The Great Change had been a basket of dreams. A bouquet of promises. All things to all men. Which was grand until, against all expectations, the Breakers won. Then, all of a sudden, it wasn’t enough just to have a change, it had to be a change into something. Trouble was, soon as you tried to actually deliver the bastard, to mould it into policies, with costs as well as benefits, and losers as well as winners, well, nine-tenths of folk found the Great Change wasn’t the change they’d wanted after all and wouldn’t fucking have it.

“I could tire of the wisdom of crowds,” Vick whispered to herself. Tallow was right, there were a lot of them and they all looked angry. She felt an urge to glance over her shoulder and count Broad’s men, but she fixed her eyes ahead, feet planted wide. She told herself this was her bridge.

“Hit ’em now?” she heard Broad grunt.

There was a big part of Vick that wanted to say yes, but she forced it down. Someone had to. “Let’s try talking first.”

“I’ve a feeling words won’t solve this.”

“They’ll leave no one crippled, either,” she murmured, then roared as loud as she could, spraying spit. “That’s far enough!”

They gathered uncertainly at the far end of the bridge, frowning across the damp stones at her as the first drops of a chilly rain sprinkled the cobbles. There were all sorts mixed in there. A crook-back old man with no shoes. A scrawny boy with his hollow cheeks blotched from the cold. A pregnant girl wearing a damp newsbill as a bonnet.

“I’m Chief Inspector Teufel!” called Vick. “Commissioner Pike sent me. The Weaver himself, you hear?” Some muttering at that, but none of the scowls went away. Vick clenched her teeth and took a hard breath. “Look, I get it! You’re disappointed! You’re frustrated! Let’s face it, you’re fucking furious! Believe me, so am I.”

A woman shouldered through the press ahead. Big pink fists clutching a wooden paddle. A laundress. Hard women, those. Vick reckoned if she spent all day with her hands in hot water she’d be angry, too. “We don’t need talk!” she howled. “We need bread!”

There was an answering growl of approval from the crowd, and an old man shook a placard, and a little girl up on someone’s shoulders screeched, “Fuck the Closed Council!” which somewhat missed the boat since all the ones they could catch had been hanged a few weeks before.

Vick showed one palm and let the noise die down, then she fixed that laundry-woman with her eye and searched hard for the right words. The ones Malmer might’ve picked. The ones Sibalt might’ve found.

“I understand,” she said, and she did, for what that was worth. “You were promised a better world, and all you’ve got so far is the same old shit. You can’t fill your belly with promises. You can’t warm your house with hopes. You’re tired of being told lies! Believe me, so am I.” Or she was tired of telling lies, at least. So bloody tired of it. “But we’ve got a chance here!” Ridiculous, that it fell to her, who never let herself hope for anything, to try to kindle some hope in these bastards, but she gave it all she had, her voice cracking. “A chance to build something better. We just have to be patient. Have to—”