It was quite possible that Artemis would have sat like that for some time, totally detached from the situation at hand, had not the front door imploded, shaking the manor to its foundations. A thing like that is enough to knock the daydreams from anyone's head.

A sprite alighted before Acting Commander Gudgeon.

'The collar is in place, sir.'

Gudgeon nodded. 'Are you sure it's tight, Captain? I don't want that troll coming out the wrong way.'

'Tighter 'n a goblin's wallet. There's not a bubble of air getting through that seal. Tighter 'n a stink-worm's — '

'Very well, Captain,' interrupted Gudgeon hurriedly, before the sprite could complete his graphic analogy.

Beside them the hovercage shook violently, almost toppling the container from its air cushion.

'We better blow that sucker, Commander. If we don't let him outta there soon, my boys're gonna spend the next week scraping…'

'Fine, Captain, fine. Blow it. Blow it for goodness' sake.'

Gudgeon hurried behind the blast shield, scribbling a note on his palmtop's LCD screen. Memo: Remind the sprites to watch their language. After all, I am a Commander now.

The foul-mouthed captain in question turned to the hovercage's cab driver.

'Blow 'er, Chix. Blow the door off its damn hinges.'

'Yessir. Off its damn hinges. That's a roger.'

Gudgeon winced. There'd be a general meeting tomorrow. First thing. By then he'd have the commander's icon on his lapel. Even a sprite might be less likely to curse, with the triple acorn logo winking in his face.

Chix pulled down his shrapnel goggles, even though the cab had a quartz windscreen. The goggles were cool. Girls loved them. Or so the driver thought. In his mind's eye he saw himself as a grim-faced daredevil. Sprites were like that. Give a fairy a pair of wings and he thinks he's God's gift to women. But Chix Verbil's ill-fated quest to impress the dames is, once again, another story. In this particular tale, he serves only one purpose. And that is to melodramatically push the detonate button. Which he does, with great aplomb.

Two dozen controlled charges detonated in their chambers, driving two dozen alloy cylinders out of their mounts at over a thousand miles per hour. Upon impact, each bar pulverized the contact area plus the surrounding fifteen centimetres, effectively blowing the door off its damn hinges. As the captain would say.

When the dust settled, the handlers winched back the containment wall inside the cage and began hammering the side panels with the flats of their hands.

Gudgeon peeped out from behind the blast shield.

'All clear, Captain?'

'Just a damn second, Commander. Chix? How're we doin'?'

Chix checked the cab's monitor.

'He's movin'. The hammerin' is spookin' him. The claws are comin' out. My, he's a big sucker. I wouldn't wanna be that Recon babe if she gets in the way of this.'

Gudgeon felt a momentary pang of guilt, which he dispelled with his favourite daydream — a vision of himself sinking into a beige-velour Council seat.

The cage heaved violently, almost dislodging Chix from his seat.

He held on like a rodeo rider.

'Woah! He's on the move. Lock and load, boys. I have a feeling that any second we're going to be gettin' a cry for help.'

Gudgeon didn't bother locking and loading. He preferred to leave that sort of thing to the foot soldiers. The Acting Commander considered himself too important to be risked in an insecure situation.

For the good of the People in general, it was better he remain outside the op zone.

Butler took the stairs four at a time. It was possibly the first time he had ever abandoned Master Artemis in a crisis. But Juliet was family, and there was obviously something seriously wrong with his baby sister. That fairy had said something to her and now she was just sitting in the cell giggling. Butler feared the worst. If anything were to happen to Juliet, he didn't know how he'd live with himself.

He felt a dribble of sweat slide down the crown of his shaven head. This whole situation was shooting off in bizarre directions.

Fairies, magic, and now a hostage loose in the manor. How could he be expected to control things? It took a four-man team to guard the lowliest politician, but he was expected to contain this impossible situation on his own.

Butler sprinted down the corridor into what had until recently been Captain Short's cell. Juliet was sprawled on the cot, enraptured by a concrete wall.

'What are you doing?' he gasped, drawing the Sig Sauer nine-millimetre with practised ease. His sister barely spared him a glance. 'Quiet, you big ape. Louie the Love Machine is on. He ain't so tough, I could take him.'

Butler blinked. She was talking gibberish. Obviously drugged.

'Let's go. Artemis wants us upstairs in the situations room.'

Juliet pointed a manicured finger at the wall.

'Artemis can wait. This is for the intercontinental title. And it's a grudge match. Louie ate the Hogman's pet piggie.'

The manservant studied the wall. It was definitely blank. He didn't have time for this.

'Right. Let's go,' he growled, slinging his sister over a broad shoulder.

'Nooo. You big bully,' she protested, hammering his back with tiny fists. 'Not now. Hogman! Hogmaaaan!'

Butler ignored the objections, settling into a loping run. Who the hell was this Hogman person? One of her boyfriends no doubt. He was going to keep closer tabs on callers to the lodge in future.

'Butler? Pick up.'

It was Artemis, on the hand-held. Butler jiggled his sister up a foot so he could reach his belt.

'Lollipops!' barked his employer.

'Say again. I thought you said — '

'Eh… I mean get out of there. Take cover! Take cover!'

Take cover? The military term didn't sound right coming out of Master Artemis's mouth. Like a diamond ring in a Lucky Bag.

'Take cover?'

'Yes, Butler. Cover. I thought speaking in primal terms would be the quickest route to your cognitive functions. Obviously I was mistaken.'

That was more like it. Butler scanned the hall for a nook to duck into. Not much choice. The only shelter was provided by the suits of medieval armour punctuating the walls. The manservant ducked into the alcove behind a fourteenth-century knight complete with lance and mace.

Juliet tapped the breastplate.

'You think you're mean? I could take you with one hand.'

'Quiet,' hissed Butler.

He held his breath and listened. Something was approaching the main door. Something big. Butler leaned out far enough to get one eye on the lobby…

Then you could say that the doorway exploded. But that particular verb doesn't do the action justice. Rather, it shattered into infinitesimal pieces. Butler had seen something like this once before when a force-seven earthquake had rippled through a Colombian drug lord's estate seconds before he had been scheduled to blow it up. This was slightly different. More localized. Very professional. It was classic anti-terrorist tactics. Hit 'em with smoke and sonics, then go in while the targets were disoriented. Whatever was coming, it would be bad.

He was certain of it. He was absolutely right.

Dust clouds settled slowly, depositing a pale sheet on the Tunisian rug. Madam Fowl would have been furious, if she ever put so much as a toe outside the attic door. Butler's instincts told him to move. Zigzag across the ground floor, make for the higher ground.

Stay low to minimize the target. This would be the perfect time to do it, before visibility cleared. Any second now, a hail of bullets would be whistling through the archway, and the last place he wanted to be was pinned down on a lower level.

And on any other day Butler would have moved. He would've been halfway up that stairway before his brain had time for second thoughts. But today he had his baby sister over his shoulder spouting gibberish, and the last thing he wanted to do was expose her to murderous assault fire. With Juliet in the state she was in, she'd probably challenge the fairy commandos to a tag-wrestling match.