Sergei Lukyanenko - The New Watch

‘Evasive, but acceptable,’ Zabulon said, with a nod. ‘My dear enemy, I even sympathise with you slightly. I have a distinct feeling that this “tiger” of yours is not a person at all.’

‘Why ours?’ I asked.

‘Why not a person?’ asked Gesar.

‘I’m prepared to answer one question,’ Zabulon declared gleefully. ‘You choose which.’

Gesar snorted contemptuously and said: ‘Basically, the answers to both questions are elementary. He didn’t have any aura at all. He could hardly have concealed it from several Higher Others. And he appeared differently to each of us. That means he’s not a material entity, but merely reflected in our consciousness. And he’s “ours” because he’s interested in the boy who is now under our protection.’

‘Oh, so there’s no need for any answers, then?’ Zabulon asked delightedly.

It sometimes seems to me that they could go on sparring like that for ever.

‘Answer Anton’s question,’ said Gesar. ‘Why the “tiger” is our problem.’

Zabulon nodded: ‘By all means. In my view, the real issue is not that he’s hunting the boy. Perhaps he merely wanted to pat him on the head and wish him luck in his fight for the cause of the Light? What is far more interesting is that the “tiger” left after I made my appearance.’

‘He didn’t want to fight on two fronts,’ said Gesar, growing more sombre with every second.

Zabulon burst into laughter.

‘Too hopeful by far! I suspect that he didn’t wish to harm me.’

‘A kindred spirit?’ I asked.

‘Oh, don’t be so childish, Anton!’ Zabulon rebuked me. ‘When has that ever been a hindrance to Dark Ones? At the present moment the Day Watch is less powerful than you are. If he had annihilated all of us the Night Watch would simply have been exsanguinated, but the Day Watch would have been left practically dead.’

‘Maintaining the balance is the Inquisition’s job,’ said Gesar. ‘Is that what you’re hinting at?’

‘No, Gesar. What I’m hinting at is that the balance is also maintained by the Twilight. This is a Twilight Creature. You may not believe in them, but…’

For a few seconds Gesar and Zabulon stared daggers at each other. I felt like saying: ‘Don’t bother – you’re not going to fight anyway!’ – but I wasn’t sure that I would be right.

The situation was defused by the door of one of the flats opening. An old granny stuck her head out of the door slowly and solemnly, like a tortoise poking its head out of its shell. Actually, she wasn’t even fifty yet, but she looked like a genuine old woman, the caricature Russian ‘babushka’ of the American and European imaginations – flabby and shapeless, wearing a sloppy housecoat, slippers over thick stockings, a headscarf. Incredible! You usually only see that kind of thing outside a church.

‘What are you doing standing there?’ the granny asked. ‘Get off my doormat, you pervert.’

Zabulon glanced down at his feet in surprise. He really was standing on the corner of the mat that the granny had set out in front of the door of her flat. The mat had clearly seen better times. It had once been part of a big, bright carpet of synthetic fibre, the kind that people used to queue up for in Soviet times. And then, when even the polyvinyl chloride had faded with age, was covered in stains and worn right down to the bare threads, it had done time lying on an open balcony. The rain had drenched it. The insane city moths had tried to gnaw on it. A tin of paint had been spilled on it.

And now this putrid, semi-decayed floor covering had been hacked into crooked pieces and set out in front of the door as a doormat.

Zabulon gave an emphatically polite nod and stepped off the mat.

‘Come up here to drink, have you?’ asked the granny. ‘The ninth floor, that’s where the winos live! But we’re decent people here!’

The most surprising thing was that Zabulon wasn’t even slightly angry with the granny. He studied her with the intensely keen interest of an entomologist gazing at a cockroach and attempting to establish contact with it. Gesar was the one who was fuming.

‘We’ve come to see your neighbours,’ he said. ‘Everything’s all right, don’t worry.’

‘To see Olka?’ the granny exclaimed delightedly. ‘Police, are you? Not paying her loans, isn’t she? I warned her not to get carried away! Lives without a husband, raising that little dumpling all on her own, but she keeps on doing it, always having the place decorated or flitting off abroad somewhere’ – at this point her words rang with the genuine hatred of someone who has never travelled anywhere – ‘or buying a flat TV, or taking that dumpling of hers to clubs and classes…’

‘Anton, do something,’ Gesar begged me. ‘I’m… afraid I might overdo it.’

‘Yes, do a bit of work,’ Zabulon said, with a nod. ‘Remoralise her if you like. I promise not to count it against your allowance for intervention.’

I probably could have tried to exert a positive influence on the granny. After all, she hadn’t always been like this, had she? People aren’t born like that. Something bad happens to them… or maybe it’s some special spitefulness virus, as yet unknown to science.

‘I won’t remoralise her, I’m afraid I might rupture myself in the process,’ I said. ‘Go to bed, grandma!’

I didn’t even want to read her name, as if I was afraid of soiling myself on her thoughts.

‘To bed?’ the granny echoed in amazement.

‘You’ll sleep for exactly ten hours,’ I said. ‘And when you wake up, you’ll forget about us.’

The granny nodded and closed the door, pulling her head back in through the crack at the very last moment.

‘The brilliant solutions are always the simplest,’ said Gesar. And he rang the bell at the next door.

Olga Yurievna answered it. Her eyes were slightly hazy, like the eyes of any person who has come under the gentle but irresistible influence of an Other.

‘Come in!’ she said in the tone of a hospitable housewife and stepped aside.

I spotted Semyon immediately – he was standing in the middle of the room, pressing the boy Kesha up against himself with one hand and ‘holding’ a very, very unpleasant spell, cocked and ready to fire, in the other. Semyon is a very experienced and proficient field agent. But after seeing the ‘tiger’ with my own eyes, I knew that no amount of experience and skill would have helped him.

When we appeared Semyon let out a deep sigh of relief and fluttered his hand through the air, dispersing the spell. Then he said: ‘They’re friends, Kesha, everything’s fine…’

And then he spoke to us, with far more feeling.

‘Thank you. You’ve no idea how glad I am to see you. Even you… Zabulon.’

IN THE FAIRY-TALE books, young magicians’ parents are always honestly informed that their child is being taken away to be taught magic. In the Watches they never do that. Firstly, we don’t have any special school. Others are taught at the Watch, and it’s rare for more than a third of them to be children, since the abilities of an Other can manifest themselves at any age. For Others, as for chess players, there are no ‘adult’ and ‘child’ ratings. Secondly, it’s something that the parents simply don’t need to know. And the point is not just that they might give something away – that’s easy enough to prevent with simple spells. The problem is actually something quite different…

Over the many centuries before humankind finally lost its belief in magic and the wizards and sorcerers set up the Watches and were divided into Light Ones and Dark Ones, we acquired substantial experience in dealing with human beings. Imagine you have been told that your child is a wizard or a sorceress. At first, you’ll probably be glad to find out (or distressed, if it contradicts your ardently held faith or no less ardent atheistic convictions). But later… later you’ll feel resentful. Of course, all parents want the best possible future for their children. But one so much better than the norm? To accept that you will live the short life of an ordinary human being, while your child will be able to work miracles and will live for hundreds of years – that’s not easy! Very many people come completely unglued and start taking their irritation out on the child in various ways, which may be more or less explicit. And that, by the way, can lead to very serious unpleasantness – children have far less self-control than adults do.