The Nightwatch

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  "That's okay."

  "The Dark Other's going somewhere," said Svetlana, looking past my shoulder. "To extract other people's energy, to cast evil spells. And we don't interfere."

  I turned my head slightly and saw the Dark One. To the unaided eye he looked about thirty years old at most. Dressed in good taste, charming. A young woman and two children were sitting at the table he'd just left. The boy was about seven, the girl a bit younger.

  "He's gone for a leak, Svetlana. To take a pee. And his family, by the way, is perfectly ordinary. No powers. Are you suggesting we eliminate them too?"

  "Like father, like son…"

  "Try telling that to Garik. His father's a Dark Magician. Still alive."

  "There are always exceptions."

  "Life consists of nothing but exceptions."

  Svetlana didn't answer.

  "I know that itch, Sveta. The itch to do Good, to pursue Evil. Right now, to finish it forever. That's the way I feel too. But if you can't understand that's a dead end, you'll end up in the Twilight. One of us will have to put an end to your earthly existence."

  "But at least I'd have done something."

  "You know what your actions would look like to an outsider? A psychopath killing normal, decent people at random. Chilling reports in the newspapers, with spine-chilling descriptions and grand nicknames for you—say, 'the new Lucretia Borgia.' You'd sow more Evil in human hearts than a brigade of Dark Magicians could generate in a year."

  "How come all of you always have an answer for everything?" Svetlana asked bitterly.

  "Because we've been through the training. And survived. Most of us have survived."

  I called the waiter and asked for the menu.

  "How about a cocktail? And then we can move on. You choose."

  Svetlana nodded as she studied the wine list. The waiter was a tall, swarthy young guy, not Russian. He'd seen just about everything, and he wasn't much bothered by one girl acting like a man with another.

  "Alter Ego," said Svetlana.

  I was doubtful—it was one of the strongest cocktails. But I didn't argue.

  "Two cocktails and the check."

  We waited in oppressive silence while the bartender was mixing the cocktails and the waiter was adding up the check. Eventually Svetlana asked:

  "Okay, I get the picture with poets. They're potential Others. But what about the great villains? Caligula, Hitler, the homicidal maniacs?"

  "Just people."

  "All of them."

  "Mostly. We have our own villains. Their names don't mean anything to ordinary people, but you'll be starting the history program soon."

  "Alter Ego" was an accurate description. Two heavy, immiscible layers, black and white, swaying in the glass. Sweet plum liqueur and dark, bitter beer.

  I paid in cash—I don't like to leave an electronic trail behind me—and raised my glass.

  "Here's to the Watch."

  "To the Watch," Sveta agreed. "And your escape from this mess."

  I felt like asking her to knock on wood, but I didn't. I downed the cocktail in two gulps—first the gentle sweetness, then the mild bitterness.

  "That's great," said Svetlana. "You know, I like it here. Maybe we could stay a bit longer?"

  "There are lots of good places in Moscow. Let's find one without any black magicians out for a night on the town."

  Sveta nodded.

  "And by the way, he's not back yet."

  I looked at my watch. Yes, he'd been gone long enough to pee a whole bucketful.

  And what really bothered me was that the magician's family were still sitting at their table, and the woman was obviously getting worried.

  "Sveta, I'll just be a moment."

  "Don't forget who you are!" she whispered as I left.

  Yes, it would look a bit strange all right for me to follow the Dark Magician into the restroom.

  I walked across the restaurant and took a look through the Twilight on the way. I ought to have been able to see the magician's aura, but there was nothing but a gray void lit up by ordinary auras glowing different colors: pleased, concerned, lustful, drunk, happy.

  He couldn't have just slipped out through the plumbing!

  The only weak glimmer of light from an aura belonging to an Other was outside the building, over beside the Belarussian embassy. But it wasn't the Dark Magician; it was much weaker and its color was different.

  Where had he gone to?

  The narrow corridor ending in two doors was empty. I hesitated for a moment—who could tell, maybe we just hadn't noticed the magician leaving via the Twilight, or maybe he was powerful enough to teleport? Then I opened the door of the men's restroom.

  Inside it was very clean and bright and a bit cramped, and the air had a strong smell of floral air freshener.

  The Dark Magician was lying just inside the door, and his outstretched arms prevented me from opening the door all the way.

  He had a puzzled, confused kind of expression on his face. I spotted the gleam of a slim crystal tube in his hand. He'd reached for his weapon too late.

  There was no blood. There were no signs at all, and when I took another look through the Twilight I didn't find any traces of magic.

  It looked like the Dark Magician had died of a perfectly ordinary heart attack or stroke—if he'd actually been capable of dying that way.

  There was just one small detail that totally ruled that possibility out.

  A small cut on the collar of his shirt. As narrow as if it had been made by a cutthroat razor. As if someone had stuck a knife in his neck and just nicked the edge of his collar. Except that there were no signs of the blow on his skin.

  "Bastards!" I whispered, not knowing who I was swearing at. "Bastards!"

  I could hardly have ended up in a worse situation than this. I'd swapped bodies and gone out to a crowded restaurant with a "witness," only to wind up entirely alone, standing over the body of a Dark Magician killed by the Maverick.

  "Come on, Pavlik," someone said behind me.

  As I looked around the woman who'd been sitting at the table with the Dark Magician came into the corridor, holding her son by the hand.

  "I don't want to, Mom!" the kid yelled, acting up.

  "You go in and tell your dad we're getting bored already," the woman said patiently. The next moment she looked up and saw me.

  "Call someone!" I shouted, despairing. "Call someone! There's a man hurt here! Take the child away and call someone!"

  They obviously heard me in the restaurant—Olga had a strong voice.

  The murmur of voices stopped immediately, leaving the slushy folk music to play on in the sudden silence.

  Of course, she didn't do as I said. She dashed forward, pushed me out of the way, collapsed on her husband's body, and started keening—actually keening—at the top of her voice, already knowing what had happened while her hands were still busy unbuttoning the slit shirt collar and shaking the lifeless body. Then the woman started slapping the magician on the cheeks, lashing hard, as if she hoped he was only pretending or had just fainted.

  "Mom, why are you hitting Dad like that?" Pavlik exclaimed in a shrill voice. Not frightened, just surprised; he'd obviously never seen his parents fight. They must have been a happy family.

  I took the boy by the shoulder and started gently leading him away. People were already squeezing into the corridor. I saw Sveta staring at me wide-eyed. She'd already guessed what had happened.

  "Take the child away," I said to our waiter. "I think a man's dead in there."

  "Who found the body?" the waiter asked calmly. Speaking without the slightest accent, quite differently from when he was serving our table.

  "I did."

  The waiter nodded as he deftly handed the boy on to one of the female restaurant staff. The boy was crying now, he'd realized something had gone wrong in his cozy little world.

  "And what were you doing in the men's restroom?"

  "The door was open and I saw him lyin
g there," I said, lying without even thinking about it.

  The waiter nodded, accepting that it could have happened that way. But at the same time he took a firm grip of my elbow.

  "You'll have to wait for the militia, lady."

  Svetlana had already pushed her way through to us. She narrowed her eyes when she heard those last words. That was all I needed now—for her to try erasing the memories of everyone there!

  "Of course." I stepped forward, and the waiter was forced to let go of my arm and follow me. "Svetka, it's terrible, there's a body in there!"

  "Olya." Sveta's reaction was the right one. She put her arm around my shoulders, gave the waiter an indignant look and led me back into the restaurant.

  Just then the boy passed us, sobbing loudly as he squeezed his way through the greedy, curious crowd back to his mother. They were trying to get her away from the body—she'd taken advantage of the confusion to bend back down over her husband and start shaking him:

  "Get up! Gena, get up! Get up!"

  I felt Svetlana shudder at the sight and I whispered:

  "Well? Do we exterminate the Dark Ones with fire and the sword?"

  "Why did you do it? I would have understood without that!" Svetlana whispered furiously.

  "What?"

  We looked into each other's eyes.

  "Then it wasn't you?" Sveta whispered uncertainly. "I'm sorry; I believe you."

  I realized then just what a deep hole I was in.

  The investigator didn't take any particular interest in me. I could see from his eyes that he'd already made his mind up—death from natural causes. A weak heart, drug abuse, whatever. He couldn't be expected to feel any sympathy for a man who frequented expensive restaurants.

  "Was the body lying in this position?" "Yes, just like that," I confirmed, wearily. "It was terrible!" The investigator shrugged. He couldn't see anything really terrible about a body, especially one that wasn't drenched in blood. But he was condescending.

  "Yes, a terrible sight. Was there anybody else nearby?" "Nobody. But then a woman appeared, the man's wife, with their child."

  I was rewarded with a crooked smile for my deliberately disjointed statement.

  "Thank you, Olga. Someone may be in touch with you again. Not planning to leave town at all, are you?"

  I shook my head rapidly. The militia was the very last thing I was bothered about right then.

  But I was bothered by the sight of the boss sitting unobtrusively at a table in the corner.

  The investigator left me in peace and went to talk to "the dead man's wife." Boris Ignatievich immediately made straight for our table. Nobody paid any attention to him; he was obviously protected by some mild distraction spell.

  "Now you've done it," he said simply.

  "Us?" I asked, just to get things clear.

  "Yes. Both of you. But especially you, Anton."

  "I followed all the instructions I was given," I whispered, feeling furious. "And I never laid a finger on that magician!"

  The boss sighed.

  "I don't doubt that. But knowing the situation, how could you, a member of the Night Watch staff, be so stupid as to go off after a Dark One on your own?"

  "Who could have foreseen this?" I asked indignantly. "Tell me who!"

  "You could. After the unprecedented measures we've taken to disguise your identity. What were your instructions? Never be left alone for a moment! Eat and sleep with Svetlana! Take your showers together! Go to the bathroom together! Every single moment you had to be…" The boss stopped and sighed.

  "Boris Ignatievich," Svetlana unexpectedly put in. "None of that matters anymore. Let's try to think what we can do now."

  The boss looked at her in surprise and nodded.

  "You are right. Let's try to think. First of all, the situation is really catastrophic now. Before, any suspicion of Anton was purely circumstantial, but now he's literally been caught red-handed. Don't shake your head like that, Anton! You were seen standing over a body seconds after its death. The body of a Dark Magician, killed in the same way as all the previous victims. The Day Watch will appeal to the Tribunal for your memory to be read."

  "That's very dangerous, isn't it?" asked Svetlana. "But at least it will prove Anton isn't guilty."

  "Yes, it will, Svetlana. And in the process the Dark Ones will acquire all the information Anton has had access to. Do you realize just how much the Watch's senior programmer knows? Some things he may not even be aware he knows, when he just glanced at the data, processed it, and forgot it. But the Dark Ones have their own specialists, and when Anton comes out of that courtroom—assuming he survives having his mind turned inside out—the Day Watch will know about all our operations. Can't you see what will happen? Our teaching methods, the way we look for new Others, the way we analyze combat operations, our networks of human informers, our casualty lists, our employees' personal files, our financial plans…"

  They were talking about me, while I just sat there as if I had nothing to do with what was going on. It wasn't a question of frankness, it was simpler than that: The boss was consulting with Svetlana, a novice magician, and not with me, a potential magician of the third grade.

  If I compared the situation with a game of chess, it was insultingly simple. I was a rook, an ordinary officer of the Watch, and Svetlana was a pawn—but a pawn about to become a queen.

  And for the boss all the bad things that could happen to me meant nothing compared with the chance to give Svetlana a little practical lesson.

  "Boris Ignatievich, you know I won't allow them to read my memory," I said.

  "Then you'll be found guilty."

  "I know. I swear I had nothing to do with the death of these Dark Ones. But I don't have any proof."

  "Boris Ignatievich, what if we suggest they only check Anton's memory for today!" Svetlana exclaimed joyfully. "That would solve everything, they'd be convinced…"

  "The memory can't be sliced up like that, Sveta. It spills out all in one piece. Starting from the first moment of life. With the smell of mother's milk, with the taste of the amniotic fluid in the womb." The boss was speaking very emphatically now. "That's the problem. Even if Anton didn't know any secrets. Imagine what it's like to remember absolutely everything and go through it all again! Swaying in that dark, viscous liquid, the walls closing in on you, the glimmer of light ahead, the pain, the choking sensation, the struggle to survive your own birth. And so on, moment by moment—you know how when you're dying your whole life passes before your eyes? That's exactly what happens when they turn out your memory. And at the same time, somewhere deep inside, you still remember that all this has already happened. Can you understand that? It's hard to hold on to your sanity."

  "You say that," Svetlana said uncertainly, "as if…"

  "I've been through it. But not in an interrogation. More than a century ago. The Watch was still studying the effects of exposing and reading the memory, and a volunteer was required. Afterward it took them about a year to restore me to normal."

  "How?" Svetlana asked curiously.

  "With new impressions. Experiences I hadn't had before. Foreign countries, unfamiliar food, surprise meetings, unfamiliar problems. And even so…" The boss smiled wryly. "I still sometimes catch myself thinking: What is all this—reality or just memories? Am I living it or lying on a crystal slab in the Day Watch office while they unwind my memory like a ball of string?"

  He stopped speaking.

  There were people sitting at the tables around us, waiters dashing around. The crime scene team had taken away the body of the Dark Magician, and some man, evidently a relative, had come for the widow and the children. Nobody else seemed to be affected by what had happened. Quite the opposite, in fact. There were more customers, with bigger appetites and a greater zest for life. And nobody there was taking any notice of us: The boss's casually cast spell made them all look away.

  What if all of this had already happened?

  What if I, Anton Gorodetsky, system
s administrator at the Nix Trading Company, and also a Night Watch magician, was lying on a crystal slab covered with ancient runes? And my memory was being unwound, examined, dissected by someone—it didn't matter who, Dark Magicians or a joint tribunal of both sides?

  No!

  That couldn't be right. I didn't have that feeling the boss had been talking about. I had no sense of déjà vu. I'd never been in a woman's body before, and I'd never found any bodies in restaurant restrooms.

  "I've laid out the problem," said the boss, drawing a long, slim cigarillo out of his pocket. "Is the situation clear? What are we going to do?"

  "I'm prepared to do my duty," I said.

  "Don't be in such a rush, Anton. Drop the bravado."

  "It's not bravado. It's not just that I'm prepared to protect the secrets of the Watch. I simply wouldn't survive that kind of interrogation. Better to die."

  "But we don't die the same way people do."

  "Sure, it's tougher for us. But I'm ready for that."

  The boss sighed.

  "I'm sorry, ladies. Anton, let's forget the consequences for a moment and try thinking about what led up to this incident. Sometimes it's helpful to look back."

  "Okay," I said, not feeling particularly hopeful.

  "The Maverick has been poaching in the city for several years. The latest figures from the analytical section indicate that these strange killings began three and a half years ago. Some of the victims are known Dark Ones. Some are probably potentials. None of the victims was higher than grade four. None of them worked in the Day Watch. It's ironic that almost all of them were very moderate Dark Ones, if you can put it like that. They may have killed and they influenced people negatively, but far less than they could have done."

  "They were set up, weren't they?" said Svetlana.

  "They must have been. The Day Watch didn't touch this psychopath, it even laid out victims for him from the Dark Side—those it could easily spare. But what for? That's the important question: What for?"

  "So they could accuse us of incompetence," I suggested.

  "The end doesn't justify the means."

  "In order to set up one of us."