Raiders' Ransom by Emily Diamand Page B

spread out all around it, past crossings with other walkways, on and on. The shouting from the Dogs gets farther behind, until one of them shouts, “You got away this time, little Isling, but we ’ll be waiting!” And I knowthey’ve given up, just like Roba gives up chasing if it gets too hard.
    But now I’ve gone so far I’ve left the main crowds, and the market’s looking small and far away. Ims is way behind, and I’ll have to get past the Dogs to get back to him. I look the way I came, wondering what to do. Nearby, some fisherboy is stood right in the middle of the walkway, goggling at everything like a right fishwit. First he stares at the crowd out of his soft brown face, then at the market like he ain’t never seen anything like it. He’s got a black moggy on a string, and he starts talking to it!
    â€œDo you think that’s the old Parliament the man told us to look out for?” says the fishwit.
    â€œOut of the way, you dozy frint!” I say, and shove him over to one side so I can get past. And he proves he’s only half-brained, coz he somehow gets the string from his stupid mog wrapped around his legs. The fishwit starts stumbling around, with the mog howling and running about him. Before you know it, he’s staggered right over to the edge of the walkway.
    â€œCat! Get off me!” he says, in a high, scaredy kind of voice. But it’s too late; he’s tipping over the edge. I make to grab him, but I miss.
    â€œAargh!” shouts the fishwit boy. The mog does a squawky jumping twist, and the string whips around and off the boy’s legs, but even that don’t stop him falling, he’s already too far gone. Down he goes. Headfirst! Right in the mud! Legs flapping like a frog! It must stink down there.
    I’m still staring down at the fishwit in the muck — at his butt sticking right out, his legs waving about — when Ims pushes his way out of the mess of people farther down the walkway.
    â€œWhat happened to you?” he shouts.
    I’m laughing so hard I can’t hardly answer.
    â€œCome and see this! Some fisherboy’s just fallen right in!”
    The fishwit’s wagging his legs so hard he topples himself over, and with a load of flapping and flailing, like a duck in a net, he gets himself upright. A bit more squelching about and he’s standing up, the mud around his chest. He’s so covered in it you can hardly tell he’s a person. Muck’s dripping off him. Oozing off his head, sliding down his face. He spits a load out of his mouth.
    â€œWhy did he fall?” says Ims, standing next to me.
    â€œHe don’t know how to stay on walkways!” I say.
    Ims starts chuckling.
    â€œHey, fisher! You want me to cast you a net? You’d make a nice catch.”
    The fisherboy scrapes at his face and stares up at me with his black-brown eyes.
    â€œYou pushed me in!” he shouts, spitting out more mud.
    â€œDon’t get on one, fishstink! That were the funniest thing I seen all year!”
    I’m still laughing as the fishwit wades through the mud toward the walkway. He puts out a hand, but he don’t even try to get out.
    He just grabs at my ankle.
    Then he pulls.
    And I slip.
    I’m falling! Right into the mud! Onto my back, with a great oozing splash. Circles and splats of mud ripple slowly away from me. I flail and freak for a bit, and the mud gets in my hair, my eyes, my mouth. It tastes of salt, and dead fish, and horse droppings, and I don’t know what else.
    Ims is laughing at me now.
    â€œHave you taken up mud swimming?” he calls.
    I struggle upright, and there’s the mud-coated fisherboy, staring at me.
    â€œHow do you like it?” he says.
    That stinking fisher! I hear a wordless roaring in my head, and I’m pushing my arm down into the mud, feeling for my dagger.
    â€œI’m going to kill you!” I shout, struggling for my