Lord of Order by Brett Riley

Author:Brett Riley [Riley, Brett]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781945501425
Google: jHXsDwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Imbrifex Books
Published: 2021-04-05T23:00:00+00:00

Three hours later, from the foot of the bridge, Ford and Long watched the search parties’ torches sweeping the banks, the nearby streets, the river itself, these latter lights bobbing with the currents. Royster stood nearby, giddy. He even clapped Ford and Long on their backs and congratulated them. Benn sat his horse behind them, directing the searchers. Clemens was out there somewhere, his guns unstrapped, ready to burn Troy down if the lord of order should be found alive. No sign of Tetweiller or Hobbes. Long had barely seen Boudreaux in days, and what she had seen, she had not liked. He had looked gaunt, haunted, older. He still refused to discuss what had happened across the river. Long prayed for him every night and morning.

You think we hit him? Ford said. His expression was blank, but his voice quavered, just a little.

Long watched the search a while longer. I know I grazed him, and I’m pretty sure you did too. But once he hit the water? No way to know.

Royster approached. He put a hand on each of their shoulders. You have done us all a great service, he said. The Crusade thanks you. But now I must leave you. Much is left to do. He turned to the nearest Crusader. Kill that red mare. Then take a detail to Lord Troy’s house and burn it. I want no trace of that traitor to remain by morning.

A Crusader grabbed the mare’s reins. The gathering crowd buzzed. It stretched back two blocks. On the front line, Mordecai Jones stood with his arms folded, his hat tipped back. Long did not like the look in his eyes—baleful, like a hungry wolf’s. Even from a distance, tension radiated off him like heat. Tommy Gautreaux held vigil at Jones’s left, his salt-and-pepper beard hanging halfway down his chest, his prodigious gut puddling over his belt, his thumbs tucked into his pockets. To Gautreaux’s right, Antoine Baptiste sneered, his skin glistening with sweat. His shirt, open at the throat, revealed his thick neck and powerful pectorals. He looked as if he wondered how Long’s bones might taste. On the other side of Jones, tall, beanpole-thin Laura Derosier’s face was expressionless, her straight brown hair blowing in the wind.

Long turned away. Down on the banks, no one hailed them. No shots were fired. No one hallooed. For the moment, Gabriel Troy had disappeared.

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