They all got up together and moved towards the door. Petya went out first and stood in the corridor, holding the door open, then Lena followed. Pasha lingered for a moment and gave me a look of either fellow feeling or compassion.

“In Europe it is usually thought that always and everywhere there are at least two paths to follow, and one of them is good. In Asia we know that there might not be any paths at all, or there might be a countless number. But that does not mean that even one of them will prove to be good.”

“I live in Russia,” I replied. “That is not Europe, and it is not Asia. We have no paths at all, only directions, but that has never disconcerted us.”

Pasha raised one eyebrow, pondering my words. Then he smiled, nodded, and went out.

Petya closed the door behind him.

I slipped off the bathrobe and dressed hurriedly, and a minute later I was knocking at the door of the adjacent room. It opened with a click, although Arina was standing at the window, looking out at Taipei.

“Did you have any visitors?” I asked.

“They just left,” Arina answered, without turning round. “Pasha, Lena, and Petya. Fourth-, First-, and Second-Level. Light Ones.”

“How amusing—they were in my room as well,” I said. “And they just left, too.”

“Childish tricks,” Arina remarked scornfully, “I expect we even had identical conversations.”

“Probably,” I agreed. “Didn’t they try to arrest you?”

“I explained that it was pointless,” Arina replied. “But they could see that for themselves, anyway. Well, then—shall we go to see Fan?”

“ ‘I’ll take you to the museum, my sister told me,’ ” I murmured, quoting Mayakovsky. “Why be in such a hurry? I’d rather have a decent meal, catch up on my sleep, and have the meeting tomorrow.”

“All right,” Arina agreed readily. “There are several good restaurants right here in the hotel. Or we could go out into town. I told you that you won’t get poisoned here, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did,” I replied. “Are you feeling sad about something?”

Arina looked at me and then turned back to the window.

“Time, Anton, time . . . I look at how the city has changed, and I realize how I’ve changed myself. An old crone who looks young—strong, healthy, immortal—but an old crone.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Why is it like that for you witches? If an Other is even Fifth-Level, he can keep his body young . . .”