The Artemis Fowl Files - Eoin Colfer [32]
With infinite care, Mulch positioned himself as close to Sergei’s trajectory as he dared, then wiggled the fist containing the sedative ball into the earth. Seconds later, Sergei’s scything jaws consumed the ball along with a few pounds of earth. Before he had taken half a dozen bites, his forward motion slowed to a dead halt, and his chewing grew sluggish. Now was the dangerous time for Sergei. If he were left unconscious with a gut full of clay, he could choke. Mulch ate through the thin layer of earth separating them, he flipped the sleeping dwarf onto his back, feeding an air tube deep into the black depths of his cavernous mouth. Once the tube was in place, he twisted the tank’s nozzle, sending a sustained jet of air through Sergei’s system. The air stream ballooned the little fairy’s internal organs, flushing all traces of clay through his system. His body shook as though connected to a live wire, but he did not awaken. Instead he snored on.
Mulch left Sergei curled in the earth, and aimed his chomping jaws toward the surface. The clay was typical Irish, soft and moist, with low-level pollution, and teeming with insect life. Seconds later, he felt his questing fingers break the surface, cool air brushing across their tips. Mulch made sure that the circus mask covered the upper half of his face, then pushed his head aboveground.
There was another dwarf sitting in the armchair. Today he was playing with four yo-yos. One spinning from each hand and each foot. Mulch said nothing, though he felt a sudden longing to chat with his fellow dwarf. He simply gave a thumbs-up signal. The second dwarf coiled in his yo-yos wordlessly, then, pulling on a pair of pointy toed boots, bolted for the tent flap. Mulch could hear the sudden roar of the crowd as Sergei’s box exploded. Two minutes gone. Five minutes left.
Mulch upended his rear and plotted a course for the exact spot where Sergei had stopped. This was not as difficult as it would seem. Dwarfs’ internal compasses are fantastic instruments, and can lead the fairy creatures with the same accuracy as any GPS system. Mulch dived.
There was a small chamber hollowed out below the tent. A typical dwarf hidey-hole, with spitslickened walls providing low-level luminescence in the darkness. Dwarf spit is a multifunctional secretion. Apart from the normal uses, it also hardens on prolonged contact with air to form a lacquer that is not only tough but also slightly luminous.
Sitting in the center of the small chamber was a wooden chest. It was not locked. Why would it be? There would be no one down here but dwarfs. Mulch felt a stab of shame. It was one thing robbing from the Mud Men, but he was ripping off brother dwarfs who were just trying to make an honest living stealing from humans. This was an all-time low. Mulch made up his mind to somehow reimburse Sergei the Significant and his band once the job was over.
The tiara was inside the chest, the blue stone on its crown winking in the light of the spittle. Now there was a real jewel. Nothing fake about that. Mulch stuffed it inside his leotard. There were plenty of other jewels in the box, but he ignored them. It was bad enough taking the tiara. Now all he had to do was haul Sergei to the surface, where he could recover safely, and leave the same way he had come. He would be gone before the other dwarfs realized anything was wrong.
Mulch headed back toward Sergei, collected his limp form and ate his way back to the surface, dragging his sleeping brother dwarf behind him. He rehinged his jaw, climbing from the hole.
The tent was still deserted. The Significants should be well over halfway through their act by now. Mulch dragged Sergei to the lip of the hole, and took a dwarf flint dagger from his boot. He would