He divided it into four sectors with two lines at right angles and set about drawing a portrait in each sector. The first three were sketched in sparing strokes but were remarkably vivid, in the comic-strip style of Bidstrup or Chizhikov.

In Edgar the world had probably lost a fine caricaturist.

Ilya, Semyon... Igor, the defendant at the Tribunal. Should he count him or not? Probably he should, especially since he was now the most vulnerable of all.

Edgar thought for a moment and then drew Anton Gorodetsky in the fourth sector-the only one who was still using his surname. But even so, he had already reached second level, which made him Edgar's equal, although less experienced.

Which one? Of course it was simplest of all to topple Igor. He already had one foot down among the shadows of the Twilight.

And then there was Gorodetsky-he was flying to Prague too. But these were only the simplest variants. How many were there altogether?

The mere thought of the number of theoretically possible variants set Edgar's teeth on edge. Ah, if only he had his laptop and the windows of Richelieu, with its heuristic module...

Stop, Edgar said to himself. Stop. How depressingly one-sided you are, Dark One!

The thought that had occurred to him was simple and surprising. Taking one of their enemies out of the game wasn't the only way to make the Dark Ones stronger. Why not the opposite approach-introducing a powerful Dark One into the battle?

But who was there to swell the all too thin ranks of the Day Watch? Vitaly Rogoza, whose appearance had filled Edgar with childish delight, had turned out to be no more than a Mirror. And after he'd done everything the Twilight had created him to do, he'd disappeared forever. Look for some promising young recruits? They were looking and they did find a few... But you couldn't mold any of them into a genuinely powerful Other overnight, and the Dark Ones hadn't come across any natural talents like Svetlana Nazarova for a long time now.

Even so, thought Edgar, I'm on the right road. I'm flying to Prague, the capital of European necromancy, and in time for Christmas before the arrival of the year 2000, at a time when countless prophets and soothsayers are frightening the world with all sorts of horrors, up to and including the end of the world itself...

Yes! That was it! Maybe Zabulon was planning to resurrect one of the disembodied magicians of the past?

Prague, at a time like this! Darkness upon Darkness! As always, Zabulon had skillfully and un.o.btrusively hidden what was lying in open view.

Edgar breathed out heavily, crumpled up the napkin with the drawings and stuffed it in his pocket.

And so, in the city of necromancers, at a time of incredible energetic instability, Zabulon could easily try to pluck someone out of nonexistence... But who?

Think, Edgar... The answer should be lying on the surface too.

All right then, let's look at what we have. Prague, the Tribunal, the case of the duel between Teplov and Donnikova, Gorodetsky and Edgar seconded to the trial... Alita might come as well. Who else? Ah, yes the Regin Brothers too...

Stop. That was it!

The Regin Brothers! The servants of Fafnir! "I'll find a use for them, Edgar," Zabulon had said. "I have a few plans that involve them."

Fafnir!

Trying to maintain an appearance of calm, Edgar folded away his little table and settled more comfortably into his seat.

Fafnir. There was someone who would be very, very useful indeed to the Dark Ones. The mighty Fafnir, the Great Magician, the Dragon of the Twilight.

The faint echo of his Power, absorbed by the Mirror Rogoza, had allowed him to drain an enchantress like Svetlana with ease. And if Zabulon really is going to attempt to resurrect Fafnir, he couldn't have chosen a better place and time during the last hundred years, or the hundred years to come, Edgar thought as his eyes wandered idly across the paneling of the Boeing. That's for certain, he couldn't have...

The stewardess glanced at him, and Edgar fastened his seat belt. The plane was making its approach for landing.

h.e.l.lo, Prague...

Edgar's ears felt like they'd been stuffed with cotton wool, but that didn't stop him from thinking. So it was a resurrection. That was something the Dark Ones hadn't tried for at least fifty years-not since Stalin's time. There hadn't been any opportunity to try it, because the level of energy turbulence hadn't been high enough since 1933 and 1947.

Why hadn't Zabulon told Edgar anything about it? Was it too soon? But then what was he to make of Yury's cautious warning? And then, what had this to do with what had happened at the Artek camp that summer?

Because it had to be connected somehow-it had to be. A p.a.w.n had been sacrificed, and now maybe a more weighty piece's turn had come. A knight or a bishop-which of those would Edgar be? The two rooks, of course, were Yury and Nikolai, the queen was Zabulon himself, and the king, defenseless but crucial-that was the cause of the Darkness.

So one of the rooks had hinted to Edgar that there was a chance the Crimean Gambit might be used again-this time with a rook. Somehow Edgar didn't feel like being a knight. Let that vicious old hag Anna Tikhonovna play the horse-that would be just about right for her...

The plane shuddered as the wheels touched down on the runway. Once, twice-and flight was transformed into a rapidly decelerating dash over the concrete.

Surely Zabulon hadn't set up another exchange of pieces while he furtively pushed forward a few p.a.w.ns (the Regin Brothers) in the hope that another black queen would appear on the board or, at the very least, a bishop?

It was insulting to be a throwaway piece.

And what if it's a test at the same time? Edgar wondered. An endurance trial? Alisa let herself be gobbled up-Zabulon doesn't need pieces like that in his game. But if I can manage to survive, and without disrupting the chiefs plans... Yes, that's the result we need!

But how could it be achieved?

The other half of the exchange was Anton Gorodetsky, Zabulon's favorite. There was no doubt about that. The chief of the Day Watch couldn't carry on using him forever, and he understood that very well. It wasn't even really true that he could use him... Zabulon was always ready to put a good face on a poor result and make it look as if he'd tricked the Light magician...

The pa.s.sengers stood up and began moving toward the exit and the goffered bridge that was so unfamiliar to the inhabitants of the former USSR. Edgar took his raincoat out and put it on, left his magazine in the pocket on the seat in front, picked up his briefcase, and followed the others.

The feeling of being in Europe and not Russia was instantaneous and strangely comprehensive. It was hard to grasp exactly what triggered it-the expressions on people's faces, their clothes, the cleanliness of the airport, the way it was laid out? Thousands of minor details. The announcements in Czech and English without a Ryazan accent. The far greater number of smiles. The fact that there weren't any of those gypsies or private taxi drivers that he detested on the square in front of the terminal building.

And there was a line of attractive yellow Opels at the taxi stand.

His taxi driver gabbled away equally freely in Russian and English and, of course, in his native Czech: Where to?

A hotel. The Hilton, I suppose. Oh! Russians don't often go straight to the Hilton. And the ones who do, look different, wearing lots of gold, bigwigs with bodyguards, riding in expensive limousines... I'm not Russian, I'm Estonian. Yes, that's not the same thing any longer... It wasn't the same thing before either. Ah, even a Czech was almost the same as a Russian before... That's debatable. Yes, maybe it is.

The driver's chatter was distracting and Edgar decided to take a break from all his thinking. He wouldn't get any real work done on the day he arrived, in any case. He could actually relax-with a mug or two of beer, naturally.

Who in his right mind wouldn't sip a mug of genuine Czech beer, provided his stomach was in good shape (or even if it wasn't)?

Only a dead man.

Just like in any Hilton, a free room could be found without any real problem, even when Prague was crowded with tourists just before Christmas. But just like in any country that had not yet cast off the shackles of its recent socialism, it cost crazy money for a non-Other. Edgar was an Other, and so he paid up right away without even a frown, although they were obviously expecting one from him. He was Russian, after all, and he didn't look like a nouveau riche bandit... A hundred years earlier Edgar wouldn't have been able to resist sticking his Argentinian pa.s.sport under the administrator's nose. But he was a whole hundred years more mature now, and he made do with his Russian pa.s.sport.

The person at the registration desk-the one that not everybody went to-was a Dark One. A very rare type, too-a Beskud. He glanced at Edgar, licked his thin lips, and opened his slit pupils wide. And then, at last, he smiled-his teeth were small and sharp, all the same triangular shape.

"Greetings! Here for the Tribunal?"

"Uh-huh."

"Here you go..."

He threw a small bundle of blue fire at Edgar-it was his temporary registration. The fire pa.s.sed easily through Edgar's clothes and landed on Edgar's chest in the form of an oval seal that glowed in the Twilight.

"Thanks."

"You give them a roasting at the Tribunal," the Beskud told him. "A real roasting. It's our time now..."

"I'll try," Edgar promised with a sigh.

He went up to his room, just to get a wash and leave his briefcase there.

And now, Edgar thought enthusiastically as he rode down in the elevator, I'm off to the Black Eagle! And I'm going to order the peceno veprevo koleno.

This dish, roast leg of pork, was so popular he'd even come across a description of it in a fantasy magazine he'd read once.

As he waited for his order, Edgar took sips of his second mug of beer (he'd drunk the first one Russian-style, straight down, evoking a nod of approval from the waiter), and tried to focus on his thoughts. But something was preventing him. Or someone.

Edgar looked up and saw Anton Gorodetsky, who was standing near the table and staring steadily at him.

Edgar shuddered, thinking he must have been followed. But there was a puzzled expression in Gorodetsky's eyes too, and Edgar breathed a sigh of relief. A coincidence, nothing more than a coincidence.

And what's more, there weren't any places left. Except at Edgar's table.

Acting on a sudden impulse, Edgar nodded to the Light One and said, "Sit down. I'm taking a break. You should do the same-to h.e.l.l with all this work!"

Anton hesitated and Edgar thought he was going to leave, but then he decided to stay. He walked up and sat down facing Edgar, giving him a sullen look, as if he found it hard to believe it when his old enemy claimed all he wanted to do was relax for a while. What was that saying the Light Ones had? Anyone you've done combat with once is an enemy forever.

Nonsense. Fanaticism. Edgar preferred a more flexible approach-if today it was advantageous to conclude an alliance with someone you hurled Shahab's Lash at yesterday, why not conclude an alliance? But then, after Shahab's Lash there wasn't usually anybody left to conclude an alliance with... Ashes didn't make a very good ally.

"And not a word about the Watches?" Anton asked ironically.

"Not a word," Edgar confirmed. "Just two fellow countrymen in Prague just before Christmas. I've ordered the peceno veprevo koleno. I recommend it."

"Thanks, I know it," said Anton, still without a shadow of a smile, and turned to the waiter who had come over to them.

No, these Europeans had no i.e. what a real frost was, what a real winter was... As Anton came out of the Malostranska metro station, he wondered if he ought to b.u.t.ton up the collar of his jacket, but he didn't bother.

Snowy weather, but there was no bite to it. Two degrees below zero at the most.

He set off along the street, strolling at a leisurely pace across the ancient cobblestones. Sometimes he gave in to curiosity and dropped into the souvenir shops-amusing wooden toys, curiously shaped ceramics, photographs with views of Prague, T-shirts with amusing inscriptions. He ought to buy something, after all. Just to make his mark, so to speak. Maybe that T-shirt with the funny face on it and the words "Born to be Wild."

There were almost three hours left until he was due to meet the Inquisition's representative. He didn't even need to take a taxi or ride the metro-he could eat a leisurely lunch and stroll to the appointed place on foot. A rendezvous under the clock tower-what could be more romantic? What if the Inquisition's representative turned out to be a female, maybe even attractive, and a Light One? Then romance would really be in the air.

Anton laughed at his own thoughts. He didn't feel the slightest desire to play the field or start an affair. And anyway, the concepts of "Light" and "Dark" didn't apply to the Inquisition. They stood outside and apart from the two great powers.

Maybe the concept of gender did apply? But then, as far as Anton knew, when Maxim, the Light magician from Moscow they'd nicknamed the Maverick, became an Inquisitor, he had divorced his wife. Apparently they simply lost interest in all that petty human stupidity-love, s.e.x, jealousy...

The Black Eagle was one of Anton's favorite restaurants in Prague. Maybe that was simply because he'd been there a few times on his first trip to the city. It doesn't take much to make a Russian happy, after all. Good service that isn't intrusive, good food, incredible beer, low prices. That last point was pretty important. It was only the Dark Ones who could afford to throw their money around. Even Rogoza, that creation of the Twilight, had appeared in Moscow carrying heaps of cash. It was possible to earn money honestly, but to earn a lot of money-you could never do that without compromising your conscience a little. And when it came to that, the Night Watch was definitely at a disadvantage compared to the Day Watch.

The street Anton was walking along divided into two, like a river, leaving a number of old, low buildings forming a long, narrow island along its center-most of them were restaurants and souvenir shops. The Black Eagle was the first in the row.

As he walked into the small courtyard, Anton saw a Light Other.

No, he wasn't a member of any Watch. Just an Other who preferred an almost ordinary, almost human life to the front line of the magical war. A tall, handsome, middle-aged man with a good figure, wearing the uniform of an officer in the US Air Force. He was on his way out of the restaurant, obviously feeling quite contented with the way he'd spent his time, with his girlfriend-a pretty Czech girl-and with himself.

He didn't spot Anton right away-he was too absorbed in conversation. But when he did spot him, he gave a broad, beaming smile.

There was nothing else for it-Anton raised his shadow from the snow-covered cobblestones and stepped into the Twilight. Silence fell, all the sounds were m.u.f.fled in cotton wool. The world slowed down and lost its colors.

People's auras shimmered into life, like rainbows-most of them calm and peaceful, not overloaded with unnecessary thoughts. The way it ought to be in a tourist spot.

"Greetings, watchman!" the American hailed him happily. Here in the Twilight there were no problems with language.

"h.e.l.lo, Light One," Anton replied. "Glad to see you."

"The Prague Watch?" the American queried. He'd read the watchman's aura, but not made out the details. But then, he was a pretty weak magician. Somewhere around sixth level, and with a strong attachment to natural magic. There wouldn't have been anything for him to do in the Watch anyway, except maybe sit somewhere out of the way and keep an eye on witches and shape-shifters whose powers were as weak as his own.

"Moscow."

"Oh, the Moscow Watch!" There was a clear note of respect in the American's voice now. "A powerful Watch.

Allow me to shake your hand."

They shook hands. The American airman seemed to regard the encounter as one more element of a pleasant evening.

"Captain Christian Vanover Jr. Sixth-level magician. Do you need my a.s.sistance, watchman?" The formal proposal was made with all due seriousness.

"Thank you, Light One, but I don't require any a.s.sistance," Anton replied no less politely.

"On vacation?" Christian asked.

"No. A business trip. But there's no a.s.sistance required."

The American nodded. "This is my Christmas vacation. My unit's stationed in Kosovo, so I decided to visit Prague."

"Good choice," said Anton with a nod. "A beautiful city."

He didn't want to continue the conversation, but the American was full of bonhomie. "A wonderful city. I'm glad we managed to save it in the Second World War."

"Yes, we saved it..." said Anton, nodding again.

"Did you fight back then, watchman?"

Anton realized Christian must be a really weak magician. Not to see his real age, at least approximately...

"No."

"I was too young too," the American sighed. "I dreamed of joining the army, but I was only fifteen. A pity, I could have got here fifty years earlier..."

Anton only just stopped himself from saying that Christian wouldn't have had the chance, because the American forces never entered Prague. But he immediately felt ashamed of his own thoughts.

"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 was too slow to stop himself, but Captain Christian Vanover Jr. didn't take offense. 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!"