and drew his robe
about him with great dignity, taking care to face toward the TV cameras
on the north tower.

And as the Bailiff called for his deciding vote, the Chief Justice
solemnly raised his right hand.

Three to two for death! A hundred thousand spectators leaped to their
feet, hysterically waving their arms. Three shots for the Lord High
Executioner! Two for Lady Ann! What a day this was going to be after
all! Here was a truly great joute a l'outrance! Ann swayed a little,
then smiled. Jacques closed his eyes.

Ritual and habit took over where Jacques' will could not function. His
squire stepped forward, opened the silver box and offered the Pistolets
du Mort to the Bailiff. The weapons sparkled in the sunlight. They were
a modern adaptation of an ancient design, and had become official death
weapons after earlier experiments had convinced the FBIT that few 22nd
century men were strong enough to handle the swords and lances of
chivalry. The Bailiff loaded one gun with two shells, the other with
three. Then he replaced both in the silver box, closed the lid and put
the box on the bench in front of the Chief Justice.

Already the judicial platform was wheeled to one side of the arena; the
twin pedestals were being rolled to position in the execution circle.
They were thirty inches high, and were positioned precisely sixty feet
apart, each on a line with the open ends of the stands so that wild
shots would not strike a spectator.

Next came the Ceremony of Confrontation, intended to symbolize that the
Lord High Executioner was acting only under the compulsion of duty,
without malice or any base motive.

Moving mechanically, Jacques stepped toward Ann. The jailers crossed
their staffs two paces in front of her. It was the closest Jacques would
be permitted to approach until the Ceremony of the Spirit, when he would
kneel beside her shattered body in the dust of the arena. He also was
supposed to kneel now, and silently speak a prayer for both their souls.
He knelt, but could not bow his head. Ann looked down at him, and the
faint, unfathomable smile returned to her lips.

"It's all right," she said softly. "You don't have to speak to me with
words."

The natural, warm scent of her body came through the fragrance of the
oils with which she had been anointed in her death cell. It was a
remembered scent that once again drove Jacques to the brink of madness.

Her voice, husky and steadying, came down to him: