“Yes, it is very good,” Kessis agreed.
He still hesitated, despite that agreement. Mitas spoke to Sharur: “Man of Zuabu, you know the Giblut do not give any gods, not their god, not your gods, nor yet the gods of Alashkurru, the honor they deserve.”
“I have heard this, yes,” Sharur said.
“This is one reason the gods are unloving in return,” Mitas said, “but it is only one. You know the Giblut, when they trade in Alashkurru, trade not only for copper ore but also for other things—strange things, rare things, beautiful things, to take back to their city.”
“I have also heard this is so, yes.” Sharur nodded.
Kessis growled again: “One thing they took, they never should have taken. One thing a wanax or a merchant traded, he never should have traded. One thing that went to Gibil, it never should have gone to Gibil.”
“What thing is this?” Sharur asked.
“It is a thing of the gods of Alashkurru,” Kessis answered.
“It is a thing of the great gods of Alashkurru,” Mitas added. Resentment flavored that wonderful voice. Mitas went on, “I am a small god because the great gods do not let me grow great. I am good enough for travelers to take with me on a journey. I am not good enough, I am not strong enough, to do more.”
“You speak truth.” Kessis still sounded and looked worried. “It is the same with me. But because we are not strong, because we are not great, we need to remember the great gods.”
“Why? They barely remember us.” Mitas showed those needle-sharp teeth again.
“What sort of thing went from Alashkurru to Gibil?” Sharur asked once more. “Why are the great gods of Alashkurru angry that it went from the mountains to the land between the rivers?”
“It is a thing of the great gods of Alashkurru,” Mitas repeated, while Kessis let out growls that were close to frightened whimpers. “It is a thing into which the great gods of Alashkurru poured much of their power, to keep it safe.”
Mitas’s laugh was throaty and scornful, the laugh of a rich, beautiful woman rejecting the advances of a clod. “They poured in their power, to keep it safe, and now the thing is lost. And the thing can be unmade, the thing can be broken. The power can be spilled, the power can be lost, like beer soaking into the floor when a pot is dropped.”
“Is it so?” Sharur said softly. “In the name of... Enzuabu, is it so?”
“It is so,” Kessis answered. “Is it any wonder the great gods of Alashkurru hate and fear the Giblut? Is it any wonder they want no more Giblut coming to the land of Alashkurru?”
“What manner of thing is it that the great gods used to store their power?” Sharur asked. “Whence came it?”
“We know not,” Kessis growled.
“It is a secret thing,” Mitas added. She loosed that scornful laugh once more. “It is such a secret thing, even the man who kept it knew not what he kept; he was ignorant of the treasure he held. And so it went to Gibil, traded for a knife of bronze or a pot of wine or some other trifle, when it was worth as much as any three cities in the land between the rivers. And so the great gods are in a swivet; and so the mighty gods tremble. And so”—she laughed yet again— “it serves them right.”
Sharur bowed low. “You have given me much to think on, Mitas and Kessis. You have given the folk of my city much to think on, small gods of Alashkurru.”
“Small gods chafe under the rule of great gods hardly less than men do,” Mitas said. Kessis’s low snarl might have been agreement. It might as easily have been a warning to Mitas to watch her tongue.
Piluliumas said, “Zuabi, I will go back with you to the space you left in the market square. You have been here some little while. You have lost custom. I will go back with you and help you set out your goods once more.”
“Man of Alashkurru, you are generous.” Sharur bowed again. “I gladly accept your help.” He took hold of the donkey’s lead rope. “Let us go.”
As they walked back toward the patch of dirt Sharur had vacated, Piluliumas said, “Zuabi, I will tell you a story. Hear me out before you speak. Think three times before you answer. Is it agreed?”
“Let it be as you say.” Sharur nodded to Piluliumas. “I listen.”
“Good,” the Alashkurri said. “Let us suppose that a man from the mountains came down to this hot, flat land to trade. Let us suppose that, in a town square, he met a man who said he was from Zuabu, but who might have been from a different city, a city whose name I shall not speak. Do you understand so far?”
“I will hear you out before I speak,” Sharur replied. “I will think three times before I answer.” Piluliumas knew him for what he was, or thought he did. Sharur had no intention of confirming his suspicions.
Piluliumas seemed unoffended. “Good,” he repeated. “Let us suppose that he had knowledge the man who said he was from Zuabu might find useful, but knowledge he could not pass to a man who was from a different city, a city whose name I shall not speak. He would ask no questions himself. He would seek to gain no knowledge himself. He would not make of himself a proved liar before the small gods of Alashkurru. He would not make of himself a proved liar before the great gods of Alashkurru. He would say, and say truthfully, ‘The man said he was from Zuabu. I knew no differently. In the names of the small gods I swear it. In the names of the great gods I swear it.’ Do you understand, man of Zuabu?”
“I think I do,” Sharur answered. He kicked at the dirt. A puff of dust flew up. “May I ask a question of my own?”
“You may ask,” Piluliumas said. “Because I am an ignorant man, I may not answer.”
“Here is my question,” Sharur said: “Why would a man from the mountains of Alashkurru care to help a man who said he was from Zuabu, but who might have come from a different city, a city whose name I shall not speak? There are some cities in the land between the rivers whose people the great gods of Alashkurru hate.”
“There are some cities in the land between the rivers whose people the great gods of Alashkurru hate, true,” Piluliumas agreed. “There is a city whose people they hate, at any rate. But the men of that city have traded in the mountains and valleys of Alashkurru for years. They have traded in the mountains and valleys of Alashkurru for generations. They have traded bronze, they have traded wine, and, sometimes not even knowing it, they have traded their words. Some of us have listened to those words and found them harder and sharper than bronze, sweeter and more splendid than wine. Do you understand, man of Zuabu?”
“Piluliumas, I understand,” Sharur answered. And understand he did. Huzziyas the wanax had wanted to escape the power of the great gods of Alashkurru, but had been unable. Because he was a wanax, they watched him closely, watched him and controlled him. Others, perhaps, they did not watch so closely. Piluliumas—and how many more like him?—had to some degree broken free of their gods, as the men of Gibil had done. Yes, the gods of Alashkurru had reason to fear the Giblut. They had, in fact, more reason to fear the Giblut than Sharur had imagined.
Piluliumas said, “I have told you a story, a story to make the time pass by. It could be nothing more. See what a lucky man you are, that no one has taken your trading space while you visited ours?”
“I am a lucky man, Piluliumas,” Sharur said. “I am a very lucky man.”
“We are lucky men, Sharur,” Ereshguna said. “We are very lucky men.”
“That we are,” Tupsharru agreed, beaming at his older brother. “Not only did you thrust your head into the lion’s mouth by going up to Imhursag, not only did you find out what Kimash the lugal and the rest of us in Gibil desperately needed to know, but you also came home with a profit.”
“If I can't make a profit trading against Imhursagut and foreigners, I am not a master merchant’s son,” Sharur said, and Ereshguna smiled at him. “The tale about being from Zuabu served me well. Zuabut are likely to have any sort of goods to trade, and no one asks many questions about how the goods came into their hands.”