The Twilight Watch (33 page)

Svetlana nodded. She looked at her watch and shook her head,
then closed her eyes for an instant, and smiled calmly.

That meant Nadiushka was okay.

'Why does he have to try to get away at all?' Svetlana said thoughtfully.
'I doubt if the ritual described in the
Fuaran
requires much
time. The witch turned a lot of her servants into Others when she
was attacked. It would be much easier for the killer to use the
book and become a Great One . . . the Greatest of all. And then
either take us on or destroy the
Fuaran
and hide. If he becomes
more powerful than us, we simply won't be able to unmask him.'

'Perhaps he has already become more powerful,' I remarked.
'Since Gesar raised the subject of initiating Nadya . . .'

Svetlana nodded in agreement:

'Not a very pleasant prospect. What if Edgar himself used the
Fuaran
? And now he's acting out a comedy, just pretending to search.
He didn't get along too well with Witiezslav, and he's crafty . . . if
he wanted to become the most powerful Other in the world . . .'

'But then what would he need the book for?' I exclaimed. 'He
could just have left it where it was. We wouldn't even have known
that Witiezslav had been killed. We'd have put it all down to protective
spells that the vampire failed to notice.'

'That makes sense,' Svetlana agreed. 'I think you're right, the killer
isn't after power. Or not only power. He wants the book as well.'

I suddenly remembered Semyon:

'There's someone the killer wants to make into an Other! He
realised he wouldn't be allowed to use the book. That's why he
killed Witiezslav . . . it doesn't matter now exactly how. He
performed the ritual and became a hugely powerful Other, then
hid the book . . . somewhere here, at the station. And now he's
trying to get it away from Moscow.'

Svetlana reached out to me under the table and we shook hands
triumphantly.

'Only how is he planning to get it out?' she queried. 'The two
most powerful magicians in Moscow are here . . .'

'Three,' I corrected her.

Svetlana frowned and said:

'Then it's four. After all, Kostya's a Higher . . .'

'He's a snot-nosed kid, even if he is Higher . . .' I muttered.
Somehow I just couldn't get my head round the fact that this boy
had killed ten people in just a few years.

And the most despicable thing was that we gave out the
licences . . .

Svetlana sensed what I was thinking. She stroked my hand and
said softly:

'Don't get upset. He couldn't go against his own nature. What
could you have done? Except kill him . . .'

I nodded.

Of course, he couldn't have acted differently.

But I didn't want to admit that, even to myself.

The café door opened and in came Gesar, Zabulon, Edgar,
Kostya . . . and Olga. From the lively way they were talking, it
was clear that Olga was already up to speed.

'Edgar agreed to call in reinforcements . . .' Svetlana said in a
low voice. 'That's bad news.'

The magicians walked across to our table and I saw them glance
in passing at the 'compass'. Kostya went over to the counter and
ordered a glass of red wine. The woman behind the counter smiled
– either he had used a little bit of vampire charm, or she just liked
the look of him. Hey, lady . . . don't smile at that young man who
rouses your maternal, or maybe even womanly, feelings. He could
give you a kiss that will leave you smiling forever . . .

'Kostya and the Inquisitor have searched every inch of the
baggage rooms,' said Gesar. 'Not a trace.'

'And we've combed the entire station,' said Zabulon with a
good-natured laugh. 'Six Others, all clearly not involved.'

'And an uninitiated little girl,' Olga added, smiling. 'Yes, I was
the one who spotted her. She'll be taken care of.'

Zabulon smiled even more broadly – we had a real smiling
competition going on here.

'I'm sorry, Great One. She is
already
being taken care of.'

In an ordinary situation that would only have been the beginning
of the conversation.

'That's enough, Great Ones!' Edgar barked. 'We're not concerned
with just one potential Other here. This is a question of our very
survival!'

'That's right,' Zabulon agreed. 'Will you give me a hand, Boris
Ignatievich?'

He and Gesar moved another table over to ours. Kostya brought
some chairs – and there we were, all sitting together. Nothing out
of the ordinary – like people going off on holiday or a business
trip, passing time in the station café . . .

'Either he's not here or he can conceal himself from us,' said
Svetlana. 'In any case, I'd like to ask permission to leave. Call me
if I'm needed.'

'Your daughter's perfectly all right,' Zabulon growled. 'I give
you my word.'

'We might need you here,' said Gesar, backing him up.

Svetlana sighed.

'Gesar, please, why not let Svetlana go?' I asked. 'You can see
it's not Power we need right now.'

'Then what do we need?' Gesar asked curiously.

'Cunning and patience. You and Zabulon have plenty of cunning.
And you can't expect patience from a worried mother.'

Gesar shook his head. He glanced at Olga and she gave a barely
perceptible nod.

'Go to your daughter, Sveta,' said Gesar. 'You're right. If you're
needed, I'll call you and put up a portal.'

'Okay, I'm off,' said Svetlana. She leaned over to me for a
moment and kissed me on the cheek – then vanished into thin
air. The portal was so tiny I didn't even see it.

The people in the café didn't even notice Svetlana disappear.
We were invisible to them, they simply couldn't see us.

'She's really powerful,' said Zabulon. He reached out to pick up
Kostya's half-empty glass and took a sip. 'Well, you know best,
Gesar . . .What next, Mr Inquisitor?'

'We wait,' Edgar said curtly. 'He'll come for the book.'

'He or she,' Zabulon added. 'He or she . . .'

We didn't set up an operational headquarters. Just sat there in
the café, ate a bit, drank a bit. Kostya ordered steak tartare – the
counter lady was astonished, but she went running into the kitchen
and a moment later a young man came out and dashed off to get
the meat.

Gesar ordered a chicken Kiev. The rest of us made do with
wine, beer and various small snacks like dried squid and pistachio
nuts.

I sat there watching Kostya wolf down the almost raw meat,
wondering about the behaviour of our unidentified criminal. 'Look
for the motive!' had been Sherlock Holmes's advice. If we found the
motive, we'd find the criminal. He had already become the most
powerful Other in the world – or he could do at any moment. But
if that wasn't his goal, what was it? Blackmail. That would be stupid.
He couldn't impose his will on all the Watches and the Inquisition,
he'd end up like Fuaran . . . Maybe the criminal wanted to set up
his own, alternative organisation of Others? An organisation of 'wild
Others' had been crushed that spring in St Petersburg, hadn't it? But
crushed with great difficulty. A bad example was infectious, someone
might have been tempted. And the worst thing was that even a Light
One could have been tempted. To create a new Night Watch. A
Super-Watch. Wipe out the Dark Ones completely, break the
Inquisition and lure some of the Light Ones over to his side . . .

If that was the way things were, it was bad, very bad. The Dark
Ones wouldn't surrender without a fight. The modern world was
bristling with weapons of mass destruction and nuclear power
stations, and a strike at them could wipe out the entire planet.
The time was long over when a violent solution could lead to
victory. Perhaps that time had never even existed . . .

'The pointer,' said Edgar. 'Look!'

My compass had stopped pretending to be a fan. The pointer
spun more slowly, then froze, quivered – and began turning slowly
to indicate a direction.

'Yes!' Kostya exclaimed, leaping out of his chair. 'It worked!'

And for just a split second I saw again the vampire-boy who
had still not tasted human blood and was certain he would never
have to pay a price for his Power . . .

'Let's move, gentlemen.' Edgar jumped to his feet. He looked
at the pointer, followed its direction and stared hard at the wall.
'To the trains!' he said, sounding very determined.

I
T'S A COMMON
sight at a railway station – a group of people
dashing along the platform, trying to work out where their train's
leaving from, if it hasn't already left. For some reason the role of
these late passengers is almost always played by female shuttle-traders
loaded down with Chinese striped-canvas bags or, in contrast,
cultured males whose only burden is a Samsonite briefcase.

We belonged to an exotic subspecies of the second category –
we had no baggage at all. Our overall appearance was pretty
strange, but it inspired respect.

On the platform the pointer started spinning again – we were
already close to the book.

'He's trying to get away,' Zabulon declared grandly. 'All right
. . . now let's see which trains are leaving . . .'

The Dark One's gaze clouded over – he was forecasting the
future, looking to see which train would leave the platform first.

I looked up at the information board hanging in the air behind
us. And said:

'The Moscow–Almaty train is about to leave. In five minutes,
from platform two.'

Zabulon returned from his prophetic travels and announced:

'The train to Kazakhstan leaves from platform two. In five
minutes.'

He looked very pleased with himself.

Kostya snickered quietly, and Gesar looked up ostentatiously at
the information board and nodded.

'Yes, you're right, Zabulon . . . And the next one's not for half
an hour.'

'We'll stop the train and comb all the carriages,' Edgar suggested
quickly. 'Right?'

'Will your subordinates be able to find the Other?' Gesar asked.
'If he's disguised? If he's a magician beyond classification?'

Edgar wilted. He shook his head.

'That's the point,' Gesar said with a nod. 'The
Fuaran
was in the
station. It was right here, and we couldn't find the book or the
criminal. What makes you think it will be any easier on the train?'

'If he's on the train,' said Zabulon, 'the easiest thing to do is
destroy the train. No more problem.'

There was silence.

Gesar shook his head.

'I know, I know, it's not an ideal solution,' Zabulon acknowledged.'
Even I don't like the idea of a thousand lives simply wasted
. . . But what other choice do we have?'

'What do you suggest, Great One?' asked Edgar.

'
If
,' said Zabulon, emphasising the word, 'the
Fuaran
really is on
the train, we have to wait for the moment when the train reaches
an unpopulated area. The Kazakh steppes would be perfect. Then
. . . we would follow the plans that the Inquisition has for such
situations.'

Edgar gave a nervous jerk of his head and, as always happened
when he was agitated, started speaking with a slight Baltic accent.

'That is not a good solution, Great One. And I myself cannot
approve it – the sanction of the tribunal is required.'

Zabulon shrugged, his entire manner indicating that all he could
do was make suggestions.

'In any case, we have to be certain that the book is on the
train,' said Gesar. 'I suggest . . .' he looked at me and gave a barely
perceptible nod. 'I suggest that Anton from the Night Watch,
Konstantin from the Day Watch and someone from the Inquisition
should get on the train. To check it out. We don't need a big
group for that. We'll arrive in the morning. And then decide what
to do next.'

'Off you go, Kostya,' Zabulon said affectionately, slapping the
young vampire on the shoulder. 'Gesar's talking sense. Good
company, a long journey, an interesting job – you'll enjoy it.'

The mocking glance in my direction was almost too fast to
catch.

'That . . . buys us time,' Edgar agreed. 'I'll go myself. And I'll
take my colleagues with me. All of them.'

'Only one minute left,' Olga said quietly. 'If you've made up
your minds, better get moving.'

Edgar waved to his team and we ran towards the train. The
Inquisitor said something to the conductor of the front carriage
– a young Kazakh with a moustache – and the conductor's face
suddenly went slack, assuming an expression of sleepy contentment.
He moved aside to let us in, and we crowded into the little
lobby at the end of the carriage. I looked out – Zabulon, Gesar
and Olga were standing on the platform, watching us leave. Olga
was saying something.

'In the situation that has arisen, I'll assume overall control,' Edgar
declared. 'Any objections?'

I glanced at the six Inquisitors standing behind his back and
said nothing. But Kostya couldn't restrain himself.

'That depends on what kind of orders you give. I only acknowledge
the authority of the Day Watch.'

'I repeat – I am in charge of the operation,' Edgar said coolly.
'If you don't agree, then you can get out.'

Kostya hesitated for a second, and then lowered his head.

'My apologies, Inquisitor. It was a poor joke. Of course you are
in charge. But if necessary I will have to contact my superior.'

'First you'll jump to attention and ask permission.' Edgar was
determined to cross all the t's and dot all the i's.

'Very well,' Kostya said and nodded. 'My apologies, Inquisitor.'

That put an end to the incipient rebellion. Edgar nodded, stuck
his head out of the lobby and called the conductor over.

'When are we off?'

'Right now!' the conductor replied, gazing at the Inquisitor
with all the adoration of a devoted dog. 'Right away, I just have
to get in.'

'Well, get in then,' said Edgar, moving out of the way.

The conductor climbed into the small space, still wearing that
expression of joyful submission. The train began pulling away slowly.
The conductor stood beside the open door, swaying slightly.

'What's your name?' asked Edgar.

'Askhat. Askhat Kurmangaliev.'

'Close the door. Do your job according to your instructions.'
Edgar frowned. 'We are your best friends. We are your guests. You
have to find places on the train for us. Do you understand?'

The door clattered shut, the conductor locked it with his key
and stood to attention in front of Edgar again.

'I understand. We need to go to the chief conductor. I don't
have enough free places. Only four.'

'Let's go and see him then,' Edgar agreed. 'Anton, what's the
compass doing?'

I lifted up the note and looked at the Twilight compass.

The pointer was spinning idly.

'Looks like the book's on the train.'

'We'll wait a bit to make sure,' Edgar decided.

We travelled a good kilometre away from the station, but the
pointer carried on spinning. Whoever the thief was, he was travelling
with us.

'He's on the train, the son of a bitch,' said Edgar. 'Wait for me
here. I'll go and see the chief conductor, we need to get ourselves
seats somewhere.'

He went out into the corridor with the conductor, who was
still smiling contentedly. A second conductor spotted his
colleague and said something very quickly in Kazakh, waving
his arms about indignantly, but then he caught Edgar's glance
and fell silent.

'Might as well hang signs round our necks – "We're Others!",'
said Kostya. 'What's he doing? If there really is a Higher Other in
the train, he'll sense the magic . . .'

Kostya was right. It would have been far better to make do
with money – it has a magic that works just as well with people.
But Edgar was probably feeling too nervous . . .

'Can you sense any magic?' one of the junior Inquisitors asked
unexpectedly.

Kostya turned towards him, perplexed. He shook his head.

'Neither will anybody else. Edgar has an amulet of subjection
– it only works at close range.'

'Inquisitors' tricks . . .' Kostya muttered, clearly nettled. 'Even
so, it would be better to keep our heads down. Right, Anton?'

I nodded reluctantly.

Edgar came back after about twenty minutes. I didn't bother to
ask how he'd dealt with the chief conductor, by giving him money
or – more likely – using his mysterious 'amulet of subjection'
again. He had a calm, contented expression on his face.

'We'll divide into two groups,' he said, moving straight into
command mode. 'You'– he nodded in the direction of the Inquisitors
– 'are staying in this carriage. Take the conductors' compartment
and compartment one, that's six places. Askhat will settle you in
. . . ask him for anything you need, don't be shy. And don't take
any positive action on your own, don't play the amateur detective.
Behave like . . . like people. Report on the situation to me every
three hours . . . or as necessary. We'll be in carriage number seven.'

The Inquisitors filed silently out of the lobby, following the
smiling conductor. Edgar turned to Kostya and me and said:

'We'll take compartment four in carriage number seven. We can
regard it as our temporary base. Let's go.'

'Have you come up with a plan yet, chief?' Kostya enquired. I
couldn't tell if he was being ironic or sincere.

Edgar looked at him for a second, clearly also wondering whether
it was a genuine question or a jibe. He answered anyway:

'If I have a plan, you'll hear about it. In good time. Meanwhile
I want to get a cup of coffee and two or three hours' sleep. In
that order.'

Kostya and I set off after Edgar. The vampire grinned and I
couldn't help winking back at him. After all, we were united now
by our position as subordinates . . . despite all my reservations
about Kostya.

The carriage that the chief conductor rides in is the top spot
in the whole train. The air conditioning always works. The boiler
is always full of hot water, and there's always a fresh brew of tea
ready. And finally, it's clean, even in the Central Asian trains, and
they give out the sheets in sealed packs – they really have been
laundered after the previous run. The toilets work, and you can
boldly go into them without rubber boots.

To complete the passengers' comforts, the restaurant car is hitched
to one end of the chief conductor's car. And the sleeper car – if
there is one in the train – is at the other end.

The Moscow–Almaty train had a sleeper carriage. We walked
through it, glancing curiously at the passengers. They were mostly
solemn, well-fed Kazakhs, almost all with briefcases that they kept
with them, even in the corridor. Some of them were drinking tea
from bright-coloured bowls, others were setting out sliced meat
and bottles on the little table and breaking boiled chickens into
pieces with their hands. But most of them were still standing in
the corridor, watching the Moscow suburbs slide past.

I wondered what they were feeling, these citizens of a newly
independent country, as they gazed at their former capital. Were
they content with their independence? Or could they possibly be
feeling nostalgic?

I didn't know. You couldn't ask them, and if you did, you
couldn't be sure they'd answer honestly. And breaking into their
minds to make them answer honestly wasn't our style.

It would be better anyway if they
were
happy and proud – of
their own independence, their own statehood, their own corruption.
Especially since not so long before, at the three hundredth
anniversary of St Petersburg, people had been saying: 'Let them
steal everything, at least it's our own thieves doing it, not the ones
from Moscow.' So why shouldn't the Kazakhs and Uzbekis,
Ukrainians and Tajiks feel the same way? If our single country
was demarcated along republican and municipal lines, then how
could we complain about the neighbours from the old communal
apartments? The little rooms with the view of the Baltic had gone,
so had the proud Georgians, and the Kirghizhians. Everyone had
been happy to go. The only room we had left was the big kitchen
– Russia, where the different nations all used to stew in the imperial
pot. So okay. No problem. Our kitchen's got gas! How about
yours?

Let them be happy. Let everyone feel good. The Petersburgians,
delighted with their anniversary celebrations – everyone knows
you can dine off one good anniversary for a century. And the
Kazakhs and Kirghizhians, who had founded their own states for
the first time . . . although they, of course, could put forward heaps
of evidence to prove their ancient statehood. Then there were our
brother Slavs who had felt so oppressed by co-existence with their
big brother. And we Russians, who despised Moscow so passionately
from the provinces, and in turn despised the provinces from
Moscow.

Just for a moment, quite unexpectedly, I felt disgusted. Not with
the Kazakh passengers, and not with my fellow Russians. Just with
people. With all the people in the world. What did we in the
Night Watch think we were doing? Divide and protect? Nonsense!
Not a single Dark One, not a single Day Watch, caused people as
much harm as they caused themselves. What was one hungry
vampire compared to the average maniac who raped and murdered
little girls in lifts? What was one hardhearted witch who put a
hex on someone for money, compared with a supposedly humane
president who launched his high-accuracy rockets for the sake of
oil?

A plague on both your houses . . .

I stopped and let Kostya go ahead. Then I froze, staring at the
filthy floor, already littered with the first dozen stinking cigarette
butts.

What was wrong with me?

Were these my thoughts?

I couldn't pretend they weren't. They were mine, no one else's.
No one had sneaked into my mind, not even a Higher Other
could have done that without me noticing.

It was me, the way I really was.

A former human being.

A Light Other who was burned out, disillusioned with everything
in the world.

This was how you wound up in the Inquisition. When you
stopped being able to see any difference between Light Ones and
Dark Ones. When for you people weren't even a flock of sheep, but
just a handful of spiders in a glass jar. When you stopped believing
in the future, and all you wanted to do was preserve the status quo.
For yourself. For those few individuals who were still dear to you.