Macurdy heard, but his mind had frozen with determination. The girls trooped in subdued, aware now of something unusual pending. The sergeant ordered the men into a large oval around the central table, while he held Maira by an arm. “Macurdy,” he said, “drop your pants.”
It felt to Macurdy as if his throat was coated with cotton batting, but surprisingly his voice seemed normal. “No thanks, Sergeant. You’ve got no authority to do this.”
Zassfel grinned. “Strip him, boys.”
Most of the men stood unmoving. The four men Zassfel had prearranged things with were his closest friends, four of his own year in the company. They’d stationed themselves close behind Macurdy, and two of them grabbed him now.
“Zassfel!” Macurdy shouted, “if you’re such a Hero, fight me!”
The room fell absolutely silent for a moment. Then Zassfel’s grin grew wider. “Ho ho ho!” he said. “It seems like every now and then I have to beat someone up. Otherwise people forget.” He waved the crowd back at his end of the oval, then stripped off his shirt and stepped forward. “All right, Macurdy, we fight. And when I’m done, we tie what’s left of you to the tree out front, with a sign telling people what you are.” He raised his hands; apparently this was to be with fists. “Let’s do it.”
The four let Macurdy go, ready to pounce if he tried to run. He didn’t. He stripped off his own shirt, raised his fists, and stepped to meet Zassfel.
When Mr. Anderson had taught Oak Creek school, he’d brought boxing gloves, and had given the boys lessons with them. He had, he claimed, been the Golden Gloves champion of Indiana. Whether or not he actually had, he’d impressed them with his moves and style, and taught them how to jab, to throw a right cross, a proper hook, an uppercut.
And clearly, Zassfel had never heard of any of them, certainly not the jab. What he did know was the crushing roundhouse swing, grabbing the hair, the use of knee and elbow—all things that Macurdy expected and watched for. Meanwhile Macurdy introduced him to the jab and all the rest of it. Within a minute, Zassfel’s mouth and nose were bleeding, one eye was swelling, a cheek was cut, and he was raising himself to a sitting position, purple with rage. “Kosek! Ardonor! Kill the son of a bitch.”
They were on Macurdy in an instant, not only Kosek and Ardonor, but the other two, grabbing, slugging. When they were done, they threw him out the front door, to lie semiconscious and bleeding in the dirt street. After a bit he was aware of someone, two someones, helping him to his feet and supporting him an uncertain distance to—somewhere, then letting him down onto a bed.
He recognized a voice: Melody’s, and opened the eye that would, enough to see lamplight. “Thanks, Jeremid,” she was saying. “I’ll take care of him now. Tomorrow I’ll tell the captain what happened, and you’ll back me on it. He might or might not do something, but what Zassfel did in there didn’t fit any law I ever heard of.”
“He’s legally a slave,” Jeremid murmured. “You can do anything to a slave, as long as you don’t reduce their value.”
Her words were crisp. “He’s also a Hero. There are laws about what anyone can do to Heroes.”
After a minute, Macurdy felt a wet cloth dabbing at his face, and winced.
“You’re awake.”
His mouth felt ragged, his lips swollen, and he knew he had teeth missing and broken. He began to answer, then thought better of it and nodded. That was a mistake too. She continued dabbing and wiping, hissing now and then, occasionally swearing. Briefly she plucked pieces of broken teeth from his lips. “We’ll fix his ass, Macurdy,” she said. “My father was captain in his time. He has influence, and he spoils me. When I tell him—”
She stopped there. It seemed to Macurdy she didn’t feel much confidence. He was a slave; it would come down to that. He felt her fingers prod his ribs, his collarbones. The ribs on one side hurt, but not enough that he flinched.