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

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 sweaty, 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