Last Watch

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  “I’m here unofficially, but not exactly on personal... ,” I began, but no one was listening to me any longer. Nodir opened an inconspicuous door in the wall and walked through into the next room, which I was surprised to see was equally large and half empty.

  “Who are the ghouls?” I asked, struck by an unbelievable suspicion.

  “Oh, that’s the Day Watch office. They haven’t really got any ghouls, that’s just what we call them... to be neighborly...” Valentina Ilinichna laughed.

  I followed Nodir into the next room without saying anything. Two Dark Others—one young and one middle-aged, fourth-and fifth-level—smiled at me amicably.

  “Assalom aleikum... ,” I muttered and walked through the large room (everything was just the same, even the samovar was standing in the same place) and opened the door to the street running parallel to the one from which I had entered the building.

  Outside the door there was an identical garden and on the wall there was a sign:

  DAY WATCH

  SAMARKAND BRANCH

  BUSINESS HOURS:

  8:00–20:00

  I quietly closed the door and walked back into the room. Nodir had evidently sensed my reaction and cleared out.

  One of the Dark Ones said good-naturedly, “When you finish your business, come back to see us, respected guest. We don’t often get visitors from Moscow.”

  “Yes, do come, do come!” the other one said emphatically.

  “Sometime later... thank you for the invitation,” I muttered. I went back into the Night Watch office and closed the door behind me.

  It didn’t even have a lock on it!

  The Light Ones appeared slightly embarrassed.

  “The Night Watch,” I hissed through my teeth, scandalized. “The forces of Light—”

  “We’ve cut back on space a bit. Utilities are expensive, and there’s the rent... ,” said Valentina Ilinichna, spreading her hands and shrugging. “We’ve been renting these premises for two offices like this for ten years now.”

  I made a simple pass with my hand and the wall separating the Light Ones’ office from the Dark Ones’ office lit up with a blue glow for an instant. The Dark Ones of Samarkand were not likely to have a magician capable of removing a spell cast by a Higher One.

  “There’s no need for that, Anton,” Valentina Ilinichna said reproachfully. “They won’t listen. That’s not the way we do things here.”

  “You are supposed to keep a watch on the Powers of Darkness,” I exclaimed. “To monitor them!”

  “We do monitor them,” Timur replied judiciously. “If they’re right next door, it makes them easier to monitor. But we’d need five times as many members to go dashing around all over town.”

  “And the signs? What about the signs? ‘Night Watch’? ‘Day Watch’? People read them!”

  “Let them read them,” said Nodir. “There are all sorts of offices in the city. If you try to hide and don’t put up a sign, you’re immediately suspect. The militia will come around, or bandits working the protection racket. But this way everybody can see this is a state organization, there’s nothing to be got out of it, let it get on with its work... .”

  I started to come to my senses. I needed to remember this wasn’t Russia. The Samarkand Watch didn’t come under our jurisdiction. In places like Belgorod or Omsk I could criticize and lay down the law. But the members of the Samarkand Watch didn’t have to listen to me, even though I was a Higher Light One.

  “I understand. But in Moscow it could never happen... Dark Ones sitting on the other side of the wall!”

  “What’s the harm in it?” Valentina Ilinichna asked in a soothing voice. “Let them sit there. I expect their job’s not too much fun either. But if anything happens, we won’t compromise on our principles. Remember when the zhodugar Aliyaapa put a hex on old Nazgul three years ago, boys?”

  The boys nodded. They livened up a bit and were obviously quite ready to reminisce about this glorious adventure.

  “Who was it she put the hex on?” I asked, unable to resist.

  They all laughed.

  “It’s a name—Nazgul. Not those Nazgûls in the American movie,” Nodir explained, and his white teeth flashed as he smiled. “He’s a man. That is, he was. He died last year. He took a long time to die, and he had a young wife. So she asked a witch to sap her husband’s strength. We spotted the hex, arrested the witch, reprimanded the wife, did everything the way it’s supposed to be done. Valentina Ilinichna removed the hex, everything worked out very well. Although he was an obnoxious old man, a very bad character. Malicious, greedy, and a womanizer, even though he was old. Everybody was glad when he died. But we removed the hex, just like we’re supposed to do.”

  I thought for a moment and sat down on a squeaky Viennese chair. Yes, knowledge of the Uzbek language wouldn’t have been much help to me. It wasn’t a matter of language. It was a matter of a different mind-set.

  The rational explanation had calmed me down a bit. But then I spotted Valentina Ilinichna’s glance—kindly, but condescendingly, sympathetic.

  “But even so, it’s not right,” I said. “Please understand, I don’t want to criticize, it’s your city, you’re responsible for maintaining order here... . But it’s a bit unusual.”

  “That’s because you’re closer to Europe,” Nodir explained. He couldn’t mean he believed that Uzbekistan had nothing at all to do with Europe. “But it’s all right here; when there’s peace, we can live beside each other.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “Thank you for the explanation.”

  “Have a seat at the desk,” Valentina Ilinichna said amicably. “Why are you sitting over in the corner like a stranger?”

  I actually wasn’t sitting in the corner at all. Timur was finishing setting the table in the corner. The brightly colored tablecloth that had instantly transformed two office desks into one large dining table was already covered with plates of fruit: bright red and luscious green apples; black, green, yellow, and red grapes; huge pomegranates the size of small melons. And there was very appetizing-looking homemade salami, cold cuts, and hot bread cakes that must have been heated using magic. I remembered how in one rare moment of nostalgia, Gesar had started singing the praises of the bread cakes in Samarkand—how delicious they were, how they didn’t turn stale even after a week, all you had to do was warm them up, and you just kept on eating them, you couldn’t stop... At the time I had taken what he said as the standard old man’s reminiscences. The kind where they say, “The trees were bigger then, and the salami tasted better.” But now my mouth was watering and I suddenly suspected that Gesar hadn’t been exaggerating all that much.

  And there were also two bottles of cognac on the table. The local kind—which frightened me a bit.

  “Forgive us for laying such a simple table,” Nodir said imperturbably. “Our junior member will be back from the market soon, and we’ll dine properly. Meanwhile we can make a light start.”

  I realized there was no way I was going to escape a gala dinner with abundant alcohol. And I suspected it was not only Alisher’s entirely understandable interest in his old girlfriend from school that had made him dodge an immediate visit to the Watch. It was many years since a visit by someone from Moscow had also been a visit from a superior, but even so, Moscow was still a very important center for the members of the Samarkand Watch.

  “I’ve actually come here at Gesar’s request... ,” I said.

  I saw from their faces that my status had soared from simply important guest to quite unimaginable heights. Somewhere way out in space, where Others could not go.

  “Gesar asked me to find a friend of his,” I went on. “He lives somewhere in Uzbekistan... .”

  There was an awkward pause.

  “Anton, are you talking about the devona?” Valentina Ilinichna asked. �
�He went to Moscow... in ’98. And he was killed there. We thought that Gesar knew about it.”

  “No, no, I’m not talking about the devona!” I protested. “Gesar asked me to find Rustam.”

  The young Uzbeks exchanged glances and Valentina Ilinichna knitted her brows.

  “Rustam... I’ve heard something about him. But that’s a very, very old story. Hundreds of years old, Anton.”

  “He doesn’t work in the Watch,” I admitted. “And, of course, he has a different name. I think he has changed his name many times. All I know is that he is a Higher Light Magician.”

  Nodir ran a hand through his coarse black hair and said firmly, “That’s very difficult, Anton-aka. We do have one Higher Magician in Uzbekistan. He works in Tashkent. But he’s young. If an old and powerful magician wishes to hide, he can always manage it. Finding him doesn’t just require someone who is powerful, it requires someone who is wise. Gesar himself should search for him. Kechrasyz, apologies, Anton-aka. We will not be able to help you.”

  “We could ask Afandi,” Valentina Ilinichna said thoughtfully. “He is a weak magician and not very... not very bright. But he has a good memory, and he has lived in this world for three hundred years... .”

  “Afandi?” I asked cautiously, caught off guard by the name.

  “He’s the fifth member of our Watch.” Valentina Ilinichna seemed a little embarrassed. “Well, you understand—seventh-level. He mostly takes care of the office and grounds. But he might just be able to help.”

  “I’m almost certain he will,” I said with a nod, remembering what Nadya had said. “But where is he?”

  “He should be here soon.”

  There was nothing else I could do. I nodded again and walked toward the so-called simple table.

  Murat got back half an hour later, carrying several full bags, and some of their contents immediately migrated to the table. He carried the rest into the small kitchen attached to the main premises of the Watch. My culinary knowledge was sufficient for me to realize that pilaf was about to be made.

  And meanwhile we drank the cognac, which unexpectedly turned out to be quite good, and I tried the fruits. Valentina Ilinichna let Nodir lead the conversation. And I politely listened to the history of the Uzbek Watches from ancient mythological times to Tamburlaine, and from Tamburlaine to our own time. I won’t lie—the Light Ones here had not always lived in perfect harmony with the Dark Ones. There were plenty of grim, bloody, and terrible events. But I got the feeling that the flare-ups of hostility between the Watches in Uzbekistan were governed by laws that I knew absolutely nothing about. People could fight wars and kill one another while the Watches maintained a polite neutrality. But during Khrushchev’s time and the early years of Brezhnev’s rule, Light Ones and Dark Ones had fought one another with incredible ferocity. Three Higher Magicians had been killed at that time—two from the Day Watch and one from the Night Watch. And that war had also decimated the ranks of first-and second-level Others.

  Then everything had gone quiet, as if the stagnation of the eighties also extended to the Others. And since then relations between Dark Ones and Light Ones had consisted of a rather halfhearted standoff—more jibes and taunts than genuine enmity.

  “Alisher didn’t like that,” Timur observed. “Is he still in Moscow?”

  I nodded, delighted by this opportune change of subject. “Yes. He’s in our Watch.”

  “How is he getting on?” Nodir asked politely. “We heard he’s already fourth-level.”

  “Practically third,” I said. “But he can tell you himself. He flew down with me, but he decided to visit some friends first.”

  The members of the Watch were clearly not pleased by this news. Timur and Nodir both looked not exactly annoyed, but uncomfortable. Valentina Ilinichna shook her head.

  “Have I said something to upset you?” I asked. The bottle we had drunk together encouraged me to speak frankly. “Do explain to me what the problem is. Why do you feel this way about Alisher? Is it because his father was a devona?”

  The members of the Watch exchanged glances.

  “It’s not a question of who his father was,” Valentina Ilinichna said at last. “Alisher is a good boy. But he’s... very categorical.”

  “Really?”

  “Perhaps he has changed in Moscow,” Timur suggested, “but Alisher always wanted to fight. He was born in the wrong time.”

  I thought about that. Of course, in our Watch, Alisher had always preferred to work on the streets. Patrols, confrontations, arrests—there wasn’t much that happened without him being involved... .

  “Well... that’s a bit more natural in Moscow,” I said. “It’s a big city, life is more stressful. But Alisher misses his homeland a lot.”

  “But we’re glad Alisher’s here, of course we are!” Valentina Ilinichna said, changing her tune. “It’s been such a long time since we saw him. Hasn’t it, boys?”

  The “boys” agreed with feigned enthusiasm. Even Murat went so far as to declare from the kitchen that he had really missed Alisher.

  “Will Afandi be here soon?” I asked, turning the conversation away from an awkward subject.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Valentina Ilinichna, concerned. “It’s after two already...”

  “He’s been here for a long time,” Murat commented from the kitchen again. “He’s wandering around the yard with a broom. I can see him through the window. He probably decided we’d ask him to cook the pilaf... .”

  Nodir walked across quickly to the door and called out, “Afandi, what are you doing?”

  “Sweeping the yard,” the fifth member of the Samarkand Watch replied with a dignified air. To judge from his voice, not only had he been born three hundred years earlier, his body was far from young too.

  Nodir turned back to us and shrugged apologetically. He called again, “Afandi, come in, we have a guest!”

  “I know we have a guest. That’s why I’m sweeping!”

  “Afandi, the guest is already in the house. Why are you cleaning outside?”

  “Eh, Nodir! Don’t you teach me how to receive guests! When the guest is still outside, everybody cleans and tidies the house. But if the guest is in the house, you have to clean outside!”

  “Have it your own way, Afandi.” Nodir laughed. “You know best, of course. But meanwhile we’re going to eat grapes and drink cognac.”

  “Wait, Nodir!” Afandi replied agitatedly. “It would be disrespectful to the guest not to dine at the same table with him!”

  A moment later Afandi was standing in the doorway. He looked absolutely ridiculous: a pair of sneakers with the laces unfastened on his feet, a pair of blue jeans held up with a Soviet Army belt, and a white nylon shirt with big, broad buttons. Nylon is a durable material. The shirt was probably twenty or thirty years old. Afandi himself was a clean-shaven old man (the scraps of newspaper stuck to the cuts on his chin suggested that this cost him a serious effort) with a balding head, appearing to be about sixty years old. He cast an approving glance at the table, leaned his broom against the doorpost, and skipped briskly across to me.

  “Hello, respected guest. May your Power increase like the fervor of a man undressing a woman! May it rise to the second level and even the first!”

  “Afandi, our guest is a Higher Magician,” Valentina Ilinichna said. “Why do you wish him the second level?”

  “Quiet, woman!” said Afandi, letting go of my hand and taking a seat at the table. “Do you not see how quickly my wish has come true and even been exceeded?”

  The members of the Watch laughed, but without the slightest malice. Afandi—I scanned his aura and discovered that the old man was on the very lowest level of Power—was regarded as the jester of the Samarkand Watch. But he was a well-loved jester; they would forgive him any foolish nonsense and never let him come to any harm.


  “Thank you for the kind words, Father,” I said. “Your wishes really do come true with remarkable speed.”

  The old man nodded as he threw half a peach into his mouth with evident enthusiasm. His teeth were excellent—he might not take much care of his overall appearance, but he obviously attached great importance to that particular part of his body.

  “They’re all young whippersnappers here,” he muttered. “I’m sure they haven’t even welcomed you properly. What’s your name, dear man?”

  “Anton.”

  “My name’s Afandi. That means a sage,” said the old man, looking around sternly at the other members of the Watch. “If it weren’t for my wisdom, the powers of Darkness—may they wither in agony and burn in hell—would long ago have drunk their sweet little brains and chewed up their big stringy livers!”

  Nodir and Timur chortled.

  “I understand why our livers are stringy,” said Nodir, pouring the cognac. “But why are our brains sweet?”

  “Because wisdom is bitter, but foolishness and ignorance are sweet!” Afandi declared, washing his peach down with a glass of cognac. “Hey! Hey, you fool, what do you think you’re doing?”

  “What?” said Timur, who was about to follow his cognac with a few grapes. He looked at Afandi quizzically.

  “You can’t follow cognac with grapes!”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the same thing as boiling a kid in its mother’s milk!”

  “Afandi, only Jews don’t boil young goat meat in milk!”

  “Do you?”

  “No,” said Timur, abashed. “Why use milk?”

  “Then don’t follow cognac with grapes!”

  “Afandi, I have only known you for three minutes, but I have already tasted so much wisdom that I shall be digesting it for an entire month,” I put in, to attract the old man’s attention. “The wise Gesar sent me to Samarkand. He asked me to find his old friend, who once went by the name of Rustam. Do you happen to know Rustam?”

  “Of course I do,” Afandi said with a nod. “But who’s Gesar?”