“You’d better go home,” Alisher put in. “You’re not on duty.”
And I realized that when Gesar gave me permission to reveal the information about the Tiger, he’d had a different purpose in mind. To make me see sense.
Well, he’d done just that.
I didn’t go home, of course. No, I didn’t pester anyone else with questions about whether they would wade into a hopeless battle with a Twilight Creature. And I didn’t make the rounds of the office, mentally placing Others in the key defensive positions. I went to the analysts and scrounged a copy of the report for Gesar (before they gave it to me, the guys contacted the boss and got his go-ahead). A close reading convinced me that Gesar wasn’t lying and in the opinion of the analysts (based on rather poorly documented attempts to fight the Tiger—in the fifteenth and nineteenth centuries) we wouldn’t be able to defeat the Twilight Creature.
At night, strangely enough, the Watch office is empty. We’re called the “Night Watch” and we patrol the streets mostly at night (how else can we do it—our main client base are the lower Dark Ones, the vampires and shapeshifters, who find it harder to control themselves) but our work is like an iceberg: most of it’s invisible. And that work takes place during the day—paper-shuffling, training, analyzing data, studying fresh information. We live among human beings, after all, and it’s more convenient for us to live by their rhythm. At least we managed to push an initiative through the human parliament recently to coordinate daylight-saving time across the entire country . . .
I sat at the computer in my office for a while. Went into my e-mail and wrote a couple of letters. For some reason I suddenly remembered the song that the policeman Iskender’s son had been playing, searched for the group that performed it, and was surprised to discover that it was from Kazakhstan—I hadn’t realized before that they played anything but the dombra down there! Then I found a pirate site where their other songs were available. I clicked on the title Obedient Boys, leaned back in my chair, and listened:
Stabbing sharp asters into the streets,
The moon rose to greet susceptible youth,
And sang as she beamed out pagan brightness:
“Children, kill your electrical glare,
Children, before you are all left eyeless,
I’ll point out salvation, show you the way:
All those who walk the moonlight path
Reach the magical city some day.
Where everyone breathes inspiration like air
And all of the architects there are dreams,
And it’s not banknotes, but sunlight that warms,
And if you’re in love, they won’t think you a fool.”
And the young boy sitting there on the stairs
Believed in the moon’s fateful songs of deceit.
And when he believed, the stairs started growing
And carried on, reaching right up to the sky.
The boy set off up to climb the ribbed steps,
But his friends and family all came running:
“You have no business up there in the sky!
Stop! Don’t go—this fate is for fools!”
And, listening to them, the boy came back down
With a lingering, longing glance at the moon.
But later he hid and hated them all
And wept for what he had seen in the sky.
That made me wince. The wrong choice. The boy-Prophet was nothing like a romantic young hero, but the song was reproaching me for something.
He wept, feeling emptiness filling his breast.
His way had been lit, as he scrambled on high,
By the light of his tremulous, fluttering heart,
But running back, he dropped his lamp in the sky.
And there it hung now, a small star up in space,
Like a bright, shiny little Christmas-tree toy,
Among all the other little toy hearts
Left there by all the obedient boys . . .
What the hell was this? Why couldn’t these Kazakhs imitate Russian kitsch pop and sing songs about beautiful girls, expensive resorts, and glittering cars, instead of propagating this decadent romanticism! I turned off the computer and walked out of the office.
My feet took me to the basement floors of their own accord. The door of one of the rooms was open and I glanced inside. The two “old-timers,” Jermenson and Glyba, were sitting there, sipping calmly on glasses of cognac. Mark Emmanuilovich was snacking on nonkosher smoked eel, while Glyba, a member of the old Soviet school, was using “nikolashka”—a sliced lemon, sprinkled with coffee and sugar. There was a sign of the new times, however—the coffee wasn’t instant, but natural, and Glyba was crumbling the beans over the lemon with his strong fingers.
They were sitting with their backs to me, but that was no hindrance to them.
“Come on in, Anton!” Jermenson called amiably.
“You’ll have a glass of cognac,” Glyba told me no less sociably. Told me, not asked.
Without speaking, I joined them at the table and took a glass. To my surprise, the cognac wasn’t French, but Moldavian—a pot-bellied bottle with a label that said Surprise.
“To the victory of the forces of good,” said Jermenson, taking a sip from his glass.
“Over the forces of reason,” Glyba continued.
I downed my glass in one and immediately regretted it. The cognac turned out to be surprisingly good. In fact, you could say it was excellent.
“Where do you get this?” I asked.
“You have to know the right place,” Glyba laughed. “See, Emmanuilich? I told you Anton was a rational person.”
“That’s just it, he’s a real person, human . . .” Jermenson said gruffly. He took a long leather case from his jacket pocket and held it out to me. “How about a cigar, young man? I highly recommend it. None of that sacrilege with a lemon, the only thing that goes with a good cognac is a genuine cigar.”
The Great Ones seemed perfectly placid and relaxed. Not at all as if they were preparing for a skirmish with the Tiger. But in that case what were they doing in the office?
“Has Gesar already told you?” I asked.
“About the Tiger?” Jermenson responded. “Yes, of course. I ought to be ashamed of myself. I’ve heard about this kind of thing before . . . It was a very long time ago, though.”
“And?” I asked abruptly.
“We’re going to sit here until the morning, gabbing the way that old men do,” Jermenson said, shrugging. “If he comes . . . well, then we’ll take a look. We’re not going to fight, just take a look . . . There’s no charge for looking.”
“You’re going to watch the Tiger kill the boy?”
“In a case like this, leaving is even more cowardly,” Jermenson replied coolly. “Why don’t you tell us what he prophesied to you at the airport? Word for word. Maybe Gesar’s wrong? Maybe the boy has already uttered his prophecy?”
“But then why would the Tiger bother to carry on chasing him?” Glyba responded. “No, you tell us, Anton. We’re genuinely interested.”
“ ‘You are Anton Gorodetsky, a Higher Light Magician. You are Nadka’s father. Because of you . . . all of us . . .’ ” I shrugged and spread my hands. “Is that any good as a prophecy?”
“No,” said Glyba, shaking his head. “Djoru’s right: it was a harbinger, induced by stress.”
“But there is something interesting about it!” said Jermenson, raising his finger. “Right?”
“Right,” said Glyba, splashing more cognac out into the glasses. “First, the prophecy will be addressed to one particular person. It’s linked to Anton. Perhaps because he’s the one the boy met?”
“Or because Anton saved him . . .” Jermenson said, with a nod. “And it’s important that he said ‘Nadka’s father.’ Our little friend doesn’t look like one of those children who address all little girls in that familiar fashion. That means . . .”
“That means the prophecy is linked to Nadya as well, and the boy-Prophet has to be
come friends with her.”
“And it concerns all Others—‘all of us’ is in there for a reason. But the clinching role will be played by Anton.” It looked as if this wasn’t the first time that Jermenson and Glyba had brainstormed together.
“It’s very interesting, it really is!” said Glyba, beaming. “I’d like to hear it. I hope Djoru will be able to explain to the boy how to prophesy.”
“Djoru might have managed it,” said Gesar, walking into the room, “but I haven’t.”
He sat down with us (now that was strange—I thought there were only three chairs at the table before then) and took a glass. (Well, there definitely wasn’t a fourth glass on the table before, let alone a full one!) He looked at me, cleared his throat, took a sip of cognac, and said: “The ball keeps going wide of the goalpost. The lad is an Other, the lad really is a Prophet. Only we were mistaken. He’s not a Higher Other, only first or second rank.”
“That’s not crucial for a Prophet,” said Glyba. “He’ll utter his prophecies less often, that’s all.”
“This isn’t just a matter of initiation,” Gesar went on. “Or of understanding the technical details. I’ve explained all that, he’s a bright boy. But there has to be the right state of mind. The readiness to prophesy. And that’s harder to induce. All my fiddling and fussing got me nowhere—his head’s lost somewhere up in the clouds . . .”
“Probably remembering his mother,” Glyba said sympathetically. “I ended up in the Watch as a child too, I missed my family terribly . . .”
“Boris Ignatievich, can I have a word with him?” I asked.
“Give it a try,” Gesar agreed willingly. “I don’t think it will help, but try it. Only don’t drag it out—it’s almost midnight already, the kid can hardly keep his eyes open . . .”
His look as he watched me go was sympathetic and approving, but without any real enthusiasm.
Innokentii Tolkov, ten and a half years old, Prophet of the first level of Power, was not sleeping yet. He was sitting on the floor beside the heap of toys provided out of the Night Watch’s largesse and twirling a toy telephone in his hands. When I appeared, he became embarrassed and put the phone back into the multicolored heap—it was a toy for tiny tots: a few large buttons with numbers that played some kind of jolly Chinese tune when you pressed them, and a button for recording any phrase that you wanted. Nadya had had a “telephone” like that too, when she was three years old.
I suddenly felt really worried.
“Hi, Kesha,” I said, sitting down on the floor beside him.
“Good evening, Uncle Anton,” said Kesha.
“Well, you’ve got a real treasure hoard here,” I said awkwardly, dragging a toy helicopter out of the heap. “My Nadya wanted to play with one of these . . .”
“You take it for her,” Kesha said calmly. “I don’t need it, after all.”
I looked into his eyes—and “worried” became “terrified.”
“How do you mean?” I asked in an artificially cheerful voice.
“Uncle Boris told me everything. About the Twilight Creature that’s hunting me. And how you won’t be able to stop him.”
“Why?” I asked—of course, the question wasn’t meant for the boy. “Why?”
But Kesha answered anyway.
“He said that was his last chance to motivate me. That I have to pluck up my courage and make a prophecy. Then the beast will leave me alone.”
“And so?”
“I can’t do it, it doesn’t work,” said the boy, lowering his eyes guiltily. “I tried really hard, honest I did! I’m sorry . . .”
He was even apologizing to us . . .
“So what then?” I asked.
“Uncle Boris said that if I couldn’t manage it, there was no point in worrying. I ought to go to bed and get some sleep, maybe the creature won’t come after all. And then everything will be all right, and in the morning I’ll definitely manage it.”
“But you didn’t go to bed,” I said.
“I’m afraid,” the boy replied simply.
“Did you really try hard?” I asked.
“Yes—do you think I’m a fool? But Uncle Boris said that if there was no hope I shouldn’t waste my time trying anymore.”
He looked up at me and said: “You go now, it’s all right. I’ll play for a while and go to bed.”
“If there’s no hope . . .” I said. “If there’s no hope . . .” I slapped at my pockets. Took out my phone. “Hang on a moment, Kesha . . .”
Generally speaking, phoning your ten-year-old daughter at midnight is not the most pedagogically correct decision. But before I could even call, the phone jangled in my hands and I raised it to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Daddy, were you going to call me?” Nadya’s voice was not even slightly sleepy and it sounded very, very eager.
“Yes.”
“Are you doing battle? With that creature?”
“No, Nadya, we’re not going to fight a battle with it. We wouldn’t be able to beat it.”
“What if—”
“And you’re not going to fight a battle with it either!”
“But you do want me to come, don’t you?”
“Yes, only not to fight a battle at all, but to . . .” I began.
There was a breath of cold air. A dark, glowing oval with a belt of white sparks round it appeared in midair. Nadya stepped out of it, barefoot and wearing nothing but her pink pyjamas.
“. . . give Kesha some hope,” I finished, gazing at my daughter.
“Daddy, I managed it just like Gesar!” Nadya exclaimed joyfully. “Oh, hi!”
No, Nadya wasn’t embarrassed. But Kesha blushed and lowered his eyes.
“Nadya, I’m afraid we’ve got almost no time left,” I said. “Perhaps only a few hours. Kesha has to make his first prophecy. He knows how to do it. But it’s not working for him. I think you can help him somehow.”
“Maybe I should give him a kiss?” Nadya asked in an innocent voice. “To inspire him. That always helps in the cartoons!”
Why, the little . . . the little . . . no, not witch, of course. But she does have a bit of the witch in her. Like every woman.
“I’m afraid kisses won’t do it,” I said. “Nadya, talk to the boy. Try to understand what the problem is. I . . . I won’t be far away. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
I walked out of the room, closed the door behind me, and thought that in just a couple of years’ time I would be more wary of leaving my daughter alone with little boys. Would you believe it! “I’ll kiss him!” I ought to throw that TV out . . .
“Anton!”
I walked into the room where Gesar, Alisher and Jermenson were sitting. There seemed to be more cognac in the bottle than before, which roused my suspicions. Glyba had gone off somewhere, but the Kazakh White Magician’s replacement by Alisher had not affected the way the group was passing the time.
“There was some kind of . . . movement . . .” said Gesar, gazing at me. “Tell me, you haven’t done anything stupid, have you? Like teleporting the lad away from here?”
“No, it was Nadya,” I said. “I called her . . . to talk to the boy. She’s known all her life that she’s an Other. Maybe she can give him some ideas?”
“A truly devoted father,” said Gesar.
“Well, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” I asked him. “When you told the boy that there was no hope, that he should give up trying?”
Gesar shook his head slowly.
“No, Anton. Thank you for valuing every word I say so highly, but it wasn’t a hint. I simply said there was no hope. I wasn’t thinking of your daughter . . .”
“But how lovely that would be . . .” Jermenson said thoughtfully. “A pity . . .”
And then I felt the “movement” that Gesar had mentioned. As if the Twilight had swayed, splashing out energy, and then frozen.
“I’ll go and give Nadya’s ears a tweak,” I said.
“It’s not good to tw
eak little girls” ears,” said Gesar, getting up. “And that’s not her.”
“It’s the Tiger,” said Jermenson. He got up too.
“Anton, take your daughter and leave,” said Alisher, pulling a bracelet made of three intertwined rings—gold, silver, and copper—out of his pocket. He threaded his left hand through it and dangled it in the air, as if he was gauging an invisible load.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “You said . . .”
“Never mind what we said,” Jermenson replied, with a shrug. “And anyway . . . if we can spin things out for an hour or two, that could decide everything. He won’t come through the Twilight, Gesar?”
“No,” Gesar said firmly.
“Perhaps we should ask the Inquisition after all . . . or Zabulon . . .”
“I asked. A quarter of an hour ago. Help was refused.”
“Then it’s up to us,” Jermenson declared cheerfully. “A very curious experience altogether . . . wouldn’t you say so, Ali?”
“For sure,” said Alisher, and shook the hand with the bracelet. His body was enveloped in a white glow. He shook his hand again and the glow faded away.
“Yes indeed,” said Jermenson, beaming. “I thought there was nothing left that could surprise me, but this Tiger really is a new experience in my life.”
And at that very moment there was a loud crash above us. Rumbling and powerful—as if something had exploded. The magicians raised their heads and listened.
“Semyon,” said Gesar. “I told him not to interfere . . . It’s a pity we don’t employ corporal punishment in the Watch.”
“We could introduce it,” Jermenson said brightly.
“He’s not overdoing it,” said Alisher. “But the guys don’t want to surrender the office without a fight. Even if it is only symbolic . . .”
Gesar looked at me.
“Anton, your task is simple. After the Tiger comes down the stairs and appears at that end of the corridor, we’ll have from three to five minutes. You can do something—to ease your conscience. A spell or two, only try not to nettle him . . . And then grab your daughter and leave. She knows how to open a portal.”
“I can do that too,” I said without any real conviction.