by Brett Riley
He dismounted and hitched the horse and entered the house and locked the front door. Then he crossed the foyer by feel until he reached the great room, where he stumbled over the boots he had left out last night. He found matches and a lamp on a side table, the same lamp he had lit almost every night since Troy had given him the house. The place suited him. It stood outside the city’s most populated areas and faced east. Gordy Boudreaux was responsible for meeting attacks from that direction and holding the line until reinforcements arrived. The obligation had never weighed on him. It had seemed like a portent of his great destiny as a defender of the faith.
What hogwash.
Kouf’s death played on a loop in his mind. Each time, he thought of a new way he might have stopped Benn. Yes, the deputy envoys had been armed, and yes, Clemens had gotten the drop on Boudreaux. Yet with time for reflection, it seemed better to have died fighting than to live as a coward and a failure.
Boudreaux turned up the wick all the way, driving the shadows into the corners. Near his foyer hung an old silver mirror with ornate metalwork framing the glass. He had found it in the rubble of a Metairie building the Troublers had burned down years ago. The silverwork reminded him of what he had read of the old times, of great machines that barreled down roads faster than horses and ripped up the earth and knocked down buildings and flew through the sky. He had never been able to imagine what it must have been like to soar above the clouds like an angel. Now he could not stop thinking of the ancients’ efficient and terrible weapons. Guns that could pepper every inch of a city block in seconds. Flying bombs that could cross oceans and vaporize entire cities. A wealth of devastation.
Once, this very city had been pockmarked with rusting hulks, scarred by the destruction their crashing had caused: burned and smashed buildings, torn-up streets, acres of wood splintered in long trenched paths as if God’s own finger had written death in some unimaginable language. Over time, the Crusaders had cleared it all away, rebuilt, replanted. He had played a small part in all that.
Now Boudreaux had obliterated all his good deeds. What could put it all aright?
In his mirror, haunted eyes stared back at him. A corpse’s face, unspeakably old and ruined, a shattered, tangled mass good only for dumping in a landfill.
He set the lamp on the floor, drew his gun, and smashed its butt into the mirror.
In the shattered glass, his face looked misshapen and demonic. Ugly inside and out. If Lake Pontchartrain or the Mississippi swallows me up, it’s no more than I deserve. Or maybe I belong with Royster and Benn and Clemens. One more devil walkin the earth until it’s time to burn beside Judas Iscariot and all the other betrayers. If the Lord feels merciful, Kouf will hear me scream.
After a while, Boudreaux turned away from the mirror and took up the lamp. In his bedroom, he stripped off his clothes and snuffed the lantern and wept for Kouf, who had looked for compassion and found only pain.
18
Before LaShanda Long could leave home in the early morning, a messenger appeared—a dark-haired boy no older than seventeen, his shirt bearing the Crusade insignia over his heart. He watched her read the note he had brought before turning on his heel and mounting his skinny paint. After he rode away, Long shut her door and read the message twice more.
A meeting in the lord of order’s office that evening, agenda unknown.
She spent the day inspecting her forges, trying not to think of how you could barely turn around inside a tower cell, how you could hear the wind but never feel it, how no sunlight penetrated the walls. Almost as bad as a coffin.
When she entered the office that evening, Ford stood at ease, watching Benn and Clemens. The deputy envoys looked upon the courtyard from the massive window. Long raised her eyebrows. Ford shrugged. Outside the sun was setting, the river shadowed. Five straight-backed chairs sat in a half circle near the desk.
Gordy Boudreaux walked in. Stubble covered his cheeks and chin. His eyes were dark and swollen. When he said hello, Long would have sworn she smelled hard liquor on his breath. Like most of them, he had never drunk a drop in his life. He slouched to a chair and fell into it without anyone’s leave.
What in the world?
Soon Royster arrived, his open-throated shirt billowing as he walked, revealing his pale and wiry frame. The brand over his heart was gnarled and purple. Royster sat behind the desk. Long, Ford, and Boudreaux faced him—Long and Ford on their feet, Boudreaux slumping in the chair, his head hanging. Benn and Clemens joined them and stood to Ford’s right.
Good evening, the envoy said. I apologize for my tardiness. I’ve been meeting with our search parties. No one has seen or heard from Lynn Stransky since her escape. Misters Ford and Boudreaux, Ms. Long—do any of you find that strange?
That’s the Troublers’ way, Ford said. They’re guerillas. They hit us and disappear.
Royster put his elbows on the desk and brought his hands together, fingertips touching. True, but given present events, she could be readying a major offensive.
Maybe, but I’d reckon she rabbited, what with all the guards comin to town. If she’s got any sense, that is. I think she does.
Nonetheless, we must remain vigilant.
Yes, sir, Benn and Clemens said.
Yes, sir, said Long.
I reckon so, Ford said.
Boudreaux nodded. Then he looked away.
Against all enemies, Royster said, glancing at Boudreaux. Even those whom we have long believed our closest friends. He folded his hands and smiled.
Long shivered. The expression looked as genuine as a wooden bullet.
You got somebody particular in mind? Ford asked.
I do, said Royster. What I am about to say must not leave this room. Know I take no pleasure in it.
Sure you don’t. That’s why you look like the cat that ate the canary.
Benn stepped forward. It’s our honor to serve, sir.
Royster leaned back and sighed. Very well. I fear Gabriel Troy loves this city more than our church. I believe he plots betrayal. If so, he must be stopped, by any means necessary, along with all who stand with him. I know where my deputies’ loyalty lies. What of you three? Will you stand with the Crusade, though your enemy be Gabriel Troy himself?
Again, they all answered in unison, like good soldiers—aye. But in her heart, LaShanda Long felt cold. He knows. Somehow he knows about Gabe, which means he probably suspects us all. She glanced at Ford and Boudreaux. They had not moved, had not altered their expressions.
Royster gestured to the empty seats. Please, he said.
They all sat. From the stairwell, the sound of many feet. Long’s heart raced. Perhaps Royster had summoned his guards to haul them to the towers, the gulags south of the river, or even the Big Muddy itself. Bodies disappeared into its waters like the stones children sometimes threw.
Several servers entered the room, carrying dishes on trays. Two more brought a folding table into the office and placed it against a wall. Then the dish carriers set their burdens down and removed the lids. The smells of roasted chicken and grilled vegetables—squash, turnips, cauliflower, potatoes—filled the room, and despite herself, Long’s mouth watered. She had barely eaten all day.
Royster looked to the servers. Thank you. That will be all. As the Temple personnel left, Royster opened his palms to those who remained. Gentlemen and lady, please join me in the breaking of bread.
He did not have to ask anyone twice. They ate more than the prisoners had seen since the shackles first closed.
Afterward, as Ford sipped the last of his water, Royster turned to Boudreaux. Mr. Benn and Mr. Clemens must check the wall’s progress. You will accompany them.
Eyes reddened and moist, Boudreaux turned to the envoy. Now?
Yes.
Boudreaux got up and set his plate in a bin filled with soiled dishes. He barely touched his food. Maybe he�
�s sick. All these lies and half-truths could do that to a fella. Soon Ford and Long were alone with Royster. The envoy’s empty plate was piled high with chicken bones and the skin of two potatoes. Did you eat like that in front of all them starvin kids out yonder? I bet you did. I’d like to shove my fist down your throat and pull your stomach out by the roots.
We have another matter to discuss, Royster said. I was loath to speak of it in front of Gordon. He is still so young, you see, and would likely find this conversation distressing. He might even try to stop us.
Stop us doin what? Ford asked.
As I said before, Lord Gabriel Troy is fomenting rebellion.
Ford’s heart trip-hammered. He would not have been surprised if Royster could hear it. I’ve known Gabe all my life. I’ve bled with him. I can’t believe he’d stand on the wrong side.
The smile disappeared. Troy’s betrayal has been revealed to Mister Rook in his meditations. Would you question his divine vision? Or God’s word? The same word that set orphans like you on high?
I’m just sayin Gabe’s always done right.
Ah, but that is the root of it. Lord Troy believes we are wrong, that he knows the Most High’s will better than the Crusade.
Ford looked at Long. She gripped her chair’s armrests with both hands, but she said nothing. He turned back to Royster. Let me talk to him.
No, said Royster. He is condemned. What you do now determines your own fate. Do what I ask and prove your loyalty. Refuse, and we must assume you stand with Troy.
Ford scowled. I don’t much like tests. We’ve done everything you’ve said since you got here. How did we buy this trouble?
You hesitated. Royster leaned forward, his brow furrowed, his jaw clenched. Make your decision, Chief Hunter. Do your duty, or sit beside your Troubler lord in the towers.
Ford clenched his fists. If I crush his throat, maybe we can slip outside before anybody knows what’s happened.
Then Long laid a hand on his arm and squeezed. He looked at her, but she was watching Royster. Why us? she asked.
Royster turned to her and seemed to relax, despite the breach in protocol. If Misters Benn and Clemens arrest Troy, I believe the populace would revolt. And Gordon, already being so upset, cannot handle him.
Gabe won’t come easy, even for us, Ford said.
Royster’s eyes were ice. As I said before, you are authorized to use all necessary force.
Sweat broke out on Ford’s back, his brow. Royster had reached into his heart and poked the exact spot where his deepest, most conflicted feelings lived—his gratitude for his position and his ability to make a difference in people’s lives, as well as his ambivalence about why he deserved it. His loyalty to Gabriel Troy, who had named him chief hunter, struggled hand to hand with his lifelong service to God.
It’s Gabe or us. Hell and damnation. So this is what fear feels like.
Royster watched him, implacable, tireless, demanding.
I’ll do what’s required of me, Ford said, like I always have.
Royster turned to Long. And you, Madam Weaponsmith?
Long’s lower lip trembled. She did not look at Ford. I stand with the Crusade, sir. But I’m strugglin.
Was she being truthful? How much did she doubt? Repudiating a lifetime’s devotion—to the Crusade, to Troy—should not be as easy as shucking off an old, frayed shirt.
Or maybe she was just shining Royster on, waiting for the moment when she could slip a knife in his back.
Had the Crusade never set our current course, I believe Gabriel Troy would have died an old, revered Crusader, Royster said. But Mister Rook has been watching him a long time, ever since the plan for this city was first revealed to him. He was afraid Troy’s passion for New Orleans would prove his undoing. And so it has come to pass. As for you two, Mister Rook values your loyalty, your skills. He wants to raise you even higher. Now is your moment. Can I count on you?
Long sighed. A tear slipped down her cheek. Yes, sir, she whispered.
Royster stood, holding out his hand. Ford and Long rose and shook it. Until it is time to act, he said, keep this between us.
Yes, sir, Ford said.
You may go. I have much work to do.
He took up a stack of papers. At least some of them were marked-up city maps. I could steal those and smuggle em to Gabe. Or I could show Royster where we’ve stored our weapons and food caches. Really come clean. Get right with the faith again. Royster’s and Troy’s voices shouted in Ford’s head, advocating their moralities and plans. Hell and damnation.
Minutes later, Ford and Long walked out of the office and down the stairs in silence, caught between two causes like ships struggling through a wind-tossed channel full of jagged rocks.
Long followed Ford to the hitching post. Their saddled animals stood side by side, freshly brushed coats gleaming. Ford’s long rifle hung in its scabbard. Long’s saddlebags bulged with tools. Canteens had been strung from their pommels. Long took her reins and thanked the groom, a pale boy of fifteen. The other groom was a girl, age indeterminate. She had blond hair and a round, dirty face. If they choose the wrong side, I may have to kill em myself, Long thought. Or maybe they’ll drown. Would that be better or worse than me shootin em to pieces? Gators and gulls will eat their bodies.
She put her foot in the stirrup and hauled herself into the saddle. Ford mounted up. They turned their horses toward Canal, riding close while the grass muffled their hoofbeats.
The endgame’s closer than we thought, Ford said as they passed out of sight of the Temple.
Long looked around. No one was within earshot. You think he knows about Stransky?
He might suspect, but if he knew, we’d be dead.
Did you mean what you said? About killin Gabe?
Ford rode in silence for a long time. I don’t know that I got the heart, he finally said. There’s a special place in hell for betrayers. But if we don’t, it’s heresy. Seems like we’re damned either way.
From somewhere in the city, the flat clap of a rifle, the roar of a shotgun, screams.
So, Long said. We kill Gabe, or we keep on doin what we’ve been doin.
Can’t do nothin right now. We’ve had tails since we left the Temple.
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.
