“You’re hurting,” she said, looking at him sidelong.

“I’m all right.” Had he said that? Didn’t sound like something he’d say. He was about as far from all right as could be. Even further from it than he’d been in Styria. He’d promised no more trouble. But if life had taught him one thing, it was that he was shit at keeping promises.

“Sixty-five today,” his mouth burbled out.

“We’ll do better tomorrow.”

When she said better, did she mean they’d kill fewer? He’d a horrible feeling she meant they’d kill more.

He had the pipe. Hardly remembered taking it, but he had it. Sucked on it hard as he could, deep as he could, till it filled his lungs and his head, and when he blew out, everything turned numb.

“It’s not easy.” said Judge. “Believe me, I know it’s not easy.” She was across the table. Had she slid under it like a snake? Or had he climbed over it? “But if the good work was easy, it would’ve been done long ago.” Seemed like her black eyes saw right through him. Saw his guilt and his horror and his black memories. No doubt in her eyes. Just the fire. Just the certainty, brighter’n ever. Or was that him, reflected back?

“You know why they call me Judge?” she asked, and her fists were clenched, and her teeth were bared, like each word hurt her. “’Cause if the world’s going to change, someone has to give the verdict. Someone has to bury their feelings and sentence the past to death.” He felt her hand, pressed light against his breastplate. “And someone has to carry out the sentence. Not ’cause we want to. But ’cause it has to be done, and we’re fitted for the task…”

They were alone in that vast space, alone with the empty benches, and the empty galleries, and the empty slogans, echoes of their whispers whispering back at them from the darkness.

“We won’t be thanked. We won’t be forgiven. Not by anyone. Least of all ourselves…”

He could kill her now. Catch her thin, rash-speckled throat and choke the life from it. Smash her head against the table, spray her blood across the tiles, easy as crushing a beetle. He could put an end to this madness.

But all he did was stand there. He told himself he was a coward. That was better’n the alternative. That there was something in her he couldn’t resist. Something he wanted like a drunk wants the bottle, knowing it’s bad for him, bad for everyone, but knowing he can’t stop himself.

“We have to bear the weight of it,” she whispered. “For those whose names are carved in the stone outside. For those who gave everything they had. For those who’ll come after us…”

She narrowed her eyes, and reached up for him, and he stood there dumb and drunk as she pulled the lenses off his nose, so the Court of the People became nothing but dots of haloed light in a great blurred, husk-smelling darkness.