Thief

I grab the melonfruit with both hands, bolt down a side alley and immediately tumble over some scrap fabric sorting baskets.

From the ground I recognize that I'm at the back of the cloth shop where I'd "acquired" these sky-blue pants. I really like these pants because everyone in this city wears grey, cream and beige.

I pluck out the melonfruit from its lucky landing basket as an angry tirade arrives behind me.

The giant bulging-eyed son a fruit-grocer, 'Frogface', is cursing and kicking his way through the creams and off-whites.

Without thinking I dash under the half-curtain back of the cloth shop, wave a cheery 'thanks' to the stunned attendant, and slip out into the Crane Square markets.

Now I'm shoulder-to-shoulder with the very early morning crowd. Surrounded by aromatic stalls and noisy hawkers, carried along by the current of shoppers, wearing bright blue pants and no sign of my pursuer.

I am the most successful urchin on the streets of Opak City. With both hands I hold my trophy high, though mainly to prevent it from getting squashed.

Twisting, I look at my following marketgoers. Sincerely, I hope that at least one of us today gets to experience the extraordinarily sweet taste of success.

Suddenly, it occurs to me that I don't know Frogface's real name. I call him Frogface as a term of endearment. Usually I call out to him from the river wharf roof at noon when he is "supervising" the potato bag-haulers with a whip. On the roof I position myself, then time my call-out so that, as he quizzically squints up into the sun, my carefully-aimed live river frog lands on his face. This has only worked twice.

With a yelp, a distracted shopper is pulled aside to reveal the very raging tower of fruit-jealous muscle I was just thinking of. His eyes bulge up at the wonder of ripeness held above my head. In response I lurch sideways into the gap between some stalls.

Wending my way through to another street I steal a glance behind to find that I'm barely five paces ahead of my offensively vocal friend. He's quite a good runner when angry, but I'm fast too. His legs and arms are very muscular and... is that a whip coiled-up in his fist?

To his credit, Frogface has been helping improve my health and fitness for some months. Fruit and exercise. Highly recommended.

I've put some distance between us now but my stamina is running down and he keeps finding me. I refuse to have second thoughts about my choice of pants.

I take yet another abrupt side lane and almost crash into a duty churchman castigating a young couple for holding hands. Thankfully, the churchman is too astonished to interfere.

But... a churchman? I have an idea. I orient myself and cut through an unweeded yard towards the nearest lay church.

If I can make it to the church's doors I can beg asylum from a peace guard. Peace guards are required to immediately crush all threats of violence with even more violence. Frogface knows this too.

Sadly, it will mean that I'll have to hide inside the church until Froggy gives up and returns to his fruit stall.

At the main gate I see the lay church's huge side door is wide open. There's some kind of activity going on. A queue of children is making its way inside and a peace guard has walked up to begin closing the door.

Using the melon as counterweight, I bound up the steps behind his back. Grinning stupidly to "act casual", I join the queue which seems to consist of younger and better-dressed children.

The heavy door groans, pulled inward by the bored-looking peace guard. Just as it closes I glimpse the distant and muscular frame of a fruitgrocer's son raising two fists into the air.

My eyes adjust to the cool gloom of the church foyer. And it seems I'm now being observed by a few inquisitive children. I look down at them and take a bite out of the melon.

Just as I thought. Victory is sweet.

Hmm. I guess I have plenty of time to kill now that I've evaded Frogface and stared down some kids. I wonder where this queue is going.