New Watch

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  “It is time for us to say goodbye, young Erasmus. You know your own abilities, you will be able to stand up for yourself. If you wish for power—you will achieve it. On your own, or in the Day Watch.”

  “In Dublin?”

  “In Dublin, Edinburgh, London. In any city of the world that is now or shall be.”

  He even slapped Erasmus on the shoulder before turning and walking off along the road into the distance. He probably was truly fond of this pupil. But, of course, he didn’t look round.

  Erasmus sat there in the dust for a while, thinking. His strange enemy had disappeared. It was getting light.

  Life promised a multitude of interesting things, and Erasmus had always had a zest for life.

  He decided to go back to the manor house and see what had happened to Betty. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if she had become indifferent to everything. Perhaps now she would allow him to do certain things that she had previously rejected with a giggle.

  I said nothing for a while. Then I remarked: “In the book it said it was an elm tree.”

  “An oak,” Erasmus responded immediately. “I’m not very fond of elms. Oaks are far more profound and substantial.”

  “And what was your teacher called?”

  “I assumed that you knew,” Erasmus said briefly.

  “I think I have a good idea already, but . . .”

  “His name was Zabulon. We have never met again, but I know he has been the head of the Day Watch in Moscow for a long time already. You two are acquainted, I believe?”

  “The creep, he could have told us everything straight away!” I exclaimed angrily. “He had already dealt with a Tiger!”

  “Zabulon never tells everything,” Erasmus replied.

  “And how about you, Erasmus?”

  “Neither do I,” Erasmus chuckled. “I don’t play the Watches’ games, thank you very kindly! But only idiots tell everything. Information is both a weapon and a commodity.”

  “If it’s a commodity . . . it seems to me that you owe us something,” I threw out tentatively, and looked at the absurd bonsai standing above the fireplace.

  Erasmus frowned and also gazed at the gift from Gesar.

  “I do,” he admitted reluctantly. “Only I can’t tell exactly how much . . . All right, ask. I’ll answer a few more questions. Let’s say three. Three questions, three answers.”

  Oh, these old magicians, with their old-style formalities! Three questions, three answers . . .

  “You said you were waiting for me,” I said. “That you’d been waiting for a long time, thinking that I was French . . .”

  “Perhaps it’s for the best that you are Russian,” said Erasmus. “I haven’t really liked you Russians very much, begging your pardon, since the Sebastopol campaign. But I like the French even less.”

  “Ever since the Hundred Years’ War . . .” I murmured.

  “Just about. But you Russians are past history now. You’re a dead enemy, and a dead enemy can be respected and pitied.”

  I wouldn’t have expected myself to respond like that. The glass cracked in my hand, scattering splinters and the remaining drops of whisky across the floor, and something very unpleasant must have appeared in my glance. Erasmus instantly raised his hands in a reassuring gesture.

  “Stop, stop, stop . . . This is only my opinion, the opinion of an old clairvoyant who has withdrawn from the affairs of the world. I . . . I did not take into account that you are still so very young, Antoine. And I was overly brusque.”

  “To put it mildly,” I said under my breath.

  “None of the Great Ones links himself with the nation from which he has emerged,” Erasmus said in a conciliatory tone. “But you are young, and I forgot that. I offer my apologies, An . . . Anton.”

  “Accepted,” I replied sullenly.

  “I really had been expecting you,” said Erasmus. “The point being that one of my prophecies referred to myself. It was nothing really special—just a few words: ‘And at the end there shall come to me Antoine, who shall learn the meaning of the first and be witness to the last.’ ”

  I frowned.

  “What is that about?”

  “It’s about me,” Erasmus explained. “Quite possibly your visit means that I shall die soon. And you will learn the meaning of my first prophecy and witness my last one.”

  “What is your first prophecy about?” I asked.

  “Is that the second question?” Erasmus asked, to make sure.

  “Yes!”

  “I don’t know,” the old prophet said, smiling. “I told you, I shouted the prophecy into the hollow of an old oak.”

  I had to think for about half a minute before I asked the third question. There was no point in arguing about the second one that had been wasted so lamely.

  “Can you explain to me, clearly and distinctly, in what way can I hear your first prophecy?”

  Before replying, Erasmus poured himself some more whisky. Then he asked: “Are sure you want that? Two hundred and fifty years have gone by, but what if that prophecy has not yet been fulfilled? If so, the moment you hear it, you will trigger the mystical mechanism of prophecy . . . First, it can come about, if you tell a human being about it. And second, as long you alone know the prophecy, the Tiger will hunt you.”

  “Yes, I want it,” I replied. And I thought about the toy phone lying in my pocket, with the boy Kesha’s prophecy (possibly) recorded on it.

  “Perhaps you are right,” said Erasmus. “Knowledge is a great temptation that is hard to resist . . .”

  He stood up and walked over to the sideboard, opened it, and took something dark and dusty out of the deepest corner. He held it in his hands for a second, examining it, then walked back to me.

  “Take it, Anton.”

  I took the small, dark bowl—or, rather, chalice: it had a wide top, but there was also a small base, covered with simple, unpretentious carving. The chalice proved to be surprisingly light.

  “Wood,” I decided.

  “Oak,” Erasmus stated.

  “Is this . . .”

  “Well, it’s not the Holy Grail, of course,” Erasmus chuckled. “I carved it myself out of that oak tree.”

  I looked questioningly at the old Prophet.

  “I don’t know,” said Erasmus. “I don’t know exactly how to hear the prophecy. But plants have a memory too. And it’s there somewhere . . . my first prophecy.”

  After a moment’s thought, I raised the chalice to my ear and listened intently to the sound of my own blood. Alas, no voices . . .

  “Perhaps I should fill it with wine and drink it?” I asked.

  “In that case, whisky,” Erasmus chuckled. “If you drink enough of it, there’s nothing in the world you won’t hear.”

  He had a satisfied look, as if he had just cracked a good joke.

  “I think you’re being cunning with me,” I said. “You either know . . . or you can at least surmise exactly how to extract the information.”

  “Perhaps,” said Erasmus, not arguing. “But then Gesar didn’t explain his present, did he now? And I don’t really want you to hear the prophecy.”

  “I can hardly blame you for that . . .” I agreed. “Although you seem to take the prediction of your own death rather calmly.”

  “Prophecy,” Erasmus corrected me, turning his back to me and reaching out his hands towards the fireplace. “But you don’t know just how vague prophecies are. ‘At the end’—whose end? Mine? Or the whole of humanity’s? Or does it simply mean the time—at the end of the day?”

  “It can hardly be the time,” I said. “It’s morning now.”

  “I ought to have asked you to come round in the evening,” said Erasmus, throwing his hands up in the air. “Although, there is one other possibility! ‘At the end there shall come to me Antoine . . .’ ”

  I said nothing.

  “Perhaps it was about you?” the prophet suggested amiably, giving me a sideways glance. “And you have come to me at your end . .
. and, after all, if the Tiger starts hunting you . . .”

  “That’s what I don’t like about you Dark Ones,” I said, getting up. “Thank you for the chalice.”

  “Don’t be offended, Anton.” Erasmus was either embarrassed, or he was pretending to be. “I only wanted to forewarn you and indicate all the possible meanings of the prophecy . . .”

  “How long is it since you were last in contact with Zabulon? I asked abruptly.

  “Permit me not to answer that question . . .” Erasmus said, with a sigh.

  “Consider that you already have,” I said. “Give my greetings to your teacher.”

  Since we were in London I felt justified in taking my leave in the English style, and did not say goodbye.

  Chapter 4

  THAT EVENING I WAS SITTING AND DRINKING BEER IN A PUB called The Swan, not far from my hotel.

  I liked English beer, although I was rather baffled by its numerous different sorts. The one I was drinking this time was light and smelled of honey (perhaps even Yorkshire honey)—and that suited me fine.

  The pub itself was very presentable, although it was a thoroughgoing tourist trap. (What else can a pub be, if it’s on a busy street right beside the famous Hyde Park and a dozen hotels?) An inscription on the wall proudly stated that the inn could trace its history back to the early seventeenth century, and at one time it had been the place where criminals on their way to the scaffold drank their final mug of beer.

  The English ability to pride themselves on what other nations would prefer to forget is a remarkable trait . . .

  As I drank my beer, surrounded by noisy tourists and scurrying young waitresses, I gazed at the park and wondered what to do now.

  I had delivered Gesar’s mysterious gift to Erasmus. I had obtained information from him—all that he was willing to impart, at least. And I had also acquired an oak chalice in which Erasmus’s prophecy was supposedly stored.

  After I’d left the old Other’s home I had traveled as far as the shop Fortnum and Mason that Semyon had told me about and had bought him the honey he was lusting after. Surrendering to the herd instinct, I got some for myself as well. Then I set out for the toyshop Hamleys (if the shop sign could be believed, the oldest shop for children in the world) and, after jostling my way through five stories of clamoring children and their parents, I chose a present for my daughter. At first I tried, like an honest spy, to make out what girls of her age were buying, but then I realized that all those beads, stickers, and glittery things wouldn’t bring her any joy at all. And then I went down into the basement, where I found something like a toy maze with two tiny electronic beetles that were supposed to run through it. The toy was so astoundingly absurd that I bought it without a second thought, and at the checkout I picked up a teddy bear as well.

  The true horror of the situation was that I had carried out the entire program for my visit to London in a single day! Whisky and other alcoholic souvenirs could be bought more easily in the airport. I could devote the whole of the next day and half of the one after that to tourist pastimes—museums, parks, pubs, bridges . . . and shops too, of course.

  But somehow I didn’t fancy any of it. Neither the gloomy severity of the Tower, nor the magnificence of the royal parks, nor the glitter of London’s shops. I had already been on Piccadilly. I had gazed at the Thames and tossed a two-pence piece into the murky water. I wanted to go home!

  I was probably insane.

  I finished up my mug of beer and fell into thought for a brief moment. I didn’t want to go to the hotel: the only entertainments there were the tiny bar and the TV in my room. Basically, there was nothing to prevent me having another pint . . . I started rising to my feet from the wooden bench that is traditional for all self-respecting pubs.

  “I’ve already got it in.” A full mug of beer appeared on the table in front of me.

  First I lowered myself back down onto the bench. And then I looked into the face of the woman who had shown such unexpected solicitude for me.

  Although there really wasn’t any need for that. I had recognized Arina from her voice.

  The former witch and present Light Other had another mug of beer in her hands. The old woman preferred Guinness.

  But then, the old woman also preferred to look like a woman “under thirty”: full-figured, beautiful, and dressed in haute couture. Elegant gray skirt and jacket, high-heeled shoes, a pink blouse so simple in style that it had clearly cost a monstrous amount of money, a little Louis Vuitton handbag, and a silk scarf round her neck. And in all this she didn’t look like a spoiled rich bitch whose purchases are funded by her husband, but more like a serious businesswoman, a top manager in some major corporation or bank.

  “Glad to see you,” Arina said with a smile. “You’ve . . . matured, Anton.”

  One thing I had always liked about her was her precise way of expressing herself. Not “you’ve aged”—what question could there be of age? Not “you’ve grown up”—from the extreme vantage point of her long years I was a veritable infant, but for Arina to say that would have been to admit her own age. Not “you’ve changed”—experienced Others know that very few individuals are capable of genuinely changing.

  Although Arina had done it.

  “Are you aware of the fact that the Inquisition is looking for you?” I asked. “And that all members of the Night Watch and the Day Watch in every country of the world, regardless of their level of Power and specialization, are obliged to summon the Inquisition when you show up and take measures to detain you?”

  “Yes, I am,” Arina confirmed. She thought for a second and decided not to provoke me. “I hope we can manage without that?”

  “We can,” I agreed.

  For a minute or so we drank our beer and looked at each other. She was a strange Other. Once she was a Dark One who often committed good deeds. Then she contrived to change her color and become a Light One—but in the process she caused worse grief and disaster than some werewolves or vampires. I even had a sneaking suspicion that fundamentally it was all the same to Arina what she was called and how she was regarded—at any moment she was capable of abominable meanness or noble generosity. And it was entirely possible that in working evil she would appear to be a hundred-percent Light One, and in doing good would look every inch a Dark One, from her head to her feet.

  I even suspected that, contrary to the general opinion, Arina was capable of changing her color over and over again.

  It wasn’t exactly that for her there was no difference—she could see the difference all right. It was just that she regarded the path from the Darkness to the Light as a well-beaten track, not a narrow little path that crumbled away behind you.

  “Strangely enough, I’m glad that you got away that time,” I said. “Despite all the mischief you got up to.”

  “I had to help the departed to find rest,” Arina said, with a shrug. “And I think the outcome justified that. And Saushkin the elder ended his . . . activities. And Edgar found rest too. The world became a better place. Your nerves suffered a bit, I admit that, but it all turned out well in the end . . . Peace?”

  “Peace,” I said after a brief pause. “That’s all in the past now. I’ll mention in my report that I met you, but I won’t do anything rash.”

  “Thank you,” said Arina. “That’s precisely the right decision! And anyway . . . I came looking for you for a reason.”

  I said nothing. I didn’t ask how she had found me and what she wanted me for. She wouldn’t tell me how, in any case: a witch has her own cunning methods. And she was going to tell me what for without being asked.

  “Have you already met Erasmus?” Arina asked.

  I smiled and didn’t answer. Arina’s sources are pretty good, but not omniscient.

  “I assume you have,” Arina went on. “Are you going to share the news?”

  “What for?” I asked.

  Arina sighed. “Now that’s the right question. Anton, how do you intend to deal with the Tiger?”
r />   “I don’t. He’s gone.”

  “And when he comes back for you?”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “You’ve always tried to avoid actions with irrevocable consequences, Anton. I don’t believe the boy’s prophecy was simply lost in the void.”

  I shrugged.

  “Arina, if I had heard the prophecy, the Tiger would have come after me, right? That’s the first thing. The second is that I was physically nowhere near him. The boy was egged on by Nadya. And then she left him too. Surely you don’t think I would have left my daughter unsupervised if I had even the slightest suspicion that she had heard the prophecy . . . and was therefore in danger?”

  A shadow of doubt flickered across Arina’s face.

  “Yes, that’s true . . . that’s right. I understand that. But something doesn’t fit! You must have tried to save the information and keep it for yourself. You wouldn’t be you if you hadn’t!”

  I laughed.

  “Well, Arina, that’s all fine and dandy, but how could I have done it?”

  “A tape recorder?” Arina suggested.

  “A tape recorder is an ancient device for recording and reproducing music . . .” I said pensively. “Yes, yes, I remember . . . when I was a kid I had one: you put these cassettes into it, they had this tape coated in iron oxide . . .”

  “Anton, don’t play with words. Tape recorder, cassette deck, dictaphone—it doesn’t matter what it was! The older generation may underestimate technology, but at least I have enough wits to understand that. You’re young, you used to work with technology. You could have thought of something. Any telephone can record sounds nowadays. Tell me honestly: has the information been preserved?”

  “I think you should be the first to show a bit of frankness,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I hold all the trump cards.”

  Arina nodded. She looked at a young waitress running past, carrying food to some table. The girl nodded, offloaded her plates, and went dashing to the bar counter.