So Artemis kicked, punched, and gouged. He buried his knee in Kronski’s ample stomach and blinded him with his fists.
All very superficial blows that had little lasting effect—except one. Artemis’s right heel brushed against Kronski’s chest. Kronski didn’t even feel it. But the heel connected briefly with the oversize button on the remote control in the doctor’s pocket, releasing the dock trapdoor.
The second his brain registered the loss of back support, Artemis knew what had happened.
I am dead, he realized. Sorry, Mother.
Artemis fell bodily into the pit, breaking the laser beam with his elbow. There was a beep, and half a second later the pit was filled with blue-white flame, which blasted black scorch marks in the walls.
Nothing could have survived.
Kronski braced himself against the dock rails, perspiration dripping from the tip of his nose into the pit, evaporating on the way down.
Do I feel bad about what just happened? he asked himself, aware that psychologists recommended facing trauma head-on in order to avoid stress later in life.
No, he found. I don’t. In fact, I feel as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.
Kronski raised himself up with a great creaking and cracking of knees.
Now, where’s the other one? he wondered. I still have some weight to lose.
Artemis saw the flames blossom around him. He saw his skin glow blue with their light and heard their raw roar, then he was through, unscathed.
Impossible.
Obviously not. Obviously these flames had more bark about them than bite.
Holograms?
The pit floor yielded beneath his weight with a hiss of pneumatics, and Artemis found himself in a sub-chamber, looking up at heavy steel doors swinging closed above him.
The view from inside a swing-top bin.
A very high-tech swing-top bin, with expanding gel hinges. Fairy design, without a doubt.
Artemis remembered something Kronski had said earlier.
This is not how she said it would go. . . .
She ... She ...
Fairy design. Endangered species. What fairy had been harvesting lemur brain fluid even before the Spelltropy epidemic?
Artemis paled. Not her. Please, not her.
What do I have to do? he thought. How many times must I save the world from this lunatic?
He scrambled to his knees and saw he had been funneled onto a padded pallet. Before he could roll off, octobonds sprang from recessed apertures along the pallet’s steel rim, trussing him tighter than a tumbled rodeo cow. Purple gas hissed from a dozen overhead nozzles, shrouding the pallet.
Hold your breath, Artemis told himself. Animals don’t know to hold their breath.
He held on until it felt as though his sternum would split, and then just as he was about to exhale and suck in a huge breath, a second gas was pumped into the chamber, crystallizing the first. It fell onto Artemis’s face like purple snowflakes.
You are asleep now. Play possum.
A small door sank smoothly into the floor, with a sound like air being blown through a straw.
Artemis peeked through one half-closed eye.
Magnetic field, he thought dully, a band of steel creasing his forehead.
I know what I will see, but I have no wish to see it.
A pixie stood framed by the doorway, her tiny, beautiful features twisted with their customary pouting cruelty.
“This,” squealed Opal Koboi, pointing a vibrating finger, “is not a lemur.”
CHAPTER 13
THE HAIRY ONE IS DEAD
The Leather Souk
Butler jogged from the Extinctionists’ compound to the leather souk. Artemis was waiting in the building where they had planned the previous day’s exchange. Police presence in Fez amounted to no more than a couple of two-man patrols, and so it was easy for someone of Butler’s experience to sneak around without being detected. Though it was hardly illegal to visit a medina, it was certainly frowned on to stroll around a tourist area with a large rifle strapped to one’s back.
Butler ducked into a dark corner and quickly broke down his dart rifle into almost a dozen parts, slotting them into various garbage bins. It was possible that he could slip the Fez Saïss Airport customs men some baksheesh and simply stow the weapon under his seat, but these days it was better to be safe than sorry.
Ten-year-old Artemis was sitting at a prearranged spot in one of the sniper windows, picking nonexistent lint from his jacket sleeve, which was his version of nervous pacing.
“Well?” he asked, steeling himself for the answer.
“The female got out,” said Butler. He thought it better not to mention that the long-haired male had everything under control until Artemis’s video arrived.
Artemis caught the implication.“The female? The other one was there too?”
Butler nodded. “The hairy one is dead. He attempted a rescue, and it didn’t work out.”
Artemis gasped.
“Dead?” he said. “Dead?”
“Repeating the word won’t change its meaning,” said Butler sharply. “He tried to rescue his friend, and Kronski killed him for it. But what’s done is done, eh? And at least we have our diamonds.”
Butler checked his temper. “We should move out for the airport. I need to run the preflight checks.”
Artemis was left stunned and silent, unable to take his eyes from the bag of diamonds, which winked accusingly from their slouched perch on his lap.
Holly was not having any luck. Her shield was so weak that she switched it off to save her last spark for a small healing if it was needed; and no sooner had her image solidified than one of Kronski’s goons spotted her and walkie-talkied his entire squad. Now she was running for her life through the medina, praying that Artemis was at the meeting point and that he had thought to bring the scooter.
No one was taking potshots at her, which was encouraging, unless Kronski wanted to do the potshotting himself.
No time to think about that now. Survival was the priority.
The medina was quiet this late in the evening, with only a few straggling tourists and die-hard merchants still walking the streets. Holly dodged between them, pulling down whatever she could reach to get in the way of the stampede of security men behind her. She tugged over towers of baskets, upended a kebab stand, and shouldered a table of spices, dashing a white wall with multicolored arcs.
The thunder of footsteps behind her did not recede in the least. Her tactics were not working. The security guards were simply too large and were bustling past the obstacles.
Dodge and weave, then. Lose them in the alleyways.
This tactic was no more succesful than the last. Her pursuers were familiar with the medina’s layout and coordinated their pursuit on handheld radios, herding Holly toward the leather souk.
Where I’ll be in the open. An easy target.
Holly raced on, Artemis’s loafers cutting into her heels. A series of cries and curses arose behind her as she barged without apology through bands of tourists and shoulder-slammed tea boys, sending trays flying.
I am corralled, she thought desperately. You’d better be waiting, Artemis.
It occurred to Holly that she was leading the posse directly to Artemis, but there was no other option. If he was waiting, then he could help; if not, she was on her own anyway.
She jinked left, but four huffing guards blocked the alleyway, all hefting vicious long-bladed knives.
The other way, I think.
Right, then. Holly skidded into the leather souk, heels throwing up dust fans.
Where are you, Artemis?
She cast her gaze upward toward their observation point, but there was nothing there. Not even the telltale shimmer of a hide.
He’s not here.
She felt panic scratch at her heart. Holly Short was an excellent field officer, but she was way out of her jurisdiction, her league, and her time.
The leather
souk was quiet now, with only a few workers scraping skins on the surrounding rooftops. Lanterns crackled below the roofline, and the giant urns lurked like alien pods. The smell was just as bad as it had been the previous day, possibly worse, as the vats had had longer to cook. The stench of droppings hit Holly like a soft, feverish glove, further addling her mind.
Keep running. Find a nook.
Holly spent half a moment considering which body part she would trade for a weapon, then sprinted for a doorway in the adjacent wall.
A guard appeared, dragging his knife from its sheath. The blade was red. Maybe blood, maybe rust. Holly switched direction, losing a shoe in the turn. There was a window one floor up, but the wall was cracked: she could make the climb.
Two more guards. Grinning. One held a net, like a gladiator.
Holly skidded to a halt.
We’re in the desert! Why does he have a fishing net?
She tried again. An alleyway barely broad enough for an adult human. She was almost there when a fat guard with a ponytail to his waist and a mouthful of yellowed teeth wedged himself into the avenue, blocking it.
Trapped. Trapped. No escape and not enough magic to shield. Not even enough to mesmerize.
It was difficult to stay calm, in spite of all her training and experience. Holly could feel her animal instincts bubbling in the pit of her stomach.
Survive. Do what you have to do.
But what could she do? One unarmed child-size fairy against a squadron of armed muscle.
They formed a ragged circle around her, weaving between the urns in a slow-motion slalom. Each set of greedy glittering eyes focused on her face. Closer and closer they came, spreading their arms wide in case their prey made a dart for freedom.
Holly could see their scars and pockmarks, see the desert in their nails and on their cuffs. Smell their breath and count their fillings.
She cast her eyes toward the heavens.
“Help,” she cried.
And it began to rain diamonds.
Below the Extinctionists’ Compound
“That is not a lemur,” repeated Opal Koboi, drumming a tiny toe on the floor. “I know it is not a lemur because it has no tail and it seems to be wearing clothes. This is a human, Mervall. A Mud Boy.”
A second pixie appeared in the doorway. Mervall Brill. One of the infamous Brill brothers who would break Opal out of her padded psych cell some years later. His expression was a mixture of puzzlement and terror. Not pretty on any face.
“I don’t understand it, Miss Koboi,” he said, twiddling the top button on his crimson lab coat. “It was all set up for the lemur. You mesmerized Kronski yourself.”
Opal’s nostrils flared. “Are you suggesting this is somehow my fault?” She clutched her throat as if the very idea caused her breath to fail.
“No, no, no,” said Mervall hurriedly. “It could not be Miss Koboi’s fault. Miss Koboi is, after all, perfection itself. Perfection does not make mistakes.”
This outrageous statement would be recognized as blatant toadying by right-minded people, but Opal Koboi found it fair and rational.
“Exactly. Well said, Mervall. A pity your brother does not have a tenth of your wisdom.”
Mervall smiled and shuddered. The smile was in acceptance of the compliment; the wince was because the mention of his twin had reminded him that his brother was at this moment locked in a cage with a red river hog, as punishment for not complimenting Opal’s new boots.
Miss Koboi was having a bad day. Currently, two out of seven were bad. If things got any worse, even though the wages were astronomical, the Brill brothers would be forced to seek alternative employment.
Mervall decided to distract his boss. “They’re going crazy up there. Firing weapons. Dueling with cutlery. Those Extinctionists are an unstable lot.”
Opal leaned over Artemis and sniffed gently, wiggling her fingers to see if the human was awake.
“The lemur was the last one. I was this close to being all-powerful.”
“How close?” asked Mervall.
Opal squinted at him. “Are you being funny?”
“No. I sincerely wondered. . . .”
“It’s an expression,” snapped the pixie, striding back toward the main chamber.
Mervall nodded slowly. “An expression. I see. What should I do with the human?”
Opal did not break her stride. “Oh, you might as well harvest him. Human brain fluid is a good moisturizer. Then we pack up and find that lemur ourselves.”
“Should I dump his drained corpse in the animal pit?”
Opal threw up her arms. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Must I tell you how to do everything? Can’t you show a little initiative?”
Mervall wheeled the pallet after his boss.
The animal pit it is, then, he thought.
The Leather Souk
Diamonds rained down in glittering showers. Falling stars twinkling in the lamplight.
Young Artemis’s fee, Holly realized. He is throwing me a lifeline.
For a moment the guards were transfixed. Their faces wore the dazed expression of children who have woken and are surprised to find themselves in a good mood. They stretched out their fingers, watching the diamonds bounce and tumble.
Then one broke the spell. “Des diamants!” he cried.
Hearing the word spoken aloud galvanized his companions. They dropped to their knees, patting the dusky ground for the precious stones. More dived into the pungent vats as they registered tiny plops made by stones impacting on liquid.
Mayhem, thought Holly. Perfect.
She glanced upward just in time to see a small hand withdraw into the black rectangle of a window.
What made him do it? she wondered. That was a most un-Artemislike gesture.
A guard diving past her leg reminded her that things were still pretty dire.
In their greed, they have forgotten me, but perhaps they will remember their duty when the stones are pocketed.
Holly spared a moment to salute up at young Artemis’s window, then raced out of his view toward the nearest alley, only to be flattened by a puffing Damon Kronski.
“Two for two,” he huffed. “I got both of you. This must be my lucky day.”
When will this end? thought Holly incredulously. How can these things continue to happen?
Kronski pressed down on her like an enraged elephant, frown lines framing his tinted glasses, sweat flowing in sheets down his face, dripping from his pouting lip.
“Except, this is not my lucky day, is it,” he shouted, a keen note of hysteria on the edge of his tone. “You saw to that. You and your accomplice. Well, my gas chamber took care of him. Now I will take care of you!”
Holly was stunned.
Artemis dead?
She would not believe it. Never. How many people had written Artemis Fowl off and lived to regret it? Plenty. She was one of them.
Holly, on the other hand, was proving easier to kill. Her vision was blurring, her limbs were treading water, and the weight of the world was on her chest. The only sense firing on all cylinders was her sense of smell.
What a way to go. Inhaling motes of pigeon droppings with your last breath.
She heard her ribs groan.
I wish Kronski could smell this.
An idea sparked in her brain, the last ember in a dying grate.
Why shouldn’t he smell it? It’s the least I can do.
Holly reached deep into her core of magic, searching for that last spell. There was a flicker deep inside. Not enough to shield, or even mesmerize, but perhaps a minor healing.
Usually healing spells were used on recent wounds, but Kronski’s anosmia was a lifelong ailment. Fixing it now could be dangerous and would almost certainly be painful.
Oh well, thought Holly. If it hurts him, it hurts him.
She reached up a hand past the forearm on her throat, inching it along Kronski’s face, willing the magic into her fingertips.
Kronski did not feel thre
atened. “What’s this? Are you playing ‘got your nose’?”
Holly did not answer. Instead she closed her eyes, jammed two fingers up Kronski’s nostrils, and sent her last sparks of magic down those channels.
“Heal,” she said. A wish and a prayer.
Kronski was surprised but not initially upset.
“Hey, what the . . .” he said, then sneezed. The sneeze was powerful enough to pop his ears and roll him off his captive. “What are you, five years old? Sticking fingers up my nose.” Another sneeze. Bigger this time. Blowing a trumpet of steam from each nostril.
“This is pathetic. You people are really—”
A third sneeze, this one traumatizing the entire body. Tears streamed down Kronski’s face. His legs jittered and his glasses shattered in their frames.
“Oh my,” said Kronski, when he had his limbs under control. “Something’s different. Something has changed.”
Then the smell hit him.
“Aarrgh,” said Kronski, then began to squeal. His tendons tightened, his toes pointed, and his fingers ripped holes in the air.
“Wow,” said Holly, massaging her throat. This was a stronger reaction than expected.
The smell was bad, but Kronski acted like he was dying. But what Holly did not fully grasp was the power of the doctor’s awakened sense of smell. Imagine the joy of seeing for the first time, or the euphoria of a first step. Then square that feeling and make it negative. Take a ball of poison, dip it in thorns and manure, wrap it in a poultice of festering bandages, boil the whole lot in a cauldron of unspeakably vile excretions, and shove it up your nose.
This is what Kronski could smell, and it was driving him out of his mind.
He lay flat on his back, flinching and pawing the sky.
“Foul,” he said, repeating the word over and over. “Foul, foul. Fowl, Fowl.”
Holly crawled to her knees, coughing and spitting onto the dry sand. Her entire being felt battered and bruised from back to spirit. She looked at Kronski’s expression and realized that there was no point in asking him questions. The president of the Extinctionists was beyond logical conversation for the time being.