The Twilight Watch: Read online

  Then the question was: What for?

  And I already had the answer: In order not to go through with this initiation. In order to deliver the client into our hands and not go through with his promise.

  That meant it wasn't a matter of money. In some incomprehensible fashion the unknown client had acquired a hold over the Other. A hold so terrible and absolute that he could demand anything he wanted. An Other could never admit that a human being held that kind of power over him. So he was making a cunning knight's move . . .

  Yes, yes, yes!

  I lit a cigarette, took a sip of coffee, and slumped back grandly in the soft chair like I belonged there.

  It was beginning to come together. How could an Other end up in bondage to a human being? An ordinary human being, even if he was rich, influential, intelligent . . .

  There was only one possibility, and I didn't like it one little bit. Our mysterious renegade Other could have found himself in the position of the golden fish in the fairy tale. He could have given a human being his word of honour to grant him or her any wish at all. After all, the fish in the story hadn't expected the crazy old woman . . . that reminded me: I had to inform Gesar that I had discovered a potential Other . . . that the crazy old woman would want to become the Empress of the Sea.

  And that brought me to the really upsetting part.

  A vampire, or a werewolf, or a Dark Magician wouldn't give a damn about any promise.

  They would give their word and then take it back again. And they'd tear the human's throat out if he tried to stand up for his rights.

  So it was a Light Magician who had made the rash promise!

  Could that really happen?

  It could.

  Easily. We were all a bit naïve, Kostya had been right about that. Our human weaknesses made us vulnerable – we could be trapped by our sense of guilt, all sorts of romantic notions . . .

  And so the traitor was in our ranks. He had given his word – I wouldn't try to figure out why just yet. He was caught in a trap. If a Light Magician refused to carry out his promise, he would dematerialise . . .

  Stop! There was another curious point here. I could promise a human being to do 'anything he wanted'. But if I was asked to do the impossible . . . well, I didn't know what exactly, not something that was difficult, or repugnant, or forbidden – but actually impossible . . . extinguish the sun, for instance, or turn a human being into an Other . . . What answer would I give? That it was impossible. No way. And I'd be right, and there wouldn't be any reason for me to dematerialise. And my human master would have to accept that. Ask for something else . . . Money, health, incredible sex appeal, good luck playing the stock market and a keen nose for danger. In general, the usual human pleasures that a powerful Other can provide.

  But the renegade Other had panicked. He'd panicked badly enough to set both Watches and the Inquisition on his 'master' at the same time. He was backed into a corner, he was afraid of disappearing into the Twilight forever.

  That meant that he really could turn a human being into an Other!

  That meant the impossible was possible. The means existed. Not known to many, but they did exist . . .

  I suddenly felt uneasy.

  The traitor was one of our oldest and most knowledgeable magicians. Not necessarily a magician beyond classification, not necessarily someone who held a really important position. But an old hand with access to the greatest secrets . . .

  For some reason I immediately thought of Semyon.

  Semyon, the Light Magician who sometimes knew things that required the seal of the Avenging Fire to be applied to his body, to prevent him talking about them.

  'I'm well into my second century . . .'

  Maybe.

  He knew a lot of things.

  Who else did?

  There was a whole bunch of old, experienced magicians who didn't work in the Watch. Just got on with living in Moscow, watched TV, drank beer, went to football matches.

  I didn't know them, that was the problem. Those wise old birds who had quit working didn't want to get involved in the endless war between the Watches.

  And who could I turn to for Advice? Who could I expound my terrifying conjectures to? Gesar? Olga? Potentially they were on the suspect list themselves.

  No, I didn't believe they could have blundered. After the rough deal she'd had from life, Olga – not to mention the arch-cunning Gesar – would never make a gaffe like that, they wouldn't make impossible promises to a human being. And Semyon couldn't do it either. Semyon was wise, in the primordial, folk meaning of the word. I couldn't believe he would slip up like this . . .

  That meant it was another of our senior colleagues who had blundered.

  And anyway, how would I look putting forward an accusation like that? 'I think the guilty party is one of us. A Light One. Most likely Semyon. Or Olga. Or even you, Gesar . . .'

  How could I carry on going to work after that? How would I be able to look my colleagues in the face?

  No, I couldn't come out with suspicions like that. I had to know for sure.

  Somehow it felt awkward to call the waitress over. I walked to the counter and asked her to make me a fresh cup of coffee. Then I leaned against the railings and looked down.

  Below me I spotted my acquaintance from the night before. The guitarist, collector of amusing T-shirts and happy owner of a large English toilet, was standing beside a small open pool full of live lobsters. Las's face reflected the intense workings of his thought. Finally he laughed and pushed his trolley towards the checkout.

  I pricked up my ears.

  Las unhurriedly set out his modest purchases on the moving belt, with a bottle of Czech absinthe towering over everything else. As he was paying, he said:

  'You know, that pool of lobsters you have over there . . .'

  The girl at the checkout smiled, every element of her posture confirming that there was a pool and there were live lobsters paddling in it, and a couple of arthropods would go remarkably well with absinthe, kefir and frozen pelmeni.

  'Well,' Las continued imperturbably, 'I just saw one lobster climb on another's back, crawl out onto the edge and hide under those fridges over there.'

  The girl started blinking rapidly. A minute later two security men and a sturdy female cleaner appeared at the checkout. After listening to the terrible tale of the escape, they rushed over to the fridges.

  Las finished paying, glancing back into the hall every now and then.

  The pursuit of the non-existent lobster was in full swing. The cleaner was poking her mop under the fridges, with the security men bustling around her. I heard one of them say:

  'Drive it this way, towards me! I can almost see it already!'

  Las moved towards the exit with a quiet smile on his face.

  'Go easy with that poking. You'll dent its shell – it'll be damaged goods,' one of the security men warned.

  Trying to wipe a smile unworthy of a Light Magician off my face, I took my coffee from the waitress. No, that guy wouldn't have cut letters out of newspapers with nail scissors. That would have been far too tedious.

  My phone rang.

  'Hi, Sveta,' I said.

  'How are things going, Anton?'

  Her voice sounded a bit less alarmed this time.

  'I'm having a coffee. I've had a chat with my colleagues. From the competing firms.'

  'Aha,' said Svetlana. 'Well done. Anton, do you need my help at all?'

  'But you . . . you're not on the staff,' I said, perplexed.

  'I don't give a damn!' Svetlana replied, flaring up instantly. 'It's you I'm concerned about, not the Watch!'

  'No need yet,' I replied. 'How's Nadiushka?'

  'She's helping me make borscht,' Svetlana said with a laugh. 'So dinner will be a bit late today. Shall I call her?'

  'Uhuh,' I said, relaxing, and took a seat by the window.

  But Nadya didn't take the phone, and she didn't want to talk to her daddy.

  They can be stubborn like that at the age of two.

  I talked to Svetlana a little bit longer. I felt like asking if her bad premonitions had disappeared, but I didn't. It was clear enough from her voice that they had.

  I wound up the conversation, but I didn't put my phone away. There was no point in calling the office. But what if I had a word with someone in a private capacity?

  Well, I had to go into town, meet people, keep the wheels of my business turning, sign new contracts, didn't I?

  I dialled Semyon's number.

  It was time to stop playing the sleuth. Light Ones don't lie to each other.

  For meetings that are not entirely business, but not exactly personal either, the best places are small pubs, with five or six tables at most. There was a time when Moscow didn't have any places like that. Public catering always meant premises large enough for a full-scale bash.

  But we have them now.

  This particular entirely unremarkable pub-café was right in the very centre, on Solyanka Street. A door in the wall leading straight in from the street, five tables, a little bar – back at the Assol complex even the bars in the apartments were more impressive.

  And there was nothing special about the clientele. It wasn't one of those special-interest clubs that Gesar loved to collect – scuba-divers get together here, and recidivist cat-burglars there . . .

  And the cuisine had no pretensions of any kind. Two types of draught beer, other alcoholic drinks, sausages out of a microwave and French fries. Booze and junk.

  Maybe that was why Semyon had suggested meeting in this café? He fitted right in. And I didn't exactly stand out from the crowd either . . .

  Noisily blowing the froth off his Klin Gold beer – I'd only ever seen that done in old movies – Semyon took a mouthful
and looked at me amiably:

  'Let's hear it.'

  'You know about the crisis?' I asked, taking the bull by the horns straight away.

  'Which crisis is that?' Semyon asked.

  'The one with the anonymous letters.'

  Semyon nodded. He even added something:

  'I've just completed the temporary registration of our visitor from Prague.'

  'This is what I think,' I said, twirling my beer mug round on the clean tablecloth. 'They were sent by an Other.'

  'Sure they were!' said Semyon. 'You drink your beer. If you want, I'll sober you up afterwards.'

  'You can't, I'm shielded.'

  Semyon screwed his eyes up and looked at me. And he agreed that yes, I was shielded and it was beyond his powers to break through a magic-proof shell installed by none other than Gesar himself.

  'Well then,' I went on, 'if they were sent by an Other, what is he trying to achieve?'

  'The isolation or elimination of his human client,' Semyon said calmly. 'Evidently he must have rashly promised to make him an Other. So now he can't back out of it.'

  All my heroic intellectual efforts had been pointless. Without even working on the case, Semyon had figured it all out in his own head.

  'It's a Light Other,' I said.

  'Why?' asked Semyon, surprised.

  'A Dark Other has plenty of other ways to go back on a promise.'

  Semyon thought for a while, chewed on a potato straw and said yes, it looked that way. But he wouldn't entirely rule out any involvement by Dark Ones. Because even Dark Ones could swear a rash oath that there was no way to get round. For instance, swear on the Dark, call the primordial power to bear witness. After that, they couldn't wriggle out of it.

  'Agreed,' I said. 'But even so, the chances are greater that one of us has slipped up.'

  Semyon nodded and declared:

  'Not me.'

  I looked away.

  'Don't you get upset,' Semyon said in a melancholy voice. 'You've got the right idea and you're doing the right thing. We could have slipped up. Even I could have blundered. Thanks for asking me to talk, and not just running to the boss . . . I give you my word, Light Magician Anton Gorodetsky, that I did not send these letters and I do not know who sent them.'

  'You know, I'm really glad about that,' I said honestly.

  'Not nearly as glad as I am,' Semyon laughed. 'I'll tell you something, the Other who did this has got some nerve. He hasn't just got the Watches involved in this mess, he's dragged the Inquisition into it as well. To do that, you either have to be way out of control, or calculate every last little detail. If it's the first, he's done for, but if it's the second, he'll squirm his way out of it. I'd lay two to one he'll squirm his way out.'

  'Semyon, is it true that an ordinary human being can be turned into an Other after all?' I asked. Honesty is the best policy.

  'I don't know,' Semyon replied and shook his head. 'I used to believe it was impossible. But if recent events are anything to go by, there's some kind of loophole. Very narrow, pretty nasty, but still a loophole.'

  'Why nasty?' I asked, seizing on his words.

  'Because otherwise we would have made use of it. What a coup, for instance, to make the President one of your own! And not just the President, but everyone who has any kind of influence. There'd be an amendment to the Treaty, determining the procedure for initiation, and there'd be the same stand-off, only at a new level.'

  'But I thought it had been absolutely forbidden,' I admitted. 'The Higher Others got together and agreed not to disrupt the balance . . . threatened each other with the ultimate weapon . . .'

  'With what?' Semyon asked, astonished.

  'You know, the ultimate weapon. Remember, you told me about the incredibly powerful thermonuclear bombs? We have one, the Americans have one . . . There must be something of the sort in magic too . . .'

  Semyon started laughing:

  'What nonsense, Anton! There aren't any bombs like that, it's all fantasy, fairy tales! Learn some physics! There isn't enough heavy water in the oceans for a self-sustaining thermonuclear reaction.'

  'Then why did you tell me that?'

  'We were spinning all sorts of yarns at the time. I never thought you'd believe it . . .'

  'Ah, dammit,' I muttered and took a mouthful of beer. 'And you know, after that I couldn't sleep at night . . .'

  'There is no ultimate weapon, you can sleep easy,' Semyon laughed. 'No real one and no magical one. And if we accept that it is possible to initiate ordinary people after all, then the procedure is extremely difficult and disgusting, with unpleasant side effects. In general, no one wants to get their hands dirty. Neither us nor the Dark Ones.'

  'And you don't know about any such procedure?' I asked, just to make sure.

  'I don't.' Semyon thought for a moment. 'No, I definitely don't. Reveal myself to people, give them orders or, say, recruit them as volunteers – I've done it all. But as for turning someone into an Other when you want to, I've never heard of that.'

  Another dead end.