Story Three 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¡ªthe kind the Russians liked, of course, sweetish, but still with a sharp bite¡ªand 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¡ªthose 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¡ªif 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¡ªyou 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¡ªthat's you and me¡ª 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 just 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¡ªI'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¡ªafter all, this is war. "
"Okay, so you tried to use the situation too," Edgar agreed dismissively. "Let's assume that. . . But Gesar did nothing¡ª nothing!¡ªto 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¡ªthe vampires and shape-shifters¡ªas 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 abil
ities 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¡ª not even to a queen or a king. "
Anton drained his large mug sullenly and put it back down on the glass stand with the restaurant's logo.
He was no longer the same young magician who had gone out into the field for the first time to track down a poaching vampire. He had changed, even in the short time that had passed. Since that first mission he'd had plenty of opportunities to observe just how much Darkness there was in the Light. He was actually rather impressed by the gloomy position adopted by the Dark magician Edgar¡ªthey were only grains caught between the mill wheels as the big players settled accounts with each other, so the best thing to do was drink your beer and keep quiet. And once again Anton thought that sometimes the Dark Ones, with their apparent simplicity, were more human than the Light Ones, with their struggle for exalted ideals.
"But even so, you're wrong, Edgar," he said eventually. "There's one fundamental difference about us. We live for others. We serve, we don't rule. "
"That's what all the human leaders have said," Edgar replied, obligingly falling into the trap. "The Party is the servant of the people, remember?"
"But there's one thing that distinguishes us from human leaders," said Anton, looking Edgar in the eye. "Dematerialization. You understand? A Light One cannot choose the path of evil. If he realizes that he has increased the amount of evil in the world, he withdraws into the Twilight. Disappears. And it's happened plenty of times, whenever a Light One has made a mistake or given way even slightly to the influence of the Darkness. "
Edgar giggled quietly. "Anton. . . you've answered your own point. "If he realizes. . . ' What if he doesn't realize? Do you remember the case of that maniac healer? Twelve years ago, I think it was. . . "
Anton remembered. He hadn't been initiated at the time, but he'd discussed and analyzed the unprecedented case with every member of the Watch, with every Light One.
A Light healer with a powerful gift of foresight. He lived outside Moscow and wasn't an active member of the Night Watch, but he was listed in the reserve. He worked as a doctor, and used Light magic in his practice. His patients adored him¡ªafter all, he could literally work miracles. . . But he also killed young women who were his patients. Not by using magic¡ªhe simply killed them. Sometimes he killed them using acupuncture¡ªhe had a perfect knowledge of the body's energy points. . .
The Night Watch discovered what he was doing almost by accident. One of the analysts started wondering about the sharp rise in deaths among young women in a small town just outside Moscow. One especially alarming factor was that most of the victims were pregnant. They also noticed a remarkably high number of miscarriages, abortions, and stillbirths. They suspected the Dark Ones, they suspected vampires and werewolves, Satanists, witches. . . They checked absolutely everyone.
Then Gesar himself got involved in the case, and the murderer was caught. The murderer who was a Light magician. . .
The charming and imposing healer simply saw the future too clearly. Sometimes, when he received a patient, he could see the future of her unborn child, who was almost certain to grow into a murderer, a maniac, or a criminal. Sometimes he saw that his patient would commit some monstrous crime or accidentally cause the deaths of large numbers of people, so he decided to fight back any way he could.
At his trial the healer had explained ardently that Light magical intervention wouldn't have been any use¡ªin that case the Dark Ones would have been granted the right to an equal intervention in response, and the quantity of evil in the world wouldn't have been reduced. But all he had done was "pull up the weeds. " And he had been prevented from sinking into the Twilight by the firm conviction that the amount of good he had brought into the world was far greater than the evil he had done.
Gesar had had to dematerialize him in person.
"He was a psychopath," Anton explained. "Just a psychopath. With the typical deranged way of thinking. . . You get cases like that, unfortunately. "
"Like that sword-bearer of Joan of Arc's, the Marquis Gilles de Rais," Edgar prompted eagerly. "He was a Light One too, wasn't he? And then he started killing women and children in order to extract the elixir of youth from their bodies, conquer death, and make the whole of humanity happy. "
"Edgar, nobody's insured against insanity. Not even Others. But if you take the most ordinary witch. . . " Anton began, fuming.
"I accept that," said Edgar, spreading his hands in a reconcil-iatory shrug. "But we're not talking about extreme cases here! Just about the fact that it's possible, and the defense mechanism you're so proud of, dematerialization¡ªlet's call it simply conscience¡ª can fail. And now think¡ªwhat if Gesar decides that if you die it will do immense good for the cause of the Light in the future? If the scales are balanced between Anton Gorodetsky on one side and millions of human lives on the other?"
"He wouldn't have to trick me," Anton said firmly. "There'd be no need. If such a situation arises, I'm prepared to sacrifice myself. Every one of us is. "
"And what if he can't tell you anything about it?" Edgar laughed, delighted. "So the enemy won't find out, so you'll behave more naturally, so you won't suffer unnecessarily. . . after all, it's Gesar's responsibility to preserve your peace of mind as well. "
He raised the next mug of beer with a satisfied expression and sucked in the foam noisily.
"You're a Dark One," said Anton. "All you see in everything is evil, treachery, trickery. "
"All I do is not close my eyes to them," Edgar retorted. "And that's why I don't trust Zabulon. I distrust him almost, as much as I do Gesar. I can even trust you more¡ªyou're just another unfortunate chess piece who happens by chance to be painted a different color from me. Does a white pawn hate a black one? No. Especially if the two pawns have their heads down together over a quiet beer or two. "
"You know," Anton said in a slightly surprised voice, "I just don't understand how you can carry on living if you see the world like that. I'd just go and hang myself. "
"So you don't have any counterarguments to offer?"
Anton took a gulp of beer too. The wonderful thing about this natural Czech beer was that even if you drank lots of it, it still didn't make your head or your body feel heavy. . . Or was that an illusion?
"Not a single one," Anton admitted. "Right now, this very moment, not a single one. But I'm sure you're wrong. It's just difficult to argue about the colors of a rainbow with a blind man. There's something missing in you. . . I don't know what exactly.
But it's something very important, and without it you're more helpless than a blind man. "
"Why am I?" Edgar protested, slightly offended. "It's you Light Ones who are helpless. Bound hand and foot by your own ethical dogmas. And those who have moved up onto the higher levels of development, like Gesar, control you. "
"I'll try to answer that," said Anton. "But not right now. We'll be seeing each other again. "
"Avoiding the question?" Edgar asked, laughing.
"No, it's just that we decided not to talk about work. Didn't we?"
Edgar didn't answer. The Light One really had got him there! Why had he bothered getting into such a useless argument? You can't paint a white dog black, as they said in the Day Watch.
"Yes," he agreed, "It's my fault, I admit it. Only. . . "
"Only it's very hard not to talk about the things that separate us," Anton said with a nod. "I understand. It's not your fault. . . it's destiny. "
He rummaged in his pockets and took out a pack of cigarettes. Edgar couldn't help noticing that they were cheap ones, 21st Century, made in Russia. Well, well. A Dark magician of his level could afford all the pleasures of life. But Anton smoked Russian cigarettes. . . and maybe it was no accident that he'd ended up in this small, cozy restaurant that was so inexpensive?
&
nbsp; "Where is it you're staying?" he asked.
"The Kafka Hotel," Anton answered. "Zizkov, on Cimburkova Street. "
That fit, all right¡ªit was a small, second-rate hotel. Edgar nodded as the Light One lit up. It looked awkward somehow, as if he hadn't been smoking long or didn't smoke very often.
"And you're in the Hilton, aren't you?" Anton suddenly said. "Or the Radisson SAS at the very worst?"
"Are you following me?" Edgar asked, suddenly on his guard again.
"No. It's just that all Dark Ones are so fond of famous names and expensive establishments. You're predictable too. "
"So what?" Edgar said defiantly. "Are you a supporter of asceticism and the poor life?"
Anton looked around ironically at the restaurant, the pathetic remains of his leg of pork on the knife-scarred wooden board, his latest mug of beer¡ªhow many had there been? It didn't seem like he even needed to answer, but he did: "No, I'm not arguing that. But the number of rooms and staff that a hotel has isn't the most important thing. Nor is the price of the dishes on the menu. I could have stayed at the Hilton too, and gone to drink beer in the most expensive tavern in Prague. But what for? And you¡ªwhy did you come to this place? Not exactly top flight, is it?"
"It's comfortable here," Edgar admitted. "And the food's good. "
"See what I mean?"
In a sudden fit of drunken magnanimity, Edgar exclaimed, "That's it! I think I've got it! That's what the difference between us is. You try to limit your natural requirements. Maybe it's some kind of modesty. . . But we're more extravagant, yes. . . With power, money, financial and human resources. . . "
"People are not a resource!" Anton's eyes were suddenly piercing and angry. "Do you understand? They're not a resource!"
That was always the way. As soon as the areas of contact came up. . . Edgar sighed. The Light Ones were really deluded. How could they be so deluded?
"All right. Let's change the subject. " He took another mouthful of beer and couldn't help remarking, "There was an American airman sitting in here. . . and he was a Light magician. . . an absolute oaf, by the way; he didn't even notice me. I'll bet you he regards people as a resource. Or maybe as a stupid, dull-witted inferior race that can be nurtured and punished. The same way we regard them. "
"Our trouble is that we're a product of human society," Anton replied gloomily. "With all its shortcomings. And until they've lived many centuries, even Light Ones still carry around the stereotypes and myths of their own country: Russia, America, or Burkina Faso¡ªit makes no difference. What the hell, why can't I get Burkina Faso out of my head?"
"One of those idiots, the Regin Brothers, is from Burkina Faso," Edgar suggested. "And it's a funny name. "
"The Regin Brothers. . . " Anton said with a nod. "What cunning business are your people up to with them? It was someone in the Moscow Day Watch who called them to Moscow. Promised to help them activate Fafnir's Talon. . . What for?"
"I am not in possession of any such information, and that is an official statement of my position!" Edgar replied quickly. You couldn't afford to give these Light Ones the slightest hint of a formal violation to clutch at. . .
"Don't bother admitting it, there's no need!" Anton said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I'm not a little child. But the last thing we need is the appearance of an insane Dark magician of immense Power. "
"Us too," Edgar declared. "That would mean all-out war. No holds barred. In other words, the Apocalypse. "
"Then that means the Regin Brothers were lied to," Anton said. "They were persuaded to attack the Berne office, steal the Talon, and fly to Moscow. . . but what for? To feed Power to the Mirror?"
He's quick-witted, Edgar noted to himself. But he shook his head as he formulated a superb denial: "That's nonsense! We only found out who Vitaly Rogoza was after the Talon had already been stolen and the four survivors from the battle were on their way to Moscow. "
"That's right!" Anton suddenly exclaimed. "You're right, Dark One! The appearance of a Mirror cannot be foretold¡ªit's a spontaneous creation of the Twilight. But the Inquisition's official communique states that the sect began preparing to storm the artifacts repository two weeks before the actual event. Rogoza didn't even exist then. . . or, rather, he did, but he was an ordinary individual who was later transformed by the Twilight. . . "
Edgar chewed on his lip. Now it looked as if he'd given the Light One an idea. . . passed on some information to him or simply pointed him in the right direction. Oh, that was bad. . . But then, why was it? He wouldn't mind being able to understand the situation better himself. It was a matter of vital importance to him too. Edgar mused out loud: "Maybe someone wanted the Inquisition office moved out of Berne?"
"Or decided it ought to be moved to Prague. . . "
They gazed at each other thoughtfully¡ªa Light magician and a Dark magician, both equally interested in understanding what was going on. The waiter was about to approach them, but he saw they hadn't finished their beer yet and went to serve the Americans.
"That's one possibility," Edgar agreed. "But we didn't need the actual operation with the Talon. Don't even think of blaming us for that kind of nonsense!"
"But maybe," Anton exclaimed, "you needed to ruin some other operation. . . one of our operations? And Fafnir's Talon was a very good way to do that?"
Edgar cursed himself for being so talkative. Only in the figurative sense, of course. No Dark magician would ever set an Inferno vortex spinning above his own head.
"Nonsense, what other operation. . . " he began. And then he suddenly realized that by starting to defend the Day Watch so abruptly, he had effectively confirmed Anton's guess.
"Thank you, Other," the Light One said with sincere feeling.
Still mentally lashing himself, Edgar stood up. It was true what they said: Before you sit down with a Light One, cut out your tongue and wire your mouth shut!
"It's time I was going," he said. "I really enjoyed. . . our little talk. "
"Me too," Anton agreed. And he even held out his hand.
It would have been stupid to refuse to take the hand that was proffered, so Edgar shook it. Then he tossed a five-hundred-crown bill onto the table and hurried out.
Anton smiled as he watched him go. It was fun to give a Dark magician a fright, especially one of the Day Watch's top ten. The fat watchman obviously thought he'd given away some terrible secret. . . but he hadn't given anything away: The explanation Anton had suggested was stupid, and even if it happened by chance to be the right one, Anton still hadn't learned anything worth knowing. . .
He squinted at the waiter and gestured, as if he were writing on his palm with his finger. A minute later he was handed the check.
Including the usual tip, it came to one thousand and twenty crowns.
Oh, those Dark Ones. . .
It was only a trifle, but Edgar had still saved money. After all those gibes about the poor Night Watch and that invisible counting on fingers. . .
Anton paid, stood up (the beer had had an effect after all¡ª his body felt relaxed in a way that was pleasant and alarming at the same time), and walked out of the Black Eagle, toward Staromestka Square, where he had an appointment with a representative of the Inquisition. He was only just in time.
There were always a lot of tourists here.
Especially at the beginning of every hour, when the old astronomical clock began to chime. The little double windows opened and little figures of the apostles appeared in them, moving out as if they were surveying the square, and then retreating into the depths of the mechanism again. The indefatigable Staromestka Square clock. . .
Anton stood among the tourists with his hands stuck in his pockets¡ªhis hands were feeling cold after all, and he'd never liked wearing gloves. All around him video cameras hummed quietly, camera shutters clicked, and the members of the multilingual crowd exchanged impressions on their visit to the latest obligatory attract
ion. He even thought he could hear their brains squeaking as they ticked off one more spot on the tourist map of Prague: Watch the clock chime¡ªdone.
Why was he walking along in this faceless crowd, as if he were also ticking off the points of a tourist program in his mind?
Mental inertia? Laziness? Or an incurable herd instinct? The Dark Ones probably never walked around in the common crowd. . .
"No, I don't understand you," someone in the crowd said in Russian, a couple of steps away from him. "I'm on vacation, do you hear? Can't you decide for yourself?"
Anton squinted quickly at his fellow countryman, but the sight wasn't a very pleasant one. His compatriot was sturdily built, with broad shoulders, and was draped in gold. He'd already learned how to wear expensive suits, but not how to knot a tie from Hermes. The tie was knotted, of course, but with a "collective farm" knot that was awful to look at. There was a crumpled scarf dangling from under the unbuttoned coat of maroon cashmere wool.
The New Russian caught his glance and frowned as he put away his cell phone. He turned to gaze at the clock again. Anton looked away.
The third generation, that was what the analysts said. You had to wait until the third generation. The grandson of this bandit who had got rich and somehow managed to stay alive would be a thoroughly decent man. You just had to wait. And unlike people, Others could afford to wait for generations. Their work went on for centuries. . . at least the work of the Light Ones did.
It was easy for the Dark Ones to make the changes they wanted to peoples' minds. The path of Darkness was always shorter than the path of Light. Shorter, easier, more fun.
"Anton Gorodetsky," someone said behind his back. Someone speaking a language that was obviously not his own, but which he knew perfectly.
And with that intonation that was quite impossible to confuse with anybody else. The aloof, slightly bored intonation of the Inquisitors.
Anton turned round, nodded, and held out his hand.
The Inquisitor looked like a Czech. A tall man of indetermi-nate age in a warm, gray raincoat, and a woollen beret with an amusing hat pin with a design of hunting horns, weapons, and a deer's head. Somehow it was very easy to imagine him in a twilit park in autumn, strolling over the thick carpet of brown leaves thoughtfully, sadly, slowly¡ªlooking like a spy engrossed in his thoughts.
"Witezslav," said the Inquisitor. "Witezslav Grubin, let's go. "
They made their way out of the crowd easily¡ªfor some reason the people moved aside for the Inquisitor, even though he didn't make use of his powers as an Other. They set off along a narrow little street, gradually moving farther and farther away from the idle tourists.
"How was your flight, Anton?" Witezslav inquired. "Have you had a rest, some lunch?"
"Yes, thank you, everything's fine. "
A show of politeness from an Inquisitor, even if it was strictly formal, was a pleasant surprise.
"Do you require any assistance from the office?"
Anton shook his head, quite certain that Witezslav would sense the movement, even though he was walking in front.
"That's good," the Inquisitor replied in the same indifferent voice, but quite sincerely. "There's so much work to do. . . The office coming to Prague is a great event for us. We feel very proud. But our department is very small and there's a lot of work to do. "
"As I understand it, the Inquisition hasn't had to intervene very often in Prague?"
"That's right. The Watches here are law-abiding. They don't violate the Treaty very much. "
That's right, thought Anton. The Inquisition's job had always been to resolve disagreements between the Watches, but crimes committed by individual Others were dealt with by the Watches. The atmosphere of a normal European country was hardly likely to have a pacifying effect on the Dark Ones. But within the framework of an organization they'd learned to respect the law.
Or at least to break it less obviously.
"The Tribunal session to consider the case of Igor Teplov, magician of the second level, will commence tomorrow evening," said Witezslav. Anton appreciated the fact that he had used Igor's full name and given his status as a magician, and also the statement that the session would "commence" and not "take place. " That meant the Inquisition hadn't reached any conclusions yet. And it was prepared for a long hearing. "Would you like to see him?"
"Yes, of course," Anton said with a nod. "I have some letters for him from the other guys, some presents. . . "
He stopped short¡ªthat phrase about the letters and the presents had sounded very dismal somehow. As if he really had brought a parcel for someone in prison. Or to the hospital bed of someone who was seriously ill. . .
"I've got a car," said the Inquisitor. "We can stop at your hotel for the parcel and then go to see the detainee. "
"Igor. . . is he somewhere in the Inquisition?"
"No, why would he be?" said Witezslav, answering a question with a question. He stopped beside a Skoda Felicia parked at the curb. "We might have kept a Dark One who was detained under observation. But your colleague is in an ordinary hotel. He signed a pledge not to leave the city. "
Anton nodded, admitting it had been a stupid question. It was true, what was the point of putting a Light magician in a cell?
"Excuse me, Witezslav. . . " he said. "I know it has nothing to do with the work you do now, but I was wondering. . . just wondering, without any ulterior motive. . . I could probably try to probe you, but it's not appropriate somehow. . . "
"Who I used to be?" asked Witezslav.
"Yes. "
The Inquisitor took out a key and pressed the button on the tag to switch off the car alarm. He opened the door.
"I'm a vampire. Or rather, I was a vampire. "
"A Higher Vampire?" Anton asked for some reason.
"Yes. "
Anton got into the front seat and fastened his seat belt. The vampire Witezslav started the engine, but waited before driving off, giving it a chance to warm up.
"I'm sorry, it really was an idiotic question," Anton admitted.
"Of course it was. Absolutely idiotic. " The Inquisitor obviously didn't suffer from an excess of tact. "As far as I'm aware, Anton, you are still extremely young. . . "
He drove the car out into the street, carefully and smoothly. Of course, he didn't ask what hotel Anton was staying in¡ªhe didn't need to. He said, "You probably have certain illusions concerning the nature of the Inquisition and what kind of Others work in it. So allow me to explain a few things to you. The Inquisition is not a third force, as many ordinary members of the Watches believe. And we don't become some special kind of Others who aren't connected to the Darkness or the Light. . . We are simply Inquisitors. Selected from those Dark and Light Others who for various reasons have come to realize the absolute necessity of the Treaty and the truce between the Watches. Yes, we do possess certain information that you in the Watches don't have. . . apart, perhaps, from the very greatest magicians. And believe me, Anton Gorodetsky, when I tell you there is nothing comforting in what we know. We are obliged to stand on guard over the Treaty. Do you understand?"
"I'm trying to understand," said Anton.
"I'm a vampire," Witezslav repeated. "An absolutely genuine Higher Vampire who has often killed young girls. . . that's the most correct energetic. . . "
"Please don't lecture me on the physiology of vampires," said Anton. "I find it unpleasant, believe me. "
Witezslav nodded, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the road. Anton suddenly realized that the car was still new¡ªit was well taken care of. The Inquisitor was clearly proud of it. . .
"Well then, I don't possess a soul, and I'm not even alive in the sense that Light Ones use that word," said Witezslav. "I regard the cause of the Light as a naive, dangerous, and frequently criminal doctrine. And on the other hand, I sympathize with the cause of the Darkness. But. . . "
He paused for a moment, as if he were d
efining a complex pattern of thought. "But I have a very clear picture of the alternative to the present situation. And that's why I'm a member of the Inquisition. That's why I punish those who have violated the Treaty. Note that, Anton. Not those who are wrong¡ªafter all, there are always at least two sides to the truth. The Light has sometimes acquired great Power, and there have been times when the Darkness has triumphed. All the Inquisition does is stand guard over the Treaty. "
"I understand," said Anton. "Naturally. But I've always wondered if a situation could arise in which the Inquisition would support one side or the other, not based on the letter of the Treaty, but on the truth. . . "
"There are always at least two sides to the truth," the Inquisitor repeated. "A situation. . . "
He thought about it.
"I've never come across a Light Inquisitor who would support his own Watch," Anton added. "But is the situation really the same with a Dark Inquisitor? Say what you will, but you have your own powers, your own esoteric knowledge. And I'm not talking about confiscated artifacts in the archives. "
"Anything is possible," the vampire said unexpectedly. "Yes. . . I could see it. If open war broke out between the Darkness and the Light, not just a clash between the Watches, but real war between the Darkness and the Light. If every Other stood on his own side of the front, then what need would there be for the Inquisition? Then we would simply be Others. . . " He nodded and added, "Only by that time the Inquisition would probably have been destroyed in the attempt to prevent such a situation arising. There aren't that many of us. And what a few surviving Others who once wore the Inquisitor's robes might decide to do wouldn't change a thing. "
"I understand what makes the Night Watch observe the Treaty," said Anton. "We're afraid for people. And I know what motivates the Day Watch¡ªfear for themselves. But what makes you Inquisitors go against your own essential nature?"
Witezslav turned his head and said quietly, "The only thing that restrains you is fear, Anton Gorodetsky. For yourself, or for people¡ªthat's not important. But we are restrained by horror. And that is why we observe the Treaty. You have no need to be concerned about the outcome of the trial¡ªthere won't be any fixes. If your colleague has not violated the Treaty, he will leave Prague alive and well. "
By the evening Edgar had recovered a bit from his annoyance. Maybe he'd been helped by a good dinner in an expensive restaurant with a bottle of vintage Czech wine (well, it wasn't French, or even Spanish, but it certainly wasn't bad). Or maybe the atmosphere of Prague at Christmas had a soothing effect. Naturally, Edgar didn't believe in God¡ªnot many of the Others, especially Dark Ones, suffered from superstitions like that. But he found the festival of Christmas really very enjoyable, and he always tried to celebrate it accordingly.
Maybe it was the influence of memories of his childhood? When he was a simple country boy called Edgar who helped his father on the farm, went to church, and looked forward to every holiday with his heart singing. Or maybe he remembered the 1920s and '30s, when he was already an Other, but not actively involved in the Watch, when he lived in Tallinn, had a good practice as an attorney, a wonderful wife and four little boys. . . His parents had died long ago, and he had buried his wife. One of his two surviving sons lived in Canada and the other in Parnu, but he hadn't seen them for forty years. It would have been hard for the old men to believe that this youthful, sturdy man was their father, who had been born in the late nineteenth century.
Yes, it must be the memories, Edgar thought as he lit up his cigar. There had been a lot of good things in ordinary human life, after all. Maybe he should play at being human again? Get married, have a family. . . take thirty years' leave from the Watch. . .
He laughed hollowly. That was all nonsense. You couldn't step into the same river twice. He'd lived as a man, lived as an ordinary Other, and now his place was in the Day Watch. It was all right for Anton, with his unspent passion and fresh, vital emotions, but all that fretting and fussing wouldn't suit Edgar any longer.
Edgar caught the eye of the young woman sitting, bored and alone, at the next table. He smiled, and touched her mind with the gentlest of touches.
Not a prostitute, just a young girl out looking for adventure. That was good. He didn't like professionals. There was nothing they could surprise him with anyway.
He called the waiter over and ordered a bottle of champagne.
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