Changing the guard! he thought. Gentle Jesus thank you! If I’d been three minutes sooner . . . He stayed where he was for several minutes, giving Melody and Jeremid more time, then dropped quietly to the cobblestones and moved on. That was an omen, he told himself, a good one! And tried to believe it.
The square opened before him, the nearer guard about thirty yards away, and he scarcely hesitated, emerging from the shadows, walking unsteadily. It only then occurred to him that they might shout or blow a whistle or something—maybe kill him—because he was breaking the curfew.
The new guards stood about five yards apart, instead of side by side like the previous two. Both pointed their spears at him, ready to thrust long or short. He walked up dangerously close to one of them, pretending drunkenness. “’Scuse me,” he said. “I’m lookin’ for a frien’ I used to have. Name is Lucky. Someone said he was one of these guys.” He waved broadly at the pole-bound captives.
Both guards laughed. “Nobody here’s called Lucky,” one said. “Not anymore.”
Macurdy peered as if to penetrate the night, stepping nearer, weaving, and spoke confidentially. “He owes me five coppers. Did you know that?” Then lowered his voice further. “Are they dead?”
“They cut the dead ones down at sunset, and took them away. These are all alive.”
Macurdy leaned. “Lucky,” he called hoarsely, “are you there?”
And moved, his left hand closing on the spearshaft, shoving it aside and pulling it past him, drew his knife as he strode into the guard, plunging it under his ribs, in and up and back out, letting the man fall, catching the other with his eyes. The second guard’s reaction was slow; he took an uncertain step toward Macurdy, and the heavy knife, thrown hard, struck him in the middle of the chest. With a weak bleat, the man slumped and fell. Macurdy was on him in an instant, ignoring the third and fourth guards, who were Melody’s and Jeremid’s responsibilities. Gripping a shoulder, he turned the man over and grabbed the knife hilt. It had gone through the breastbone to the hilt and was slippery with blood. He’d probably stepped in blood, too, he realized.
Then Melody’s voice hissed at him. “Macurdy! Hurry! A patrol’s coming!” He looked around, feeling just an instant’s prick of panic, then strode to the nearest rebel and cut the thong that held his arms overhead. The man fell unmoving, and Macurdy realized he’d been dead weight on his bonds. The next was standing, and he freed him. “Stay with her,” Macurdy husked to him, and went to a third. He became aware that Melody was also cutting men free. When they were done, six rebels stood. Three others lay still. Without hesitating, Macurdy cut their throats; he couldn’t take them, and wouldn’t leave them for further torture. Only one gushed blood. The other two had died already.
“Come on!” Melody said.
“You take them,” Macurdy answered. “My boots are bloody; they’ll leave marks. Go!”
He heard a command shouted from near the south end of the square, and ran not north with Melody and the rebels, but west, scuffing his feet in the grass and dirt to wipe off what he could of the blood. Crossing the street, he ducked into an alley, wondering where Jeremid might be. Somewhere off southeast someone was shouting, and he wondered what that was about. Around a corner he stopped, and pulling off his boots, tied them together, slung them over a shoulder, then trotted off barefoot.
The cobblestones were rough-surfaced, and he was limping when the dwarves let him in. The front room was dark, crowded but quiet. Men sat on the floor with cups and bowls, and the place smelled of stew—supper reheated. Melody gripped Macurdy’s sleeve and pulled him into the kitchen. “You did it!” she said, and began to unbutton his bloody shirt. “We need to rinse this before the blood sets.”
He dropped his boots and stripped it off. Melody immersed it in a small tub, surging it up and down while the water reddened. “The boots too,” Macurdy said, looking around for more water. Apparently it had to be carried from some public well.