Last Watch

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  “It looks that way. But I don’t know what to say to you about that. And if I did, I wouldn’t say it.”

  “Are you going to guard Merlin’s hiding place until the end of time?”

  “For as long as I can,” said Lermont, turning the Rune of Merlin over in his hands. He sighed. “At least now the Guard is watching over the fifth level again. Next time the enemy will have to subdue it.”

  “Destroy the Rune, Foma!”

  He shook his head. “There aren’t any simple answers, Anton. If the Rune is destroyed, the Guard will disappear too. I’ll hide it as securely as I can. You don’t need to know how. And... thank you for your help.”

  “Meaning, ‘Now get lost’?” I asked, smiling.

  “Meaning, ‘Thank you for your help.’ The more outsiders there are here, the more fuss there will be over everything that has happened. I’m grateful to you, and to Semyon. Your plane tickets will be delivered to your hotel.”

  “Fair enough. And thank you, Foma.” I bowed. “May you walk with the Light!”

  “Wait,” Lermont said in a gentle voice. He walked up to me and embraced me. “I mean it: Thank you. Don’t take offense. We’re going to have a lot of problems here, and a lot of visitors from the Inquisition. Do you really want to get stuck here for a month?”

  “Guard the Crown well, Foma,” I said after a pause.

  “Think about what you’ve seen, Anton. I’m sure that one of your compatriots is involved in what has happened. Approach the mystery from your side—and we’ll meet again.”

  “If I find whoever it is from our side, I’ll tear his legs off and stick them in his ears. Good-bye, Thomas the Rhymer!”

  When I had already reached the door, I added, “Oh yes, by the way, we’re used to flying first class!”

  “Be grateful if I don’t send you as baggage,” Foma replied in the same tone of voice. Then he turned and walked back to his colleagues.

  .

  .

  COMMON CAUSE

  Epilogue

  “You know, that’s a really bad move, to tell someone you fought side by side with that you’ll meet again later,” Semyon declared somberly. “He hasn’t got a single free moment to see me. And now we’re flying back home, like real ninnies. If we had just a week... we could have gone to the lochs, done a bit of fishing...”

  “Semyon, the Inquisition will arrive any minute—we’d be stuck here for a month.”

  “So, what’s wrong with that?”

  “I’m a family man.”

  “Oh, that’s right... ,” Semyon said with a sigh. “With a little daughter... . Is she walking yet?”

  “Semyon, stop playing the fool!”

  We stopped in front of the hotel entrance. Semyon chuckled and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Er... how much time have we got?”

  “Five or six hours. If the tickets are for the evening flight.”

  “I’ll just drop into a shop and buy a few souvenirs. Shall I get some for you?”

  “What, exactly?”

  “What sort of question’s that? Whisky and scarves. Whisky for the men and scarves for the women. I usually get five of each.”

  “Go on, then,” I said, waving him away. “But get me a child’s scarf too, if you see one. Something bright and cheerful.”

  “Definitely.”

  I walked into the hotel lobby. The receptionist was not at his desk, but there was an envelope lying there with my name written on it in large letters. Inside were three first-class tickets—for me, Semyon, and Galya Dobronravova. Foma had acted with incredible efficiency, and he hadn’t even forgotten about the wolf-girl.

  I knocked on the door of the Dark suite on the fourth floor. No response. I listened and heard the sound of water flowing somewhere inside. I took Galya’s ticket out of the envelope and pushed it under the door.

  I found the key in my pocket and went into my own suite.

  “Slowly-slowly-go-over-to-the-armchair-and-sit-down,” a voice said at incredible speed. It was the young red-haired guy who had introduced himself to me as Jean in the Dungeons of Scotland.

  He had positioned himself perfectly—at the window, with the blinding sunlight pouring in through it. My shadow was behind me: There was no way I could plunge into it.

  “Start-moving-toward-the-armchair-slowly-slowly,” the young guy rattled off.

  He was accelerated, enveloped in the green glow emanating from the amulet on his arm. It looked like an ordinary woven bead trinket, the kind that hippies make. His reflexes now were many times faster than those of a normal human being. And since he was holding an Uzi automatic rifle and its magazine of charmed bullets was glowing bright red, it would have been unwise of me to object.

  “Speak more clearly,” I said, walking over to the chair and sitting in it. “Since you didn’t kill me straightaway, there must be something to talk about.”

  “You’re-wrong-wizard,” the young guy said.

  I thought it was funny, his childish use of “wizard.”

  “I-was-ordered-to-kill-you-but-there’s-something-I-want-toask-you.”

  “Ask away.”

  I needed my shadow. I needed to turn my head, see my shadow, and dive into the Twilight. I would be faster than him there.

  “Don’t-turn-your-head! If-you-look-at-your-shadow-I’ll-shoot-straightaway. How-many-of-you-are-there?”

  “What?”

  “How-many-brutes-like-you-are-there-walking-the-earth?”

  “Well...” I thought for a moment. “Do you mean Light Ones or Dark Ones?”

  “It-doesn’t-matter.”

  “Approx... imate... ly... one... in... every... ten... thou... sand... ,” I drawled slowly. Not to be a wise guy, but to try to convince this young fellow that he was speeded up too far. But then, was he even able to control the effect of the charm?

  “Bastards-I-hate-them,” he said, as quickly as ever. “I-was-told-to-say-you-betrayed-a-friend-and-deserve-to-die...”

  There was a knock at the door. The young guy’s glance darted in that direction and then back to me. In a single movement he pulled the tablecloth off the table and covered his automatic rifle, which was still trained on me. He said, “Open-it!”

  “Who’s there? It’s open!” I shouted.

  If it was Semyon, we’d have a chance.

  The door opened and Galya walked in. The way she looked simply took my breath away. A short little black skirt, an almost transparent pink top—she would have had Lolita smoking nervously in the corner.

  Jean was dumbstruck too.

  “Hi.” The girl was chewing something. She concentrated and blew out a huge bubble of gum. The bubble burst and Jean jumped, startled. I was afraid he would start blasting away, but the moment passed safely. “And who are you?” she asked.

  She gave Jean a look that made him blush bright red. He managed to jabber and mumble at the same time: “I’m-just-visiting.”

  “Well, friends of Anthony’s get a discount,” Galya said, and winked at the young man. She walked up to me, swaying her hips, and said, “I left my knickers in your place, did you find them?”

  All I could do was shake my head.

  “Ah, screw them anyway,” Galya declared. And she began slowly leaning down, reaching out for my lips with her own, giving Jean a chance to stare... I daren’t even think at what!

  But he stared.

  “Get ready,” Galya whispered. The girl’s eyes were serious and tense. But she still touched my lips—and sparks of mischief glinted in her eyes.

  She transformed instantly into a she-wolf. Crudely, horribly, scattering drops of blood and scraps of skin around her, wasting no time on morphing properly. Then she flung herself around and leaped at the killer like a shaggy black shadow.

 
He started to shoot at the same moment that I flung two Triple Blades, one after another.

  The first cut off the hand that had been holding the gun and also gouged out a chunk of his body. I didn’t realize where the second blade had gone at first. I leaped to my feet and jumped toward the she-wolf writhing on the floor. Her body had taken all the bullets that were intended for me. Not very many—only five or six. If only they hadn’t been charmed.

  Jean stood up, swaying on his feet. He looked at me with wild, insane eyes.

  “Who sent you?” I shouted, hitting him with a Domination, the spell of absolute obedience.

  Jean shuddered and tried to open his mouth—and his head flew apart into three pieces. So now I knew where my second blade had hit him.

  The body swayed and slumped to the floor beside the wolf-girl. Blood pulsed out of its arteries.

  If she had been a vampire, and not a werewolf...

  I leaned down over her and saw that she was transforming back into a human being.

  “Don’t you dare! You’ll die!”

  “I’ll die anyway,” she said in a clear voice. “I don’t want to die... as an animal... .”

  “You’re not...”

  Instantly there was a note of irony in her voice. “Silly... Light One...”

  I stood up. My hands were covered in blood and there was blood squelching under my feet. The killer’s headless body was shuddering convulsively.

  “What’s happening here—” Semyon froze in the doorway. He ran his hand over his face and swore.

  His other hand was holding two plastic bags. One had bottles in it. The other probably had scarves.

  “What’s happening? Nothing,” I said, looking at the dead girl. “It’s all over.”

  I bought the magnet for Zabulon in Edinburgh Airport while Lermont and Semyon were rebooking the tickets. We now only needed two seats in the cabin of the plane and one ticket for an item of nonstandard freight—a long wooden box that had been treated with spells. One of them was to protect the contents against decomposition. Another was to persuade the customs men that there was no need to check the box, since it was being used to transport harmless skis.

  The magnet was banal but beautiful: a Scotsman in a kilt, with bagpipes. I put it in my pocket, then stood in front of the display of postcards for a while. I chose one with a photograph of the castle and put it in my guidebook to Great Britain. I didn’t have any reason to send it to Lera—yet. But I hoped very much that sooner or later I would be able to keep the promise I had made to Victor’s girlfriend.

  Semyon was unusually quiet. He didn’t reminisce about the way airplanes used to look at the dawn of the aviation industry, he didn’t crack any jokes. We walked through the customs and passport checks and took our seats on the plane. Semyon took out a flask of whisky and glanced at me inquiringly. I nodded. We each took a mouthful straight from the flask, earning ourselves a disapproving glance from the flight attendant. She immediately went off to her little cubbyhole and came back with glasses and a few little bottles, which she handed to Semyon without saying a word.

  “Don’t feel sorry for her,” Semyon said gently. “Dark Ones will always be Dark Ones. She would have grown up into a monster. Most likely.”

  I nodded. He was right, of course. Even a “silly Light One” like me had to understand that... .

  I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes. I realized that I’d even forgotten to check the probabilities to see if the plane was in any danger of crashing. Ah... what difference did it make? People flew all the time without worrying if anything bad was going to happen. I could try that too.

  “I checked the probability lines,” Semyon said. “We leave ten minutes late, but we arrive on time. There’s a tail wind. Lucky, that, isn’t it?”

  I opened the little plastic bag, put the disposable earphones in my ears, and stuck the jack into the socket hidden in the arm of my seat. I pressed the buttons to select a channel and stopped when I heard a familiar song:

  Do not lose what has been given,

  Do not regret what has been lost.

  This boy at the doorway to heaven

  Is weary of sighing and tears.

  But he can see straight through you,

  And he won’t sing us any psalms.

  He will ask us only one question—

  Did we live and did we love...

  Did we live and did we love...

  Did we live and did we love...

  .

  .

  Story Two

  A COMMON ENEMY

  Prologue

  The fire safety inspector jabbed his finger in the direction of the incense stick smoking in its stand.

  “And what’s that?”

  “Opium,” the young woman replied dreamily.

  There was a sudden silence in the accounts office. The inspector’s face broke out in red blotches.

  “I’m not joking. What is it?”

  “A joss stick. It’s Indian. It’s called opium.” The young woman looked around at her colleagues and added self-consciously: “But that’s only a name, you mustn’t think... There isn’t really any opium in it!”

  “At home you can smoke opium or cannabis, or anything else you like,” said the inspector, ostentatiously nipping his fingers together and extinguishing the small smoldering stick. “But here... you’re surrounded on all sides by nothing but paper.”

  “I keep an eye on it,” the young woman objected resentfully. “And it’s in a special stand, see? The ash falls on the ceramic base. It’s a nice smell, everyone likes it...” she went on in a gentle, reassuring voice, in the same tone adults use when talking to a little child.

  The inspector was about to say something else, but just then the middle-aged woman who was sitting facing all the other bookkeepers intervened. “Vera, I’m sorry, but the inspector is quite right. It’s a very sickly smell. By the time evening comes, it gives you a headache.”

  “In India the windows are probably always kept wide open,” a third woman put in. “And they burn their fragrances all the time. It’s terribly dirty there; there are always cesspits somewhere close by, and everything rots very quickly, because of the climate. They have to smother the stench somehow. But what do we need it for?”

  A fourth girl, the same age as Vera, giggled and stuck her face in the screen of her computer.

  “Well... you should have said!” Vera exclaimed. Her voice sounded tearful. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “We didn’t want to offend you,” the older woman replied.

  Vera jumped to her feet, covered her face with her hands, and ran out into the corridor. Her heels clattered on the parquet flooring, and the door of the restroom slammed in the distance.

  “We had to tell her sooner or later,” the middle-aged woman said with a sigh. “I’m really sick of smelling those sticks of hers. It’s always opium, or jasmine, or cinnamon... .”

  “Do you remember the chilis and cardamom?” the young girl exclaimed. “That was really horrible!”

  “Don’t make fun of your friend. You’d better go and bring Vera back; she’s much too upset.”

  The young girl willingly got to her feet and left the room.

  The inspector gazed around at the women with a wild expression. Then he glanced at the man beside him—a young, plump individual wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Beside the inspector in his respectable uniform, the man looked very untidy.

  “This is a madhouse,” the inspector declared. “Nothing but breaches of the fire safety code everywhere I look. Why haven’t you been closed down yet?”

  “I’m surprised at that myself,” the other man agreed. “Sometimes when I’m walking to work, I wonder, What if it’s all over now? What if they’ve put an end to the whole mess and from now o
n we’re going to work according to the fire safety regulations, without breaking a single rule—”

  “Show me the fire-safety board on the second floor,” the inspector interrupted, looking at his plan of the building.

  “Gladly,” said the man, opening the door for the inspector and winking at the women they were leaving behind in the office.

  The inspector’s indignation was lessened a bit by the sight of the board. It was brand-new and very neat and tidy, painted red. Two fire extinguishers, a bucket of sand, an empty conical-shaped bucket, a spade, a gaff, and a crowbar.

  “Well, well. Well, well, well,” the inspector murmured as he glanced at the buckets and checked the date when the extinguishers were last refilled. “The good old-fashioned kind. I didn’t really expect that.”

  “We make an effort,” said his guide. “When I was still in school, we had one just like that on the wall.”

  The inspector turned his plan around and thought for a moment.

  “And now let’s take a look at... at your programmers.”

  “Yes, let’s,” the other man said brightly. “That’s upstairs, follow me... .”

  At the foot of the stairs he stepped aside to let the inspector go first. He turned back and glanced at the fire safety board, which faded and then dissolved into thin air. Something fell to the floor with a quiet sound. The man smiled.

  The visit to the programmers gave the inspector another reason to be indignant. The programmers (two young women and one young guy) were blithely smoking at their workstations, and the wires from the computers were twisted into terrible tangles (the inspector even crawled under one desk and checked that the sockets were grounded). When they came back down to the first floor fifteen minutes later, the inspector walked into an office with the strange title DUTY POINTSMAN on the door and laid his papers out on the desk. The young man acting as his guide sat down facing him and watched with a smile as the inspector filled in his report form.

  “What sort of nonsensical title is that you have on the door?” the inspector asked without looking up from what he was doing.