“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.