Lord of Order Brett Riley (best books under 200 pages .TXT) 📖

his face looked misshapen and demonic. Ugly inside and out. If Lake Pontchartrain or the Mississippi swallows me up, it’s no more than I deserve. Or maybe I belong with Royster and Benn and Clemens. One more devil walkin the earth until it’s time to burn beside Judas Iscariot and all the other betrayers. If the Lord feels merciful, Kouf will hear me scream.

After a while, Boudreaux turned away from the mirror and took up the lamp. In his bedroom, he stripped off his clothes and snuffed the lantern and wept for Kouf, who had looked for compassion and found only pain.

18

Before LaShanda Long could leave home in the early morning, a messenger appeared—a dark-haired boy no older than seventeen, his shirt bearing the Crusade insignia over his heart. He watched her read the note he had brought before turning on his heel and mounting his skinny paint. After he rode away, Long shut her door and read the message twice more.

A meeting in the lord of order’s office that evening, agenda unknown.

She spent the day inspecting her forges, trying not to think of how you could barely turn around inside a tower cell, how you could hear the wind but never feel it, how no sunlight penetrated the walls. Almost as bad as a coffin.

When she entered the office that evening, Ford stood at ease, watching Benn and Clemens. The deputy envoys looked upon the courtyard from the massive window. Long raised her eyebrows. Ford shrugged. Outside the sun was setting, the river shadowed. Five straight-backed chairs sat in a half circle near the desk.

Gordy Boudreaux walked in. Stubble covered his cheeks and chin. His eyes were dark and swollen. When he said hello, Long would have sworn she smelled hard liquor on his breath. Like most of them, he had never drunk a drop in his life. He slouched to a chair and fell into it without anyone’s leave.

What in the world?

Soon Royster arrived, his open-throated shirt billowing as he walked, revealing his pale and wiry frame. The brand over his heart was gnarled and purple. Royster sat behind the desk. Long, Ford, and Boudreaux faced him—Long and Ford on their feet, Boudreaux slumping in the chair, his head hanging. Benn and Clemens joined them and stood to Ford’s right.

Good evening, the envoy said. I apologize for my tardiness. I’ve been meeting with our search parties. No one has seen or heard from Lynn Stransky since her escape. Misters Ford and Boudreaux, Ms. Long—do any of you find that strange?

That’s the Troublers’ way, Ford said. They’re guerillas. They hit us and disappear.

Royster put his elbows on the desk and brought his hands together, fingertips touching. True, but given present events, she could be readying a major offensive.

Maybe, but I’d reckon she rabbited, what with all the guards comin to town. If she’s got any sense, that is. I think she does.

Nonetheless, we must remain vigilant.

Yes, sir, Benn and Clemens said.

Yes, sir, said Long.

I reckon so, Ford said.

Boudreaux nodded. Then he looked away.

Against all enemies, Royster said, glancing at Boudreaux. Even those whom we have long believed our closest friends. He folded his hands and smiled.

Long shivered. The expression looked as genuine as a wooden bullet.

You got somebody particular in mind? Ford asked.

I do, said Royster. What I am about to say must not leave this room. Know I take no pleasure in it.

Sure you don’t. That’s why you look like the cat that ate the canary.

Benn stepped forward. It’s our honor to serve, sir.

Royster leaned back and sighed. Very well. I fear Gabriel Troy loves this city more than our church. I believe he plots betrayal. If so, he must be stopped, by any means necessary, along with all who stand with him. I know where my deputies’ loyalty lies. What of you three? Will you stand with the Crusade, though your enemy be Gabriel Troy himself?

Again, they all answered in unison, like good soldiers—aye. But in her heart, LaShanda Long felt cold. He knows. Somehow he knows about Gabe, which means he probably suspects us all. She glanced at Ford and Boudreaux. They had not moved, had not altered their expressions.

Royster gestured to the empty seats. Please, he said.

They all sat. From the stairwell, the sound of many feet. Long’s heart raced. Perhaps Royster had summoned his guards to haul them to the towers, the gulags south of the river, or even the Big Muddy itself. Bodies disappeared into its waters like the stones children sometimes threw.

Several servers entered the room, carrying dishes on trays. Two more brought a folding table into the office and placed it against a wall. Then the dish carriers set their burdens down and removed the lids. The smells of roasted chicken and grilled vegetables—squash, turnips, cauliflower, potatoes—filled the room, and despite herself, Long’s mouth watered. She had barely eaten all day.

Royster looked to the servers. Thank you. That will be all. As the Temple personnel left, Royster opened his palms to those who remained. Gentlemen and lady, please join me in the breaking of bread.

He did not have to ask anyone twice. They ate more than the prisoners had seen since the shackles first closed.

Afterward, as Ford sipped the last of his water, Royster turned to Boudreaux. Mr. Benn and Mr. Clemens must check the wall’s progress. You will accompany them.

Eyes reddened and moist, Boudreaux turned to the envoy. Now?

Yes.

Boudreaux got up and set his plate in a bin filled with soiled dishes. He barely touched his food. Maybe he’s sick. All these lies and half-truths could do that to a fella. Soon Ford and Long were alone with Royster. The envoy’s empty plate was piled high with chicken bones and the skin of two potatoes. Did you eat like that in front of all them starvin kids out yonder? I bet you did. I’d like to shove my fist down your throat and pull your stomach out by the roots.

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