Eoin Colfer - Artemis Fowl - the time paradox

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 on her 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 might be forced to seek alternative employment.

Mervall decided to distract his boss. ‘They’re going crazy up there. Firing weapons. Duelling with cutlery. Those Extinctionists are an unstable lot.’

Opal leaned over Artemis, sniffing 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 towards 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.

Diamonds rained down in glittering showers. Falling stars twinkling in the lamp light.

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 upwards 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-Artemis-like 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 towards 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 tones. ‘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 dropping 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 threatened. ‘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, and 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. What Holly had not fully grasped 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 on to 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.

Possibly for good, she thought. I don’t see him leading any international organizations for a while.

Holly noticed something. One of Kronski’s lenses had completely shattered, revealing the eyeball underneath. The iris was a strange violet, almost the same shade as the spectacles had been, but this was not what caught Holly’s attention. The edge of the retina was ragged, as though it had been nibbled on by tiny sclera fish.