ime to introduce a new character to our other-worldly pageant. Well, not strictly speaking a new character. We have encountered him before, in the LEP booking line. On remand for numerous larcenies: Mulch Diggums, the kleptomaniac dwarf. A dubious individual, even by Artemis Fowl’s standards. As if this account didn’t already suffer from an overdose of amoral individuals.

Born to a typical dwarf cavern-dwelling family, Mulch had decided early that mining was not for him, and resolved to put his talents to another use, namely digging and entering, generally entering Mud People’s property. Of course this meant forfeiting his magic. Dwellings were sacred. If you broke that rule, you had to be prepared to accept the consequences. Mulch didn’t mind. He didn’t care much for magic anyway. There had never been much use for it down in

the mines.

Things had gone pretty well for a few centuries, and he’d built up quite a lucrative aboveground memorabilia business. That was until he’d tried to sell the Jules Rimet Cup to an undercover LEP operative. From then on his luck had turned, and he’d been arrested over twenty times to date. A total of three hundred years in and out of prison.

Mulch had a prodigious appetite for tunneling, and that, unfortunately, is a literal translation. For those unfamiliar with the mechanics of dwarf tunneling, I shall endeavor to explain them as tastefully as possible. Like some members of the reptile family, dwarf males can unhinge their jaws, allowing them to ingest several pounds of earth a second. This material is processed by a superefficient metabolism, stripped of any useful minerals and... ejected at the other end, as it were. Charming.

At present, Mulch was languishing in a stone-walled cell in LEP Central. At least, he was trying to project an image of a languishing, unperturbed kind of dwarf. Actually, he was quaking in his steel-toe-capped boots.

The goblin/dwarf turf war was flaring up at the moment and some bright spark LEP elf had seen fit to put him in a cell with a gang of psyched-up goblins. An oversight perhaps. More likely a spot of revenge for trying to pick his arresting officer’s pocket in the booking line.

“So, dwarf,” sneered the head-honcho goblin, a wart-faced fellow covered in tattoos. “How come you don’t chew your way outta here?”

Mulch rapped on the walls. “Solid rock.”

The goblin laughed. “So what? Can’t be any harder than your dwarf skull.”

His cronies laughed. So did Mulch. He thought it might be wise. Wrong.

“You laughin’ at me, dwarf?”

Mulch stopped laughing.

“With you,” he corrected. “I’m laughing with you. That skull joke was pretty funny.”

The goblin advanced, until his slimy nose was a centimeter from Mulch’s own. “You pay-tron-izin’ me, dwarf?”

Mulch swallowed, calculating. If he unhinged now, he could probably swallow the leader before the others reacted. Still, goblins were murder on the digestion. Very bony.

The goblin conjured up a fireball around his fist. “I asked you a question, stumpy.”

Mulch could feel every sweat gland on his body pop into instant overdrive. Dwarfs did not like fire. They didn’t even like thinking about flames. Unlike the rest of the fairy races, dwarfs had no desire to live above ground. Too close to the sun. Ironic for someone in the Mud People Possession Liberation business.

“N—no need for that,” he stammered. “I was just trying to be friendly.”

“Friendly,” scoffed Wart-face. “Your kind don’t know the meanin’ of the word. Cowardly backstabbers, the lot of you.”

Mulch nodded diplomatically. “We have been known to be a bit treacherous.”

“A bit treacherous! A bit treacherous! My brother Phlegm was ambushed by a crowd of dwarfs disguised as dung heaps! He’s still in traction!”

Mulch nodded sympathetically. “The old dung heap ruse. Disgraceful. One of the reasons I don’t associate with the Brotherhood.”

Wart-face twirled the fireball between his fingers. “There are two things under this world that I really despise.”

Mulch had a feeling that he was about to find out what they were.

“One is a stinkin’ dwarf.”

No surprises there.

“And the other is a traitor to his own kind. And from what I hear, you fall neatly into both categories.”

Mulch smiled weakly. “Just my luck.”

“Luck ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. Fortune delivered you into my hands.”

On another day, Mulch might have pointed out that luck and fortune were basically the same thing. Not today.

“You like fire, dwarf?”

Mulch shook his head.

Wart-face grinned.

“Now ain’t that a shame, ’cause any second now I’m going to ram this here fireball down your throat.”

The dwarf swallowed drily. Wasn’t it just typical of the Dwarf Brotherhood? What do dwarfs hate? Fire. Who are the only creatures with the ability to conjure fireballs? Goblins. So who did the dwarfs pick a fight with? A real no-brainer.

Mulch backed up to the wall.

“Careful, there. We could all go up.”

“Not us.” Wart-face grinned, snorting the fireball up two elongated nostrils. “Completely fireproof.”

Mulch was perfectly aware of what would happen next. He’d seen it too many times in the back alleys. A group of goblins would corner a stray brother dwarf, pin him down, and then the leader would give him the double barrels straight in the face.

Wart-face’s nostrils quivered as he prepared to vent the inhaled fireball. Mulch quailed. There was only one chance. The goblins had made a basic mistake. They’d forgotten to pin his arms.

The goblin drew a breath through his mouth, then closed it. More exhalation pressure for the fire stream. He tilted his head back, pointing his nose at the dwarf, and let fly. Quick as a flash, Mulch jammed his thumbs up Wartface’s nostrils. Disgusting, yes, but definitely better than becoming dwarf kebab.

The fireball had nowhere to go. It rebounded on the balls of Mulch’s thumbs and ricocheted back into the goblin’s head. The tear ducts provided the path of least resistance, so the flames compressed into pressurized streams, erupting just below the goblin’s eyes. A sea of flame spread across the cell roof.

Mulch withdrew his thumbs and, after a quick wipe, thrust them in his mouth, allowing the natural balm in his saliva to begin the healing process. Of course if he’d still had his magic, he could have just wished the scorched digits better. But that was the price you paid for a life of crime.

Wart-face didn’t look so good. Smoke was leaking from every orifice in his head. Flameproof goblins may be, but the errant fireball had given his tubes a good scouring. He swayed like a strand of seaweed, then collapsed facedown on the concrete floor. Something crunched. Probably a big goblin nose.

The other gang members did not react favorably.

“Look what he did to the boss!”

“That stinkin’ stump.”

“Let’s fry ’im.”

Mulch backed up even further. He’d been hoping the remaining goblins would lose their nerve once their leader was out of commission. Apparently not. Even though it was most definitely not in his nature, Mulch had no option but to attack.

He unhinged his jaw and leaped forward, clamping his teeth around the foremost goblin’s head.

“Ow, bagg off!” he shouted around the obstruction in his mouth. “Bagg off or ur briend gedds it!”

The others froze, uncertain of their next move. Of course they’d all seen what dwarf molars could do to a goblin head. Not a pretty sight.

Each one popped a fireball in his fist.

“I’m warnih ooh!”

“You can’t get us all, stumpy.”

Mulch resisted the impulse to bite down. It is the strongest of dwarf urges, a genetic memory born from millennia spent tunneling. The fact that the goblin was wriggling slimily didn’t help. His options were running out. The gang was advancing and he was powerless as long as his mouth was full. It was crunch time. Pardon the pun.

Suddenly the cell door clanked open and what seemed like an entire squadron of LEP officers flooded the confined space. Mulch felt the cold steel of a gun barrel against his temple.

“Spit out the prisoner,” ordered a voice.

Mulch was delighted to comply. A thoroughly slimed goblin collapsed retching on the floor.

“You goblins, put ’em out.”

One by one the fireballs were extinguished.

“That’s not my fault,” whined Mulch, pointing to the spasming Wart-face. “He blew himself up.”

The officer holstered his weapon, drawing out a set of cuffs.

“I couldn’t care less what you do to each other,” he said, spinning Mulch and snapping the cuffs on. “If it was up to me, I’d put the whole lot of you in a big room, and come back a week later to sluice it out. But Commander Root wants to see you above ground ASAP.”

“ASAP?”

“Now, if not sooner.”

Mulch knew Root. The commander was responsible for several of his government hotel visits. If Julius wanted to see him, it probably wasn’t for drinks and a movie.

“Now? But it’s daylight now. I’ll burn.”

The LEP officer laughed.

“It ain’t daylight where you’re going, pal. Where you’re going it ain’t anything.”

Root was waiting for the dwarf inside the time-field portal. The portal was yet another of Foaly’s inventions. Fairies could be introduced to and leave the time-field without affecting the altered flow inside the field. This effectively meant that even though it took nearly six hours to get Mulch to the surface, he was injected into the field only moments after Root had the notion to send for him.

It was Mulch’s first time in a field. He stood watching life proceed at an exaggerated rate outside the shimmering corona. Cars zipped by at impossible speeds, and clouds tumbled across the skyline as though driven by force-ten gales.

“Mulch, you little reprobate,” roared Root. “You can take off that suit now. The field is UV-filtered, or so I’m told.”

The dwarf had been issued a blackout suit at E1. Even though dwarfs had thick skins, they were extremely sensitive to sunlight and had a burn time of less than three minutes. Mulch peeled off the skintight suit.

“Nice to see you, Julius.”

“That’s Commander Root to you.”

“Commander, now. I heard that. Clerical error, was it?”

Root’s teeth ground his cigar to a pulp.

“I don’t have time for this impudence, convict. And the only reason that my boot is not up your behind right now is that I have a job for you.”

Mulch frowned. “Convict? I have a name, you know, Julius.”

Root squatted to the dwarf’s level.“I don’t know what dreamworld you live in, convict, but in the real world you are a criminal and it is my job to ensure your life is as unpleasant as possible. So if you’re expecting civility just because I’ve testified against you some fifteen times, forget it!”

Mulch rubbed his wrists where the handcuffs had left red welts.

“Fine, Commander. No need to blow a gasket. I’m not a murderer, you know, just a petty criminal.”

“From what I hear, you nearly made the transformation below in the cells.”

“Not my fault. They attacked me.”

Root screwed a fresh cigar into his mouth.

“Fine, whatever. Just follow me, and don’t steal anything.”

“Yessir, Commander,” said Mulch innocently. He didn’t need to steal anything else. He’d already palmed Root’s field-access card when the commander had made the mistake of leaning over.

They crossed the Retrieval perimeter to the avenue.

“Do you see that manor?”

“What manor?”

Root rounded on him. “I don’t have time for this, convict. Nearly half my time-stop has elapsed. Another few hours and one of my best officers will be blue-rinsed!”

Mulch shrugged. “None of my concern. I’m just a criminal, remember. And by the way, I know what you want me to do, and the answer is no.”

“I haven’t even asked you yet.”

“It’s obvious. I’m a house-breaker. That’s a house. You can’t go in because you’ll lose your magic, but my magic is already gone. Two and two.”

Root spat out the cigar. “Don’t you have any civic pride? Our entire way of life is on the line here.”

“Not my way of life. Fairy prison, human prison. It’s all the same to me.”

The commander thought about it.

“Okay, you slime. Fifty years off your sentence.”

“I want amnesty.” “In your dreams, Mulch.” “Take it or leave it.” “Seventy-five years in minimum security. You take it or leave it.” Mulch pretended to think. It was all academic, seeing

as he intended to escape anyway. “Single cell?” “Yes, yes. Single cell. Now, will you do it?” “Very well, Julius. Only because it’s you.”

Foaly was searching for a matching iris-cam. “Hazel, I think. Or perhaps tawny. You really do have stunning eyes, Mister Mulch.” “Thank you, Foaly. My mother always said they were my most attractive feature.” Root was pacing the shuttle floor. “You two do realize we’re on a deadline here, don’t you?

Never mind matching the color. Just give him a camera.” Foaly plucked a lens from its solution with tweezers. “This is not just vanity, Commander. The closer the match, the less interference from the actual eye.” “Whatever, whatever, just get on with it.” Foaly grabbed Mulch’s chin, holding him still. “There you are. We’re with you all the way.” Foaly twisted a tiny cylinder into the thick tufts of hair growing from Mulch’s ear.

“Wired for sound now, too. In case you need to call for assistance.”

The dwarf smiled wryly. “Forgive me for not swelling with confidence. I find I’ve always done better on my own.”

“If you can call seventeen convictions doing better,” chuckled Root.

“Oh, we have time for jokes now, do we?”

Root grabbed him by the shoulder. “You’re right. We don’t. Let’s go.”

He dragged Mulch across a grassy verge to a cluster of cherry trees.

“I want you to tunnel in there and find out how this Fowl person knows so much about us. Probably some surveillance device. Whatever it is, destroy it. Find Captain Short if possible and see what you can do for her. If she is dead, at least it will clear the way for a bio-bomb.”

Mulch squinted across the landscape. “I don’t like it.”

“What don’t you like?”

“The lie of the land. I smell limestone. Solid-rock foundation. There might not be a way in.”

Foaly trotted across. “I’ve done a scan. The original structure is based totally on rock, but some of the later extensions stray on to clay. The wine cellar in the south wing appears to have a wooden floor. It should be no problem for someone with a mouth like yours.”

Mulch decided to take that as a statement of fact rather than an insult. He opened the back flap on his tunneling pants. “Right. Stand back.”

Root and the surrounding LEP officers rushed for cover, but Foaly, who had never actually seen a dwarf tunneling, decided to stay for a peek.

“Good luck, Mulch.”

The dwarf unhinged his jaw.

“Ank oo,” he mumbled, bending over for launch.

The centaur looked around.

“Where’s everyone—”

He never finished that statement, because a blob of recently swallowed and even more recently recycled limestone whacked him in the face. By the time he’d cleared his eyes, Mulch had disappeared down a vibrating hole, and there was the sound of hearty laughter shaking the cherry trees.

Mulch followed a loamy vein through a volcanic fold in the rock. Nice consistency, not too many loose stones. Plenty of insect life too. Vital for strong healthy teeth, a dwarf’s most important attribute—the first thing a prospective mate looked at. Mulch went low to the limestone, his belly almost scraping the rock. The deeper the tunnel, the less chance of subsidence on the surface. You couldn’t be too careful these days, not with motion sensors and land mines. Mud People went to extraordinary lengths to protect their valuables. With good reason, as it happened.

Mulch felt a vibration cluster to his left. Rabbits. The dwarf fixed the location in his internal compass. Always useful to know where the local wildlife hung out. He skirted the warren, following the manor foundations around in a long northwesterly loop.

Wine cellars were easy to locate. Over the centuries, residue seeped through the floor, infusing the land beneath with the wine’s personality. This one was somber, nothing daring here. A touch of fruit, but not enough to lighten the flavor. Definitely an occasion wine on the bottom rack. Mulch burped. That was good clay.

The dwarf aimed his scything jaws skyward, punching through the floorboards. He hauled himself through the jagged hole, shaking the last of the recycled mud from his pants.

He was in a blessedly dark room, perfect for dwarf vision. His sonar had guided him to an uncovered spot in the floor. Three feet to the left and he would have emerged in a huge barrel of Italian red.

Mulch rehinged his jaw and padded across to the wall. He flattened a conchlike ear to the red brickwork. For a moment he was absolutely still, absorbing the house’s vibrations. A lot of low-frequency humming. There was a generator somewhere, and plenty of juice running through the wires.

Footsteps, too. Way up. Maybe on the third floor. And close by. A crashing sound. Metal on concrete. There it was again. Someone was building something. Or breaking something down.

Something skittered past his foot. Mulch squashed it instinctively. It was a spider. Just a spider.

“Sorry, little friend,” he said to the gray smear. “I’m a bit on the jittery side.”

The steps were wooden, of course. More than a century old too by the smell of them. Steps like that creaked as soon as you looked at them. Better than any pressure pads for giving away intruders. Mulch climbed along the edges, one foot in front of the other. Right in by the wall was where the wood had most support and was less likely to creak.

This was not as simple as it sounds. Dwarf feet are designed for spadework, not for the delicate intricacies of ballet dancing or balancing on wooden steps. Nonetheless, Mulch reached the door without incident. A couple of minor squeaks, but nothing that would be detectable by human ears or hardware.

The door was locked, naturally, but it may as well not have been for all the challenge it presented to a kleptomaniac dwarf.

Mulch reached into his beard, plucking out a sturdy hair. Dwarf hair is radically different from the human variety. Mulch’s beard and head hair were actually a matrix of antennae that helped him to navigate and avoid danger below ground. Once removed from its pore, the hair immediately stiffened in rapid rigor mortis. Mulch twisted the end in the seconds before it became completely rigid. A perfect pick.

One quick jiggle and the lock yielded. Only two tumblers. Terrible security. Typical of humans, they never expected an attack from below. Mulch stepped on to a parquet corridor. The whole place smelled of money. He could make a fortune here, if only he had the time.

There were cameras just below the architrave. Tastefully done,

nestling in the natural shadows. But vigilant nonetheless. Mulch stood for a moment, calculating the system’s blind spot. Three cameras on the corridor. Ninety-second sweep. No way through.

“You could ask for help,” said a voice in his ear.

“Foaly?” Mulch pointed his wired eyeball at the nearest camera. “Can you do anything about those?” he whispered.

The dwarf heard the sound of a keyboard being manipulated, and suddenly his right eye zoomed like a camera lens.

“Handy,” breathed Mulch. “I’ve got to get me one of these.”

Root’s voice crackled through the tiny speaker. “No chance, convict. Government issue. Anyway, what would you do with one in prison? Get a close-up of the other side of your cell?”

“You’re such a charmer, Julius. What’s the matter? Are you jealous because I’m succeeding where you failed?”

Root’s foul swearing was drowned out by Foaly.

“Okay, I’ve got it. Simple video network. Not even digital. I’m going to broadcast a loop of the last ten seconds to every camera through our dishes. That should give you a few minutes.”

Mulch shuffled uncomfortably. “How long will that take? I’m a bit exposed here, you know.”

“It’s already started,” replied Foaly. “So get moving.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Elementary electronics. I’ve been messing with human surveillance since kindergarten. You’ll just have to trust me.”

I’d rather trust a bunch of humans not to hunt a species to extinction than trust an LEP consultant, thought Mulch. But aloud he said, “Okay. I’m away. Over and out.”

He sneaked down the hall. Even his hands were sneaky, padding the air as if he could somehow make himself lighter. Whatever that centaur did must have worked, because there were no agitated Mud People racing down the stairs, waving primitive gunpowder weapons.

Stairs. Ah, stairs. Mulch had a thing for stairs. They were like predug shafts. He found that inevitably the best booty lay at their summit. And what a stairway. Stained oak, with the intricate carvings generally associated with either the eighteenth century or the obscenely rich.

Mulch rubbed his finger along an ornate banister. In this case, probably both.

Still, no time to moon about. Stairways did not tend to remain deserted for long, especially during a siege. Who could tell how many bloodthirsty troopers waited behind each door, eager for a fairy head to add to their stuffed trophy wall.

Mulch climbed carefully, taking nothing for granted. Even solid oak creaked. He stuck to the borders, avoiding the carpet inlay. The dwarf knew from conviction number eight how easy it was to conceal a pressure pad beneath the deep shag of some antique weave.

He reached the landing with his head still attached to his shoulders. But there was another problem quite literally brewing. Dwarf digestion, due to its accelerated rate, can be quite explosive. The loosely packed soil on the Fowl estate was very well aerated, and a lot of that air had entered Mulch’s tubes along with the soil and minerals. Now the air wanted to get out.

Dwarf etiquette dictated that gas be passed while still in the tunnel, but Mulch didn’t have time for manners. Now he regretted not taking a moment to get rid of the gas while he was in the cellar. The problem with dwarf gas was that it couldn’t go up, only down. Imagine, if you will, the catastrophic effects of burping while digesting a mouthful of clay. Total system backup. Not a pretty sight. Thus dwarf anatomy ensured that all gas was passed below, actually aiding in the expulsion of unwanted clay.

Mulch wrapped his arms around his stomach. He’d better get out of the open. A blowout on a landing like this could take out the windows. He shuffled along the corridor, skipping through the first doorway he encountered.

More cameras. Quite a lot of them, in fact. Mulch studied the lenses’ sweep. Four were surveying the general floorspace, but another three were fixed.

“Foaly? You there?” whispered the dwarf.

“No.” The typical sarcastic reply. “I have much better things to do than worry about the collapse of civilization as we know it.”

“Yes, thank you. Don’t let my life being in danger interrupt your merriment.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“I have a challenge for you.”

Foaly was instantly interested. “Really? Go on.”

Mulch pointed his gaze at the recessed cameras, half hidden in the swirling architrave. “I need to know where those three cameras are pointing. Exactly.”

Foaly laughed.“That’s not a challenge. Those old video systems emit faint ion beams. Invisible to the naked eye, of course, but not with your iris-cam...”

The hardware in Mulch’s eye flickered and sparked.

“Oww!”

“Sorry. Small charge.”

“You could have warned me.”

“I’ll give you a big kiss later, you baby. I thought dwarfs were tough.”

“We are tough. I’ll show you just how tough when I get back.”

Root’s voice interrupted the posturing. “You won’t be showing anyone anything, convict, except perhaps where the toilet is in your cell. Now, what do you see?”

Mulch looked at the room again through his ion-sensitive eye. Each camera was emitting a faint beam, like the last evening sun rays. The rays pooled on a portrait of Artemis Fowl, Senior.

“Not behind the picture. Oh, please.”

Mulch placed his ear against the picture glass. Nothing electrical. Not alarmed, then. Just to be sure, he sniffed the frame’s edge. No plastic or copper. Wood, steel, and glass. Some lead in the paint. He curled a nail behind the frame and pulled. The picture came away smoothly, hinged on the side. And behind it—a safe.

“It’s a safe,” said Foaly.

“I know that, you idiot. I’m trying to concentrate here! If you want to help, tell me the combination.”

“No problem. Oh, by the way, there’s another little shock coming. Maybe the big baby would like to suck his thumb for comfort.”

“Foaly. I’m going to... Owww!”

“There. That’s the X ray on.”

Mulch squinted at the safe. It was incredible. He could see right into the works. Tumblers and catches stood out in shadowy relief. He blew on his hairy fingers and twisted the combination dial. In seconds the safe lay open before him.

“Oh,” he said, disappointed.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Just human currency. Nothing of value.”

“Leave it,” ordered Root. “Try another room. Get going.”

Mulch nodded. Another room. Before his time ran out. But something was niggling at him. If this guy was so clever, why did he put the safe behind a painting? Such a cliché. Totally against form. No. Something wasn’t right here. They were being duped somehow.

Mulch closed the safe, swinging the portrait back into position. It swung smoothly, weightless on the hinges. Weightless. He swung the picture out again. And back in.

“Convict. What are you doing?”

“Shut up, Julius! I mean, quiet a moment, Commander.”

Mulch squinted at the frame’s profile. A bit thicker than normal. Quite a bit thicker. Even taking the box frame into account. Two inches. He ran a nail down the heavy cartridge backing and stripped it away to reveal...

“Another safe.”

A smaller one. Custom-made, obviously.

“Foaly. I can’t see through this.”

“Lead-lined. You’re on your own, burglar boy. Do what you do best.”

“Typical,” muttered Mulch, flattening his ear to the cold steel.

He twirled the dial experimentally. Nice action. The clicks were muted by the lead; he would have to concentrate. The upside was that something this thin could have only three tumblers at the most.

Mulch held his breath and twisted the dial, one cog at a time. To the normal ear, even with amplification, the clicks would have seemed uniform. But to Mulch, each cog had a distinctive signature and when a ratchet caught, it was so loud as to be deafening.

“One,” he breathed.

“Hurry it up, convict. Your time is running out.”

“You interrupted to tell me that? I can see now how you made commander, Julius.”

“Convict, I’m going to...”

But it was no use. Mulch had removed his earpiece, slipping it into his pocket. Now he could devote his full attention to the task at hand.

“Two.”

There was noise outside. In the hall. Someone was coming. About the size of an elephant by the sound of it. No doubt this was the man mountain that had made mincemeat of the Retrieval Squad.

Mulch blinked a bead of sweat from his eye.

Concentrate. Concentrate. The cogs clicked by. Millimeter by millimeter. Nothing was catching. The floor seemed to be hopping gently, though he could be imagining it.

Click, click. Come on. Come on. His fingers were slick with perspiration, the dial slipping between them. Mulch wiped them on his jerkin.

“Now, baby, come on. Talk to me.”

Click. Thunk.

“Yes!”

Mulch twisted the handle. Nothing. Still an obstruction. He ran a fingertip over the metal face. There. A small irregularity. A micro keyhole. Too small for your average lock pick. Time for a little trick he’d learned in prison. Quickly though, his stomach was bubbling like stew in the oven, and the footsteps were getting closer.

Selecting a sturdy chin hair, Mulch fed it gently into the tiny hole. When the tip reappeared, he pulled the root from his chin. The hair immediately stiffened, retaining the shape of the lock’s interior.

Mulch held his breath and twisted. Smooth as a goblin’s lie, the lock opened. Beautiful. At moments like these, it was almost worth all the jail time.

The kleptomaniac dwarf swung back the little door. Beautiful work. Almost worthy of a fairy forge. Light as a wafer. Inside was a small chamber. And in the chamber was...

“Oh, gods above,” breathed Mulch.

Then things came to a head rather rapidly. The shock that Mulch had experienced communicated itself to his bowels, and they decided the excess ai

r had to go. Mulch knew the symptoms. Jelly legs, bubbling cramps, wobbly behind. In the seconds remaining to him, he snatched the object from the safe and, leaning over, he clasped his knees for support.

The constrained wind had built itself up to mini-cyclone intensity and could not be constrained. And so it exited. Rather abrasively. Blowing open Mulch’s back flap, and slamming into the rather large gentleman who had been sneaking up behind him.

Artemis was glued to the monitors. This was the time when things traditionally went wrong for kidnappers— the third quarter of operations. Having been successful thus far, the abductors tended to relax, light up a few cigarettes, get chatty with their hostages. Next thing they knew, they were flat on their faces with a dozen guns pointed at the backs of their heads. Not Artemis Fowl. He didn’t make mistakes.

No doubt the fairies were reviewing the tapes of their first negotiating session, searching for anything that would give them a way in. Well, it was there all right. All they had to do was look. Buried just deep enough to make it look accidental.

It was possible that Commander Root would try another ruse. He was a wily one, no doubt about it. One who would not take kindly to being bested by a child. He would bear watching.

The mere thought of Root gave Artemis the shivers. He decided to check in again. He inspected the monitors. Juliet was still in the kitchen, scrubbing at the sink. Washing the vegetables.

Captain Short was on her bunk. Quiet as the grave. No more bed banging. Perhaps he had been wrong about her. Perhaps there was no plan.

Butler stood at his post outside Holly’s cell. Odd. He should have been on his rounds by now. Artemis grabbed a walkie-talkie.

“Butler?”

“Roger, base. Receiving.”

“Shouldn’t you be on your rounds?”

There was a pause. “I am, Artemis. Patrolling the main landing. Coming up on the safe room. I’m waving at you right now.”

Artemis glanced at the landing cameras. Deserted. From every angle. Definitely no waving manservant. He studied the monitors, counting under his breath... There! Every ten seconds, a slight jump. On every screen.

“A loop!” he cried, jumping from his chair. “They’re feeding us a loop!”

Over the speaker, he could hear Butler’s pace quickening to a run.

“The safe room!”

Artemis’s stomach dropped into queasy hell. Duped! He, Artemis Fowl, had been duped, even though he’d known it was coming. Inconceivable. It was arrogance that had done it. His own blinding arrogance, and now the entire plan could collapse around his ears.

He switched the walkie-talkie to Juliet’s band. It was a pity now that he’d taken the house’s intercom off-line, but it didn’t operate on a secure frequency.

“Juliet?”

“Receiving.”

“Where are you right now?”

“In the kitchen. Wrecking my nails on this grater.”

“Leave it, Juliet. Check on the prisoner.”

“But, Artemis, the carrot sticks will dry out!”

“Leave it, Juliet!” shouted Artemis. “Drop everything and check on the prisoner!”

Juliet obediently dropped everything, including the walkie-talkie. She’d sulk for days now. Never mind. There was no time to worry about a teenage girl’s bruised ego. He had more important matters to tend to.

Artemis depressed the master switch on the computerized surveillance system. His only chance of purging the loop was a complete reboot. After several agonizing moments of screen snow, the monitors jumped and settled. Things were not as they had seemed only seconds before.

There was a grotesque thing in the safe room. It had apparently discovered the secret compartment. Not only that but it had managed to open the whisper lock. Amazing. Butler had it covered though. He was sneaking up behind the creature, and any moment now the intruder would find itself nose down in the carpet.

Artemis switched his attention to Holly. The elf was back to bed banging. Slamming the frame down over and over again, as though she could...

It hit Artemis then, like a blast from a water cannon. If Holly had somehow smuggled an acorn in here, then one square centimeter of ground would be enough. If Juliet left that door open...

“Juliet!” he shouted into the walkie-talkie. “Juliet! Don’t go in there!”

But it was useless. The girl’s walkie-talkie lay buzzing on the kitchen floor, and Artemis could only watch helplessly as Butler’s sister strode toward the cell door, muttering about carrots.

“The safe room!” exclaimed Butler, quickening his pace. His instinct was to go in all guns blazing, but training took over. Fairy hardware was most definitely superior to his own, and who knew how many barrels were aimed at the other side of that door right now. No, caution was most definitely the best part of valor in this particular situation.

He placed a palm against the wood, feeling for vibration. Nothing. No machinery then. Butler curled his fingers around the knob, twisting gently. With his other hand, he drew a Sig Sauer automatic from his shoulder holster. No time to fetch the dart rifle, he would have to shoot to kill.

The door swung open noiselessly, as Butler knew it would, having oiled every hinge in the house himself. Before him was... Well, to be honest, Butler wasn’t quite sure what it was. If he didn’t know better, that is at first glance, he could have sworn that the thing resembled nothing more than an enormous quivering....

Suddenly the thing exploded, jettisoning an amazing amount of tunnel waste directly at the unfortunate manservant. It was like being battered with a hundred sledgehammers simultaneously. Butler was lifted bodily and flung against the wall.

And as he lay there, consciousness slipping away from him, he prayed that Master Artemis hadn’t managed to capture the moment on video.

Holly was weakening. The bed frame was nearly twice her body weight and the ridges were tearing cruel welts in her palms. But she couldn’t stop now. Not when she was so close.

She slammed the post into the concrete again. A cloud of gray dust spiraled around her legs. Any second now, Fowl would tumble to her plan and she’d get the hypodermic treatment again. But until then...

She gritted her teeth against the pain, heaving the bed frame to knee height. Then she saw it. A sliver of brown among the gray. Could it be true?

Pain forgotten, Captain Short dropped the bed, sinking quickly to her knees. There was indeed a small patch of earth poking through the cement. Holly fumbled the acorn from her boot, clasping it tightly in bloody fingers.

“I return you to the earth,” she whispered, worming her fist into the tiny space. “And claim the gift that is my right.”

Nothing happened for a heartbeat. Perhaps two. Then Holly felt the magic rush up her arm like a jolt from an electrified troll fence. The shock sent her spinning across the room. For a moment the world swirled in a disconcerting kaleidoscope of color, but when it settled, Holly was no longer the defeated elf she had been.

“Right, Master Fowl.” She grinned, watching the blue sparks of fairy magic seal her wounds. “Let’s see what I have to do to get your permission to leave this place.”

“Drop everything,” sulked Juliet. “Drop everything and check the prisoner.” She flicked blond tresses expertly over a shoulder. “He must think I’m his maid or something.”

She hammered on the cell door with the flat of her hand.

“I’m coming in now, fairy girl, so if you’re doing anything embarrassing, please stop.”

Juliet punched the combination into the keypad. “And no, I don’t have your vegetables, or your washed fruit. But it’s not my fault, Artemis in-sis-ted I come right down....”

Juliet stopped talking, because there was nobody listening. She was preaching to an empty room. She waited for her brain to pass on an explanation. Nothing came. Eventually the notion to take another look filtered down.

She took a tentative step into the concrete cube. Nothing. Only a slight shimmering in th

e shadows. Like a mist. It was probably these stupid glasses. How were you supposed to see anything wearing mirrored sunglasses underground? And they were so nineties, they weren’t even retro yet.

Juliet glanced guiltily at the monitor. Just a quick peek, what harm could it do? She whipped up the frames, sending her eyeballs spinning around the room.

In that instant a figure materialized before her. Just stepped out of the air. It was Holly. She was smiling.

“Oh, it’s you. How did you—”

The fairy interrupted with a wave of her hand.

“Why don’t you take off those glasses, Juliet? They really don’t suit you.”

She’s right, thought Juliet. And what a lovely voice. Like a choir all on its own. How could you argue with a voice like that?

“Sure. Caveman glasses off. Cool voice, by the way. Do re mi and all that.”

Holly decided not to try deciphering Juliet’s comments. It was hard enough when the girl was in full control of her brain.

“Now. A simple question.”

“No problem.” What a great idea.

“How many people in the house?”

Juliet thought. One and one and one.

And another one? No, Mrs. Fowl wasn’t there.

“Three,” she said finally. “Me and Butler and, of course, Artemis. Mrs. Fowl was here, but she went bye-bye, then she went bye-bye.”

Juliet giggled. She’d made a joke. A good one too.

Holly drew a breath to ask for clarification, then thought better of it. A mistake, as it turned out.

“Has anyone else been here? Anyone like me?”

Juliet chewed her lip. “There was one little man. In a uniform like yours. Not cute, though. Not one bit. Just shouted and smoked a smelly cigar. Terrible complexion. Red as a tomato.”

Holly almost smiled. Root had come himself. No doubt the negotiations had been disastrous.

“No one else?”

“Not that I know of. If you see that man again, tell him to lay off the red meat. He’s just a coronary waiting to happen.”

Holly swallowed a grin. Juliet was the only human she knew who was probably more lucid under the mesmer.

“Okay. I’ll tell him. Now, Juliet, I want you to stay in my room, and no matter what you hear, don’t come out.”

Juliet frowned. “This room? It’s so boring. No TV or anything. Can’t I go up to the lounge?”

“No. You have to stay here. Anyway, they’ve just installed a wall television. Cinema size. Wrestling, twenty-four hours a day.”

Juliet almost fainted with pleasure. She ran into the cell, gasping as her imagination supplied the pictures.

Holly shook her head. Well, she thought, at least one of us is happy.

Mulch gave his rear end a shake to dislodge any clumps of earth. If only his mother could see him now, spraying mud on the Mud People. That was irony, or something like it. Mulch had never been big on vocabulary in school. That or poetry. He’d never seen the point. Down the mines, there were only two phrases of any importance: “Look, gold!” and “Cave-in, everybody out!” No hidden meanings there, or rhymes.

The dwarf buttoned his back flap, which had been blasted open by the gale emanating from his nether regions. Time to make a run for it. Whatever hope he’d had of escaping undiscovered had been blown. Literally.

Mulch retrieved his earpiece, screwing it firmly into his ear. Well, you never knew, even the LEP might prove useful.

“... And when I get my hands on you, convict, you’ll wish you stayed down those mines...”

Mulch sighed. Ah well. Nothing new there then.

Clasping the safe’s treasure tightly in his fist, the dwarf turned to retrace his steps. To his utter amazement there was a human entangled in the banisters. Mulch was not one bit surprised that his recyclings had managed to hurl the elephantine Mud Man several yards through the air. Dwarf gas had been known to cause avalanches in the Alps. What did surprise him was the fact that the man had managed to get so close to him in the first place.

“You’re good,” said Mulch, wagging a finger at the unconscious bodyguard. “But nobody takes a body blow from Mulch Diggums and stays on their feet.”

The Mud Man stirred, the whites of his eyes showing beneath fluttering lids.

Root’s voice crackled in the dwarf’s ears. “Get a move on, Mulch Diggums, before that Mud Man gets up and rearranges your innards. He took out an entire Retrieval team, you know.”

Mulch swallowed, his bravado suddenly deserting him.

“An entire Retrieval team? Maybe I should get back underground... for the good of the mission.”

Skipping hurriedly around the groaning bodyguard, Mulch took the steps two at a time. No point in worrying about creaking stairs when you’ve just sent the intestinal equivalent of Hurricane Hal scurrying around the corridors.

He’d almost reached the cellar door when a figure shimmered into focus before him. Mulch recognized it as his arresting officer from the Renaissance Masters smuggling case.

“Captain Short.”

“Mulch. I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

The dwarf shrugged. “Julius had a dirty job. Someone had to do it.”

“I get it.” Holly nodded. “You’ve already lost your magic. Smart. What did you find out?”

Mulch showed Holly his find. “This was in his safe.”

“A copy of the Book!” gasped Holly. “No wonder we’re in this fix. We were playing into his hands all along.”

Mulch opened the cellar door. “Shall we?”

“I can’t. I’m under eyeball orders not to leave the house.”

“You magical types and your rituals. You have no idea how liberating it is to be rid of all that mumbo jumbo.”

A series of sharp noises drifted down from the upper landing. It sounded like a troll thrashing around in a crystal emporium.

“We can debate ethics at a later date. Right now I suggest we make ourselves scarce.”

Mulch nodded. “Agreed. This guy took out an entire Retrieval squad apparently.”

Holly paused, half shielded.

“An entire squad? Hmm. Fully equipped. I wonder...”

She continued her fade-out, and the last thing to go was her widening grin.

Mulch was tempted to hang around. There weren’t many things more fun to watch than a heavily armed Recon officer going to town on a bunch of unsuspecting humans. By the time Captain Short got through with this Fowl character, he’d be begging her to get out of his manor.

The Fowl character in question was watching it all from the surveillance room. There was no denying it. Things were not good. Not good at all. But certainly not irredeemable. There was still hope.

Artemis catalogued the events of the last few minutes. The manor’s security had been compromised. The safe room was in a shambles, blown apart by some sort of fairy flatulence. Butler lay unconscious, possibly paralyzed by the same gaseous anomaly. His hostage was loose in the house, her fairy powers restored to her. There was an unsightly creature in leather pants burrowing holes beneath the foundations with no apparent regard for the fairy commandments. And the People had retrieved a copy of the Book, one of several copies as it happened, including one on disk in a Swiss vault.

Artemis’s finger combed an errant strand of dark hair. He would have to dig very deep to uncover the good in this particular scenario. He took several deep breaths, finding his chi as Butler had taught him.

After several moments’ contemplation, he realized that these factors meant little to the overall strategies of both sides. Captain Short was still trapped in the manor. And the time-stoppage period was running out. Soon the LEP would have no option but to launch their bio-bomb, and that was when Artemis Fowl would unveil his coup de grâce. Of course, the whole thing depended on Commander Root. If Root was as intellectually challenged as he looked, it was quite possible the entire scheme would collapse around his ears. Artemis hoped fervently that someone on the fairy team had the wit to spot the blunder he’d made during the negotiation session.

Mulch unbuttoned his back flap. Time to suck some dirt, as they said down the mines. The trouble with dwarf tunnels was that they were self-sealing, so that if you had to go back the way you came, there was a whole new burrow to be excavated. Some dwarfs retraced their steps exactly, chewing through the less compact and predigested dirt. Mulch preferred to dig a fresh tunnel. For some reason, eating the same dirt twice didn’t appeal to him.

Unhinging his jaw, the dwarf pointed himself torpedo-like through the hole in the floorboards. His heart calmed immediately as the scent of minerals filled his nostrils. Safe, he was safe. Nothing could catch a dwarf underground, not even a Skaylian rock worm. That was, of course, if he managed to get underground...

Ten very powerful fingers gripped Mulch by the ankles. This just wasn’t the dwarf’s day. First Wart-Face, now this homicidal human. Some people never learn. Usually Mud People.

“Egg go,” he mumbled, unhinged jaw flapping uselessly.

“Not a chance,” came the reply. “The only way you’re leaving this house is in a body bag.”

Mulch could feel himself being dragged backward. This human was strong. There weren’t many creatures that could dislodge a dwarf with a grip on something. He scrabbled in the dirt, cramming handfuls of wine-impregnated clay into his cavernous mouth. There was only one chance.

“Come on, you little goblin. Out of there.”

Goblin! Mulch would have been indignant had he not been busy chewing clay to eject at his enemy.

The human stopped talking. Possibly he had noticed the flap, and probably what was behind it. No doubt what had happened in the safe room was coming back to him.

“Oh...”

What would have followed the “Oh” is anyone’s guess, but I’d be willing to bet that it wouldn’t have been “Dearie me.” As it happened, Butler never had time to finish his expletive, because he wisely chose that moment to relinquish his grip. A wise choice indeed, because it coincided with the instant Mulch decided to launch his earthen offensive.

A lump of compacted clay sped like a cannon directly at the spot where Butler’s head had been barely a second previously. Had it still occupied that space, the impact would have separated it from Butler’s shoulders. An ignoble end for a bodyguard of his caliber. As it was, the soggy missile barely grazed his ear. Nevertheless, the force was sufficient to spin Butler like an ice-skater, landing him on his rump for the second time in as many minutes.

By the time his vision had settled, the dwarf had disappeared into a maelstrom of churning muck. Butler decided not to attempt pursuit. Dying below ground was not very high on his things to do list. But there will be another day, fairy, he thought grimly. And there was to be. But that’s another story.

* * *

Mulch’s momentum propelled him underground. He’d gone several yards along the loamy vein before he realized no one was following. Once the taste of earth had settled his heart rate, he decided it was time to implement his escape plan.

The dwarf altered his course, chewing his way toward the rabbit warren he’d noted earlier. With any luck, the centaur hadn’t run a seismology test on the manor grounds, or his ruse might be discovered. He’d just have to bank on the fact that they had more important things to worry about than a missing prisoner. There shouldn’t be any problem deceiving Julius. But the centaur, he was a smart one.

Mulch’s internal compass steered him true, and within minutes he could feel the gentle vibrations of the rabbits loping along their tunnels. From here on timing was crucial if the illusion was to be effective. He slowed his digging rate, poking the soft clay gently until his fingers breached the tunnel wall. Mulch was careful to look the other way, because whatever he saw would be showing up on the viewscreen back in LEP HQ.

Laying his fingers on the tunnel floor like an upturned spider, Mulch waited. It didn’t take long. In seconds he felt the rhythmic thump of an approaching rabbit. The instant the animal’s hind legs brushed the trap, he tightened his powerful digits around its neck. The poor animal never had a chance.

Sorry, friend, thought the dwarf. If there was any other way... Pulling the rabbit’s body through the hole, Mulch rehinged his jaw and began screaming. “Cave-in! Cave-in! Help! Help!”

Now for the tricky bit. With one hand he agitated the surrounding earth, bringing showers of it crumbling around his own head. With the other hand he popped the iris-cam out of his left eye and slid it into the rabbit’s. Given the almost total darkness and the landfall confusion, it should be almost impossible to spot the switch.

“Julius! Please. Help me.”

“Mulch! What’s happening? What’s your status?”

What’s my status? thought the dwarf incredulously. Even in times of supposed crisis, the commander couldn’t abandon his precious protocol.

“I... Argh...” The dwarf dragged his final scream out, petering off to a gargling rattle.

A bit melodramatic perhaps, but Mulch never could resist theatrics. With a last regretful glance at the dying animal, he unhinged his jaw and finned off to the southeast. Freedom beckoned.