“What’s the difference?” he snapped, strapping his trusty weapon to his hip. “Get me an outside line to E1. This Fowl person seems to know all of our rules, so it’s time to break a few.”
Time 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.”