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.
'No, I refuse,' I said, as if I was pronouncing an oath, as if I was holding up a shield against the invisible enemy – against myself. 'I refuse! You have . . . no power . . . over me . . . Anton Gorodetsky!'
On the other side of two doors and four thick panes of glass, Kostya turned and gave me a puzzled look. Had he heard? Or was he simply wondering why I'd stopped?
I forced a smile, opened the door and stepped into the rumbling concertina of the short bridge connecting the two carriages.
The chief conductor's carriage really was a classy place. Clean rugs on the floor; a carpet runner in the corridor; white curtains; and soft mattresses that didn't remind you of the one stuffed with corncobs in Uncle Tom's Cabin.
'Who's sleeping up top, and who's down below?' Edgar asked briskly.
'It's all the same to me,' Kostya replied.
'I'd rather be up top,' I said.
'Me too,' said Edgar with a nod. 'That's agreed then.'
There was a polite knock at the door.
'Yes!' The Inquisitor didn't even turn his head.
It was the chief conductor, carrying a tray with a nickel-plated kettle full of hot water, a pot with strongly brewed tea, a coffee pot, cups, some wafer biscuits and even a carton of cream. He was a big, strapping, serious-looking man, with a bushy moustache and a uniform that was a perfect fit.
But the expression on his face was as dull and stupid as a newborn puppy's.
'Enjoy your tea, dear guests.'
Clear enough. He was under the influence of the amulet as well. The fact that Edgar was a Dark One did have some effect on his methods, after all.
'Thank you. Inform us of everyone who got on in Moscow and gets off along the way, my dear man,' said Edgar, taking the tray. 'Especially those who get off before they reach their stop.'
'It will be done, Your Honour!' The chief conductor nodded.
Kostya giggled.
I waited until the poor man had gone out, and asked:
'Why "Your Honour"?'
'How should I know?' Edgar said with a shrug. 'The amulet induces people to accept instructions. But who they see me as – an auditor, the girl they love, a well-known actor or Generalissimus Stalin – that's their problem. This guy must have been reading too much Akunin. Or watching old movies.'
Kostya chortled again.
'There's nothing funny about it,' Edgar said angrily. 'And nothing terrible either. It's the least harmful way of manipulating the human psyche. Half the stories about how someone gave Yakubovich a lift in his car or let Gorbachev through to the front of the queue are the result of suggestions just like this.'
'That's not what I was laughing at,' Kostya explained. 'I imagined you in a white army officer's uniform . . . chief. You looked impressive.'
'You go ahead and laugh . . .' said Edgar, pouring himself some coffee. 'How's the compass doing?'
I put the note on the table without speaking. A Twilight image appeared in the air above it – the round casing of a compass, a lazily spinning pointer.
I poured myself some tea and took a sip. It tasted good. Brewed to perfection, just as it should be for 'His Honour'.
'He's on the train, the scum . . .' Edgar sighed. 'Gentlemen, I'm not going to conceal the alternatives from you. Either we catch the perpetrator, or the train will be destroyed. Together with all the passengers.'
'How?' Kostya asked laconically.
'There are various possibilities. A gas main explodes beside the train, a fighter plane accidentally launches an air-to-ground missile . . . if absolutely necessary, the rocket will have a nuclear warhead.'
'Edgar!' I really wanted to believe he was overdramatising. 'There are at least five hundred passengers on this train!'
'Rather more than that,' the Inquisitor corrected me.
'We can't do that!'
'We can't let the book go. We can't allow an unprincipled Other to create his own private guard and start restyling the world to suit himself.'
'But we don't know what he wants!'
'We know he killed an Inquisitor withou
t hesitation. We know he is immensely powerful and is pursuing some goal unknown to us. What's he after in Central Asia, Gorodetsky?'
I shrugged.
'There are several ancient centres of power there,' Edgar muttered. 'A certain number of artefacts that disappeared without trace, a certain number of regions with weak political control . . . And what else?'
'A billion Chinese,' Kostya suddenly put in.
The Dark Ones stared at each other.
'You're out of your mind . . .' Edgar said hesitantly.
'More than a billion,' Kostya replied derisively. 'What if he's planning to make a dash through Kazakhstan to China? Now that would be an army! A billion Others! And then there's India . . .'
'Don't be ridiculous,' Edgar said dismissively. 'Not even an idiot would try that. Where are we going to get Power from, when a third of the population is turned into Others?'
'But maybe he is an idiot,' Kostya persisted.
'That's why we're prepared to take extreme measures,' Edgar snapped.
He was serious. Without the slightest doubt that we really could kill these spell-bound conductors, chubby-cheeked businessmen and poor people travelling in the carriages with open seating. If we had to, we had to. Farmers who destroyed animals with foot-and- mouth disease suffered too.
I didn't feel like drinking tea any more. I got up and walked out of the compartment. Edgar watched me go with an understanding but by no means sympathetic glance.
The carriage was settling down as the passengers prepared for sleep. The doors of some compartments were still open, there were people still loitering in the corridor, waiting for the washroom to be free. I heard glasses clinking somewhere, but most of the passengers were too exhausted after Moscow.
I thought languidly that what the laws of melodrama required now was for little children with the innocent faces of angels to come dashing along the corridor. Just to drive home the true monstrosity of Edgar's plan . . .
There weren't any little children. Instead a fat man in faded tracksuit bottoms and a baggy T-shirt stuck his head out of one of the compartments. He had a red, steaming face that was already comfortably bloated by strong drink. The man looked listlessly straight through me, hiccupped and disappeared again.
My hands automatically reached for my minidisc player. I stuck in the earphones, put in a disc at random and pressed my face against the window. I see nothing, I hear nothing. And obviously I'm not going to say anything.
I heard a gentle, lyrical melody, and a voice started singing delicately:
You'll have no time to dash for the bushes
When the sawn-off mows you down
There is no beauty more beautiful
Than the visions of morphine withdrawal . . .
Yes, it was Las, my acquaintance from the Assol complex. The disc he'd given me as a present. I laughed and turned the volume up. It was exactly what I needed.
The devil-kids will return to the stars,
And they'll smelt our blood into iron,
There is no beauty more beautiful
Than the visions of morphine withdrawal . . .
My God! . . . It was more punk than any of the punks. Not even Shnur with his obscenities . . .
A hand slapped me on the shoulder.
'Edgar, everyone has his own way of relaxing,' I muttered.
Someone poked me lightly under the ribs.
I turned round.
And froze.
There, standing in front of me, was Las. Smiling happily, jigging in time to the music – I must have turned the volume up too high.
'Hey, but that's great!' he exclaimed enthusiastically the moment I pulled out the earphones. 'You're walking through the carriage, not bothering anyone, and there's someone listening to your songs! What are you doing here, Anton?'
'Travelling . . .' It was the only word I could get out as I switched off the player.
'Oh, really?' Las commented in delight. 'I'd never have guessed! Where are you travelling to?'
'Alma-Ata.'
'You ought to call it "Almaty".' Las admonished me. 'Okay, let's continue the conversation. Why aren't you flying?'
'Why aren't you?' I asked, finally realising that all this was rather like an interrogation.
'Because I'm aerophobic,' Las said proudly. 'If I really have to fly, a litre of whisky gives me some faith in the laws of aerodynamics. But that's for emergencies only, for getting to Japan, or the States . . . the trains don't go there, you know.'
'You travelling on business?'
'On holiday,' Las said with a grin. 'Couldn't go to Turkey or the Canaries, now, could I? Are you on a business trip?'
'Uhuh.' I nodded. 'I'm planning to start selling kumis and shubat in Moscow.'
'What's shubat?' Las asked.
'You know . . . kefir made from camel's milk.'
'Great,' Las said approvingly. 'You travelling alone?'
'With friends.'
'Let's go to my compartment. It's empty. I haven't got any shubat, but I can offer you kumis.'
Was it a trap?
I looked at Las through the Twilight. Stared as hard as I could.
Not the slightest indication of an Other.
He was either a human being . . . or an Other of absolutely unimaginable Power. Capable of disguising himself at every level of the Twilight.
Could this be a stroke of luck? Was this really him, standing there in front of me, the mysterious thief of the Fuaran?
'Okay, I'll just go and get something,' I said and smiled.
'I've got everything we need!' Las protested. 'Bring your friends along too. I'm in the next car down, compartment two.'
'They've already gone to bed,' I lied clumsily. 'Hang on, just a moment . . .'
It was a good thing Las was standing on one side and couldn't see who was in the compartment. I opened the door slightly and slipped in there – no doubt giving him the idea that there was a half-naked girl inside.
'What's happened?' Edgar asked, looking at me intently.
'There's a guy from Assol here on the train,' I said quickly. 'You remember, the musician, he was a suspect, but he didn't seem like an Other . . . He's inviting us to his compartment for a drink.'
An excited expression appeared on Edgar's face. Kostya even jumped to his feet and exclaimed:
'Let's take him now. While he's here . . .'
'Wait.' Edgar shook his head. 'Let's not be in such a hurry . . . you never know, it might not be him. Anton, take this.'
I took the small glass flask, which was bound with copper or bronze wire. It looked terribly old. There was a dark-brown liquid splashing around inside it.
'What's that?'
'Perfectly ordinary twenty-year-old armagnac. But the flask is trickier. Only an Other can open it.' Edgar laughed. 'It's just a trinket really. Some ancient magician put the same spell on all his bottles, so the servants couldn't steal anything. If your friend can open it, then he's an Other.'