A paving stone sailed past Victor Radcliff's head. He ducked, as automatically and uselessly as a man did when a musket ball came too close for comfort. If it was going to hit you, it would before you could do a damned thing about it.
There were fights to join and fights to stay away from. This struck Victor as a fight to stay away from. He'd faced more dangerous enemies with qualms no worse than those of any reasonably brave man. When he had, though, he'd done it with some purpose in mind. If this melee had any point at all, he couldn't see it.
He pulled Blaise into a narrow, stinking alley. He didn't know where it went, but it led away from the madness that had kindled here. "They are liable to tear this whole big place down," Blaise said mournfully.
"That they are," Victor agreed. "They're liable to tear Atlantis apart while they're doing it, too."
"What can we do?" the Negro asked.
"Get away. Live through this. See what happens next. Try to shape what happens next. Have you got any better ideas? If you have, spit 'em out, by God. I'd love to hear 'em."
But Blaise shook his head. "If we gonna get away, we better do it right now," he said. That struck Victor as one of the best idea she'd heard in a long time. The two of them wasted not a moment using it.
Hanover writhed under martial law. The redcoats strode through the streets by squads. When they went by ones or twos, or even by fours or fives, they were much too apt to be mobbed. Rocks and crockery and the contents of chamber pots came flying out of upper-story windows.