Day Watch

by Sergei Lukyanenko

Story Three Chapter two

  Anton loved Prague. In fact, he simply couldn't understand how it was possible not to love the place. There were some cities that confused you and suffocated you from the very first moment, and there were some whose charm slowly and imperceptibly fascinated you. Moscow, unfortunately, did not belong in either category. But Prague was like an old, wise enchantress who knew how to pretend to be young, but did not see any need for it, since she remained beautiful at any age.

  And if you really thought about it, Prague ought to have become the abode of Dark Ones. A city saturated to overflowing with Gothic buildings, a city full of plague pillars¡ªmonuments to the medieval pestilence of the Black Death¡ªa city that had a ghetto during the Second World War, a city that witnessed the opposition of the two superpowers during the Cold War. . . where could all those emanations of Darkness, the nutritional substratum of the Dark Ones, have gone to? How had they been scattered, where to, and why had they been converted into memory, but not into malice?

  It was a mystery. . .

  Anton didn't know any members of the Prague Night Watch in person. They had occasionally exchanged information by courier or email when something in the archives needed clarification. And at Christmas and the New Year it was traditional to send greetings to all the Night Watches. . . but nobody made any distinction between the Prague Night Watch (active staff¡ª 130 Others, operational reserve¡ª76) and the Night Watch of some small American town (active staff¡ª1 Other, operational reserve¡ª0).

  Anton had been to Prague twice on vacation. Simply wandering aimlessly around the city from one beer bar to the next, buying cheap little souvenirs on the Charles Bridge, traveling out to Karlovy Vary to swim in the pool filled with hot mineral water and try the hot wafers in the cafe.

  But now he was flying to Prague on business. Really serious business. . .

  Anton stretched out in his chair, as far as the space in the Boeing 737's economy class would allow¡ªthe comfort level wasn't much different from an old Soviet Tupolev¡ªand examined the backs of the Regin Brothers' heads. They looked tense¡ª the Dark Ones' auras were full of fear and impatience. They knew Anton was there and they were dreaming of getting as far away from him as possible, as soon as possible. . .

  If it wasn't for that incident at Sheremetievo airport, Anton might even have felt sorry for the luckless magicians. But once Anton had gone into combat with an enemy, he was an enemy forever.

  As if he could read Anton's thoughts¡ªalthough, of course, that was beyond his power¡ªone of the Regin Brothers, the tall, strong black guy, turned around, glanced warily at Anton, and hastily averted his gaze. Raivo¡ªAnton remembered his name. From somewhere in Senegal. . . no, from Burkina Faso, that was it. Picked up by one of the Regin Brothers' families and raised in the spirit of devotion to the great Fafnir. . .

  Just how had the Regin Brothers come up with all this nonsense?

  Once, long, long ago, something had happened, something that often happened among the Others. A Dark magician and a Light magician fought to the death. The Light magician was called Sigurd. . . Siegfried, if you pronounced it in the German manner. The Dark magician was killed. . . and he died in his Twilight form of a dragon. He was called Fafnir. Later Sigurd was killed as well. . . Anton wondered if Gesar had known him?

  After that, things took a rather unusual turn. The Dark magician's disciples didn't scatter, as often happened, and they didn't fight among themselves, as happened even more often. Instead they decided to resurrect their master. They banded together to form a sect known as the Regin Brothers and withdrew almost completely from the usual struggle between Light and Darkness. . . which suited the Light Ones very well, of course. The brothers lovingly preserved the Talon torn from the Twilight body of the Dark magician. Later the Talon was confiscated by the Inquisition¡ªjust before the Second World War the Light Ones had lodged a successful protest against such an extremely powerful artifact remaining in the hands of Dark Ones. The Regin Brothers hadn't really argued about it, but they handed over the Talon with the words, "Fafnir's time has not yet come. . . " And then suddenly the European office of the Inquisition had been attacked! There had been a battle in which almost all the magicians in the small sect had been killed, together with a substantial number of the Inquisition's bodyguards, who had grown idle and lazy. Then the remnants of the sect had made their absurd appearance in Moscow.

  It was a well-known fact that human beings didn't have a monopoly on idiots. . .

  But then. . . were they really idiots?

  Anton remembered what an intense charge of Power the Talon had given off. In part it was the Power accumulated in the Talon as a result of the Regin Brothers' efforts over many years. In part it was the Power of the Dark magician himself.

  Others didn't die in the same way as ordinary people. They receded into the Twilight, losing their physical form and with it their ability to return to the world of human beings. But there was something left behind¡ªAnton had seen vague shadows and a quivering mist that sometimes appeared in the Twilight, marking out the path taken by dead Others. Once he had even met a dead Other. . . It wasn't one of his most pleasant memories. But there was something left, even there. . .

  Was it possible to bring a dead Other back to life?

  The answer was probably somewhere. In the labyrinth of the archives, classified as top secret, sealed by the Night and Day Watches, with access banned by the Inquisition. The Higher Magicians were bound to have wondered about where Others went when they died, the path that they themselves would eventually follow. . .

  But Anton wasn't supposed to know the answer.

  He looked through the window at the clouds stretching out below, at the weak glimmering of thousands of auras merged together that indicated cities. The plane was already flying over some part of Poland.

  Just supposing it was possible to bring Fafnir back to life. . .

  So what? Maybe he had been a powerful magician, maybe even a Higher Magician, a magician beyond classification. . . his resurrection wouldn't change anything in the global balance of power, especially since he would be estranged from human life. He wouldn't understand modern reality. . . and if he was stupid enough to set off around Europe in his Twilight form, he'd be torn to pieces by rockets, shot with lasers from satellites. They'd use tactical nuclear weapons. . . while the Japanese howled woefully that Godzilla had come back to life and been killed again. . .

  What was it the Dark Ones wanted? Disorder, panic, people screaming about the Apocalypse?

  Anton squirmed in his chair. He took the plastic cup and the small, two-hundred-gram bottle of dry Hungarian wine from the smiling stewardess. It was all right for Edgar. . . Like any Dark One, he was flying business class, so he had a crystal glass and superior wine. . .

  There was something to that last idea. Fafnir. . . the Apocalypse. . . At least it made some sense of Gesar's remark about mass hysteria over the year 2000. But why would the Dark Ones want to stage the end of the world? And what about all the other things? The witch Alisa. . . the Chalk of Destiny. . .

  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¡ªan 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¡ªwhile 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¡ªa 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¡ªit 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¡ªthey 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¡ªnot 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¡ªthe Day Watch wasn't short of qualified programmers.

  He would have to rely on his own natural computer¡ªpowerful 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¡ªa 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¡ªhe'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¡ªif 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 would 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¡ªhe ought to pass the information on to the analytical section, let them rack their brains over it. . . Althou
gh 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¡ªthe 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¡ªhe 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¡ªintroducing 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¡ªnot 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¡ªit had to be. A pawn had been sacrificed, and now maybe a more weighty piece's turn had come. A knight or a bishop¡ª 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¡ªthat 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¡ªthis time with a rook. Somehow Edgar didn't feel like being a knight. Let that vicious old hag Anna Tikhonovna play the horse¡ªthat would be just about right for her. . .

  The plane shuddered as the wheels touched down on the runway. Once, twice¡ªand 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¡ªZabulon 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, Zab-ulon'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¡ªthe 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¡ªwith 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¡ªthe one that not everybody went to¡ªwas a Dark One. A very rare type, too¡ªa Beskud. He glanced at Edgar, licked his thin lips, and opened his slit pupils wide. And then, at last, he smiled¡ªhis teeth were small and sharp, all the same triangular shape.

  "Greetings! Here for the Tribunal?"

  "Uh-huh. "

  "Here you go. . . "

  He threw a small bundle of blue fire at Edgar¡ªit 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¡ª 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¡ªif 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¡ªamusing 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¡ªhe could eat a leisurely lunch and stroll to the appointed place on foot. A rendezvous under the clock tower¡ªwhat 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¡ªlove, 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 im-portant. 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¡ªyou 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¡ªmost 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¡ªa pretty Czech girl¡ªand with himself.

  He didn't spot Anton right away¡ªhe was too absorbed in conversation. But when he did spot him, he gave a broad, beaming smile.

  There was nothing else for it¡ªAnton 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¡ªmost 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 have 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¡ªanother 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¡ªand started. And Anton did pretty much the same.

  It was Edgar.