Sand and Ash

Chapter 14: Drowning

Many choose suicide when ostracized, though the choice of death varies on the character of the abandoned.

—Waryoni Pokīmu

Rutejìmo slammed the mug down on the table. A splatter of foam splashed out and struck him across the face. It dripped down along the bridge of his nose. Snorting, he wiped it off with his other hand. He tilted the clay mug up to see if more liquid remained inside, but only a few droplets chased each other to the bottom rim.

He slammed it back down and shoved it across the bar. The effort brought out another twinge along his countless injuries. It also left a small splatter of blood on the counter. "Another."

The young woman on the other side looked at him with disgust. "Money?"

Rutejìmo dug into his pocket. The tines of the comb scraped against his hand and he yanked it out. It was pathetic and small, and a waste of twenty pyābi. He tossed it on the counter and returned to dig in his pocket.

The bartender shook her head. The bright yellow feathers in her hair shook with her movement. "Money," she repeated in a firmer tone.

"I'm," he struggled with his words, "getting it." When he found the last of his pyābi, he pulled them out. The heavy coins rested in his palm and he stared at them for a moment, wondering how things had gone so wrong so quickly.

He knew the answer, but he didn't want to admit it. He had ruined everything. He even knew what he was doing when he set out across the city after a black horse. Mistake after mistake kept piling in his memories, things he should have done, things he knew were mistakes. It would have been better if he never met Mikáryo in the first place.

Rutejìmo didn't know what he was going to do anymore. He could continue his job, running contracts and treaties between cities, but as soon as the word got out, he wouldn't be able to work with any clan associated with the Shimusògo. Even the Kidorīsi and Mafimára, the two clans he had spent years running between, would turn him away in fear of insulting the Shimusògo. He might get a single job out of it, but then his brother would have a reason to hunt him down. And Rutejìmo wasn't sure if Desòchu would stop before killing him.

Tears burned his eyes. He could feel them welling up and blurring his vision. He sniffed and used the back of his arm to wipe his face. He lifted the money for the bartender but she had left.

"Is that the last of your money?"

Hearing Mapábyo's voice punched him in the gut. He closed his eyes tightly and let his hand drop to the table. The coins rolled from his fingers, rattling on the wood. He took a deep breath and then winced at the aches from the beating earlier that morning.

"What are you doing here?" Rutejìmo said in a broken whisper. "Desòchu will do the same thing to you."

"Great Shimusogo Desòchu and the others have already left." Mapábyo's curt voice continued to slash him. He knew where she stood, but he didn't dare look up at her. "They went home to tell the others."

Rutejìmo grunted.

The chair to his left scraped on the floor. He felt it more than heard it over the din of the crowded bar. "I spent days looking for you, Rutejìmo. We all did."

"You shouldn't have."

Her hand, black as night, pressed against the table along the corner of his vision. "Why do you think you aren't worth anything?"

Rutejìmo reached out for his money, but Mapábyo slapped her hand down on it.

"Tell me, Great Shimusogo Rutejìmo! We all looked for you! Day and night, through the city and the lands around. We were worried, and you... you..." Her voice cracked. "You were fucking some night-bred horse bitch!"