Free Tamaruq by E. J. Swift Page B

ocean, the successful returning with some unlucky fish to screech and squabble over. How he longs for wings, or a flying machine like that woman he helped in Cataveiro, to take him away from here, back in time, before it all went so wrong.
    ‘It’s all right,’ he says. ‘Do you like it?’
    ‘It’s where I come from,’ replies the Osirian. His face is impassive.
    Mig licks his lips and tastes salt. He watches a boat move slowly across the water, drawing a white tail behind it. He imagines Pilar is alive and on that boat.
    ‘So what do we do now?’
    ‘We find somewhere to hide.’ The Osirian turns away from the sea. ‘Come on. We’ve got work to do.’

TIERRA DEL FUEGO
    THE ALASKAN WHEELS along the quiet, cool corridors of the island’s hospital until she finds the room she is looking for. It is easy to identify: two plainclothes bodyguards stand to attention outside. They eye the Alaskan with suspicion, one moving away from the door, posture shifting in intent, until she holds something up.
    ‘She will want to see me.’
    Señorita Xiomara is in a bad state. A web of intravenous tubes push clear fluids into her veins. Her body lies slack, blood-drained, and her luxurious length of hair has declined to a limp black wing against the pillow. Appraising the pitiful sight in front of her, it is hard to believe that this is a woman who controls the country’s desalination empire, a woman of wealth and power. But the Alaskan has witnessed many a rise and descent; she never settles on a judgement. People vacillate too frequently for that.
    When Xiomara sees the Alaskan, her face tightens in anger. If this were a snake it would spit.
    ‘What are you doing here?’
    The Alaskan wastes no time with preambles.
    ‘I went to your house, Xiomara. A delightful abode. And a most impressive stock of medicine you have too. I believe it’s this one in particular you’re after?’
    She holds aloft a box of skin patches. Xiomara’s eyes widen.
    ‘Somewhat ironic that you should flee south to escape the epidemic, only to contract something almost as bad,’ says the Alaskan, extracting the first patch, which is marked one of thirty. ‘Who was it – guerrillas? Dangerous, they are. Rabid sorts. I always heard they kept syringes of jinn-blood, but I’ve never known anyone fall prey to their ministrations. Until now.’
    A bead of sweat glistens in the perfect curl of Xiomara’s upper lip. It is the first time the Alaskan has seen the lower part of her face without a mask. Even in sickness, there is no denying the beauty of the bone structure beneath the skin. She lifts Xiomara’s wrist from the covers.
    ‘No, don’t clench your fist – it’s got to go on smoothly, against the veins. You’d better prepare yourself, Xiomara. You’re in for a rough time with this. Not everyone survives a treatment for the jinn.’
    She presses the skin patch into place.
    ‘There.’
    With the brief moment of contact, memory floods the front of the Alaskan’s brain. Deep in the Alaskan’s past, there was a girl, a Scandinavian girl. The Alaskan remembers her, meandering down the forest track, bare feet making imprints in the mud. Her head turning. A smile, offered as a token, though it seemed like something more.
    Señorita Xiomara snatches her hand away, rubbing at her wrist as though to wipe clean the Alaskan’s touch.
    ‘I am indebted to you,’ she says stiffly. ‘What is it that you want? The enclaves, is that it? Access? It can be arranged.’
    The Alaskan considers her for a moment. A thousand things run through her head, things which are overwhelmingly uncomplimentary to Xiomara. Past slights. Small setbacks and small victories. She can see that Xiomara is trying quite desperately to read her, but to no avail, and Xiomara should know that by now. She should know that you do not mess with a nirvana.
    Eventually she says, ‘There is nothing you have that I need.’
    Xiomara’s frustration is evident.
    ‘Then why are you