camera, "can you remind our readers what gave you the idea of this expedition against the parasite-pirates?"
"I considered it my duty," said Pennyroyal, beaming and adjusting his chain of office, which twinkled prettily in the
sun. "After all, it was I who first alerted the world to the existence of these maritime miscreants; you can read of my encounters with them in my interpolitan bestseller Predator's Gold (Just twenty-five Brightonian dolphins at all good bookshops). In recent years we have had more and more reports of their raids and burglaries and have started to deduce how their organization operates. I considered it my duty to take our city north and capture as many of them as I could."
"Of course, Your Worship, some of your critics have suggested that it is all a publicity stunt designed to attract more visitors to Brighton and sell more copies of your books...."
Pennyroyal made scoffing noises. "My books sell well enough without publicity stunts. And if news of our quest to rid the oceans of these parasites brings more tourists to Brighton, what is wrong with that? Brighton is a tourist city, and it's the mayor's job to help boost it. And may I remind you that our little fishing expedition is not costing Brighton's ratepayers a penny. Thanks to the partnership deal I worked out, all the underwater sensing equipment and limpet traps are paid for by one of our most eminent businessmen, Mr. Nabisco Shkin. This fake organization for pirates' parents was all Shkin's idea. I know some people think it's rather cruel, but you must admit it's worked like a charm. Shkin understands the psychology of these parentless louts perfectly, you see. He was an orphan himself, you know, an urchin from the underdeck who pulled himself up by his bootstraps, so he knew just how to appeal to them."
"And does Your Worship think we shall catch more pirates soon?"
"Wait and see!" chuckled Pennyroyal, presenting his best
profile to the camera as the photographer lined up another shot. "The boys we took from the first three limpets were hard nuts who refused to divulge the location of their base. This latest catch includes a younger boy and a girl too: much easier to crack. I believe the next few days will bring big results!"
In fact, what the next few days brought was a change in the weather. A storm sweeping off the Dead Continent chopped the ocean into steep white waves and threw Brighton up and down so violently that even the residents felt queasy, and a lot of the visitors who had flown in from the Hunting Ground to watch Pennyroyal's people fishing for pirates took to their airships and sky yachts and went hurrying home. The Brightonians (those who were not feeling too ill to walk about) glared up through the blustering rain at the underbelly of Cloud 9 hanging in the wet sky and wondered why they had agreed to let Pennyroyal bring them out onto this wild, unfriendly ocean.
Down below the pitching decks, on Brighton's lowest level, Wren lay on the floor of her narrow cage in the Shkin Corporation's holding pens and wished she were dead. Above her head, an argon lamp swung to and fro, splashing light across the metal walls and the rows of cages that sat waiting for more Lost Boys to be lured aboard. Fishcake lay in one; the others held the crews of the limpets that had been captured earlier. The burn on Wren's hand hurt terribly. She supposed she would bear that raised weal for the rest of her life--although that might not be very long.
"Are we sinking?" she asked when the Shkin Corporation's guard came round and aimed his flashlight at her to
check that she was still alive.
The guard chuckled. "Feels like it, don't it? But Brighton's ridden out worse than this. Don't worry; we'll soon be hoovering up the rest of your chums."
"They're not my chums," said Wren bitterly. "I'm not a Lost Boy...."
"Change the record, love," the man said wearily. "I heard you telling Monica Weems that same story down on Fishmarket Hard when we
"I considered it my duty," said Pennyroyal, beaming and adjusting his chain of office, which twinkled prettily in the
sun. "After all, it was I who first alerted the world to the existence of these maritime miscreants; you can read of my encounters with them in my interpolitan bestseller Predator's Gold (Just twenty-five Brightonian dolphins at all good bookshops). In recent years we have had more and more reports of their raids and burglaries and have started to deduce how their organization operates. I considered it my duty to take our city north and capture as many of them as I could."
"Of course, Your Worship, some of your critics have suggested that it is all a publicity stunt designed to attract more visitors to Brighton and sell more copies of your books...."
Pennyroyal made scoffing noises. "My books sell well enough without publicity stunts. And if news of our quest to rid the oceans of these parasites brings more tourists to Brighton, what is wrong with that? Brighton is a tourist city, and it's the mayor's job to help boost it. And may I remind you that our little fishing expedition is not costing Brighton's ratepayers a penny. Thanks to the partnership deal I worked out, all the underwater sensing equipment and limpet traps are paid for by one of our most eminent businessmen, Mr. Nabisco Shkin. This fake organization for pirates' parents was all Shkin's idea. I know some people think it's rather cruel, but you must admit it's worked like a charm. Shkin understands the psychology of these parentless louts perfectly, you see. He was an orphan himself, you know, an urchin from the underdeck who pulled himself up by his bootstraps, so he knew just how to appeal to them."
"And does Your Worship think we shall catch more pirates soon?"
"Wait and see!" chuckled Pennyroyal, presenting his best
profile to the camera as the photographer lined up another shot. "The boys we took from the first three limpets were hard nuts who refused to divulge the location of their base. This latest catch includes a younger boy and a girl too: much easier to crack. I believe the next few days will bring big results!"
In fact, what the next few days brought was a change in the weather. A storm sweeping off the Dead Continent chopped the ocean into steep white waves and threw Brighton up and down so violently that even the residents felt queasy, and a lot of the visitors who had flown in from the Hunting Ground to watch Pennyroyal's people fishing for pirates took to their airships and sky yachts and went hurrying home. The Brightonians (those who were not feeling too ill to walk about) glared up through the blustering rain at the underbelly of Cloud 9 hanging in the wet sky and wondered why they had agreed to let Pennyroyal bring them out onto this wild, unfriendly ocean.
Down below the pitching decks, on Brighton's lowest level, Wren lay on the floor of her narrow cage in the Shkin Corporation's holding pens and wished she were dead. Above her head, an argon lamp swung to and fro, splashing light across the metal walls and the rows of cages that sat waiting for more Lost Boys to be lured aboard. Fishcake lay in one; the others held the crews of the limpets that had been captured earlier. The burn on Wren's hand hurt terribly. She supposed she would bear that raised weal for the rest of her life--although that might not be very long.
"Are we sinking?" she asked when the Shkin Corporation's guard came round and aimed his flashlight at her to
check that she was still alive.
The guard chuckled. "Feels like it, don't it? But Brighton's ridden out worse than this. Don't worry; we'll soon be hoovering up the rest of your chums."
"They're not my chums," said Wren bitterly. "I'm not a Lost Boy...."
"Change the record, love," the man said wearily. "I heard you telling Monica Weems that same story down on Fishmarket Hard when we
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