"Greetings! Here for the Tribunal?"
"Uh-huh."
"Here you go…"
He threw a small bundle of blue fire at Edgar-it was his temporary registration. The fire passed easily through Edgar's clothes and landed on Edgar's chest in the form of an oval seal that glowed in the Twilight.
"Thanks."
"You give them a roasting at the Tribunal," the Beskud told him. "A real roasting. It's our time now…"
"I'll try," Edgar promised with a sigh.
He went up to his room, just to get a wash and leave his briefcase there.
And now, Edgar thought enthusiastically as he rode down in the elevator, I'm off to the Black Eagle! And I'm going to order the peceno veprevo koleno.
This dish, roast leg of pork, was so popular he'd even come across a description of it in a fantasy magazine he'd read once.
As he waited for his order, Edgar took sips of his second mug of beer (he'd drunk the first one Russian-style, straight down, evoking a nod of approval from the waiter), and tried to focus on his thoughts. But something was preventing him. Or someone.
Edgar looked up and saw Anton Gorodetsky, who was standing near the table and staring steadily at him.
Edgar shuddered, thinking he must have been followed. But there was a puzzled expression in Gorodetsky's eyes too, and Edgar breathed a sigh of relief. A coincidence, nothing more than a coincidence.
And what's more, there weren't any places left. Except at Edgar's table.
Acting on a sudden impulse, Edgar nodded to the Light One and said, "Sit down. I'm taking a break. You should do the same- to hell with all this work!"
Anton hesitated and Edgar thought he was going to leave, but then he decided to stay. He walked up and sat down facing Edgar, giving him a sullen look, as if he found it hard to believe it when his old enemy claimed all he wanted to do was relax for a while. What was that saying the Light Ones had? Anyone you've done combat with once is an enemy forever.
Nonsense. Fanaticism. Edgar preferred a more flexible approach-if today it was advantageous to conclude an alliance with someone you hurled Shahab's Lash at yesterday, why not conclude an alliance? But then, after Shahab's Lash there wasn't usually anybody left to conclude an alliance with… Ashes didn't make a very good ally.
"And not a word about the Watches?" Anton asked ironically.
"Not a word," Edgar confirmed. "Just two fellow countrymen in Prague just before Christmas. I've ordered the peceno veprevo koleno. I recommend it."
"Thanks, I know it," said Anton, still without a shadow of a smile, and turned to the waiter who had come over to them.
No, these Europeans had no idea what a real frost was, what a real winter was… As Anton came out of the Malostranska metro station, he wondered if he ought to button up the collar of his jacket, but he didn't bother. Snowy weather, but there was no bite to it. Two degrees below zero at the most.
He set off along the street, strolling at a leisurely pace across the ancient cobblestones. Sometimes he gave in to curiosity and dropped into the souvenir shops-amusing wooden toys, curiously shaped ceramics, photographs with views of Prague, T-shirts with amusing inscriptions. He ought to buy something, after all. Just to make his mark, so to speak. Maybe that T-shirt with the funny face on it and the words "Born to be Wild."
There were almost three hours left until he was due to meet the Inquisition's representative. He didn't even need to take a taxi or ride the metro-he could eat a leisurely lunch and stroll to the appointed place on foot. A rendezvous under the clock tower-what could be more romantic? What if the Inquisition's representative turned out to be a female, maybe even attractive, and a Light One? Then romance would really be in the air.
Anton laughed at his own thoughts. He didn't feel the slightest desire to play the field or start an affair. And anyway, the concepts of "Light" and "Dark" didn't apply to the Inquisition. They stood outside and apart from the two great powers.
Maybe the concept of gender did apply? But then, as far as Anton knew, when Maxim, the Light magician from Moscow they'd nicknamed the Maverick, became an Inquisitor, he had divorced his wife. Apparently they simply lost interest in all that petty human stupidity-love, sex, jealousy…
The Black Eagle was one of Anton's favorite restaurants in Prague. Maybe that was simply because he'd been there a few times on his first trip to the city. It doesn't take much to make a Russian happy, after all. Good service that isn't intrusive, good food, incredible beer, low prices. That last point was pretty important. It was only the Dark Ones who could afford to throw their money around. Even Rogoza, that creation of the Twilight, had appeared in Moscow carrying heaps of cash. It was possible to earn money honestly, but to earn a lot of money-you could never do that without compromising your conscience a little. And when it came to that, the Night Watch was definitely at a disadvantage compared to the Day Watch.
The street Anton was walking along divided into two, like a river, leaving a number of old, low buildings forming a long, narrow island along its center-most of them were restaurants and souvenir shops. The Black Eagle was the first in the row.
As he walked into the small courtyard, Anton saw a Light Other.
No, he wasn't a member of any Watch. Just an Other who preferred an almost ordinary, almost human life to the front line of the magical war. A tall, handsome, middle-aged man with a good figure, wearing the uniform of an officer in the US Air Force. He was on his way out of the restaurant, obviously feeling quite contented with the way he'd spent his time, with his girlfriend-a pretty Czech girl-and with himself.
He didn't spot Anton right away-he was too absorbed in conversation. But when he did spot him, he gave a broad, beaming smile.
There was nothing else for it-Anton raised his shadow from the snow-covered cobblestones and stepped into the Twilight. Silence fell, all the sounds were muffled in cotton wool. The world slowed down and lost its colors. People's auras shimmered into life, like rainbows-most of them calm and peaceful, not overloaded with unnecessary thoughts. The way it ought to be in a tourist spot.
"Greetings, watchman!" the American hailed him happily. Here in the Twilight there were no problems with language.
"Hello, Light One," Anton replied. "Glad to see you."
"The Prague Watch?" the American queried. He'd read the watchman's aura, but not made out the details. But then, he was a pretty weak magician. Somewhere around sixth level, and with a strong attachment to natural magic. There wouldn't have been anything for him to do in the Watch anyway, except maybe sit somewhere out of the way and keep an eye on witches and shape-shifters whose powers were as weak as his own.
" Moscow."
"Oh, the Moscow Watch!" There was a clear note of respect in the American's voice now. "A powerful Watch. Allow me to shake your hand."
They shook hands. The American airman seemed to regard the encounter as one more element of a pleasant evening.
"Captain Christian Vanover Jr. Sixth-level magician. Do you need my assistance, watchman?" The formal proposal was made with all due seriousness.
"Thank you, Light One, but I don't require any assistance," Anton replied no less politely.
"On vacation?" Christian asked.
"No. A business trip. But there's no assistance required."
The American nodded. "This is my Christmas vacation. My unit's stationed in Kosovo, so I decided to visit Prague."
"Good choice," said Anton with a nod. "A beautiful city."
He didn't want to continue the conversation, but the American was full of bonhomie. "A wonderful city. I'm glad we managed to save it in the Second World War."
"Yes, we saved it…" said Anton, nodding again.
"Did you fight back then, watchman?"
Anton realized Christian must be a really weak magician. Not to see his real age, at least approximately…
"No."
"I was too young too," the American sighed. "I dreamed of joining the army, but I was only fifteen. A pity, I could hav
e got here fifty years earlier…"
Anton only just stopped himself from saying that Christian wouldn't have had the chance, because the American forces never entered Prague. But he immediately felt ashamed of his own thoughts.
"Well, good luck," said the American, finally deciding to move on. "Some day I'll fly into Moscow to see you, watchman!"
"Only not the way you flew into Kosovo." This time Anton was too slow to stop himself, but Captain Christian Vanover Jr. didn't take offense. On the contrary, he smiled his broad smile and said, "No, I don't think it will come to that, do you? May the Light be with you, watchman!"
Anton followed the American out of the Twilight. Christian's girl hadn't noticed a thing. He took her by the arm and winked at Anton.
"And may the force be with you…" Anton muttered in Russian.
That was a stroke of bad luck… His good mood had completely melted away, like a lump of ice on a hot skillet.
He could tell himself a thousand times over that no arguments and disputes between states had anything to do with the concerns of the Light and the Darkness. He could accept that in a war this airman-magician was far more likely not to aim his bombs at civilians. But even so…
Just how could he manage to go out on bombing raids and drop his explosives on people's heads, and still remain a Light One? Because he was a Light One, no doubt about that! But he almost certainly had human lives on his conscience. How did he manage not to fall back into the Twilight? What incredible faith he must have in his own righteousness, to be able to combine active military service and the cause of the Light.
Anton entered the Black Eagle in a gloomy and depressed mood.
He immediately spotted Christian Vanover's fellow airmen. About ten of them, all ordinary human beings. They were sitting at a long table, eating goulash and drinking Sprite. They really were drinking Sprite.
In a Czech beer bar! On vacation!
And not because they were teetotalers. There were empty beer bottles on the table, American Budweiser, which Anton would only have considered drinking if he was dying of thirst in a desert.
Anton walked past the Americans. There were no more free tables-another stroke of bad luck… But there was someone over there sitting on his own, maybe he could join him… The person at the table looked up-and started. And Anton did pretty much the same.
It was Edgar.
Chapter three
–«¦»-
One thing the Dark Ones certainly had was a lust for life. Anton had never had any doubt about that. He only had to look at the way Edgar was dealing with that tasty-looking leg of pork that no dietician would ever have approved, larding it generously with mustard-the kind the Russians liked, of course, sweetish, but still with a sharp bite-and horseradish too, and swilling it down with plenty of beer.
Anton had always found that astonishing. He had always been on perfectly friendly terms with his vampire neighbors, and even they sometimes looked more full of the joy of life than the Light magicians. The Higher Magicians, that was-those whose powers were at Anton's level still hadn't finished "playing at people."
The unpleasant thing about it was that their love of life usually didn't extend beyond themselves.
Anton lifted his heavy mug of Budweiser and muttered, "Prosit."
It was a good thing the Czechs didn't have the custom of clinking glasses. Anton wouldn't have liked to clink glasses with a Dark One.
"Prosit," Edgar replied. He drained half of his mug in two swallows, savoring the beer, and wiped the foam off his upper lip. "That's good."
"It is," Anton agreed, although he was still feeling tense. No, of course there was nothing reprehensible about them drinking beer together like this. The rules of the Night Watch didn't prohibit contact with Dark Ones; on the contrary-if a member of the Watch was confident that he was safe, it was welcomed. You never knew what you might find out. You might even be able to influence a Dark One. Not turn him to the Light, of course… but at least stop him from pulling his next lousy trick. Anton surprised himself by saying, "It's nice to find at least one thing we can agree on."
"Yes," said Edgar, trying to speak amicably and politely, so that the Light One wouldn't blow his top over some imaginary insult or get suspicious for no reason. "Czech beer in Moscow and Czech beer in Prague are two different things."
Gorodetsky nodded. "Yes. Especially when you compare it with bottled beer. Czech beer in bottles is the corpse of real beer in a glass coffin."
Edgar smiled in agreement with the comparison and remarked, "Somehow the rest of Eastern Europe seems to have lost the talent for brewing beer."
"Even Estonia?" Anton asked.
Edgar shrugged. These Light Ones could never let slip a chance for a jibe… "Our beer's good. But it's not exceptional. Pretty much like in Russia."
Anton frowned, as if he'd just remembered the taste of the beer back home. But he said something quite different: "I was in Hungary this summer. I drank Hungarian beer, Dreher… almost the only kind they have."
"And?"
"I'd have been better off drinking sour Baltika."
Edgar laughed. Even when he strained his memory a bit, he couldn't remember a single type of Hungarian beer. But then, if Anton thought so poorly of it, it was better not to remember. Anton was a good judge of beer, an excellent judge, in fact. The Light Ones were fond of the pleasures of the flesh-you had to give them that.
"And these… valiant warriors… drinking their slops from back home," said Anton, nodding toward the Americans. "Peacemakers… Goering's aces…"
Both Edgar and Anton had finished their peceno veprevo koleno long ago. They'd both drunk enough beer to set their eyes aglow and their voices were growing louder and more relaxed.
"Why Goering?" Edgar asked in surprise. "They're not krauts, they're Americans."
Anton explained patiently, as if he were talking to a child. "Aces of the US Air Force doesn't sound right. Do you know any short, snappy term for the US Air Force?"
"No, I don't."
"All right, then. They can be Clinton 's aces. At least the Germans knew they were fighting airmen like themselves, but this crowd has dropped bombs on villages where the only defense is a Second World War antiaircraft gun… And they get medals for it, too. But you just try asking them if there's anything in their lives they regard as sacred. They still think they were the ones who liberated Prague."
"Sacred?" Edgar echoed with a laugh. "Why would they need anything sacred? They're soldiers."
"You know, Other, it seems to me that even soldiers should still be human beings first and foremost. And human beings need something sacred to cherish in their souls."
"First you need to have a soul. The sacred bit comes later. Oh! Now we can ask one of them."
One of the American airmen, a guy with rosy cheeks in a uniform glittering with braid and various kinds of trimmings, was trying to squeeze past their table. A fresh strawberries and cream complexion, the pride of Texas or Oklahoma. He was probably on his way back from the restroom.
"Excuse me, officer! Do you mind if I ask you a question?" Edgar said to him in good English. "Is there anything in your life that you regard as sacred? Anything at all?"
The American stopped as if he'd stumbled over something.
His instinct told him that a soldier of the very finest nation in the world had to rise to the challenge and give a worthy reply. He thought, his face reflecting the painful workings of his mind until suddenly it lit up. Inspiration. A smile of pride spread across his face.
"Anything sacred? Of course there is! The Chicago Bulls…"
"It's like a game of chess, you get it?" Edgar explained. "The bosses are just moving their helpless pieces-that's you and me- around the board."
The waiter's face grew longer and longer the more beer Anton and Edgar drank. The number of those big glass mugs he'd brought to this table would have been enough to get the entire American air squadron drunk, and the Chicago Bulls as well. But the two Russians jus
t carried on sitting there, even though it was obvious they were finding it harder and harder to control their tongues.
"Take you and me, for instance," Edgar went on. "You're going to be the defender in this trial. I'm going to be the prosecutor. But we still don't carry any real weight. We're just figures on the board. If it suits them, they'll throw us into the thick of it. If it suits them, they'll set us aside for better times. If they want to, they'll exchange us. After all, what is this trial, really? It's a song and dance over a trivial exchange of pieces. Your Igor's been swapped for our Alisa. And that's all. They just set them on each other, like two spiders in a jar, and took them off the board. In the name of higher goals that are beyond us."
"No, you're wrong," Anton said sternly, wagging his finger at Edgar. "Gesar had no idea that Igor would run into Alisa. It was one of Zabulon's intrigues."
"And how can you be so sure of that?" Edgar asked derisively. "Are you so strong you can read Gesar's soul like an open book? As far as I know, the head of the Light Ones isn't too fond of letting his subordinates in on his fundamental plans either. It's the high politics of the higher powers!" he said very loudly and insistently.
Anton really wanted to object. But unfortunately he didn't have any convincing arguments.
"Or take that latest clash in Moscow University. Zabulon used you-I'm sorry, you probably don't like to hear me say that, but now that we've started… Anyway, Zabulon used you. Zabulon! Your sworn enemy."
"He didn't use me." Anton hesitated, but then went on anyway. "He tried to use me. And I tried to use the situation to our advantage. You understand-after all, this is war."
"Okay, so you tried to use the situation too," Edgar agreed dismissively. "Let's assume that… But Gesar did nothing- nothing!-to protect you. Why should he try to keep his pawns safe? It's wasteful and pointless."
"You treat your pawns even worse," Anton remarked morosely. "You don't even regard the lower Others-the vampires and shape-shifters-as equals. They're just canon fodder."
"But they are canon fodder, Anton. They're less valuable than us magicians. And anyway, it's pointless for you and me to talk about things and try to understand. We're puppets. Nothing but puppets. And we don't have a chance to become puppet masters, because for that you need the abilities of a Gesar or a Zabulon, and that kind of ability doesn't come along very often. And anyway, the places at the chessboards are already taken. None of the players will give his place away to a mere piece- not even to a queen or a king."
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