The Night Watch (29 page)

"You'll never stop asking them. Out loud at first, and later on just to yourself. It will never stop, never. If you wanted to be free of painful questions—you chose the wrong side."

"I chose the one I wanted."

"I know. So now put up with it."

"All my life?"

"Yes. It will be a long one, but you'll never get over this. You'll never stop asking yourself if every step you make is the right one."

Maxim didn't like restaurants. That was just his character. He felt far more comfortable and relaxed in bars and clubs, sometimes even the more expensive ones, as long as they weren't too prissy and formal. Of course, there were some people who always behaved like red commissars in negotiations with the bourgeoisie, even in the most sumptuous restaurants: no manners and no wish to learn any. But then what did all those New Russians in the jokes have to model themselves on?

Last night had to be smoothed over somehow, though. His wife had either believed his story about "an important business meeting" or at least pretended that she did. But he was still suffering vague pangs of conscience. Of course, if only she knew! If she could only imagine who he really was and what it was he did!

Maxim couldn't say anything, so he had no choice but to make up his absence the previous night by using the same methods any decent man uses after a little affair. Presents, pampering, an evening out. For instance, at a prestigious restaurant with subtle exotic cuisine, foreign waiters, elegant decor, and an extensive wine list.

Maxim wondered if Elena really thought he'd been unfaithful to her the night before. The question intrigued him, but not enough for him to ask it out loud. There are always some things that have to be left unsaid. Maybe some day she'd learn the truth. And then she'd be proud of him. But that was ridiculous—he realized that. In a world full of the creatures of Malice and Darkness, he was the only knight of Light, eternally alone, unable to share with anyone the truth. In the beginning, Maxim had hoped to meet someone else like him: a sighted man in the land of the blind, a guard who could sniff out the wolves in sheep's clothing among the heedless herd.

But there wasn't anyone. He had no one to stand beside him.

Even so, he hadn't despaired.

"Do you think this is worth trying?" Maxim glanced down at the menu. He didn't know what
malai kofta
was. But that had never prevented him from making decisions. And in any case, the ingredients were listed.

"Yes, try it. Meat with a cream sauce."

"Beef?"

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He didn't realize at first that Elena was joking. Then he smiled back at her.

"Definitely."

"And what if I do order something with beef?"

"Then they'll refuse politely," said Maxim. Keeping his wife amused wasn't tough. He actually enjoyed it. But right now he would really like to take a look around the room. Something here wasn't right. He could sense a strange, cold draft blowing through the semi-darkness at his back; it made him screw up his eyes and keep looking, looking…

Could it really be?

The gap between his missions was usually at least a few months, maybe six. Nothing had ever come up the very next day…

But the symptoms were only too familiar.

Maxim reached into his inside jacket pocket, as if he were checking his billfold. What he was really concerned about was something else—a little wooden dagger, carved artlessly but with great care. He'd whittled the weapon for himself when he was a child, without understanding what it was for at the time, thinking it was simply a toy.

The dagger was waiting.

But who was it?

"Max?" There was a note of reproach in Elena's voice. "You're up in the clouds again." They clinked glasses. It was a bad sign for husband and wife to do that; it meant there'd be no money in the family. But Maxim wasn't superstitious.

Who was it?

At first he suspected two girls. Both attractive, even beautiful, but each in her own way. The shorter one with dark hair, who moved in a slightly angular way, like a man, was literally overflowing with energy. She positively oozed sexuality. The other one, the blonde, was taller, more calm and restrained. And her beauty was quite different, soothing.

Maxim felt his wife watching him and looked away.

"Lesbians," his wife said disdainfully.

"What?"

"Well, just look at them! The little dark-haired one in jeans is totally butch." So she was. Maxim nodded and assumed an appropriate expression.

Not them. Not them, after all. But who was it then?

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A cell phone trilled in the corner of the room and a dozen people automatically reached for their phones. Maxim located the source of the sound and caught his breath.

The man talking into the cell phone in rapid, quiet bursts was not simply Evil. He was enveloped in a black shroud that other people couldn't see, but Maxim could sense it.

The draft was coming from him, it smelled of danger, appalling danger, coming closer. Maxim felt a sudden ache in his chest.

"You know what,Lena , I'd like to live on a desert island," Maxim blurted out before he realized what he was saying.

"Alone?"

"With you and the children. But no one else. Not a soul."

He gulped down the rest of his wine and the waiter immediately refilled his glass.

"I wouldn't like that," his wife said.

"I know."

The dagger felt heavy and hot in his pocket now. The mounting excitement was acute, almost sexual. It demanded release.

"Do you remember Edgar Allan Poe?" Svetlana asked.

They'd let us in without any fuss. I hadn't been expecting that—the rules in restaurants must have changed, been made more democratic, or maybe they were just short of customers.

"No. He died too long ago. But Semyon was telling me…"

"I didn't mean Poe himself. I meant his stories."

"
The Man of the Crowd
," I guessed.

Svetlana laughed quietly.

"Yes. You're in the same fix as him right now. You have to stick to crowded places."

"Fortunately I'm still not sick of those places just yet."

We had a glass of Bailey's each and ordered something to eat. That probably gave the waiter certain ideas about why we were there: two inexperienced prostitutes looking for work—but I didn't really care.

"Was he an Other?"

"Poe? Probably an uninitiated one."

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"There are some qualities—some incorporate things,

That have a double life, which thus is made

A type of that twin entity which springs

From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade."

Svetlana recited in a quiet voice.

I looked at her in surprise.

"Do you know it?" she asked.

"How can I put it?" I said. Then I raised my eyes and declaimed:

"He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!

No power hath he of evil in himself;

But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!) Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf, That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod No foot of man), commend thyself to God!"

We looked at each for a second and then both burst into laughter.

"A little literary duel," Svetlana said ironically. "Score: one-one. A pity we don't have an audience. But why did Poe remain uninitiated?"

"A lot of poets are potential Others. But some potentials are best left to live as human beings. Poe was too psychologically unstable; giving people like that special powers is like handing a pyromaniac a can of napalm. I wouldn't even try to guess which side he would have taken. He'd probably have withdrawn into the Twilight forever, and very quickly."

"But how do they live there? The ones who have withdrawn forever?"

"I don't know, Svetlana. I expect no one really knows. You sometimes come across them in the Twilight world, but there's no contact in the usual sense of the word."

"I'd like to find out," said Svetlana, casting a thoughtful glance around the room. "Have you noticed the Other in here?" she asked.

"The old man behind me, talking on his cell phone?"

"Why do you call him old?"

"He's very old. I'm not looking with my eyes."

Svetlana bit her lip and screwed up her eyes. She was beginning to develop little ambitions of her own.
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"I can't do it yet," she admitted. "I can't even tell if he's Light or Dark."

"Dark. Not from Day Watch, but Dark. A magician with middle-level powers. And by the way, he's spotted us too."

"So what are we going to do?"

"Us? Nothing."

"But he's Dark!"

"Yes, and we're Light. What of it? As Watch agents we have the right to check his ID. But it's bound to be in order."

"And when will we have the right to intervene?"

"When he
gets up, waves his
hands through the air,
turns
into a demon, and starts biting off people's heads…"

"Anton!"

"I'm quite serious. We have no right to interfere with an honest Dark Magician's pleasant evening out." The waiter brought our order and we stopped talking. Svetlana ate, but without any real appetite. Then, like a sulky, capricious child, she blurted out:

"And how long is the Watch going to continue groveling like this?"

"To the Dark Ones?"

"Yes."

"Until we acquire a decisive advantage. Until people who become Others no longer hesitate for even a moment over what to choose: Light or Darkness. Until the Dark Ones all die of old age. Until they can no longer nudge people toward Evil as easily as they do now."

"But that's capitulation, Anton!"

"Neutrality. The status quo. Double deadlock—there's no point pretending otherwise."

"You. know, I like the solitary Maverick who's terrorizing the Dark Ones a lot more. Even if he is violating the Treaty, even if he is setting us up without knowing it! He's fighting against the Darkness, isn't he? Fighting! Alone, against all of them."

"And have you thought about why he kills Dark Ones but doesn't get in touch with us?"

"No."

"He can't see us, Svetlana. He looks straight through us."

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"He's self-taught."

"Yes. Self-taught and talented. An Other with powers that manifest themselves in chaotic fashion. Capable of seeing Evil. Incapable of recognizing Good. Don't you find that frightening?"

"No," Svetlana said sullenly. "I'm sorry, I can't see where you're going with this, Olga. Sorry, I mean Anton. You've started talking just like her."

"That's okay."

"The Dark Other's going somewhere," said Svetlana, looking past my shoulder. "To extract other people's energy, to cast evil spells. And we don't interfere."

I turned my head slightly and saw the Dark One. To the unaided eye he looked about thirty years old at most. Dressed in good taste, charming. A young woman and two children were sitting at the table he'd just left. The boy was about seven, the girl a bit younger.

"He's gone for a leak, Svetlana. To take a pee. And his family, by the way, is perfectly ordinary. No powers. Are you suggesting we eliminate them too?"

"Like father, like son…"

"Try telling that to Garik. His father's a Dark Magician. Still alive."

"There are always exceptions."

"Life consists of nothing but exceptions."

Svetlana didn't answer.

"I know that itch, Sveta. The itch to do Good, to pursue Evil. Right now, to finish it forever. That's the way I feel too. But if you can't understand that's a dead end, you'll end up in the Twilight. One of us will have to put an end to your earthly existence."

"But at least I'd have done something."

"You know what your actions would look like to an outsider? A psychopath killing normal, decent people at random. Chilling reports in the newspapers, with spine-chilling descriptions and grand nicknames for you—say, 'the new Lucretia Borgia.' You'd
sow
more Evil in human hearts than a brigade of Dark Magicians could generate in a year."

"How come all of you always have an answer for everything?" Svetlana asked bitterly.

"Because we've been through the training. And survived. Most of us have survived." I called the waiter and asked for the menu.

"How about a cocktail? And then we can move on. You choose."

Svetlana nodded as she studied the wine list. The waiter was a tall, swarthy young guy, not Russian. He'd seen just about everything, and he wasn't much bothered by one girl acting like a man with another.
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"Alter Ego," said Svetlana.

I was doubtful—it was one of the strongest cocktails. But I didn't argue.

"Two cocktails and the check."

We waited in oppressive silence while the bartender was mixing the cocktails and the waiter was adding up the check. Eventually Svetlana asked:

"Okay, I get the picture with poets. They're potential Others. But what about the great villains? Caligula, Hitler, the homicidal maniacs?"

"Just people."

"All of them."

"Mostly. We have our own villains. Their names don't mean anything to ordinary people, but you'll be starting the history program soon."

"Alter Ego" was an accurate description. Two heavy, immiscible layers, black and white, swaying in the glass. Sweet plum liqueur and dark, bitter beer.

I paid in cash—I don't like to leave an electronic trail behind me—and raised my glass.

"Here's to the Watch."

"To the Watch," Sveta agreed. "And your escape from this mess." I felt like asking her to knock on wood, but I didn't. I downed the cocktail in two gulps—first the gentle sweetness, then the mild bitterness.

"That's great," said Svetlana. "You know, I like it here. Maybe we could stay a bit longer?"

"There are lots of good places inMoscow . Let's find one without any black magicians out for a night on the town."

Sveta nodded.

"And by the way, he's not back yet."

I looked at my watch. Yes, he'd been gone long enough to pee a whole bucketful. And what really bothered me was that the magician's family were still sitting at their table, and the woman was obviously getting worried.