Day Watch

by Сергей Лукьяненко

  Anton drained his large mug sullenly and put it back down on the glass stand with the restaurant's logo.

  He was no longer the same young magician who had gone out into the field for the first time to track down a poaching vampire. He had changed, even in the short time that had passed. Since that first mission he'd had plenty of opportunities to observe just how much Darkness there was in the Light. He was actually rather impressed by the gloomy position adopted by the Dark magician Edgar-they were only grains caught between the mill wheels as the big players settled accounts with each other, so the best thing to do was drink your beer and keep quiet. And once again Anton thought that sometimes the Dark Ones, with their apparent simplicity, were more human than the Light Ones, with their struggle for exalted ideals.

  "But even so, you're wrong, Edgar," he said eventually. "There's one fundamental difference about us. We live for others. We serve, we don't rule."

  "That's what all the human leaders have said," Edgar replied, obligingly falling into the trap. "The Party is the servant of the people, remember?"

  "But there's one thing that distinguishes us from human leaders," said Anton, looking Edgar in the eye. "Dematerialization. You understand? A Light One cannot choose the path of evil. If he realizes that he has increased the amount of evil in the world, he withdraws into the Twilight. Disappears. And it's happened plenty of times, whenever a Light One has made a mistake or given way even slightly to the influence of the Darkness."

  Edgar giggled quietly. "Anton… you've answered your own point. "If he realizes…' What if he doesn't realize? Do you remember the case of that maniac healer? Twelve years ago, I think it was…"

  Anton remembered. He hadn't been initiated at the time, but he'd discussed and analyzed the unprecedented case with every member of the Watch, with every Light One.

  A Light healer with a powerful gift of foresight. He lived outside Moscow and wasn't an active member of the Night Watch, but he was listed in the reserve. He worked as a doctor, and used Light magic in his practice. His patients adored him-after all, he could literally work miracles… But he also killed young women who were his patients. Not by using magic-he simply killed them. Sometimes he killed them using acupuncture-he had a perfect knowledge of the body's energy points…

  The Night Watch discovered what he was doing almost by accident. One of the analysts started wondering about the sharp rise in deaths among young women in a small town just outside Moscow. One especially alarming factor was that most of the victims were pregnant. They also noticed a remarkably high number of miscarriages, abortions, and stillbirths. They suspected the Dark Ones, they suspected vampires and werewolves, Satanists, witches… They checked absolutely everyone.

  Then Gesar himself got involved in the case, and the murderer was caught. The murderer who was a Light magician…

  The charming and imposing healer simply saw the future too clearly. Sometimes, when he received a patient, he could see the future of her unborn child, who was almost certain to grow into a murderer, a maniac, or a criminal. Sometimes he saw that his patient would commit some monstrous crime or accidentally cause the deaths of large numbers of people, so he decided to fight back any way he could.

  At his trial the healer had explained ardently that Light magical intervention wouldn't have been any use-in that case the Dark Ones would have been granted the right to an equal intervention in response, and the quantity of evil in the world wouldn't have been reduced. But all he had done was "pull up the weeds." And he had been prevented from sinking into the Twilight by the firm conviction that the amount of good he had brought into the world was far greater than the evil he had done.

  Gesar had had to dematerialize him in person.

  "He was a psychopath," Anton explained. "Just a psychopath. With the typical deranged way of thinking… You get cases like that, unfortunately."

  "Like that sword-bearer of Joan of Arc's, the Marquis Gilles de Rais," Edgar prompted eagerly. "He was a Light One too, wasn't he? And then he started killing women and children in order to extract the elixir of youth from their bodies, conquer death, and make the whole of humanity happy."

  "Edgar, nobody's insured against insanity. Not even Others. But if you take the most ordinary witch…" Anton began, fuming.

  "I accept that," said Edgar, spreading his hands in a reconciliatory shrug. "But we're not talking about extreme cases here! Just about the fact that it's possible, and the defense mechanism you're so proud of, dematerialization-let's call it simply conscience- can fail. And now think-what if Gesar decides that if you die it will do immense good for the cause of the Light in the future? If the scales are balanced between Anton Gorodetsky on one side and millions of human lives on the other?"

  "He wouldn't have to trick me," Anton said firmly. "There'd be no need. If such a situation arises, I'm prepared to sacrifice myself. Every one of us is."

  "And what if he can't tell you anything about it?" Edgar laughed, delighted. "So the enemy won't find out, so you'll behave more naturally, so you won't suffer unnecessarily… after all, it's Gesar's responsibility to preserve your peace of mind as well."

  He raised the next mug of beer with a satisfied expression and sucked in the foam noisily.

  "You're a Dark One," said Anton. "All you see in everything is evil, treachery, trickery."

  "All I do is not close my eyes to them," Edgar retorted. "And that's why I don't trust Zabulon. I distrust him almost, as much as I do Gesar. I can even trust you more-you're just another unfortunate chess piece who happens by chance to be painted a different color from me. Does a white pawn hate a black one? No. Especially if the two pawns have their heads down together over a quiet beer or two."

  "You know," Anton said in a slightly surprised voice, "I just don't understand how you can carry on living if you see the world like that. I'd just go and hang myself."

  "So you don't have any counterarguments to offer?"

  Anton took a gulp of beer too. The wonderful thing about this natural Czech beer was that even if you drank lots of it, it still didn't make your head or your body feel heavy… Or was that an illusion?

  "Not a single one," Anton admitted. "Right now, this very moment, not a single one. But I'm sure you're wrong. It's just difficult to argue about the colors of a rainbow with a blind man. There's something missing in you… I don't know what exactly.

  But it's something very important, and without it you're more helpless than a blind man."

  "Why am I?" Edgar protested, slightly offended. "It's you Light Ones who are helpless. Bound hand and foot by your own ethical dogmas. And those who have moved up onto the higher levels of development, like Gesar, control you."

  "I'll try to answer that," said Anton. "But not right now. We'll be seeing each other again."

  "Avoiding the question?" Edgar asked, laughing.

  "No, it's just that we decided not to talk about work. Didn't we?"

  Edgar didn't answer. The Light One really had got him there! Why had he bothered getting into such a useless argument? You can't paint a white dog black, as they said in the Day Watch.

  "Yes," he agreed, "It's my fault, I admit it. Only…"

  "Only it's very hard not to talk about the things that separate us," Anton said with a nod. "I understand. It's not your fault… it's destiny."

  He rummaged in his pockets and took out a pack of cigarettes. Edgar couldn't help noticing that they were cheap ones, 21st Century, made in Russia. Well, well. A Dark magician of his level could afford all the pleasures of life. But Anton smoked Russian cigarettes… and maybe it was no accident that he'd ended up in this small, cozy restaurant that was so inexpensive?

  "Where is it you're staying?" he asked.

  "The Kafka Hotel," Anton answered. "Zizkov, on Cimburkova Street."

  That fit, all right-it was a small, second-rate hotel. Edgar nodded as the Light One lit up. It looked awkward somehow, as if he hadn't been smoking long or didn't smoke very often.

  "And you're in the
Hilton, aren't you?" Anton suddenly said. "Or the Radisson SAS at the very worst?"

  "Are you following me?" Edgar asked, suddenly on his guard again.

  "No. It's just that all Dark Ones are so fond of famous names and expensive establishments. You're predictable too."

  "So what?" Edgar said defiantly. "Are you a supporter of asceticism and the poor life?"

  Anton looked around ironically at the restaurant, the pathetic remains of his leg of pork on the knife-scarred wooden board, his latest mug of beer-how many had there been? It didn't seem like he even needed to answer, but he did: "No, I'm not arguing that. But the number of rooms and staff that a hotel has isn't the most important thing. Nor is the price of the dishes on the menu. I could have stayed at the Hilton too, and gone to drink beer in the most expensive tavern in Prague. But what for? And you-why did you come to this place? Not exactly top flight, is it?"

  "It's comfortable here," Edgar admitted. "And the food's good."

  "See what I mean?"

  In a sudden fit of drunken magnanimity, Edgar exclaimed, "That's it! I think I've got it! That's what the difference between us is. You try to limit your natural requirements. Maybe it's some kind of modesty… But we're more extravagant, yes… With power, money, financial and human resources…"

  "People are not a resource!" Anton's eyes were suddenly piercing and angry. "Do you understand? They're not a resource!"

  That was always the way. As soon as the areas of contact came up… Edgar sighed. The Light Ones were really deluded. How could they be so deluded?

  "All right. Let's change the subject." He took another mouthful of beer and couldn't help remarking, "There was an American airman sitting in here… and he was a Light magician… an absolute oaf, by the way; he didn't even notice me. I'll bet you he regards people as a resource. Or maybe as a stupid, dull-witted inferior race that can be nurtured and punished. The same way we regard them."

  "Our trouble is that we're a product of human society," Anton replied gloomily. "With all its shortcomings. And until they've lived many centuries, even Light Ones still carry around the stereotypes and myths of their own country: Russia, America, or Burkina Faso -it makes no difference. What the hell, why can't I get Burkina Faso out of my head?"

  "One of those idiots, the Regin Brothers, is from Burkina Faso," Edgar suggested. "And it's a funny name."

  "The Regin Brothers…" Anton said with a nod. "What cunning business are your people up to with them? It was someone in the Moscow Day Watch who called them to Moscow. Promised to help them activate Fafnir's Talon… What for?"

  "I am not in possession of any such information, and that is an official statement of my position!" Edgar replied quickly. You couldn't afford to give these Light Ones the slightest hint of a formal violation to clutch at…

  "Don't bother admitting it, there's no need!" Anton said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I'm not a little child. But the last thing we need is the appearance of an insane Dark magician of immense Power."

  "Us too," Edgar declared. "That would mean all-out war. No holds barred. In other words, the Apocalypse."

  "Then that means the Regin Brothers were lied to," Anton said. "They were persuaded to attack the Berne office, steal the Talon, and fly to Moscow… but what for? To feed Power to the Mirror?"

  He's quick-witted, Edgar noted to himself. But he shook his head as he formulated a superb denial: "That's nonsense! We only found out who Vitaly Rogoza was after the Talon had already been stolen and the four survivors from the battle were on their way to Moscow."

  "That's right!" Anton suddenly exclaimed. "You're right, Dark One! The appearance of a Mirror cannot be foretold-it's a spontaneous creation of the Twilight. But the Inquisition's official communique states that the sect began preparing to storm the artifacts repository two weeks before the actual event. Rogoza didn't even exist then… or, rather, he did, but he was an ordinary individual who was later transformed by the Twilight…"

  Edgar chewed on his lip. Now it looked as if he'd given the Light One an idea… passed on some information to him or simply pointed him in the right direction. Oh, that was bad… But then, why was it? He wouldn't mind being able to understand the situation better himself. It was a matter of vital importance to him too. Edgar mused out loud: "Maybe someone wanted the Inquisition office moved out of Berne?"

  "Or decided it ought to be moved to Prague…"

  They gazed at each other thoughtfully-a Light magician and a Dark magician, both equally interested in understanding what was going on. The waiter was about to approach them, but he saw they hadn't finished their beer yet and went to serve the Americans.

  "That's one possibility," Edgar agreed. "But we didn't need the actual operation with the Talon. Don't even think of blaming us for that kind of nonsense!"

  "But maybe," Anton exclaimed, "you needed to ruin some other operation… one of our operations? And Fafnir's Talon was a very good way to do that?"

  Edgar cursed himself for being so talkative. Only in the figurative sense, of course. No Dark magician would ever set an Inferno vortex spinning above his own head.

  "Nonsense, what other operation…" he began. And then he suddenly realized that by starting to defend the Day Watch so abruptly, he had effectively confirmed Anton's guess.

  "Thank you, Other," the Light One said with sincere feeling.

  Still mentally lashing himself, Edgar stood up. It was true what they said: Before you sit down with a Light One, cut out your tongue and wire your mouth shut!

  "It's time I was going," he said. "I really enjoyed… our little talk."

  "Me too," Anton agreed. And he even held out his hand.

  It would have been stupid to refuse to take the hand that was proffered, so Edgar shook it. Then he tossed a five-hundred-crown bill onto the table and hurried out.

  Anton smiled as he watched him go. It was fun to give a Dark magician a fright, especially one of the Day Watch's top ten. The fat watchman obviously thought he'd given away some terrible secret… but he hadn't given anything away: The explanation Anton had suggested was stupid, and even if it happened by chance to be the right one, Anton still hadn't learned anything worth knowing…

  He squinted at the waiter and gestured, as if he were writing on his palm with his finger. A minute later he was handed the check.

  Including the usual tip, it came to one thousand and twenty crowns.

  Oh, those Dark Ones…

  It was only a trifle, but Edgar had still saved money. After all those gibes about the poor Night Watch and that invisible counting on fingers…

  Anton paid, stood up (the beer had had an effect after all- his body felt relaxed in a way that was pleasant and alarming at the same time), and walked out of the Black Eagle, toward Staromestka Square, where he had an appointment with a representative of the Inquisition. He was only just in time.

  There were always a lot of tourists here.

  Especially at the beginning of every hour, when the old astronomical clock began to chime. The little double windows opened and little figures of the apostles appeared in them, moving out as if they were surveying the square, and then retreating into the depths of the mechanism again. The indefatigable Staromestka Square clock…

  Anton stood among the tourists with his hands stuck in his pockets-his hands were feeling cold after all, and he'd never liked wearing gloves. All around him video cameras hummed quietly, camera shutters clicked, and the members of the multilingual crowd exchanged impressions on their visit to the latest obligatory attraction. He even thought he could hear their brains squeaking as they ticked off one more spot on the tourist map of Prague: Watch the clock chime-done.

  Why was he walking along in this faceless crowd, as if he were also ticking off the points of a tourist program in his mind?

  Mental inertia? Laziness? Or an incurable herd instinct? The Dark Ones probably never walked around in the common crowd…

  "No, I don't understand you," someone in the crowd said in Rus
sian, a couple of steps away from him. "I'm on vacation, do you hear? Can't you decide for yourself?"

  Anton squinted quickly at his fellow countryman, but the sight wasn't a very pleasant one. His compatriot was sturdily built, with broad shoulders, and was draped in gold. He'd already learned how to wear expensive suits, but not how to knot a tie from Hermes. The tie was knotted, of course, but with a "collective farm" knot that was awful to look at. There was a crumpled scarf dangling from under the unbuttoned coat of maroon cashmere wool.

  The New Russian caught his glance and frowned as he put away his cell phone. He turned to gaze at the clock again. Anton looked away.

  The third generation, that was what the analysts said. You had to wait until the third generation. The grandson of this bandit who had got rich and somehow managed to stay alive would be a thoroughly decent man. You just had to wait. And unlike people, Others could afford to wait for generations. Their work went on for centuries… at least the work of the Light Ones did.

  It was easy for the Dark Ones to make the changes they wanted to peoples' minds. The path of Darkness was always shorter than the path of Light. Shorter, easier, more fun.

  "Anton Gorodetsky," someone said behind his back. Someone speaking a language that was obviously not his own, but which he knew perfectly.

  And with that intonation that was quite impossible to confuse with anybody else. The aloof, slightly bored intonation of the Inquisitors.

  Anton turned round, nodded, and held out his hand.

  The Inquisitor looked like a Czech. A tall man of indeterminate age in a warm, gray raincoat, and a woollen beret with an amusing hat pin with a design of hunting horns, weapons, and a deer's head. Somehow it was very easy to imagine him in a twilit park in autumn, strolling over the thick carpet of brown leaves thoughtfully, sadly, slowly-looking like a spy engrossed in his thoughts.