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

that the men had been arrested. But was he doing all that to help Troy or to compile information for Royster? Dangerous avenues, doubt on all sides. And in a situation like this, doubt could get you killed.

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