The judge stared fixedly at the rivals, the scribble stopped to a squeak with his pen, and even the man on the rack seemed to raise slightly his tousled head.
The grip relaxed. The Master made a step back and stretched out his hand to the guest. The squab tried to do the same – and stared with horror at his arm that hang down like a lash. For a few seconds he pulled his shoulder-blades in vain, then he bowed shortly and went out of the room without looking at anybody.
When the door shut behind him, the judge brushed the annoying tassel off and spoke, with perplexity in his velvety voice:
"What's going on here?"
"He'll never work together with me, – the Master answered calmly. – Never."
The man on the rack chuckled.
"...Dad leads me up to a stub, and the stub's higher than myself – I was just a kid then, – the Master told sitting near the bench and putting an ice-bag to the Collocutor's burnt flank. – You see, he leads me up and I find a crack in the stub. Three feet long or even more. Down to the ground. And guess what Dad does? Puts a wedge into the crack. And says, pull it out by fingers. And what do you think? I clutched at the wedge, and the damned thing didn't move a bit! Well, says my Dad, when you'll have done with it, call me. So, I spent a week in trying and at last called Dad. He looked at the wedge and drove it once more in the crack, deeper this time. And went away without a word. But when I grew up and my moustache began to grow, I called Dad to come, took a wedge and drove it into the crack to the very ground. Only a bit left at the top, just for the fingers to clutch. I tugged, and got the wedge out and threw it into the bushes. Dad weeped, and embraced me, and then he took his axe out of the holster and threw an ant on the stub. Cut it's head off, says he. When you'll have done it, call me again. And away he goes. That's what a man my father was. When he was dying, he gave me his sword, the old one, inherited from my grandfather. Nobody can forge such swords now, they prefer axes... You're now a master, Dad said to me. I can pass away in peace. And he did..."
"A master cannot teach anybody bad things," – the Collocutor said thoughtfully.
The Master sat silent, considering thoroughly this idea.
"A good boy, – he said at last. – It's a pity he's not of my kin. There's much force in him, stupid force, but he's still a good boy. I teach him to wield the sword, the axe, I train his fingers. Do I teach him good things?"
"Master cannot teach bad things, – the Collocutor repeated. – Master cannot teach good things. Master teaches, and that's all. And he cannot do otherwise."
The Master stood up and went to the exit. He has already reached the doorway when a question sounded behind him:
"Please, tell me, – the Collocutor asked, – is the quartering very painful?"
"No, – the Master answered firmly. – It's not painful at all."
People in the crowd held their breath. The Master raised his axe. The head fell to the stage and rolled aside. He stooped and took the head by its pale cheeks into his hands and looked into the lifeless eyes.
There was joy in the eyes, there was calm eternity, quiet and peaceful eternity.
"Was it painful?" – the Master asked the Colocutor in a low voice.
The guards, overwhelmed at first, came to themselves and rushed towards the Master.
The wood of the pole scratched the Master's naked back. His hands, covered with many cuts were tied tightly with a ropes. The familiar log lay in the corner of the stage, with an axe and a sword in it. Both axe and sword – what for? If you tie a man to a pole you must execute him in standing and with a sword. But who'll undertake the task? It's hard to take a standing man's head off. Much skill is needed, especially when there are people around.
He didn't want the long-armed squab to do it to him.
A stooping stocky figure in a crimson hood stood nearby. It looked very familiar. The Master scrutinized it until his eyelids began to ache.
The executioner pulled the sword out of the log moving easily and surely, waited a moment and took the axe too into his left hand. Then he came up to the tied Master and laid the sword to his feet. Will he work with axe? In standing?
The Master hadn't enough time to finish this thought.
A sparkling crescent of a blade flew over him, and he recognized the man in crimson hood.
"Don't strain your shoulder! – cried Master. – Take the sword. It's yours..."
The axe glided along the pole, and ropes loosened. Master felt the well-known lead weight of the hilt as it slipped into his stiffened palm.
"Take it, father. You'll give it to me later. Come on, let's go!"
