There are other levels below that, starting with the artifacts repository and archives and ending with the holding cells. But that’s a whole different story: there’s a different staircase for accessing those levels and it’s not that easy to get down there.

Kesha was allocated a room that was usually occupied by non-smokers. They dragged in a huge flat-screen TV set, two games consoles, a heap of DVDs, and two sacks of toys that had been bought in the nearest branch of Children’s World. From the look of things, the staff member sent to buy the toys had no children of his own, otherwise the heap wouldn’t have been such a jumble of stuffed animals, Lego sets, remote-controlled cars and helicopters, board games that could only be played in a group, and wooden toys for developing the skills of kindergarten-age tots. Kesha stood with his hands braced against his well-fed sides, gazing at the chaotic heap in mild fright.

“Semyon, make sure that he’s fed by someone with a family, who has children,” I said. “And preferably with a child less than a hundred years old. Or else they’ll bring the boy shish kebabs, beer, and smoked sausage.”

“It’s too early for him to have beer, that I understand,” Semyon said with a nod. “But what’s wrong with sausage and shish kebabs? I remember one time during the Civil War, I picked up this street kid at the station—he turned out to be a Light Other. You know him, by the way, it’s . . . well, never mind that. He was skinny as hell. Anyway, I fed him up with sausage for a month! It happened in the Ukraine, they make good sausage there . . . if you fry it . . .”

“Okay, I get the idea,” I said, also nodding. “Then definitely ask one of the women to take care of the boy. Okay?”

“I will,” Semyon chuckled. “Only the boy won’t see his supper for a long time yet—the boss wanted to start teaching him the basics of magic immediately.”

I shrugged. What was all the hurry about? The child was under the protection of the entire Night Watch now. We could take our time to work out what he was capable of.

“I’ll be off,” I told Semyon. “I’ll collect my family and go home. Svetlana promised me borscht.”

“Borscht—that’s great!” said Semyon, breaking into a broad smile. “I reckon I’ll go to the canteen. I’ll get something to eat and ask the cook to knock something up for the kid.”

Our cook was a woman about forty years old. As an Other she was pretty weak, but as a cook she was outstanding. The only difference between the food in our canteen and food in Michelin-listed restaurants was the price.

“Now that’s a good idea,” I told him approvingly.