The Twilight Watch:

  'I've already given him the money,' Edgar told me. 'You're entitled to expenses too, by the way. Fifty dollars a day, plus food, on submission of receipts.'

  'It's a good life in the Inquisition,' I quipped. 'Any news?'

  'Gesar and Zabulon are trying to make sense of Witiezslav's remains.' He said 'remains' in a solemn, official voice. 'But it's hard to get much out of them. You know yourself – the older a vampire is, the less there is left when he dies . . .'

  Kostya chewed intently on his sandwich.

  'Sure,' I agreed. 'I'll go and have a wash.'

  Almost everyone in the carriage was awake already, only a couple of compartments where the merrymaking had been a bit too intense were still closed. I waited in the short queue and then squeezed into the barracks-like comfort of the carriage's washroom. Warm water oozed sluggishly out of the iron tap. The sheet of polished steel that took the place of a mirror was useless, spattered all over with soap suds. As I brushed my teeth with the hard Chinese brush, I recalled my night-time conversation with Sveta.

  There was something important in what she had said. Yet it had gone unrecognised by both of us.

  I had to understand it.

  When I got back to the compartment I was still no closer to the truth, but I did have an idea that I thought might lead somewhere. My travelling companions had already finished their breakfast and, when I closed the door, I got straight to the point.

  'Edgar, I've got an idea. On a long stretch between stops your men unhitch the carriages. One by one. To make sure the train doesn't stop, one of them monitors the driver. We watch the compass. As soon as the carriage with the book is unhitched, the pointer will turn towards it.'

  'And?' Edgar asked sourly.

  'We get a fix on the book. We know which carriage it's in. Then we can surround that carriage and take the passengers aside with their luggage, one by one. As soon as we find the killer, the pointer will tell us. And that's it! No more need to destroy the train!'

  'I thought about that,' Edgar said reluctantly. 'There's only one argument against it, but it's decisive. The perpetrator will realise what's happening. He'll be able to strike first.'

  'Get Gesar, Zabulon, Svetlana and Olga here . . . Do the Dark Ones have any other powerful magicians?' I looked at Kostya.

  'We can find a few,' Kostya answered evasively. 'But will we have enough Power?'

  'To deal with one Other?'

  'Not just an Other,' Edgar reminded me. 'According to the legend, several hundred magicians were assembled to destroy Fuaran.'

  'Then we'll assemble them too. The Night Watch has almost two hundred members of staff, the Day Watch has just as many. There are hundreds of reservists. Each side can easily muster a thousand Others.'

  'Mostly weak, sixth- or seventh-grade. We can't get more than a hundred real magicians together, third-grade and up.' Edgar spoke so confidently there seemed no doubt that he really had thought through the option of direct confrontation. 'That might be enough – if we back up the Dark and Light Magicians with Inquisitors, use amulets and combine the two powers. But it might not be. Then the strongest fighters would be killed and the perpetrator left with a free hand. Haven't you considered that he might be counting on us taking this very approach?'

  I shook my head.

  'And another thing I've been thinking about,' Edgar said with gloomy resignation. 'The perpetrator might see the train as a trap that will draw together all the powerful magicians in Russia. He could have hung the train from end to end with spells that we can't sense.'

  'Then what's the point of our efforts?' I asked. 'What are we doing here? One nuclear bomb – and the problem's solved.'

  Edgar nodded:

  'Yes. And it would have to be nuclear, to penetrate all the levels of the Twilight. But first we have to make sure the target won't slip away at the last moment.'

  'Have you accepted Zabulon's viewpoint then?' I asked.

  Edgar sighed.

  'I've accepted the viewpoint of common sense. An exhaustive search of the train and the use of massive force is fraught with the danger of magical carnage. People would be killed anyway. Destroy the train . . . of course, I feel sorry for the people. But at least we'd avoid any global convulsions.'

  'But if there's still a chance . . .' I began.

  'There is. That's why I propose to continue with the search,' Edgar agreed. 'Kostya and I take my young guys and we comb the whole train – from the back and the front at the same time. We'll use amulets, and in suspicious cases, we'll try to check the suspect through the Twilight. And you have another word with Las. He's still under suspicion, after all.'

  I shrugged. It all sounded too much like playing at searching. In his heart of hearts Edgar had already given up.

  'So when's zero hour?' I asked.

  'Tomorrow evening,' Edgar replied. 'When we're passing through the uninhabited area around Semipalatinsk. They exploded nuclear bombs in that area anyway . . . one more tactical weapon's no great disaster round there.'

  'Happy hunting,' I said, walking out of the compartment.

  It was all obscene. No more than a few lines in the report that Edgar was already preparing to write: 'Despite the efforts made to isolate the perpetrator and locate the Fuaran . . .'

  There had been a time when I used to find myself thinking the Inquisition was a genuine alternative to the Watches. After all, what was it we did? We divided people from Others. We made sure that the actions of Others had as little impact as possible on people. Yes, it was practically impossible – some of the Others were parasites by their very nature. Yes, the contradictions between Light Ones and Dark Ones were so great that conflicts were inevitable.

  But there was still the Inquisition, standing above the Watches. It maintained the balance, a third power and a dividing structure of a higher level, it corrected the mistakes made by the Watches . . .

  But it turned out that things weren't as simple as that.

  There wasn't any third power. There wasn't and there never had been.

  The Inquisition was an instrument for keeping the Dark Ones and the Light Ones apart. It supervised the observance of the Treaty, but not in the interests of people, only in the Others' own interests. The Inquisition was made up of those Others who knew that we were all parasites and a Light Magician was no better than a vampire.

  Going to work in the Inquisition was an act of resignation. It meant finally growing up, abandoning the naïve idealism of youth for healthy adult cynicism. Accepting that there were people and there were Others, and they had nothing in common.

  Was I ready to accept that?

  Yes, I probably was.

  But somehow I didn't want to go over to the Inquisition.

  It was better to keep toiling away in the Night Watch. To go on doing the work no one needed, protecting the people no one needed.

  So why shouldn't I check out our only suspect? While there was still time . . .

  Las was already awake. Sitting in his compartment and dully contemplating the bleak view through the window. The tabletop was raised and the bottle of kumis was cooling in the washbasin under a thin trickle of water.

  'There's no fridge,' he said mournfully. 'Even in the best compartment you don't get a fridge. Want some kumis?'

  'I've already had breakfast.'

  'So?'

  'Well, maybe just a little bit . . .' I agreed.

  Las poured us literally a drop of cognac each, just enough to moisten our lips. As we drank it, Las said thoughtfully:

  'Just what came over me yesterday, eh? Please, tell me, why the hell would any rational man go to Kazakhstan for a holiday? Spain maybe. Or Turkey. Or Beijing, for the Festival of Kisses, if you're looking for extreme tourism. But what is there to do in Kazakhstan?'

  I shrugged.

  'It was a strange mental aberration,' Las said. 'I was just thinking . . .'

  'And you decided to get off the train,' I prompted.

  'Right. And get on a train going the oth
er way.'

  'A sound decision,' I said, quite sincerely. In the first place, we'd have one suspect less. And in the second, a good man would be saved.

  'In a couple of hours we'll reach Saratov,' Las said out loud. 'That's where I'll get off. I'll phone one of my business partners and ask him to meet me there. Saratov's a good town.'

  'What makes it so good?' I enquired.

  'Well . . .' Las poured another two glasses, a bit more generously this time. 'There have been people living around Saratov since time immemorial. That gives it an advantage over the regions of the Far North and suchlike. During Tsarist times it was the capital of a province, but a backward one. No wonder Griboedov's Chatsky said "into the wilderness, to Saratov!" But nowadays it's the industrial and cultural centre of the region, a major railroad junction.'

  'Okay,' I said cautiously. I couldn't tell if he was being serious or just talking nonsense, and Saratov could easily be replaced by Kostroma, Rostov or any other city.

  'The main reason to stop there is the major railway junction,' Las explained. 'I'll get a bite to eat in some McDonald's and then set off back home. There's an old cathedral too, I'll definitely have a look at that. So my journey's not been completely wasted, has it?'

  Our unknown opponent had definitely been overcautious. The suggestion had been too weak and it had dissipated in only twenty-four hours.

  'Tell me, what was it that made you suddenly go dashing off to Kazakhstan?' I asked cautiously.

  'I told you, I just felt like it,' Las sighed.

  'You just felt like it, and that's all?'

  'Well . . . I'm sitting there, not bothering anyone, changing the strings on my guitar. Somebody got a wrong number, they were looking for some Kazakh . . . I can't even remember the name. I hung up and started wondering how many Kazakhs there were living in Moscow. And although I had only two strings on my guitar just then, like a dombra, I tightened them up and started strumming. It was strange. There was even a kind of melody . . . sort of haunting, alluring. And I just thought – why don't I go to Kazakhstan?'

  'A melody?' I asked.

  'Uhuh. Sort of alluring, calling to me. The steppes, kumis, all that stuff . . .'

  Could it really have been Witiezslav? Magic is usually imperceptible to an ordinary person. But vampires' magic is something halfway between genuine magic and very powerful hypnosis. It requires a glance, a sound, a touch – some kind of contact, even the very tiniest, between vampire and human being. And it leaves a trace – the sensation of a glance, a sound, a touch . . .

  Had the old vampire duped us all?

  'Anton,' Las said thoughtfully. 'You don't really trade in milk products.'

  I didn't answer.

  'If I'd done anything that would interest the security forces, I'd be pissing myself,' Las went on. 'Only I get the feeling this is something that would frighten even them.'

  'Let's not get into that, okay?' I suggested. 'It would be best that way.'

  'Okay,' Las agreed promptly. 'Right. So what should I do, get off at Saratov?'

  'Get off and make straight for home,' I said, nodding as I stood up. 'Thanks for the cognac.'

  'Yes sir,' said Las. 'Always glad to be of help.'

  I couldn't tell if he was clowning about or not. Evidently that way of speaking just comes naturally to some people.

  After a fairly solemn handshake with Las, I went out into the corridor and set off back towards our carriage.

  So it was Witiezslav then? What a devious trickster . . . A tried and tested agent of the Inquisition!

  I was bursting with excitement. Obviously, having become unimaginably powerful, Witiezslav was capable of disguising himself as absolutely anyone. As that two-year-old boy peeping cautiously out of his compartment. Or that fat girl with the huge, vulgar gold earrings. Even that chief conductor who fawned on Edgar – and why not?

  Even Edgar or Kostya . . .

  I stopped and gazed at the Inquisitor and the vampire standing in the corridor outside the door to our compartment. What if . . .

  No, wait, this is insanity. Everything is possible, but not everything happens. I'm me, Edgar's Edgar, Witiezslav's Witiezslav. Otherwise it's just not possible to do anything.

  'I have some information,' I said, standing between Kostya and Edgar.

  'Well?' Edgar asked with a nod.

  'Las was influenced by a vampire. He remembers . . . something like music luring him into the journey.'

  'How poetic,' Edgar snorted. But he wasn't smiling, and nodded approvingly. 'Music? That certainly sounds like bloodsu . . . Sorry, Kostya. Like vampires.'

  'You could use the correct term: "Like haemoglobin-dependent Others".' Kostya said with a half-smile.

  'Haemoglobin's got nothing to do with it, as you well know,' Edgar snapped. 'Well, it's a lead.' He smiled suddenly and clapped me on the shoulder. 'You never give up. Now the train has a chance. Wait for me here.'

  Edgar moved off quickly down the corridor. I assumed he was on the way to his men, but then I saw him go into the chief conductor's compartment and close the door.

  'What scheme has he come up with now?' asked Kostya.

  'How should I know?' I glanced sideways at him. 'Maybe there are some special spells for detecting vampires?'

  'No,' Kostya snapped. 'It's exactly the same as for all the Others. If Witiezslav's hiding among the humans you won't weed him out with spells. It's all so stupid . . .'

  He was clearly nervous now – and I could understand that. After all, it's tough being a member of the most despised minority in the world of Others – and to have to hunt down one of your own kind. He once told me when I was a young, stupid, bold vampire hunter: 'There aren't many of us. When someone departs, we sense it immediately'.

  'Kostya, did you sense Witiezslav's death?'

  'How do you mean?'

  'You once told me you can sense the death of . . . your own kind.'

  'We sense it if the vampire's registered. When it's the registration seal that kills him, the recoil is agony for everyone for miles around. Witiezslav didn't have any seal.'

  'But Edgar's obviously come up with something,' I muttered.

  'Some special kind of Inquisitor's trick, maybe?'

  'Probably.' Kostya frowned. 'Why is it like that, Anton? Why are we the ones who are always persecuted . . . even by our own side? The Dark Magicians kill us too!'

  Suddenly he was speaking to me the way he used to, when he was still an innocent vampire-boy . . . but then, what kind of innocence could a vampire have? It was terrible, it used to tear me apart – those damned questions and that cursed predestination: and now I was hearing it from someone who had already crossed the line. Who had started to hunt and kill . . .

  'You kill . . . for food,' I said.

  'And killing for power, for money, for amusement – is that more noble?' Kostya asked bitterly. He turned towards me and looked into my eyes. 'Why do you talk to me so . . . squeamishly? We used to be friends. What happened?'

  'You became a Higher Vampire.'

  'So what?'

  'I know how your kind become Higher Vampires, Kostya.'