Artemis Fowl: Prologue–Chapter 2

Ho Chi Minh City in the summer. Sweltering by anyone’s standards.

He was white as a vampire and almost as testy in the light of day.

“I hope this isn’t another wild-goose chase, Butler,” he said, his voice soft and clipped. “Especially after Cairo.”
It was a gentle rebuke.

Nguyen was late, and the pathetic patch of shade provided by the umbrella was doing little to improve Artemis’s mood. But this was just his daily pessimism.

“You are wearing handmade loafers, a silk shirt, and three gold signet rings. Your English has a tinge of Oxford about it, and your nails have the soft sheen of the recently manicured. You are not a waiter. You are our contact Nguyen Xuan, and you have adopted this pathetic disguise to discreetly check for weaponry.”

“I am unarmed. But Butler here, my...ah...butler, has a Sig Sauer in his shoulder holster, two shrike-throwing knives in his boots, a derringer two-shot up his sleeve, garrotte wire in his watch, and three stun grenades concealed in various pockets. Anything else, Butler?”

Nguyen had heard the name Fowl before—who hadn’t in the international underworld?—but he’d assumed he’d be dealing with Artemis senior, not this boy. Though the word “boy” hardly seemed to do this gaunt individual justice.

The picture showed a hand reaching from layered shadows. A mottled green hand.

It was hardly necessary on the flat streets of Ho Chi Minh City, or Saigon, as the locals still called it, but Artemis preferred to be as insulated from civilians as possible.

After six false alarms across three continents, could this wine-sodden healer be the gold at the end of the rainbow?

The mopeds parted like fish in a giant shoal.

He made a silent promise that if he got out of this, he would change his ways. No more answering shady Internet requests, and certainly no more consorting with the sons of European crime lords.

He could discern furtive movements in the shadows.

He could discern furtive movements in the shadows.

Aversion to light, check.

Nguyen skipped off down the alley, so relieved to be alive that he didn’t even bother counting the sheaf of U.S. currency.

“You are no healer. You are a sprite, p’shóg, fairy, ka-dalun. Whichever language you prefer to use. And I want your Book.”

The fairy blanched, then screamed, a high keening horrible sound.

The fairy blanched, then screamed, a high keening horrible sound.

The fairy poked her stomach tentatively.

“The other is a little shot of man-made magic. A virus that feeds on alcohol, mixed with a growth agent. It will flush every drop of rice wine from your body, remove the dependence, and even bolster your failing liver. It’ll be messy, but after a day you’ll be zipping around as though you were a thousand years old again.”

Butler took the tiny tome reverentially. The bodyguard activated a compact digital camera and began photographing each wafer-thin page of the Book.

Butler took the tiny tome reverentially. The bodyguard activated a compact digital camera and began photographing each wafer-thin page of the Book.

The fairy gestured around her at the squalid filth.

The Butlers had been serving the Fowls for centuries. It had always been that way. Indeed, there were several eminent linguists of the opinion that this was how the common noun had originated.

Doubts assuaged, Butler returned to his copy of Guns & Ammo, leaving his employer to unravel the secrets of the universe.

What outlandish scheme would involve the blackmailing of an alcohol-addicted sprite?

Artemis’s search had begun two years previously when he first became interested in surfing the Internet. He quickly found the more arcane sites: alien abduction, UFO sightings, and the supernatural.

Artemis believed that with today's technology the Book could be translated. And with this translation you could begin to exploit a whole new group of creatures.

Know thine enemy was Artemis’s motto, so he immersed himself in the lore of the People until he had compiled a huge database on their characteristics.

Artemis was perhaps the only person alive who could take full advantage of his recent acquisition.

Artemis had seen that look already, just before Juliet had suplexed a particularly impudent pizza boy.

Obviously a mixture of symbolic and character-based language, the text meandered around the page in no apparent order.

This was consistent with his other findings.

What emerged was a long, intricate string of meaningless gibberish.

Carry me always, carry me well.
I am thy teacher of herb and spell.
I am thy link to power arcane.
Forget me and thy magick shall wane.

Ten times ten commandments there be.
They will answer every mystery.
Cures, curses, alchemy.
These secrets shall be thine, through me.

For generations they had skirmished on the wrong side of the law, hoarding enough funds to become legitimate.

The Fowls were not left destitute, far from it. But billionaire status was no longer theirs.

It seemed that the People were almost as fond of the precious metal as humans. Each fairy had its own cache, but not for much longer if Artemis had his way.