‘Not a thing,’ Gesar confirmed.
‘But Hermione …’ said Kesha, glancing at Gesar from under his eyebrows, ‘… that’s Harry Potter’s friend …’
‘I know,’ Gesar said approvingly.
‘She told her parents.’
‘But afterwards, remember, she had to erase their memories,’ Gesar remarked gently. ‘Believe me, it’s best not to say anything at all.’
Yes, after J. K. Rowling’s books the job has become much easier. Children grasp the basic idea without even a blink now, only the absence of Hogwart’s is a serious disappointment for them. Gesar claims that Rowling was commissioned to write her books by the London Watch or, rather, both Watches, and the decision to let her have a strictly controlled amount of information was taken by the Inquisition. Maybe it’s true. Or maybe he’s just joking. For Light Others the ability to joke easily compensates for the impossibility of lying.
‘But I’ll still go to ordinary school?’ Kesha asked, just to make sure, and clearly hoping to hear the answer ‘no’.
‘Of course,’ said Gesar. ‘Ignorant magicians are no good to anyone. You’ll go to our school after your lessons in the ordinary one. But right now … right now you’ll have to live with us for a little while, in the Night Watch. There are rooms there for the staff, they’ll give you one, with a big TV, a games console …’
‘The Internet,’ Olga added.
Kesha turned slightly pale – at ten years old, fright at the prospect of finding yourself somewhere without mummy is far stronger than any joy at the ability to cast spells. But he asked quite firmly: ‘And mummy will let me?’
‘Of course,’ said Olga, nodding. ‘We’ll persuade her. And it’s not for long. A few days … perhaps a week. Then you’ll come back home.’
Zabulon smiled sarcastically, but didn’t say anything. Somehow he didn’t seem in any hurry to leave – apparently he couldn’t get enough of the sight of a genuine Prophet. He and I were standing off to one side, but Gesar and Olga were sitting on the sofa, one on each side of Kesha, singing a duet in praise of the advantages of life as an Other. After the serious fright that Semyon had suffered before we arrived, he was drinking tea in the kitchen with Olga Yurievna. Nothing so very terrible had actually happened to him while we were on our way there. He simply discovered that he’d lost the ability to communicate with anyone by magical means, that he couldn’t probe the surrounding space or divine the future for even a minute ahead. And there was also the sense of impending danger that had been growing with every second. Semyon didn’t know anything about the ‘tiger’ but he had realised that this was no ordinary skirmish between the Watches, that it was something far more serious than that. So he had been standing there with some kind of spell cocked and ready to fire, waiting to see who would reach him first …
‘It’s interesting that I’m a wizard,’ Kesha said indecisively. ‘But … do I have to be one? Can’t I stay human?’
Gesar and Olga exchanged glances over the boy’s head. Zabulon cleared his throat.
‘Yes, you can,’ Gesar admitted, ‘if you want to. Do you want to?’
‘No,’ Kesha said firmly. ‘I just wondered.’
When the catty neighbour had called the boy a dumpling, she’d been pretty close to the truth. He was flabby and round-faced, like Doughnut in the book about Dunno. The skin on his face was lumpy, the way it usually is in older people but only very rarely in children. Parents who have children like that usually say in an apologetic tone: ‘You know, he’s very clever and good-natured.’
As for being good-natured, I didn’t know, although the boy’s aura was good, unambiguously Light. There was nothing there for Zabulon. But as for him being bright – that seemed to be true enough.
‘Is it all because of the plane?’ Kesha continued with his questioning. ‘Because I got frightened?’
‘Yes,’ Gesar said, with a nod. ‘The plane really could have crashed. And Anton’ – Gesar nodded in my direction – ‘realised that you’re a Prophet.’
‘And he saved the plane?’ the boy asked.
‘As you can see, the plane didn’t crash,’ said Gesar, avoiding a direct answer.
‘So I can only predict things? Is that all?’ Kesha asked with evident disappointment.
‘No, certainly not. That’s just the thing that you’ll be best at,’ said Olga, joining in the conversation. ‘It’s like with music. Everybody’s taught to play the piano, even the violinists and the flautists. As a basic training. So you’ll be able to throw fireballs, stop time, make yourself invisible …’
I suddenly felt a keen desire to smoke. I’d only been smoking very rarely just recently, but I still felt calmer with a pack of cigarettes in my pocket. I looked at Zabulon. He was languishing, kneading a long, dark cigarette in his fingers. We glanced at each other and headed for the balcony without saying a word.
This balcony was just the way small balconies in small flats are supposed to be – thoroughly cluttered. There was a sledge and an old child’s bicycle, a collection of empty jam and pickle jars, a large cardboard box full of all sorts of junk and a small plastic case of tools. The box was open and I could see that the hammer and the pliers had a light coating of rust. Well, who stores tools on an open balcony? Ah, these women …
Or maybe I should say: Ah, these men? It’s tough being a single mother. Especially in Russia.
We smoked – Zabulon obligingly held up a little tongue of flame for me, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, and I lit up, accepting his offer quite naturally. I took a deep drag and said: ‘I suppose we’ll have to send his mum off to some holiday resort. Why should she hang about here, if the child’s going to be with us? And that way … she might pick someone up, have a bit of fun …’
‘Send her,’ Zabulon agreed. ‘The Day Watch has no objections.’
‘You’re all heart today,’ I said. ‘And that makes me wonder.’
‘I can afford to be tender-hearted,’ Zabulon laughed. ‘But you, Anton, are embarrassed by your own goodness.’
‘Why so?’
‘Why else would you use those words? “Mum”, “pick someone up”, “a bit of fun” … You vulgarise your own kind suggestion. You feel embarrassed.’
I thought about it and agreed. ‘Yes. I feel embarrassed. These days even good magicians try to appear wicked. Zabulon … tell me, what does that mean – a Twilight Creature?’
‘Purely theoretical,’ laughed Zabulon. ‘Don’t bother your head about it.’
‘No one lives in the Twilight,’ I said.
‘If no one lives there, then they don’t,’ the Dark One agreed simply, and I realised I wouldn’t get any more information out of him.
‘So okay,’ I said, launching my cigarette end into flight from the balcony with a flick of my finger and incinerating it in mid-air with a second flick. ‘Thanks at least for helping. And for not laying claim to the kid.’
‘If he’d been a Battle Magician, I would have laid claim to him all right,’ Zabulon chuckled. ‘The boy isn’t ours, of course, but there are always opportunities … And if he’d been a Clairvoyant, I’d have fought for him then. But a prophet? No, thank you.’
‘You value a Clairvoyant more than a Prophet?’ I asked, amazed.
‘Of course. A Clairvoyant speaks of what might happen – and the future can be changed. A Prophet pronounces the Truth. That which is inevitable. Why would we want to know the inevitable, Anton? If the inevitable is bad, there’s no point in upsetting yourself sooner than necessary. And if it’s good – then let it come as a pleasant surprise. With great wisdom comes great sorrow.’ Zabulon looked at the cigarette in his hand. ‘Be seeing you, Light One …’