The Night Watch (20 page)

T
HAT WAS
the morning I knew spring had really arrived.

The evening before, the sky had been different, with clouds drifting over the city, and the air had been filled with the scent of a chilly, damp wind and snow that hadn't fallen yet. I'd felt like snuggling down deep into my armchair, putting something cheerful and moronic – something American – in the VCR, taking a sip of cognac and just falling asleep.

But in the morning everything had changed.

Some cunning conjuror's hand had thrown a blue shawl over the city, running it over the streets and the squares and wiping away the final traces of winter. Even the heaps of brown snow left on the street corners and in the gutters didn't seem to have been overlooked by spring, they were an integral element of the decor. A memento.

I smiled as I walked to the metro.

Sometimes it feels really good to be human. That was the way I'd been living for a week now: when I got to work, I didn't go any higher than the second floor and all I did was fiddle about with the server, which had suddenly developed a number of bad habits, or install new office software for the women in accounts, even though none of us could understand what they needed it for. In the evening I went to the theatre, or to a soccer match, or to various small bars and restaurants. Anywhere at all, as long as it was noisy and crowded. Being human in a crowd is even more interesting than just being human.

Of course, at the Night Watch offices, an old four-storey building rented from our own subsidiary, there wasn't a normal human to be found. Even the three old cleaning women were Others. Even the loose-mouthed young security guards at the entrance, who were there to frighten off petty gangsters and sales reps, had some modest magical powers. Even the plumber, a classic Moscow alcoholic, was a magician . . . and he'd have been a really good magician too, if it weren't for his drinking.

But the first two floors of the building had to look entirely normal. The tax police were allowed in here, as well as our human business partners and the thugs who provided our 'protection' – the racket was actually directly controlled by our boss, but the small-fry didn't need to know that.

And the office conversation was entirely normal too. Politics, taxes, shopping, the weather, other people's love affairs and their own. The women gossiped about the men, and we gave as good as we got. There were office romances, plots were laid to unseat immediate superiors, the chances of bonuses were discussed.

Half an hour later I reached Sokol station and made my way up to street level. It was noisy and crowded, and the air was filled with exhaust fumes. But it was still spring.

There are plenty of districts in Moscow worse than the one where our office is situated. In fact, it's probably one of the best – that's not counting the Day Watch offices, of course. But then, the Kremlin wouldn't suit us, anyway: the traces of the past lie too heavy on Red Square and its ancient brick walls. Maybe some day they'll fall. But that would depend on certain developments, and there's no sign of them coming any time soon ... no sign at all, unfortunately.

I walked from the metro, it wasn't far. The faces on every side looked friendly and welcoming, thawed by the spring sunshine. That's why I love the spring: it takes the edge off that feeling of weary helplessness. And there are fewer temptations . . .

One of the security guys was smoking outside the door. He gave me a friendly nod. Thorough checks weren't part of his job description. Plus there was also the fact that I was the one who decided whether or not they had internet access and new games on their duty room computer, or just the official information and personnel files.

'You're late, Anton,' he said.

I checked my watch.

'The boss wants everyone together in the conference room, they were looking for you.'

That was strange, I wasn't usually brought in on the morning briefings. Had one of my computer networks crashed? It wasn't likely, for that they'd have dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night without a second thought, and it wouldn't have been the first time either . . .

I nodded and started walking faster.

The building has a lift, but it's an antique, and I preferred to run up to the fourth floor. There was another security post – a rather more serious one – on the third-floor landing. Garik was on duty. As I approached he screwed up his eyes and peered into the Twilight, scanning my aura and the markings that Night Watch agents have on our bodies. Then he gave me a warm smile:

'Get a move on.'

The door of the conference room was half open. I glanced inside. There were about thirty people, mostly field agents and analysts. The boss was striding backwards and forwards in front of a map of Moscow and nodding his head, while his commercial deputy Vitaly Markovich – a very weak magician, but a born businessman – addressed the meeting.

'And so we have completely covered our current outgoings, and we have no need to resort to . . . er . . . any special varieties of financial activity. If the meeting approves my proposals, we can increase employees' allowances somewhat – in the first instance, naturally, for field operatives. Payments for temporary disability and pensions for the families of those killed on duty also need to be . . . er . . . somewhat increased. And we can afford to do that. . .'

It was bizarre to see magicians who could transmute lead into gold, coal into diamond and neat rectangles of paper into crisp bank notes, discussing business. But it actually made things easier, and for two reasons. Firstly, it created an occupation for those Others whose powers were too weak to provide them with a living. Secondly, it reduced the risks of unsettling the balance of power.

As I appeared, Boris Ignatievich nodded and said:

'Thank you, Vitaly. I think this is all quite clear, no complaints as far as your work is concerned. Shall we vote? Thank you. Now, while we have everyone here. . .'

The boss kept an eye on me as I tiptoed to an empty chair and sat down.

'. . . we can move on to the most important item of business.'

From his chair next to me, Semyon leaned over and whispered:

'The most important item of business is the payment of the Party dues for March . . .'

I couldn't help smiling. Sometime Boris Ignatievich really does act just like an old-time Party apparatchik. I find that less irritating than when he acts like a medieval inquisitor or a retired general, but maybe that's just me . . .

'The most important item is a protest I received from the Day Watch just two hours ago,' said the boss.

This didn't sink in straight away. The Day Watch and the Night Watch are always making problems for each other. There are protests every week: sometimes it's all settled at district office level, in others a case goes as far as the Berne tribunal.

Then I registered that any protest that required a full meeting of the Watch couldn't possibly be ordinary.

'The essential point of the protest . . .' said the boss, rubbing the bridge of his nose, '. . . the essential point of the protest is as follows . . . This morning one of the Dark Side's women was killed near Stoleshnikov Lane. There is a brief description of the incident . . .'

Two sheets of paper, still warm from the printer, landed in my lap. As they did in everyone else's. I ran my eyes over the words:

'Galina Rogova, twenty-four years old . . . initiated at the age of seven, her family are not Others. . . mentor – Anna Chernogorova, fourth-grade magician ... At the age of seven Galina Rogova was identified as a were-panther. Average powers . . .'

I frowned as I read through the notes, although there wasn't really that much to frown at. Rogova had been a Dark One, but she hadn't worked for the Day Watch. She hadn't ever hunted humans, not even once. Even the two licences she'd had, when she came of age and after her wedding, had never been used. By use of magic she'd reached a senior position in the Warm Home construction company and married the vice-president. One child – a boy, no Other powers detected. She'd used her powers for self-protection a few times, and on one occasion killed her attacker. But even then she hadn't stooped to cannibalism . . .

'We could do with more shape-shifters like that, right?' asked Semyon. He turned the page and gave a little snort of surprise. Intrigued, I turned to the second page.

The report of the post-mortem examination. A cut in the blouse and the jacket . . . probably a blow with a thin-bladed dagger. Enchanted, of course, a shape-shifter couldn't be killed with plain ordinary steel. But what was it that had surprised Semyon?

No visible wounds had been discovered on the body. Not even a scratch. The cause of death was a total drain of vital energy.

'Very neat,' said Semyon. 'I remember during the Civil War I was sent to capture a were-tiger. The bastard worked in the Cheka, and pretty high up too. . .'

'Have you familiarised yourselves with the data?' the boss asked.

'May I ask a question?' A slim arm shot into the air on the far side of the room.

'By all means, Yulia,' said the boss with a nod.

The Night Watch's youngest member stood up, adjusting her hair nervously. A pretty young girl, maybe a little childish. But assigning her to the analytical department had been a good move.

'Boris Ignatievich, the way I see it, the magical intervention here is second degree. Or even first?'

'It could be second degree,' the boss confirmed.

'That means it could have been you . . .' Yulia paused for a moment, embarrassed. 'Or perhaps Semyon . . . Ilya ... or Garik. Right?'

'Garik couldn't have done it,' said the boss. 'But Ilya or Semyon could have.'

Semyon mumbled something, as if he'd rather have been spared the compliment.

'It's also just possible that the killer was one of the Light Ones who "was just passing through Moscow,' Yulia mused out loud. 'But a magician that powerful can't arrive in town without being noticed, they're all monitored by the Day Watch. That means there are three people we need to investigate. And if they all have alibis, there are no charges to answer, right?'

'Yulia,' the boss said, shaking his head. 'No one's bringing any charges against us. What we have here is the work of a Light Magician who is not registered in Moscow and is unaware of the Treaty.'

Now that was serious . . .

'Then . . . oh!' said Yulia. 'I'm sorry, Boris Ignatievich.' 'That's okay,' the boss said, nodding again. 'It's taken us right to the heart of the matter. There's someone we've managed to miss, everyone. We've let him slip through our fingers. We have a Light One of great power wandering loose in Moscow. He doesn't know the situation here – and he's killing Dark Ones.' 'More than one?' a voice asked.

'Yes. I checked the archives. There were similar incidents three years ago, in the spring and autumn, and two years ago, in the autumn again. On each occasion there was no physical trauma, but the victims' clothes were slashed. The Day Watch investigated, but came up with nothing. Apparently they put the deaths down to some random accident ... so now one of the Dark Ones will be punished for it.'

'And one of the Light Ones too?'

'One of us too.'

Semyon cleared his throat and said softly:

'The gaps between the incidents are strange, Boris . . .'

'I don't think we know about all of them. Whoever this magician is, he has always killed Others with low-level powers, obviously there must have been some kind of weakness in their protection. It's very likely that a number of his victims were uninitiated or unknown Dark Others. Here's what I propose . . .'

The boss paused and glanced round the room before continuing:

'Analytical section – collate all available information from criminal records and try to identify similar incidents. Bear in mind that they may not have been classified as murder, more likely as deaths from unknown causes. Look into the results of autopsies, question the morgue staff. . . think for yourselves where you can get relevant information. Research group – send two or three agents to the Day Watch and request an examination of the body. Operations group – intensive street patrols. Try to find him, OK?'

'We're always on the lookout for someone,' Igor muttered. 'Boris Ignatievich, there's no way we could have overlooked a powerful magician. We just couldn't have!'

'He may not be initiated,' the boss snapped back. 'His powers manifest themselves sporadically . . .'

'In the spring and the autumn, just like any ordinary psycho . . .'

'Yes, Igor, that's exactly it. In the spring and in the autumn. And now, right after this latest killing, he must still be showing some trace of magic. That gives us a chance, if only a small one. Get on to it.'

'Boris, what exactly is our goal?' Semyon asked curiously.

Some of the agents had already started getting to their feet, but now they paused.

'Our goal is to find this Maverick before the Dark Ones do. To protect him, educate him and bring him over to our side. As usual.'

'Clear enough,' said Semyon and stood up.

'Anton and Olga, would you please remain?' the boss said brusquely and walked over to the window.

On their way out, agents glanced at us curiously, even enviously. A special assignment is always intriguing. I looked across the room, caught Olga's eye and smiled with just my mouth. She smiled back.

She looked nothing like the dirty-faced, barefoot young woman who'd drunk cognac with me in my kitchen in the middle of the winter. Now her hair was expensively cut, her complexion healthy and her eyes full of. . . no, the confidence had been there all the time, but now there was a certain flirtatious pride too.

Her sentence had been repealed. In part, at least.

'Anton, I don't like what's going on here,' the boss said without turning round.

Olga shrugged her shoulders and nodded for me to reply.

'I beg your pardon, Boris Ignatievich?'

'I don't like this protest lodged by the Day Watch.'

'Neither do I.'

'You don't understand, and I'm afraid none of the others do either . .. Olga, have you at least some inkling of what's going on?'