‘Boris Ignatievich, what really happened down there?’
‘Really? I don’t know. We didn’t arrange any provocations, you can trust me on that. I sent Igor on holiday because the lad had drained himself completely. Do you know how good working in a young pioneer camp is for restoring your powers? Smiling children’s faces, happy laughter, cheerful voices …’ Gesar’s voice had warmed so much that Anton was expecting the serious boss of the Night Watch to lick his lips and start purring at any moment. But Gesar broke off and then continued: ‘Either our accusation is just, and then there’s a chance of saving Igor. Or everything that happened was just a tragic coincidence. In that case, there’s nothing the Inquisition can accuse us of, but Igor won’t survive the business. He’s punishing himself for the death of that boy … and Alisa.’
‘What does Alisa matter?’
‘He really did fall in love with her … yet another half-baked Other.’ Gesar watched as the expression on Anton’s face changed and nodded. ‘Yes, he fell in love, no doubt about it. So, you’re going to Prague. As our representative at the Tribunal. Defender and prosecutor in the same person. I’ll give you all the necessary documentation in a moment.’
‘Ah … but …’ Anton was confused. ‘I don’t have any experience!’
‘Nobody has. But you’ll acquire it. My heart tells me that as things develop there are going to be more and more of these … legal conflicts. Instead of honest battle and open combat. And don’t you look so worried, I’ll probably come to Prague for when the session starts. Possibly even with Olga and Svetlana.’
‘Why bring Svetlana?’
‘Perhaps we’ll be able to prove that Svetlana lost her powers because of a provocation by the Dark Ones and receive permission to restore her.’
‘How?’
‘The same way as we did with Igor. The problem isn’t that Svetlana can’t restore her powers rapidly in just a few months. She can! The problem is that I can obtain permission to heal a second-or third-grade magician, but restoring the powers of a Great Enchantress is an extreme case. To do that, we need direct permission from the Inquisition. And not the Moscow branch, it has to be the European Office at least.’
Gesar raised his jug and smiled.
‘Prosit, Anton. Let’s drink to your success.’
‘Boris Ignatievich, even now you’re still not telling me everything,’ Anton almost shouted.
‘No, I’m not. Although I’ve already told you more than I ought to. But if you really want to lie awake all night with insomnia …’ Gesar thought carefully. ‘Then put together everything that’s happened over the last year. The Chalk of Destiny[1] the death of Alisa Donnikova, the appearance of the Mirror, those ludicrous buffoons the Regin Brothers and Fáfnir’s Talon … and the hysteria everywhere over the end of the second millennium.’
‘But there isn’t a single thread connecting all these things,’ Anton blurted out.
‘Then sleep well,’ Gesar said with a smile.
Late December is a time of frivolity and bustle. A time of frantic preparation for the holidays, a time for presents and drinking champagne with colleagues at work, even during the working day. A time of bright lights in the streets, a time for New Year tree bazaars. With the approach of Christmas and the New Year, even the eternal confrontation between the Others dies down, when Light Ones and Dark Ones suddenly slip into a short-lived dreamy state and sometimes even feel like forgiving their rivals their old offences. The less serious and deeply felt ones, at least.
Edgar, the Dark Magician, was late for a daily operational briefing for the first time since he had moved to the Russian capital from Estonia. The reason was trivial, but any self-respecting magician would have been ashamed to admit it.
Edgar had been feeding the ducks at the pond on Chistoprudny Boulevard. He’d surrendered completely to the memories that had suddenly come flooding back and completely forgotten the time. He’d got lost in his dreams, like a teenage kid after a glass of beer. And when he finally surfaced, he realised the briefing had already begun.
If age teaches you anything, then one of its lessons is certainly not to hurry if you’re already late. So Edgar didn’t rush off to flag down a car or make a headlong dash for the metro; he calmly finished crumbling the bun he’d bought for the mallards darting nimbly about at the edge of the unfrozen patch of water, or even scrambling across the ice, and only then set off towards the Chistye Prudy metro station, with the Christmas snow crunching cheerfully under his shoes.
Twenty minutes later Edgar arrived at the Day Watch office in no hurry and with his dignity intact. The elderly vampire couple on watch were decorating the New Year tree. They greeted Edgar as they were supposed to – deferentially and respectfully.
‘The chief’s been asking for you,’ the vampire husband told him. ‘He said to go and see him as soon as you turn up.’
‘Thank you, Filippich,’ said Edgar. ‘Is he in his office?’
‘He is now.’
‘Uhuh. Enjoy the holiday.’
‘And you, Edgar.’
Edgar took the lift to the top floors and sent Zabulon the sign of Hojd through the Twilight.
‘Come in,’ Zabulon replied.
The chief of the Day Watch required a strict observance of hierarchical discipline from his subordinates. But at the same time he somehow managed both to respect the freedom of even the shabbiest werewolf security guard and to trust the senior Watch magicians. He didn’t question Edgar directly about why he’d missed the daily briefing. If he’d missed it, there must have been a good reason.
But there hadn’t been any good reason. And so Edgar thought he’d better simply tell Zabulon the way it was and leave it at that. Especially since there hadn’t been any serious operations planned for today; if a difficult situation had come up they would have reached out to him through the Twilight or simply called him on his mobile, so he wasn’t feeling particularly guilty.
‘Good evening, chief.’
‘Good evening, Edgar. How do you like this weather?’
‘Snow and no wind. I like it. I’m sorry I missed the planning meeting, chief. There wasn’t anything urgent, was there?’
‘No. But there will be now.’
Zabulon was dressed as usual in his favourite grey suit and grey shirt. Edgar thought he’d never seen the boss dressed any other way. Always a suit and a grey shirt when he was in the ordinary world. And without any clothes at all in his Twilight form.
‘Would you believe it, chief, I was daydreaming? Walking along the boulevard at Chistye Prudy remembering Samara and nineteen-twelve.’
Zabulon gave a faint smile and sang quietly:
‘The photo studio … Samara wrapped in mist again, it’s nineteen-twelve …’
The chief of the Day Watch had a clear, resonant baritone voice. Even though the Dark Magicians had known each other for many years, it was the first time Edgar had ever heard Zabulon sing.
‘Were you feeding the ducks?’ Zabulon asked.
‘Yes.’
Zabulon sighed as he too briefly indulged his memories. Very briefly Literally for half a minute.
‘Okay Edgar. Tomorrow you fly to Prague.’
‘For the Tribunal?’
‘Yes. It’s going to hear several cases, including Alisa’s murder and the Regin Brothers’ case.’
‘But weren’t they going to release them tomorrow?’ Edgar asked in surprise. ‘Or have the Light Ones changed their minds?’