"And in three of the newly independent states…" Gesar muttered. He blew out a stream of smoke and the smoke gathered together into a dense cloud in midair, instead of dispersing throughout the compartment.
"All right, what comes next?" I asked. "How do the independent Watches of Russia and, say, Lithuania, interact? Or Russia, Lithuania, the USA, and Uganda? In the human world what happens is clear enough: whoever has the biggest stick and the thickest purse calls the tune. But the Russian Watches are stronger than the American ones! I even think…"
"The strongest Watch is the French one," Gesar said in a bored voice. "Strong, but extremely lazy. An amazing phenomenon. We can't understand what the reason is-it can't just be a matter of consuming massive quantities of dry wine and oysters…"
"The Watches are run by the Inquisition," I said. "It doesn't settle disputes, it doesn't punish renegades, it runs things. It gives permission for one social experiment or another, it appoints and removes the leaders… it transfers them from Uzbekistan to Moscow… There's one Inquisition, with two operational agencies. The Night Watch and the Day Watch. And the Inquisition's only goal is to maintain the existing status quo. Because victory for the Dark Ones or the Light Ones means defeat for the Others in general."
"And what else, Anton?" Gesar asked.
I shrugged.
"What else? Nothing else. People get on with their little human lives and enjoy their little human joys. They feed us with their bodies… and provide new Others. The Others who are less ambitious live almost ordinary lives. Only their lives are more prosperous, more healthier, and longer than ordinary people's. Those who just can't live without excitement, who long for battles and adventures, a struggle for exalted ideals-they join the Watches. The ones who are disillusioned with the Watches join the Inquisition."
"And…?" Gesar asked, encouraging me to continue.
"What are you doing in the Night Watch, boss?" I asked. "Aren't you sick of it yet… after thousands of years?"
"Let's just say that after all this time I still enjoy battles and adventures," Gesar said. "Eh?"
I shook my head. "No, Boris Ignatievich, I don't believe you. I've seen you when you're… different. Too weary. Too disillusioned."
"Then let's assume that I'd really like to finish off Zabulon," Gesar said calmly.
I thought for a second. "That's not it, either. In hundreds of years one of you would have finished off the other already. Zabulon said that fighting with magic is like swordplay. Well, you're not fighting with swords, you're fencing with sports rapiers. You claim a hit, but you don't make a hole in your opponent."
Gesar nodded and paused before speaking. Another dense stream of tobacco smoke joined the blue-gray cloud. "What do you think, Anton, is it possible to live for thousands of years and still feel the same pity for people?"
"Pity?" I queried.
Gesar nodded.
"Precisely pity. Not love-it's beyond our power to love the entire world. And not admiration-we know only too well what human beings are like."
"It probably is possible to pity them," I said and nodded. "But what good is your pity, boss? It's pointless, barren. Others don't make the human world any better."
"We do, Anton. We do, no matter how bad things still are. Trust an old man who's seen a lot."
"But even so…"
"I'm waiting for a miracle, Anton."
I looked at Gesar quizzically.
"I don't know exactly what kind of miracle. For all people to acquire the abilities of Others. For all Others to become human again. For a day when the dividing line won't run between Other and human being, but between good and bad." Gesar smiled gently. "I have absolutely no idea how anything of the sort could ever happen and if it ever will. But if it ever does… I prefer to be on the side of the Night Watch. And not the Inquisition-the mighty, clever, correct, all-powerful Inquisition."
"Maybe Zabulon's waiting for the same thing?"
Gesar nodded. "Maybe. I don't know. But better an old enemy you know than a young, unpredictable freak. You can call me a conservative, but I prefer rapiers with Zabulon to baseball bats with a progressive Dark Magician."
"And what would you advise me to do?"
Gesar shrugged and spread his hands. "What advice would I give you? Make up your own mind. You can get out and lead an ordinary life. You can join the Inquisition… I won't object if you do. Or you can stay in the Night Watch."
"And wait?"
"And wait. Preserve the part of you that's still human. Avoid falling into ecstatic raptures and trying to impose the Light on people when they don't want it. Avoid relapsing into contemptuous cynicism and imagining that you are pure and perfect. That's the hardest thing of all-never to become cynical, never to lose faith, never to become indifferent."
"Not a huge choice…" I said.
"Ha!" Gesar said, smiling. "Just be glad that there's any choice at all."
The suburbs of Saratov flitted by outside the windows. The train was slowing down.
I was sitting in an empty compartment and watching the spinning pointer.
Kostya was still following us.
What was he expecting?
Arbenin's voice sang in the earphones:
From deception to deception
Only manna pours down from the sky.
From siesta to siesta
They feed us only manifestoes.
Some have gone, some have left.
I have only made a choice.
And I sense it with my back:
We are different, we are other.
I shook my head. It should be "We are Others." But even if we were to disappear, people would still be divided into people and Others. No matter how those Others were different.
People can't get by without Others. Put two people on an uninhabited island, and you'll have a human being and an Other. And the difference is that an Other is always tormented by his differentness. It's easier for people. They know they're people, and that's what they ought to be. And they all have no choice but to be that way. All of them, forever.
We stand in the center,
We blaze like a fire on an ice-floe
And try to warm ourselves,
Disguising the means with the goal.
Burning through to our souls
In meditative solitude.
The door opened and Gesar came into the compartment. I pulled the earphones out of my ears.
"Look." Gesar put his palm-held computer on the table. There was a dot crawling across the map on the screen-our train. Gesar glanced at the compass, nodded, and confidently marked a thick line on the screen with his stylus.
"What's that?" I asked, looking at the square that Kostya's trajectory was heading for. I guessed the answer myself: "An airport?"
"Precisely. He's not hoping for negotiations." Gesar laughed. "He's making a dash straight for the airport."
"Is it military?"
"No, civilian. But what's the difference? He has the piloting templates."
I nodded. For "backup" all operational agents carried a collection of useful skills-driving a car, flying a plane or a helicopter, emergency medical assistance, martial arts… Of course the template didn't provide perfect skills; an experienced driver would overtake an Other with a driving template, a good doctor would operate far more skillfully. But Kostya could get any kind of aircraft into the air.
"Surely that's a good thing," I said. "We'll scramble the jet fighters and…"
"What if there are passengers?" Gesar asked sharply.
"It's still better than the train," I said in a quiet voice. "Fewer casualties."
And that very moment I felt an odd twinge of pain somewhere deep inside. It was the first time I'd ever weighed human casualties on the invisible scales of expediency and decided one pan was lighter than the other.
"That's no good…" said Gesar, and then added, "Fortunately. What does he care if the plane's destroyed? He'll just transform into a bat and fly down."
&
nbsp; The station platform appeared outside the window. The locomotive blew its whistle as it slowed to a halt at the station.
"Ground-to-air nuclear missiles," I said stubbornly.
Gesar looked at me in amazement. "Where from? The nuclear warheads were all removed ages ago. Except for the air defense units around Moscow… but he won't go to Moscow."
"Where will he go?" I asked expectantly.
"How should I know? It's your job to make sure he doesn't get anywhere," Gesar snapped. "That's it! He's stopped!"
I looked at the compass. The distance between us and Kostya had started to increase. He'd been flying in the form of a bat, or running along in the form of the Gray Wolf from the fairytale, but now he'd stopped.
The interesting thing was that Gesar hadn't even looked at the compass.
"The airport," Gesar said, sounding pleased. "Okay, no more talk. Go. Requisition someone with a good car and get to that airport pronto."
"But…" I began.
"No artifacts, he'll sense them," Gesar retorted calmly. "And no one else goes with you. He can sense all of us now, you understand? All of us! So move it!"
The brakes hissed and the train came to a halt. I paused for a moment in the doorway and heard him say, "Yes, stick to the Gray Prayer. Don't make things complicated. We'll pump you so full of Power he'll be splattered across the apron."
That was all. Apparently the boss was so fired up I didn't even have to say anything to him-he could hear my thoughts before they were formulated in words.
In the corridor I walked past Zabulon, and couldn't help shuddering when he gave me an encouraging slap on the shoulder.
Zabulon didn't take offense. He just said, "Good luck, Anton! We're counting on you!"
The passengers were sitting quietly in their compartments. The captain of the train was the only one who watched me go with a glassy stare as he made some announcement into a microphone.
I opened the door into the lobby at the end of the car, lowered the step and jumped down onto the platform. Everything was moving fast somehow. Too fast…
There was the usual bustle in the station. A noisy group turn bled out of the next car, and one of them bellowed, "Now, where are all those grannies with our favorite stuff?"
The "grannies"-aged from twenty to seventy-were already hurrying to answer the call. Now there'd be vodka, and beer, and roast chicken legs, and pies with dubious fillings.
"Anton!"
I swung around. Las was standing beside me with his bag thrown over his shoulder. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth and an expression of blissful relief on his face.
"Are you getting off too?" Las asked. "Maybe I can give you a lift somewhere? I've got a car waiting."
"A good car?" I asked.
"I think it's a Volkswagen." Las frowned. "Is that good enough? Or do you insist on a Cadillac?"
I turned my head to look at the windows of the captain's car. Gesar, Zabulon, and Edgar were watching me.
"That's fine," I said glumly. "Right… I'm sorry. I'm really in a great hurry and I need a car. I turn you toward…"
"Well, let's get going, why are we standing here, if you're in such a hurry?" Las asked, interrupting the standard formula for recruiting volunteers.
And he slipped into the crowd so smartly that I had no choice but to follow him.
We forced our way through the mindless, jostling crowd in the station and out onto the square in front of it. I caught up with Las and tapped him on the shoulder:
"I turn you…"
"I see it, I see it!" Las said, totally ignoring me. "Hi, Roman!"
The man who came up to us was quite tall, with a well-fed look, almost like a child-so sleek and well-rounded, with the folds of skin around the wrists and ankles you find on a plump baby. A small mouth with tight little lips and small, inexpressive eyes that looked bored behind his spectacles.
"Hello, Alexander," this gentleman said in a way that was somehow very formal, holding his hand out smoothly to Las.
"This is Anton, my friend, can we give him a lift?"
"Why shouldn't we give him a lift?" Roman agreed sadly. "The wheels go around, it's a smooth road." Then he turned and walked toward a brand-new Volkswagen Bora.
We followed him and got into the car. I impudently slipped into the front passenger seat. Las cleared his throat loudly, but climbed meekly into the back. Roman switched on the ignition and asked: "Where do you want to go, Anton?"
His speech was as smooth and streamlined as if he wasn't speaking, but writing the words in the air.
"The airport, it's urgent," I said somberly.
"Where?" Roman asked in genuine amazement. He looked at Las. "Perhaps your friend ought to find a taxi?"
Las gave me an embarrassed look. Then he gave Roman an equally embarrassed one.
"All right," I said. "I turn you toward the Light. Reject the Darkness, defend the Light. I grant you the vision to distinguish Good from Evil. I grant you the faith to follow the Light. I grant you the courage to battle the Darkness."
Las giggled. And then immediately fell silent.
It's not a matter of words, of course. Words can't change anything, not even if you emphasize every last one of them with a capital letter. It's like the witches' spells-a mnemonic formula, a template implanted in my memory. I can simply compel someone to obey me, but this way… this way's more correct. It brings an old, tried, and tested mechanism into play.
Roman straightened up and his cheeks even seemed to lose some of their plumpness. A moment ago the person beside me had been an overgrown, capricious infant, but now he was a man. A warrior!
"The Light be with you!" I concluded.
"To the airport!" Roman declared in delight.
The engine roared and we went tearing off, squeezing every last ounce of power out of the small German car. I'm sure that sports sedan had never really shown what it could do before.
I closed my eyes and looked through the Twilight-at a pattern of branching colored lines against a background of darkness. Like a crumpled bundle of optical fibers-some green, some yellow, some red. I'm not the best at reading the lines of probability, but this time I found it surprisingly easy. I was feeling in better shape than I ever had before.
That meant there was already Power flowing into me. Power from Gesar and Zabulon, Edgar and the Inquisitors. And maybe right now Others were transfixed across Moscow, Light Ones and Dark Ones-the ones Gesar and Zabulon had the right to draw Power from.
I'd only ever felt anything like this once before. That time when I drew Power directly out of people.
"We go left at the third turn, there's a traffic jam ahead," I said. "Then we turn right into the yard and out through the archway… into the side street there…"
I'd never been in Saratov before, but that didn't make any difference right now.
"Yes sir," Roman replied briskly.
"Faster!"
"Very well!"
I looked at Las. He took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. The car hurtled through the crowded streets. Roman drove with the wild fury of a tram driver who's been given a chance to lap Schumacher in a Formula-1 grand prix.
Las sighed and asked, "Now what's going to happen to me? Are you going to take a little flashlight out of your pocket and tell me 'it was a marsh gas explosion?'"
"You can see for yourself-no flashlight's required," I said.
"But will I stay alive?" Las persisted.
"You will," I reassured him. "Only you won't remember anything. I'm sorry, but that's standard procedure."
"I get it," Las said sadly. "Shit… Why is that always the way? Tell me, since it makes no difference…"
The car tore along the side street, bouncing over the potholes. Las stubbed his cigarette out and went on. "Tell me, who are you?"
"An Other."
"What sort of other exactly?"
"A magician. Don't worry-I'm a Light Magician."
"My, but you've grown, Harry Potter…" Las said. "Wha
t a crazy business. Maybe I've just lost my mind?"
"No chance…" I said, pushing my hands hard against the ceiling. Roman was really going for it, driving straight across some flowerbeds to cut a corner. "Careful, Roman! We need to move fast, but safely."
"Then tell me," Las persisted. "Does this car race have anything to do with that abnormally large bat we saw yesterday night?"
"Believe it or not, it does," I confirmed. The Power was seething inside me, as intoxicating as champagne. It made me feel like clowning. "Are you afraid of vampires?"
Las took a flask of whisky out of his bag, tore the top off it and took a long swig. Then he said cheerfully, "Not a bit!"
Chapter 6
Halfway to the airport a highway patrol car pulled out and sat on our tail. I put a spell that diverts people's attention on the Bora, and the patrolmen immediately fell back and disappeared. Others normally use that spell to protect their cars against being stolen, so I was delighted to have found a new use for it. But I soon removed it when a truck nearly flattened us a minute later.
"We'll be at the airport in fifteen or twenty minutes," Roman reported as he swung the wheel. "What will our instructions be, boss?"
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Las shake his head and take another swig. We were already out of town and hurtling along the road to the airport. A fairly decent road by Central Russian standards.
"Turn the radio on," I said. "This journey's getting a bit dreary."
Roman turned it on. He just caught the end of the news:
"… to the delight of millions of readers, whose three-year wait has finally come to an end," the presenter declared. "And in conclusion-an announcement from the cosmodrome at Baikonur, where a joint Russian-American crew is already preparing for liftoff. The launch is planned for six-thirty this evening, Moscow time. And now we continue our musical…"
"Like some whisky?" Las asked.
Twilight Watch Page 35
