Сергей Лукьяненко - Day Watch

Surely Zabulon hadn't set up another exchange of pieces while he furtively pushed forward a few pawns (the Regin Brothers) in the hope that another black queen would appear on the board or, at the very least, a bishop?

It was insulting to be a throwaway piece.

And what if it's a test at the same time ? Edgar wondered. An endurance trial? Alisa let herself be gobbled up - Zabulon doesn't need pieces like that in his game. But if I can manage to survive, and without disrupting the chiefs plans… Yes, that's the result we need!

But how could it be achieved?

The other half of the exchange was Anton Gorodetsky, Zabulon's favorite. There was no doubt about that. The chief of the Day Watch couldn't carry on using him forever, and he understood that very well. It wasn't even really true that he could use him… Zabulon was always ready to put a good face on a poor result and make it look as if he'd tricked the Light magician…

The passengers stood up and began moving toward the exit and the goffered bridge that was so unfamiliar to the inhabitants of the former USSR. Edgar took his raincoat out and put it on, left his magazine in the pocket on the seat in front, picked up his briefcase, and followed the others.

The feeling of being in Europe and not Russia was instantaneous and strangely comprehensive. It was hard to grasp exactly what triggered it-the expressions on people's faces, their clothes, the cleanliness of the airport, the way it was laid out? Thousands of minor details. The announcements in Czech and English without a Ryazan accent. The far greater number of smiles. The fact that there weren't any of those gypsies or private taxi drivers that he detested on the square in front of the terminal building.

And there was a line of attractive yellow Opels at the taxi stand.

His taxi driver gabbled away equally freely in Russian and English and, of course, in his native Czech: Where to? A hotel. The Hilton, I suppose. Oh! Russians don't often go straight to the Hilton. And the ones who do, look different, wearing lots of gold, bigwigs with bodyguards, riding in expensive limousines… I'm not Russian, I'm Estonian. Yes, that's not the same thing any longer… It wasn't the same thing before either. Ah, even a Czech was almost the same as a Russian before… That's debatable. Yes, maybe it is.

The driver's chatter was distracting and Edgar decided to take a break from all his thinking. He wouldn't get any real work done on the day he arrived, in any case. He could actually relax-with a mug or two of beer, naturally. Who in his right mind wouldn't sip a mug of genuine Czech beer, provided his stomach was in good shape (or even if it wasn't)?

Only a dead man.

Just like in any Hilton, a free room could be found without any real problem, even when Prague was crowded with tourists just before Christmas. But just like in any country that had not yet cast off the shackles of its recent socialism, it cost crazy money for a non-Other. Edgar was an Other, and so he paid up right away without even a frown, although they were obviously expecting one from him. He was Russian, after all, and he didn't look like a nouveau riche bandit… A hundred years earlier Edgar wouldn't have been able to resist sticking his Argentinian passport under the administrator's nose. But he was a whole hundred years more mature now, and he made do with his Russian passport.

The person at the registration desk-the one that not everybody went to-was a Dark One. A very rare type, too-a Beskud. He glanced at Edgar, licked his thin lips, and opened his slit pupils wide. And then, at last, he smiled-his teeth were small and sharp, all the same triangular shape.

"Greetings! Here for the Tribunal?"

"Uh-huh."

"Here you go…"

He threw a small bundle of blue fire at Edgar-it was his temporary registration. The fire passed easily through Edgar's clothes and landed on Edgar's chest in the form of an oval seal that glowed in the Twilight.

"Thanks."

"You give them a roasting at the Tribunal," the Beskud told him. "A real roasting. It's our time now…"

"I'll try," Edgar promised with a sigh.

He went up to his room, just to get a wash and leave his briefcase there.

And now , Edgar thought enthusiastically as he rode down in the elevator, I'm off to the Black Eagle! And I'm going to order the peceno veprevo koleno.

This dish, roast leg of pork, was so popular he'd even come across a description of it in a fantasy magazine he'd read once.

As he waited for his order, Edgar took sips of his second mug of beer (he'd drunk the first one Russian-style, straight down, evoking a nod of approval from the waiter), and tried to focus on his thoughts. But something was preventing him. Or someone.

Edgar looked up and saw Anton Gorodetsky, who was standing near the table and staring steadily at him.

Edgar shuddered, thinking he must have been followed. But there was a puzzled expression in Gorodetsky's eyes too, and Edgar breathed a sigh of relief. A coincidence, nothing more than a coincidence.

And what's more, there weren't any places left. Except at Edgar's table.

Acting on a sudden impulse, Edgar nodded to the Light One and said, "Sit down. I'm taking a break. You should do the same- to hell with all this work!"

Anton hesitated and Edgar thought he was going to leave, but then he decided to stay. He walked up and sat down facing Edgar, giving him a sullen look, as if he found it hard to believe it when his old enemy claimed all he wanted to do was relax for a while. What was that saying the Light Ones had? Anyone you've done combat with once is an enemy forever.

Nonsense. Fanaticism. Edgar preferred a more flexible approach-if today it was advantageous to conclude an alliance with someone you hurled Shahab's Lash at yesterday, why not conclude an alliance? But then, after Shahab's Lash there wasn't usually anybody left to conclude an alliance with… Ashes didn't make a very good ally.

"And not a word about the Watches?" Anton asked ironically.

"Not a word," Edgar confirmed. "Just two fellow countrymen in Prague just before Christmas. I've ordered the peceno veprevo koleno . I recommend it."

"Thanks, I know it," said Anton, still without a shadow of a smile, and turned to the waiter who had come over to them.

No, these Europeans had no idea what a real frost was, what a real winter was… As Anton came out of the Malostranska metro station, he wondered if he ought to button up the collar of his jacket, but he didn't bother. Snowy weather, but there was no bite to it. Two degrees below zero at the most.

He set off along the street, strolling at a leisurely pace across the ancient cobblestones. Sometimes he gave in to curiosity and dropped into the souvenir shops-amusing wooden toys, curiously shaped ceramics, photographs with views of Prague, T-shirts with amusing inscriptions. He ought to buy something, after all. Just to make his mark, so to speak. Maybe that T-shirt with the funny face on it and the words "Born to be Wild."

There were almost three hours left until he was due to meet the Inquisition's representative. He didn't even need to take a taxi or ride the metro-he could eat a leisurely lunch and stroll to the appointed place on foot. A rendezvous under the clock tower-what could be more romantic? What if the Inquisition's representative turned out to be a female, maybe even attractive, and a Light One? Then romance would really be in the air.

Anton laughed at his own thoughts. He didn't feel the slightest desire to play the field or start an affair. And anyway, the concepts of "Light" and "Dark" didn't apply to the Inquisition. They stood outside and apart from the two great powers.

Maybe the concept of gender did apply? But then, as far as Anton knew, when Maxim, the Light magician from Moscow they'd nicknamed the Maverick, became an Inquisitor, he had divorced his wife. Apparently they simply lost interest in all that petty human stupidity-love, sex, jealousy…