Overhead something started knocking rapidly—as if someone had turned on a sewing machine. Or started firing a submachine gun, which was more probable—it wasn’t likely that the Tiger would leave the boy alone for a pair of well-stitched trousers.

“Optimists,” Gesar snorted.

“Well, why not give it a try?” Jermenson said, shrugging. “You know, when they invented gunpowder I was absolutely delighted. Nothing better against carrion raised from the dead.”

The light bulbs in the corridor suddenly blinked and went out. A moment later they started glowing again, but dimly—the emergency generator had cut in. But a couple of seconds after that they went out and stayed out.

I waved my hand and hung several magical lights along the length of the corridor. Gesar snapped his fingers and extinguished the two closest to us, then growled: “Will you ever learn . . .”

We distinctly heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Not rapid, but confident. The Tiger stepped down onto the floor and stopped at the far end of the corridor. He looked in our direction—the darkness didn’t seem to bother him. He smiled and took a step forward.

There was a crash and the Tiger was enveloped in a frosty white vortex. Like mist or a blizzard . . . The Tiger froze for a second and then, with a certain effort, took another step, heading towards us.

“I told you it wouldn’t work,” Gesar called back over his shoulder.

“But it was worth a try!” Jermenson replied resentfully.

The two Higher Ones stepped forward together, shielding Alisher and me. And at that moment the door behind our backs slammed. I looked round and saw Nadya.

My daughter looked thoughtful, but pleased about something. She walked up to me, took my hand, and asked: “Is that him?”

Meanwhile the Tiger had stopped moving. An expression of perplexed confusion appeared on his face, as if a Zero-Level Absolute Enchantress was something that his plans hadn’t taken into account.

“Who do you see?” I asked her. “A little girl?”

“No. A tiger. He’s big and stripy and his eyes are blazing.”

“Beautiful,” I sighed.

“Daddy, you shouldn’t kill tigers. They’re in the Red Book.”

“It’s all right to kill this one,” I said. “Only we can’t seem to manage it somehow.”

And suddenly the Tiger spoke. During our previous encounter he hadn’t uttered a word and, to be honest, I’d been certain that he didn’t know how to talk . . .

“Go away. I don’t want you.”

“And we don’t want you,” Gesar replied. “Why don’t you go away?”

The Tiger shook his head. (I wondered how Nadya saw that. A talking tiger? Shere Khan from the cartoon film about Mowgli?)

“The prophecy must not be heard.”

“He’s only a little boy,” said Gesar. “Leave him alone, give him time. Let the prophecy be uttered into the empty air. Let no one hear it.”