As you might expect, David was right – there were many things that could go wrong, and of course, they all did.

The first thing that went wrong was Simon Bannis. In fact, it had gone wrong some time ago. Last Thursday, he'd been sitting in his room, trying to drown out one of Lisa's tantrums with a video game, when he'd felt something strange. It was like a huge vise around his head, but after a moment he realized he could sort of move to the side (he didn't really go anywhere, but that's what it felt like) and whatever-it-was slipped off.

Curious, he went downstairs. “Hey, Mom? I felt funny a minute ago.”

“That's too bad, dear,” his mother said, not looking at him. “Do you want to help me make your sister a sandwich?”

“Huh? No, why would I. . .”

“Simon!” Lisa was behind him. “Good! Get me a soda.”

“Why should I?”

“Huh?” Lisa frowned at him. “Why didn't it work?”

“Do as your sister says, Simon,” Mrs. Bannis said absently, cutting the sandwich into neat halves. She should have said, Don't boss your brother around, Lisa. Something strange was going on.

“Where's Dad?”

“He went to get ice cream for Lisa,” Mrs. Bannis said. “Here you go, dear,” she added, handing the sandwich to Lisa.

Very, very strange. Simon started back to his room, feeling creepy. Behind him, he heard Lisa mutter, “Magic of (mumblemumble) Simon be nice to me.” Simon saw a flash out of the corner of his eye, and he felt the vise again.

He slipped out of it, and turned around. “Now,” Lisa said. “Get me a soda, Simon.”

Simon stared at her. He'd always said his sister was a witch, but he hadn't actually thought it was true. She had their parents under a spell. It didn't work on Simon, though, probably because he was smarter than her. So he was trapped in the castle – well, house – of an evil witch. Luckily, as C. S. Lewis would say, he had read all the right books.

He didn't have a magic sword, or a lion, or a ring, or a band of prophesied companions. All he had was his brains. So what would Artemis Fowl do. . .?

Finally, he smiled, and let his eyes go big, and said, “Sure, Lisa. Whatever you say.” If she thought he was under control, he'd have time to come up with a plan.

He hadn't had any ideas for a couple days, despite watching Lisa as much as he could and rereading every Eoin Colfer book he owned, until the arrival of the creepy-looking kid in the trench coat, who Lisa called Mr. Eight. He was obviously on Lisa's side, so when they went up to her room to talk, he followed them up and listened at the door. He couldn't hear much, but eventually he made out the words “enemy's stronghold.”

Finally! Lisa's enemies would obviously be the good guys, and Simon's best chance to get help. But where were they? Simon listened again, and heard Mr. Eight say “black castle in the parking lot of the Wal-Mart.”

Oh. Duh. Simon had seen that, and assumed it was advertising for a sale or something. But it had looked awfully solid. Okay. So all he had to do was get down there and get help. Of course, there was no chance of a ride from his parents; they might even rat him out to Lisa. He grabbed his scooter from his room, and then stopped. It might be suspicious if he left while that Mr. Eight guy was there. (What a stupid name!) So he sat in the living room with his book, the scooter hidden behind the couch, until he heard Mr. Eight leave.

It took forever to get all the way to the Wal-Mart. It would have helped if he hadn't taken those wrong turns – it was too far for him to have ever gone by himself before, and he hadn't really paid attention to the way. He made a mental note. In the real world, apparently, boy geniuses needed to remember Google Maps.

Tired, he folded his scooter and sat down on one of the medians. That was a really big castle. And very. . . black. Frankly, it looked like a stereotypical evil stronghold. And there was a guy in black armor, with a black helmet and sword, walking around the base of the castle. He looked just like a faceless minion, and good guys didn't have faceless minions. Something was screwy here. Were two groups of bad guys fighting each other?

“Hey, kid.” Uh-oh. Simon turned around and stood up. Faceless minions #2 and #3 were standing behind him. “What are you doing here?”

Oh boy. They were on the side away from the castle. If he tried to run, one of the three would catch him. He couldn't unfold the scooter in time. He'd have to talk his way out. He needed a lie, any lie. . . “I'm, uh, I'm looking for a part time job.” Oh, right, good one, Simon. Wal-mart hires ten-year-olds all the time. That was so lame. Believe me, he thought, believe me, please.

“Oh,” one of the soldiers said. “Huh. Okay. C'mon, kid, we'll take you to the captain.”

Oh, no. Wait. Did they think he wanted a job with them​? Well, it was better than getting thrown in the dungeon. And maybe he was wrong, and these were the good guys after all.

He grabbed his scooter, and the faceless minions led him through the front gate and into a guardhouse. There was another soldier there. Instead of just a breastplate, he had full articulated armor, and a two-handed sword across his back. He had a desk with piles of neglected paperwork on it – no wonder, since Simon didn't think you could use a chair in full armor unless it was built like a saddle. He was. . . strapping the paperwork down? What the heck?

“Captain Gratch, sir,” said faceless minion #2. “Kid wants a part-time job.”

Please believe it, I'd never get away now. . .

“Oh, hell, Fred has a form for that, and it's under there.” He undid a strap and rooted through the papers, finally pulling out a crumpled sheet. “Here, fill this out and put it in the Out slot. And hurry, we're getting ready for the move. I've got things to do.” He strapped his paperwork down again and all three soldiers left.

Did he think the paper was going to escape? Was it? Nervous, Simon fished a pen out of the captain's drawer and laid the form on his knee. It said “Form A-22. Job Application, du Doum and Associates, Diablomancy,” and the first blank was for Simon's name. He started to write it in.

No, wait. The blank said “True Name.” According to Ursula LeGuin, you never told your true name to a wizard, and if there wasn't one around here he'd eat his scooter. Simon changed what he was writing, and put “Sifer Turing.”

The next line said Allegiance, with check boxes for White, Grey, Black and Other. Simon was in a black castle at a black desk of a black-armored captain of black-armored faceless minions, and he was pretty sure what “diablomancy” meant, so he guessed they wanted him to put Black. He did.

Date and place of birth. Simon was getting really paranoid now. Lying about his age was probably stupid, and maybe they'd just send him home for being too young anyway, but he changed the date by a few days and put the wrong hospital, in case they had time travelers or something.

Previous experience. He could make something up, but he was probably too young to get away with it, and anyway he didn't really want to get hired. He put “None.”

And last, “What special skills, powers, or preternatural gifts do you bring to the organization?” Simon thought for a moment and put “Boy Genius.”

There. He put the form in the Out slot in the wall, and it vanished. Now what? Simon realized no one was around. Maybe he could sneak out. But as soon as he cracked the huge front door, faceless minions #1, 2, and 3 ran through. “What are you doing here, kid?”

“Uh, waiting for Captain, uh, Gratch,” Simon stammered.

“Fine. Sit down and wait, then, we're busy.” They ran on into the castle. Simon did, feeling trapped. What else could go wrong?

--

The second thing that could go wrong, at least for David, was an unexpected flash of common sense from Lisa. “Of course you have to go in first, Mr. Eight.”

“David.”

“Whatever. It's obviously going to take you longer to sneak in than it'll take me to break in. If we're both going to get there at the same time, you need to go first.”

“Ah, right,” David said. “Obviously. But these things take longer than you'd expect, so don't wait too long.” He'd wanted her distraction the whole way through, since he was the only one who had a real chance. No way to help it now.

“You can wait in the van with me, Miss Bannis,” Stan said.

“Power Girl,” she corrected, in the same tone David had used.

“Ah. . . right. Of course.”

“So, how're you going to get in?” Lisa asked David. “Just disappear and come out inside the walls?”

“You can't teleport into a magic fortress, it's warded.” Actually, David couldn't teleport anywhere, but that wasn't the point. “Anyway, I don't need to. The idiot has windows.”

“Ah,” Stan said. “The old standbys.” David nodded and pulled them out of his pockets, grinning. They were a brick and a spool of kite string.

“No way,” Lisa said. “That junk?”

“It could be a gold weight, a steel bar and silk thread, the spells are the same. If I wanted to spend the power, I could just levitate myself up. Now, don't go up to the castle until you're about to go in. If you can see them, they can see you. Listen to Stan, listen to me, listen to Poochi-tron, and watch your back.”

“Good luck, Wizard Langton,” Poochi-tron said, as David slipped out.

Stan's van was parked several rows behind the castle, just one more filled parking spot in a big lot. David slipped between the cars and jogged toward the castle. Looking it over, he drew a rune of unnoticability on either palm, then a third over his heart. It was hard to make someone not notice a kid breaking into their castle, but it might give him a few seconds to get out of sight.

There didn't seem to be anyone around, though. David tied the end of the string around the brick, and then concentrated on it. The enchantment on it responded, and it became as light as a coin. Most of the castle had arrow slits instead of windows, but there was a glint of glass at the top of a tower. David hurled the brick up. Air resistance slowed it, and so did the force of unrolling the spool – it was about as dense as a cardboard box – but a quick telekinesis spell caught it in an aura of blue light and raised it up further, above the window. David used the spell to fling it down, and just before it hit, cranked up the mass. David heard a crash, then a thud, and a few stray pieces of glass tinkled down.

David picked up the spool, and concentrated for a few moments. Solid blue light appeared around it, strengthening it and making the handles big enough for David to hold himself up with without cutting into his hands. He braced one foot against the wall, and the spool started winding itself up.

At the top, the brick currently weighed about four hundred pounds. The magically strengthened kite string might as well have been fixed to the floor. With rough stone to push off with his feet, the climb was almost easy. David climbed through the window and landed inside the evil overlord's castle. “I'm in,” he said into his headset, though Stan's tracker would have already told him that. “Contact with the enemy. This is where things start to go wrong.”

--

Though he would object to the suggestion, David was an optimist. This was when the third thing went wrong.

“Arrange matters, knave. I want my castle in a place where I can look down upon the dwellings of my future subjects.”

Fred didn't bother reminding du Doum of his name. Instead he said, “This is southern Illinois, sir. Even Kansas isn't this flat.”

“The town is called Bright Hills, is it not? Bring us to the top of the tallest hill.”

“The town founders were, ah, lying, sir. No hills sort of Wisconsin.” They were in the room designed as the inner sanctum, though of course the Marquis' actual sanctum was in the Unspace. The other lieutenants and the guards were lined up against the walls, trying not to look like they'd been there while someone argued with the master.

“Bah! Nonsense. Make it so, knave.”

Fred sighed. There was no arguing with some people. “Yes, sir. It'll take a couple hours.” He turned to the others. “And remember, no magic,” he said. Du Doum was as likely to forget as Gratch or Kazius, but Fred wasn't stupid enough to give the boss orders. He went right out, across the great hall – making sure nothing was still inside it – and into the guardhouse.

Sitting at Gratch's desk was a nervous-looking young boy. “Who are you?”

“My name's, uh, Sifer. I'm waiting for Captain Gratch about a job.”

“Oh, my, really? Today? It never rains but it pours. Have you filled out an A-22 form?”

“Uh, a job application? Yeah, I put it in the Out slot.”

“Ah. I haven't been to my office.” Fred tapped the In slot and a small stack of papers appeared. He flipped through them and found the A-22. “Well, come on, then, ah, Sifer. We can't stay here.” The boy was staring open-mouthed at the doorway. “Oh. You're probably sensing Vesspinath. She's an invisible spirit.”

“Really?” Sifer croaked, looking at the doorway.

“Yes. Don't worry, she won't harm you. You must be slightly sensitive to magic, or you wouldn't feel a thing.” The boy didn't look very reassured. “Follow me, please.” He led the boy outside, giving the application a more careful reading. A boy that young might have been silly enough to put down his true name. . . “Cypher Turing? Cute. Fan of cryptology, I see.”

“Um,” the boy said, “well, I mean, I know it said true name, but. . .”

“Oh, I understand completely. You'd be surprised how often that works, though. For future reference, while some people do use aliases, simply omitting the middle name is enough to defeat nominative magic.” He looked at the boy expectantly.

“Uh, that's okay. Just call me Sifer.”

“Fair enough.” Clever of him. Magic needed every name, but mundane information gathering worked just fine with only first and last. Fred himself used no other name around the castle. He read down the application. No experience, no magic, and the hospital birthplace meant he was at least half human. “Boy genius. Does that mean hypertechnician?” Blank look. “Do you build advanced devices? We have a mad scientist, but a more rational artificer would come in handy.”

“Um. . . no. I do, uh, tactics. And cryptology.”

“A problem solver. Even better. You could be my assistant.” Fred glanced down at Sifer again. He looked completely terrified. And come to think of it, while youngsters often got involved with magic and so on, they almost never declared for the Black until the youthful naivete wore off. “You didn't really come here looking for a job, did you?” Fred asked kindly.

“No,” Sifer admitted. “I was looking for someone to help me with, um, this problem I have, and the guards caught me, and I meant to say I was applying at Wal-mart, and things just happened.”

“Things often do. Come on, we need to walk around behind the castle.” Sifer followed like a puppy, grateful that he wasn't in trouble. He really was quite young. “I gather you're under the impression we are a Black organization. Evil, to use the common term.”

“Uh. . . you're not?”

“Of course not,” Fred lied smoothly. “Our purpose is to keep things like magic under control, so they can't hurt anyone by accident. If we were evil, would our guards have invited you into the guardhouse to sit down?”

“I guess not.”

They had, of course. Gratch really had to find some smarter men. Moving day or not, this was ridiculous. The boy had been completely unwatched. “Unfortunately, we're. . . how can I put this. . . short of managerial competence. Our record lately is not very good.” That part was quite true. “If you want a job after all, you can certainly have one.”

Before Sifer could answer, his sneaker crunched on something. He picked up his foot, and underneath was a bit of broken glass. They looked up, and Fred spotted the missing pane. “The tower window. I knew that thing was a bad idea.” The word idea was drowned out by a thunderous crash, that sounded suspiciously like the front gate being broken in.

“Oh, no,” Sifer said. “It's Lisa and that Mr. Eight guy. They have magic, or at least Lisa does, and they know where you live.”

“Ah, of course. Well, they've picked an unlucky time.” Fred pressed on a secret panel, to which the boot had until recently been attached, and a lever telescoped out. He pulled on it.

There was a stone-grinding noise, and the castle began to fold in on itself. Sifer stared as the towers folded down and the castle collapsed into the great hall, which then folded over onto the “sanctum” and kept going. Soon the whole thing was the size of a briefcase.

“But,” Sifer stammered, “but they were inside.”

“The inner spaces are as large as they were. They'll merely be shaken up.” Unless they were in the Great Hall, of course, which was quite possible if the crash had been someone in a hurry coming in the front. The room where the Marquis was would be secure and completely undisturbed. “No one can enter or leave until we unfold it; even moving around inside will be difficult. Except, of course, for Vesspinath, who as a spirit is not constrained by size, walls, or gravity. Please detain our gate-crashers until I have time for them, Vesspinath. Now, Sifer. Would you like a ride?”