Anton regretted that he didn't have his laptop. It would have been interesting to lay the situation out on the screen, shuffle the variants around and see what fitted with what. There was a standard program called Mazarini for analyzing intrigues, and it would have helped him understand a few things.
The Chalk of Destiny…
He took a gulp of wine, and it turned out to be surprisingly pleasant. Then he frowned. Gesar and Zabulon. They were really the two determining factors in the entire business. They were far more mysterious and complicated than ancient artifacts like the Chalk of Destiny and Fafnir's Talon, or Others like the Mirror and Alisa. They probably understood everything that was going on… and they were trying to outwit each other. As usual.
Gesar.
Zabulon.
The starting point for the analysis probably ought to be the Chalk of Destiny. When Svetlana, the new Great Enchantress, had appeared and joined the Night Watch, Gesar had tried to carry through yet another intervention on a global scale. Svetlana had been provided with the Chalk of Destiny-an ancient and extremely powerful artifact that could be used to rewrite the Book of Destiny and change human life. At first glance it had appeared that Svetlana was supposed to rewrite the destiny of the boy Egor, an Other with an indeterminate aura, inclined equally to the Darkness and the Light, and make him into either a future prophet or a future leader. But, with some assistance from Anton, Svetlana had failed to do this. All she had done was to bring Egor's destiny into equilibrium by removing all the influences exerted on him by the Watches in their struggle against each other.
But of course, there had been more than one level to Gesar's plan, and at the second level another Great Enchantress, his longtime girlfriend Olga, recently rehabilitated after being punished by the leadership of the Light Ones, had recovered her magical abilities and used the other half of the Chalk of Destiny to rewrite someone else's destiny-while all the Dark Ones of Moscow were watching Svetlana.
That was the truth that Anton knew. The second level of truth. But maybe there was a third one?
Okay he'd have to put that on hold for the time being. What had come next? Alisa Donnikova, a capable witch and member of the Day Watch, although she wasn't one of the elite. Following a fight between Dark Ones and Light Ones that had obviously been engineered by Zabulon, she completely lost her magical powers. Then she'd been sent on vacation to the Artek Young Pioneers' camp to recuperate… and Gesar had sent Igor, who had suffered a similar trauma, to the same place. A passionate love had sprung up between them-a terrible, deadly love between a Light magician and a Dark witch. And the outcome was that Alisa was dead, killed by Igor, and Igor himself was on the verge of dematerialization, weighed down by his violation of the Treaty and the burden of his own guilt. Then there was the boy who had accidentally drowned because of him…
This wasn't one of Gesar's intrigues. Its ruthless and cynical style bore the signature of the Day Watch. Zabulon had sacrificed his girlfriend… but what had he sacrificed her for? To get Igor out of the way? That seemed strange. It had been almost a straight swap. Alisa Donnikova had been a powerful witch.
So it was one intrigue in response to another…
Then there was the appearance of the Mirror. Gesar was certain it had been impossible to predict, so it must have been a coincidence. But no doubt Gesar and Zabulon had both immediately decided to exploit it… each for his own ends.
Anton suppressed the desire to swear out loud. There just wasn't enough data for an analysis. Nothing but conjectures, blanks, assumptions…
And not much was certain about the Regin Brothers either. They'd been lured to Moscow by Zabulon. Had he wanted to spread panic among the members of the Night Watch? Or feed the Mirror with Power? The only thing that could have lured the Dark magicians into their insane attack on the Inquisition was a promise to resurrect Fafnir. Naturally, the old magicians, who had seen Fafnir when he was alive, had agreed-it was just about their last chance of victory. Naturally, the young magicians had followed… all those young Finns of African and Asian origin who had been collected one at a time-they were too isolated in their own little world. They thought of what was happening as a game, not an outrageous crime.
But what had Zabulon been after?
No. Anton didn't understand a thing. He shook his head and accepted his inability to figure out what was going on. Well then… he'd just have to do the job he'd been given to do. Try to save Igor.
Try to make the charges against the Day Watch stick.
The plane was already making its approach for landing…
The latest issue of National Geographic didn't help Edgar relax. He just couldn't get into the article about the Italian custom of throwing old things out of the window at New Year and other amusing European New Year rituals. The only thing Edgar took away from the leading paragraphs was a firm determination not to go strolling around any narrow old streets in Italy at New Year.
The smooth hum of the turbine engines set his thoughts vibrating in sympathy. And despite himself, Edgar began thinking once again about his mission and the current situation of constant conflict between the Light and the Darkness in the persons of the Others.
All right, he thought. Let's take it from the beginning.
In recent times the Day Watch had significantly strengthened its position and struck several substantial blows against the Light Ones, inflicting losses that could not be made good on the spot. It would take time-not even years, but decades. Zabulon's natural move should be to build on success right now, without waiting for the Light Ones to gather strength again. To dash to victory while the enemy was still stunned.
What could weaken the Light Ones and strengthen the Dark Ones right now? After the Night Watch had lost a very powerful and highly promising enchantress? An attempt to take someone else out of the game?
Edgar pondered for a moment and regretted he hadn't brought his laptop with him. He could have weighed up the possible variants, run through all the White magicians with any real skills and tried to identify their weak sides… There was even a special program for that, called Richelieu -the Day Watch wasn't short of qualified programmers.
He would have to rely on his own natural computer-powerful but imperfect.
Who? Gesar was obviously not a candidate; he had already crossed that line beyond which an Other becomes almost invulnerable to his colleagues.
Objectively speaking, number two in the Night Watch hierarchy ought to be Svetlana Nazarova, but she would be out of the game for a long time, so Edgar had to award that honor either to the tricky Olga, an old specialist in combat operations, who had only just come back from being out of the game herself, or to Ilya, a first-level magician. In fact, Edgar suspected that was not the limit of Ilya's abilities. Eventually, he could quite easily develop his powers and become a Great Magician, but metamorphoses like that required time and colossal effort, primarily from the magician himself, and Ilya was still too young to abandon many of the simple, almost human, pleasures of life.
Who then? Olga or Ilya? Which of them should they go for now?
Like Stirlitz, the Russian spy at Nazi HQ in the cult film of the '70s, Edgar pulled down his little table and calmly sketched two symbolic portraits on napkins-a shapely female silhouette and a narrow face in spectacles. Olga or Ilya?
Olga. Intelligent, experienced, perceptive, worldly-wise, and cynical. Edgar didn't know her exact age, but it was reasonable to suspect that she was at least twice as old as he was. Edgar didn't know her true Power-he'd never had a chance to test it to make sure. And to be quite honest, he didn't really want to try… To deprive her of her powers again would certainly be incredibly difficult-if you've just been released from jail, you value your freedom very highly. Olga wouldn't just think twice, she'd think a thousand times before taking another risk and ending up in front of a Tribunal. Apart from that, she was Gesar's longtime love, and the boss of the Night Watch would certainly take great pains to protect her. In Zabulon's place Edgar wo
uld be wary of offending Olga, for an enraged Gesar was a far more dangerous enemy than the ordinary Gesar.
Edgar scratched his nose thoughtfully with the end of his felt-tip pen and drew a cross through the female portrait on the napkin.
Ilya. A very powerful magician with the face of a refined intellectual, who wore spectacles for some reason, although he could easily have corrected his own sight. At the moment he wasn't in Moscow, or even in Europe. He was somewhere in Ceylon. As a matter of fact, for the last five years or so Light Ones from the Moscow Night Watch had been making trips to Ceylon with suspicious frequency. Edgar wondered what they got up to there.
He made a mental note of that-he ought to pass the information on to the analytical section, let them rack their brains over it… Although most likely they were already monitoring this anomaly. But what if they weren't? Edgar would do better to play it safe, even if he did make himself look stupid, than to feel sorry later, if no one had paid any attention to the Ceylon business…
Ye-es. But if Zabulon was plotting something against Ilya, he would hardly be likely to choose Prague to carry out his plans at any time in the near future, unless he could lure him there somehow.
Edgar pushed the napkin away without crossing the portrait out and pulled a clean one toward him. The last one. He divided it into four sectors with two lines at right angles and set about drawing a portrait in each sector. The first three were sketched in sparing strokes but were remarkably vivid, in the comic-strip style of Bidstrup or Chizhikov.
In Edgar the world had probably lost a fine caricaturist.
Ilya, Semyon… Igor, the defendant at the Tribunal. Should he count him or not? Probably he should, especially since he was now the most vulnerable of all.
Edgar thought for a moment and then drew Anton Gorodet-sky in the fourth sector-the only one who was still using his surname. But even so, he had already reached second level, which made him Edgar's equal, although less experienced.
Which one? Of course it was simplest of all to topple Igor. He already had one foot down among the shadows of the Twilight.
And then there was Gorodetsky-he was flying to Prague too. But these were only the simplest variants. How many were there altogether?
The mere thought of the number of theoretically possible variants set Edgar's teeth on edge. Ah, if only he had his laptop and the windows of Richelieu, with its heuristic module…
Stop, Edgar said to himself. Stop. How depressingly one-sided you are, Dark One!
The thought that had occurred to him was simple and surprising. Taking one of their enemies out of the game wasn't the only way to make the Dark Ones stronger. Why not the opposite approach-introducing a powerful Dark One into the battle?
But who was there to swell the all too thin ranks of the Day Watch? Vitaly Rogoza, whose appearance had filled Edgar with childish delight, had turned out to be no more than a Mirror. And after he'd done everything the Twilight had created him to do, he'd disappeared forever. Look for some promising young recruits? They were looking and they did find a few… But you couldn't mold any of them into a genuinely powerful Other overnight, and the Dark Ones hadn't come across any natural talents like Svetlana Nazarova for a long time now.
Even so, thought Edgar, I'm on the right road. I'm flying to Prague, the capital of European necromancy, and in time for Christmas before the arrival of the year 2000, at a time when countless prophets and soothsayers are frightening the world with all sorts of horrors, up to and including the end of the world itself…
Yes! That was it! Maybe Zabulon was planning to resurrect one of the disembodied magicians of the past? Prague, at a time like this! Darkness upon Darkness! As always, Zabulon had skillfully and unobtrusively hidden what was lying in open view.
Edgar breathed out heavily, crumpled up the napkin with the drawings and stuffed it in his pocket.
And so, in the city of necromancers, at a time of incredible energetic instability, Zabulon could easily try to pluck someone out of nonexistence… But who?
Think, Edgar… The answer should be lying on the surface too.
All right then, let's look at what we have. Prague, the Tribunal, the case of the duel between Teplov and Donnikova, Gorodet-sky and Edgar seconded to the trial… Alita might come as well. Who else? Ah, yes the Regin Brothers too…
Stop. That was it!
The Regin Brothers! The servants of Fafnir! "I'll find a use for them, Edgar," Zabulon had said. "I have a few plans that involve them."
Fafnir!
Trying to maintain an appearance of calm, Edgar folded away his little table and settled more comfortably into his seat.
Fafnir. There was someone who would be very, very useful indeed to the Dark Ones. The mighty Fafnir, the Great Magician, the Dragon of the Twilight.
The faint echo of his Power, absorbed by the Mirror Rogoza, had allowed him to drain an enchantress like Svetlana with ease. And if Zabulon really is going to attempt to resurrect Fafnir, he couldn't have chosen a better place and time during the last hundred years, or the hundred years to come, Edgar thought as his eyes wandered idly across the paneling of the Boeing. That's for certain, he couldn't have…
The stewardess glanced at him, and Edgar fastened his seat belt. The plane was making its approach for landing.
Hello, Prague…
Edgar's ears felt like they'd been stuffed with cotton wool, but that didn't stop him from thinking. So it was a resurrection. That was something the Dark Ones hadn't tried for at least fifty years-not since Stalin's time. There hadn't been any opportunity to try it, because the level of energy turbulence hadn't been high enough since 1933 and 1947.
Why hadn't Zabulon told Edgar anything about it? Was it too soon? But then what was he to make of Yury's cautious warning? And then, what had this to do with what had happened at the Artek camp that summer? Because it had to be connected somehow-it had to be. A pawn had been sacrificed, and now maybe a more weighty piece's turn had come. A knight or a bishop- which of those would Edgar be? The two rooks, of course, were Yury and Nikolai, the queen was Zabulon himself, and the king, defenseless but crucial-that was the cause of the Darkness.
So one of the rooks had hinted to Edgar that there was a chance the Crimean Gambit might be used again-this time with a rook. Somehow Edgar didn't feel like being a knight. Let that vicious old hag Anna Tikhonovna play the horse-that would be just about right for her…
The plane shuddered as the wheels touched down on the runway. Once, twice-and flight was transformed into a rapidly decelerating dash over the concrete.
Surely Zabulon hadn't set up another exchange of pieces while he furtively pushed forward a few pawns (the Regin Brothers) in the hope that another black queen would appear on the board or, at the very least, a bishop?
It was insulting to be a throwaway piece.
And what if it's a test at the same time? Edgar wondered. An endurance trial? Alisa let herself be gobbled up-Zabulon doesn't need pieces like that in his game. But if I can manage to survive, and without disrupting the chiefs plans… Yes, that's the result we need!
But how could it be achieved?
The other half of the exchange was Anton Gorodetsky, Zabulon's favorite. There was no doubt about that. The chief of the Day Watch couldn't carry on using him forever, and he understood that very well. It wasn't even really true that he could use him… Zabulon was always ready to put a good face on a poor result and make it look as if he'd tricked the Light magician…
The passengers stood up and began moving toward the exit and the goffered bridge that was so unfamiliar to the inhabitants of the former USSR. Edgar took his raincoat out and put it on, left his magazine in the pocket on the seat in front, picked up his briefcase, and followed the others.
The feeling of being in Europe and not Russia was instantaneous and strangely comprehensive. It was hard to grasp exactly what triggered it-the expressions on people's faces, their clothes, the cleanliness of the airport, the way it was laid out? Thousands of
minor details. The announcements in Czech and English without a Ryazan accent. The far greater number of smiles. The fact that there weren't any of those gypsies or private taxi drivers that he detested on the square in front of the terminal building.
And there was a line of attractive yellow Opels at the taxi stand.
His taxi driver gabbled away equally freely in Russian and English and, of course, in his native Czech: Where to? A hotel. The Hilton, I suppose. Oh! Russians don't often go straight to the Hilton. And the ones who do, look different, wearing lots of gold, bigwigs with bodyguards, riding in expensive limousines… I'm not Russian, I'm Estonian. Yes, that's not the same thing any longer… It wasn't the same thing before either. Ah, even a Czech was almost the same as a Russian before… That's debatable. Yes, maybe it is.
The driver's chatter was distracting and Edgar decided to take a break from all his thinking. He wouldn't get any real work done on the day he arrived, in any case. He could actually relax-with a mug or two of beer, naturally. Who in his right mind wouldn't sip a mug of genuine Czech beer, provided his stomach was in good shape (or even if it wasn't)?
Only a dead man.
Just like in any Hilton, a free room could be found without any real problem, even when Prague was crowded with tourists just before Christmas. But just like in any country that had not yet cast off the shackles of its recent socialism, it cost crazy money for a non-Other. Edgar was an Other, and so he paid up right away without even a frown, although they were obviously expecting one from him. He was Russian, after all, and he didn't look like a nouveau riche bandit… A hundred years earlier Edgar wouldn't have been able to resist sticking his Argentinian passport under the administrator's nose. But he was a whole hundred years more mature now, and he made do with his Russian passport.
The person at the registration desk-the one that not everybody went to-was a Dark One. A very rare type, too-a Beskud. He glanced at Edgar, licked his thin lips, and opened his slit pupils wide. And then, at last, he smiled-his teeth were small and sharp, all the same triangular shape.
Day Watch Page 34