The Nightwatch

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  One of the doors of the nearby building slammed. The young woman who had come out stopped as she adjusted her purse on her shoulder, about ten meters away from the car. These buildings had no courtyards, they were inconvenient to work in and probably to live in as well: What was their prestigious reputation worth if the plumbing were rotten and the meter-thick walls were covered with mildew—and it was probably haunted…

  Maxim smiled gently as he climbed out of his car. His body obeyed him with no reluctance; his muscles hadn't cramped up during the night; if anything they felt stronger than ever. And that was a sure sign.

  But seriously, he wondered, do ghosts really exist?

  "Galina!" he shouted.

  The young woman turned toward him. And that was another sign he was right, otherwise she would have run for it; after all, who wouldn't be suspicious of a man lying in wait outside the door early in the morning…

  "I don't know you," she said, in a voice both calm and curious.

  "No," Maxim agreed. "But I know you."

  "Who are you?"

  "A judge."

  He pronounced the word solemnly, rolling it off his tongue. A judge. Someone who has the right to pronounce judgment.

  "And just who are you intending to judge?"

  "You, Galina." Maxim was focused, intent. Everything around him seemed to be turning dark, and that was a sure sign too.

  "Oh, really?" She looked him over quickly, and Maxim caught a glint of yellow fire in her eyes. "You think you'll be able to manage that?"

  "Sure I will," replied Maxim, raising up his hand. The dagger was already in it—a long, narrow blade made of wood that had once been light-colored but had become darker over the last three years, gradually stained…

  She didn't make a sound as the wooden blade slid into her chest and pierced her heart.

  As always, Maxim felt a momentary panic, a brief, searing surge of horror—what if he'd made a mistake this time, after all? What if?

  He lifted his left hand to touch the simple little wooden cross that he always wore hanging on his chest. And he continued standing there, holding the wooden dagger in one hand and clutching the cross in the other, until the woman began to change…

  It happened fast. It always happened fast: The transformation into an animal and then back into a human being. The animal, a black panther, lay there on the sidewalk for a few moments, its eyes staring blankly and its fangs exposed, a victim of the hunt, dolled up in a matching skirt and jacket, pantyhose and dainty shoes. Then the process was reversed, like a pendulum making its final swing.

  What Maxim found amazing was not the rapid transformation that came too late for his victim, as usual, but the fact that there was no wound left on the body. That brief moment of transfiguration had purged her and made her whole. There was nothing but a cut on her blouse and her jacket.

  "Glory be to Thee, O Lord," Maxim whispered, looking down at the dead shape-shifter. "Glory be to Thee."

  He didn't really resent the role allotted to him.

  But it was still a great burden for a man who didn't like to get above himself.

  Chapter 1

  That was the morning I knew spring had really arrived.

  The evening before, the sky had been different, with clouds drifting over the city, and the air had been filled with the scent of a chilly, damp wind and snow that hadn't fallen yet. I'd felt like snuggling down deep into my armchair, sticking something cheerful and moronic—something American—in the VCR, taking a sip of cognac and just falling sleep.

  But in the morning everything had changed.

  Some cunning conjuror's hand had thrown a blue shawl over the town, running it over the streets and the squares and wiping away the final traces of winter. Even the heaps of brown snow left on the street corners and in the gutters didn't seem to have been overlooked by spring; they were an integral element of the decor. A memento.

  I smiled as I walked to the metro.

  Sometimes it feels really good to be human. That was the way I'd been living for a week now: When I got to work, I didn't go up any higher than the second floor, and all I did was fiddle with the server that had suddenly developed a number of bad habits, or install new office software for the gals in accounting, even though none of us could see why they needed it. In the evening I went to the theater, to a soccer match, to various small bars and restaurants. Anywhere at all, as long as it was noisy and crowded. Being human in a crowd is even more interesting than just being human.

  Of course, in the Night Watch offices, an old four-story building rented from our own subsidiary, there wasn't a single normal human being to be found anywhere. Even the three old cleaning women were Others. Even the loose-mouthed young security guards at the entrance, who were there to frighten off petty gangsters and commercial salesmen, had some modest magical powers. Even the plumber, an absolutely classic Moscow alcoholic, was a magician… and he'd have been a really good magician too, if it weren't for his drinking problem.

  But the first two floors of the building had to look perfectly ordinary. The tax police were allowed in here, as well as our human business partners and the thugs who provided our "protection"—the racket was actually controlled directly by our boss, but the small-fry didn't need to know that.

  And the conversations people had here were perfectly mundane, too. About politics, taxes, shopping, the weather, other people's love affairs and their own. The women gossiped about the men, and we gave as good as we got. Romances sprang up; bosses were trashed; bonus possibilities were discussed.

  Half an hour later I reached Sokol station and made my way up to street level. It was noisy and crowded, and the air was filled with exhaust fumes. But it was still spring.

  There are plenty of districts in Moscow worse than the one where our office is. In fact, it's probably one of the best—that's not counting the Day Watch offices, of course. But then, the Kremlin wouldn't suit us, anyway: The traces of the past lie too heavy on Red Square and the ancient brick walls. Maybe someday they'll get worn away. But that would require certain conditions, and there's no sign of them coming anytime soon… no sign at all, unfortunately.

  I walked from the metro; it wasn't far. The faces on every side looked friendly and welcoming, thawed by the spring sunshine. That's why I love the spring: It takes the edge off that feeling of weary helplessness. And there are fewer temptations around…

  One of the security guys was smoking outside the door. He gave me a friendly nod. Thorough checks weren't part of his job description. And as it happened, I was the one who decided whether they had Internet access and new games on their computer in the duty room, or just the official information and personnel files.

  "You're late, Anton," he said.

  I checked my watch.

  "The boss has called everyone together in the conference room; they were looking for you."

  Strange; I wasn't usually brought in on the morning briefings. Had one of my computer networks crashed? Not likely, or they'd have dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night without a second thought, and it wouldn't have been the first time either…

  I nodded and started walking faster.

  The building has an elevator, but it's ancient, and I preferred to run up to the fourth floor. There was another security post, a bit more serious this time, on the third-floor landing. Garik was on duty. As I approached he screwed up his eyes and peered through the Twilight, scanning my aura and all the markings that we Night Watch agents carry on our bodies. Then he gave me a friendly smile:

  "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 fi
nancial 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 overlooked 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."