Artemis Fowl - Colfer Eoin. Страница 25

'Now, you two experts are on handsome retainers for your profiling work. Correct?'

The pair nodded, afraid to speak in case that broke the silence rule.

'This is probably the case of your lives, so I want you to concentrate very hard. Understood?'

More nods.

Root popped the camera out of his weeping eye.

'Fast-forward it, Foaly. Towards the end.'

The tape hopped forward erratically. On screen, Root followed the human into his conference room.

'There. Stop it there. Can you zoom in on his face?'

'Can I zoom in on his face?' snorted Foaly. 'Can a dwarf steal the web from under a spider?'

'Yes,' replied Root.

'That was a rhetorical question actually.'

'I don't need a grammar lesson, Foaly, just zoom in, would you?'

Foaly ground his tombstone teeth.

'OK, boss. Will do.'

The centaur's fingers prodded the keyboard with lightning speed. Artemis's visage grew to fill the plasma screen.

'I'd advise you to listen,' said Root, squeezing the experts' shoulders. 'This is a pivotal moment in your careers.'

'I am special,' said the mouth on the screen, 'because I can escape the time-field.'

'Now tell me,' said Root. 'Is he lying?'

'Run it again,' said Cumulus. 'Show me the eyes.'

Argon nodded. 'Yes. Just the eyes.'

Foaly tapped a few more keys, and Artemis's deep blue eyes expanded to the width of the screen.

'I am special,' boomed the human voice, 'because I can escape the time-field.'

'Well, is he lying?'

Cumulus and Argon looked at each other, all traces of antagonism gone.

'No,' they said simultaneously.

'He's telling the truth,' added the behaviourist.

'Or,' clarified the psychologist, 'at least he thinks he is.'

Root swabbed his eye with a cleansing solution.

'That's what I thought. When I looked that human in the face, I figured he was either a genius or crazy.'

Artemis's cool eyes glared at them from the screen.

'So which is it?' asked Foaly. 'A genius or crazy?'

Root grabbed his tri-barrelled blaster from the gun rack.

'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.'

Chapter 7: Mulch

Time to introduce a new character to our otherworldly 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 the mines.

Things had gone pretty well for a few centuries, and he'd built up quite a lucrative above-ground 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 300 years in and out of prison.

Mulch had a prodigious appetite for tunnelling, and that, unfortunately, is a literal translation. For those unfamiliar with the mechanics of dwarf tunnelling, I shall endeavour 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 kilos of earth a second. This material is processed by a super-efficient 156metabolism, 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 centimetre 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 back-stabbers, 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? What a real no-brainer.

Mulch backed up to the wall.

'Careful there. We could all go up.'

'Not us,' grinned wart-face, snorting the fireball up two elongated nostrils. 'Completely fireproof.'

Mulch was perfectly aware 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.