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 housebreaker. 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.
'OK, 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 escaping 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 colour. 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 bum-flap
on his tunnelling trousers. 'Right. Stand back.'
Root and the surrounding LEP officers rushed for cover, but Foaly, who had never actually seen a
dwarf tunnelling, 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 clay 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 landmines. 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 north-westerly 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 sombre, nothing cheeky here. A touch of
fruit, but not enough to lighten the flavour. Definitely an occasion wine on the bottom rack. Mulch
burped. That was good clay.
The dwarf aimed his scything jaws skywards, punching through the floorboards. He hauled
himself through the jagged hole, shaking the last of the recycled mud from his trousers.
He was in a blessedly dark room, perfect for dwarf vision. His sonar had guided him to an
uncovered spot in the floor. One metre 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 conch-like 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 grey 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 none the less. Mulch stood for a moment, calculating the system's blindspot. 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.
'OK, 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, 'OK. 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 back-up. Not a
pretty sight. Thus dwarf anatomy ensured that all gas was passed below, actually aiding in the
expulsion of unwanted clay. Of course, there's a simpler way of putting this, but that version can
only be read in the adult book.
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.
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