Lord of Order

by Brett Riley

  Now another flock of shocked and ragged Crusaders boiled up the street, mimicking his earlier flight. They seemed not to mark the presence of the Troublers on the ground, who stepped aside and let them dash up the ladders and duck behind the wall’s ramparts without incident.

  As they came, Royster stood panting and wincing next to Boudreaux. Jerold Babb quivered nearby, eyes closed, praying aloud for their deliverance. Melton and Glau squatted like frogs.

  And now came the rebel throng, a dark shadow stretching back and back into the city. What might he have done if he had been standing with Troy and seen such a sight? He would have drawn his guns and shot until the barrels melted, until the enemy cut him down, until Troy himself announced the victory or the surrender. Sometimes, when their posses had pursued Troublers into the bayous, Boudreaux had envisioned such a possibility, the Crusaders trapped on some hillock, surrounded, outgunned. Instead, it had come to pass in his own city, with his best friends leading the charge against his position. Nothing made sense.

  His muscles ached. His head pounded. He had never felt so weary.

  Gordon, Royster whispered.

  Boudreaux regarded the pale, withered envoy. He looked little like the man who had taken the High Temple for his own—seemingly twenty years older and shriveled, like the desiccated body of some long-dead desert animal. Boudreaux looked into the envoy’s pain-reddened eyes. Yes, sir.

  How long?

  I’d give the first wave another five minutes at most, Boudreaux said. Then he gestured to the Crusaders on the wall. This lot ain’t gonna be no help.

  Lord, deliver us from thy enemies, Babb intoned for the hundredth time.

  Royster swallowed hard and took a deep breath. He groaned. Make our faithful ready to bask in God’s glory.

  Protect us now, Father, Babb cried. We walk in the valley of the shadow.

  Royster’s pitiful force stood or crouched at ten-foot intervals—no discipline, no plan, no will. One man alone here, a group of six there. Two women crying on each other’s shoulders even as they sharpened their knives with whetstones they had somehow retained as the city degenerated. Most weapons still lay at the Crusaders’ feet. Melton and Glau looked as if they had already soiled themselves and probably would again. Babb babbled. No cover, no relief. Where was the glory? Where were the faithful? Where was God?

  Still, with nothing else to do, Boudreaux moved from group to group, conveying the message to the brave and the weeping alike.

  52

  Troy, Long, Hobbes, Tetweiller, Ford, and Stransky reined up twenty yards from the wall. Their multitude milled behind and around them. No one fired. The Conspirators picked up and handed out the weapons that the Crusaders had lost or cast away.

  On the wall, Gordon Boudreaux stood tall, one hand resting on his untied sidearm. Beside him, Royster swayed like a treetop in the breeze.

  Jerold Babb stood near them, trembling. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall inherit the earth, he shouted, hands spread wide.

  Shut up, Boudreaux said.

  The minister’s hands dropped. He looked at Boudreaux, then at Troy. This is wrong! cried Babb. Surely you know that in your hearts. Stop this devil’s work. Turn your holy weapons on the enemies of God and reclaim your place in heaven.

  There ain’t nothin holy about weapons, Troy said. It took me all my life to learn that, but it finally got through my thick skull.

  If that’s so, Boudreaux said, why do you still carry them pistols?

  No choice, Troy said. Not as long as other folks with weapons want to kill us. Not until we make a better world than this.

  Troy turned to Hobbes and whispered, Nobody shoots Gordy or Royster. Leave five or six others alive. Pass it on.

  Hobbes turned to Stransky, who turned to Bushrod—What did you do, she said to her lieutenant, run face-first into a hammer fifteen or twenty times?—and in this manner, the word spread through the ranks. The Crusaders watched the gathered New Orleanians, their expressions dark and full of loathing. A breeze kicked up, bringing with it an incongruous, almost otherworldly amalgamation of scents—the fresh smell of bougainvillea and morning glory, the sharper aromas of coppery blood and gunpowder, and the sickly sweet odor of rotting refuse. A single cloud passed overhead like a great schooner on the blue main. Someone coughed as they all waited for whatever came next.

  Then Royster, leaning on Boudreaux, spoke in a thin and failing voice. Greetings, Lord Troy. I would ask how you still live, but I see those traitorous dogs at your heel.

  You’re the treacherous one, Ford said. They had tied him to his saddle, and he slumped forward like a drunkard, but his voice was strong. You’re the one thirstin for slaughter and blamin it on God.

  Troy held up a hand. Let the man have his say, Santonio. He can’t hurt us now.

  Royster grinned, still sharklike. You’ve won nothing. Matthew Rook’s reach exceeds any man’s, and we are but a single finger on his hand.

  Troy rode out five feet beyond the others. If God’s on our side, Rook don’t matter. And if He ain’t, your boss is the least of our problems. Either way, you’ll never know.

  Well, Royster said, what are you waiting for? Get it over with.

  Troy smiled. First, watch this.

  Countless Conspirators dropped their weapons and ran for the Crusade’s supplies beyond the wall, while others rode out and yoked their horses to the last section of wall. A few minutes of beasts and humans straining and grunting, and the section fit into place perfectly, as Melton and Glau had intended. Other troops hauled over ladders and thick planks and hammered-flat scraps of metal, and they nailed and screwed the section to those on either side. They filled holes and covered the section in pitch. Carrying what they could and leaving the other tools behind, they climbed the ladders to the top. Crusaders stood aside as they pulled the ladders up and eased them down inside the wall. Then Troy and Stransky’s people descended back into the city, taking all the ladders away except the one nearest Royster and Boudreaux.

  The Crusaders watched it all without a word.

  When it was done, Royster patted the wall and wheezed.

  He’s tryin to laugh, and that’s all he’s got in him.

  We’re takin your goddam wall, Tetweiller shouted. And your river mines. We’ll use em to keep trash like you out.

  Ernie, please, cried Babb.

  Fuck off, Jerold. You ready, Gabe?

  Troy pulled his sidearm and shot the Crusader nearest Boudreaux and Royster. The man cried out and tumbled against the outward-facing ramparts. The assembly listened to him die.

  For a moment, nothing else happened. The very day seemed to hold its breath.

  And then the horde opened fire.

  They tore the Crusaders to pieces.

  Royster fell to his knees and curled up, covering his head with his hands. Babb dropped, shrieking in fear. Boudreaux stood next to them, thumbs tucked into his belt. Bullets smashed into Crusaders and the iron bulwarks and the wall itself, splintering its wood. Bodies crumpled. Booming gunfire covered the screams and gurgles of the dying. Smoke roiled, heavy and thick like a fire made from human fat. Seeing their fellows shot down like clay targets, perhaps a dozen Crusaders, Glau among them, took their chances and jumped over the far side.

  It was over in thirty seconds.

  Cease fire, croaked Troy.

  Jack Hobbes and Ernie Tetweiller rode up and down the line, repeating the order. The shots tapered off and finally ceased. Ford slumped in his saddle, holding his injured ribs. He holstered his pistols and tried to smile. Screams emanated from outside as the Crusaders who leaped for safety bemoaned their broken ankles or worse.

  When this is over, Troy said to Stransky, let’s send somebody up top. Put them wretches out yonder outta their misery.

  Stransky snorted. You old softy.

  On the wall, five Crusaders ha
lf crouched, their hands still in the air. They prayed aloud. Babb led them. Royster kept silent.

  Don’t worry, Envoy, Troy said. We’re gonna let you live. Might as well get up.

  Boudreaux helped Royster to his feet again. The envoy leaned on him and sneered. You have won your precious city, Royster said. But Gordon and I will stand by the Lord’s side when you are judged. And when He tosses you into the pit with the rest of demonkind, we will celebrate with the longest hosanna in heaven’s memory.

  I got a feelin you ain’t gonna have much better luck in the next world than you had here, Troy said. Now come on down. Use the ladder or jump. Either way, you’re done.

  Behind Troy, everyone roared in celebration. The five living guards descended, shaking like palsied elders. A brief, almost transcendent cool breeze sprung up and passed, leaving the dump’s stink and the matted rats and crows slinking throughout the city even now, drawn to the putrescence that would only get worse in the damp heat. Standing beside Boudreaux, even Royster, envoy to the world’s largest and bloodiest charnel house, seemed cowed. Then he turned and whispered to Boudreaux.

  Troy caught Hobbes’s eye. Be ready, said the lord of order.

  53

  When the last Crusaders surrendered, Royster turned to Boudreaux. I don’t believe they’ll let us live, the envoy said. No, they have some pageant in mind for us. A show for their Troubler comrades. But take heart. The Most High will welcome us into His everlasting arms. Here on Earth, Matthew Rook shall spread our names throughout the realm. We are martyrs. And that means we never truly die.

  He’s right, Gordon, Babb said, his voice a thin reed in a strong wind.

  The Conspirators’ thundering cheers broke into pockets of catcalls and taunts. Troublers from the swamps and bayous, former Crusaders, and frail freed people stretched back as far as Boudreaux could see, individuals merging into a composite mass covering the streets like floodwaters. Smoke and the thick smells of slaughter hung over the city. But Boudreaux registered all this with only part of himself. The rest of him studied the envoy.

  Look at all that gray hair, them wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. Like he climbed that ladder and stepped into his own future.

  Royster’s blood loss had paled him, as if he were already shifting into whatever translucent form might come next. Below them, the cheers and jeers died down. Royster smiled, as he so often did, still confident in his mission, his faith. Even after all the murder. This man had forced Boudreaux to torture, to stand against his friends, to kill in cold blood.

  Except that ain’t true. I always had a choice. I could have died a man of God. Instead, I did what some boss asked me, just like I always have. I did it for my friends and my city, but I also did it for myself, because I was scared. Well, I lived. And it only cost me my soul.

  Gordon Boudreaux, former deputy lord of order, New Orleans principality, was a husk without bone or sinew or gut, so that none could say what it once might have held. Perhaps nothing.

  He shoved Royster away.

  The envoy stumbled into Babb, who fell. Royster tripped over him and sprawled against the fortifications. The envoy’s eyes widened. His shark’s grin disappeared.

  Movement from behind, a form rising from underneath bodies. Boudreaux whirled and fired. The architect, Melton, fell back onto the dead, a hole in his forehead. Blood trickled from it and ran down his face like tears.

  Boudreaux turned back to Royster. You ain’t no martyr. You lost a whole army and made one for your enemy. You think Rook’s gonna sing your name for that?

  Gordon, we can—

  You keep talkin about we. But you wasn’t never on my side. Or God’s. You’re just a madman’s errand boy. Well, you picked the wrong damn city.

  Royster held up his hands in surrender. Wait—

  Boudreaux shot Lisander Royster in the head.

  The Troublers roared again. Royster lay on the wall, fingertips brushing the balustrade, eyes open to the sky, as if searching for a heaven that would accept a craven, bloodthirsty piece of trash like him. The real shame of it is that I ain’t so sure he’s wrong. About heaven and hell, about God, about wipin away all our stinkin blasphemy in a Purge. We deserve it. The void inside Boudreaux howled, but now, looking on the mounds of corpses, amid the chittering rants of the mad crowd and the smells of garbage and death, that void had spread everywhere else too. They were all flotsam, wave- and wind-tossed, now submerged, now breaking the surface. But always and forever trash. Him most of all.

  He turned to the crowd below. It fell silent, as if he had slit its collective throat. He stepped over bodies until he stood over a ladder notch and looked down at Troy.

  Come on down, Gordy, said Troy.

  No.

  It’s over.

  Boudreaux sighed. He took off his hat and laid it on the nearest body. I never stopped bein your friend, he said. But you asked too much of me.

  Gordon? Babb said from somewhere nearby.

  Boudreaux raised his weapon and jammed the barrel under his chin.

  54

  Hobbes fired. The bullet smashed through Boudreaux’s right thigh. He dropped his pistol and fell against the far-side ramparts.

  Troy spurred his mount forward. He reined in and grabbed the ladder as his people held it steady. Then the lord of order stepped from the saddle onto the rungs and pulled himself up, his body throbbing, his head fit to burst.

  Up top, Boudreaux was drawing his other sidearm. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Troy hurdled Jerold Babb, who ducked and covered, and kicked Boudreaux in the jaw as hard as he could. The deputy’s head rocked back, and he slumped as if boneless, the gun sliding from his grip. Troy picked it up and threw it over the side and sat next to Boudreaux, cradling the deputy’s head in his lap.

  He brushed the hair out of Boudreaux’s face. Sorry, he said. Don’t nobody get off easy today.

  Hobbes and Long hauled themselves onto the wall. They picked their way over the bodies in silence, as if afraid someone might awaken. Babb got on his knees and watched them, tears on his cheeks, his old-man hands trembling.

  Y’all help us down, Troy said. I feel like I could sleep for a month.

  Babb crawled over and squeezed his arm. Gabriel, I—

  Not now, Troy said, pushing Babb’s hand away. Maybe not ever.

  55

  Sister Jewel moved about the sanctuary, setting hymnals in their racks as Troy watched from the front pew. Votives flickered on the altar as they had done since the old times. Her long and angular shadow attended her. She hummed under her breath, tuneless, the song unrecognizable. A strand of graying red hair had slipped out from beneath her habit and dangled against her cheek.

  Soon the back door opened, and Sister Sarah stepped inside. Troy stood. Her habit seemed more severe than ever, more shapeless. How much did she weigh? Did she bear any scars or warts or freckles? How old was she? She might have sprung whole and clothed from the river, from stone, from the very air. She was a great mystery, like faith itself. Like love.

  She approached and studied him a moment. Then she turned to Sister Jewel. You about done?

  Jewel wiped her forehead with her sleeve. Well, I still need to sweep and clean up the wax on the altar, and—

  Sarah cleared her throat. Surely that can wait a bit.

  Troy pretended to cough.

  Sure, Jewel said. Evenin, Lord Troy.

  Take her easy, Troy said.

  Easy ain’t our way.

  When she had gone, Troy and Sister Sarah sat and faced each other. I know you’re hurt, Sarah said, but I’ve been back for two weeks. You could have come sooner.

  His left arm hung in a sling. His right knee was thickly bandaged. At least his face had healed some.

  Sorry, he said. Got my tail end kicked, but the other guy got worse. How about you? Any problem gettin back inside?

 
No. Your lookouts took care of us. It was easier than gettin out in the first place.

  I’d hate to climb anywhere in that habit.

  They fell silent, sweating, self-conscious. Troy sensed her gravity, the elemental yearning magnets and metal must feel before they come together. Did she feel it too?

  It’s like somethin inside me has always tossed and turned, and now it’s come to rest. Maybe this is what peace feels like. Or possibility.

  Lands, she said. It’s hot.

  Yeah, he said. So what’s next?

  She swept her hand from left to right, taking in the sanctuary. The Lord’s work is never done. This might be the greatest evangelical opportunity since the ancients’ time.

  So you’ll stay.

  New Orleans is my home. I learned that all over again when I left. I won’t abandon it again this side of the grave.

  Troy nodded and looked around. How long would it take Sister Sarah to fill those pews? Some Troublers were Catholics who never could abide living under the Crusade’s yoke. Those folks would probably come to Mass. Others would trickle in—the converted, the curious. The sisters might even need a bigger church.

  But someone else would have to see to that.

  I’m glad, he said. This town needs you.

  How about you? Royster’s dead. We’ve all got sanctuary. What now?

  I’ve been thinkin about that. I’ve had a belly full of fightin. I’d like nothin better than to set these guns down and never pick em up again.

  She smiled. It did not seem happy. But? she asked.

  But Royster was right about one thing—nothin’s really over. Rook still runs the world. I doubt he’ll scrap his plans for a new Purge. Or leave us be.

  So?

  So we can’t just sit here. Besides, Royster burned down my house, and I don’t cotton to movin into the presbytère with Jerold Babb. I reckon he snores.

  Sarah did not laugh. I heard you set a dozen Crusaders free so they could spread the word of what happened here. Maybe Rook will decide we ain’t worth the trouble.