‘Well, good luck,’ said the American, finally deciding to move on. ‘Some day I’ll fly into Moscow to see you, Watchman!’
‘Only not the way you flew into Kosovo.’ This time Anton couldn’t stop himself. But Captain Christian Vanover Jr didn’t take offence. On the contrary, he smiled his broad smile and said:
‘No, I don’t think it will come to that, do you? May the Light be with you, Watchman!’
Anton followed the American out of the Twilight. Christian’s girl hadn’t noticed a thing. He took her by the arm and winked at Anton.
‘And may the force be with you,’ Anton muttered in Russian.
That was a stroke of bad luck. His good mood had completely melted away, like a lump of ice on a hot skillet.
He could tell himself a thousand times over that no arguments and disputes between states had anything to do with the concerns of the Light and the Dark. He could accept that in a war this airman-magician was far more likely not to aim his bombs at civilians. But even so.
Just how could he manage to go out on bombing raids and drop his explosives on people’s heads, and still remain a Light One? Because he was a Light One, no doubt about that. But he almost certainly had human lives on his conscience. How did he manage not to fall back into the Twilight? What incredible faith he must have in his own righteousness, to be able to combine active military service and the cause of the Light.
Anton entered the Black Eagle in a melancholy mood.
He immediately spotted Christian Vanover’s fellow airmen. About ten of them, all ordinary human beings. They were sitting at a long table, eating goulash and drinking Sprite.
They really were drinking Sprite!
In a Czech beer bar. On holiday.
And not because they were teetotallers. There were empty beer bottles on the table, American Budweiser, which Anton would only have considered drinking if he was dying of thirst in a desert.
Anton walked past the Americans. There were no more free tables – another stroke of bad luck. But there was someone over there sitting on his own, maybe he could join him.
The person at the table looked up – and started. Anton did the same.
It was Edgar.
CHAPTER 3
ONE THING the Dark Ones certainly had was a lust for life. Anton had never had any doubt about that. He only had to look at the way Edgar was dealing with that tasty-looking leg of pork that no dietician would ever have approved, larding it generously with mustard – the kind the Russians liked, of course, sweetish, but still with a sharp bite – and horseradish too, and swilling it down with plentiful quantities of beer.
Anton had always found that astonishing. He had always been on perfectly friendly terms with his vampire neighbours, and even they sometimes looked more full of the joy of life than the Light Magicians. The higher magicians, that was – those whose powers were at Anton’s level still hadn’t finished ‘playing at people’.
The unpleasant thing about it was that their love of life usually didn’t extend beyond themselves.
Anton lifted his heavy mug of Budvar and muttered:
‘Prosit.’
It was a good thing the Czechs didn’t have the custom of clinking glasses. Anton wouldn’t have liked to clink glasses with a Dark One.
‘Prosit,’ Edgar replied. He drained half of his mug in two swallows, savouring the beer, and wiped the foam off his upper lip. ‘That’s good.’
‘It is,’ Anton agreed, although he was still feeling tense. No, of course there was nothing reprehensible about them drinking beer together like this. The rules of the Night Watch didn’t prohibit contact with Dark Ones; on the contrary, if a member of the Watch was confident that he was safe, it was welcomed. You never knew what you might find out, you might even be able to influence a Dark One. Not turn him to the Light, of course, but at least stop him pulling his next lousy trick. Anton surprised himself by saying: ‘It’s nice to find at least one thing we can agree on.’
‘Yes,’ said Edgar, trying to speak amicably and politely, so that the Light One wouldn’t blow his top over some imaginary insult or get suspicious for no reason. ‘Czech beer in Moscow and Czech beer in Prague are two different things.’
Gorodetsky nodded.
‘Yes. Especially when you compare it with bottled beer. Czech beer in bottles is the corpse of real beer in a glass coffin.’
Edgar smiled in agreement and remarked:
‘Somehow the rest of Eastern Europe seems to have lost the talent for brewing beer.’
‘Even Estonia?’ Anton asked.
Edgar shrugged. These Light Ones could never let slip a chance for a jibe.
‘Our beer’s good. But it’s not exceptional. Pretty much like in Russia.’
Anton frowned, as if he’d just remembered the taste of the beer back home. But he said something quite different:
‘I was in Hungary this summer. I drank Hungarian beer, Dreher. Almost the only kind they have.’
‘And?’
‘I’d have been better off drinking sour Baltika.’
Edgar laughed. Even when he strained his memory, he couldn’t remember a single brand of Hungarian beer. But then, if Anton thought so poorly of it, it was better not to remember. Anton was a good judge of beer, an excellent judge, in fact. The Light Ones were fond of the pleasures of the flesh – you had to give them that.
‘And these … valiant warriors … drinking their slops from back home,’ said Anton, nodding towards the Americans. ‘Peace-makers … Goering’s aces.’
Both Edgar and Anton had finished their vepřová kýta pcěně long ago. They’d both drunk enough beer to set their eyes aglow and their voices were growing louder and more relaxed.
‘Why Goering?’ Edgar asked in surprise. ‘They’re not krauts, they’re Americans.’
Anton explained patiently, as if he were talking to a child.
‘Aces of the US Air Force doesn’t sound right. Do you know any short, snappy term for the US Air Force?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘All right, then. They can be Clinton’s aces. At least the Germans knew they were fighting airmen like themselves, but this crowd have dropped bombs on villages where the only defence is a Second World War anti-aircraft gun. And they get medals for it, too. But you just try asking them if there’s anything in their lives they hold sacred. They still think they were the ones who liberated Prague.’
‘Sacred?’ Edgar echoed with a laugh. ‘Why would they need to hold anything sacred? They’re soldiers.’
‘You know, Other, it seems to me that even soldiers should still be human beings first and foremost. And human beings need something sacred to cherish in their souls.’
‘First you need to have a soul. The sacred bit comes later. Oh! Now we can ask one of them!’
One of the American airmen, a guy with rosy cheeks, his uniform glittering with braid and various kinds of trimmings, was trying to squeeze past their table. A fresh strawberries and cream complexion, the pride of Texas or Oklahoma. He was probably on his way back from the gents.
‘Excuse me, officer! Do you mind if I ask you a question?’ Edgar said to him in good English. ‘Is there anything in your life that you regard as sacred? Anything at all?’
The American stopped as if he’d stumbled over something. His instinct told him that a soldier of the very finest country in the world had to rise to the challenge and give a worthy reply He thought, his face reflecting the painful workings of his mind until suddenly it lit up. Inspiration. A proud smile spread across his face.