The Twilight Watch (36 page)

I sighed. We should have brought Arina to justice . . . if only
the Inquisition hadn't charged her with sabotage. But then there
was Gesar too . . .

'Sveta, ask her . . . ask her if the
Fuaran
will acquire great power
at the place where it was written?'

A pause. What a pity this wasn't a mobile phone so that I could
talk to the witch directly. But alas, direct conversation is only
possible between soul-mates and people who have other close
connections.

'No . . . She's surprised at the question. She says the
Fuaran
isn't
tied to any particular place. The book will work in the Himalayas
or Antarctica, or in the Ivory Coast if you want it to.'

'Then . . . then find out if Witiezslav could have used it. After
all, he was a vampire, a lower Other . . .'

Another pause.

'He could have. Any vampire or werewolf could. Dark Ones or
Light Ones. There are no limitations. Except for one – the book
couldn't have been used by a human being.'

'That's clear enough . . . Anything else?'

'Nothing, Anton. I was hoping she might be able to give us a
clue . . . but I was wrong.'

'Okay. Thanks. I love you.'

'And I love you. Get some rest. I'm sure everything will be
clearer in the morning . . .'

The subtle thread stretching between us snapped. I shifted around
on the bunk, settling down more comfortably. Then I couldn't
help myself, and I looked at the table.

The pointer of the compass was still rotating. The
Fuaran
was
still on the train.

I woke up twice during the night. First when one of the Inquisitors
came to Edgar to report that some reports or other were missing.
The second when the train stopped in Tambov, and Kostya quietly
left the compartment.

It was after ten when I got up.

Edgar was drinking tea. Kostya, looking pink and fresh, was
chewing a salami sandwich. The pointer was rotating. No change
at all.

I got dressed on the bunk and jumped down. I'd found a tiny
piece of soap in the bundle of bedclothes, and that was the only
personal hygiene product I had.

'Here,' Kostya muttered, moving a plastic bag over towards me.
'I picked up a few things in Tambov . . .'

The bag contained a pack of disposable razors, an aerosol can
of Gillette shaving cream, a toothbrush and a tube of New Pearl
toothpaste.

'I forgot the aftershave,' said Kostya. 'I didn't think of it.'

It wasn't surprising he'd forgotten – vampires and werewolves
aren't too fond of strong smells. Maybe the supposed effect of
garlic – which is actually quite harmless to vampires – is linked
with the fact that it's smell makes it harder for them to find their
prey?

'Thanks,' I said. 'How much do I owe you?'

Kostya shrugged.

'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 other 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.'