'What if you tell the Others all this?'
'It won't bother the Dark Ones at all. And the Light Ones will come to terms with it. I learned a truth I didn't want to know, Anton – and I've come to terms with it. Maybe I shouldn't have told you. But that would have been dishonest. As if you were part of the herd too.'
'Sveta . . .' I looked at the faint glow of the night light in the window. 'What's Nadiushka's magical temperature?'
She hesitated before she answered.
'Zero.'
'The Greatest of the Great . . .' I said.
'Absolutely no magic in her at all . . .' said Svetlana.
'So now what do we do?'
'Carry on living,' Svetlana said simply. 'I'm an Other . . . it's too late now to pretend to be innocent. I take Power from people or I draw it from the Twilight – either way, it's not my Power. But I'm not to blame for that.'
'Sveta, I'm going to Gesar. Right now. I'm leaving the Watch.'
'I know. Go.'
I got up and steadied the swaying hammock. It was dark, and I couldn't see Svetlana's face.
'Go, Anton,' she repeated. 'It's going to be hard for us to look into each other's eyes. We need time to get used to this.'
'What's down there, on the fifth level?' I asked.
'It's best if you don't know.'
'All right. I'll ask Gesar.'
'Let him tell you . . . if he wants to.'
I leaned down and touched her cheek – it was wet with tears.
'It's shameful . . .' she whispered. 'Shameful . . . to be a parasite.'
'Hang in there . . .'
'I am.'
When I went into the barn, I heard a door close – Svetlana had gone back into the house. Without bothering to switch on the light, I got into the car and pulled the door shut.
Right then, what had Uncle Kolya done with it? Should I start it or shouldn't I?
The car started first time and the engine began purring quietly.
I switched on the dipped beams and drove out of the barn.
What about the rules of concealment?
To hell with them. Why should the shepherd hide from the flock?
I opened the gates with a brief wave of my hand, without getting out of the car. I drove out into the street and stepped on the accelerator. The village looked empty and lifeless. Someone had sprinkled sleeping pills in the sheep's feed.
The car tore out onto the country road. I switched to full beams and put my foot down. The wind rushed in through the open window.
I felt for the remote control on the steering wheel and switched on the minidisc player.
I entered this windy city without a cloak.
And it wound round my throat just like ivy.
The serpent's coils fettered my soul.
I see a black sun, beneath which I shall never shed a tear.
I am slipping out of character. I am insolent, unfair.
What can a rabbit hope for in a boa constrictor's throat?
The serpent's coils only feel tight at first,
I see a black sun, and dreams the same colour.
I cannot tell sins from virtues, even to save my life.
They're removing the witnesses, turning us to snakes.
And I am willing to rot under any flag,
Prepared to slither, zigzagging across the ground,
And even sing of love, up to my throat in vomit,
If that is what my Motherland requires.
A light appeared up ahead, somewhere near the slip road onto the motorway. I screwed up my eyes and looked through the Twilight. There was a temporary militia barrier across the road. And two men waiting beside it, with two Others.
Dark Others.
I smiled and slowed down.
My brain is a beehive with ants instead of bees.
The bullet's centre of gravity is displaced towards love.
But the serpent's coils are armour plating.
I see a black sun. A sun that hates me.
I could have surrendered without a fight, caught in the devil's jaws.
But I'll die on my feet – the coils will not let me fall.
The serpent's coils – my brace and my shell.
I see a black sun. And it hurts my eyes.
I stopped right in front of the barrier and waited for the motorway patrolman holding an automatic rifle to his chest. The Inquisition were never too choosy when it came to recruiting people for security cordons.
I handed the militiaman my licence and documents for the car, and turned the sound down.
I looked at the Others.
The first was an Inquisitor I didn't know, a lean, elderly Asiatic type. I'd have said he was at the second or third grade of Power, but with Inquisitors it's harder to tell.
The second was a Dark One I knew very well, from the Moscow Day Watch. The vampire Kostya.
'We're looking for a witch,' said the Inquisitor. The militiamen took no notice of the Others. The militiamen had been ordered not to see.
'Arina's not here,' I replied. 'Is Edgar in charge of the drag-net?'
The Inquisitor nodded.
'Ask him about me. Anton Gorodetsky, Night Watch.'
'I know him,' Kostya said casually, leaning down towards the Inquisitor. 'A law-abiding Light One . . .'
'Proceed,' said the patrolman, handing back my documents.
'You can drive on,' the Inquisitor said with a nod. 'There'll be more security posts down the road.'
I nodded and drove out onto the motorway.
Kostya stood there, watching me drive away.
I turned the sound up.
I'm not for or against. I'm not good or evil.
You've been damned lucky with me, my Motherland.
Your serpent's coils are my home, my trap.
I shall crawl under the sun.
Under this cursed sun,
From here to here, and then from here to here,
From here to Judgement Day.
Story Three
NOBODY'S POWER
PROLOGUE
HE DIDN'T OFTEN dream.
And right now he wasn't even asleep. Even so, it was almost a dream, almost like one of those sweet visions in the instant before waking . . .
A light, pure vision, almost like a child's.
'Scavenging engines . . . key to start position . . .'
The silvery column of the rocket shrouded in light mist.
Flames dancing under the thruster nozzles.
Every Russian child dreams of being a cosmonaut – until he hears that question for the tenth time: 'What do you want to be, a cosmonaut?'
Some stop dreaming about outer space when they become Others.
The Twilight is more interesting than other planets. Their newly discovered Power has a stronger gravitational pull than the fame of a cosmonaut.
But now he was dreaming of a rocket – an absurd, old-fashioned rocket rising up into the sky.
The Earth floating beneath his feet – or is it above his head?
The thick quartz glass of the porthole.
Strange dreams for an Other, surely?
The Earth . . . a veil of clouds . . . the lights of the cities . . . people.
Millions of them. Billions.
And him – watching them from orbit.
An Other in space . . . what could be more ludicrous? Except maybe Other versus Alien. He had watched a science fiction film once, and suddenly found himself thinking that now was just the right moment for brave Ripley to slip into the Twilight – and then strike out and smash those unwieldy, helpless monsters.
The thought immediately made him laugh.
There weren't any Others up there.
But space was up there. Only he hadn't realised what it was for until now.
Now he understood.
He closed his eyes, dreaming about the small Earth rotating slowly under his feet.
Every child dreams of being a giant – until he starts to wonder what the point is.
/> Now he knew everything.
The parts of the jigsaw all fitted together.
His own destiny as an Other.
His crazy dream about space travel.
And the thick volume bound in human skin, its pages covered with neat cursive handwriting.
He picked up the book that was lying on the floorboards.
Opened it at the first page.
The letters had not faded. They were protected by a light but effective magic spell.
This language had not been heard on Earth for a long time. It would have reminded an Indologist of Sanskrit, but only a very few people would have known it was Paishachi.
But Others can read any dead language.
May the Elephant-Faced One preserve you, swaying his head first up, then down, like unto Shiva, swaying up and down on Mind! May Ganapati fill me with the sweet moisture of wisdom!
My name is Fuaran, I am a woman of the glorious city of Kanakapuri.
The Fulfiller of Desires, husband of Parvati, rewarded me generously in the days of my youth, granting me the ability to walk in the world of phantoms. While in our world a petal swirls in the air as it falls from a blossoming tree, in that world a whole day passes – such is its nature. And a great power lies concealed in that world.
He closed the Fuaran.
His heart was pounding.
A great power!
A power that had fallen from a witch's hands and disappeared almost two thousand years ago.
Owned by no one, concealed even from the Others.
Nobody's Power.
CHAPTER 1
I DROVE UP to the Night Watch building shortly after seven in the morning. The deadest time of all – the break between shifts. The field operatives who have been on night duty have handed in their reports and gone home and, following established Moscow tradition, the headquarters staff won't show up before nine.
They were changing shifts in the guard room too. The guards on their way out were signing some papers, those who had just arrived were studying the duty roster. I shook hands with all of them and walked through without any of the required checks. Strictly speaking, that was a breach of regulations . . . although this guard-post was primarily intended for checking ordinary people.
On the third floor the guards had already changed shifts. Garik was on duty and he made no exception for me, inspecting me through the Twilight and nodding for me to touch his amulet: an intricate image of a cockerel made out of gold wire. We called it 'Greetings to Dodon' after the king in Pushkin's fairy tale – in theory, if a Dark One touched the amulet, the cockerel would crow. Some wits claimed that if it sensed a Dark One, the cock would say in a human voice: 'How repulsive!'
Garik waited until he was done before giving me a friendly smile and shaking my hand.
'Is Gesar in his office?' I asked.
'Who knows where he is?' Garik replied.
He was right, that really was a stupid question. Higher Magicians move in mysterious ways.
'I thought you were supposed to be on leave . . .' Garik said. My strange question seemed to have put him on his guard.
'I got fed up relaxing. Like they say, Monday begins on Saturday . . .'
'And you look absolutely exhausted . . .' he went on, growing even more wary. 'Okay, come on . . . stroke the amulet again.'
I sent another greeting to Dodon, then stood still for a while as Garik checked my aura with another ingenious amulet made out of coloured glass.
'Sorry about that,' he said as he put the amulet away, adding in a slightly embarrassed voice: 'You're not yourself today.'
'I was on holiday in the country with Sveta, and a very old witch turned up,' I explained. 'And there was a pack of werewolves getting a bit out of hand. I had to go after the werewolves, and go after the witch . . .' I gestured despairingly. 'After a holiday like that I should be on sick leave.'
'So that's it,' said Garik, calming down. 'Put in an application, I think we still have some of our quota left for restoring powers.'
I shuddered and shook my head.
'No thanks. I'll manage on my own.'
After I said goodbye to Garik, I went up to the fourth floor. I stood outside Gesar's reception for a while, then knocked.
No one answered, and I went in.
The secretary wasn't at her desk, of course. The door into Gesar's office was firmly closed. But the little 'ready' light was blinking cheerfully on the coffee-maker, the computer was switched on and even the television was muttering away quietly on the news channel. The anchorman was reporting that another sandstorm had impeded the American forces in yet another peace-making mission, overturning several tanks and even bringing down two planes.
'And it beat up all the soldiers and took several of them prisoner too,' I couldn't resist adding.
What was this strange habit some Others had of watching TV? Either idiotic soap operas or the lies on the news. There was really only one word for it – 'people' . . .
Maybe the other word was 'cattle'? But it isn't their fault. They are weak and divided. They are people, not cattle.
We are the cattle.
And people are the grass.
I stood there, leaning against the secretary's desk and looking out of the window at the clouds drifting over the city. Why was the sky so low in Moscow in summer? I'd never seen such low clouds anywhere else . . . except maybe for Moscow in winter . . .
'You can cut grass,' a voice said behind my back. 'Or you can tear it up by the roots. Which do you prefer?'
'Good morning, boss,' I said, turning round. 'I didn't think you were in.'
Gesar yawned. He was wearing slippers and a dressing-gown. I caught a glimpse of his pyjamas underneath it.
I would never have expected the Great Gesar to wear pyjamas covered with pictures of Disney cartoon characters. From Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck to Lilo and Stitch. How could a Great Magician, who had lived thousands of years and could read thoughts with such ease, wear pyjamas like that?
'I was sleeping,' Gesar said glumly. 'Sleeping peacefully. I went to bed at five.'
'Sorry, boss,' I said. Somehow, no other word but 'boss' came to mind. 'Was there a lot of work last night?'
'I was reading a book, an interesting one,' said Gesar, pressing switches on the coffee-maker. 'Black with sugar for me, milk and no sugar for you . . .'
'Something magical?' I enquired.
'No, dammit, Golovachev!' Gesar growled. 'When I retire I'm going to ask to be his co-author and write books! Take your coffee.'