Sixth Watch by Sergei Lukyanenko Page B

arise in the flesh and open the doors—” Zabulon suddenly broke off. He looked at me, and in his glance, the glance of an old, pitiless, relentless enemy, I read . . . well, all right, not pity. Commiseration. But a weary kind of commiseration, and for himself too. It was the way the first violin might have looked at the second trombone, standing on the deck of the Titanic as it went down.
    â€œThree victims, the fourth time . . .” Gesar said dryly, looking at us.
    â€œFive days are left to the Others,” said Zabulon.
    I sensed Svetlana put her arms around our daughter and hug her close. I didn’t stir a muscle. Somehow I’d lost my fondness for beautiful gestures in recent years. And beautiful words too. And prophecies are always inordinately beautiful.
    â€œSix days are left to people,” said Gesar.
    â€œTo those who stand in the way, nothing will be left,” Zabulon added.
    And suddenly he smiled his blinding-white smile.
    â€œThe Sixth Watch is dead,” Gesar continued. “The Fifth Power has disappeared. The Fourth has not come in time.”
    â€œThe Third Power does not believe, the Second Power is afraid, the First Power is exhausted,” Zabulon concluded.
    There was silence for several seconds.
    And then Nadya asked: “Did you rehearse that?”
    â€œWhat?” Gesar asked, as if he hadn’t heard.
    â€œYou did it so smoothly. One finished and the other started.”
    â€œIt’s a Prophecy, little girl,” said Gesar. “A Prophecy that has just been proclaimed by all the Prophets on earth. I believe your lives are in danger. Yours, your father’s, and your mother’s. You are the three for whom the two have come.”
    â€œI understood that,” said Nadya. “It’s almost open text . . . for a Prophecy. They’re coming to kill our family. In five days the Others will die. And a day after that—all people will die. Are the days counted from the Prophecy or from when we die?”
    â€œWe haven’t managed to work that out yet,” Zabulon said in an apologetic tone. “Perhaps the countdown has already started, perhaps it was broken off when you survived. All Prophecies are deliberately vague . . .”
    â€œAnd that’s why, the moment we started shouting for help, you showed up to observe—but not to help,” Svetlana said in an icy voice. “Wonderful. Gesar, at least you know what I think of you, don’t you?”
    Gesar squirmed on his wide, comfortable chair, looking as if he wanted to start apologizing and roar out some harsh response at the same time.
    â€œSveta, stop it,” I told her. “All right. Gesar, Zabulon, we’ve heard you. I accept that there were good reasons for your caution. We’re all going to die, I understand that. Now I’d like to know what you gleaned from observing what was happening, what help you’re prepared to give us, and if there are any materials at all on this subject in the archives of the Watches and the Inquisition.”
    Gesar looked at Zabulon. Zabulon looked at Gesar.
    â€œDamn and blast . . .” Zabulon suddenly swore, which was completely out of character for him. “Why, you coached him, I’m sure you did . . .”
    â€œDon’t try to wriggle out of it,” said Gesar.
    Zabulon lowered his hand under the tabletop and brought it back out holding something. His palm was clasped around an old, smoke-blackened pipe, carved of stone or perhaps wood that had long ago turned as hard as stone.
    â€œLet’s have it, Dark One,” said Gesar.
    Zabulon handed him the pipe without saying a word.
    â€œSo you still say Merlin himself smoked it?” asked Gesar, clearly savoring his moment of triumph. “There wasn’t any tobacco in Europe back then.”
    â€œYou’d be too squeamish to hold it in your hands if I told you what he did smoke,” Zabulon muttered.
    Gesar chuckled and