by Brett Riley
But Troy could not give voice to recriminations in Dwyer’s presence. I reckon it would take an age to walk just fifty or sixty miles.
Dwyer nodded. Indeed. I imagine many have died on the road. They will be cut loose or dragged to pieces. More time lost.
Boudreaux sat in his saddle, expressionless. Babb had nodded off, his chin resting on his chest. Troy got back on his horse. Whatever came down the causeway, he would meet it mounted and proud.
After a while, thudding, rhythmic footsteps drifted to them like thunder rumbling through distant mountains. Dwyer stayed afoot another ten minutes, watching through his spyglass. Then he remounted and sat straight, his long hair cascading over his shoulders, his hand shielding his eyes against the glare of the sunlight reflecting off the water. When the rumble got loud enough, Babb woke up and yawned. Boudreaux adjusted his hat and spat again. They waited until the first prisoners came into sight, inched toward them, and finally stepped off the causeway onto Metairie soil.
They walked in ten single-file lines, each chained to whoever walked in front and behind, the tintinnabulation of their steel almost musical. When the guards called halt, the arresting of their motion created an illusion of movement, a wave that seemed to ripple northward along the causeway, taking with it the thuds and the clinks in ever-fading contrapuntal clamors. Looking at the mass of men, women, and children standing in torn and soiled clothes, at feet clad in scuffed boots or fraying shoes or nothing but blood and grime, Troy thought it seemed a miracle they had come so far without trampling each other into bloody paste, without overlapping their chains and tying themselves into knots. They were hungry and exhausted. Only their guards, mounted and bearing the sigil of the Crusade on their shirts, looked fresh. They sat their horses with heads held high, their rifles and shotguns scabbarded, their loaded pistols tied down in their holsters.
Any of em might be the one that kills me, thought Troy. And half of me believes I deserve it.
One of the guards rode up and saluted. Dwyer and Troy returned it.
What news? the herald asked.
Our prisoners walked from Lafayette, Breaux Bridge, Baton Rouge, and St. Francisville, sir, said the guard. Plus a hundred other towns. Behind us, they’re from Vidalia and Woodville, Mississippi, even Natchez. Behind them, who knows? This here’s a motley lot. I’m glad I didn’t have to bring em no farther than I did.
Before them, men and women, children and the elderly, the healthy and the sick. The fierce light of hatred or determination in some eyes, terror in the rest. No food in sight, no water, though every prisoner looked parched, the harbingers of a cruelty that would sweep the earth before it.
Where are the envoys? Troy asked.
They’ll be along directly, said the guard. They was still sittin off a ways and cookin breakfast when we broke camp. I reckon they’re takin their time.
Dwyer turned to Troy. We should square away these heathens. Where do you suggest we direct them?
Troy took off his hat and scratched his head. Probably best just to march em all the way to the southernmost point and stack em up anyplace our citizens ain’t usin. Ernie Tetweiller’s waitin on the road back yonder a piece. He’ll lead em in.
You want me to help him? Boudreaux asked.
No. Escort Jerold home, and check on Jack. He’s itchin to mount up and shoot at somebody. Tie him down if you have to.
Eyeing the massed Troublers, Boudreaux saluted and turned his horse. So much humanity, stretching past the horizon—once they all arrived, New Orleans would look as it must have before the Purge, a great anthill, its catacombs aswarm, the inhabitants walking on top of each other. And if Troy and his friends—who had begun to think of themselves as Conspirators, rather than Crusaders or Troublers—were right, the bodies of the dead would soon choke waterlogged streets and spill into the great river. They would pile against buildings and bloat and rot and burst. No one could live in New Orleans after that, not for decades. The diseases from all those bodies would kill any flood survivors just as efficiently and perhaps more terribly. Then the coming of vermin and carrion animals.
That ain’t God’s work. It just can’t be. And I gotta save em all because how could I know whose soul is innocent and whose is stained? How was I ever supposed to know? And why did I never think to ask until my own neck was in the noose?
The guards whistled and shouted commands, and the weary prisoners trudged forward again, finding that same rhythm and cadence. Many eyes met Troy’s, holding his gaze as they passed. But as before, most looked frightened, pleading, despairing.
Soon he and Dwyer left. Troy would meet the envoys in his office, as befitted a lord of order.
Troy, Dwyer, and Babb had made a table of the lord’s desk as they ate their beefsteak and boiled potatoes. Juice dribbled down Babb’s chin. One of Tetweiller’s runners had just left after bringing the latest news: Incoming Troublers had reached the city’s southern borders and were spreading east and west and back again, wrapping the avenues in limbs and chains. They sat on bare concrete walks, on streets, on grass in front of uninhabited houses and apartment complexes and buildings whose ancient purposes no one understood. Would the Crusaders leave the Troublers chained together when the floodwaters came? Each prisoner acting as the next one’s anchor. Hundreds of children had already trooped by, emaciated babes with dirty faces and hollow eyes. How could they all be hardened, fanatical Troublers?
If we got any chance to save em, we should try. Christ said to suffer the little children and let em come unto him. I don’t think he meant kill em to get em there faster. Or maybe this is just my moment in the Garden, and I ain’t got the courage to drink from the cup.
Troy had spent most of the morning thinking about impossible logistics: how to shelter and feed so many, how to help the sick, how his tiny band of Conspirators—Hobbes, Boudreaux, Tetweiller, Long, Ford, McClure, and whomever they could recruit between now and the end—could stop the Crusade. There was still time to abort, to fall in line like the good soldier he had always been, to trust his superiors and reject the evidence he had already seen. It was tempting beyond words. To fight the Crusade would put his soul at hazard, and his friends’.
No good answers, no rest. He had slept less than four hours a stretch since the day they took Stransky. Now he could barely keep his eyes open.
Dwyer ate his bloody steak, the rich red juices pooling on his plate. When he smiled, his teeth were pinkish, the incisors sharp. The sheer carnivorous pleasure of a man built to rend flesh.
Someone knocked. Door’s open, Troy called.
Boudreaux entered and bowed. The traditional genuflections for Dwyer’s benefit. Troy wiped his hands and mouth on his napkin and stood. Dwyer and Babb did the same.
I bid you greetings, Deputy Lord, Troy said. The formal words felt odd, like a misaligned jaw.
Boudreaux straightened. Greetings to you, Lord Troy. From his grace, Matthew Rook, I present the Crusade’s envoy, Lisander Royster.
A scarecrow walked in, so tall he had to duck under the doorframe, nearly as thin as the Troublers clanking down the streets. His nose looked long and sharp enough to chisel stone, his Adam’s apple like a small goiter. He was dressed in the long purple robes of Rook’s inner council and bore the Crusade’s sigil on both sleeves.
Royster bowed, his robes and loose undershirt falling open so Troy could see the brand of the cross on his chest. Greetings to you, Gabriel Troy, New Orleans lord of order.
Troy bowed. Royster’s deep green eyes shone even with his back to the sunlight streaming through the stained glass.
Troy had heard of Lisander Royster, who oversaw the Crusade’s darkest business—state executions, exterminating whole Troubler communities in the countryside. If the Crusade had ever christened a national lord of order, it would have been Royster, though he had never personally done any fighting. He was said to be naturally distrustful and without
mercy.
I present the herald of Matthew Rook, Jevan Dwyer, said Boudreaux.
Dwyer and Royster bowed. Then they smiled and shook hands.
It’s good to see you again, Mister Dwyer, said Royster.
And you, sir, said the herald.
Boudreaux cleared his throat. I present the high minister of the New Orleans principality, Jerold Babb.
Babb and Royster bowed.
Welcome, said Babb. We’re honored to host such august presences. Whatever you need, just ask.
Royster laid a hand on Babb’s shoulder. My thanks, High Minister.
Babb shivered, perhaps in ecstasy.
Royster moved to the side, and Boudreaux said, Deputy Envoy Benn.
The man who entered was a foot and a half shorter than Royster. Built like a child’s kickball, Benn wore wool pants, scuffed boots, and a coarse and sweat-stained work shirt. His broad chest expanded with every breath, so much that Troy half expected the buttons to pop right off his shirt. His arms and legs looked thick and powerful. He bowed to Troy, an action that shortened him only marginally, and greeted the lord of order.
Troy bowed. Greetings to you, Deputy.
Benn shook hands with Babb and Dwyer. When he took his place beside Royster, Boudreaux announced, Deputy Envoy Clemens.
The last person to enter stood perhaps six feet tall. He was of average build. His thinning brown hair, gray at the temples, reached his shoulders. Like Benn, he dressed for work, not ceremony, which would have told any fool which envoy gave the orders and who actually labored. I don’t even have to see the brand to know they got it. I bet if Royster cut off his ear, they’d do it too. Clemens said his how-dos as Boudreaux hauled in three more chairs. Everyone sat except Boudreaux, who walked around the desk and stood beside Troy, hands clasped.
Gentlemen, Troy said, welcome to New Orleans.
Thank you, said Royster. His voice was deep for such a skinny man. He probably sang bass. For the duration of our stay here, we’ll need offices.
Troy gestured round about. Figured you’d want ours.
That would do nicely, but we don’t want to put you out.
Uh-huh. You’d dump us all in the river if it made your hindquarters a little more comfortable. No trouble. This is our hub. I reckoned you’d wanna stick close.
And you won’t have to travel for Sunday services, said Babb.
Many thanks, Royster said. Now. We are naturally prepared to answer your questions in the name of Matthew Rook. We know this is a traumatic time. Gentlemen?
Benn and Clemens nodded.
Troy had told Boudreaux to say as little as possible. That way, if any enmity resulted, it would fall on Troy alone. Besides, if Boudreaux spoke out of turn, the envoys would assume Troy could not control his people.
Well, said Troy, I admit we’re concerned. We grew up here. Good people have died for this town. Now we’re makin it a dump for Troublers. Kinda makes you feel like you wasted your life.
Benn narrowed his eyes. When my duty called me here, I left my wife and two children, but I thanked my Maker for the chance. If you’ve spent your life serving God, how could you consider that a waste under any circumstances?
Mister Benn is right, said Babb, shaking his finger at Troy. Gentlemen, I apologize. Lord Troy has never raised these objections to me, or I would have advised him to keep still.
Troy ignored Babb. Servin God wasn’t the waste. Keepin this city safe and clean was. We could have relocated our populace years ago.
Gabriel—Babb began, but Royster held up a hand. Babb’s mouth snapped shut fast enough to catch flies.
Your city’s geography suits our purposes, the envoy said. The preponderance of nearby waters. How the town sits in a bowl of sorts, below sea level. The causeway and the bridges. Few locations of comparable size and circumstances exist on this continent. Our other choices had far greater population densities. For all these reasons, it had to be New Orleans. But, of course, the greatest reason is that God has willed it so, and He revealed this plan to Matthew only recently. Our lives march to His beat.
Babb nodded, his eyes closed. Yes, Father.
Troy resisted the urge to groan. You said Matthew. First-name basis, huh?
Royster smiled. The expression’s sharklike qualities made Dwyer’s seem warm and wholesome. Indeed. We have been close since our seminary days.
Yet he sent you along with the riffraff.
Royster started.
Gabriel, Babb hissed.
Leave off, Jerold. I don’t need you bird-doggin my every word.
Royster recovered himself. Yes. Matthew believes my talents will be useful here. I sense hostility, Lord Troy. Toward me, if not our plans.
Boudreaux shifted his weight.
We’re talkin about Gordy’s fate too, but he’s expected to stand there and shut up. A hard task, especially for a youngster.
It’s this bit about leavin my people here that really worries me, Troy said. Makin em start over out in the muck like the folks they’ve always fought. We’re gonna lose our crops, our shelter. Only the Lord knows how many diseases we’ll face.
For the first time, the man named Clemens spoke, his voice dripping with insolence. That’s your problem. You aren’t the lord of hot meals and afternoon naps.
Despite himself, Troy’s temper blazed. Ain’t you a peach. You gents sure this fella’s Christian?
Clemens started to rise.
Gentlemen, please, Babb said, sounding strangled.
Royster stood. Deputy Envoy Clemens, he bellowed. Clemens froze. You will address Lord Troy by his title, and you will show him respect. Do you understand?
Clemens sat, but he stared at Troy like a wild dog eyeing a lamb. Yes, sir. Forgive me, Lord Troy. His tone could have cut throats.
Troy said nothing. Babb mopped his brow with a handkerchief. After a moment, he took his seat.
You must overlook Mister Clemens’s lack of manners, Royster said. The road has been long and stressful. As for your concerns, I understand them, but we have our orders.
When are we supposed to evacuate?
I see no reason to displace anyone yet.
Ain’t that sweet.
Your people will not be abandoned. And neither will you.
Royster’s eyes flicked to the left as he spoke. Twice.
Liar. Boudreaux shifted again. Gordy saw it too. Good.
If that is all for now, Royster said, please describe how you’ve divided the city’s responsibilities. And then, considering how tired and dirty we are, perhaps someone could show us to our quarters.
All right, Troy said.
Mister Benn, take notes, please.
Benn pulled a sheaf of papers and a chewed-up pencil from his back pocket. He scooted up to Troy’s desk and smoothed out the wrinkled paper.
Okay, said Troy. I reckon our day-to-day work ain’t much different than what you’d find anywhere. I got the final say in everything except Jerold’s ministrations, but my deputies and officials run most everything in my name. Their subordinates oversee specific neighborhoods and jobs—the plantin and reapin of a certain crop, the manufacture of a particular weapon, and so forth. Anything you say to me, I can relay to my people, and they’ll relay it to theirs, all the way down the line.
Royster nodded. Yes, it sounds as if you follow protocols.
Of course we do, Babb said.
Troy frowned at the high minister. If Babb bent over any further for the envoy, he might fall over.
As for peacekeepin, Gordy runs everything south of the river. It’s a lot of territory, but he’s the youngest and most energetic. Benn wrote it all down. After a bit, Royster whirled a finger in the air, a please continue gesture, so Troy said, I personally oversee the Vieux Carré.
Very good, said Royster. The lord of order belongs near the High T
emple.
Troy opened a drawer. He pulled out a city map and spread it over the desk. Royster got up and leaned over it. Benn kept writing, sweat pouring off his brow.
This here’s the river, Troy said, tracing a blue squiggle with his finger. My territory stretches north from the river to Rampart, and from Canal Street to Esplanade Avenue.
Ah, yes, Royster said. Benn sketched a crude map on his own paper.
LaShanda Long’s in charge east of Esplanade and Wisner Boulevard, includin the neighborhoods of Faubourg Marigny, Treme, and Mid-City. She’s our weaponsmith and ammo expert.
And where is her main forge?
Troy pointed at the map. Here. The ancients called it the Lakefront Arena. Now, Jack Hobbes runs everything west of Esplanade all the way to North Causeway Boulevard. That includes the Central Business District, the Arts District, and Lakeview.
Royster concentrated, as if he planned to memorize everything. Why did he bother with having Benn take notes? Continue, he said, whirling his finger again.
Everything west of the causeway is Santonio Ford’s territory. He’s our chief hunter and gatherer, and he also runs the parks and waterways. Anyplace you can plant a crop or hunt or fish, we defer to him.
And what of Mr. Tetweiller?
Retired. He lives over in Metairie, not too far from where you hit town. That’s in Ford’s territory. Sometimes Ernie helps us out, but he ain’t in charge of nothin but his own self.
Very well. Tell me, what do you think of Jonas Strickland’s decision to continue using the ancients’ names for things? Our streets, our parks? Our histories tell us he did it to help the Great Purge’s survivors feel more at ease with the new world, but it seems odd.
