Free Tamaruq by E. J. Swift

from the city. How very far. How isolated. These two, alone on their farm, with their snakes.
    ‘Death by venom is slow and very painful.’ The woman reaches for the jar, her fingers wrapping around the glass like a caress, sliding it back towards her lap. Mig is overcome with horror. ‘It can take days,’ she says.
    She looks at him.
    ‘Where is the man?’
    His mouth is dry. Her fingertips rest on the lid of the jar. The coral snake’s head lifts suddenly, sliding upwards against the side of the glass, revealing the scales of its underbelly. Mig has no idea if she’s telling the truth. If it’s deadly, or not. How can he run the risk?
    ‘I can’t tell you where he is,’ he says. ‘I can only show you.’
    She smiles. For a moment he thinks he’s bought himself some time but then she twists the lid of the jar a fraction to the right.
    ‘No!’
    There is a knock at the door.
    ‘What?’ snaps the woman.
    ‘Open up.’
    It’s her brother. The woman doesn’t say anything but is unable to suppress a frown of displeasure at the interruption. Mig gathers his wits. Now is the moment, when the door opens. He’ll rush them both. If he knocks one of them off balance, he might make it down the stairs. He tries not to think about all the deadly objects they could hurl after him, or what would happen if they let the snake loose.
    With the jar clutched firmly in one hand, the woman unlocks the door. Her brother is standing in the corridor, a strained expression on his face. As the door opens wider, Mig sees the reason for it. The Osirian, Vikram, is behind him, and he has a weapon pointed at the back of the man’s head. A gun.
    Mig stares.
    ‘Mig.’
    Vikram’s voice startles him into movement. He sidles past the woman, whose fingers are trembling with rage on the glass, the snake inside shaken about by the movement, its head switching angrily from side to side. Past the man. Past the Osirian. The gun is not like anything he has seen before.
    ‘Inside,’ says Vikram. The man goes in without a word. Vikram shuts the door and locks it. As they go down the stairs Mig can hear the remonstrations beginning between brother and sister. He can’t help sneaking glances at Vikram, who wields the gun easily, like he’s done this before.
    In the yard outside the sun hits him, long and low, the silent machinery casting shadows in the dust. They waste no time in putting distance between themselves and the farm. Vikram is still gripping the gun tightly.
    After a while Mig says, ‘I didn’t know you had that.’
    ‘There’s a lot you don’t know,’ says Vikram, and Mig, taking the hint, shuts up.
    ‘What did you tell them?’
    Vikram shows no external signs of anger, but Mig senses he isn’t going to wriggle out of this one so easily. He tries anyway.
    ‘Nothing much.’
    ‘Mig. What did you tell them?’
    He mutters, ‘I told them you’d survived.’
    ‘You told them I’d survived.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Survived the redfleur?’
    Mig avoids looking at him. He focuses his eyes on the flat, featureless countryside, everything murky in the dusk. ‘Yes.’ He blurts out, ‘I’m sorry, I—’
    ‘Do you want us to be caught?’
    ‘No!’
    ‘Do you want me to be caught?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘There was one condition to our travelling together, Mig. You remember what it was?’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he says again. He’s screwed up. He’s screwed up and they both know it. He waits for the inevitable recriminations. ‘Are you sending me away?’
    Vikram looks at him for a long time, the expression on his face making it impossible to turn away. Under that stare, Mig feels the importance drain out of him until he’s as low as a worm.
    ‘If this happens again, I won’t have a choice. You’re smarter than this, Mig. You’d better prove it to me.’
    Mig waits, expecting more, but the Osirian appears to be finished. He changes the subject and talks of other things. His Spanish improves all the time. He asks Mig questions