'I know. So now put up with it.'

'All my life?'

'Yes. It will be a long one, but you'll never get over this. You'll never stop asking yourself if every step you make is the right one.'

CHAPTER 3

MAXIM DIDN'T like restaurants. That was just his character. He felt far more comfortable and relaxed in bars and clubs, even the more expensive ones, as long as they weren't too stiff" and formal. Of course, there were some people who always behaved like red commissars negotiating with the bourgeoisie, even in the most upmarket restaurants: no manners and no wish to learn any. But then who did all those New Russians in the jokes have to model themselves on?

Last night had to be smoothed over somehow, though. His wife had either believed his story about an 'important business meeting' or at least pretended that she did. But he was still suffering vague pangs of conscience. If only she knew. If she could only imagine who he really was and what it was he did.

Maxim couldn't say anything, so he had no choice but to make amends for his absence the previous night by using the same methods as any decent man after a little affair. Presents, pampering, an evening out. For instance, at a posh restaurant with exotic cuisine, foreign waiters, elegant decor and an extensive wine list.

Maxim wondered if Elena really thought he'd been unfaithful to her the night before. The question intrigued him, but not enough for him to ask it out loud. There are always some things that have to be left unsaid. Maybe some day she'd learn the truth. And then she'd be proud of him.

But his hopes on that score were probably in vain – he realised that. In a world full of the creatures of Malice and Darkness, he was the only knight of Light, eternally alone, unable to share with anyone the truth that was occasionally revealed to him. At the beginning, Maxim had still hoped to meet someone else like him: a sighted man in the kingdom of the blind, a shepherd who could sniff out the wolves in sheep's clothing from among the heedless herd.

But there wasn't anyone. He had no one to stand beside him.

Even so, he hadn't despaired.

'Do you think this is worth trying?'

Maxim glanced down at the menu. He didn't know what malai kqfta was. But that had never prevented him from making decisions. And in any case, the ingredients were listed.

'Yes, try it. Meat with a cream sauce.'

'Beef?'

He didn't realise straight away that Elena was joking. Then he smiled back at her.

'Definitely.'

'And what if I do order something with beef?'

'Then they'll refuse politely,' said Maxim. Keeping his wife amused wasn't so difficult. He actually rather enjoyed it. But right now he would really like to take a look round the room. Something here wasn't right. He could sense a strange, cold draught blowing through the semi-darkness at his back; it made him screw up his eyes and keep looking, looking . . .

Could it really be?

The gap between his missions was usually at least a few months, maybe six. Nothing had ever come up the very next day . . .

But the symptoms were only too familiar.

Maxim reached into his inside jacket pocket, as if he was checking his wallet. What he was really concerned about was something else – the little wooden dagger, carved artlessly but with great care. It was a simple whittled weapon he'd played with as a child, without understanding what it was for at the time, thinking it was just a toy.

The dagger was waiting.

But who for?

'Max?' There was a note of reproach in Elena's voice. 'You're off in the clouds again.'

They clinked glasses. It was a bad sign for husband and wife to do that, it meant there'd be no money in the family. But Maxim wasn't superstitious.

Who was it?

At first he suspected two girls. Both attractive, even beautiful, but each in her own way. The shorter one with dark hair, who moved in a slightly angular fashion, like a man, was overflowing with energy. She positively oozed sex. The other one, the blonde, was taller, more calm and restrained. And her beauty was quite different, soothing.

Maxim felt his wife watching him and looked away.

'Lesbians,' his wife said disdainfully.

'What?'

'Well, just look at them! The small dark-haired one in jeans is totally butch.'

So she was. Maxim nodded and assumed an appropriate expression.

Not them. Not them, after all. But who was it then?

A mobile phone rang in the corner of the room and a dozen people automatically reached for their phones. Maxim located the source of the sound and caught his breath.

The man talking into the phone in rapid, quiet bursts was not simply Evil. He was enveloped in a black shroud that other people couldn't see, though Maxim could sense it.

The draught was coming from him, it smelled of danger, appalling danger, coming closer.

Maxim felt a sudden ache in his chest.

'You know what, Elena, I'd like to live on a desert island,' he blurted out before he realised what he was saying.

'Alone?'

'With you and the children. But no one else. Not a soul.'

He gulped down the rest of his wine and the waiter immediately refilled his glass.

'I wouldn't like that,' his wife said.

'I know.'

The dagger felt heavy and hot in his pocket now. The mounting excitement was acute, almost sexual. It demanded release.

'Do you remember Edgar Allen Poe?' Svetlana asked.

They'd let us in without any fuss. I hadn't been expecting that – the rules in restaurants must have changed, become more democratic, or maybe they were just short of customers.

'No. He died too long ago. But Semyon was telling me—'

'I didn't mean Poe himself. I meant his stories.'

'The Man of the Crowd?' I guessed.

Svetlana laughed quietly.

'Yes. You're in the same fix as him right now. You have to stick to crowded places.'

'Fortunately I'm not sick of those places just yet.'

We took a glass of Bailey's each and ordered something to eat. That probably gave the waiter ideas about why we were there – two inexperienced prostitutes looking for work – but I didn't really care.

'Was he an Other?'

'Poe? Probably an uninitiated one.'

Silence

There are some qualities–some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that twin entity which springs
From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.

Svetlana recited in a quiet voice.

I looked at her in surprise.

'Do you know it?' she asked.

'How can I put it?' I said. Then I raised my eyes and declaimed:

He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
No power hath he of evil in himself;
But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
No foot of man), commend thyself to God!

We looked at each for a second and then both burst into laughter.

'A literary duel,' Svetlana said ironically. 'Score line: one–one. A pity we don't have an audience. But why wasn't Poe initiated?'

'A lot of poets are potential Others. But some potentials are best left to live as humans. Poe was too psychologically unstable – giving people like that special powers is like handing a pyromaniac a can of petrol. I wouldn't even try to guess which side he would have taken. He'd probably have withdrawn into the Twilight for ever, and very quickly.'

'But how do they live there? The ones who have withdrawn for ever?'

'I don't know, Svetlana. I expect no one really knows. You sometimes come across them in the Twilight world, but there's no contact in the usual sense of the word.'

'I'd like to find out,' said Svetlana, casting a thoughtful glance round the room. 'Have you noticed the Other in here?' she asked.

'The old man behind me, talking on his phone?'

'Why do you call him old?'

'He's very old. I'm not looking with my eyes.'

Svetlana bit her lip and screwed up her eyes. She was beginning to develop small ambitions of her own.

'I can't do it yet,' she admitted. 'I can't even tell if he's Light or Dark.'

'Dark. Not from the Day Watch, but Dark. A magician with middle-level powers. And by the way, he's spotted us too.'

'So what are we going to do?'

'Us? Nothing.'

'But he's Dark!'

'Yes, and we're Light. What of it? As Watch agents we have the right to check his ID. But it's bound to be in order.'

'And when will we have the right to intervene?'

'When he gets up, waves his hands through the air, turns into a demon and starts biting off people's heads. . .'

'Anton!'

'I'm quite serious. We have no right to interfere with an honest Dark Magician's pleasant evening out.'

The waiter brought our order and we stopped talking. Svetlana ate, but without any real appetite. Then, like a sulky, capricious child, she blurted out:

'And how long is the Watch going to carry on grovelling like this?'

'To the Dark Ones?'

'Yes.'

'Until we acquire a decisive advantage. Until people who become Others no longer hesitate for even a moment over what to choose: Light or Dark. Until the Dark Ones all die of old age. Until they can no longer nudge people towards Evil as easily as they do now.'

'But that's capitulation, Anton.'

'Neutrality. The status quo. Double deadlock – there's no point pretending otherwise.'

'You know, I like the solitary Maverick who's terrorising the Dark Ones a lot more. Even if he is violating the Treaty, even if he is setting us up without knowing it. He's fighting against the Dark, isn't he? Fighting! Alone, against all of them.'

'And have you thought about why he kills Dark Ones but doesn't get in touch with us?'

'No.'