several other attempts to explain how we came to be different from ordinary people. But I'd never come across one like this. There was something almost offensive about it.

But what difference did it make? The result was still the same. There were people, and there were Others . . .

I carried on reading.

The second chapter was devoted to the differences between 'magicians and enchantresses' and 'witches and wizards'. Back then, apparently, they didn't use the term 'wizard' for Dark Magicians, but only for 'witches of the male sex' – Others who habitually make use of artefacts. It was an interesting article, and I got the feeling it had been written by Arina herself. Essentially it all came down to the fact that there was no real difference. An enchantress operated directly with the Twilight, pumping power out of it to perform certain magical actions. A witch first created certain 'charms' that accumulated Twilight power and were capable of working independently for a long time. Enchantresses and magicians had the advantage of not needing any contrivances – no staffs or rings, books or amulets. Witches and wizards had the advantage that, once they had created a successful artefact, they could use it to accumulate immense reserves of power, which it would be very difficult to draw out of the Twilight instantaneously. The conclusion was obvious, and Arina expressed it in so many words: a rational magician would never despise artefacts, and an intelligent wizard would try to learn to work with the Twilight directly. In the author's opinion, 'in a hundred years' time we shall see that even the greatest and most arrogant magicians will not disdain the use of amulets, and even the most orthodox of witches will not regard it as detrimental to enter the Twilight'.

Well, that prediction had come true to the very letter. Most of the Night Watch staff were magicians. But we made regular use of artefacts . . .

I went into the kitchen, made myself another couple of sandwiches and poured myself some kvass. I looked at the clock – six in the morning. Dogs had begun barking somewhere, but the village still hadn't woken up.

The third chapter dealt with the numerous attempts made by Others to turn a human being into an Other (as a rule, Others had been motivated by love or greed) and attempts by human beings who had learned the truth in one way or another to become Others.

There was a detailed analysis of the story of Gilles de Retz, Joan of Arc's sword-bearer. Joan was a very weak Dark Other, 'a witch of the seventh rank', which, by the way, did not prevent her from performing deeds that were, for the most part, noble. Joan's death was described in very vague terms, there was even a hint that she might have averted the inquisitors' eyes and escaped from her pyre. I decided that was pretty doubtful: Joan had violated the Treaty by using her magic to interfere in human affairs, so our Inquisition would have been keeping an eye on her execution too. There was no way you could avert their eyes . . . But the story of that poor devil Gilles de Retz was described in much greater detail. Either out of love or sheer scatterbrain foolishness, Joan told him all about the nature of the Others. And the young knight, so famous for his noble courage and chivalry, totally lost it. He decided that magical Power could be taken from ordinary people – young, healthy people. All you had to do was torture them, become a cannibal and appeal to the Dark powers for help . . . In effect, the man decided to become a Dark Other. And he tortured several hundred women and children to death, for which (as well as the offence of not paying his taxes), he was eventually burned at the stake too.

It was clear from the text that even the witches didn't approve of that kind of behaviour. There were scathing attacks on the blabbermouth Joan and unflattering epithets applied to her crazy sword-bearer. The conclusion was presented in dry, academic terms – there was no way to use the 'affinity for sorcery' possessed by ordinary people to transform anyone into an Other. After all, an Other was distinguished, not by an elevated level of this 'affinity' that the bloodthirsty Gilles de Retz, in his foolishnness, had tried to increase, but by a lower level. And so all of his murderous