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

Long knew better than to look back. I don’t know about you, but I’m as skittish as a cat on hot bricks.

When they reached Canal Street, they turned their horses in opposite directions without saying another word.

19

Just before sunrise, someone knocked. Troy opened his door, pistol in hand, but when he saw Mordecai Jones on his stoop, he holstered it. Jones shook Troy’s hand and took off his hat. His long, sand-colored hair hung about his face in damp strips. Even his beard looked wet. Lord help. By noon, the Troublers’ brains will cook. Their tongues will darken and swell. Their lips will split open, and they’ll lick their own blood just because it’s wet.

Troy stood aside. Jones, nearly six and a half feet tall, ducked as he stepped across the threshold. Troy led him to the kitchen and took a pitcher of water from the icebox and poured them a couple of glasses. Jones took his and drained half of it, smacking and wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve. He had fought with Troy back to back in the Seventh Ward uprising ten years ago, had dug ditches and mended streets and corralled neighbors in dispute. Always faithful, a fine man, fair and honest and hardworking.

Do you feel it, Mordecai? Do you sense this moment determines the rest of your life?

Jones had always been sharp, strong, clever with angles and leverage. Before Dwyer came, Troy had intended to nominate him for the next available administrative position, perhaps even create one just for him—special deputy, downtown section. But time had slipped through Troy’s fingers like sand.

I appreciate the drink, Jones said, but I don’t reckon you called me over here just to dirty a glass.

Troy sipped his water. Had Jones noticed his unstrapped pistol? Probably so. Not much had ever escaped the man. He had come unarmed, of course. Crusade law forbade anyone but lords and deputies from carrying firearms without permission. Even Santonio Ford’s hunters checked out their weapons in the mornings and turned them in at day’s end. If you could not prove Troy or Ford had given you leave to carry, you were probably a Troubler. Still, Jones would have plenty of opportunity to fight, if it came to that. The kitchen was chock-full of bladed and blunt weapons. Troy meant to give Jones every chance to live, no matter the cost. He owed the man.

We need to talk, Troy said. It ain’t good.

Jones drank the rest of his water, watching Troy. He set his glass on the counter and boosted himself up, sitting on the edge, feet dangling like a child dipping his toes in the river from a dock, his right hand only a foot away from the knife block, his left six inches from a cast-iron skillet.

Could be you’re thinkin about them chained-up folks out yonder, Jones said. And maybe about the folks bringin em in too.

Could be. Got an opinion?

I ain’t never questioned my orders or my faith. But—and I hope you won’t gun me down for sayin so—well, I don’t get what we’re doin.

Troy crossed his arms. Go on.

Jones scratched his head. Folks starvin and dyin of thirst. Grown men blubberin like babies. All of em eatin maggoty meat and wilted greens a starvin rabbit wouldn’t touch. I’ve shot men and women by your side, Gabriel. A couple of teenagers too. But we always took prisoners when the Troublers gave us a choice. We fed em and sheltered em and tried to convert em. What’s happenin here, it’s pure torture with no clear aim. I don’t see the right of it.

Troy studied Jones’s face. So your heart’s troubled.

I reckon so. You gonna cuff me now?

The two men looked at each other for a moment. Something seemed to hang in the air, a tension, as if the world waited for the shooting to start.

If I can’t trust this man, I might as well let him brain me with that skillet.

Mordecai, Troy said, that’s exactly how I see it.

It’s a dangerous time to be us, the big man said, wiping his brow again. He went to Troy’s icebox and got the pitcher and poured himself another glass. Glad to know I’m not alone, at least. Lands, it’s hot.

And apt to get hotter. Anybody else feel this way?

Tommy Gautreaux. Antoine Baptiste. Laura Derosier. A dozen others, at least. They can’t even look at them prisoners. Might be more. I don’t know. We’ve all been too fidgety to talk much.

Troy clapped Jones on the shoulder. Well, we need to start talkin. But this ain’t no small thing. We’re puttin our lives at hazard. Maybe our souls too.

Jones laughed, but it sounded more like a groan. How’d we come to this sorry state?

Troy refilled his own glass, and they retired to his living room, where he opened the shades to the sun. The two of them talked well into the morning.

At dusk the next evening, Troy walked through the French Market, ruffling children’s hair and speaking to citizens picking up their daily quotas of fish and meat and vegetables, new wares from Long’s forges, extra rations, or equipment for special occasions. Soon the stalls would close for the night. Nearby a woman Troy could not place asked for extra vegetables, now that she had another baby to feed.

I should know her name. And her kids’. We should know she needs more. Soon she and her children could be floating down Poydras or St. Charles.

Troy walked down the road, stifling a yawn. He had barely slept in three days, and never peacefully since capturing Lynn Stransky.

Reaching the steps leading to the river, Troy paused. Citizens headed home for the night passed and waved, saluted, tipped their hats. He acknowledged them all.

I hope this wasn’t a stupid idea. Is it more suspicious if we’re seen socializin or if we ain’t?

He sat on his favorite bench and watched the river winding toward the Gulf. The water had always soothed him.