Day Watch

Chapter five

–«¦»-

Raivo began walking around the hotel room, gesticulating with untypical fervor.

"I still think there's trouble ahead! We have no right to count on assistance from the Day Watch of Moscow, of Prague, or Helsinki -from any of them."

"But that Dark One promised to help us…" Yari objected.

Raivo frowned and waved his hands through the air picturesquely. "He promised. Yes, of course he did. And who was it who promised our brothers that Fafnir would be resurrected?"

"It seems to me," Yukha said in a quiet voice, "that it would have been far more rational to serve the great cause of Fafnir's resurrection than actually try to resurrect the ancient magician…"

There was a moment's silence.

"Yukha…" Yari said reproachfully. "You… you can't just say that…"

"Why can't I? The times when magicians used to play without any rules are long gone. Do you want a global cataclysm?"

"But our…"

"Our decrepit leaders were out of their minds. And that's why they were duped by somebody's promises. That's why they were killed in Berne… And we won't get any help-Raivo's right about that. Those who have departed can't be brought back.

Pasi believed too-and where's Pasi now? Dematerialized in the Twilight by Gesar."

The telephone on the table rang. Clearly reluctant to stop talking, Yukha picked up the receiver. "Yes."

The next moment he leapt in the air, dropping his glass of Czech beer. He shouted: "You? You… where are you calling from? What?"

He listened for a minute, with the expression on his face growing ever more joyful and confused. The expression of a man given good news after he has already braced himself to hear bad news and even managed to infect everyone else with his own pessimism. Finally Yukha put the phone down and whispered:

"Brothers…"

Anton couldn't decide if they'd been right or wrong to open the second bottle of vodka. On the one hand, it seemed like they were getting close to the essential truth of what was going on… but on the other, it was getting harder and harder to discuss the problem. For instance, Igor had become extremely skeptical, and he just couldn't understand what Anton was trying to demonstrate to him.

"Igor, in such a complicated setup, if even one episode doesn't fit in right, the whole thing collapses. There had to be a reason. Maybe you represented some kind of obstacle to Zabulon's plans?"

"Me?" Igor gave a bitter laugh. "Don't be silly. I'm an ordinary field operative. Third level… second level at a stretch… with no special abilities and no prospects. I couldn't have stood up against the Mirror. I don't know, Anton."

"But you have an idea about something," Anton muttered. He poured some vodka, paused for a second, and asked, "Igor, was there something between you and Svetlana?"

"No," Igor answered sharply. "No, and don't even think about it. There wasn't anything, there isn't, and there won't be. And if you're thinking I was supposed to be the father of the future Messiah…" He burst out laughing.

"It was just an idea…" Anton muttered, feeling like a total idiot.

"Anton, think about it… that's your jealousy speaking, not your head, I'm sorry! The ordinary human process of reproduction has nothing to do with all this. If Svetlana's Book of Destiny has been rewritten, if she has to be the mother of the new Messiah-that's a process that involves subtle matter, the energetics of the Light and the Darkness, the fundamental substance of the universe. What difference does it make who…" -he faltered for a moment and went on-"… happens to be the biological father? It even depends on Svetlana only to a certain extent. No, that's nonsense. The only person Zabulon has to be afraid of is Svetlana."

"Then I don't see the point in eliminating you…"

"Neither do I. But there probably is one…"

They drank in silence, without clinking glasses. And then they both began staring at the sheet of paper.

"Let's start with the basics," said Anton, noticing that he was slurring his words a little. "So, a year and a half ago Gesar and Olga rewrote Svetlana's destiny? And now she's supposed to give birth to a Messiah?"

"Yes, that's the way it looks."

"And Zabulon tried to use the appearance of the Mirror to destroy her, but he failed…"

"Yes, that's it…"

"Okay, let's leave your part in all this aside for the moment… What could Zabulon's next move be? Now, when Svetlana has no magic powers at all and is defenseless?"

"She's not defenseless," said Igor, wagging his finger at Anton. "Why do you say that? I'm sure she's been given the finest possible protection. And in any case, to attack her is a violation of the Treaty. The Dark Ones are fond of their own skins, no one wants to face dematerialization…"

"What could his response be? Only one…"

"The appearance of an Antichrist, the only one capable of standing against the Messiah."

"And humanity is expecting the appearance of the Antichrist with no less eagerness," Anton exclaimed, "thanks to mass culture."

"Have you got a Bible?" Igor asked unexpectedly.

"With me? No, of course not…"

"Just a moment…" said Igor. He walked quickly, if not entirely steadily, into the other room and came back with a small, thick book. He gave Anton a rather embarrassed look and said, "Of course, I'm an atheist. But the Bible… you understand. Now…"

"Igor," said Anton, putting his hand on the book, "it won't help us. Why don't we try thinking logically?"

"All right," Igor agreed readily, setting the Holy Writ aside with some relief.

"Zabulon wants to live too. He doesn't want an Apocalypse… I hope. He needs a figure equal in Power to a Messiah of the Light."

"Fafnir…" Igor said thoughtfully. "Fafnir?"

"A powerful Dark magician…" Anton agreed. "But he's not the Antichrist."

"Six six six!" said Igor, squirming in his chair. "Come on, let's count what the letters in the name Fafnir add up to!"

"I don't remember how the name Fafnir is written in the original. But if we write it in Russian, then…" Anton thought for a moment "… then it's eighty-eight! Nothing like six hundred sixty-six."

"But eighty-eight is a strange kind of number too," said Igor, looking at Anton with blazing eyes. "Just think about it. Not eighty-seven. Not eighty-nine. Exactly eighty-eight. It's suspicious!"

"It is…" Anton agreed. The number really had begun to seem suspicious to him for some reason. "And it probably is possible to resurrect Fafnir, to bring him back from the Twilight… But…"

"Not just to resurrect him," said Igor. "This whole business depends on people, right? On their expectations, on their readiness to believe! And if Fafnir's return to life can be staged in the appropriate way, the insane magician can be made into an insane anti-Messiah."

"But how?"

"With those four horsemen of the Apocalypse… the emergence of the beast from the sea…"

Igor's eyes suddenly glazed over. "Anton, Fafnir was supposedly buried at sea! What if Alisa and that boy, Makar, dying in the sea was some kind of sacrifice… what a release of Dark Power…"

Anton shook his head and wiped his sweaty forehead. "Igor, maybe we've had too much to drink? Yes, I agree that Gesar's intending to use… could use Svetlana as the mother of a new Messiah… a reincarnation of Christ to some extent… or just a magician of unprecedented Power… It looks very much that way. And to counter that, Zabulon might try to come up with a figure of equal Power, but tying all this up with Armageddon, the Bible, and religion-that's pushing things too far!"

"What about the year 2000?" Anton almost shouted. "You understand? Magicians might intend to do one thing, but human dreams and fears shape reality in their own way. So the figures who appear will possess all the required qualities. Let's go!"

"Where?"

"To get some vodka. In the restaurant."

Anton sighed and glanced at the bottle. Yes, it really was empty.

"Why don't we just call and order some?"

"Oh no, I feel like a walk."

Anton stood up and put the amulet in his pocket. He nodded. "Okay, let's go…"

There was no one at the elevators, but they had to wait for a long time. Igor leaned against the wall and declaimed. "Look, this is how Zabulon can do it… Fafnir's Talon is taken out of the vault…"

"How?"

"What does it matter how? If they've stolen it once, they'll manage it somehow. Then they carry out the magical operation, plus staging all the mythological notions about the Apocalypse. All those locusts… the star Wormwood… the four horses…"

"I can just see Zabulon leading four horses by the reins…"

"He doesn't need any horses!" Igor said with a frown. "You know as well as I do what the magic of appearances can do. For instance, let's take four people, or better still-four Dark Others. One from Asia-he can be the red horse, one black-skinned-he can be the black horse, the third a European-he can be the white horse, and one, let's say, Scandinavian-the pale horse… We put them on wooden toy horses…"

The door of the elevator opened and Anton froze.

Staring out at the Light Ones in fright from the mirror-lined box were the Regin Brothers. The adopted children of the sect: the African, the Chinese, and the Ukrainian. Of course, where else would they be but in this hotel? They'd come for the Inquisition Tribunal too… Anton thought in a slow, leisurely way that the fourth fighter commando had been a Scandinavian.

It was a good thing he wasn't around any longer…

Igor seemed to have had the same thought. He muttered, "Three of them…"

In the deathly silence the doors of the elevator began to close. But Yukha Mustajoki suddenly stepped forward and stuck his foot between them, just where the sensor was. The doors reluctantly parted again.

"I'd like to thank the Night Watch of Moscow," he said unexpectedly. He was obviously agitated, but trying to maintain his dignity. "It was very humane."

"What was?" asked Anton.

"To spare Pasi Ollikainen. We… we appreciate the fact that he's still alive."

"Where is he?" exclaimed Anton.

"Downstairs… in the bar…" said Yukha, gaping in surprise at the two Light magicians.

"Four horses…" Igor said in a hollow voice. "Four horses. Four horses!"

Mustajoki staggered back rapidly and exchanged puzzled glances with his comrades.

The Light magicians were left alone.

"It all fits," said Igor, turning to Anton. "You see? Everything!"

"Hang on…"

Anton concentrated, remembering the movements. He raised his right hand, made a pass in front of Igor's face, then pulled his hand sharply downward and back up again, curving his fingers and cupping his hand.

"Damn you…" Igor groaned in a choking voice and went dashing for his suite. Anton followed him slowly. He looked at Igor's hunched-over back through the open door of the toilet and reached out to him through the Twilight. Igor began groaning.

The sobering-up spell isn't very complicated, but it's not very pleasant for the person it's cast on.

Two minutes later Igor came out of the bathroom. With his hair wet, his eyes sunk into his head and looking as pale as death.

"A pale horse…" Anton muttered. "Okay… Now you do it to me."

Igor eagerly made the passes, and then Anton leaned down over the toilet bowl. A few minutes later, after he'd washed his face and drunk some nasty-tasting water from the tap (the thirst had hit him immediately), he walked back into the room. Igor was already clearing away the remains of their drinking session. He looked at Anton and said mockingly, "A black horse…"

Anton went over to the refrigerator, took out several bottles of mineral water, pulled the top off one, and collapsed into a chair.

Igor took a second bottle from him. They drank water for a while in blissful silence. Then Igor admitted guiltily, "Yes… we got plastered."

"Toy horses!" said Anton. He smashed his fist down on the table and swore. "No, it's shameful, the nonsense we thought up."

"It all seemed very logical somehow," Igor said in an embarrassed voice. "Those damned Brothers… so the fourth one's alive too."

"He must be," Anton said with a shrug. "All I knew was that Gesar went after him in the Twilight and caught up with him…"

"Well, of course… why would he want to kill a suspect? He handed him over to the Inquisition. Probably right there in the Twilight. Anton, maybe we were right after all?"

"Are you still a bit tipsy?" Anton asked.

"No, I'm totally sober now… damn, I can't even get drunk properly! Yes, it's all nonsense. Zabulon wouldn't try to drag some ancient magician back out of the Twilight. What good would that do him? And as for staging the end of the world, creating an Antichrist…"

"And anyway, Fafnir wouldn't do for the job," Anton said. "He's not up to it. Wouldn't even come close."

"So all that stuff we came up with is nonsense?"

Anton looked at the sheet of paper, with its grease spots from salami and wet rings from their glasses. When had they managed to mess it up? He thought they'd been very careful.

"I'm afraid the bit about Svetlana isn't nonsense. But as for all the rest… Why did we get so excited over the number eighty-eight? What's so mystical about that?"

"It's kind of smooth and rounded, it reads the same in both directions…" Igor waved his hand through the air and burst into laughter. "Yes, you're right. It's drunken nonsense."

Anton picked up a felt-tip pen that had fallen on the floor and crossed out the circle with "Regin Brothers" written inside it. He said:

"They're not in the game. It looks like they completed their mission by charging the Mirror with Power. This is what we should be interested in, Igor…"

Igor looked at the circle with his own name in it. He sighed.

"I'd be glad to believe in my own special mission. To think I'd done something to really upset Zabulon and the Day Watch. But…" He spread his hands helplessly.

"Igor, you're the key," said Anton. "Do you understand? If we can understand why Zabulon is trying to get rid of you in order to fight Svetlana, then we'll win. If we can't, then the game's his."

"There's Gesar too. And from what I hear, he's coming this morning."

"We'd better try to manage without him," said Anton, sensing the note of irritation in his own voice. "His decisions are too… too global."

Edgar poured himself some more flat champagne, took a swallow, grimaced, and thought wryly: Only aristocrats and degenerates drink champagne in the morning. And you, my dear fellow, don't look much like an aristocrat…

The old watchman's habit of thinking all the time, in any situation, had not abandoned Edgar even during his nocturnal amusements. Last night Edgar had carried on thinking about what the leaders of the Moscow Watches were planning for this Christmas… but that hadn't prevented him from enjoying what he was doing.

Right, then, Edgar thought. What have we got… We need to sort everything out neatly. Right down to the final detail.

What could Zabulon squeeze out of the present situation? Edgar needed to construct a mental model of his chief.

A Tribunal that had drawn in forces from both Watches. Not the most important ones, but by no means the lowest either. Two magicians, both from the top ten. Edgar and Anton. There would be observers too. There was no doubt about that. And there was no doubt that during the actual session of the Tribunal neither side would make any moves-they would be haggling to extract some advantage for themselves from the indifferent and unbiased Inquisition.

But was it indifferent? Edgar had no doubts about its being unbiased. He'd lived a long time as an Other, and never, not even once had he had even the shadow of a doubt concerning the actions of the Inquisition. The servants of the Treaty had always been cool and decisive. Someone had once said that the Inquisition didn't judge who was in the right and who was in the wrong, but who had violated the Treaty. That was the essential world view of any Inquisitor. Edgar had matured enough to understand that, but he still didn't understand what it was that made the Inquisition act that way and not any other.

He wondered if the Higher Magicians understood it. Gesar and Zabulon.

So, the Tribunal. The Light magician Igor Teplov could either be acquitted (which was not desirable) or found guilty. In the first case, the Night Watch would keep a third-level magician who was temporarily unfit for combat, but still powerful and, more important, highly experienced. Edgar had come up against Teplov before that battle in South Butovo, although only in passing, immediately after the war in the memorable operation Ashes of Belozersk. Back then the Moscow and Tallinn watches had operated in the most surprising places, such as the Vologda region. They didn't have enough men… Or rather, Others. The Dark Ones and the Light Ones were both short of numbers.

The other option was that the Night Watch would lose the magician forever. The question was: So what? Igor Teplov was not who he seemed to be. Or rather, there was something about him that was only obvious to top-flight magicians. All in all, it looked very much as if Zabulon was stubbornly and consistently aiming at two goals in the enemy's camp: Igor Teplov and Svetlana Nazarova. And in doing that he had been quite willing to sacrifice his own love, Alisa. Edgar still hadn't made out any logical connection between the battle in Butovo, the duel at the Artek camp, and the rather confused events that had accompanied the Dark Mirror's visit. But for him it was enough to sense very clearly that there was one. There was definitely a single thread running through all these battles and intrigues, connecting them all together, and it led straight back into Zabulon's hand.

All right, any attempt to eliminate a future Great Enchantress was quite justified and understandable. But why had Zabulon started scheming against the magician Igor? Why him especially? And why right now, and not earlier, when he was weaker and more careless?

There was only one answer that fit: Igor had only become dangerous after Svetlana had joined the ranks of the Night Watch.

All right. Let's move on.

The resurrection of Fafnir. You couldn't imagine a better time and place than the ones chosen: on the eve of the year 2000, in the center of European necromancy. How was this connected with the Tribunal and the Teplov-Donnikova case?

That was the problem.

Edgar sipped gloomily at his champagne, thinking that he was very short of time-he only had until the evening. So he took the only possible decision: to pay a visit to the local Day Watch office right away and request all available information about the duel between Siegfried and Fafnir, and also study the relevant section of the Necronomicon.

Edgar was a powerful enough magician to know about the mechanism for the resurrection of a great Dark One and understand which of the necessary conditions could be met at present and which couldn't.

The German girl was still sleeping serenely: Edgar took pity on her and didn't wake her up. He washed, shaved, and got dressed, gently touched her sleeping mind, and went out into the morning snow of Prague.

The Day Watch office was located on Vyshegrad, right beside the Valtava River, in the three-story brick building of a private house with a water pump that clearly still worked even though it was so old. The handle of the pump was like a twisted, pointing finger. Following tradition, Edgar got out of his taxi some distance away to give his colleagues a chance to spot him and decide what to do, if anything.

His colleagues were on the ball-they spotted Edgar about three hundred meters from the door. He felt a Light touch on his aura and opened himself up-exactly enough for the magician who was scanning him to realize that a Dark One was approaching, a Dark magician, a second-level Dark magician, coming on business. Just like that, increasing the dose of information each time.

Of course, Prague was a European capital, but it wasn't Moscow. The Beskud on duty-the only guard, as it happened, gave Edgar a toothy smile.

Another Beskud, Edgar thought, surprised. Are they more common in Prague then? This is already the second one…

There were only six Beskuds registered on the territory of the former USSR: two in Turkmenia and one each in the Crimea, Belorussia, Yakutia, and Kamchatka. Edgar knew that for certain, because fifteen years earlier he had a case outside Estonia in which all six of them had testified as witnesses.

The Beskud's Twilight image was almost classical.

"Greetings, colleague!"

"Good morning."

Of course, in the Twilight there were no language barriers.

"What brings you to our bastion? Business? Or simply a courtesy visit?"

"Business. Where's your archive here?"

"The second floor down, and then you'll see for yourself."

The second floor down, thought Edgar. So they have a multilevel basement… "Thank you. So can I go on down?"

"Of course. A Dark One is free to go wherever he wants, isn't that so?"

Edgar sighed. That was right, but not entirely…

"The elevator's over that way," the Beskud told him.

"Thank you," Edgar said again and set off in the direction indicated.

A very, very old elevator took him down to two floors below street level. And that wasn't the deepest level: There were another five hidden under the ground. The Prague Watch was certainly firmly established!

The vestibule in front of the elevator was absolutely tiny: four meters by four. There was a door on the left and one on the right; the plaque on one said "Library" and the plaque on the other said "Computer Room."

Let's start with the library, thought Edgar. In Fafnir's and Al-Hazred's time there weren't any computers… at least not in the modern meaning of the word.

Edgar stepped toward the door on his left. It was closed, but not locked.

It was a classical library: a large hall with about ten tables and long rows of shelves with books. One glance at their spines was enough to understand that these venerable tomes remembered more than many of the Others…

Edgar stopped, and just at that moment an incredibly thin Other emerged from behind the shelves. A vampire. And a Higher Vampire-Edgar realized that immediately.

The ordinary vampires that were quite common in Moscow were the junior members of the team. The cannon fodder that Anton Gorodetsky had mentioned. They had hardly any magic, and even a degenerate Dark magician was still more powerful than they were. But Higher Vampires were a quite different matter, although for some reason there weren't any in Moscow, or anywhere in Eastern Europe-with the exception of the Czech Republic and Romania.

"Good morning. Can I be of any assistance?"

"Good morning. I'm interested in material on one of the magicians of the past."

"Who exactly?" the vampire inquired.

"Fafnir. The Dragon of the Twilight."

"Oho!" the vampire said respectfully. "He was a really mighty magician. One of the most powerful Dark Ones in the entire history of mankind. What exactly are you interested in?"

"The circumstances of his death. The reasons for his duel with Siegfried, the prehistory, the details… In short, I want to make a comprehensive study of this outstanding individual. But unfortunately, I only have a few hours in which to do it. And in addition I'd like to model the operation of bringing him back from the Twilight…"

The vampire smiled sadly. "Unfortunately, that's something that is effectively impossible. It would require interventions of such power and intensity that the right to make them could not be earned even by putting all-let me emphasize that-all the Dark Ones of the world into hibernation for a hundred years."

"Nonetheless," said Edgar, with a sweeping gesture of his hand. "I'd like to solve this problem, if only on paper."

"Then you should take a look at Al-Hazred's Necronomicon," the vampire advised him. "It describes all the necessary interventions for the rematerialization of essential beings with some precision. Are you a theoretical necromancer?"

Edgar smiled more broadly than before.

"Oh no! I've never really dealt with necromancy at all. But I've developed an interest…"

"Then you did right to come to Prague. People here know their necromancy, and there are any number of specialists… But unfortunately they are all theoreticians, and of course you understand why."

Edgar really did understand why. Because since the Treaty had been signed the Inquisition had only sanctioned rematerialization twice, and both times only temporarily. The Tribunal needed to question witnesses, and sometimes there really was an opportunity to bring a dematerialized Other back from the Twilight. Such opportunities had been exploited twice, but after questioning, the witnesses had gone back to the Twilight.

Edgar couldn't believe that a magician of Fafnir's level hadn't set up some loophole in advance to allow for his own rematerialization. He must have done it once he reached a certain level- as a matter of fact, Edgar was hoping to reach that level himself some day. He hoped with equal justification never to allow himself to be dematerialized, but life was such a strange business. It was always throwing up surprises, especially in conditions of continuous war.

"Go on through," said the vampire, indicating the tables. "I'll bring the books in a moment. I believe it's not the human experience of the time that interests you, but the chronicles of the Others. Is that so?"

"Of course, dear colleague. Of course."

"I'll just be a second."

The vampire really did come back very quickly. He had obviously been working as the custodian of the library for more than a decade and knew his books very well.

"There," he said, laying two large volumes on the table. The first was a huge, large-format book in an old binding of dull brown leather-the Necronomicon in Gerhardt Kuchelstein's translation; the second was a bit more modest-not so big, with a florid title that covered half a page: A Life and Exposition of the Glorious Doings and Also the Prophecies and Numerous Unparalleled Discoveries of the Great Dark Magician Well-Known among Others Under the Name of Fafnir, or the Dragon of the Twilight by Johann Jetzer, Urmongomod. It looked like an original.

The title of Jetzer the Urmongomod's book was probably much more archaic in style, but Edgar didn't know Old High German, so he had to read the book through the Twilight. When you do that specific stylistic features are smoothed out and the text is leveled down, becoming much easier to understand.

Edgar ran his eye diagonally across The Doings of Fafnir: As was only to be expected, the contents of the thick volume interpreted events rather differently from the two Eddas and the Song of the Nibelungen. First, it was clear that Sigurd (a.k.a. Siegfried, a.k.a. Sivrit) and Regin and Hreidmar and Fafnir himself were all Others. Naturally, Khreidmar wasn't Fafnir's biological father and Regin wasn't his real brother. By means of long and carefully calculated plotting, Sigurd managed to make the Dark magicians quarrel and destroyed them all, some through the agency of Others, and some with his own hands. Sigurd's goal, of course, was not treasure at all, not useless pieces of metal and glittering stones. Sigurd and the others were searching for the heritage of the dwarf Andvari, but the Urmongomod's work did not explain what that was. It could have been some ancient and powerful artifacts or simply knowledge (in the form of books, for instance). Anyway, eventually Sigurd had killed everyone and taken possession of the heritage of Andvari, but what happened after that, Edgar didn't have any time to find out. Fafnir had been Sigurd's penultimate victim, before Regin. It seemed that Fafnir had taken certain secrets with him to the Twilight after all, but that didn't really bother the magicians of those times, who weren't bound by any Treaties or codes of law, and acted without any concerns about the Inquisition, since it hadn't existed then.

The main thing that Edgar had learned was that Fafnir possessed certain forgotten knowledge in the area of higher battle magic (which didn't appear to have helped him much in his duel with the crafty Sigurd), and he had taken this knowledge with him into the Twilight. So Zabulon could easily try to get hold of that knowledge.

Having arrived at this basically rather obvious idea, Edgar turned to the Necronomicon.

The first thing he discovered was that rematerialization was not at all the resurrection of an Other who had been dematerialized. It all turned out to be much simpler and more banal.

It was more like castling in chess. Someone withdrew into the Twilight, and in his place someone emerged from the Twilight. The higher the level of Power of the individual rematerialized, the more powerful the person dematerialized had to be. But the levels didn't have to be identical-a certain amount of leeway was allowed. If what the Urmongomod wrote about Fafnir was true, it meant the Dragon of the Twilight could be exchanged for a second- or third-level Dark magician, but only if the overall available energy input was adequate. And such a required input could easily be provided by acting out the Apocalypse-with the turbulent emotions of thousands of people generating such a squall that Fafnir would probably emerge reborn from the Twilight full of Power, a mighty Dark magician thirsting for vengeance and freedom. The freedom he had lost so long ago.

What would he do, this Great Magician from the past who had never even heard of the Treaty of the Inquisition? How was Zabulon planning to handle him? And was he planning at all? The Dragon of the Twilight in the skies over Europe at Christmas- what could possibly be more insane and terrifying?

Let's assume that if Fafnir runs wild and goes off burning cities and causing all sorts of devastation, if he simply goes for stupid brute force, then even people will be able to pacify him. With rockets. That Light flying ace who loved the Chicago Bulls will zap him with some devastating explosive device from his Phantom or his Harrier… they wouldn't kill him, but they'll pacify him. But what good will that do Europe? What does Europe want with nuclear mushrooms and her cozy little towns burned to cinders by Fafnir's flames?

But most likely Fafnir wouldn't simply run berserk; he would use his experience and cunning, and then watch out, Europe. Then there would be far more devastation and far more victims.

But why did Zabulon want all this?

Edgar couldn't understand.

What else was required for the resurrection of the Dragon of the Twilight? A second- or third-level magician in the right place… But what place was that?

Edgar spent about ten minutes calculating the answer from the stars and the shifting foci of energy. It was a problem of average difficulty: Fafnir had been cast down into the Twilight in the north of Europe… So, the most convenient place to rematerialize him on the cusp of the years 1999 and 2000 was… He had it.

Edgar wasn't very surprised by the result. The Czech Republic. Prague.

Edgar was immediately struck by a dark sense of foreboding. A Dark magician of the required level in the right place… In Prague…

That was him! Edgar the Estonian!

Edgar wiped away the cold sweat that had sprung out on his forehead and went back to his reading.

Not every magician would suit for Zabulon's purposes. For instance, the object of the castling move had to have been born in a specific place. It was rather unclear… What place exactly? When he figured it out it was Scandinavia, northern Germany, or the Baltic region.

The Baltic.

The chief of the Moscow Day Watch had suddenly summoned an Estonian to work in the Russian capital… And Edgar hadn't been able to see any obvious need for it…

Who else was there who had been born in Scandinavia, northern Germany, or the Baltic region and was in Prague just then?

No one. Only Edgar.

That was what Yury had warned him about before he flew to Prague. This had to be it. What else could it be?

All right. Easy now, easy. Just don't start getting nervous. Forewarned is forearmed. What else does the Necronomicon have to tell us?

Right, another four Dark Ones were required to form the Circle of Resurrection. Well, that was clear enough. The Circle was a kind of portal supported by the Power of the four Dark Ones, who were referred to very elegantly as their horses of Darkness.

And the horsemen were red, black, white, and pale. The precise scenario of the Apocalypse. Point for point.

And there were even magicians in Prague who would suit, although there were only three of them now-the Regin Brothers, who happened to be red-haired (the Asiatic), black (the African), white (the Slav), and pale (the Scandinavian that Gesar had killed).

Zabulon himself had said that this group had a place in his plans. Now Edgar could reasonably foresee what exactly those plans were. And Zabulon wasn't likely to be stopped by the absence of the fourth horseman.

Edgar studied the section of the Necronomicon to the end and discovered another two details that were small but, in the general context, important. Because Fafnir was a dragon, the canonical form of his resurrection should be to emerge from the sea-only that wasn't absolutely essential. What was essential was to make a sacrifice to the sea. In advance. Anywhere at all- it could be in China, or in the Falkland Islands.

Or even in the Crimea.

The person sacrificed was supposed to be "a youth or a maiden." No longer a child, but not yet an adult.

Artek, Edgar thought immediately. The boy who drowned because of the duel.

And then again, if Zabulon had set his sights on Edgar as the second figure in his castling move, then during the final twenty-four hours-no matter where Zabulon might be-he had to find an image of Edgar. A portrait or photograph. More likely a portrait. And keep this image with him. Until the moment when the move was made.

That was all-the library had no more help to offer Edgar. He hastily thanked the vampire librarian and hurried across to a computer.

Of course, he could have simply phoned Moscow. But a phone call was easy to trace, and Edgar didn't want to show his hand too soon. And he was absolutely certain that Alita was chatting on one of the IRC channels right at that moment.

The young IT manager-either a weak magician or a wizard- was glad to show him how to get onto the Internet. Edgar thanked him, and the young guy instantly stuck his nose into his own notebook computer, with its screen full of machine code. He was programming the old-fashioned way, without any of those newfangled Delphi Windows.

Edgar launched miRC and connected in the usual way to the Getborg DALnet server, with the funny cow in its logo (of course, the cow was drawn in pseudo-graphics-with letters and numbers). He identified himself, but he didn't log into any of the channels. He selected "Query" from the menu and put in the name he was interested in: Alita.

A new window opened.

What Edgar was most afraid of was a curt phrase appearing in the status window, saying: "No such name or channel."

But the Darkness was merciful-the reply came almost instantaneously. And from the right address-alita@ncport.ru.

"Edgar, hi! Are you in Prague?"

"Yes. Alita, I have an urgent question… it's rather strange. And not for everyone's ears. Will you help me?"

"Do you need to ask, Edgar? Of course."

"Have you been in the chief's office during the last few days?"

In general, the likelihood of any witch being summoned by Zabulon himself was pretty low, but he had to start somewhere…

"Yes, I have, why?"

Well, well, Edgar thought to himself. I guessed right!

He typed in:

"You didn't happen to notice if he had a photograph or portrait of me in his office, did you? On the desk, for instance…"

"How did you guess?"

And Alita sent him a generous scattering of smiley faces to symbolize her good mood.

"After you left the chief commissioned two drawings. Your portrait and a picture of a dragon. They're both standing in frames on his desk. I went to the arts and crafts salon on Tverskaya Street to get the frames. The chief gave me a bottle of Veuve Cliquot as a reward!"

Edgar closed his eyes. That was it. The final touch for the planned switch of pieces. Your death sentence, Edgar the Estonian Now what are you going to do?

"Thanks, Alita," he typed in with wooden fingers. "Got to run I'm snowed under with work…"

"Cheers, Edgar. Kiss!"

Edgar didn't even want to look at the smiley faces. He closed the window on the screen and got up from the table

The young programmer glanced at him from behind his note book. "Is that it?" he asked without any real surprise.

"Yes," Edgar replied. "Thanks."

He reached the exit without thinking about anything-hi; head felt strangely dull and empty.

He'd been specially selected, like a cow for the Christmas kebabs. A reasonably powerful magician from the Baltic. He'd been lured in and treated well. Allowed to run things for a little while- in the Moscow Watch, not some dull backwater. But all the time he'd been nothing more than a sacrificial cow, who would be slaughtered when the right moment came. Used, just like a thing Swapped, like a mindless chess piece.

After all, the game went on forever-it was only the presence of the pieces on the checkered board that was temporary.

But so what? If the time had come for one more black queen to join the game, did that mean it was pointless for the rook hastily drafted in from the periphery to dig in and clutch hard at the slippery surface of the board?

Oh no! thought Edgar. I may not be a queen, but I'm certainly not a pawn. And I don't want to leave the board that easily. I'm going to kick up a fuss. And if I can manage it, I'll save half of Europe some serious problems.

If all else failed, there was the Inquisition. Something told Edgar that the gray-robed officials were unlikely to be pleased by the idea of a visit from the Dragon of the Twilight.

Festive Prague seemed to have disappeared, faded, and receded into the distance. Edgar caught a taxi and rode to the hotel he needed without once looking out the window. He paid the driver automatically and walked into the vestibule, giving the doorman a look that probably made him wish he could disappear through the granite slabs of the floor.

Edgar strode toward the elevators so rapidly that his unbuttoned raincoat almost fluttered behind him. He walked toward the suite that he knew from his intuition as an Other.

Then he suddenly stopped as if he'd run into something and swallowed convulsively.

The Finns had just come out of the bar. The Regin Brothers. All four of them. Four, not three-the Chinese, the African, and the Slav had been joined by a genuine Finn, the one everybody had thought was dead.

But there he was, alive and well.

But of course-why would Gesar have wanted to kill a witness?

No doubt the artist is overwhelmed by a whole range of inexpressible feelings when he puts in place the final piece of glass in a mosaic. But what are you supposed to do when the glass pieces of the mosaic form the sparse words of your own death sentence?

"Brother!" one of the Finns said triumphantly to Edgar. "We want to thank you and the Day Watch of Moscow for your support. Why don't you join us? We're celebrating the survival of our brother Pasi-everybody thought he was dead."

The genuine Finn gave an embarrassed smile, his entire appearance showing how touched he was by his comrades' concern.

"Congratulations…" Edgar said in a hollow voice, although there wasn't really anything to congratulate them on-all four of them would be certain to die at Fafnir's resurrection.

"Brother Dark One…" Seeing Edgar's hesitation, the magician stopped pressing him. "Do you happen to know… the Light One who is also a defendant… why did he call us four horses?"

His colleagues all began nodding indignantly.

"Are we entitled to regard it as an unjustified insult?" the leader of the Regin Brothers asked hopefully.

"No," Edgar replied. "It's worse than an insult-it's the truth."

And he sprinted for the elevator.