The Twilight Watch by Sergei Lukyanenko Page A

way.
    'Does she often write letters?' I asked with the faintest of smiles.
    Taking the smile as sign of absolution, Tamara began smiling
too:
    'All the time! To Stalin, and Brezhnev . . . Isn't that hilarious?'
    I didn't argue with her.
     
    Of all the cafés and restaurants that Assol was crammed with, the
only one open was the café in the supermarket. A very nice café,
on the second-floor balcony above the checkouts. With an excellent
view of the entire supermarket hall. It had to be a good place
to drink a cup of coffee, mapping out your route for a pleasant
stroll as you bought the groceries – doing your 'shopping': that
terrible word, that monstrous Anglicism that has eaten its way into
the Russian language, like a tick boring into its helpless prey.
    That was where I had my lunch, trying not to feel horrified
by the prices. Then I bought a double espresso, and a packet of
cigarettes – which I smoke only very rarely – and tried to imagine
that I was a detective.
    Who had sent the letter?
    The renegade Other or the Other's human client?
    It didn't look like there was any advantage in it for either of
them. And the scenario with another individual attempting to forestall
the initiation was just too melodramatic.
    Think, head, think! You've come across more confused situations
than this before. We have a renegade Other. We have his
client. The letter was sent to the Watches and to the Inquisition.
So the letter was most likely sent by an Other. A powerful, intelligent,
well-informed Other.
    Then the question was: What for?
    And I already had the answer: In order not to go through with
this initiation. In order to deliver the client into our hands and
not go through with his promise.
    That meant it wasn't a matter of money. In some incomprehensible
fashion the unknown client had acquired a hold over the
Other. A hold so terrible and absolute that he could demand
anything he wanted. An Other could never admit that a human
being held that kind of power over him. So he was making a
cunning knight's move . . .
    Yes, yes, yes!
    I lit a cigarette, took a sip of coffee, and slumped back grandly
in the soft chair like I belonged there.
    It was beginning to come together. How could an Other end
up in bondage to a human being? An ordinary human being, even
if he was rich, influential, intelligent . . .
    There was only one possibility, and I didn't like it one little bit.
Our mysterious renegade Other could have found himself in the
position of the golden fish in the fairy tale. He could have given
a human being his word of honour to grant him or her any wish
at all. After all, the fish in the story hadn't expected the crazy old
woman . . . that reminded me: I had to inform Gesar that I had
discovered a potential Other . . . that the crazy old woman would
want to become the Empress of the Sea.
    And that brought me to the really upsetting part.
    A vampire, or a werewolf, or a Dark Magician wouldn't give a
damn about any promise.
    They would give their word and then take it back again. And
they'd tear the human's throat out if he tried to stand up for his
rights.
    So it was a Light Magician who had made the rash promise!
    Could that really happen?
    It could.
    Easily. We were all a bit naïve, Kostya had been right about that.
Our human weaknesses made us vulnerable – we could be trapped
by our sense of guilt, all sorts of romantic notions . . .
    And so the traitor was in our ranks. He had given his word –
I wouldn't try to figure out why just yet. He was caught in a trap.
If a Light Magician refused to carry out his promise, he would
dematerialise . . .
    Stop! There was another curious point here. I could promise a
human being to do 'anything he wanted'. But if I was asked to
do the impossible . . . well, I didn't know what exactly, not something
that was difficult, or repugnant, or forbidden – but actually
impossible . . . extinguish the sun, for instance, or turn a human
being into an Other . . . What answer would I give?