The Nightwatch

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  I didn't know what to say. I looked at her and felt my cheeks beginning to burn. A girl who wasn't a third of the way through the introductory course, a total novice in our line of work, was laying out the situation for me the way I ought to have laid it out for myself.

  "What's happening right now?" Svetlana continued, not noticing the torment I was in. "There's a serial killer destroying Dark Ones. You're on the list of suspects. The boss immediately makes a cunning move: You and Olga swap bodies. But just how cunning is this move, really? As far as I understand it, the practice of body-swapping is quite common. Boris Ignatievich himself used it only recently, didn't he? Has he ever used the same move twice in a row? Against the same enemy?"

  "I don't know, Svetlana; they don't tell me all the details of the operations."

  "Then think for yourself. And another thing. Is Zabulon really so petty, so hysterically vengeful? He's hundreds of years old, isn't he? He's been in charge of the Day Watch for a very, very long time. If this maniac…"

  "Maverick."

  "If they really have let this Maverick run loose on the streets of Moscow while they get ready to make their move, then would the head of Day Watch really waste him on such petty business? I'm sorry, Anton, but you're really not such an important target."

  "I understand. Officially I'm a fifth-grade magician, but the boss said I could aim for third-grade."

  "Even taking that into account."

  We looked into each other's eyes and I shrugged:

  "I give up, Svetlana, you must be right. But I've told you all I know. And I can't see any other possible interpretation."

  "SO you're just going to follow instructions? Walk around in a skirt, never let yourself be alone for a single moment?"

  "When I joined the Watch, I knew I was giving up part of my freedom."

  "Part of it!" Svetlana snorted. "Is that what you call it? Okay, you know best. So we're spending the night together, then?"

  I nodded:

  "Yes… But not here. It's best if I stay with people all the time."

  "What about sleeping?"

  "It's riot that hard to go without sleep for a few nights," I said with a shrug. "I am sure Olga's body is trained at least as well as mine. These last few months her life's been one never-ending high-society whirl."

  "Anton, I haven't learned these tricks yet. When do I sleep?"

  "During the day. In class."

  She frowned. I knew Svetlana would agree; she couldn't help herself. With her character she couldn't even refuse to help some stranger in the street, and I certainly wasn't that.

  "Why don't we go to the Maharajah?" I suggested.

  "What's that?"

  "An Indian restaurant; it's pretty good."

  "Is it open all night?"

  "No, unfortunately. But we'll think of somewhere else to go afterward."

  Svetlana stared at me so long she got under even my naturally thick skin. What had I done wrong this time?

  "Thank you, Anton," she said with real feeling. "Thank you very much. You've just invited me to a restaurant. I've been waiting two months for that."

  She got up, went across to the wardrobe, opened it, and gazed thoughtfully at the clothes hanging there.

  "I don't have anything decent in your size," she said. "You'll have to get back into the jeans. Will they let you into the restaurant?"

  "They should," I said, not too sure of myself. But if it came to that, I could always influence the restaurant staff a little bit.

  "If need be, I can practice implanting suggestions," Svetlana said, as if she'd read my thoughts. "I'll make them let you in. That will be a good deed, won't it?"

  "Of course."

  "You know, Anton…" Svetlana said, taking a dress off a hanger, holding it up against herself and shaking her head. Then she took out a beige suit. "… I'm amazed at the way the members of the Watch use the interests of the Good and the Light to justify any interference in reality."

  "Not any interference!" I protested.

  "Absolutely any. If necessary, they'll even claim robbery's a good deed, even murder."

  "No."

  "Imagine you're walking along the street and you see a grownup beating a child, right there in front of you. What would you do?"

  "If I had any margin left for intervention," I said with a shrug, "I'd perform a remoralization. Naturally."

  "And you'd be absolutely certain that was the right thing to do? Without even thinking it over, without looking into things? What if the child deserved to be punished for what it had done? What if the punishment would have saved it from serious problems later in life, but now it will grow up to be a murderer and a thief? You and your remoralization!"

  "Sveta, you don't understand."

  "What don't I understand?"

  "Even if I didn't have any margin left for parapsychological influence—I still wouldn't just walk on by."

  Svetlana snorted.

  "And you'd be certain you were right? Where's the boundary line?"

  "Everyone determines the line for himself. It comes with experience."

  She looked at me thoughtfully.

  "Anton, every novice asks these questions. I'm right, aren't I?"

  "Yes." I smiled.

  "And you're used to answering them, you know a series of ready-made answers, sophisms, historical examples, and parallels."

  "No, Sveta. That's not the point. The point is that the Dark Ones never ask questions like these."

  "How do you know?"

  "A Dark Magician can heal; a Light Magician can kill," I said. "That's the truth. Do you know what the difference is between Light and Darkness?"

  "No, I don't. For some reason, they don't teach us that. I expect it's hard to formulate clearly?"

  "Not at all. If you always put yourself and your own interests first, then your path leads through the Darkness. If you think about others, it leads toward the Light."

  "And how long will it take to reach it? The Light, I mean?"

  "Forever."

  "This is all empty words, Anton. A word game. What does an experienced Dark Magician tell his novice? Maybe he uses words that are just as beautiful and true?"

  "Oh, sure, about freedom. About how everyone gets the place in life that they deserve. About how pity is degrading and true love is blind, and true kindness is useless—and true freedom is freedom from everyone else."

  "And is that a lie?"

  "No," I said with a shake of my head. "That's a part of the truth too. Sveta, we're not given the chance to choose absolute truth. Truth's always two-faced. The only thing we have is the right to reject the lie we find most repugnant. Do you know what I tell novices about the Twilight the first time? We enter it in order to acquire strength. And as the price for entering it we give up the part of the truth that we don't want to accept. Ordinary human beings have it easier. A million times easier, even with all those disasters and problems and worries that don't even exist for the Others. Humans have never had to face this choice: They can be good and bad, it all depends on the moment, on their surroundings, on the book they read yesterday, on the steak they had for dinner. That's why they're so easy to control; even the most malicious villain can easily be turned to the Light, and the kindest and most noble of men can be nudged toward the Darkness. But we have made a choice."

  "I've made it too, Anton. I've already been in the Twilight."

  "Yes."

  "Then why don't I understand where the boundary is and what the difference is between me and some witch who attends black masses? Why am I still asking these questions?"

  "You'll never stop asking them. Out loud at first, and later on just to yourself. It will never stop, never. If you wanted to be free of painful questions—you chose the wrong side."

  "I chose the one I wanted."

  "I know. So now put up with it."

  "All my life?"

  "Yes. It will be a long one, but you'll never get over this. You'll never stop asking yourself if every step you
make is the right one."

  Chapter 3

  Maxim didn't like restaurants. That was just his character. He felt far more comfortable and relaxed in bars and clubs, sometimes even the more expensive ones, as long as they weren't too prissy and formal. Of course, there were some people who always behaved like red commissars in negotiations with the bourgeoisie, even in the most sumptuous restaurants: no manners and no wish to learn any. But then what did all those New Russians in the jokes have to model themselves on?

  Last night had to be smoothed over somehow, though. His wife had either believed his story about "an important business meeting" or at least pretended that she did. But he was still suffering vague pangs of conscience. Of course, if only she knew! If she could only imagine who he really was and what it was he did!

  Maxim couldn't say anything, so he had no choice but to make up his absence the previous night by using the same methods any decent man uses after a little affair. Presents, pampering, an evening out. For instance, at a prestigious restaurant with subtle exotic cuisine, foreign waiters, elegant decor, and an extensive wine list.

  Maxim wondered if Elena really thought he'd been unfaithful to her the night before. The question intrigued him, but not enough for him to ask it out loud. There are always some things that have to be left unsaid. Maybe some day she'd learn the truth. And then she'd be proud of him.

  But that was ridiculous—he realized that. In a world full of the creatures of Malice and Darkness, he was the only knight of Light, eternally alone, unable to share with anyone the truth. In the beginning, Maxim had hoped to meet someone else like him: a sighted man in the land of the blind, a guard who could sniff out the wolves in sheep's clothing among the heedless herd.

  But there wasn't anyone. He had no one to stand beside him.

  Even so, he hadn't despaired.

  "Do you think this is worth trying?" Maxim glanced down at the menu. He didn't know what malai kofta was. But that had never prevented him from making decisions. And in any case, the ingredients were listed.

  "Yes, try it. Meat with a cream sauce."

  "Beef?"

  He didn't realize at first that Elena was joking. Then he smiled back at her.

  "Definitely."

  "And what if I do order something with beef?"

  "Then they'll refuse politely," said Maxim. Keeping his wife amused wasn't tough. He actually enjoyed it. But right now he would really like to take a look around the room. Something here wasn't right. He could sense a strange, cold draft blowing through the semi-darkness at his back; it made him screw up his eyes and keep looking, looking…

  Could it really be?

  The gap between his missions was usually at least a few months, maybe six. Nothing had ever come up the very next day…

  But the symptoms were only too familiar.

  Maxim reached into his inside jacket pocket, as if he were checking his billfold. What he was really concerned about was something else—a little wooden dagger, carved artlessly but with great care. He'd whittled the weapon for himself when he was a child, without understanding what it was for at the time, thinking it was simply a toy.

  The dagger was waiting.

  But who was it?

  "Max?" There was a note of reproach in Elena's voice. "You're up in the clouds again."

  They clinked glasses. It was a bad sign for husband and wife to do that; it meant there'd be no money in the family. But Maxim wasn't superstitious.

  Who was it?

  At first he suspected two girls. Both attractive, even beautiful, but each in her own way. The shorter one with dark hair, who moved in a slightly angular way, like a man, was literally overflowing with energy. She positively oozed sexuality. The other one, the blonde, was taller, more calm and restrained. And her beauty was quite different, soothing.

  Maxim felt his wife watching him and looked away.

  "Lesbians," his wife said disdainfully.

  "What?"

  "Well, just look at them! The little dark-haired one in jeans is totally butch."

  So she was. Maxim nodded and assumed an appropriate expression.

  Not them. Not them, after all. But who was it then?

  A cell phone trilled in the corner of the room and a dozen people automatically reached for their phones. Maxim located the source of the sound and caught his breath.

  The man talking into the cell phone in rapid, quiet bursts was not simply Evil. He was enveloped in a black shroud that other people couldn't see, but Maxim could sense it.

  The draft was coming from him, it smelled of danger, appalling danger, coming closer.

  Maxim felt a sudden ache in his chest.

  "You know what, Lena, I'd like to live on a desert island," Maxim blurted out before he realized what he was saying.

  "Alone?"

  "With you and the children. But no one else. Not a soul."

  He gulped down the rest of his wine and the waiter immediately refilled his glass.

  "I wouldn't like that," his wife said.

  "I know."

  The dagger felt heavy and hot in his pocket now. The mounting excitement was acute, almost sexual. It demanded release.

  "Do you remember Edgar Allan Poe?" Svetlana asked.

  They'd let us in without any fuss. I hadn't been expecting that—the rules in restaurants must have changed, been made more democratic, or maybe they were just short of customers.

  "No. He died too long ago. But Semyon was telling me…"

  "I didn't mean Poe himself. I meant his stories."

  "The Man of the Crowd," I guessed.

  Svetlana laughed quietly.

  "Yes. You're in the same fix as him right now. You have to stick to crowded places."

  "Fortunately I'm still not sick of those places just yet."

  We had a glass of Bailey's each and ordered something to eat. That probably gave the waiter certain ideas about why we were there: two inexperienced prostitutes looking for work—but I didn't really care.

  "Was he an Other?"

  "Poe? Probably an uninitiated one."

  "There are some qualities—some incorporate things,

  That have a double life, which thus is made

  A type of that twin entity which springs

  From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade."

  Svetlana recited in a quiet voice.

  I looked at her in surprise.

  "Do you know it?" she asked.

  "How can I put it?" I said. Then I raised my eyes and declaimed:

  "He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!

  No power hath he of evil in himself;

  But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!) Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf, That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod No foot of man), commend thyself to God!"

  We looked at each for a second and then both burst into laughter.

  "A little literary duel," Svetlana said ironically. "Score: one-one. A pity we don't have an audience. But why did Poe remain uninitiated?"

  "A lot of poets are potential Others. But some potentials are best left to live as human beings. Poe was too psychologically unstable; giving people like that special powers is like handing a pyromaniac a can of napalm. I wouldn't even try to guess which side he would have taken. He'd probably have withdrawn into the Twilight forever, and very quickly."

  "But how do they live there? The ones who have withdrawn forever?"

  "I don't know, Svetlana. I expect no one really knows. You sometimes come across them in the Twilight world, but there's no contact in the usual sense of the word."

  "I'd like to find out," said Svetlana, casting a thoughtful glance around the room. "Have you noticed the Other in here?" she asked.

  "The old man behind me, talking on his cell phone?"

  "Why do you call him old?"

  "He's very old. I'm not looking with my eyes."

  Svetlana bit her lip and screwed up her eyes. She was beginning to develop little ambitions of her own.

&
nbsp; "I can't do it yet," she admitted. "I can't even tell if he's Light or Dark."

  "Dark. Not from Day Watch, but Dark. A magician with middle-level powers. And by the way, he's spotted us too."

  "So what are we going to do?"

  "Us? Nothing."

  "But he's Dark!"

  "Yes, and we're Light. What of it? As Watch agents we have the right to check his ID. But it's bound to be in order."

  "And when will we have the right to intervene?"

  "When he gets up, waves his hands through the air, turns into a demon, and starts biting off people's heads…"

  "Anton!"

  "I'm quite serious. We have no right to interfere with an honest Dark Magician's pleasant evening out."

  The waiter brought our order and we stopped talking. Svetlana ate, but without any real appetite. Then, like a sulky, capricious child, she blurted out:

  "And how long is the Watch going to continue groveling like this?"

  "To the Dark Ones?"

  "Yes."

  "Until we acquire a decisive advantage. Until people who become Others no longer hesitate for even a moment over what to choose: Light or Darkness. Until the Dark Ones all die of old age. Until they can no longer nudge people toward Evil as easily as they do now."

  "But that's capitulation, Anton!"

  "Neutrality. The status quo. Double deadlock—there's no point pretending otherwise."

  "You. know, I like the solitary Maverick who's terrorizing the Dark Ones a lot more. Even if he is violating the Treaty, even if he is setting us up without knowing it! He's fighting against the Darkness, isn't he? Fighting! Alone, against all of them."

  "And have you thought about why he kills Dark Ones but doesn't get in touch with us?"

  "No."

  "He can't see us, Svetlana. He looks straight through us."

  "He's self-taught."

  "Yes. Self-taught and talented. An Other with powers that manifest themselves in chaotic fashion. Capable of seeing Evil. Incapable of recognizing Good. Don't you find that frightening?"

  "No," Svetlana said sullenly. "I'm sorry, I can't see where you're going with this, Olga. Sorry, I mean Anton. You've started talking just like her."