raised the knife over her head, and lunged, arcing it down. He grabbed her wrist with his injured hand. She punched him in the jaw. He kneed her in the gut and then let go of her and kicked her in the sternum. She crashed against a tree and groaned. The moonlight filtering through the trees cast abstract patterns on her upturned face. She leaned there for a moment, looking at him. The stamp of horses’ hooves grew closer.

  Damn you, she spat. This ain’t no schoolyard dustup. Get serious.

  Nella, he said. Come with me. I’ll hide you. I promise you we’ll find a way to get your family out.

  She watched him a moment. Then she pushed away from the tree, the knife pointing at his heart. What would Gabe Troy say about your promises? You say you’re on his side, but you ran him right off that bridge. How are you better than Clemens?

  There’s things you don’t know.

  She laughed. It was bitter, like citrus peel or wild chicory. I wanted to fight you toe to toe and let God decide who goes home. But I can see your heart ain’t in it. She turned and ran toward the glow and the hoofbeats, cupping her hands to her mouth, shouting, He’s over here, in the park. It’s Sant—

  Ford shot her in the back. The report echoed off the buildings.

 
He looked at the pistol in his hand. He did not remember drawing.

  Charters grunted and fell to one knee.

  In the muzzle flash, he had seen the other pistol. He hunted around until his hand closed on it. He holstered his six-gun, stuck the silenced one in his belt, and ran to Charters.

  Shouts from the south, louder hoofbeats. The torches’ glow had doubled in size.

  Here, she cried, holding one hand to her back.

  Shut up, Ford hissed. Just hush. He tried to help her up.

  She threw her body weight against him. He fell onto his hindquarters. Charters landed in his lap, bleeding all over him, soaking his clothes. She was trying to scream again, but she had lost her wind, her voice little louder than a rasp. Over here. Ford’s over here.

  The torch glow broke into individual points, the sounds of shod hooves thundering on the ground. Charters kept trying to scream.

  Ford took the knife from her loose grip and cut her throat.

  He pushed her away. She rolled onto her back, blood misting upward, spilling out of the wound in a torrent, pooling beneath her. Her eyes bugged out, and she sputtered, grasping at her neck. More blood spurted with each heartbeat. Ford stood, but not before it seeped into his pants from the knees down. His hair dripped with it. His shirt was soaked through. Charters spasmed, clawed the ground, gurgled.

  Ford knelt beside her and leaned close. Charters looked at him, her throat grinning. When she exhaled, red mist blew from her mouth and nostrils.

  Nella, he whispered. Has anybody else turned? Any of my friends?

  Her eyes dimmed, fluttered. He shook her a bit, and they opened again. Her lips moved. He leaned in closer, his ear against her mouth, but he could make nothing out. Perhaps she prayed.

  He rose and scooted away as if she were a great spider that had clawed its way up from the earth’s red heart. Her head lolled sideways, her cheek resting on the bloody ground. On the street, men and horses, raised voices.

  Ford picked up her knife and saddled up and galloped away, through all the grass they could find and down roads and through yards, heading back toward Metairie.