The Day Watch (47 page)

“Why am I?” Edgar protested, slightly offended. “It’s you Light Ones who are helpless. Bound hand and foot by your own ethical dogmas. And those who have moved up onto the higher levels of development, like Gesar, control you.”

“I’ll try to answer that,” said Anton. “But not right now. We’ll be seeing each other again.”

“Avoiding the question?” Edgar asked, laughing.

“No, it’s just that we decided not to talk about work. Didn’t we?”

Edgar didn’t answer. The Light One really had got him there! Why had he bothered getting into such a useless argument? You can’t paint a white dog black, as they said in the Day Watch.

“Yes,” he agreed, “It’s my fault, I admit it. Only…”

“Only it’s very hard not to talk about the things that separate us,” Anton said with a nod. “I understand. It’s not your fault… it’s destiny.”

He rummaged in his pockets and took out a pack of cigarettes. Edgar couldn’t help noticing that they were cheap ones, 21st Century, made in Russia. Well, well. A Dark magician of his level could afford all the pleasures of life.

But Anton smoked Russian cigarettes… and maybe it was no accident that he’d ended up in this small, cozy restaurant that was so inexpensive?

“Where is it you’re staying?” he asked.

“The Kafka Hotel,” Anton answered. “Zizkov, on Cimburkova Street.”

That fit, all right-it was a small, second-rate hotel. Edgar nodded as the Light One lit up. It looked awkward somehow, as if he hadn’t been smoking long or didn’t smoke very often.

“And you’re in the Hilton, aren’t you?” Anton suddenly said. “Or the Radisson SAS at the very worst?”

“Are you following me?” Edgar asked, suddenly on his guard again.

“No. It’s just that all Dark Ones are so fond of famous names and expensive establishments. You’re predictable too.”

“So what?” Edgar said defiantly. “Are you a supporter of asceticism and the poor life?”

Anton looked around ironically at the restaurant, the pathetic remains of his leg of pork on the knife-scarred wooden board, his latest mug of beer-how many had there been? It didn’t seem like he even needed to answer, but he did: “No, I’m not arguing that. But the number of rooms and staff that a hotel has isn’t the most important thing. Nor is the price of the dishes on the menu. I could have stayed at the Hilton too, and gone to drink beer in the most expensive tavern in Prague. But what for? And you-why did you come to this place? Not exactly top flight, is it?”

“It’s comfortable here,” Edgar admitted. “And the food’s good.”

“See what I mean?”

In a sudden fit of drunken magnanimity, Edgar exclaimed, “That’s it! I think I’ve got it! That’s what the difference between us is. You try to limit your natural requirements. Maybe it’s some kind of modesty… But we’re more extravagant, yes… With power, money, financial and human resources…”

“People are not a resource!” Anton’s eyes were suddenly piercing and angry. “Do you understand? They’re not a resource!”

That was always the way. As soon as the areas of contact came up… Edgar sighed. The Light Ones were really deluded. How could they be so deluded?

“All right. Let’s change the subject.” He took another mouthful of beer and couldn’t help remarking, “There was an American airman sitting in here… and he was a Light magician… an absolute oaf, by the way; he didn’t even notice me. I’ll bet you he regards people as a resource. Or maybe as a stupid, dull-witted inferior race that can be nurtured and punished. The same way we regard them.”

“Our trouble is that we’re a product of human society,” Anton replied gloomily. “With all its shortcomings. And until they’ve lived many centuries, even Light Ones still carry around the stereotypes and myths of their own country: Russia, America, or Burkina Faso-it makes no difference. What the hell, why can’t I get Burkina Faso out of my head?”

“One of those idiots, the Regin Brothers, is from Burkina Faso,” Edgar suggested. “And it’s a funny name.”

“The Regin Brothers…” Anton said with a nod. “What cunning business are your people up to with them? It was someone in the Moscow Day Watch who called them to Moscow. Promised to help them activate Fafnir’s Talon…

What for?”

“I am not in possession of any such information, and that is an official statement of my position!” Edgar replied quickly. You couldn’t afford to give these Light Ones the slightest hint of a formal violation to clutch at…

“Don’t bother admitting it, there’s no need!” Anton said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m not a little child.

But the last thing we need is the appearance of an insane Dark magician of immense Power.”

“Us too,” Edgar declared. “That would mean all-out war. No holds barred. In other words, the Apocalypse.”

“Then that means the Regin Brothers were lied to,” Anton said. “They were persuaded to attack the Berne office, steal the Talon, and fly to Moscow… but what for? To feed Power to the Mirror?”

He’s quick-witted, Edgar noted to himself. But he shook his head as he formulated a superb denial: “That’s

nonsense! We only found out who Vitaly Rogoza was after the Talon had already been stolen and the four survivors from the battle were on their way to Moscow.”

“That’s right!” Anton suddenly exclaimed. “You’re right, Dark One! The appearance of a Mirror cannot be foretold-it’s a spontaneous creation of the Twilight. But the Inquisition’s official communique states that the sect began preparing to storm the artifacts repository two weeks before the actual event. Rogoza didn’t even exist then… or, rather, he did, but he was an ordinary individual who was later transformed by the Twilight…”

Edgar chewed on his lip. Now it looked as if he’d given the Light One an idea… passed on some information to him or simply pointed him in the right direction. Oh, that was bad… But then, why was it? He wouldn’t mind being able to understand the situation better himself. It was a matter of vital importance to him too. Edgar mused out loud: “Maybe someone wanted the Inquisition office moved out of Berne?”

“Or decided it ought to be moved to Prague…”

They gazed at each other thoughtfully-a Light magician and a Dark magician, both equally interested in understanding what was going on. The waiter was about to approach them, but he saw they hadn’t finished their beer yet and went to serve the Americans.

“That’s one possibility,” Edgar agreed. “But we didn’t need the actual operation with the Talon. Don’t even think of blaming us for that kind of nonsense!”

“But maybe,” Anton exclaimed, “you needed to ruin some other operation… one of our operations? And Fafnir’s Talon was a very good way to do that?”

Edgar cursed himself for being so talkative. Only in the figurative sense, of course. No Dark magician would ever set an Inferno vortex spinning above his own head.

“Nonsense, what other operation…” he began. And then he suddenly realized that by starting to defend the Day Watch so abruptly, he had effectively confirmed Anton’s guess.

“Thank you, Other,” the Light One said with sincere feeling.

Still mentally lashing himself, Edgar stood up. It was true what they said: Before you sit down with a Light One, cut out your tongue and wire your mouth shut!

“It’s time I was going,” he said. “I really enjoyed… our little talk.”

“Me too,” Anton agreed. And he even held out his hand.

It would have been stupid to refuse to take the hand that was proffered, so Edgar shook it. Then he tossed a five-hundred-crown bill onto the table and hurried out.

Anton smiled as he watched him go. It was fun to give a Dark magician a fright, especially one of the Day Watch’s top ten. The fat watchman obviously thought he’d given away some terrible secret… but he hadn’t given anything away: The explanation Anton had suggested was stupid, and even if it happened by chance to be the right one, Anton still hadn’t learned anything worth knowing…

He squinted at the waiter and gestured, as if he were writing on his palm with his finger. A minute later he was handed the check.

Including the usual tip, it came to one thousand and twenty crowns.

Oh, those Dark Ones…

It was only a trifle, but Edgar had still saved money. After all those gibes about the poor Night Watch and that invisible counting on fingers…

Anton paid, stood up (the beer had had an effect after all-his body felt relaxed in a way that was pleasant and alarming at the same time), and walked out of the Black Eagle, toward Staromestka Square, where he had an appointment with a representative of the Inquisition. He was only just in time.

There were always a lot of tourists here.

Especially at the beginning of every hour, when the old astronomical clock began to chime. The little double windows opened and little figures of the apostles appeared in them, moving out as if they were surveying the square, and then retreating into the depths of the mechanism again. The indefatigable Staromestka Square clock…

Anton stood among the tourists with his hands stuck in his pockets-his hands were feeling cold after all, and he’d never liked wearing gloves. All around him video cameras hummed quietly, camera shutters clicked, and the members of the multilingual crowd exchanged impressions on their visit to the latest obligatory attraction. He even thought he could hear their brains squeaking as they ticked off one more spot on the tourist map of Prague: Watch the clock chime-done.

Why was he walking along in this faceless crowd, as if he were also ticking off the points of a tourist program in his mind?

Mental inertia? Laziness? Or an incurable herd instinct? The Dark Ones probably never walked around in the common crowd…

“No, I don’t understand you,” someone in the crowd said in Russian, a couple of steps away from him. “I’m on vacation, do you hear? Can’t you decide for yourself?”

Anton squinted quickly at his fellow countryman, but the sight wasn’t a very pleasant one. His compatriot was sturdily built, with broad shoulders, and was draped in gold. He’d already learned how to wear expensive suits, but not how to knot a tie from Hermes. The tie was knotted, of course, but with a “collective farm” knot that was awful to look at. There was a crumpled scarf dangling from under the unbuttoned coat of maroon cashmere wool.

The New Russian caught his glance and frowned as he put away his cell phone. He turned to gaze at the clock again. Anton looked away.

The third generation, that was what the analysts said. You had to wait until the third generation. The grandson of this bandit who had got rich and somehow managed to stay alive would be a thoroughly decent man. You just had to wait. And unlike people, Others could afford to wait for generations. Their work went on for centuries… at least the work of the Light Ones did.

It was easy for the Dark Ones to make the changes they wanted to peoples’ minds. The path of Darkness was always shorter than the path of Light. Shorter, easier, more fun.

“Anton Gorodetsky,” someone said behind his back. Someone speaking a language that was obviously not his own, but which he knew perfectly.

And with that intonation that was quite impossible to confuse with anybody else. The aloof, slightly bored intonation of the Inquisitors.

Anton turned round, nodded, and held out his hand.

The Inquisitor looked like a Czech. A tall man of indeterminate age in a warm, gray raincoat, and a woollen beret with an amusing hat pin with a design of hunting horns, weapons, and a deer’s head. Somehow it was very easy to imagine him in a twilit park in autumn, strolling over the thick carpet of brown leaves thoughtfully, sadly, slowly-looking like a spy engrossed in his thoughts.

“Witezslav,” said the Inquisitor. “Witezslav Grubin, let’s go.”

They made their way out of the crowd easily-for some reason the people moved aside for the Inquisitor, even though he didn’t make use of his powers as an Other. They set off along a narrow little street, gradually moving farther and farther away from the idle tourists.

“How was your flight, Anton?” Witezslav inquired. “Have you had a rest, some lunch?”

“Yes, thank you, everything’s fine.”

A show of politeness from an Inquisitor, even if it was strictly formal, was a pleasant surprise.

“Do you require any assistance from the office?”

Anton shook his head, quite certain that Witezslav would sense the movement, even though he was walking in front.

“That’s good,” the Inquisitor replied in the same indifferent voice, but quite sincerely. “There’s so much work to do… The office coming to Prague is a great event for us. We feel very proud. But our department is very small and there’s a lot of work to do.”

“As I understand it, the Inquisition hasn’t had to intervene very often in Prague?”

“That’s right. The Watches here are law-abiding. They don’t violate the Treaty very much.”

That’s right, thought Anton. The Inquisition’s job had always been to resolve disagreements between the Watches, but crimes committed by individual Others were dealt with by the Watches. The atmosphere of a normal European country was hardly likely to have a pacifying effect on the Dark Ones. But within the framework of an organization they’d learned to respect the law.

Or at least to break it less obviously.

“The Tribunal session to consider the case of Igor Teplov, magician of the second level, will commence tomorrow evening,” said Witezslav. Anton appreciated the fact that he had used Igor’s full name and given his status as a magician, and also the statement that the session would “commence” and not “take place.” That meant the Inquisition hadn’t reached any conclusions yet. And it was prepared for a long hearing. “Would you like to see him?”

“Yes, of course,” Anton said with a nod. “I have some letters for him from the other guys, some presents…”

He stopped short-that phrase about the letters and the presents had sounded very dismal somehow. As if he really had brought a parcel for someone in prison. Or to the hospital bed of someone who was seriously ill…

“I’ve got a car,” said the Inquisitor. “We can stop at your hotel for the parcel and then go to see the detainee.”

“Igor… is he somewhere in the Inquisition?”