‘They believe that magic will simply change. And they hope that their own personal Power will be increased in the process. There are radical Light Ones, too. Today, for instance, you were working with a lad who wanted to make people happy by making the human authorities super-moral. That’s a standard situation, isn’t it? But there are other Light Ones who are tormented by the awareness of their own Power. And they’d like it if there was no magic, if people lived without any wizardry at all!’
‘But do many of them know that the Twilight can be destroyed – and who is capable of doing it?’
‘Fortunately for you and Nadya, not many,’ Gesar said drily. ‘Or they would try to influence her.’
‘So what should I do?’ I asked. Suddenly I felt like what I really was – despite the rank of Higher One that had come my way by chance: a novice Magician, a rank-and-file Other, the pupil of a wise Magician.
‘Why, nothing, Anton,’ said Gesar, with a careless gesture. ‘Only try not to hide anything else from me, all right? And don’t let anyone know anything. I don’t think the Tiger’s going to come for us. He realises that we won’t reveal the prophecy to anyone. And even if Arina does reveal it, it’s still only possible, not inevitable.’
‘Are you going to hunt for her?’
‘Not with any serious commitment,’ Gesar said, shrugging. ‘If you get a chance, give her my advice. Either to go back to sleep again, for ten or twelve years or thereabouts. Or turn herself in. She could turn herself in to me, by the way. I’d try to protect her against the Inquisition and obtain the mildest possible sentence.’
I nodded.
‘Thank you, Boris Ignatievich.’
‘I can’t put a thank-you in my pocket,’ he growled and glanced at the screen of his computer. ‘All right, off you go … conspirator. I’ve got work to do.’
‘By the way, about pockets …’ I said, suddenly remembering. ‘Tell me, how much money can I withdraw with my bank card?’
‘That depends on your rank,’ said Gesar, without looking at me. ‘Anton, this is all nonsense, you should understand that.’
‘It can’t be total nonsense,’ I said stubbornly. ‘Yesterday I went up to an ATM …’
‘Anton, tell me: what value do you think human money has in an organisation with even one Fourth- or Fifth-Level Clairvoyant?’ Gesar asked.
‘None,’ I answered after a moment’s thought.
‘That’s the whole point. Simply from fluctuations in exchange rates and share values, even in the most stable of years, the Watches can earn any amount of money they like. And since a normal Other isn’t interested in the human attributes of wealth and prosperity, I can’t see any point in limiting my staff members’ access. Not even Dark Others suffer from that kind of vanity.’
‘But it seems kind of—’ I began.
‘Do you want a Bentley?’ Gesar asked, looking up at me with a stony stare.
‘What the hell for?’ I asked in amazement. ‘To attract the curses of the envious people all around me? I wouldn’t mind buying some kind of Japanese four-by-four, though. We drove to the dacha in the summer: the road was thick with mud and we got stuck.’
‘Then buy one,’ Gesar said blithely. ‘The natural circulation of money stimulates economic activity, and is ultimately beneficial to people. And especially since Japan has been hit by an earthquake – you’ll be helping them.’
‘Boss, tell me honestly, will you – can you justify absolutely anything you like from the perspective of goodness and justice?’ I asked.
Gesar thought for a moment. He scratched the tip of his nose.
‘Basically, probably yes. But don’t you fret about that. It comes to everybody with age.’
At one o’clock I went to the canteen. I didn’t really feel like eating – the events of the morning must have killed my appetite. I just picked at my chicken Kiev and left most of it. Our chef Aunty Klava gave me a reproachful glance as she surveyed the dining hall from the serving hatch, so I had to go through a whole pantomime to demonstrate that my trouser belt would barely close, I was really getting out of shape and that was the only reason I hadn’t eaten up my full portion. Aunty Klava was appeased. I poured myself a glass of her remarkable cranberry mors, downed it in one, took another and sat back down at my table. The canteen was almost empty: after all, it was the middle of the day and the operations staff were either catching up on their sleep or spending time with their families – those who had them, that is. In another hour or two people would start congregating for lunch.
‘Is the mors good, Anton?’ Klava called to me across the canteen.
‘Great!’ I declared quite sincerely, and the chef smiled in delight.
You know, there’s something to all those quack theories about the influence a name has on a person’s character, after all. All those Andreis, Alexanders and Sergeis or Lenas, Mashas and Natashas can be absolutely anybody at all. But once a name deviates just a little bit from the perennially popular list, it starts to have an influence.
With the name Klava, for instance, it’s good to be a chef. Not necessarily fat, but sturdy. And from the age of twenty-five you’ll be known as ‘Aunty Klava’. Because ‘Aunty’ and ‘Klava’ are inseparable somehow.
But how does the name ‘Anton’ influence someone, for instance?
I pondered for a moment, recalling the Antons I had known. One Anton, for example, was a robust, amiable individual, a good family man and conscientious professional. And at the same time an inveterate practical joker and composer of scabrous verse. But then another Anton had been a bookworm, entirely unsuited for real life.
So probably the name Anton wasn’t rare enough to influence people at all.
I picked up my plate and empty glasses, so as to take them over to the sink for washing, but Aunty Klava came across without making a sound and took them out of my hands.
‘Go on, off you go and work. The idea of it, Great Ones carrying dirty dishes around …’
‘I’m not a Great One,’ I muttered.
‘A Higher One, are you?’ Klava asked, and then continued: ‘You are, and that means you’ll be a Great One. Off you go.’
I set off to my office, feeling awkward. And about ten metres before I reached the door I heard the mobile phone that I had forgotten on the desk ringing.
And I suddenly had an ominous kind of feeling.
I lengthened my stride, bounded up to the door and hastily unlocked it. Damn, what kind of stupid habit was that? Why would I want to lock my door in the Night Watch, when there weren’t any outsiders here? But all the same I did it …
The phone was lying on the desk, still ringing. Stubbornly and insistently. Somehow it was clear that it wouldn’t carry on ringing for long – and this call was very important for whoever was making it.
But, at the same time, I didn’t want to answer it.
‘Hello,’ I said, raising the phone to my ear.
‘Antoine!’ Erasmus Darwin exclaimed with genuine feeling that I could sense through all the digital relay stations, fibre-optic cables and satellites suspended in the sky that bridged the two and a half thousand kilometres between us. ‘I am exceedingly glad to hear your voice! I hope you are presently in good health and a positive frame of mind?’
‘Thank you, Erasmus,’ I replied, sitting on the edge of the desk. ‘Yes, I am in good health and a positive frame of mind.’
‘I am most gratified to hear that,’ said Erasmus. ‘Are you presently in Muscovy, or has duty carried you further afield to regions unknown?’
‘Yes, I’m in Moscow,’ I confessed.
I didn’t like the way Erasmus was talking. He was far too agitated. Speaking just a little bit more hastily than usual. And I could hear some kind of noise in the background. Not loud, but unpleasant.