give a damn!' Svetlana replied, flaring up instantly. 'It's you I'm concerned about, not the Watch!'

'No need yet,' I replied. 'How's Nadiushka?'

'She's helping me make borscht,' Svetlana said with a laugh. 'So dinner will be a bit late today. Shall I call her?'

'Uhuh,' I said, relaxing, and took a seat by the window.

But Nadya didn't take the phone, and she didn't want to talk to her daddy.

They can be stubborn like that at the age of two.

I talked to Svetlana a little bit longer. I felt like asking if her bad premonitions had disappeared, but I didn't. It was clear enough from her voice that they had.

I wound up the conversation, but I didn't put my phone away. There was no point in calling the office. But what if I had a word with someone in a private capacity?

Well, I had to go into town, meet people, keep the wheels of my business turning, sign new contracts, didn't I?

I dialled Semyon's number.

It was time to stop playing the sleuth. Light Ones don't lie to each other.

For meetings that are not entirely business, but not exactly personal either, the best places are small pubs, with five or six tables at most. There was a time when Moscow didn't have any places like that. Public catering always meant premises large enough for a full-scale bash.

But we have them now.

This particular entirely unremarkable pub-café was right in the very centre, on Solyanka Street. A door in the wall leading straight in from the street, five tables, a little bar – back at the Assol complex even the bars in the apartments were more impressive.

And there was nothing special about the clientele. It wasn't one of those special-interest clubs that Gesar loved to collect – scuba-divers get together here, and recidivist cat-burglars there . . .

And the cuisine had no pretensions of any kind. Two types of draught beer, other alcoholic drinks, sausages out of a microwave and French fries. Booze and junk.

Maybe that was why Semyon had suggested meeting in this café? He fitted right in. And I didn't exactly stand out from the crowd either . . .

Noisily blowing the froth off his Klin Gold beer – I'd only ever seen that done in old movies – Semyon took a mouthful and looked at me amiably:

'Let's hear it.'

'You know about the crisis?' I asked, taking the bull by the horns straight away.

'Which crisis is that?' Semyon asked.

'The one with the anonymous letters.'

Semyon nodded. He even added something:

'I've just completed the temporary registration of our visitor from Prague.'

'This is what I think,' I said, twirling my beer mug round on the clean tablecloth. 'They were sent by an Other.'

'Sure they were!' said Semyon. 'You drink your beer. If you want, I'll sober you up afterwards.'

'You can't, I'm shielded.'

Semyon screwed his eyes up and looked at me. And he agreed that yes, I was shielded and it was beyond his powers to break through a magic-proof shell installed by none other than Gesar himself.

'Well then,' I went on, 'if they were sent by an Other, what is he trying to achieve?'

'The isolation or elimination of his human client,' Semyon said calmly. 'Evidently he must have rashly promised to make him an Other. So now he can't back out of it.'

All my heroic intellectual efforts had been pointless. Without even working on the case, Semyon had figured it all out in his own head.

'It's a Light Other,' I said.

'Why?' asked Semyon, surprised.

'A Dark Other has plenty of other ways to go back on a promise.'

Semyon thought for a while, chewed on a potato straw and said yes, it looked that way. But he wouldn't entirely rule out any involvement by Dark Ones. Because even Dark Ones could swear a rash oath that there was no way to get round. For instance, swear on the Dark, call the primordial power to bear witness. After that, they couldn't wriggle out of it.

'Agreed,' I said. 'But even so, the chances are greater that one of us has slipped up.'

Semyon nodded and declared:

'Not me.'

I looked away.

'Don't you get upset,' Semyon said in a melancholy voice. 'You've got the right idea and you're doing the right thing. We could have slipped up. Even I could have blundered. Thanks for asking me to talk, and not just running to the boss . . . I give you my word, Light Magician Anton Gorodetsky, that I did not send these letters and I do not know who sent them.'

'You know, I'm really