CHAPTER 1

EVEN IF YOU love your job, the last day of holiday always makes you feel depressed. Just one week earlier I'd been sunning myself on a nice clean Spanish beach, eating paella (to be quite honest, Uzbeki pilaff is better), drinking cold sangria in a little Chinese restaurant (how come the Chinese make the Spanish national drink better than the natives do?) and buying all sorts of rubbishy resort souvenirs in the shops.

But now it was summer in Moscow again – not exactly hot, but stifling and oppressive. And it was that final day of holiday, when you can't get your mind to relax any more, but it flatly refuses to function properly.

Maybe that was why I was glad when I got the call from Gesar.

'Good morning, Anton,' the boss began, without introducing himself. 'Welcome back. Did you know it was me?'

I'd been able to sense Gesar's calls for some time already. It was as if the ringing of the phone changed subtly, becoming more nanding and authoritative.

But I was in no rush to let the boss know that.

'Yes, Boris Ignatievich.'

'Are you alone?'

An unnecessary question. I was certain Gesar knew perfectly well where Svetlana was just then.

'Yes. The girls are at the dacha.'

'Good for them,' the boss sighed at the other end of the line, and an entirely human note appeared in his voice. 'Olga flew off on holiday this morning too . . . half the Watch staff are relaxing in southern climes . . . Do you think you could call round to the office straight away?'

Before I had time to answer, Gesar went on cheerily.

'Well, that's excellent! See you in forty minutes then.'

I really felt like calling Gesar a cheap poser – after I hung up, of course. But I kept my mouth shut. In the first place, the boss could hear what I said without any need of a telephone. And in the second – whatever else he might be, he was no cheap poser. He just didn't like wasting time. If I was about to say I'd be there in forty minutes, what was the point in listening to me say it?

And anyway, I was really glad I'd got the call. The day was already shot to hell in any case. It was still too early to tidy up the apartment – like any self-respecting man whose family is away, I only do that once, on the final day of bachelor life. And I definitely didn't feel like going round to see anyone or inviting anyone back to my place. So by far the most useful thing would be to go back to work a day early – that way, I could ask for time off with a clear conscience when I needed to.

Even though it wasn't the done thing for us to ask for time off.

'Thanks, boss,' I said with real feeling. I detached myself from the armchair, put down the book I hadn't finished, and stretched.

And then the phone rang again.

Of course, it would have been just like Gesar to ring and say: 'You're welcome!' But that definitely would have been cheap clowning.

'Hello!' I said in a very businesslike tone.

'Anton, it's me.'

'Sveta,' I said, sitting back down again. And suddenly I tensed up – Svetlana's voice sounded uneasy. Anxious. 'Sveta, has something happened to Nadya?'

'Everything's fine,' she replied quickly. 'Don't worry. Why don't you tell me how you've been getting on?'

I thought for a few seconds. I hadn't had any drinking parties, I hadn't brought any women back home, I wasn't drowning in refuse, I'd even been washing the dishes . . .

And then I realised.

'Gesar called. Just a moment ago.'

'What does he want?' Svetlana asked quickly.

'Nothing special. He asked me to turn up for work today.'

'Anton, I sensed something. Something bad. Did you agree? Are you going to work?'

'Why not? I've got nothing else to do.'

Svetlana was silent. Then she said reluctantly:

'You know, I felt a sort of pricking in my heart. Do you believe I can sense trouble?'

I laughed:

'Yes, Great One.'

'Anton, be serious, will you!' Svetlana was instantly uptight, the way she always got when I called her Great One. 'Listen to me . . . if Gesar asks you to do something, say no.'

'Sveta, if Gesar called me in, it means he wants to ask me to do something. It means he needs help. He says everyone's on holiday . . .'

'He needs more cannon fodder,' Svetlana snapped. 'Anton . . . never mind, you won't listen to me anyway. Just be careful.'

'Sveta, you don't seriously think that Gesar's going to put me in any danger, do you?' I said cautiously. 'I understand the way you feel about him . . .'

'Be careful,' said Svetlana. 'For our sake. All right?'

'All right,' I promised. 'I'm always very careful.'

'I'll call if I sense anything else,' said Svetlana. She seemed to have calmed down a bit. 'And you call, all right? If anything at all unusual happens, call. Okay?'

'Okay, I'll call.'

Svetlana paused for a few seconds, then before she hung up, she said:

'You ought to leave the Watch, third-grade Light Magician . . .'

It all ended on a suspiciously cheerful note, with a cheap jibe . . . Although we had agreed a long time ago not to discuss that subject – three years earlier, when Svetlana left the Night Watch. And we hadn't broken our promise once. Of course. I used to tell my wife about my work . . . at least, about the jobs that I wanted to remember. And she always listened with interest. But now she had come right out with it.

Could she really have sensed something bad?

Anyway, I got ready to go slowly and reluctantly. I put on a suit, then changed into jeans and a checked shirt, then thought 'to hell with it!' and got into my shorts and a black T-shirt with an inscription that said: 'My friend was clinically dead, but all he brought me from the next world was this T-shirt!' I might look like a German tourist, but at least I would retain the semblance of a holiday mood in front of Gesar.

Eventually I left the building with just twenty minutes to spare. I had to flag down a car and feel out the probability lines – and then tell the driver which streets to take so we wouldn't hit any traffic jams.

The driver accepted my instructions hesitantly, he obviously had serious doubts.

But we got there on time.

 

The lifts weren't working – there were guys in blue overalls loading them with paper sacks of cement. I set off up the stairs on foot, and discovered that the second floor of our office was being refurbished. There were workmen lining the walls with sheets of plasterboard, and plasterers bustling about beside them, filling in the seams. At the same time they were installing a false ceiling, which already covered the air-conditioning pipes.

So our office manager Vitaly Markovich had got his own way after all. He'd managed to get the boss to shell out for a full-scale refurbishment, and even worked out where to get the money from.

I stopped for a moment to look at the workmen through the Twilight. Ordinary people, not Others. Just as I ought to have expected. There was just one plasterer, not much to look at, whose aura seemed suspicious. But after a second I realised he was simply in love. With his own wife! Well, would you believe it, there were still a few good people left in the world.

The third and fourth floors had already been refurbished and that really put me in a good mood. At long last it would be cool in the IT department too. Not that I was in there every day now, but even so . . . As I dashed past I greeted the security guards who had clearly been posted here for the duration of the refurbishment. Just as I got to Gesar's office, I ran into Semyon. He was impressing something on Yulia in a serious, didactic voice.

How time flew . . . Three years earlier Yulia had been just a little girl. Now she was a beautiful young woman. And a very promising enchantress – she had already been invited to join the European Office of the Night Watch. They like to skim off the young talent – to a multilingual chorus of protests about the great common cause.

But this time they hadn't got away with it. Gesar had held on to Yulia, and into the bargain let them know that he could recruit young European talent if he felt like it.

I wondered what Yulia herself had wanted to happen.

'Been called back in?' Semyon enquired sympathetically, breaking off his conversation the moment he spotted me. 'Or is your time up already?'

'My time's up, and I've been called in,' I said. 'Has something happened? Hi, Yulia.'

For some reason Semyon and I never bothered to say hello. As if we'd only just seen each other. And anyway, he always looked exactly the same – simply dressed, carelessly shaved, with the crumpled face of a peasant who's moved to the big city.

That day, in fact, Semyon was looking more homely than ever.

'Hi, Anton,' Yulia replied. Her expression was glum. It looked as though Semyon had been lecturing her again – he was always doing that sort of thing.

'Nothing's happened,' Semyon said, shaking his head. 'Everything's perfectly calm. Last week we only picked up two witches, and that was for petty offences.'

'Well, that's great,' I said, trying not to notice Yulia's imploring glance. 'I'll go and see the boss.'

Semyon nodded and turned back towards the girl. As I walked into the boss's reception room, I heard him saying:

'So listen, Yulia, I've been doing the same job for sixty years now, but this kind of irresponsible behaviour . . .'

He's strict all right. But he never gives anyone a hard time without good reason, so I wasn't about to rescue Yulia from the conversation.

In the reception area the new air conditioner was humming away quietly and the ceiling was dotted with tiny halogen bulbs for accent lighting. Larissa was sitting there – evidently Gesar's secretary, Galochka, was on holiday, and our field work coordinators really didn't have much work of their own to do.

'Hello, Anton,' Larissa said. 'You're looking good.'

'Two weeks on the beach,' I replied proudly.

Larissa squinted at the clock:

'I was told to show you straight through. But the boss still has visitors. Will you go in?'

'Yes,' I decided. 'Seems like I needn't have bothered hurrying.'

'Gorodetsky's here to see you, Boris Ignatievich,' Larissa said into the intercom. She nodded to me: 'Go on in . . . oh, it's hot in there . . .'

It really was hot in Gesar's office. There were two middle-aged men I didn't know languishing in the armchairs in front of his desk – I mentally christened them Thin Man and Fat Man, after Chekhov's short story. But both of them were sweating.

'And what do we observe?' Gesar asked them reproachfully. He cast a sideways glance at me. 'Come in, Anton. Sit down, I'll be finished in a moment . . .'

Thin Man and Fat Man perked up a bit at that.

'Some mediocre housewife . . . distorting all the facts . . . vulgarising and simplifying everything . . . running rings round you! On a global scale!'

'She can do that precisely because she vulgarises and simplifies,' Fat Man retorted morosely.

'You told us to tell everything like it is,' Thin Man said in support. 'And this is the result, Most Lucent Gesar.'

I took a look at Gesar's visitors through the Twilight. Well, well! More human beings! And yet they knew the boss's name and title. And they even pronounced them with candid sarcasm. Of course, there are always special circumstances, but for Gesar to reveal himself to ordinary people . . .

'All right,' Gesar said with a nod. 'I'll let you have one more try. This time work separately.'

Thin Man and Fat Man exchanged glances.

'We'll do our best,' Fat Man said with a good-natured smile. 'You understand, though – we've already had a certain degree of success . . .'

Gesar snorted. As if they'd been given some invisible signal that the conversation was over, the visitors rose, shook the boss's hand in farewell and walked out. In the reception area Thin Man made some flirtatious remark to Larissa, and she laughed.

'Ordinary people?' I asked cautiously.

Gesar nodded, gazing at the door with a hostile expression. He sighed:

'People, people . . . All right, Gorodetsky. Sit down.'

I sat down, but Gesar still didn't say anything. He fiddled with his papers and fingered some bright-coloured, smoothly polished glass beads heaped up in a coarse earthenware bowl. I really wanted to look closer and see if they were amulets or just glass beads, but I couldn't risk taking any liberties in front of Gesar.

'How was your holiday?' Gesar asked, as if he'd exhausted all his excuses for delaying the conversation.

'Good,' I answered. 'I missed Sveta, of course. But I couldn't drag little Nadya out into that scorching Spanish sun. That's no good . . .'

'No,' Gesar agreed, 'it isn't.' I didn't know if the Great Magician had any children – even close associates weren't trusted with information like that. He probably did. He was almost certainly capable of experiencing something like paternal feelings. 'Anton, did you phone Svetlana?'

'No,' I said and shook my head. 'Has she contacted you?'

Gesar nodded. Then suddenly he couldn't contain himself any longer – he slammed his fist down on the desk and burst out:

'Just what did she think she was doing? First she deserts from the Watch . . .'

'Gesar, every one of us has the right to resign,' I objected. But Gesar had no intention of apologising.

'Deserts! An enchantress of her level doesn't belong to herself! She has no right to belong to herself! If, that is, she calls herself a Light One . . . And then – she's raising her daughter as a human being!'

'Nadya is a human being,' I said, feeling myself starting to get angry. 'Whether or not she becomes an Other is for her to decide . . . Most Lucent Gesar.'

Gesar realised that I was all set to blow too. And he changed his tone.

'Okay. That's your right. Pull out of the fight, ruin the little girl's life . . . Anything you like! But where does this hate come from?'

'What did Sveta say?' I asked.

Gesar sighed:

'Your wife phoned me. On a number that she has no right to know . . .'

'Then she doesn't know it,' I put in.

'And she told me I intended to have you killed! That I was hatching a highly complicated plot for your physical elimination!'

I looked into Gesar's eyes for a second. Then I laughed.

'You think it's funny?' Gesar asked in a pained voice. 'You really think so?'

'Gesar . . .' I said, struggling to suppress my laughter. 'I'm sorry. May I speak frankly?'

'By all means . . .'

'You are the greatest schemer I know. Worse than Zabulon. Compared to you, Machiavelli was a mere pup . . .'

'Don't be so quick to underestimate Machiavelli,' Gesar growled. 'I get the idea, I'm a schemer. And?'

'And I'm sure you have no intention of having me killed. In a crisis, perhaps, you might sacrifice me. In order to save a commensurately greater number of people or Light Others. But not that way . . . by planning . . . and intriguing . . . I don't believe it.'

'Thanks, I'm glad to hear it,' Gesar said with a nod. I couldn't tell if I'd nettled him or not. 'Then what on earth has Svetlana got into her head? I'm sorry, Anton . . .' Gesar suddenly hesitated and even looked away. But he finished what he was saying: 'Are you expecting a child? Another one?'

I choked and shook my head:

'No . . . at least, I don't think so . . . no, she would have told me!'

'Women sometimes go a bit crazy when they're expecting a child,' Gesar growled and started fingering his glass beads again. 'They start seeing danger everywhere – for the child, for their husband, for themselves . . . Or maybe now she has . . .' But then the Great Magician got really embarrassed and stopped himself short 'That's rubbish . . . forget it. Why don't you pay your wife a visit in the country, play with your daughter, drink some milk fresh from the cow . . .'

'My holiday ends tomorrow,' I reminded him. There was something not right here. 'And I thought the idea was that I was going to work today.'

Gesar stared hard at me:

'Anton, forget about work. Svetlana shouted at me for fifteen minutes. If she was a Dark One, there'd be an Inferno vortex hanging over my head right now! That's it, work's cancelled. I'm extending your holiday for a week – go to the country to see your wife.'

In the Moscow department of the Watch we have a saying: 'There are three things a Light Other can't do: organise his own personal life, achieve worldwide peace and happiness, and get time off from Gesar'.

To be honest, I was quite happy with my personal life, and now I'd been given an extra week of holiday.

So maybe worldwide peace and happiness were only just around the corner?

'Aren't you pleased?' Gesar asked.

'Yes,' I admitted. No, I wasn't inspired by the prospect of weeding the vegetable beds under the watchful eye of my mother-in-law. But Sveta and Nadya would be there. Nadya, Nadyenka, Nadiushka. My little two-year-old miracle. A lovely little human being . . . Potentially an Other of immense power. An enchantress so very Great that Gesar himself couldn't hold a candle to her. I imagined the Great Light Magician Gesar standing there holding a candle, so that little Nadya could play with her toys, and grinned.

'Call into the accounts office, they'll issue you a bonus . . .' Gesar continued, not suspecting the humiliation I was subjecting him to in my mind. 'Think up the citation for yourself. Something like . . . for many years of conscientious service . . .'

'Gesar, what kind of job was it?' I asked.

He stopped talking and tried to drill right through me with his gaze. When he got nowhere, he said:

'When I tell you everything, you will phone Svetlana. From here. And you'll ask her if you should agree or not. Okay? And you tell her about the extra holiday too.'

'What's happened?'

Instead of replying, Gesar pulled open the drawer of his desk, took out a black leather folder and held it out to me. The folder had a distinct aura of magic – powerful, dangerous battle magic.

'Don't worry, open it, you've been granted access,' Gesar murmured.

I opened the folder – at that point any unauthorised Other or human being would have been reduced to a handful of ash. Inside the folder was a letter. Just one single envelope.

The address of our office was written in newsprint, carefully cut out and stuck onto the envelope.

And naturally there was no return address.

'The letters have been cut out of three newspapers,' said Gesar. 'Pravda, Kommersant and Arguments and Facts.'

'Ingenious,' I remarked. 'Can I open it?'

'Yes, do. The forensic experts have already done everything they can with the envelope – there aren't any fingerprints. The glue was made in China and it's on sale in every newspaper kiosk.'

'And it's written on toilet paper!' I exclaimed in delight as I took the letter out of the envelope. 'Is it clean at least?'

'Unfortunately,' said Gesar. 'Not the slightest trace of organic matter. Standard cheap pulp. "Fifty-four metres", they call it.'

The sheet of toilet paper had been carelessly torn off along the perforation and the text was glued onto it in different-sized letters. Or rather, in entire words, with a few endings added separately, and with no regard for the typeface:

'The NIGHT WATCH should BE INTERESTED to know that a CERTAIN Other has REVEALed to a CERTAIN human being the entire truth about oTHErs and now inTENDs to turn this human beING into an OTHER. A wellWISHer.'

I would have laughed, but somehow I didn't feel like it. Instead, I remarked perspicaciously:

'"Night Watch" is written in complete words . . .'

'There was an article in Arguments and Facts,' Gesar explained. 'About a fire at the TV Tower. It was called "NIGHT WATCH ON THE OSTANKINO TOWER".'

'Clever,' I agreed. The mention of the tower gave me a slight twinge. That hadn't exactly been the best time of my life . . . I would be haunted forever by the face of the Dark Other I threw off the TV Tower in the Twilight . . .^*

^* See The Night Watch, Story Two

'Don't get moody, Anton, You didn't do anything wrong,' said Gesar. 'Let's get down to business.'

'Let's do that, Boris Ignatievich,' I said, calling the boss by his old 'civilian' name.

'Is this for real then?'

Gesar shrugged.

'There's not even a whiff of magic from the letter. It was either composed by a human being, or by a competent Other who can cover his tracks. If it's a human being, then there has to be a leak somewhere. If it's an Other, then it's a totally irresponsible act of provocation.'

'No traces at all?' I asked again to make sure.

'None. The only clue is the postmark.' Gesar frowned. 'But that looks very much like a red herring.'

'Was the letter sent from the Kremlin then?' I quipped.

'Almost. The postbox the letter was left in is located on the grounds of the Assol complex.'

Great tall buildings with red roofs – the kind that Comrade Stalin would have approved of. I'd seen them. But only from a distance.

'You can't just go walking in there!'

'No, you can't,' Gesar said with a nod. 'So, in sending the letter from the Assol residences after all this subterfuge with the paper, the glue and the letters, our unknown correspondent either committed a crude error . . .'

I shook my head.

'Or he's leading us onto a false trail . . .' At this point Gesar paused, observing my reaction closely.

I thought for a moment. And then shook my head again:

'That's very naïve. No.'

'Or the "wellwisher",' Gesar pronounced the final word with frank sarcasm, 'really does want to give us a clue.'

'What for?' I asked.

'He sent the letter for some reason,' Gesar reminded me. 'As you well understand, Anton, we have to react to this letter somehow. Let's assume the worst – there's a traitor among the Others who can reveal the secret of our existence to the human race.'

'But who's going to believe him?'

'They won't believe a human being. But they will believe an Other who can demonstrate his abilities.'

Gesar was right, of course. But I couldn't make sense of why anyone would do such a thing. Even the most stupid and malicious Dark One had to understand what would happen after the truth was revealed.

A new witch hunt.

And people would gladly cast both the Dark Ones and the Light Ones in the role of witches. Everyone who possessed the abilities of an Other . . .

Including Sveta. Including little Nadya.

'How is it possible "to turn this human being into an Other"?' I asked. 'Vampirism?'

'Vampires, werewolves . . .' Gesar shrugged. 'That's it, I suppose. Initiation is possible at the very crudest, most primitive levels of Dark power, but it would have to be paid for by sacrificing the human essence. It's impossible to make a human being into a magician by initiation.'

'Nadiushka . . .' I whispered. 'You rewrote Svetlana's Book of Destiny, didn't you?'

Gesar shook his head:

'No, Anton. Your daughter was destined to be born a Great One. All we did was make the sign more precise. We eliminated the element of chance.'

'Egor,' I reminded him. 'The boy had already become a Dark Other . . .'

'But we erased the specific quality of his initiation. Gave him a chance to choose again,' Gesar replied. 'Anton, all the interventions that we are capable of have to do only with the choice of "Dark" or "Light". But there's no way we can make the choice between "human" or "Other". No one in this world can do that.'

'Then that means we're talking about vampires,' I said. 'Supposing the Dark Ones have another vampire who's fallen in love . . .'

Gesar spread his hands helplessly:

'Could be. Then everything's more or less simple. The Dark Ones will check their riff-raff, it's in their interest as much as ours . . . And yes, by the way, they received a letter too. Exactly the same. And sent from Assol too.'

'How about the Inquisition, did they get one?'

'You get shrewder and shrewder all the time,' Gesar laughed. 'They also got one. By post. From Assol.'

Gesar was clearly hinting at something. I thought for a moment and drew yet another shrewd conclusion.

'Then the investigation is being conducted by both Watches and the Inquisition?'

There was a brief flicker of dissatisfaction in Gesar's glance.

'Yes, that's the way it is. When it's absolutely necessary, in a private capacity, it is permissible to reveal yourself as an Other to human beings. You've seen yourself . . .' he nodded towards the door through which his visitors had left. 'But that's a private matter. And the appropriate magical limitations are imposed. This situation is far worse than that. It looks as if one of the Others intends to trade in initiations.'

I imagined a vampire offering his services to rich New Russians and smiled. 'How would you like to drink the people's blood for real, my dear sir?' But then, it wasn't all about blood. Even the very weakest vampire or werewolf possesses power. They have no fear of disease. They live for a very, very long time. And their physical strength shouldn't be forgotten either – any werewolf would beat Karelin and give Tyson a good whipping. And then there was their 'animal magnetism', the 'call' that they had such complete control over. Any woman was yours for the taking, just summon her.

Of course, in reality, both vampires and werewolves were bound by numerous restrictions. Even more so than magicians – their instability required it. But did a newly initiated vampire really understand that?

'What are you smiling at?' Gesar asked.

'I just imagined an announcement in a newspaper. "I will turn you into a vampire. Safe, reliable, a hundred years' guarantee. Price by arrangement".'

Gesar nodded.

'Good thinking. I'll have the newspapers and internet notice-boards checked.'

I looked at Gesar, but I couldn't tell whether he was joking.

'I don't think there's any real danger,' I said. 'Most likely some crackpot vampire has decided to earn a bit of money. Showed some rich man a few tricks and offered to . . . er . . . bite him.'

'One bite, and all your troubles are over,' Gesar said.

Encouraged, I continued:

'Someone . . . for instance, this man's wife, found out about the terrible offer. While her husband hesitates, she decides to write to us, hoping that we'll eliminate the vampire and that her husband will remain a human being. Hence the combination of letters cut out of newspapers and the post office in Assol. A cry for help. She can't tell us openly, but she's literally begging us: Save my husband!'

'You hopeless romantic,' Gesar said disapprovingly. 'So then she takes a pair of nail scissors, and snippety-snips the letters out of the latest Pravda . . . Did she get the addresses out of the newspapers too?'

'The address of the Inquisition!' I exclaimed, suddenly realising the problem.

'Now you're thinking. Could you send a letter to the Inquisition?'

I didn't answer. I'd been put firmly in my place. Gesar had told me straight out about the letter to the Inquisition!

'In our watch I'm the only person who knows their address. In the Day Watch, I presume Zabulon is the only one. So where does that leave us, Gorodetsky?'

'You sent the letter. Or Zabulon did.'

Gesar only snorted.

'And is the Inquisition really uptight about this?' I asked.

'Uptight is putting it mildly. In itself, the attempt to trade in initiations doesn't bother them. That's standard business for the Watches – identify the perpetrator, punish him, and seal the leak. Especially since we and the Dark Ones are both equally outraged by what has happened . . . But a letter to the Inquisition – that's something really exceptional. There aren't very many Inquisitors, so you can see . . . If one side violates the Treaty, the Inquisition takes the other side, maintaining equilibrium. That gives all of us discipline. But let's just say somewhere in the depths of one of the Watches a plan is being hatched for ultimate victory. A group of battle magicians who have come together and are capable of killing all the Inquisitors in a single night – that is, of course, if they happen to know all about the Inquisition – who serves in it, where they live, where they keep their documents . . .'

'Did the letter arrive at their head office?' I asked.

'Yes. And judging from the fact that six hours later the office was empty, and there was a fire in the building, that must have been where the Inquisition kept all its files. Even I didn't know that for sure. Anyway, by sending the letter to the Inquisition, this person . . . or Other . . . has thrown down the gauntlet. Now the Inquisition will be after them. The official reason will be that security has been breached and an attempt is being made to initiate a human being. But in reality, what's driving them is concern for their own skin.'

'I wouldn't have thought it was like them to feel afraid for themselves,' I said.

'Oh yes, and how, Anton! Here's a little something for you to think about . . .Why aren't there any traitors in the Inquisition? Dark Ones and Light Ones join them. They go through their training. And then the Dark Ones punish Dark Ones severely, and the Light Ones punish Light Ones, the very moment they violate the Treaty.'

'A special character type,' I suggested. 'They select Others who are like that.'

'And they never make a mistake?' Gesar asked sceptically. 'That couldn't happen. Yet in the whole of history, there has never been a single case of an Inquisitor violating the Treaty.'

'They obviously understand too clearly what violating the Treaty leads to. There was one Inquisitor in Prague who told me: "We are constrained by fear".'

Gesar frowned:

'Witiezslav – he's fond of fine phrases . . . All right, don't bother your head about that. The situation's simple: there's an Other who is either in violation of the Treaty or taunting the Watches and the Inquisition. The Inquisition will conduct their investigation, the Dark Ones will conduct theirs. And we are required to send a staff member too.'

'May I ask why me in particular?'

Gesar spread his hands expressively again:

'For a number of reasons. The first is that in the course of the investigation you'll probably come up against vampires. And you're our top specialist on the lower Dark Ones.'

He didn't seem to be making fun of me.

'The second reason,' Gesar went on, opening the fingers of his fist as he counted, 'is that the investigators officially appointed by the Inquisition are old friends of yours. Witiezslav and Edgar.'

'Edgar's in Moscow?' I asked, surprised. I couldn't say that I actually liked this Dark Magician who had transferred to the Inquisition three years earlier. But I could say that I didn't really dislike him.

'Yes, he is. He completed his training course four months ago and flew back here. Since this job means you'll be in contact with Inquisitors, any previous personal acquaintance is useful.'

'My acquaintance with them wasn't all that enjoyable,' I reminded him.

'What do you think I'm offering you here, Thai massage during working hours?' Gesar asked cantankerously. 'The third reason why I particularly wanted to give this assignment to you is . . .' He stopped.

I waited.

'The Dark Ones' investigation is also being conducted by an old acquaintance of yours.'

Gesar didn't need to mention the name. But he did anyway.

'Konstantin. The young vampire . . . your former neighbour. I recall that you used to be on good terms.'

'Yes, of course,' I said bitterly. 'When he was still a child, only drank pig's blood and dreamed of escaping from the "curse" . . . Until he realised that his friend the Light Magician burns his kind to ashes.'

'That's life,' said Gesar.

'He's already drunk human blood,' I said. 'He must have! If he's in favour in the Day Watch.'

'He has become a Higher Vampire,' Gesar declared. 'The youngest Higher Vampire in Europe. If you translate that into our terms, that means . . .'

'Third or fourth level of power,' I whispered. 'Five or six lives destroyed.'

Kostya, Kostya . . . I was a young, inexperienced Light Magician back then. I just couldn't make any friends in the Watch, and all my old friendships were rapidly falling apart . . . Others and people can't be friends . . . and suddenly I discovered that my neighbours were Dark Others. A family of vampires. The mother and father were vampires, and they'd initiated their child too. There was nothing really sinister about them, though. No nocturnal hunting, no applications for licences, they respected the law and drank pig's blood and donors' blood. And so, like a fool, I let my defences down and became friends with them. I used to go round to see them and even invited them to my apartment. They ate the food I'd cooked, and praised it . . . and, idiot that I was, I didn't realise that human food is tasteless to them, that they are tormented by an ancient, eternal hunger. The little vampire kid even decided that he was going to be a biologist and discover a cure for vampirism . . .

Then I killed my first vampire.

And after that Kostya joined the Day Watch. I didn't know if he'd ever graduated from his biology faculty, but he'd certainly shed his childish illusions.

And he'd started receiving licences to kill. Rise to the level of a Higher Vampire in three years? He must have had help. All the resources of the Day Watch must have been brought to bear so that the nice young lad Kostya could sink his fangs into human necks over and over again . . .

And I had a pretty good idea who had helped him.

'What do you think, Anton?' said Gesar. 'In the given situation, who should we appoint as the investigator from our side?'

I took my mobile out of my pocket and dialled Svetlana's number.