Sixth Watch (17 page)

“I never got around to testing that somehow,” I confessed. “Are they your security guards?”

“Oh, come now, Anton!” said Yulia Tarasovna, offended. “How can you talk about little children like that? But even if they are guards, what's so bad about that? In a confined space thirty preschoolers are capable of cornering, maiming, and even killing an adult.”

“You crack strange jokes, Grandmother,” I said. “Where can we have a talk?”

“Come in.” The witch sighed. “But take your shoes off. I observe sanitary and hygiene rules in here. They're children, after all!”

I had to wait about ten minutes for Khokhlenko to drive all her wards into the sleeping room, pack them into the beds, and come back out into the playroom. As she came out she did something, I felt a faint breath of Power, and a moment later the emotional atmosphere suddenly changed. The children fell asleep. All of them at once.

“Oh, tut-tut,” I said.

“I don't usually do that,” Yulia Tarasovna replied severely. “But you wanted to have a talk.”

I nodded. To my delight the playroom contained a pair of normal, human-sized chairs. Otherwise I would have had to hunch up in a child's one or stand.

And the playroom also contained a cat.

Until the children went to bed, he sat on a cupboard, washing himself. A huge, orange tomcat, with such a good-natured face that it looked suspicious. This cat kept casting cute, welcoming glances my way.

When the children had gone out, the cat jumped down, walked across to me, and jumped up onto my knees. Then he immediately tumbled over onto his back and exposed his belly.

“What a rascal,” I said.

But I scratched his belly anyway.

“Do you like animals?” asked Yulia Tarasovna, taking a seat facing me.

“I adore them,” I said. I took a sheet of paper folded in four out of my pocket and held it out to the witch. “This is the official permission from the Night Watch for you to use magic to prolong the cat Herman's life.”

“Oh, thank you,” the witch said delightedly, carefully unfolding
the document, smoothing it out, and examining it, then folding it and putting it away. “What joy for an old woman, what happiness!”

“Is the cat a German breed?” I asked, sitting Herman down on the floor and brushing the fine orange hairs off my trousers.

“No, no, he's ours, Russian, a mongrel. But he was named after the second cosmonaut of our planet, Herman Titov!”

I almost choked.

“I really liked him a lot,” Yulia Tarasovna informed me confidentially. “Yuri Gagarin was charming of course; his smile alone was priceless! But I liked Herman more. A real man. A hero! And as well as that, he was second. Can you imagine how hard it is to be second, Light One? The same heroic feat, but you're the second one to do it. And you'll be second forever. It's not so hard to be the fifth. Or the tenth. But being second is a heavy burden forever.”

“Mmm, yes,” I mumbled. “Fascinating. Doesn't the director of the kindergarten object to the cat? Sanitary and hygiene rules . . .”

Khokhlenko trilled with laughter. The cat jumped onto her knees and curled up into a tight ball in habitual fashion. And the witch stroked him with a habitual movement.

“Oh, Anton, oh, that's hilarious . . . Who's ever going to object to me?”

“I'll pretend I didn't hear that,” I said dourly. “Yulia Tarasovna, I haven't come to see you about this piece of paper.”

“Yes, I understand that Higher Ones don't work as couriers,” said Khokhlenko, immediately turning serious. “Allow me to guess? Is your visit connected with that Prophecy? Do you need the Grandmother of Grandmothers, the head of the Conclave?”

“I see that you earn a bit on the side from fortune-telling too,” I said.

“No fortune-telling is required here, Anton. Only a head on your shoulders.”

I nodded.

“By the way, Zabulon keeps me informed of how things are going,” Khokhlenko said pensively. “So I do know . . . a thing or two.”

I didn't ask if she knew about the archive and the way I had been duped.

“I need to meet with the head of the Conclave,” I said. “With the Witch of Witches, the Grandmother of Grandmothers, the Great Grandmother, call her what you will. I know you don't give out that information to anyone, especially to Light Ones. But, as you understand, there's no evil intention involved here.”

“Your good intentions are no great joy to us either,” Yulia Tarasovna growled disdainfully.

“We could all die,” I said. “The entire world. All the Others. All the people.”

“Perhaps it's high time?” Khokhlenko asked in a quiet voice. “We all deserve it, to be quite honest. We absolutely deserve it. The humans and the Others.”

She paused for a moment, then looked up at me with a grave, intent expression.

I wouldn't like to come face-to-face with her at night in a dark forest.

And not on a bright day in a bustling city either. If she decided I was her enemy.

“I understand,” I said. “You're Ukrainian, aren't you? Yes, these days down there . . .”

“I'm a Little Russian,” said the witch. “A khokhlushka. Don't call me Ukrainian, you'll offend me.”

I nodded.

“I understand.”

“What's going on down there now stinks, and in 1919 under Petlyura things were even worse,” said Khokhlenko. “But where is it any better? Russian pigheadedness and drunkenness? American chauvinism and hypocrisy? European self-righteousness? Asiatic cruelty?”

“They're all people,” I said.

“And are we any better?” asked the witch. “Our side or your side . . . Perhaps we should just let it happen, eh?”

I turned my eyes toward the half-open door of the sleeping
room, where the children were lying in their beds. Little arms and legs dangling out from under blankets, socks and sandals lying on the floor.

“Are they guilty too?” I asked. “Do they have to die too?”

“Everyone has to die sometime,” the witch replied. “They might not be guilty of anything, but that's only for now . . . It will all happen sooner or later. A hundred years ago I'd definitely have turned a couple of them into piglets, to keep them out of mischief.”

I permitted myself a smile.

“Can you really do that, Yulia Tarasovna?”

“Who knows?” she said, stroking the cat. “I don't have a good answer for your request, Light One.”

“Yulia Tarasovna, Gesar will ask the Inquisition,” I threw out on the off chance.

“He can ask until he's blue in the face,” the witch snorted. “It's our women's business. The Inquisition doesn't know anything about that.”

“I'll find out anyway,” I said. “One way or another.”

“Ah, phoo!” the old woman exclaimed, flapping her hand. “Why are you such a great fool, eh? You already know anyway. The Grandmother of Grandmothers is an old friend of yours!”

“What?” I exclaimed in confusion. “But how . . . she changed her color!”

“A witch doesn't have to be a Dark One,” Khokhlenko snapped. “So she changed her color; that's her business, as long as she didn't break any laws.”

“But she . . .”

“I know. You shut her in the Sarcophagus of Time. Until the end of the universe.”

“She might as well not exist,” I said. “You could say she's dead.”

“You could, but you can't really! She isn't dead. She's in prison. The fact that the prison is eternal and magical doesn't change a thing. We Grandmothers convened in the Conclave. We discussed.
It's absolutely impossible to elect another Grandmother of Grandmothers as long as Arina is alive.”

“She'll live for all eternity.”

“So there'll be an eternal head of the Conclave.”

“That's stupid!” I exclaimed. “Stupid! You have to change the rules in a situation like this. If we don't have the head of the Conclave with us, there'll be nothing we can do.”

Khokhlenko looked at me severely for a while before she spoke.

“Go home, Light One. Search for what you're seeking—I don't think all your problems come down to one old witch. Tonight we Grandmothers will gather to talk and thrash things out.”

“And choose a new head?” I asked hopefully

Khokhlenko shrugged.

“Do
you
have a chance?” I asked for some reason.

“What's that to you?” the witch exclaimed in surprise, her eyes glinting with long-standing resentment. “No, it's not our custom to draw twice from the same region. Protectionism exists among witches too, you know, though nobody likes it. Go, Anton. I'll give you a call tomorrow morning.”

“My number—”

“I know your number.” She sighed. “Go on. You've tramped dirt around the place, and I have to wash the floor now. There aren't enough nurses, there aren't enough cleaners, they don't pay much in a kindergarten. You won't set to work with a mop, will you? You've got to save the world. So go and save it.”

Halfway back to the office, I stopped and parked the car under a No Parking sign. The sign made absolutely no sense; I wasn't in anyone's way here.

I turned on the emergency lights, rummaged in the glove compartment, found a pack of cigarettes, and lit one. I turned the radio up louder.

Arina . . .

How much simpler everything would be if I had her on my side. The old witch knew such a lot, she could do such a lot, and she had such a steely determination to reach her goal.

But I had shut her up in the Sarcophagus of Time. Then it had seemed like the only rational solution. So elegant . . . And self-sacrificing.

Only the Tiger had pulled me out. He was afraid Nadya would blow a fuse and rush into a mutually fatal duel with him. Arina had been left in the Sarcophagus.

But would it really be easier for me with her here? How did I know that she wouldn't find some positive meaning in the death of all living things, like her colleague and, apparently, onetime rival, Yulia Tarasovna?

Witches—there's no way to understand them. Dark ones or Light ones. They think differently anyway. Women . . .

I suddenly realized how much I wanted to see Svetlana and Nadya. To touch them. Or at least call and talk to them for a minute. Their cell phones were switched off and the batteries had been removed, all in the finest traditions of secret conspiracy. But I knew the number of the ordinary landline. And I had a SIM card that no one knew about, for a phone bought beside the Moscow mosque from a Tajik street trader (nothing really criminal, it was just that the SIM card was convenient for calls to Central Asia, and I didn't have to present any documents).

No, it was stupid. If I was being tracked seriously, they would trace the call. And I didn't want to give anyone that chance. After all, if there was some emergency, Svetlana would call my cell herself.

The witch situation wasn't clear yet. I could only hope that today they would get together at their Sabbath and choose a new Grandmother of Grandmothers. I had to wait.

And I had to report.

I took out my phone and it rang in my hand. A photo of the boss appeared (don't ask me how I managed to photograph him; Gesar can't stand photos and videos) and rousing music started playing.

        
Ta ta-ta ta ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-ta ta-ta

        
Ta-ta ta-ta, ta-ta ta-ta ta-ta ta ta

All Higher Ones are posers in their own way. The Grandmother of Russian witches worked in a kindergarten and washed out dirty potties. The senior Light One of Moscow didn't like to be called on the phone—he preferred to call you, just a second before you decided to call.

“Hello, Gesar.”

“How did the talk with your Grandmother go?” the boss asked.

“Hmm . . .” I wondered for a moment if the boss was trying to speak in conspiratorial fashion or if he hadn't noticed the vagueness of his own words.

“Grandmother says that her Grandmother, Arina, is alive and no one can take the place of a living Grandmother,” I replied. “But today Grandmother is planning to spend the evening with her friends and they'll have a good talk about it.”

“So it's Arina,” said Gesar. “I was almost certain of it. I see.”

“I can't hear you very well, boss,” I said, dissembling shamelessly. “Are you far away?”

“In Prague, I told you.”

So Gesar had traveled to Prague via a portal. Such a long distance and so quickly—the portal must have been prepared in advance. But why was I surprised by that? It would have been strange if it hadn't.

“How's the pussycat?” I asked.

“The pussycat? The Grandmother's pussycat?” I had unexpectedly managed to perplex Gesar. “You mean that fat-bellied Herman?”

“No, I meant the other pussycat,” I said cautiously. “You know, the one with the congenital dental problems.”

I heard mumbling and muttering in the background. Gesar said something brief in a language I didn't understand before he spoke to me again.

“Hena asked me to tell you that a pair of large fangs is no problem
at all. Quite the opposite. And if you have any doubts, he politely invites you on a hunting trip.”

“My apologies to the highly respected Hena,” I said, then looked in the rearview mirror and stuck my tongue out at myself.

Damn, who could have known that Hena was right there?

“And did the highly respected Hena inform you if he is the undisputed leader of . . . Er . . . His own . . . His . . .”

“The supremely amiable Hena said that he is the most senior member of his kind,” said Gesar. “He also said that they do not have, never have had, and never will have an overall leader, since that contradicts their very nature. He told me this firmly and clearly, in the language of mammoth hunters, which had absolutely no concept of untruth.”

“I see,” I said disappointedly.