Worrying about what would happen when he got home kept him in Croydon longer than he would have lingered with a clear

conscience. His aides could have handled the release of what was left of the army that had bested the redcoats. They knew it, too. He caught the quizzical looks they gave him when he rode out to

the shrinking encampments outside of town.

He hoped none of them knew about his predicament. He'd done his best to keep it secret, but Custis Cawthorne had plenty of pungent things to say about secrets and all the things that could go wrong with them.

His lingering meant he was in Croydon when a courier rode into town at a full gallop, his horse kicking up great clouds of dust till he reined in. "What is it?" Victor asked anxiously-good news seldom needed to travel so fast. He hoped there hadn't been a bad fire somewhere, or a smallpox outbreak.

This time, the courier surprised him. The man threw back his head and howled like a wolf. Then he said, "We've caught Habakkuk Biddiscombe, General!"

Everybody who heard that clapped and cheered. "Have we?" Victor breathed.

"Sure have," the courier said. "I haven't seen him myself, but word is he's a sorry starveling thing. And he'll get sorrier pretty goddamn quick, won't he?"

More cheers declared that the people of Croydon liked the idea. Victor wondered how much he liked it himself. After Biddiscombe went over to England, Victor had wanted nothing more than to see him dead. He wondered why killing the traitor in cold blood seemed so much less appealing.

Appealing or not, it would have to be done If he'd wanted to avoid it, he would have let General Cornwallis take Biddiscombe and the men of the Horsed Legion away with him when he went back to England. At the time, he'd made a point of allowing no such thing.

"Where is he?" Victor asked.

"Up in Kirkwall, about fifty miles north of here," the courier said. "Do you want them to string him up there? They'll do it in a heartbeat-you can count on that."

"No," Victor said, not without a certain amount of reluctance. "Even a traitor deserves a trial."

The courier shrugged. "Seems a waste of time, if you want to know what I think." Like most Atlanteans, he assumed people did want to know what he thought. After another shrug, he went on, "I'll need me a fresh horse to head north. Almost ran the legs off of this here poor beast."

"You'll have one," Victor assured him. "Are all the cutthroats captured with Biddiscombe, or do some remain at large?"

"Most of 'em're caught or killed," the man answered. "A few got away. Odds are they'll chase 'em down pretty soon."

"I hope so," Victor said. "The sooner they do, the sooner Atlantis will know perfect peace at last."

"Perfect peace," the courier echoed. "That'd be something, wouldn't it?"

"So it would," Victor said solemnly. Sure enough, with Habakkuk Biddiscombe gone from the stage, the United States of Atlantis might come to know perfect peace, at least for a little while He wondered when-or if-his family ever would.

But Biddiscombe's capture did let him write to his wife. My dear Meg, I am sorry past words to have to tell you my departure from Croydon is once more delayed. I am not sorry, however, to tell you why- Habakkuk Biddiscombe is run to earth at last. Until such time as he should receive the justice he deserves, I find myself compelled to stay here. And, until such time as I can get away, I remain, fondly, your… Victor.

His goose quill fairly raced across the page. The letter held a good deal of truth. He would have written one much like it had he never bedded Louise. He might even have set down the very same words. Unfortunately, he knew the difference between what might have been and what was. Had he never bedded Louise, he would have meant all the words he wrote Now he was at least partly relieved to stay in Croydon. If Meg had heard the truth…

Sooner or later, he would have to go home and find out. For now, later would do.

Atlantean horsemen brought Habakkuk Biddiscombe and half a dozen men from the Horsed Legion into Croydon three days later. The leading traitor and his followers were all skinny and dirty and dressed in clothes that had seen hard wear. Their hands were bound to the reins; their feet had been tied together under their horses' barrels. Some of them, Biddiscombe included, had already taken a beating or two.

The people of Croydon crowded the streets to stare at the traitors, to jeer at them, and to pelt them with clods of dirt and rotten vegetables. Only when stones began to fly did the prisoners' guards raise weapons in warning to leave off. Even that was more to protect themselves than to save Biddiscombe and his friends.

Croydon's jail was a solid brick building, with iron bars across the narrow windows. Victor Radcliff wondered if it was strong enough to hold out the crowd. He stood on the front steps and held up his hands. "Have no fear!" he shouted. "They will get what they have earned. Let them get it through lawful means!"

"Tear them to pieces!" someone squalled.

"Paint them with pitch and set them afire!" That was a woman. More than a few people of both sexes cheered the suggestion.

Victor shook his head. "If they are to die, let them die quickly. Are we not better served to leave harsh, wicked punishments to England?"

"No!" The cry came from a dismaying number of throats. One man added, "Cut the ballocks off 'em before you kill 'em!" He won himself another cheer.

"You will have to kill me before you murder them," Victor declared.

For a bad moment, he thought the mob would try just that He set his hand on the hilt of the Atlantean Assembly's sword. If he went down, he'd go down fighting. To either side of him, Atlantean horsemen raised pistols, while Croydon constables pointed ancient blunderbusses at the angry crowd. The blunderbusses, with their flaring muzzles, had barrels packed end to end with musket balls and scrap metal. At close range, they could be murderous… if they didn't blow up and kill the men who wielded them.

The sight of weapons aimed their way killed the crowd's ardor. People at the front edged back. People at the back slipped away. Victor had hoped that would happen, but he hadn't been sure it would.

"You see, General?" one of the horsemen said as he slowly lowered his pistol. "You should have let us settle the bastards up in Kirkwall. Then we wouldn't have had all this foofaraw."

"No." Not without some regret, Victor shook his head. "Laws have to rule. More: laws have to be seen to rule. Let Biddiscombe and the men who rode with him have their trial. You know what the likely result will be. Once the matter is settled with all the propriety we can give it, that will be time enough for their just deserts."

"Past time. Long past time," the Atlantean cavalryman said stubbornly.

"We can afford what we spend here." Out of the corner of his eye, Victor glanced at the crowd, which continued to thin. "Can we go inside now without seeming cowards?"

"Reckon so, but why would you want to?"

"To speak to Biddiscombe," Victor answered. "He was one of us not so long ago, remember."

"So much the worse for him," the horseman said. "If he'd stayed on the side where he belonged, we wouldn't've had near so much trouble throwing out the God-damned redcoats."

"That is true," Victor said. "Biddiscombe, of course, purposed our having more trouble still."

"Devil take him. And Old Scratch will-soon."

"I shouldn't wonder." Victor did go inside then. The jail smelled of sour food, unwashed bodies, and chamber pots full to overflowing. Much of Croydon smelled that way, but the odors seemed concentrated in here.

"Hello, General." The jailer, a man with a face like a boot (and a man who hadn't missed many meals), knuckled his forelock as if he were a servant instead of the master of this little domain.