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managed to avoid having his head bashed open.
The heavy, knotted cudgel connected glancingly with his outside shoulder, his
right. He screamed in anguish and his arm went numb. The man tried to close on
him, but Gil dragged himself farther into the booth. Whipping his drinking jack
at his attacker, he got his legs up to fend him off, clawing futilely with his
left hand for the Browning that hung beneath his left armpit.
    Brodur broke
Wintereye’s desperate grip and would have thrown him aside and swept his sword
free, but the back room of the White Tern sprouted more enemies. Most of the
patrons, wanting no part of it, stampeded for the doors, but four others rushed
into the fight with daggers and clubs. Three swarmed up behind Wintereye at
Brodur, who had just time to snatch his own dagger. Wintereye seized the dagger
hand, beating the captain with his wrist, but inadvertently shielded him from
the rest.
    There was
more movement, this time from the front wall. The hooded man whom Gil had
noticed entering barreled into the fray, cutlass held high. Gil squirmed to
avoid another blow, keeping his assailant at bay with kicking feet. The cudgel
battered his thigh. Next thing, his opponent dropped to the floor, holding his
side in a spreading pool of blood. His mouth appeared to work and strain, but
no sound came.
    One of the
attackers reached around Wintereye, and slashed. His aim was off; the blade
plowed along the flesh of Brodur’s upper chest, stopped by the collarbone with
a nauseating grate. Gil got the Browning with his left hand. Extending it
across the table, he fired point-blank at the informer. In the confinement of
the booth, the report was more concussion than sound, slamming deafness. Brain
tissue and bone chips exploded in a mist of blood. Wintereye crashed hard
against the back of the bench and fell across the table, a hideous exit hole in
his skull. His other cheek, covering the candle, snuffed it.
    The assassins
fell back, yowling. The smell of gunpowder replaced all others in the snug. Gil
wriggled into a sitting position and swung the muzzle to bear on the man who
had stabbed Brodur. His left hand and pistol shook badly. The first shot had
rung a world of silence down around him. With effort, he locked his elbow
steady and shot the man, as Brodur tried to clasp his gushing wound together
with his hands. The second shot battered Gil’s ears and began an acute ache.
The man flew backward in a heap, a burbling puncture in his chest.
    Gil managed
to thrust his useless right hand into his shirtfront, crouching to hold it
there, then slid from the booth. A thought occurred to him, and he groped
around the darkened space, searching.
    Brodur, in
shock, was being helped to his feet by their benefactor, whose hood had fallen
back. A dark beard of oiled ringlets glistened. It was Gale-Baiter, envoy of
the Mariners. He supported the captain as Gil stumbled after. None of the other
attackers remained. The door swung lazily on rawhide hinges.
    The front
room of the White Tern was empty. Gil thought dazedly that he’d never gotten
more mileage out of two rounds. Gale-Baiter’s coach was waiting outside. The
driver and footman had gotten down to help. Gil recognized them from the drill
field, the towering red-beard and the little guy, the envoy’s attendants. They
hoisted Brodur into the coach; all boarded and clattered away quickly.
    Gale-Baiter
banged the roof of the carriage with the basket hilt of his cutlass.
“Skewerskean, rot you, don’t jostle this biscuit box around! This is a wounded
man in here!” The ride steadied. Gil had scarcely been able to hear the
command, his ears pounded so.
    “Wound’s not
too serious,” Gale-Baiter decided, which, Gil supposed, only meant Brodur
wouldn’t die right away.
    “You want to
tell me about your being here just now?” the American hollered over the rumble
of the coach and his own deafness. The automatic was still in his hand.
    “I was
trailing this fella here. I