Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer [50]
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?