Tivi's Dagger

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.