Last Watch

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Well, maybe now they’re not bandits any longer, but national heroes...”

  “When Gesar was a commissar in Turkestan, my father fought in his detachment,” Alisher said with pride.

  “He fought there?” Semyon asked excitedly. “What year was that in?”

  “The early twenties.”

  “No, I was later... In Garm, in twenty-nine, when the basmaches broke through from abroad.”

  They launched into a lively discussion of events from days of long ago. From what I understood, it seemed that Alisher’s father and Semyon had almost crossed paths: They had both fought alongside Gesar when he was on active military service in the Red Army. To be quite honest, I didn’t really understand how Gesar could have taken part in the events of the Civil War. The Great Light One couldn’t possibly have bombarded the White Guards and the basmaches with Fireballs! Apparently not all Others had been indifferent to that revolution. Some of them had taken one side or the other in the struggle. And the great Gesar and his comrades had gone dashing about the steppes of Asia to fight whoever had taken the other side.

  And I also thought that now I could probably guess why Gesar and Rustam had quarreled.

  .

  .

  A COMMON ENEMY

  Chapter 2

  Early in the morning is the right time to arrive in a new city. By train, on a plane—it makes no difference. The day seems to start with a brand-new leaf.

  On the plane Alisher became taciturn and thoughtful again. I half-dozed almost all the way through the flight, but he looked out the window as if he could see something interesting on the distant ground, enveloped in night. Then just before we landed, when we flew out into the morning and the plane started its descent, he asked, “Anton, would you mind if we separate for a while?”

  I gave the young magician a curious look. Gesar’s instructions hadn’t involved anything of the kind. And Alisher had already told me everything about his family and friends—or, rather, about the fact that he didn’t have any.

  But then, it wasn’t hard to guess what a young guy who had left his homeland at the age of just over twenty might be thinking about.

  “What’s her name?” I asked.

  “Adolat,” he replied without trying to deny anything. “I’d like to see her. To know what happened to her.”

  I nodded and asked, “Does that name mean something?”

  “All names mean something. Didn’t you ask Gesar to give you knowledge of the Uzbek language?” Alisher asked in surprise.

  “He didn’t suggest it,” I mumbled. But really, why hadn’t I thought of it? And how could Gesar have goofed so badly? We Others learn the major languages of the world as a matter of course—naturally, with the help of magic. Less common languages can be lodged in your mind by a more powerful and experienced magician. Gesar could have done it. Alisher couldn’t.

  “That means he didn’t think you needed it,” Alisher said thoughtfully. “Interesting... .”

  It seemed as if Alisher couldn’t imagine Gesar making a mistake.

  “Will I really need the Uzbek language?” I asked.

  “It’s unlikely. Almost everyone knows Russian... And anyway, nobody would take you for an Uzbek,” Alisher said with a smile. “Adolat means ‘justice.’ A beautiful name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “She’s an ordinary human being,” Alisher murmured. “But she has a good name. A Light name. We went to school together... .”

  The plane shuddered as the undercarriage was lowered.

  “Of course, go and see her,” I said. “I think I can find the way to the Watch office on my own.”

  “Don’t think it’s only because of the girl,” Alisher said, and smiled again. “I think it would be best for you to talk to the members of the local Watch yourself. You can show them Gesar’s letter and ask for their advice... . And I’ll get there an hour or an hour and a half later.”

  “Weren’t you on very friendly terms with your colleagues, then?” I asked quietly.

  Alisher didn’t answer—and that answered my question.

  I walked out of the airport terminal building, which had clearly been reconstructed recently and looked absolutely new. The only things I had with me were my carry-on bag and a small plastic bag from the duty-free shop. I stopped and looked around. The sky was a blinding blue and the heat was already building up, although it was still early in the morning. There weren’t many passengers—our flight was the first since the previous evening, and the next one wasn’t expected for about an hour. I was immediately surrounded by private taxi drivers, all offering their services in their own particular way:

  “Come on, let’s go, dear man!”

  “I’ll show you the whole city, you’ll see the sights for nothing!”

  “Where are we going, then?”

  “Get in, my car’s comfortable, it has air-conditioning!”

  I shook my head and looked at an elderly Uzbek taxi driver who was waiting calmly beside an old Volga with the black-and-white checkerboard squares of a taxi stenciled on its side.

  “Are you free, Father?” I asked, rather formally in deference to his age.

  “A man’s free as long as he believes in his own freedom,” the taxi driver replied philosophically. He spoke Russian very well, without any accent at all. “Get in.”

  There you go. I had barely even arrived, and already I’d called someone “Father,” and the taxi driver had replied with the typical florid wisdom of the East. I asked, “Did one of the great ones say that?”

  “My grandfather said that. He was a Red Army soldier. Then an enemy of the people. Then the director of a Soviet farm. Yes, he was great.”

  “Did he happen to be called Rustam?” I inquired.

  “No, Rashid.”

  The car drove off and I turned my face to the breeze from the window. The air was warm and fresh, and it smelled quite different from the air in Russia. And the road was good, even by Moscow standards. A wall of trees along the side of the highway provided shade and created the impression that we were already in the city.

  The taxi driver said thoughtfully, “An air conditioner. Nowadays everyone promises their passengers coolness. But what did our grandfathers and great-grandfathers know about air conditioners? They just opened the windows in their cars and they felt fine!”

  I looked at the driver in bewilderment.

  “It’s just my joke. Have you flown in from Moscow?”

  “Yes.”

  “No baggage at all... Ai-ai-ai!” He clicked his tongue. “Don’t tell me they lost it!”

  “An urgent business trip. There was no time to pack.”

  “Urgent? Nothing’s urgent in our city. There was a city standing here a thousand years ago, two thousand years ago, three thousand years ago. The place has forgotten what urgent means.”

  I shrugged. The car was certainly taking its time, but it didn’t bother me.

  “So where are we going? There’s the Hotel Samarkand, the Hotel—”

  “No thanks. I didn’t come here to sleep. I need the marketplace. The Siabsky Market, in the Old City.”

  “That’s the right way to do it!” the driver said warmly. “The man knows where he’s going and what for. The moment he lands, he goes straight to the market. No luggage, no wife, no problems—that’s the right way to live! But did you bring money to go to the market?”

  “I did,” I said, nodding. “How can you go to the market with no money? How much will I owe you? And what do you take—soms or rubles?”

  “Even dollars or euros,” the driver replied nonchalantly. “Give me as much as you think you can spare. I can see you’re a good man, so why haggle? A good man is ashamed not to pay a poor taxi dr
iver enough. He pays more than my conscience will allow me to ask.”

  “You’re a good psychologist,” I laughed.

  “Good? Yes... probably. I did a PhD in Moscow. A long time ago...” He paused and then said, “But no one needs psychologists nowadays. I earn more as a taxi driver.”

  He paused again, and I couldn’t think of anything to say in reply. But we were already driving through the city, and soon the driver began listing all the places I had to visit in Samarkand. Three madrasahs that made up the Registan, a single architectural ensemble; the Bibi-Khanym Mosque... All this, as it happened, was right beside the finest market in Samarkand, the Siabsky, which, as the driver now realized, was famous even as far away as Moscow. And I also had to visit the market, even before anything else. It would be a sin not to see it. But a good man like me wouldn’t make a mistake like that...

  The driver would probably have been very disappointed to see me walk straight past the entrance to the market. No, of course I was planning to visit it. There was work to do, but I still had to gather some impressions to take away with me.

  But now wasn’t the time.

  And so I elbowed my way out of the noisy crowd outside the entrance to the market, walked past a herd of Japanese (they’d even found their way here!) who all had the usual tiny cameras and video cameras dangling from their necks and their shoulders, then set off to walk around the Bibi-Khanym Mosque. It really was impressive. The ceramic tiling of the huge dome glinted a bright azure blue in the sunlight. The doorway was so huge that I thought it looked bigger than the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, and the absence of any bas-relief work on the wall was more than made up for by the intricate patterning of blue glazed bricks.

  But the place I was headed for was no glamorous tourist spot.

  Every city has streets that were built under an unlucky star. And they don’t have to be located on the outskirts, either. Sometimes they run alongside gloomy factory buildings, sometimes along the railway lines or main highways, sometimes even beside a park or ravine that has survived through some oversight by the municipal authorities. People move in there reluctantly, but afterward they don’t leave very often—they seem to fall under the spell of a strange kind of drowsiness. And life there follows quite different laws and moves at quite a different pace...

  I remember one district in Moscow where a one-way street ran alongside a ravine overgrown with trees. It seemed like a perfectly ordinary dormitory suburb, but it was under that spell of drowsiness. I found myself there one winter evening on a false alarm—the witch who was making love potions had a license. The car drove away, leaving me to draw up a report noting the absence of any complaints on either side, then I went out into the street and tried to stop a car—I didn’t want to call a taxi and wait for it in the witch’s apartment. Although it wasn’t very late, it was already completely dark, and there was thick snow falling. There was absolutely no one on the street, everyone took a different road from the metro station. Almost all the cars had disappeared too, and the ones that did drive by were in no hurry to stop. But right at the edge of the ravine there was a small amusement park, surrounded by a low fence: a little hut for the ticket-seller, two or three roundabouts, and a children’s railway—a circle of rails about ten meters in diameter. And in the total silence, under the soft snow falling from the sky, against the background of empty, lifeless blackness, the tiny locomotive was running around the circle, jingling its bell and blinking its little colored lights as it pulled along two little carriages. Sitting absolutely still in the first one was a boy about five years old, dusted with snow, wearing a large cap with earflaps and clutching a plastic spade in his hand. He was probably the ticket-seller’s son and she had no one to leave him with at home... It didn’t seem like anything special, but it gave me such a bad feeling that I used magic and made the driver of a passing truck stop and take me to the city center.

  Allowing for the difference between the cities, that was pretty much the kind of street where the Night Watch office was located. I didn’t need a map, I could sense where I needed to go. And I only had to walk for ten minutes from the market-place, which was right at the center of town. But I seemed to have entered a different world. Not the bright world of an Eastern fairy tale, but a kind of ordinary, average place that you can find in the Asian republics of the former Soviet Union, Turkey, and the southern countries of Europe. Half Europe, half Asia, with far from the best features of either part of the world. A lot of greenery, but that’s the only good part—the two-or three-story houses were dusty, dirty, and dilapidated. If they were less monotonous, they might at least have rejoiced the eye of some tourist. But even that variety was lacking here, everything was dismally standard: paint flaking off the walls, dirty windows, entrance doors standing wide open, washing hanging on lines in the courtyards. The phrase “frame-and-panel housing construction” surfaced from somewhere in the depths of my memory. Its bleak, bureaucratic tone made it the perfect description of these buildings that were meant to be temporary but had already stood for more than half a century.

  The Night Watch office occupied a small, dilapidated single-story building that was surrounded by a small garden. I thought that a building like that looked just perfect for a small kindergarten, filled with swarthy, dark-haired little kids.

  But all the children here had grown up long ago. I walked around a Peugeot parked by the fence, opened the gate, went past the flowerbeds in which withering flowers were struggling to survive, and shuddered as I read the old Soviet bureaucratic-style sign on the door.

  NIGHT WATCH

  SAMARKAND BRANCH

  BUSINESS HOURS:

  20:00–8:00

  At first I thought I must have gone crazy. Then I thought I must be looking through the Twilight. But no, the inscription was absolutely real, written in yellow letters on a black background and covered with a cracked sheet of glass. One corner of the glass had fallen off, and the final letter of the word “Watch” was tattered and faded.

  The same text was written alongside in Uzbek, and I learned that ‘Night Watch’ translated as ‘Tungi Nazorat.’

  I pushed the door—it wasn’t locked, of course—and walked straight into a large room. As is customary in the East, there was no entrance hall. And that was right—why would they need a hallway here? The weather was never cold in Samarkand.

  The furnishings were very simple, reminiscent in part of a small militia station, and in part of an old office from Soviet times. There was a coatrack and several cupboards full of papers by the door. Three young Uzbek men and a plump middle-aged Russian woman were drinking tea at an office desk. There was a large electric samovar, decorated in the traditional Khokhloma folk style, boiling on the desk. Well, how about that—a samovar! The last time I’d seen one in Russia was at the Izmailovo flea market, with all the matryoshka dolls, caps with earflaps, and other goods for the foreign tourists. There were several other desks with no one sitting at them. An ancient computer with a massive monitor was clattering away on the farthest desk—its cooling fan ought to have been replaced ages ago...

  “Assalom aleikum,” I said, feeling like a total idiot who’s trying to look intelligent. Why on earth hadn’t Gesar taught me Uzbek?

  “Aleikum assalom,” the woman replied. She was swarthy-skinned, with black hair—quite clearly Slav in origin, but with that remarkable change in appearance that happens without any magic at all to a European who spends a long time in the East or is born and lives there. She was even dressed like an Uzbek woman, in a long, brightly colored dress. She looked at me curiously—I sensed the skillful, but weak, touch of a probing spell. I didn’t shield myself, and she gathered her information with no difficulty. Her expression immediately changed. She got up from the desk and said, “Boys, we have a distinguished visitor.”

  “I’m here entirely unofficially!” I said, raising my hands in the air.

  But
the fuss had already begun. They greeted me and introduced themselves—Murat, sixth-level; Timur, fifth-level; Nodir, fourth-level. I thought they looked their real age, about twenty to thirty. According to Gesar, there were five Others in the Samarkand Watch... and according to Alisher, the members of the Watch in Tashkent were younger. How much younger could they be? Did they take on children from school?

  “Valentina Ilinichna, Other. Fourth-level.”

  “Anton Gorodetsky, Other, Higher,” I said in turn.

  “I run the office,” the woman went on. She was the last to shake my hand and in general she behaved like the most junior member of the Watch. But I estimated her age as at least a hundred and fifty, and her Power was greater than the men’s.

  Another peculiarity of the East?

  But a second later any doubt about who was in charge here was dispelled.

  “Right, boys, get the table set out quick,” Valentina commanded. “Murat, you take the car, run around the route quickly, and call into the market.”

  And so saying, she handed Murat the key to a huge old safe, from which the young guy took out a tattered wad of bank-notes, trying his best to do it inconspicuously.

  “Please, there’s no need!” I implored them. “I’m only here for a brief, entirely unofficial visit. Just to introduce myself and ask a couple of questions... . And I have to call in to the Day Watch too.”

  “What for?” the woman asked.

  “There were no Others at the border check at the airport. There was just a notice in the Twilight, saying Light Ones should register with the Day Watch on arrival, and Dark Ones should register with the Night Watch.”

  I wondered what she would have to say about such a flagrant piece of incompetence. But Valentina Ilinichna merely nodded and said, “We don’t have enough members to maintain a post in the airport. In Tashkent they do everything properly... Nodir, go and tell the ghouls that Higher Light One Gorodetsky is here on a visit from Moscow.”