Sixth Watch (24 page)

“I can come up with a Russian bathhouse and birch-twig brooms here,” Zabulon replied peevishly.

He got up and turned toward the wall, and the wooden panels suddenly moved apart, revealing an immense plasma screen, a flip board, and a white board already covered with writing in felt-tip pen.

“So, forty-nine Masters will gather in New York . . .” Zabulon began.

“Get on with it,” I said.

We really did work fruitfully for four hours without a break. I never thought I'd be able to say this, but working with Zabulon felt comfortable.

In some ways even more comfortable than working with Gesar.

They brought us tea and coffee, and once they brought sandwiches and a yogurt for Olga. Several times, when we needed to clarify some
point, researchers and consultants appeared. The surprising thing was that most of them were human.

Of course, we had our own circle of human confidants. My old friend the polizei was by no means the only one. There were quite a few scientists, some of whom actually worked right there in the Night Watch office. As well as people in the government and in the security and military structures. Most of them couldn't reveal the facts—they were restrained by magic—but quite a lot of them worked on trust and collaborated with us out of ideological motives. Sometimes I think that if wolves and sheep were rational creatures, a significant percentage of the sheep would be found deliberately and voluntarily helping the wolves . . .

But in the Day Watch there were even more freelance humans. And if I read their reasons correctly, while some of them were also ideologically motivated, the majority was absolutely pragmatic. The nondescript little linguistic historian who gave us his advice after the first hour attracted surprisingly warm interest from Olga. I took a closer look—the philologist was sporting a masterfully executed lacework spell that attracted women to him. It was the work of a genuine master: It only worked on adults, and if the philologist failed to show any interest in a woman for several minutes, the effect completely disappeared. Otherwise the unfortunate ladies' man would have had all the women in the city trailing along behind him in a line several miles long.

It's the details that make magic complicated in the first instance. The classic example is King Midas, who turned everything he touched into gold. An example for children is Mickey Mouse as the sorcerer's apprentice, who tried to do the housekeeping by using magic. An example from folklore is the joke about the genie who grants three wishes and the family of a father, a mother, and a little son who dreams of having a hamster . . .

The simplest spells are the ones that have been in use for a very, very long time. They are formalized, precisely described, and constantly repeated. If we believe that it's the Twilight carrying out our
wishes, responding to an order that is expressed through words or gestures or an impulse of the will (and I don't see any other alternative), then standard spells are routine work for the Twilight. It's just like someone pressing a key on a calculator and getting an answer. Of course, somewhere deep in the microcircuit invisible work is going on. Microcurrents scurry about, opening and closing p-n junctions, the calculator industriously plows through a mountain of information, and finally announces that two plus two equals four.

And everyone's happy.

But it's quite a different matter when someone wants something that a calculator, or even a supercomputer, simply hasn't been taught to do. Take the number X and multiply it by the number Z. If the result is greater than Y, add five to the result and print the answer. If the result is less than Y, draw a triangle on the screen.

Complicated?

Not at all, really. If you know even a tiny little bit of ancient Basic. We write the program and launch it . . .

It doesn't work.

We check the wiring, we check the power supply. We scratch our heads.

We drink a cup of coffee.

And then we catch on!

We write one more line: If the result is equal to Y, play the “Imperial March” from the film
Star Wars
.

There you go, now you can listen to the rousing, bravura music.

Spells are at the same time simpler (no need to know any programming languages, we “program” in normal human languages) and more difficult—because there are far more variants that have to be taken into account. And the consequences can be far more lamentable. Let's take the supersimple Fireball, for instance. If you don't set its size, point of appearance, speed and direction of movement, duration of stable existence, and parameters of stability precisely and unambiguously, you risk blowing yourself up.

Have you heard of ball lightning? That's what it is—fireballs cre
ated by novice Others, generally wild ones who haven't been tutored by anyone, who are full of enthusiasm and confidence in their own uniqueness. The Fireball has always been a popular spell, and in our age of fantasy and computer games, it's even more popular. So novice Others create Fireballs, forgetting to define exactly where they're supposed to arise.

And have you heard of spontaneous combustion? An ordinary person suddenly bursts into flames and is reduced to ashes! That's usually a Fireball too. Only in this case the Other imagined its point of appearance too near to himself. And he forgot to define its movement vectors and the duration of existence . . .

“Gorodetsky?”

I looked at Zabulon.

“Please favor us with your opinion,” the Dark One said sarcastically. “You were absorbed in such profound and serious thoughts—what were they about, I wonder?”

“About the workings of the universe,” I replied. “Zabulon, I think we've had enough repetition. We've planned everything. If it works, it works. Let's get a few hours' sleep.”

“You're pumped right up to the gills with Power,” Zabulon remarked casually. “You could go without sleep.”

“I could. But I'd rather sleep for a while.”

“Your wife?” Zabulon asked.

“My daughter. My wife channeled it.”

“Take good care of her,” Zabulon said with sudden seriousness. “Your daughter is unique—she's the only thing we have to put up against the Twilight. And apart from that, she's a remarkably intelligent and responsible girl for her age.”

I cleared my throat in an attempt to conceal my confusion. Zabulon looked absolutely sincere and I couldn't see any ulterior motive in what he had said.

“I don't even know what to say, Dark One,” I mumbled. “But you can be sure I'm taking good care of her.”

They say that creating any portal, whether it's a hundred yards long or ten thousand miles long, requires the same amount of Power. I personally haven't created any portals yet; I don't have the skills for that, but I believe Nadya.

The difficulty with creating long-distance portals is making sure that they're accurate. No one wants to emerge into the subsoil deep below the surface of the road, or fall out of the air ten or twenty yards above the surface of the ground.

By the way, falling out of the air a hundred yards up is far less dangerous. Then you have time to put the brakes on with a spell. Magicians who don't have much experience quite often set up their portals to end high in the air.

The portal created by Zabulon was so precisely aligned to the surface that I didn't even feel change of level when I stepped into it. The only change was that my ears were blocked by the sudden difference in air pressure and my skin was instantly covered in sweat in response to the change in temperature, humidity, and all the other various factors that exist in nature.

After all, to be transported instantaneously from Moscow to New York isn't the most normal experience for the human body.

“I've always appreciated Zabulon's style,” said Ekaterina. “He's set us down at the entrance to the Empire State Building. Right on Fifth Avenue!”

I nodded, gazing around. Zabulon's portal really was very fine. Not only was it perfectly aligned with the pavement, it was equipped with spells of invisibility and deterrence.

None of the people on the street saw us, but they all scrupulously walked around the small patch of ground where the portal had arisen. And although midnight was already approaching, there were lots and lots of people. New York, Manhattan, Fifth Avenue. No matter what you might think about the United States in general and this city in particular, it genuinely never sleeps.

There were people walking along, standing and staring at the building, talking on cell phones, smoking, speaking every possible
language—my own ears, tormented by the Petrov, picked up English, French, German, Chinese, and Japanese speech. The air was cool, of course, but nothing to compare with our Russian winter. Around freezing, maybe . . .

“I haven't been here for a long time,” Olga said pensively. “I remember when they'd just built it, the building was half empty, no one could afford to rent offices in it . . . They used to call it the Empty State Building then. Hey, Katerina, which way do we go?”

The vampiress looked around. She was exhilarated, agitated, and pink. Pumped full.

“Into the main entrance. It's very beautiful in there, by the way.”

“The building's beautiful too,” I agreed. “Somehow I thought the New York skyscrapers were uglier than this.”

Olga laughed quietly.

“So this is your first time in New York? Don't worry, you're quite right, most of the skyscrapers are ugly. The Empire State is a rare exception, left over from an age when people put beauty above profit.”

“And it is always bloodred like this?” I asked, looking up at the skyscraper receding into the sky.

The Empire State Building was lit up in dark maroon, illuminated richly and brightly—the bloody sheen even ran across the sidewalks, overlaying the bright colors of the advertisements.

“No, the lighting changes,” said Olga. “According to events. Are your people responsible for this, Katerina?”

“Of course,” the vampiress said contentedly. “When we gather for a coven, they light up the Empire State in the color of blood. The lodge used to meet in Oxford, but we moved here in the thirties. Where the power and the money are, where the night is alive, that's where we are.”

“I'm not surprised,” I growled.

The portal had already melted away and the effect of the spells was beginning to disperse. Most of the passersby walked around us, but a few people had almost crashed into me, and one barged gently into Olga, then apologized in embarrassment as he moved on.

“Don't you want to know how my fling went?” Ekaterina suddenly asked, looking at me intently. “What do you think, did I drink them dry? Or just amuse myself a bit and let them go?”

“It's all the same to me,” I said.

“I drank one,” the vampiress went on.

I sighed, reached out my hand, and set it on Ekaterina's shoulder. She peered at me delightedly and even leaned forward slightly.

Maybe she wanted to fight? Could she really be serious?

“Katerina,” I said with feeling. “I couldn't care less how much of what you sucked out of whom. Did you drink the boy dry? Or the muscleman? Or the Caucasian? That's too bad, but it's your right, you were given the licenses. Now get on with your part of the bargain.”

Ekaterina looked at me sullenly. Red glints twinkled on her glasses.

What would an Other need glasses for?

Especially a vampire?

Simply for show.

“I thought you had a serious psychological complex about us,” said the Mistress of Vampires.

“I did. It passed,” I replied curtly. “If you carry on jabbering and waffling, I'll catch a couple of your foster children and reduce them to dust. You know me, I'll find some reason. And if I can't, I'll invent one.”

For a few moments we pitted gaze against gaze. I even got the impression that she was prepared to go for a duel of will—and that would be bad, very bad, because I would have to break her, and the other Masters would sense it . . .

But Ekaterina looked away.

“I won't provoke you anymore,” she said. “Follow me. Don't talk. Try to let them take you for ordinary people.”

Olga and I had concealed our auras earlier, and only Others like us, Higher Ones, could see through our disguise.

Naturally, there would be quite a lot of those among the Masters.
But they would also have to check us deliberately in order to discover our true nature.

“Who are we supposed to be here?” Olga asked as we moved toward the closest entrance of the Empire State Building.

“You're my lover,” Ekaterina said. “And Anton is food.”

“I thought it was the other way around,” Olga said coolly.

“Anton has a fresh bite on his neck,” Ekaterina explained. “Any Master will sense it. That's all right for a lover too, but you don't have any bites, and that's strange for food. I could . . .”

“Oh no,” said Olga. “So I'm a lover, that's fine . . .”

I think Ekaterina even managed a gently mocking smile before Olga took her by the elbow, swung her around abruptly toward herself, and whispered in her face.

“Only bear in mind, you infant, that I was setting your kind on the stake before your great-grandmother had even been born. If you get abusive, your human lover will suddenly become your worst nightmare. Worse than Anton in a temper. Do you understand?”

Ekaterina nodded hastily.

“I know how vampires treat their human sexual partners,” Olga explained with a glance at me. “Worse than their food. So, to avoid any unnecessary problems or bad feelings . . .”

“I understand,” said Ekaterina.

Everyone goes out of their way to offend a vampire . . .

The vampire lodge had an abundance of human security guards. We walked through the foyer (luxurious) and took the elevator up to a floor somewhere in the eighties, then we were led through the corridors. Several times we walked up or down flights of stairs.