“Don’t you want to ask me any questions?”

Pastukhov shook his head slowly. “I do. But I won’t. The less you know, the sounder you sleep.”

I was already walking back to Las when he called to me: “Will you help Bisat?”

“What makes you think I’ll help him?” I asked.

“Well . . .” The policeman faltered, and then suddenly smiled: “Because a dog is a man’s best friend. Right?”

I wagged my finger at him and walked on to join Las.

“He picks his nose too,” I said acidly. “Did you note down the details of the polizei who left his post? Call the information section, we need his address urgently. No, you drive and I’ll call while we’re on our way out.”

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

POLICE OFFICER BISAT ISKENDEROV LIVED NOT FAR FROM THE airport, in Kurkino. A good district, one that many even considered elite. But Iskenderov lived in a municipal apartment, so he wasn’t going to be one of those prosperous policemen who spend all their life pounding the beat but somehow manage to live in luxury accommodation and drive to work in an executive-class Mercedes.

While we were on our way to this policeman who had resigned from the service so suddenly and in such an unusual manner, I told Las about my conversation with Pastukhov.

“Dogs, are we?” Las said thoughtfully. “That’s pushing it a bit . . . But listen, why did you just talk to him? If you’d used Plato, he’d have been delighted to tell you everything. Or just got inside his head—you can do that . . .”

I detected a hint of envy in those last words. Las was a weak Other, with no chance of improving his level. Some spells would always be beyond his reach.

“Las, have you often met people who can see Others?” I asked instead of answering.

“No.”

“Me neither. I’ve never even heard of such a thing. It seems like he developed this ability after his encounter with me. In that case, there’s a chance it could be a consequence of the spell I put on him.”

“And you’re afraid that a new spell will take away his ability . . .” Las said, with a nod. “I get it. Well, you’re the Higher One, it’s for you to decide.”

“It’s for Gesar to decide,” I said. “But I don’t want to hurry things. Pastukhov won’t tell anyone. And if he does, he’ll end up in an asylum.”

“And that ‘tiger’?”

“What about the tiger?”

“Who do you think he is? A Higher Magician?”

“Pastukhov didn’t call me a tiger . . .”

“Logical . . . But who is he, then? An Inquisitor?”

“No,” I said regretfully. “I don’t think so. Inquisitors remain Light Ones or Dark Ones—whichever they were before.”

“But their aura turns gray.”

I sighed, wondering if I ought to reveal the real facts.