We’re weaker than other Hemalurgic creatures, MeLaan had said. Wax struggled to his feet, holding on to the bridge’s side wall for support. Only two spikes, and we can be taken.

“No!” Bleeder screeched, falling to her knees. “No!”

One spike allowed her to be sapient. And a second—delivered into her skull in the form of a bullet forged from Wax’s earring—let Harmony seize control of her again.

26

Marasi towed the female Soother after her, holding the woman’s collar with one hand, her gun in the other. They were accompanied by a battered Reddi, who regarded the surging crowd with displeasure. They’d left the other captives with the rest of the constables, and she prayed to Harmony that wasn’t tempting fate.

“Stop them,” Marasi hissed at the woman as they reached the edge of the crowd, which was throwing things at the stage. Poor MeLaan soldiered onward with the speech, growing more and more testy that they weren’t listening.

“I’m trying!” the Soother complained. “It might be easier if you weren’t choking me!”

“Just Soothe!” Reddi said, raising his dueling cane.

“I can’t control their minds, silly man!” the Soother said. “And beating on me won’t accomplish anything. When do I get to speak to my solicitor? I’ve broken no laws. I was simply watching the proceedings with interest.”

Marasi ignored Reddi’s angry response, instead focusing on the crowd. MeLaan stood before them, lit by electric lights from behind, but by bonfires from the front. The rage of the crowd, an ancient fire, against the cold sterility of the new world.

“You should be grateful!” MeLaan shouted at the crowd. “I’ve come to talk to you myself!”

Wrong words, Marasi thought. Her annoyance was leading her to deviate from the script.

“I’m listening!” MeLaan yelled over the crowd. “But you have to listen back, you miscreants!”

She sounds just like him. Too much, perhaps? MeLaan was playing a part. She was the governor, the role Marasi had given her. It seemed that the kandra had let the form dictate her reactions. Rusts… it wasn’t that she was doing a bad job. She was doing a good job—of being Innate. Unfortunately, Innate had always had trouble connecting with the crowds.

“Fine,” MeLaan said, waving a hand. “Burn the city! See how you feel in the morning without homes to live in.”

Marasi closed her eyes and groaned. Rusts, she was tired. How late was it, now?

The crowd was growing violent. Time to grab MeLaan and Wayne and leave. Their gambit had failed. It had been a long shot in the first place, perhaps impossible. This crowd had come for blood. And…