He smiled. And relaxed.
And at that instant I raised my hands and struck out at him with the 'grey prayer'.
It was nothing like the blow I had struck in the train. The Power was seething inside me, streaming from the tips of my fingers – and it kept coming, on and on. How can you tell if you're a good conductor of electricity until they switch on the current?
The spell was visible even in the human world. Looping grey coils sprang from my fingers, twining themselves round Kostya, clutching and wrenching at him, enveloping him in a writhing cocoon. What happened in the Twilight was incredible – the world was filled with a seething blizzard of grey that made the usual mist seem colourful. The thought came to me that if there were any ordinary registered vampires within a radius of several kilometres, they wouldn't be feeling too great either. They'd be swept away and dematerialised by the ricochet from the spells . . .
Kostya went down on one knee. He shuddered, trying to break free, but the 'grey prayer' was sucking Power out of him faster than he could work his spells.
'Hell's bells!' Las exclaimed in delight behind me.
Never had so much Power passed through me.
Something strange was happening to the world around me. The plane on the runway faded and became a colourless stone monolith. The sky faded to a dull white shroud hanging low above the ground. My ears seemed to be blocked with cotton wool.
The Twilight seemed to be breaking through into our world . . .
But I couldn't stop. I could sense that if I eased up on the pressure for even a second, Kostya would break free and strike back. Strike so hard, there'd be no pieces left to pick up . . . it would be me, not Kostya, smeared across the concrete apron . . .
He raised his head and looked at me. Not in fury, more in melancholic bewilderment. He parted his hands very, very slowly . . .
Could he really have any reserves of power left?
A transparent, bluish triangular prism took shape in the air around Kostya. It severed the grey threads of the spell, spun round and shrank to a tiny point. Then disappeared.
Taking the vampire with it.
Kostya had got away, through a portal.
The Power was still raging inside me. The Power of a thousand Others, transmitted to me by Gesar and Zabulon, a boundless flood of Power, seeking a use, a point of application. Human Power that came to me at third hand . . .
Enough . . .
I brought my palms together, crumpling the grey threads into a heavy ball.
Enough . . .
There was no enemy here any more.
Enough . . .
Magicians duel by fencing, not by flailing with clumsy clubs.
Enough.
Kostya had proved more skilful.
I was trembling violently, but I stopped myself. The sky took on a blue colour again, the plane on the runway picked up speed.
Kostya had gone.
Had he turned and run?
No, simply gone. I'd never heard of vampires capable of creating a direct portal. And it looked like the Higher Ones hadn't expected Kostya to pull an incredible stunt like that either.
He'd come to the airport, knowing that everyone would start thinking about planes and helicopters and relax, sure that there was still some time left. A vampire could be intercepted in mid-air, you could send up the jet fighters, you could hit him with a missile.
But he'd had the direct portal ready in advance. An hour and a half before the launch – he wouldn't have had time to get there by plane! And they wouldn't have let a plane anywhere near Baikonur – whatever they might be like now, the air defence forces still existed. That was why he'd been able to make the jump, even under pressure from the 'grey prayer' – the spell for the portal had been hanging there, ready for use, like the combat spells of a field operations magician.
That meant he hadn't believed I would go over to his side. Or at least he'd had serious doubts. But it had been important to him, very important, to defeat me, not by pure Power – what could Power prove, when he was a Higher Vampire, and I was a second-grade magician, even if pumped full of borrowed Power? The most complete and convincing victory is when your opponent admits that you're right. And surrenders without a fight. Accepts your banner as his own.
I'd been really stupid. I'd thought of him as being either a friend or an enemy. But he was neither. All he'd wanted to do was prove that he was right. I just happened to be the target he'd chosen for that. No longer a friend, not yet an enemy. Simply the bearer of a different truth.
'Did he teleport?' Las asked.
'What?' I swung round and looked at him. 'Well . . . something of the sort. He opened a portal. How did you know?'
'I saw something that looked like that in a computer game . . .' Las said uncertainly. Then he added indignantly: 'A lot like that, in fact!'
'People aren't the only ones who can design games . . .' I explained. 'Yes, he got away. He's gone to Baikonur. He wants to take the German space tourist's place . . .'
'I heard,' said Las. 'What an idiot.'
'Do you know why he's an idiot?' I asked.
Las snorted.
'If all people become magicians . . . Today they insult you on the trolley bus, tomorrow they'll incinerate you on the spot. Today they scratch their neighbour's door with a nail if they don't like him, or write an anonymous letter to the tax office, but tomorrow they'll hex him or suck all his blood out. A monkey on a motorbike is only good in a circus, not on the city streets . . . Especially if the monkey's got a machine gun.'
'You think the monkeys are in the majority?' I asked.
'We're all monkeys.'
'You're headed for the Watch,' I muttered. 'Hang on, I'll ask for advice.'
'What Watch?' Las asked cautiously. 'Thanks, but I'm no magician, thank God!'
I closed my eyes and listened. Silence.
'Gesar!'
Silence.
'Gesar! Teacher!'
'We were in conference, Anton.'
In mind conversations, there are no inflections of the voice. But even so . . . even so I thought I could detect a hint of weariness in Gesar's words.
'He went to Baikonur. The Fuaran really works. He wants to turn everybody on the planet into Others.'
I stopped, because I realised Gesar already knew. He'd seen and heard everything that happened – through my eyes and ears, or by using some other magical method, it wasn't important how.
'You have to stop him, Anton. Go after him and stop him.'
'And you?'
'We're keeping the channel open, Anton. Supplying you with Power. Do you know how many Others provided Power for the "grey prayer"?'
'I can imagine.'
'Anton, I can't handle him. Zabulon can't handle him. Or Svetlana. The only thing we can do now is feed Power to you. We're drawing it from all the Others in Moscow. If necessary, we'll start taking it directly from people. There's no time to regroup and use different magicians as channels. You have to stop Kostya . . . with our help. The alternative is a nuclear strike at Baikonur.'
'I won't be able to open a direct portal, Gesar.'
'Yes you will. The portal still hasn't closed completely, you need to find the opening and reactivate it.'
'Gesar, don't overestimate me. Even with your Power, I'm still a second-grade magician!'
'Anton, use your head. You were standing in front of Saushkin when he recited the spell. You're not second-grade any more.'
'Then what am I?'
'There's only one grade above first – Higher Magician. Enough talking, get after him!'
'But how am I going to defeat him?'
'Any way you like.'
I opened my eyes.
Las was standing before me and waving his hand in front of my face.
'Oh! Still alive!' he said, delighted. 'So what is this Watch? And do you mean to say I'm a magician too now?'
'Almost.' I took a step forward.
This was where Kostya had been standing . . . he f
ell . . . parted his hands . . . the portal appeared.
In the human world – nothing.
Just the wind blowing, the crumpled cellophane cover from a pack of cigarettes rustling over the concrete . . .
In the Twilight – nothing.
Grey gloom, stone monoliths instead of buildings, the rustling tendrils of the blue moss . . .
In the second level of the Twilight.
Dense, leaden mist . . . a dead, spectral light from behind heavy clouds . . . a small blue spark where the portal had been . . .
I reached out my hand –
in the human world,
in the first level of the Twilight,
in the second level of the Twilight . . .
I caught the fading blue spark in my fingers.
Wait. Don't go out. Here's Power for you – a raging torrent of energy, rupturing the boundary between worlds. Streaming from my fingers in drops of fire – onto the fading embers . . .
Grow, unfold, creep out into the bright light of day – there's work for you to do! I sense the trace left by the one who opened the portal. I see how he did it. I can follow his path.
And I don't need any incantations – all those formulae in obscure ancient languages – just as the witch Arina didn't need them when she brewed her potions, just as Gesar and Svetlana don't need them.
So this is what it's like to be a Higher Magician
Not to learn formulae off by heart, but to feel the movement of Power.
How incredible . . . and simple.
It wasn't a matter of new abilities, of a fireball with increased casualty capability or a more powerful 'freeze'. If he's pumped full of Power from outside or has accumulated a large reserve of his own, an ordinary magician can lash out hard enough to make a Higher Magician feel it. It was a matter of freedom. Like the difference between even the most talented swimmer and the laziest dolphin.
How difficult it must have been for Svetlana to live with me, forgetting about her Power, her freedom. This wasn't just the difference between strength and weakness – it was the difference between a healthy person and an invalid.
But ordinary people managed to live, didn't they? And they lived with the blind and the paralysed. Because, after all, freedom was not the most important thing. Freedom was the excuse used by scoundrels and fools. When they said 'freedom', they weren't thinking about other people's freedom, only about their own limitations.
And even Kostya, who was neither a fool nor a scoundrel, had been torn on the same hook that had caught the lips of revolutionaries of every breed – from Spartacus to Trotsky, from Robespierre to Che Guevara, from Emelyan Pugachev to the nameless suicide bomber.
Surely I would have been caught on it myself? Ten or even five years earlier?
If someone had told me: 'You can change everything at a single stroke – and for the better'?
Perhaps I'd been lucky.
At least with the people around me, who always shook their heads doubtfully at the words 'freedom and equality'.
The portal opened up in front of me – a blue prism with glowing filaments, a glittering, faceted membrane . . .
I parted the filaments with my hands and entered.
CHAPTER 7
THE PROBLEM WITH portals is that there's no way to prepare yourself for what's at the other end. In this sense a train is ideal. You go into your compartment, change your trousers for tracksuit bottoms and your shoes for rubber sandals, take out your food and drink and get to know your travelling companions – if you happen to be travelling on your own, that is. The wheels drum on the rails, the platform slips past. And that's it, you're on your way. You're a different person. You share intimate experiences with strangers, you argue about politics, although you swore you never would again, you drink the dubious vodka bought at one of the stops. You're neither here nor there. You're on your way. You're on your own little quest, and there's a little of Frodo Baggins in you, and a bit of Paganel, a tiny drop of Robinson Crusoe and a smidgeon of Radishchev. Maybe your journey will last a few hours, or a few days. It's a big country slipping past the windows of your compartment. You're not there. You're not here. You're a traveller.
A plane is different. Still, you prepare yourself for the journey. You buy a ticket, get up at dawn, jump into a taxi and drive to the airport. The wheels measure out the kilometres, but you're already looking up at the sky, in your mind you're already there, in the plane. The nervous hassle of the airport lounge, instant coffee in the buffet, the baggage check, the security check and – if you're leaving the country – the customs and the duty free shop, all the small joys of travel before the narrow seats in the plane, the roar of the turbines and the optimistic gabble of the air hostess: 'The emergency exits are located . . .' And then the ground has already fallen away, the seatbelt signs have been switched off, the smokers have sneaked off guiltily to the toilets and the hostesses have considerately ignored them, the meal in the plastic trays is handed out – for some reason in planes everyone stuffs themselves. It's not exactly a journey. It's a relocation. But you still see the cities and rivers drifting past and leaf through a guidebook or check the bookings for your business trip, wondering about the best way to handle the negotiations, or the best way to enjoy a ten-day tourist trip to hospitable Turkey or Spain or Croatia. And you're on your way.
But a portal is a shock. A portal is a sudden change of scenery, a revolving stage in a theatre. You're here, then you're there. No journey.
And no time to think about anything either.
I tumbled out of the portal. One foot struck a tiled floor, the other went straight into a toilet.
At least it was a perfectly clean toilet. I pulled my foot back out, wincing with pain as I did so.
I was in a tiny cubicle with a little lamp, a grille on the ceiling and a roll of toilet paper on a holder. A fine portal this was! Somehow I'd been expecting Kostya to run his portal straight to the launch pad, close to the foot of the rocket.
I opened the door, still in pain, and peeped cautiously through the crack. The washroom seemed to be empty. Not a sound, apart from a tap running in one of the basins . . .
Then I was struck hard in the back and thrown bodily out of the cubicle, pushing the door open with my head on the way. I rolled over onto my back and flung my hand up, ready to strike.
Las was standing in the cubicle with his arms out to the sides, holding onto the walls, and gazing around with a crazy expression on his face.
'What are you doing?' I growled. 'Why did you follow me?'
'You told me to follow you,' said Las, offended. 'Big-shot magician!'
I got up. It was pointless arguing.
'I need to stop a crazed vampire,' I said. 'The most powerful magician in the world at the present time. It's . . . it's going to get pretty dangerous around here . . .'
'Are we at Baikonur then?' Las asked, not frightened in the least. 'Now that's what I call magic, that's great! But did we really have to teleport through the drains?'