I listened for an inner voice. The cold wind lashing my face was full of exhaust fumes. Moscow was breathing carbon monoxide.
My faithful assistant was obviously asleep.
I passed the Garden Ring Road and the Park of Culture metro station. But when I saw the Frunzenskaya station up ahead, I decided to go underground. Time was pressing.
Before I even reached the metro steps, the moped had already been stolen. The motor gave a brief grunt as it started and some quick-thinking thief drove the reliable little Japanese machine away, disappearing into the side streets as quickly as possible. Ah, humanity, humanity … The Light Ones take care of you, protect you, cherish you, but you’re still the same old trash you always were. Animals with no conscience or compassion. Elbow everyone aside, steal, sell, stuff your belly, and the world can go to hell. It’s so disgusting …
I simply jumped the turnstiles – in the Twilight, an invisible shadow. I had no time to buy a ticket and stick it in the slot of the magnetic reader. That was okay, the country wouldn’t go bankrupt because of me.
I slid down the escalator too, without leaving the Twilight. Jumped up onto the slow-moving handrail and went hurtling downward, barely managing to set one foot in front of the other in the grey stickiness. A train was just about to leave the platform; while I was still working out whether it was going in the right direction, the doors closed. Never mind, that wasn’t a problem. But travelling back into the city centre certainly wasn’t what I wanted.
I jumped into the carriage straight through the closed door – in the Twilight. Then gently moved aside the astonished passengers as I seemed to appear out of nowhere.
‘Oh!’ someone exclaimed.
‘Tell me, is this Moscow?’ I blurted out for some reason. Probably out of a boisterous sense of sheer silly mischief.
No one answered. Well, all right. At least now there was noticeably more space around me. I took hold of the handrail and closed my eyes.
Sportivnaya station, Sparrow Hills station, still closed – the train was barely crawling along; every now and then, in the cracks between the metal doors, I caught glimpses of electric light and the grey half-light of early morning. Dawn already …
Finally, here was the University station. The escalator, very long and very crowded. I had to wait again. That was it. I was definitely late.
Up at the top it was almost light. Finally realising that I wouldn’t get there before the beginning of the session, I suddenly felt completely calm and stopped hurrying. Completely. I took the headphones out of my pocket, switched on the player with Anton Gorodetsky’s disc in it and walked off to stop a car.
‘It’s time,’ the Inquisitor announced quietly. ‘All those who have not arrived on time will answer for it later, in strict accordance with the terms of the Treaty.’
Everyone present got to their feet. Dark Ones and Light Ones alike. The members of the Watches and the judges. Gesar and Zabulon, who everyone had thought was away from Moscow. The Inquisitor Maxim and the Inquisitors who were there as observers, shrouded in their long loose grey robes. Everyone who had gathered in the turret of the main building of Moscow University. The small, five-sided chamber of the invisible Twilight storey stood on top of the agricultural museum and was used exclusively for holding the infrequent sessions of the Inquisition’s Tribunal. In the post-war years it had been quite common to include Twilight structures in buildings – it was cheaper than putting up with the constant opposition from the state security forces and militia, who were always sticking their noses into other people’s business. There was an excellent view of the scarlet glow of dawn creeping out from behind the horizon and the incredible shimmering streaks of light that had been dancing above the university building, slowly fading, ever since Jean-Michel Jarre’s concert for Moscow’s anniversary celebrations. The Others would be able to see the traces of that laser show for a long time yet, even without entering the Twilight, where colours fade and disappear. Huge numbers of people had gazed in rapture at the colourful show, pouring their emotions into the Twilight.
Maxim, wearing an ordinary business suit, not the loose robes of the other Inquisitors, waved his hand, unfurling in the Twilight a grey canvas covered with letters of red flame. Thirty voices began chanting together:
‘We are the Others. We serve different powers. But in the Twilight there is no difference between the absence of Dark and the absence of Light …’
The immense city and the entire vast country were unaware that almost everyone who decided the fate of Russia was gathered here now, and not in the Kremlin. In a neglected, crowded chamber under the very spire of the Moscow University building, with wooden chairs, light armchairs and even sun-loungers set in the old, thick dust – everyone had brought what they could manage. No one had bothered to bring a table, so there wasn’t one.
The Others are not very prone to cheap rituaclass="underline" a court is action, not spectacle. And so there were no gowns, wigs or tablecloths. Only the grey robes of the observers, but no one really remembered why the Inquisitors sometimes wore those.
‘We limit our rights and our laws. We are the Others …’
The scarlet letters of the Treaty blazed in the semi-darkness, the embodiment of Truth and Justice. And the voices rang out:
‘We are the Others.’
Thirty voices:
‘Time will decide for us.’
After the Treaty had been read, the Tribunal proper began, by tradition, with the least important cases.
Without getting up off his rotating piano stool, a judge, one of the robed Inquisitors, announced in a perfectly ordinary voice, with no special solemnity:
‘Case number one. Poaching by the Dark side. Bring in the guilty party.’
Not even the accused, but the guilty party. Guilt had already been proven. The Witnesses would only help to determine the circumstances and the degree of guilt. And the court would give its verdict. Pitiless and just.
‘Unfortunately not all the witnesses are present. We are missing Vitaly Rogoza, an Other registered in Nikolaev in Ukraine and temporarily registered here in Moscow, who is absent for reasons unknown; and also Andrei Tiunnikov and Ekaterina Sorokina, who were killed in cases that will be considered a little later …’
The trial was brief and strict:
‘Victoria Manguzova, Dark Other, registered in Moscow, is guilty of the offence of unlicensed hunting. The verdict is dematerialisation. Are there any objections or proposed amendments to the verdict from the Watches?’
There were no objections from the Dark Ones and, of course, not from the Light Ones either.
‘The sentence will be carried out immediately,’ said the Inquisitor. He looked at the Light Ones – verdicts were traditionally carried out by members of the Watches.
Ilya stood up and adjusted his glasses. He looked intently at the female vampire, who howled, because she knew there was no escape. There was neither hate nor joy in the magician’s glance. Only concentration. He reached out his hand and touched the registration seal on the vampire’s chest through the Twilight.