by Brett Riley
Someone in the back muttered an amen. Hobbes glanced back that way and then fell still. No one else moved, but despite how some congregants’ attention might have wavered, the air in the sanctuary felt charged with joy. The untroubled spirits of the people found solace in Babb’s words, in the Scriptures.
Troy wondered, though, if the Most High had put those verses in Babb’s heart for a different reason. Maybe God was speaking to Troy through the minister: Remember I am with you, though all the world abandon you.
Or maybe thinking that way was vanity.
Babb preached on the same theme another forty minutes. When the gathered adherents rose for the final acts of the morning service, Troy prayed for clear vision and clearer thoughts in these, the most uncertain days of his life.
4
Two weeks after his conversation with Sister Sarah, Troy reined up beside the Jesus statue and dismounted, tossing the reins to a groom. He had gone to the market on North Peters for dinner, but he still needed to peruse LaShanda Long’s latest reports. The sun was disappearing, the river turning black.
Jack Hobbes galloped into the courtyard and hailed Troy. Hobbes reined up beside him, his face red, the horse blowing and sweating.
What’s wrong? Troy said.
Been lookin for you, Hobbes said. He’s here.
Who’s here? Troy asked, knowing the answer.
Hobbes nodded at the Temple. The rider. The herald.
Troy took off his hat and fanned himself. I really hoped Stransky was lyin. Hobbes dismounted as the groom took his reins. Troy’s gray nickered, as if he could sense tension the same way he could smell a coming storm. Perhaps he could. The groom struggled to hold both horses as Troy and Hobbes walked away, not speaking. On either side of the Temple’s doors, burning torches had been thrust into brackets nailed into the wall. In the dusk and firelight, the men’s shadows capered, goblins loosed from unimaginable subterranea.
Inside, they shielded their eyes. Every lantern and torch had been lit. The Temple workers stood at attention along the walls as Troy and Hobbes skirted the front desk and walked down the center aisle toward the three men standing near the stairway door. Jerold Babb wore his official robes, his shoulders slumping under their weight. Gordy Boudreaux’s pistols were slung low on his hips. He held his hat and watched Troy and Hobbes, expressionless. The other man smiled, his eyes bright and intelligent. He was taller than everyone else in the room, and young too. Probably no more than twenty-eight, barely older than Boudreaux. His thick black hair spilled past his shoulders. Barrel chest, arms like a ship’s anchor chain. He sported faded trousers, dusty boots, and a soiled white cotton shirt loose at the throat.
Big boy, ain’t he? Hobbes muttered. About to bust outta that shirt.
Big don’t say nothin about quality, Troy said. Don’t let him scare you.
Ain’t scared. Just wonderin how many times you’d have to shoot him before he’d fall down.
The stranger’s smile widened, his teeth white and even. Unblemished tanned skin, layers of toned muscle over strong bones. I reckon he’s sent more than one Crusader to the prayer closet, askin forgiveness for lust. He’s a fighter too. A good one. Troy and Hobbes stopped an arm’s length from the other three men. The herald’s smile never reached his eyes, which were deep brown and full of intelligence. They bored into the New Orleanians, mining for what treasures Troy could not say.
Boudreaux saluted, then bowed. I hail my direct superior, New Orleans Lord of Order Gabriel Troy, and my senior partner, Deputy Lord Jack Hobbes. It’s my honor to introduce Jevan Dwyer, herald of the honorable Matthew Rook. May the Bright Crusade endure forever.
Dwyer, Troy, and Hobbes saluted each other and then bowed, the tops of their heads nearly touching. Boudreaux cleared his throat. Sweat trickled from Troy’s temple down to his neck. All this bowing and ritual—titles, fancy talk, old customs and traditions and rules. Might as well let Sarah move her people into the Quarter and hold Mass right here. Can’t say that to this fella, though. Dwyer put out his hand. Troy shook it. The herald’s hand was bigger, the grip strong. Troy squeezed back. They released each other, and Dwyer turned and shook hands with Hobbes, who grunted. The herald’s eyes narrowed a bit.
All right, Troy said, now that we impressed each other and just about broke our ever-lovin hands, let’s get outta this bonfire.
Dwyer threw back his head and laughed, hands on his hips. Babb smiled for perhaps two seconds before he seemed to remember how dour he was supposed to be. Boudreaux stood upright, like a plank someone had set on end, hands behind his back.
You can get the stick outta your hindquarters now, Gordy, said Hobbes.
Boudreaux turned red. Troy winked at him.
Deputy Hobbes, our guest, Babb scolded.
Please, Dwyer said. A little humor is welcome after my lonely trip. Lord Troy, can I trouble you for some water? The heat has parched me.
Jack, y’all get the staff to rustle up some refreshments and then meet us in my office, Troy said.
Yes, sir, said Hobbes, saluting.
He walked away, throwing an arm around Boudreaux and pulling him along. They motioned toward the staff members still standing at attention, and everyone followed them to the front desk, where Hobbes doled out orders.
Dwyer watched them. Your deputies seem well trained, and so far I’ve found your staff courteous and highly competent.
The crew ran in all directions. Hobbes laid one hand on Boudreaux’s shoulder and spoke. The tension drained out of the junior deputy’s face.
Yeah, said Troy. They’re a good bunch. And I’d sure appreciate it if you’d call me Gabe. If I call you Herald Dwyer, folks around here’s like to think your name’s Harold.
Dwyer laughed again and clapped him on the shoulder. I like you, Gabe. I look forward to seeing your office.
Well, let’s get to gettin.
Troy sat with his hands folded on his bare desk, his hat hanging on the corner rack. Dwyer had taken a visitor’s chair and sat with his long legs crossed. He played with a coil of string, knitting it into geometric shapes, cat’s cradles and multifaceted diamonds and near-perfect squares. Babb sat in the other straight-backed chair. His robes pooled over its back and behind him like a bridal train. Boudreaux stood to Troy’s left, at ease, Hobbes to the right. Everyone seemed solemn except Dwyer. Troy waited, but the herald just sat there, playing with the string.
A tall pitcher of ice water sat on a side table someone had lugged up, which also meant somebody had visited the icehouse. The carafe was half full now; Dwyer had drunk the rest. Four glasses sat near the pitcher. Boudreaux harrumphed.
By all means, Deputy, have some water, Dwyer said. The trail dust gets to you, even in the city. Doesn’t it?
Boudreaux looked at Troy, who nodded. The young deputy went to the table and poured himself a glass. Anybody else want some while I’m at it?
You heard our guest, Troy said. Trail dust and so forth. Pour em all.
Dwyer studied Troy’s office as if it held the old world’s lost treasures while Boudreaux handed the glasses around and refilled Dwyer’s. Troy set his glass on the desk. Hobbes sipped from his and then held it in one hand, hooking his other thumb in his gun belt. Dwyer drank the water in one long gulp. He belched and placed the empty glass on the floor. Trying to keep up with the herald, Babb swallowed so much he choked and sputtered, droplets spewing onto his robes and Troy’s desk.
No need to rush, Minister, Dwyer said. We have the night.
You had a long trip, I reckon, said Troy.
Not as long as some. I’ve ridden from Washington to California and back again. I’ve traveled from the tip of Florida to the northwestern point of Alaska.
You must get awful tired of the saddle.
I prefer the open road to the confines of cities. I assume you have remained within your borders since assuming your post?
Pretty much. Ain’t got time for sightseein.
Of course not. We have heard great things about New Orleans, and about you. The Crusade intends to reward your service with a new position. A unique one.
Troy did not stir, but Boudreaux spilled water on his shirt. Troy knew how he felt. A new position made no sense; Troy had already reached the top. Either he was being demoted or transferred, which would trickle down to his subordinates, or else Dwyer was about to confirm Stransky’s story. Bad news for the New Orleanians in the room, and everyone knew it.
Except for Jerold. He looks like an angel just flew outta Dwyer’s hindquarters.
Dwyer made a circle with his string. I can sense your trepidation. Let me set you at ease. You are not moving, nor are you being demoted.
An icy finger stroked the base of Troy’s spine, and despite the heat, his skin broke out in gooseflesh. They’re gonna make it sound like you’re bein done a favor, but once them prisoners show up, once they start droppin big-ass sections of fortified wall along the city perimeter, you’ll believe. If you can’t live with yourself at that point, come see me, and I’ll tell you the rest.
Troy tried to read the herald’s face, but Dwyer was all teeth.
What position? Troy asked.
Dwyer stood, his knees popping. He walked to the front window and looked out on the darkened city. Troy followed, Hobbes and Boudreaux flanking him. The square stretched toward the river, moonlight rippling across the water, shadowed buildings hulking in between. Here and there, people and horses moved about, their shapes little more than bits of concentrated shadow that occasionally solidified into recognizable figures as they passed under the streetlamps.
We are facing a great crisis, Dwyer said. Faithless wretches are abandoning the Crusade and joining the Troublers. In our major cities, you will find one corrupt and worldly grubber for every honest and righteous man. In their isolation, our rural citizens often backslide. The Troublers devastate righteousness and loyalty as the locust consumes fauna. Something must be done.
Yes, yes, Babb said, folding his hands and closing his eyes. Thank you, Lord, for Mister Rook’s clarity of vision.
Troy glanced at Hobbes and Boudreaux. What’s that got to do with us and our city?
Dwyer turned from the window. His grin had disappeared, as had his string. New Orleans is one of the few cities in which the Troubler threat remains mostly under control. We want your help with our problem at-large. We intend to turn New Orleans into the Crusade’s prison. The city is to be walled off. Its people will be our permanent guards. And you are to be our warden.
Praise the Most High, Babb said, raising his hands.
Hobbes grunted. Boudreaux coughed. And Troy, who felt as if the herald had shot him in the guts, could not speak.
Their city. The only home they had ever known, where Troy had learned to ride and shoot. Where his parents had died and he had found his calling. He had swum in the great river, had sat among the old sarcophagi and pondered the people who had once walked the streets, had explored nearly every building. He had spilled blood in New Orleans’s streets and chased Troublers through her French Quarter, her Central Business District, her Garden District, her wards. In the great storms that came almost every year, he had hauled sandbags and nailed windows shut and sat in rooms in the highest fortified buildings, listening to the wind rage and swirl. He had killed for New Orleans, had nearly died for her. And now they wanted to dump the country’s scum here, as if she were no more than a landfill.
For the first time in his life when presented with an order, Troy dissented. No, he said.
Babb gasped, his eyes like saucers. Boudreaux cleared his throat. Hobbes watched.
Dwyer’s face might have been carved out of marble. He did not even raise his eyebrows. Troy held his gaze.
When the herald spoke, his conversational voice shattered the silence as if he had shouted full throat. I’m not sure I understand you, Lord Troy. Are you refusing to follow an order from his holiness, Matthew Rook?
Of course not, Babb said. Are you, Gabriel?
I ain’t refusin nothin. But I wouldn’t be doin my job if I just up and agreed. We’ve all dedicated our lives to keepin this city safe. Now you’re tellin me you want to turn it into a giant rat cage. And how are we supposed to guard a whole city full of heathens? They’ll surely outnumber us.
Dwyer’s eyes narrowed. His brow furrowed, giving his face a hawkish cast. He loomed over Troy, glaring, his open hands at his sides. Troy crossed his arms. I could find out how good you are right now. If you’re faster than me, I might die, but these boys behind me would make sure I didn’t beat you to heaven by much. The deputies fanned out, clearing their lines of vision. Babb scooted away.
If Boudreaux and Hobbes worried Dwyer, he gave no sign. Lord Troy, he said, the city of New Orleans does not belong to you. It belongs to the Bright Crusade, which liberated it from the sinners of the old world—the addicts, the whores, the murderers and molesters and thieves and pagans. The honorable Jonas Strickland and our Crusader ancestors did that work, not you. Matthew Rook is Strickland’s recognized successor, our highest earthly authority. If he says this city is to be burned to the ground tonight, you should strike the first spark and fan the flames with your life’s breath.
I’d burn down the city in a heartbeat if it would be the best thing for the citizens’ lives, Troy said, his voice steady. Or their souls. That’s my real charge. So I ask you again. How are we supposed to live under the conditions you named?
Dwyer glared a moment longer. Then he sighed. My apologies. In my zeal to serve our God and the Crusade, I often forget the niceties of human interaction. It makes my job rather difficult at times.
Troy exhaled and crossed the room again, taking a seat behind his desk while Hobbes and Boudreaux followed and leaned against the wall, still flanking him. Dwyer took his chair. Babb sat beside him.
And you got my apologies for any disrespect, Troy said.
Dwyer nodded and smiled, those teeth winking like somebody had stuck six or eight lit candles down his throat. As for your concerns, he said, you must make peace with the changes this directive will bring. The buildings, the parks, the streets you have so scrupulously maintained will undoubtedly suffer. If the prisoners are smart, they will maintain your crops and your buildings for themselves, but no one can guarantee what Troublers will do. For all that, I am sorry, and I am certain Matthew Rook shares those sentiments. As for your people, I am not privy to the Crusade’s specific plan for their training or deployment. Still, the righteous always triumph, do they not? Your populace will find their way.
Yes, praise Jesus, said the high minister.
If Dwyer said we should shove dynamite up our hindquarters and light the fuse, Jerold would praise Jesus and grab the matches. Troy scratched his head. Look. We all understand the concept of the greater good. I don’t know if lettin heretics wreck New Orleans is the best way to help the Crusade, but let’s leave that point for now and stick with the people. Who decides who’s righteous?
Dwyer looked apologetic. As I mentioned, I am not privy to those plans. But I have faith the Crusade will do what is right.
Our ideas of what’s right seem pretty far apart. Let’s hope so. Ain’t no use in killin loyal folks.
I agree. Does this mean I can count on your compliance?
I’ve always done what was required of me. Don’t aim to stop now.
Babb seemed relieved. Yes, he said. Gabriel has always been true.
Dwyer stood and held out his hand. Troy got up and shook it. The herald reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope sealed with wax—the official seal of the Bright Crusade, a cross inside the sun, beams of light radiating outward. Dwyer handed the papers to Troy, who moved to break the seal.
The herald grabbed Troy’s hands in one of his bearlike paws. No. You are to open this in solitu
de. Share the contents with no one, not even your deputies, not Minister Babb, until you receive further instructions. Is that clear?
Troy put the papers in his shirt pocket. Yeah.
Dwyer’s grin returned. Now that we understand each other, can you point me to my quarters? I have ridden far and fast, and my bones are tired.
Troy nodded at Boudreaux, who bowed and gestured toward the door. Dwyer shook hands with Hobbes and Babb and exited. Boudreaux followed him, closing the door.
Babb turned to Troy. Are you insane? Questioning the will of the supreme Crusader? Worse, doing it in front of a Washington official?
Simmer down, Jerold.
I will not, said Babb, gathering his robes. Don’t make me defend you, Gabriel. No one defies the will of God.
He stalked out, slamming the door behind him.
Well, that was fun, Troy said.
Hobbes walked around the desk and took one of the chairs. So. Gonna tell me what’s in that packet?
Troy took his seat. When it seems safe. I get the feelin this herald will try to worm the orders out of y’all, just so he can say we disobeyed.
Your call. Hard to believe he don’t know what they got planned, though.
In the big picture, he’s a delivery boy. We’re gonna have to take it up with the real authorities.
Hobbes took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. Sweet Lord. Would have swore a Troubler wouldn’t know truth if it walked up and shot em in the leg, but looks like Stransky was right.
Troy rubbed his eyes and winced. His head ached like the devil.
5
The cold stars glimmered as Troy rode to his house on Esplanade—two stories of red brick surrounded by shrubs and rich green grass, the interior painted in mild but exotic hues like dusty purple. The tiny bricked garden outside served well for springtime contemplations. But Troy had never cared much for the comforts his station afforded. If it was too good for the average citizen, it was too good for him. Jonas Strickland had decreed that lords should live in luxurious accommodations to underscore their position. Otherwise, Troy would have been happy sleeping in a stable. Strickland had also preached that with the greatest faith came the greatest privilege. It had always seemed contradictory—keep your eyes on heaven but your behind parked in the best house you can find. But what did Gabriel Troy know? He had never been much of a philosopher.
