The Nightwatch

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  "The Night Watch? Are you from the Darkness?"

  "No. What's your name?"

  "Maxim," said the Maverick, walking slowly toward me. Looking at me as if he could sense that we'd already met, but I'd looked different then. "Who are you?"

  "I work for the Night Watch. I'll explain everything, just listen to me. You are a Light Magician."

  Maxim's face trembled and turned to stone.

  "You kill Dark Ones. I know that. This morning you killed a female shape-shifter. This evening, in the restaurant, you killed a Dark Magician."

  "Do you do that too?"

  Maybe I just imagined it. Or maybe there really was a tremor of hope in that voice. I demonstratively stuck the revolver back in its holster.

  "I'm a Light Magician. Although not a very powerful one. One of hundreds in Moscow. There are many of us, Maxim."

  His eyes opened wide and I realized I'd hit the target. Now he knew he wasn't a lunatic who'd imagined he was Superman and felt proud of it. He'd probably never wanted anything so much in his life as to meet a comrade-in-arms.

  "We didn't spot you in time, Maxim," I said. Was it really going to be possible to settle everything peacefully, with no bloodshed, without an insane battle between two Light Magicians? "That was our fault. You started a solitary war of your own, and you've created a messy situation, Maxim, but things can still be put right. You didn't know about the Treaty, did you?"

  He wasn't listening to me. He didn't give a damn about some Treaty. He wasn't alone, that was the only thing that mattered to him.

  "You fight the Dark Ones?"

  "Yes."

  "And there are many of you?"

  "Yes!"

  Maxim looked at me again, and I saw the piercing glint of the Twilight in his eyes again. He was trying to see the lie, to see the Darkness, to see the malice and hatred—the only things he was capable of seeing.

  "You're not a Dark One," he said. It was almost a complaint. "I can see that. I've never been wrong, never!"

  "I'm a watchman," I repeated. I glanced around—there was no one to be seen. Something had frightened everyone away. That was probably one of the Maverick's powers.

  "That boy…"

  "He's an Other too," I said quickly. "It's not clear yet if he's going to be Light or…"

  Maxim shook his head.

  "He's Dark."

  I glanced at Egor. The kid slowly raised his eyes to meet mine.

  "No," I said.

  I could see his aura quite clearly—bright, pure, shimmering colors, typical for very young children, but not for teenagers. His destiny was his own; his future was still undefined.

  "He's Dark," said Maxim, shaking his head again. "Don't you see? I'm never wrong, never. You stopped me from exterminating an envoy of Darkness."

  He wasn't likely to be lying. He might not have been given many skills, but the ones he had were powerful. Maxim could see Darkness; he could spot the tiniest patches of it in other people's souls. In fact, he saw Darkness that was just being born more clearly than any other kind.

  "We don't just kill every Dark One we come across."

  "Why not?"

  "We have a truce, Maxim."

  "How can there be any truce with Darkness?"

  I shuddered. I hadn't heard the faintest note of doubt in his voice.

  "Any war is worse than peace."

  "Except this one." Maxim raised the hand holding the dagger. "You see this? It was a present from a friend of mine. He was killed; maybe people like this boy were responsible. The Darkness is cunning!"

  "You think you need to tell me that?"

  "Of course. You may be a Light One…" His face twisted in a bitter grin. "But if you are, your Light faded a long time ago. There can be no forgiveness for Evil. There can be no truce with Evil."

  "No forgiveness for Evil?" Now I was really angry. "After you stabbed the Dark Magician in the restroom, you should have tried staying around for another ten minutes! Or didn't you want to see his children screaming and his wife crying? They're not Dark Ones, Maxim! They're ordinary people who don't have our powers! You saved that girl they were shooting at…"

  He started, but his face remained as implacably stony as ever.

  "Well done! But did you know they were trying to kill her because of your crime? Well?"

  "This is war."

  "You've started your own war," I whispered. "You're like a child, with your toy dagger. You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs, is that it? No holds barred in the great struggle for the Light?"

  "I don't fight for the Light," he said in a quiet voice. "I fight against the Darkness. That's all I'm capable of. Do you understand? And you're wrong; it isn't a matter of eggs and omelettes for me. I didn't ask for this power; I didn't dream of having it. But since it has come to me, I can't act any other way."

  Just who was it who hadn't noticed him in time?

  Why hadn't we found Maxim immediately, as soon as he became an Other?

  He'd have made a first-class field operative. After long arguments and explanations. After months of training, after years of exercises, after tantrums, mistakes, bouts of drinking, attempts to kill himself. Eventually he would have understood the rules of the confrontation—not with his heart, he wasn't capable of that, but with his cold, uncompromising reason. The laws that govern the way Light and Darkness wage war, that mean we have to turn a blind eye to werewolves hunting their victims and kill our own people who can't do that.

  There he was, right in front of me. A Light Magician who'd killed more Dark Ones in a few years than a field operative with a hundred years of experience. Alone, cornered. Knowing only how to hate, incapable of loving.

  Egor just stood there quietly behind me, listening intently to what we were saying. I turned around, took him by the shoulders, and pushed him in front of me. I said:

  "Is he a Dark Magician? Probably—I'm afraid you're right. In a few more years, this kid will start to sense his own powers. As he goes through life, Darkness will creep alongside him. With every step his life will become easier and easier. And every step will be paid for by someone else's pain. Do you remember the fairy tale about the mermaid? A witch gave her legs; she could walk, but she felt like there were red-hot knives stabbing into her feet all the time. That story's about us, Maxim! We always walk over sharp knives, and that's something you can never get used to. But Andersen didn't tell the whole story. The witch could have done things differently: The mermaid walks, and the knives stab other people. That's the way of the Darkness."

  "I carry my own pain with me," said Maxim, and I suddenly felt an insane hope that he could understand after all. "But that mustn't be allowed to change anything."

  "Are you prepared to kill him?" I said, nodding toward Egor. "Tell me, Maxim. I'm a Night Watch agent, I know where the line runs between Good and Evil. You can create Evil, even by killing Dark Ones. Tell me—are you prepared to kill him?"

  He didn't hesitate. He just nodded, looking straight into my eyes.

  "Yes, certainly I am; I've never let a creature of the Darkness get away. I won't let this one get away."

  The invisible trap snapped shut.

  It wouldn't have surprised me to see Zabulon standing there. To see him surface out of the Twilight and give Maxim a slap on the back. Or flash a mocking smile at me.

  But a moment later I realized Zabulon wasn't there. He never had been.

  The trap he'd set didn't need any supervision. It would work all on its own. I'd been caught, and every member of the Day Watch had a solid alibi for that moment.

  I either had to let Maxim kill the boy who was going to become a Dark Magician and make myself into his accomplice—with all the obvious consequences.

  Or fight the Maverick and kill him—I was far more powerful, after all. Eliminate the only witness with my own hand and kill a Light Magician into the bargain.

  Maxim would never back down. This was his war, his own cross that he'd been carrying for years. He wanted
victory or death.

  So why should Zabulon bother to interfere in the fight?

  He'd done everything right. Purged the ranks of the Dark Ones of useless ballast, built up the tension, even deliberately shot to miss. Zabulon had made me come rushing to this spot to meet the Maverick. And now Zabulon was somewhere far away. Maybe not even in Moscow. He might even be watching what was happening: There were plenty of technical and magical devices he could use for that. Watching and laughing.

  I was finished.

  Whichever way I jumped, the Twilight was waiting for me.

  Evil has no need to bother with eliminating Good. It's far simpler to let Good fight against itself.

  I had just one chance left, a tiny one, but it was monstrous, vile.

  I could be too slow.

  I could let Maxim kill the boy, or rather simply fail to stop him. He'd calm down after that. He'd go to Night Watch headquarters with me, listen, argue, and eventually give up, crushed by the boss's implacable arguments and iron logic. He'd realize what he'd done and just how fragile the balance he'd disrupted was. And he'd hand himself over to the Tribunal, where he had at least a slim chance of being acquitted.

  I was no field operative, after all. I'd done everything I could. I'd even seen through Darkness's game, a sequence of moves devised by someone far wiser than me. I simply hadn't been strong enough; my reactions hadn't been fast enough.

  Maxim raised the hand holding the dagger.

  Time suddenly began moving slowly, as if I'd entered the Twilight. But the colors didn't fade; they became brighter than ever. It was like moving through a stream of thick syrup. The wooden dagger glided toward Egor's chest, changing as it moved, gleaming like metal or gray flame. Maxim's face was calm and intent; only the lip held under his teeth betrayed how tense he was. The kid didn't understand what was happening; he didn't even try to move out of the way.

  I threw Egor aside—my muscles almost refused to obey me; they didn't want to do something so absurd and suicidal. For the boy, the little Black Magician, the dagger meant death. For me, it meant life. That's the way it always has been and always will be.

  What means life for a Dark One means death for a Light One, and vice versa. Who was I to change…

  I wasn't too slow.

  Egor fell, banged his head against the door, and slid down into a sitting position—I'd pushed him too hard. But I was more concerned about saving him than about any bruises he might get. Maxim's eyes glittered with almost childish resentment, but he could still talk.

  "He's an enemy!"

  "He hasn't done anything!"

  "You're defending the Darkness."

  Maxim wasn't arguing about whether I was Dark or Light. He could see that well enough.

  It's just that he was whiter than white. And he'd never had to decide who should live and who should die.

  The dagger was raised again. Not aimed at the boy this time, but at me. I dodged away, looked for my shadow, summoned it, and it rushed obediently toward me.

  The world turned gray, sounds disappeared, movements slowed. Egor stopped squirming and became completely motionless; the cars crept along the street uncertainly, with their wheels turning in spurts; the branches of the trees forgot about the wind. But Maxim didn't slow down.

  He'd followed me in, without knowing what he was doing. Slipped into the Twilight as easily as someone stepping off the road onto the curb. It was all the same to him now; he was drawing strength from his own certainty, his own hate, his lighter-than-light hate, the fury of the color white. He wasn't the executioner of the Dark Ones any longer. He was an Inquisitor. And he was far more terrifying than our Inquisition.

  I threw my arms out, spreading my fingers in the sign of Power, simple and foolproof—how the young Others laugh when they're shown that move for the first time. Maxim didn't even stop—he staggered a bit, then put his head down stubbornly and came for me again. I began to get the picture and backed away, desperately running through the magic arsenal in my mind.

  Agape—the sign of love. He didn't believe in love.

  The triple key—a sign that engendered trust and understanding. He didn't trust me.

  Opium—a lilac symbol, the path of sleep. I felt my own eyelids starting to close.

  That was how he defeated the Dark Ones. Combined with the powers of an Other, his furious faith acted like a mirror, reflecting back any blow aimed at him. It raised him up to his opponent's level. In combination with his ability to see the Darkness and his ridiculous magical dagger, it made him almost invulnerable.

  He couldn't reflect everything like that, though. The reflected blows didn't come back immediately. The sign of Thanatos or the white sword would probably work.

  But if I killed him, I'd kill myself. Set myself on the one road that we all come to in the end—into the Twilight. Into the faded dreams and colorless visions, the eternal, chilly haze. He'd found it so easy to see me as an enemy, but I wouldn't be strong enough to see him that way.

  We circled around each other, with Maxim sometimes making clumsy rushes at me—he'd never been in a real fight before; he was used to killing his victims quickly and easily. From somewhere far away I could hear Zabulon's mocking laughter. His soft, wheedling voice.

  "So you wanted to play a game against the Darkness? Play, then. You have everything you need. Enemies, friends, love, hate. Choose your weapon. Any of them. You already know what the outcome will be. Now you know."

  Maybe I imagined the voice. Or maybe I really did hear it.

  "You're killing yourself too!" I shouted. The holster was flapping against my body, begging to be noticed, begging me to take the pistol out and fire a swarm of little silver wasps at Maxim. As easily as I'd done it with my namesake.

  He didn't hear me—he wasn't capable of hearing me.

  Svetlana, you wanted so much to know where our barriers are, where the line that we mustn't cross when we fight the Darkness runs. Why aren't you here now? You could have seen for yourself.

  But there was no one anywhere near. No Dark Ones to revel in the sight of our duel. No Light Ones to help me, to jump on Maxim and pin him down, to put an end to our deadly dance in the Twilight. No one but a young kid and future Dark Magician, getting up clumsily off the ground, and an implacable executioner with a stony face—a self-appointed paladin of the Light who'd sown as much evil as a dozen werewolves or vampires.

  I raked my fingers through the cold mist, gathering it into my hand, let it soak into my fingers. And directed a little more Power into my right hand.

  A blade of white fire sprouted from my hand. The Twilight hissed and burned. I raised the white sword, a simple weapon, reliable. Maxim froze.

  "Good or Evil," I said, feeling a wry grin appear on my face. "Come to me. Come, and I'll kill you. You might be lighter than Light, but that's not the point."

  With anybody else it would have worked. No doubt about it. I can imagine how it must feel to see a sword of fire appear out of nowhere for the first time. But Maxim came for me.

  He took those five steps across the space between us. Calmly, not even frowning, without looking at the white sword. And I stood there, repeating to myself the words that I'd spoken so confidently out loud.

  Then the wooden dagger slid in under my ribs.

  In his lair somewhere far, far away, the head of Day Watch burst out laughing.

  I collapsed onto my knees, then fell on my back. I pressed my palm against my chest. It hurt, but so far that was all. The Twilight squealed indignantly at the scent of living blood and began thinning out.

  This was terrible!

  Or was this my only way out? To die?

  Svetlana wouldn't have anyone to save now. She'd travel on along her long and glorious road, but someday even she would have to enter the Twilight forever.

  Did you know this was going to happen, Gesar? Is this what you were hoping for?

  The colors came back into the world. The dark colors of night. The Twilight had rejected me, spat me ou
t in disgust. I was half-sitting, half-lying on the ground, squeezing the bleeding wound with my hand.

  "Why are you still alive?" Maxim asked.

  That note of resentment was back in his voice; he was almost pouting. I felt like smiling, but the pain stopped me. He looked at the dagger and raised it again, uncertainly this time. The next moment Egor was there, standing between us, shielding me from Maxim. This time even the pain couldn't stop me from laughing.

  A future Dark Magician saving a Light One from another Light One!

  "I'm alive because your weapon is good only against the Darkness," I said. I heard an ominous gurgling sound in my chest. The dagger hadn't reached my heart, but it had punctured a lung. "I don't know who gave it to you, but it's a weapon of Darkness. Against me it's just a sliver of wood, but even that hurts."

  "You're a Light One," said Maxim.

  "Yes."

  "He's a Dark One." The dagger slowly turned to point at Egor.

  I nodded and tried to tug the kid out of the way. He shook his head stubbornly and stayed where he was.

  "Why?" asked Maxim. "Tell me why, eh? You're Light, he's Dark…"

  And then even he smiled for the first time, though it wasn't a very happy smile.

  "Then who am I? Tell me that."

  "I'd say you're a future Inquisitor," said a voice behind me. "I'm almost certain of it. A talented, implacable, incorruptible Inquisitor."

  I smiled ironically and said:

  "Good evening, Gesar."

  The boss gave me a nod of sympathy. Svetlana was standing behind him, and her face was as white as chalk.

  "Can you hold on for five minutes?" the boss asked. "Then I'll deal with your little scratch."

  "Sure I can," I agreed.

  Maxim was staring at the boss with crazy eyes.

  "I don't think you need to worry," the boss said to him. "If you were an ordinary poacher, the Tribunal would have you executed—you've got too much blood on your hands, and the Tribunal is obliged to maintain a balance. But you're magnificent, Maxim. They can't afford to just toss someone like you away. You'll be set above us, above Light and Darkness, and it won't even matter which side you came from. But don't get your hopes up. That isn't power. It's hard labor. Drop the dagger!"