The Night Watch (42 page)

Did I imagine it, or had he just sighed? I said nothing.

'A small piece of chalk.' Zabulon leaned back in his armchair. 'It's already worn down, beautiful young women with bright fire in their eyes have picked it up in their slim fingers several times already. It has been put to use, and the earth has trembled, the boundaries of states have melted away, empires have risen, shepherds have become prophets and carpenters have become gods, foundlings have been recognised as kings, sergeants have risen to become emperors, seminarians who failed to graduate and talentless artists have become tyrants. A little stub of chalk. Nothing more than that.'

Zabulon stood and spread his hands in a conclusive gesture.

'And that's all I wanted to tell you, my dear enemy. You'll understand the rest for yourself – if you really want to, that is.'

'Zabulon.' I unclenched my fist and looked at the amulet. 'You're a creature of the Dark.'

'Of course. But only of the darkness that was in me. The darkness that I chose myself.'

'Even your truth works Evil.'

'To whom? The Night Watch? Of course. But to humans? There I must beg to differ.'

He walked towards the door.

'Zabulon,' I said, calling him by name again. 'I've seen your true appearance. I know who you are and what you are.'

The Dark Magician stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned round and passed his hand over his face – for a moment it was distorted, the skin was replaced by dull scales and the eyes became narrow slits.

Then the illusion was dispersed.

'Yes. Of course you've seen it,' said Zabulon, in his human form once again. 'And I have seen you. And let me say that you were no white angel with a gleaming sword. Everything depends on the point you look from. Goodbye, Anton. Believe me, I shall be glad to eliminate you some time in the future. But for now I wish you good luck. From the depths of the soul that I don't have.'

The door slammed behind him.

And immediately, as if it had just woken up, the sentry system howled out of the Twilight. The mask of Chkhoen on the wall twisted into a ferocious scowl, with fury glinting in the wooden gashes of its eyes.

My security guards . . .

I silenced the system with two passes and hurled the freeze that I'd prepared at the mask. The spell had come in useful after all.

'A little piece of chalk,' I said.

I'd heard something like that before. But it was a very long time ago, and I hadn't really been paying attention. It could have been a few phrases thrown out by one of my tutors at a lecture, or idle social gossip, or a student myth. But there definitely had been something about a piece of chalk . . .

I got up off the sofa, raised my hand in the air and threw the amulet on to the floor.

'Gesar!' I called through the Twilight. 'Gesar, answer me!'

My shadow shot up towards me from the floor, took hold of my body and sucked me into itself. The light dimmed, the room swayed, the outlines of the furniture blurred. It was suddenly unbearably quiet. The heat had receded. I stood there with my arms thrown out wide as the greedy Twilight drank my power.

'Gesar, by your name I summon you!'

Threads of grey mist drifted through the room. I couldn't give a damn who else might be able to hear me shouting.

'Gesar, my mentor, I call on you – will you answer?'

Far away in the distance an invisible shadow sighed.

'I hear you, Anton.'

'Answer me!'

'What question do you want the answer to?'

'Zabulon – did he lie to me?'

'No.'

'Gesar, stop!'

'It's too late, Anton. Everything's going the way it's supposed to go. Trust me.'

'Gesar, stop!'

'You have no right to make any demands.'

'No right! If we are part of the Light, if we do Good, then I have every right!'

The boss didn't answer straight away. I even thought he'd decided not to say anything else to me.

'All right. I'll be waiting for you in an hour at the Para Bar.'

'Where?'

'The Parachutists' Bar. Near Turgenevskaya metro station, behind the old central post office.'

Then there was silence.

I took a step backwards, out of the Twilight. It was an odd sort of place to meet. Was that where Gesar had had his showdown with the Day Watch? No, that was supposed to have been in some restaurant.

Okay, what did it matter – the Para Bar, Rosie O'Grady's, even the Chance Club? It wasn't important. Parachutists, yuppies, gays, who cared?

But there was one other thing I had to find out before I met Gesar.

I took out my phone and dialled Svetlana's number. She answered immediately.

'Hi,' I said simply. 'Are you at the dacha?'

'No.' She seemed startled by my brisk, businesslike tone. 'I'm on my way into town.'

'Who with?'

She paused.

'With Ignat.'

'Good,' I said, quite sincerely. 'Listen, do you know anything about chalk?'

'About what?'

This time the puzzlement was obvious.

'About the magical properties of chalk. Have they taught you anything about its uses in magic?'

'No, Anton. Are you sure you're all right?'

'I'm better than that.'

'Has something happened?'

'Nothing special.'

'Do you want me . . .' She hesitated. 'Do you want me to ask Olya?'

'Is she there with you as well?'

'Yes, the three of us are coming back into town together.'

'I don't think so. Thanks.'

'Anton . . .'

'What?'

I walked over to the desk and opened the drawer with all my magical junk. I looked at the dull crystals, at the clumsily carved wand from the time when I still wanted to be a combat magician. I pushed the drawer back.

'Forgive me.'

'There's nothing I need to forgive you for, Sveta.'

'Can I come round to your place?'

'How far away are you?'

'Halfway there.'

I shook my head and answered:

'Not now, I've got an important meeting. I'll call you back later.'

I ended the call and smiled. Very often the truth can be malicious and false. For instance, when you only tell half the truth. Like telling someone you can't talk to them without explaining why.

Permit me to do Good through Evil. I don't have any other way right now.

Just to be sure, I walked round the apartment, looking into the bedroom, the bathroom and the kitchen. As far as I was able to tell, Zabulon really hadn't left any 'presents' behind him.

I went back into the study, switched on my laptop and inserted the disk with the general magic database. Typed in the password. Typed in the word 'chalk'.

I hadn't been expecting anything special to come up. What I wanted to know could easily require such a high security clearance that it had never been included in any data bases.

There were three entries for 'chalk'.

The first was a reference to a chalk quarry where a first-grade Light Magician and a first-grade Dark Magician fought a duel in the fifteenth century. Both of them died of simple exhaustion of their powers – they didn't have enough strength left to emerge from the Twilight at the end of the duel. During the following five hundred years almost three thousand people had died at the site.

The second entry referred to the use of chalk for drawing magical symbols and protective circles. There was a lot more information here, and I read through it all quickly. There was nothing of interest. Using chalk has no particular advantages over charcoal, pencil, blood or oil paint. Except maybe that it is easier to erase.

The third reference came in the section 'Myths and Unconfirmed Data'. Of course, this section was full of rubbish like the use of silver and garlic in fighting vampires, or descriptions of non-existent ceremonies and rituals.

But I'd come across times before when genuine information had been completely forgotten and hidden away among the myths.

Chalk was mentioned in the article 'The Books of Fate'.

I read halfway through it and realised I'd hit the bull's eye. The information was just lying there in full view, accessible to any novice magician – it might even be available in sources that were open to ordinary humans.

The Books of Fate. Chalk.

It fitted.

I closed the file and switched off the laptop. Then I sat there for a while, chewing things over. Then I looked at the clock.

It was almost time for me to set out for our rendezvous.

I took a shower and changed my clothes. I took three amulets with me: Zabulon's medallion, my Night Watch badge and a combat disc Ilya had given to me – an ancient round piece of bronze a bit bigger than a five-rouble coin. I'd never used the disc before. Ilya had told me the amulet only had one charge left – maybe two at the most.

I took my pistol out of its hiding place and checked the clip. Explosive silver bullets. Good against werewolves, of doubtful use against vampires, entirely effective against Dark Magicians.

As if I were going off to war, not for a talk with my boss.

My phone rang in my pocket when I was already at the door.

'Anton?'

'Sveta?'

'Olga wants to talk to you, I'll give her the phone.'

'Okay,' I agreed, unlocking the door.

'Anton, I love you very much. Please don't do anything stupid,' Svetlana said quickly.

I couldn't think of anything to say. Olga took the phone.

'Anton. I want you to know that everything's already been decided. And it's all going to happen very soon.'

'Tonight,' I said.

'How do you know that?'

'I can just feel it. That was why the Watch was sent out of town, wasn't it? And why Svetlana was put into the right mood.'

'What do you know?'

'The Book of Destiny. Chalk. I understand everything now.'

'That's bad,' Olga said curtly. 'Anton, you have to—'

'I don't have to do anything for anyone. Except for the Light inside me.'

I ended the call and switched off the phone. I'd had enough. Gesar could easily contact me without any technical devices. Olga would only carry on trying to change my mind. And Svetlana wouldn't understand what I was doing and why in any case.

I decided to see things through just as I was, all on my own.

'Sit down, Anton,' said Gesar.

The bar turned out to be tiny. Six or seven tables separated by partitions, plus the bar itself. A television with the sound switched off, showing free-fall jumps. A photograph of the same thing on the wall – bodies in bright-coloured overalls spreadeagled in flight. The air was filled with smoke. There weren't many people in there, maybe because of the time: it was too late for lunch and there was still a long time to go before the evening rush. I glanced round the tables and saw Gesar sitting at the one in the corner.

The boss was not alone. There was a bowl of fruit on the table in front of him, and he was lazily plucking grapes off a bunch. A swarthy-skinned young man was sitting a short distance away from him, with his arms crossed. Our eyes met and I felt a slight but distinct pressure.

He was an Other too.

We looked at each other for about five seconds, gradually building up the pressure. He had powers, substantial powers, but he didn't have much experience. As soon as I got the chance, I relaxed my resistance, dodged the young man's probe and scanned him before he had time to raise his defences.

Other. Light. Grade four.

The young man grimaced as if he was in pain. He looked at Gesar with the eyes of a beaten dog.

'Let me introduce you,' said Gesar. 'Anton Gorodetsky, Other, member of the Moscow Night Watch. Alisher Ganiev, Other, new member of the Moscow Night Watch.'

The courier.

I held out my hand and lowered my defences.

'A Light One, grade two,' said Alisher, looking into my eyes. He bowed.

I shook my head and answered:

'Grade three.'

The young man glanced at Gesar again. This time he looked surprised, rather than guilty.

'Grade two,' the boss confirmed. 'You're at the top of your form, Anton. I'm delighted for you. Sit down and we'll talk. Alisher, you observe.'

I took a seat opposite the boss.

'Do you know why I decided to meet here?' asked Gesar. 'Try the grapes, they're very good.'

'How should I know? Maybe they have the best grapes in Moscow?'

Gesar laughed.

'Bravo. However, that's not the important thing. We bought the fruit at the market.'

'The pleasant surroundings, then.'

'Nothing of the kind. Just one small room, and if you go through that door, there are two more tables and a pool table.'

'You're a secret parachutist.'

'I haven't jumped for twenty years now,' Gesar countered smoothly. 'Anton, my dear boy, I came in here for a bite of potato and beef Stroganoff simply in order to show you a micro-environment. A tiny little society. Just sit there for a while and relax. Alisher, a glass of beer for Anton! Take a look around, soldier. Look at the faces. Listen. Breathe in the air.'

I turned away from the boss and moved to the end of the wooden bench, so that I could at least see the other people there. Alisher was already standing at the bar, waiting for my beer.

The regulars in the Para Bar had strange faces. All alike in some odd, indefinable way. Distinctive eyes, distinctive gestures. Nothing really special, just the same stamp on every one.

'A team,' said the boss. 'And a microenvironment. We could have had this conversation in Chance, the gay club, or in the restaurant of the Central Writers' House, or in a snack bar next to some factory. It doesn't matter. What does matter was that there had to be a small, close-knit team. More or less isolated from general society. It couldn't have been McDonald's or a luxury restaurant, it had to be an official or unofficial club. And you know why? Because this is us. It's a model of our Watch.'

I didn't answer. I watched a young guy on crutches hobble up to the next table, wave away an invitation to sit down, lean on the partition and start talking. The music drowned out his words, but I could absorb the general meaning through the Twilight. A parachute that didn't open and had to be dumped. A landing with the reserve chute. A broken leg. And now six damn months without jumping!