Night Watch

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  “Get a move on.”

  The door of the conference room was half-open. I glanced inside. There were about thirty people in there, mostly field agents and analysts. The boss was striding in front of a map of Moscow and nodding his head, while his commercial deputy, Vitaly Markovich, a very weak magician, but a born businessman, spoke to everyone:

  “And so we have completely covered our current expenditures, and we have no need to resort to . . . er . . . special varieties of financial activity. If the meeting approves my proposals, we can increase our employees’ allowances somewhat—in the first instance, naturally, for our field operatives. Payments for temporary disability and pensions for the families of those who have been killed also need to be . . . er . . . increased somewhat. And we can afford to do that . . .”

  It was funny to see magicians who could transform lead into gold, coal into diamonds, and neat rectangles of paper into crisp bank notes discussing commerce. But in actual fact it made things easier. It provided an occupation for those Others whose powers were too meager to make them a living. And it reduced the risk of unsettling the balance of power.

  When I appeared, Boris Ignatievich nodded and said:

  “Thank you, Vitaly. I think the situation is quite clear; there are no complaints as far as your work is concerned. Shall we vote on it? Thank you. Now, while we have everyone here . . .”

  The boss kept a close eye on me as I tiptoed to an empty chair and sat down.

  “. . . we can move on to the most important item of business.”

  From his chair next to me, Semyon leaned over and whispered:

  “The most important item of business is the payment of Party dues for March . . .”

  I couldn’t help smiling. Sometimes Boris Ignatievich really does act just like an old-time Communist Party functionary. I find that less irritating than when he acts like a medieval inquisitor or a retired general, but maybe that’s just me . . .

  “The most important item is a protest I received from the Day Watch just two hours ago,” said the boss.

  It didn’t sink in immediately. The Day Watch and the Night Watch are constantly making problems for each other. There are protests every week: Sometimes it’s settled at the district office level, and sometimes a case goes to the Berne tribunal . . .

  Then I realized any protest that required a full meeting of the Watch couldn’t possibly be ordinary.

  “The essential point of the protest,” said the boss, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “. . . the essential point of the protest is as follows . . . This morning one of the Dark Side’s women was killed near Stoleshnikov Lane. This is a brief description of the incident . . .”

  Two sheets of paper warm from the printer landed in my lap. Everyone else received an identical gift. I ran my eyes over the text:

  “Galina Rogova, twenty-four years old . . . initiated at the age of seven, her family are not Others . . . mentor—Anna Chernogorova, fourth-grade magician . . . At the age of seven Galina Rogova was identified as a were-panther. Average powers . . .”

  I frowned as I read through the dossier, although there wasn’t much reason for concern. Rogova had been a Dark One, but she hadn’t worked in Day Watch. She hadn’t ever hunted human beings, not even once. Even the two licenses she’d been given, when she came of age and after her wedding, hadn’t been used. With the help of magic she’d reached a high position in the Warm Home construction corporation and married the deputy director. One child—a boy, no Other powers detected. She’d used her powers as an Other for self-protection a few times, and on one occasion killed her attacker. But even then she hadn’t stooped to cannibalism . . .

  “We could do with more shape-shifters like that, right?” asked Semyon. He turned the page and gave a little snort of surprise. Intrigued, I flipped to the end of the document.

  That was it. The report of the examination. A cut in the blouse and the jacket . . . probably a blow with a thin-bladed dagger. Enchanted, of course; a shape-shifter couldn’t be killed with plain ordinary steel. But what was it that had surprised Semyon?

  There it was!

  No visible wounds had been discovered on the body. Not even a scratch. The cause of death was a total drain of vital energy.

  “Very neat,” said Semyon. “I remember during the Civil War I was sent to capture a were-tiger. The bastard worked in the Cheka, and pretty high up too . . .”

  “Have you familiarized yourselves with the data?” the boss asked.

  “May I ask a question?” A slim arm shot into the air on the far side of the room.

  “By all means, Yulia,” the boss said with a nod.

  The Night Watch’s youngest member stood up, adjusting her hair nervously. A pretty-looking young girl, maybe just a little immature. But taking her into the analytical department had been a good move.

  “Boris Ignatievich, the way I see it, the magical intervention here is second degree. Or even first?”

  “It could be second degree,” the boss confirmed.

  “That means it could have been you . . .” Yulia paused for a moment, embarrassed. “Or perhaps Semyon . . . Ilya . . . or Garik. Right?”

  “Garik couldn’t have done it,” said the boss. “But Ilya or Semyon could have.”

  Semyon mumbled something, as if he’d rather have been spared the compliment.

  “It’s also just possible that the killing was carried out by someone on the Light Side who was just passing through Moscow,” Yulia mused out loud. “But magicians that powerful can’t arrive in town without being noticed; they’re all monitored by Day Watch. That means there are three people we need to investigate. And if they all have alibis, we have no charges to answer, right?”

  “Yulia,” the boss said, shaking his head, “no one’s bringing any charges against us. What we have here is the work of a Light Magician not registered in Moscow who is not aware of the Treaty.”

  Now that was really serious . . .

  “Then . . . oh!” said Yulia. “I’m sorry, Boris Ignatievich.”

  “That’s perfectly okay,” the boss said, nodding again. “You’ve taken us right to the heart of the matter. There’s someone we’ve managed to overlook, boys and girls. We’ve let someone slip through our fingers. We have a Light One of great power wandering loose in Moscow. He or she doesn’t understand a thing—and he’s killing Dark Ones.”

  “More than one?” a voice in the hall asked.

  “Yes. I checked the archives. There were similar incidents three years ago, in the spring and fall, and two years ago, in the fall again. On every occasion there was no physical trauma, just the signature tear in the clothing. The Day Watch investigated, but it came up with nothing. Apparently they attributed the death of their own people to chance . . . so now one of the Dark Ones will be punished.”

  “And one of the Light Ones too?”

  “One of us too.”

  Semyon cleared his throat and said in a thoughtful voice, “The periods between the incidents are strange, Boris . . .”

  “I don’t think we know about all the incidents. Whoever this magician may be, he has always killed Others with low-level powers; obviously there must have been some kind of chink in their protective covers. It’s very likely that a number of his victims were uninitiated or unknown Dark Others. Here’s what I propose . . .”

  The boss paused and glanced around the room before he continued:

  “Analytical section—collate available information from criminal records and try to identify similar incidents. Bear in mind that they may not have been classified as murders, more likely as deaths from unknown causes. Check the results of autopsies, question people working in the morgues . . . think for yourselves where you can obtain the information. Research group—send two or three agents to the Day Watch and examine the body. Operations group—intensive street patrols. Try to find him, guys.”

  “We’re always on the lookout for someone,” Igor muttered. “Boris Ignatievich, there’s no way we could have overl
ooked a powerful magician. We just couldn’t have!”

  “He may not be initiated,” the boss snapped back. “His powers manifest themselves sporadically . . .”

  “In the spring and the fall, just like any ordinary psycho . . .”

  “Yes, Igor, that’s perfectly right. In the spring and in the fall. And now, right after this latest killing, he must still be carrying some trace of magic. That gives us a chance, if only a small one. Get on it.”

  “Boris, what exactly is our goal?” Semyon asked curiously.

  Some people in the room had already started getting to their feet, but now they stopped.

  “Our goal is to find this Maverick before the Dark Ones do. To protect him, educate him, and bring him over to our side. As usual.”

  “Clear enough,” said Semyon and stood up.

  “Anton and Olga, would you please stay,” the boss said brusquely, and walked over to the window.

  On their way out, people glanced at us curiously, even enviously. A special assignment is always intriguing. I looked across the room, caught Olga’s eyes, and smiled. She smiled back.

  She looked nothing like the dirty-faced, barefoot young woman who’d drunk cognac in my kitchen last winter. Now she had a stylish haircut, a healthy complexion, and eyes full of . . . no, the confidence had been there all the time, but now there was a certain flirtatious pride too.

  Her punishment had been repealed. Partially, that is.

  “Anton, I don’t like what’s going on here,” the boss said without turning around.

  Olga shrugged her shoulders and nodded for me to reply.

  “I beg your pardon, Boris Ignatievich?”

  “I don’t like this protest lodged by the Day Watch.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “You don’t understand, and I’m afraid none of the others do either . . . Olga, have you at least got some inkling of what’s going on?”

  “It’s very strange Day Watch hasn’t been able to find the killer after several years.”

  “Yes. Do you remember Krakow?”

  “I do, unfortunately. You think we’re being set up?”

  “It’s possible . . .” The boss moved away from the window a bit. “Anton, do you think that could be the way things are heading?”

  “I don’t completely understand,” I mumbled.

  “Anton, let’s assume that we really do have a Maverick wandering around the city, a solitary killer. He’s uninitiated. From time to time his powers suddenly surface . . . he locates one of the Dark Ones and eliminates him, or in this case, her. Would Day Watch be able to locate this Maverick? Unfortunately, believe me, they would. Then the question is: Why haven’t they caught and exposed him, when Dark Ones are dying?”

  “Only unimportant ones,” I pointed out.

  “Correct. Sacrificing pawns is in the tradition . . .” The boss caught my eye and paused. “In the tradition of the Watch.”

  “The Watches,” I said vengefully.

  “The Watches,” the boss echoed wearily. “You haven’t forgotten . . . let’s think where a maneuver like this could be leading. A blanket accusation of incompetence against the whole of Night Watch? Nonsense. We’re supposed to keep tabs on the behavior of the Dark Ones and the observance of the Treaty by known Light Ones, not go hunting for mysterious maniacs. In this case it’s Day Watch that is at fault . . .”

  “That means it must be a provocation aimed at a specific person?”

  “Well done, Anton. Remember what Yulia said? There’s only a handful of us who could do this. That can be proved conclusively. Let’s suppose Day Watch has decided to accuse someone of violating the Treaty, to claim that a member of our staff who knows the terms of the Treaty is meting out summary justice on his own account.”

  “But that’s easy to disprove. Just find the Maverick . . .”

  “And if the Dark Ones find him first? But don’t bother to announce the fact?”

  “What about alibis?”

  “And what if the killings took place at times when this person has no alibi?”

  “A tribunal, with a full-scale interrogation,” I said gloomily—having your mind turned inside out isn’t a pleasant experience . . .

  “A powerful magician—and these killings were committed by a powerful magician—can close off his mind even against a tribunal. Not deceive the tribunal, just close himself off from it. And in any case, Anton, with a tribunal including Dark Ones, he would have to do it. Otherwise our enemies would learn far too much about us. And if a magician conceals himself against investigation, it’s automatically regarded as a confession of guilt, with all the consequences that stem from that so-called confession—both for him and the Watch.”

  “You paint a dark picture, Boris Ignatievich,” I said. “Very dark. Almost as dark as the one you painted for me last winter, in my sleep. A young boy with incredible Other powers, an Inferno eruption that would flatten the whole of Moscow . . .”

  “I am telling you the truth here, Anton.”

  “What do you expect from me?” I asked bluntly. “This isn’t really my area. Am I going to give the analysts a hand? We’ll be handling everything they bring in anyway.”

  “Anton, I want you to figure out which of us is the target. Who has an alibi for all the known incidents and who doesn’t.”

  The boss slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and took out a DVD.

  “Take this . . . it’s a complete dossier for the whole three-year period. For four people, including me.”

  I gulped as I took it.

  “The security codes have been removed. But you understand that no one else must see this. You have no right to copy the information. Encrypt all your calculations and procedures . . . and make the key as complex as you can.”

  “I’d really need someone to help,” I suggested hesitantly, with a glance at Olga. But then, what kind of help could she give me? Everything she knew about computers she’d learned from playing games like Heretic and Hexen.

  “You check my database yourself,” the boss said, after a pause. “You can use Anatoly for the others. All right?”

  “Then what’s my assignment?” asked Olga.

  “You’ll cover the same ground, only by asking direct questions. Interrogating people, in other words. And you’ll start with me. Then the other three.”

  “All right, Boris.”

  “Get on it, Anton,” the boss said with a nod. “Start immediately. You can pass everything else on to your girls; they’ll manage.”

  “Perhaps I could fiddle about a bit with the data?” I asked. “If someone doesn’t happen to have an alibi, I could arrange one.”

  The boss shook his head.

  “No. You don’t understand. I don’t want to set up any false alibis. I want to make sure that none of us are involved in these killings.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. Because nothing’s impossible in this world. Anton, the really nice thing about our work is that I can give you an assignment like this. And you’ll carry it out. Regardless of who’s involved.”

  There was still something bothering me, but I nodded and walked toward the door, clutching the precious disc. It came to me in a flash. I turned back and asked:

  “Boris Ignatievich . . .”

  The boss and Olga instantly moved apart.

  “Boris Ignatievich, you say there are four sets of data here?”

  “Yes.”

  “For you, Ilya, Semyon . . .”

  “And you, Anton.”

  “Why?” I asked dumbly.

  “During the standoff on the roof you stayed down in the second level of the Twilight for three minutes, Anton . . . that’s a third-grade power.”

  “Impossible,” I said.

  “It happened.”

  “Boris Ignatievich, you always told me I was just an average magician!”

  “Well, let’s just say I need an excellent programmer more than one more field operative.”

  Any other time I w
ould have felt proud. Offended at the same time, of course, but still proud. I’d always thought that fourth-grade magic was my ceiling, and it would be a long time before I reached it. But just at that moment everything was clouded by a clammy, disgusting feeling—fear. Even though in five years of working in a quiet staff position in the Watch I thought I’d learned not to be afraid of anything: the authorities, hoodlums, diseases . . .

  “This was a second-level intervention . . .”

  “The boundary here’s ever-shifting, Anton. You might be capable of more.”

  “But we have more than ten third-grade magicians. Why am I one of the suspects?”

  “Because you offended Zabulon personally. Tweaked the tail of the head of Moscow’s Day Watch. And he’s quite capable of setting up a special trap just for Anton Gorodetsky. Or rather, adapting an old trap that was being kept in reserve.”

  I swallowed and left without asking any more questions.

  Our lab’s on the fourth floor too, but in the other wing. I set off hurriedly along the corridor, nodding to people I met, but staying focused, clutching that disc tighter than a passionate young man clutches the hand of the girl he loves.

  Was the boss telling the truth?

  Could the blow really be aimed at me?

  In all likelihood, he was. I’d asked a straight question and been given a straight answer. Of course, as the years go by, even the most Light of magicians acquire a certain degree of canniness and learn to play tricks with words. But the consequences of a direct lie would be too grave even for Boris Ignatievich.

  I approached an entry lobby fitted with electronic security systems. I knew that all magicians regarded technology with disdain, and Semyon had shown me once how easy it was to fool the voice analyzer and the iris scanner. But I’d gone ahead with buying these expensive toys anyway. Maybe they were no protection against an Other, but it seemed perfectly possible to me that one day the guys from the Federal Security Service or the mafia would decide to check us out.