Artemis was feeling something he could not remember having felt before: absolute fear. His hands shook, rattling the chains. There was no room in his brain for analytical thought. / cant, he thought. / cant do anything.
Holly took charge, dragging him to his feet and propelling him to a cluster of fake merchants tents beside a fast-flowing river. They crouched behind the ragged canvas, peering at the trolls through rents in the material made by long claws. Two animatronic merchants sat on mats outside the tents, their baskets brimming with gold-and-ivory statuettes of the goddess Artemis. Neither model had a head. One of the heads lay in the dust some distance away, its artificial brain poking out through a bite hole.
We need to get the cuffs off, said Holly urgently.
What? mumbled Artemis.
Holly shook her manacles in his face. We need to get these off now! The mud will protect us for a minute, then the trolls will be on our trail. We have to get in the water, and with cuffs on well drown in the current.
Artemiss eyes had lost their focus. The current?
Snap out of it, Artemis, Holly hissed into his face. Remember your gold? You cant collect it if youre dead. The great Artemis Fowl, collapsing at the first sign of trouble. Weve been in worse scrapes than this before. Not exactly true, but the Mud Boy couldnt remember, could he?
Artemis composed himself. There was no time for a calming meditation, he would simply have to repress the emotions he was experiencing. Very unhealthy, psychologically speaking, but better than being reduced to chunks of meat between a trolls teeth.
He studied the handcuffs. Some form of ultralight-plastic polymer. There was a digit pad in the centre, positioned so the wearer could not reach the digits.
How many numbers? he said.
What?
In the code for the cuffs. You are a police officer. Surely you know how many numbers in the code for handcuffs.
Three, replied Holly. But there are so many possibilities.
Possibilities but not probabilities, Artemis said, irritating even when his life was in danger. Statistically, however, thirty-eight per cent of humans dont bother changing the factory code on digital locks. We can only hope that fairies are equally negligent.
Holly frowned. Opal is anything but negligent.
Perhaps. But her two little henchfairies might not be so attentive to detail. Artemis held out his cuffs to Holly. Try three zeroes.
Holly did so, using a thumb. The red light stayed red.
Nines. Three nines.
Again the light stayed red.
Holly quickly tried all ten digits three times. None had any effect.
Artemis sighed. Very well. Triple digits was a bit too obvious, I suppose. Are there any other three-digit numbers that are burned into fairy consciousness? Something all fairies would know, and wouldnt be likely to forget?
Holly racked her brain. Nine five one. The Haven area code.
Try it.
She did. No good.
Nine five eight. The Atlantis code.
Again no good.
Those numbers are too regional, snapped Artemis. What is the one number that every male, female and infant knows?
Hollys eyes widened. Of course. Of course. Nine zero nine. The police emergency number. Its on the corner of every billboard under the world.
Artemis noticed something. The howling had ceased. The trolls had stopped fighting and were sniffing the air. The pheromones were in the breeze, drawing the beasts like puppets on strings. In eerie unison, their heads turned towards Holly and Artemiss hiding place.
Artemis shook his manacles. Try it quickly.
Holly did. The light winked green and the cuffs popped open.
Good. Excellent. Now let me do yours.
Artemiss fingers paused over the keyboard. I cant read the fairy language or numerals.
You can, in fact you are the only human who can, said Holly. You just dont remember. The pad is standard layout. One to nine, left to right, and zero at the bottom.
Nine zero nine, muttered Artemis, pressing the appropriate keys. Hollys cuffs popped on the first try which was fortunate, because there was no time for a second.
The trolls were coming, loping from the Temples steps with frightening speed and co-ordination. They used the weight of their shaggy arms to swing forward while simultaneously straightening muscular legs. This launch method could take them up to six metres in a single bound. The animals landed on their knuckles, swinging their legs underneath them for the next jump.
It was an almost petrifying sight: a score of crazed carnivores jostling their way down a shallow, sandy incline. The larger males took the easy way down, charging right through the ravine. Adolescents and older males stuck to the slopes, wary of casual bites and scything tusks. The trolls crashed through mannequins and scenery, heading straight for the tent. Dreadlocks swung with every step, and eyes glowed red in the half-light. They held their heads back so that their highest point was their nose. Noses which were leading them directly to Holly and Artemis. And what was worse, Holly and Artemis could smell the trolls too.
Holly stuck both pairs of cuffs into her belt. They had charge packs and could be adapted for heat or even as weapons, if they lived that long.