Tivi's Dagger Read online

  Tivi’s Dagger

  By Alex Douglas

  Copyright by Alex Douglas

  Smashwords Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Torquere Press Publishers

  P.O. Box 37, Waldo, AR 71770.

  Tivi’s Dagger by Alex Douglas Copyright 2015

  Cover illustration by Kris Norris

  Published with permission

  www.torquerepress.com

  ISBN: 978-1-944449-03-2

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. LLC, P.O. Box 37, Waldo, AR 71770

  First Torquere Press Printing: December 2015

  Tivi’s Dagger

  by

  Alex Douglas

  For Antoin, for giving me those dodgy dice.

  “…the wench had fled, with all his coin. 'Alas!' cried he, 'Trust not the loin

  For it will lead the heart astray; all of one’s reason floats away

  Like petals on a gust of air. Trust not the sight of someone fair!

  Look far beyond the smile to tell if that one’s mind does suit you well

  So from love’s path you’ll not be parted, not be left from coin outsmarted,

  Wretched, weeping, broken-hearted, for that way was ended ere it started.

  But never did you pause to see, for foolish fancy blinded thee.'”

  Sorry Solus and the Merchant’s Wife (Cautionary Tales, Volume 12 Verse 78) – Antrocus the Solid

  Chapter 1

  The statue was old with moss-covered shoulders, and at the bare feet which poked out from the plain, carved robes, tiny blue flowers spilled out of cloudy glass bowls arranged in a circle. The nose was small and unremarkable for a god’s, its mouth curved into a wistful half-smile. Blind, pupil-less eyes gazed out of a nondescript face, focussing somewhere down the slopes behind us where the edge of the mountain kingdom of Methar met the bare foothills of Lis. The bleating of goats had followed us out of our homeland until that sound too had been swallowed up by the thin fog, until all that was left was the crunch-crunch of our footfalls on the rocky path and the labored breathing of town dwellers unused to such a steep climb – all except for Brindar, who strode along in his heavy armor with his twin swords crossed and sheathed at his back and clanking a muted warning to anyone who heard the sound. We paused at the statue’s feet and Brin folded his arms, head cocked to one side, waiting for the others to catch up.

  We had not walked more than a half-mile across the border but already I felt homesick for the spice-tinged stench of bodies in closed spaces. Azmara, the capital city of Lis, was renowned across the continent for the bustle of its famous market which sold exotic and rare goods traded from far and wide. I longed for the warm breeze that bore the salty scent of the sea, which was out of sight for the first time in my life. I had not listened to such a silence in a long, long time. It was as thick as the air around us, punctuated with caw of birds and the trickle of water on sheer slopes, streams hidden behind thick walls of green creepers, slicking down over moss and rock into underground pools.

  The air was moist enough that I could close my eyes and imagine the spray of the sea on my face, the freedom of open water, the call of the horizon. From this point on, the horizon would be just as it was now: slivers of gray sky squeezed in between increasingly steep peaks. All the mountains looked the same: dense vegetation at the lower levels, grooved with thin, rocky paths which wound up the sides before disappearing into the soft mantle of fog that hid the peaks from view.

  Kelthras and Lana walked even slower than I did, making awed comments about the majesty of the mountains and bickering half-heartedly about the chances of Kel overcoming his wooing woes with the women in this land of the Love God.

  “I followed almost all the steps, Lana,” Kel said with a mournful sigh.

  “What steps are these? Oh, don’t tell me…” She stopped to scrutinize his face, then burst into a gale of laughter. “You did, didn’t you? You read that dreadful tome after all. How many steps did you take before your effort faltered?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps the tome is a little…dated.”

  “Dated? By the Gods, it was penned at least a hundred-year ago! No modern lady would be impressed by the grisly sight of a sacrificed goat bleeding on their doorstep. Surely you did not go so far as that?”

  “I did buy the goat,” he admitted. “But I could not bring myself to draw a blade across its throat, so I gave it to the cook, who called it Tilli. She’s tethered in our yard and growing fatter by the day. The goat, not the cook.”

  I chuckled. “I know of quite a few books more useful than 149 Steps to a Woman’s Heart, Kel. Some with helpful sketches as well. Most illuminating, should you wish to study anatomy.”

  Brin’s mouth formed a thin line, a garrotte across the neck of yet another lecture on Purity of Thought. I watched him wrestle with his inner priest with amused eyes. Since he had been branded Apostate and cast out of the Protectors he had, mercifully, cut down on a lot of his preaching. Unfortunately, his love and care for my eternal soul – which was happily soiled by fornication, drunkenness, and occasional piracy – still persisted, and he had taken our father’s blessing to invoke the Rite of Instruction. It was this ancient and binding nonsense which had allowed him to drag me along on this tiresome pilgrimage. For me, to break the Rite would mean automatic disinheritance and the end of my generous allowance, which in turn would quickly necessitate the finding of gainful employment – a ghastly future to which I was deeply, deeply opposed.

  Looking up at the statue, I mused mournfully that only Brin would arrange a meeting under the gaze of a God, even if it was one he did not favor. Not for the first time, I cursed my brother and his stern, faith-riddled demeanor that drained all joy out of the air.

  It was the first time I had ever laid eyes on a representation of the two-faced deity of the Methari people, and the sight was something of a disappointment. It was not the fearsome visage of retribution and agony that travellers would describe over a tavern fire, when not even strong ale would shake the shivers of memory from their skins. Just this sexless, robed figure with one hand sinking into the robe at its back and the other clasped over its heart, bereft even of its famous dagger, which the faithful would – all travellers agreed on this point at least – anoint with poison every morning before sunrise.

  “The archives were unclear about the nature of this deity,” Kel said, pushing back his hood and mopping his brow, his dark eyes focused upon the face of the blind god with keen interest. “By the Gods, this trip is a scholar’s dream! Matativi looks too sad to be a God of love, doesn’t he?”

  “He? Oh, Kel. Lesson one – breasts…chest muscles.” Lana pointed at her chest, then to Kel’s, laughing. “And you wonder why that merchant drew his sword.”

  Kel’s cheeks colored. “I was not aware that men of the Pirates’ Isles wore such ornate garb, and painted their faces so.”

  “You were lucky the Protectors did not arrest you for Immorality,” Brin said sternly. “Stop encouraging the lad, Lana. And stop trying to talk to women, Kelthras. I do not want to have to invoke a second Rite.”

  Kel’s eyes widened for a second before he marshaled his features into a neutral expression I was all too familiar with, since I wore it every day myself. He sat down on the ground and busied himself rearranging the contents of his pack as his blush began to fade. Brin
’s power was an unfortunate reality and he wore it comfortably, like a second skin. Kel was our cousin, with no living father to protect him from any tyranny my brother – the only male in a position of responsibility in our family – chose to exert.

  Behind Brin’s back, Lana made a loose fist with her left hand and jabbed her right thumb into it with a grin. Stick your words up your arse. I was struck by a sudden impulse to hug her, so I did, knowing it would annoy Brin. Lana was my former lover and best friend; we had navigated the seas together, as well as the beds of dozens, and her presence on the pilgrimage was the price Brin had to pay for my almost total acquiescence.

  There was a rustling sound from the trees ahead of us and a silver-robed figure emerged, hands clasped carefully around a fresh bowl of the tiny blue flowers that grew all over the land. It was our first sight of the garb of a Methari monk, swathed from head to toe in shimmering material. From the bearing of the figure I guessed the monk was a man. A small vial glinted on a chain around his neck and as he approached us, his eyes smiled. The rest of his face was hidden behind the silver which, on closer inspection, I realized was a very finely-woven metal material wrapped around his head and face, with a second, identical cloth draped around his body and covering all but his forearms and feet.

  “Welcome to Methar, travellers.” He bowed for a moment, then fixed his brown eyes on me. “You must be the visitors we have been expecting. If you will excuse me for a moment, Matativi requires my attention. Then I will lead you to the Temple.”

  We watched as the monk carefully replaced the flowers in the bowls. He opened his hands to the deity’s blessing, then knelt at the plinth where there was a lever I had not previously noticed. With a grunt of effort he pulled it downwards, and the statue began to turn with a grinding, ancient sound.

  The detail of the carving on the other side scotched my notions that the statue was centuries old. While the shoulders were still draped in the mossy mantle, the second face was alive with exquisite sorrow. Eyes so expressive that they almost seemed real stared into my own, while the hand that I had thought sunken into the material at its back was now clasped in front of its heart, with a finely carved hilt clutched in bony fingers. The dagger jutted out straight and true, as sharp as any weaponsmith could have produced, even though it was carved of the same stone that lay on the path beneath our feet. I mused for a moment that the dagger might be double-ended and buried in the God’s own heart, such was the pain that enlivened the eyes. And yet there was an underlying sympathy to the gaze that forced me to recall the expression of my former master when he would punish his charges with the five-tailed whip he kept above his desk.

  This hurts me too.

  I took a dislike to the deity immediately, and looked down from the agonized visage to the figure kneeling at its feet, trying not to feel too contemptuous of the man’s obvious devotion to a lump of rock, no matter how beautifully it was carved.

  The monk took the vial from around his neck and emptied its contents onto a rag. Then he stood up and rubbed the shiny liquid onto the end of the dagger, all the time muttering a flat-toned chant. The poison, I surmised. Methar was a kingdom full of deadly creatures and plants – which was one of the reasons we were forced to seek an escort – yet they had managed to keep the components of the poisons they distilled for military use to themselves for centuries, even though I knew of many who would have paid their weight in gold for a glimpse of the formulae.

  When the carved blade shone with poison, the monk left the statue turned pain-side out, and his eyes smiled at us once again. “It is a wonderful day. Only this very morning, a most-beloved servant of our order has gone to meet our Lady. May Tivi’s dagger wound cleanly, friends.”

  Perhaps he expected a response, but we just stared up at the sorrowful eyes of the god and then back at his own. This monk seemed inordinately happy about his beloved companion meeting this poisoned dagger, and I let out a breath and recalled the banter of the dwarven traders we’d met during our last evening of freedom at the Duck and Swan, all recently returned from the mountain kingdom. Bulging coin purses jangled at their belts, yet bizarrely I had found myself adding the cost of their ales to my tab once more.

  Methari? They’re all madder than a sack of scorpions. They’d fling themselves on a dagger as soon as take a shit.

  Hah! With the cursed prickles of those arse-wipe leaves that grow up there, the feeling would be the same!

  Under Brin’s dark-browed frown, we followed the monk up the path, puffing and blowing loudly when scarcely a breath seemed to come from him; even our donkey was quieter than we were, clopping along placidly with the mysterious sealed box Brin had lashed to its back hidden underneath the rolls of fine Lis silk that we had brought on the pretense of trade. The trees were thick with needle-thin leaves and smelt of rain, even though the rock underfoot was dry enough. Just as I thought my lungs were about to leap out of my chest through my exertions, the trees began to thin and our small party ascended into the fog. The steps widened and ended in a flattened clearing. Before us lay the first Temple of Matativi I had ever seen. Kel rubbed his hands together in academic glee and began to point out the architectural features rapturously.

  The Temple was a plain, L-shaped structure with a sloping roof tiled with slate. To the left were the stables, and to the right there was a grove of ancient-looking trees with gnarly branches bearing a pale yellow fruit, with some stretches of tilled land around upon which various crops were growing. Underneath the tree, red hens scratched in the dirt and a few goats submitted to the hands of silver-swathed monks squeezing out the day’s milk. Beyond the main building, thin columns of smoke curled from smaller buildings nestling among trees where I surmised the monks made their beds.

  When I’d caught my breath, I addressed the monk. “How many live here?”

  “Only fifty-two. We are but a small part of the Mother’s family.”

  Lara looked interested. “You have women in your order?”

  He faced us with amusement in his dark eyes. “Oh indeed, it must seem strange to you. I’ve heard that Lis does not tolerate the presence of women in its halls of worship. It is, perhaps, one of the reasons that Lis has been riven with unrest for so long, while Methar enjoys unity. A man’s heart is no better guarded against Tivi’s dagger than a woman’s. We have all known its poison, and its peace.”

  Brin’s frown deepened. “History’s telling of the Splinterings do little for your talk of unity, monk.”

  The monk bowed slightly and spoke in a gentle voice. “We are all Tivi’s warriors, tiyal, though some have strayed far from their Mother, as children who know no better are wont to do. You would do well to remember that as you travel toward the heart of our land. As you move further from your land, you will find that there are many who are intolerant of apostates, for that’s likely how you’ll be looked upon.”

  It made my heart soar for a second to see a flash of incredulous rage color Brin’s cheeks, but he held his tongue. My brother was devout, but he was not stupid. The monk could not have known the clout his use of the generic term carried, let alone understood what it meant to Brin. Nor, I suspected, would he have cared a jot about what the Protectors got up to. The chaos that was Lis may as well have lain a thousand-mile away from this peaceful grove.

  “Are you to be our guide?” Lana scuffed her boots against the ground, glancing around with idle curiosity.

  “Not I.” The monk turned. “If you’ll follow me, Mother Kiti would talk with you before you take our young charge.”

  He led us toward the main building and in through a solid side door. The interior was dark and the walls scorched with the memory of candles. Incense hung heavy in the air, and to the right I caught a glimpse of silver-robed figures in a semi-circle, kneeling on straw mats and chanting at the feet of Matativi. The same blind eyes looked through me, identical to those of the statue at the foot of the hill.

  The door at the end of the walkway had a sun carved into the wood, and whe
n we stepped into the small room, it was light and airy. A breeze entered through an open window, rustling the scrolls on the desk, behind which sat a slight figure wrapped in the same silver robe as all the others, slightly hunched with hands veined with age. Mother Kiti stood up, ice-blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Her face was covered only loosely, and I noticed that her ears were pierced numerous times, gleaming with studs and hoops with the heavier rings weighing down her fleshy lobes.

  “You must be Brindar Melchion of Lis.” She bowed slightly and gestured at some cushions on the floor. “Come and sit. Brother Vesti will bring wine. You must be thirsty.”

  Wine! I was cheered instantly. It had been almost a week since I had last tasted the grape and I had built up a considerable thirst. The thought of my brother’s discomfort when faced with an obligation to imbibe made the imagined taste of it all the sweeter.

  “Indeed, I am Brindar; this is my younger brother Nedim, and the youth is Kelthras Amillian, our cousin and a scholar at the Theological University of Azmara. Lana Destar is a…companion of Nedim’s, and will accompany us also.”

  “Mesthe Matas,” Lana said, inclining her head slightly.

  “Matassa Mestheen.” The old woman’s tone warmed, and she gestured again to the floor. We sat down, cross-legged, and watched the Mother kneel and tuck her feet under her robes like a young girl. She was flexible for someone of such advanced years, not plagued by swell-knuckle as my own mother had been. Silence spun out between us as we waited for her to speak, but it was not until she had a glass tumbler of wine in her hand that she said another word. After raising the drink to the sky, she cupped it in her hands and sipped. “Mata’s love be upon you, tiyallan.”

  The wine was delicious. Red and fruity with a hint of summer apples and a strong kick of alcohol. I savored every sip; Brin had forbidden me to drink on the pilgrimage so I emitted sighs of enjoyment which both pleased the Mother and irritated my brother. It was a wonderful moment.