Kimash’s frown was nearly as formidable as Engibil’s. “There you make a claim not even the gods could make in truth. What man’s views do not spring from what he hopes and believes?”
“The views of a man who follows truth,” Sharur replied.
“Ah. Truth. But there is truth, and then there is truth. Remember the onion, son of Ereshguna.” Now the lugal, who had seen as much of human frailty and as much of human desire as any man ever bom, seemed almost amused. “From which layer of truth do your views spring? Is it not also truth that you wish to lie down in love with Ningal the daughter of Dimgalabzu the smith?”
“Yes, that is a truth.” Sharur admitted what he could hardly deny.
“Does not this truth color your view of other truths, as a man with an eye full of blood will see things red?” Kimash asked.
”It... may,” Sharur said reluctantly. He had always know the lugal was a formidable man, but never till now had all Kimash’s strength of purpose been aimed at him and him alone. He felt very alone indeed.
“Ah,” Kimash repeated. “It is good to hear you say so much. Many would be too blind to their own failings to reckon that they had any. Well, here is what I say to you in return, son of Ereshguna. I say, give over your talk of secret things. I say, give over your dream of magic-filled things. I say, accept the world as you find it is here. I will reward you for your sendee to the city. I will repay you for your braving the city of the Imhursagut. Engibil has shown you that you may not have for your wife the daughter of Dimgalabzu. Choose any other woman in Gibil, son of Ereshguna, even if it be one of my own daughters, and not only shall you wed her, but the bride-price for her shall come from the treasury of the lugal. I have spoken, and it shall be as I say.”
“Mighty lugal, you are kind,” Sharur said. “Mighty lugal, you are generous.”
“All these things are true,” Kimash said complacently. If the gods were not immune to flattery, how could a mere man escape its charms? The lugal went on, “Then you will obey me, and give over your foolish search for a thing that is not and cannot be.”
“Mighty lugal, I—” Sharur hesitated. Kimash. he realized, was also anything but immune to the problem of there being more than one possible layer to the truth. The lugal was astute enough to see that in others, but not in himself. One of his principal aims was to keep Engibil quiet and satisfied. Disagreeing with Engibil once the god had said he could sense no object into which the great gods of the Alashkurrut had poured their power would only stir him up and anger him. Therefore, Engibil had to be right and Sharur wrong. What Kimash wanted to be true influenced what Kimash believed to be true. But did it influence what was true?
“Then you will obey me,” the lugal repeated, his voice now going deep and harsh. His eyes glittered. He was not, and made it very plain he was not, a man whom Sharur would have been wise to challenge.
“Mighty lugal, I—” The words stuck in Sharur’s throat. Had he said them all, he would have put Ningal aside forever. He could not bear to do that. Instead of speaking, he bowed his head. Even if it was not, that looked like acquiescence. Did Kimash so choose, he could take it for acquiescence.
He did so choose. “Son of Ereshguna, it is good,” he said, contented once more now that he thought he was being obeyed—even as Engibil was contented when he thought he was being obeyed, regardless of where the truth really lay. Smiling, he went on, “Is it not so, after all, that in the dark one woman is the same as the next?”
Sharur did not answer. He thought back to the Imhursaggi slave woman with whom he had lain after coming back from the mountains of Alashkurru. She had not been the same from one round to the next: fire when she reckoned she was serving the gods, ice when ministering to Sharur’s lusts alone. That being so, how could Kimash presume to say another woman might—no, another woman would—satisfy Sharur as well as Ningal?
Kimash was the lugal. He could say what he pleased. Who in Gibil would presume to tell him he was wrong?
Again, he took Sharur’s silence for agreement. “I thank you for your labor on my behalf and on behalf of the city of Gibil, son of Ereshguna. As I said, I shall reward you. You have but to choose, and the woman you desire shall be yours, even unto one of my own daughters. Go now, and speak to me again when you have made your choice. I await your return.”
“The mighty lugal is generous. The mighty lugal is kind.” Sharur bowed once more. Generous indeed, to give me anything except what I truly want.
“The house of Ereshguna is mighty in my aid,” Kimash said—generously. He clapped his hands. “Inadapa!” The steward, who had gone, reappeared as if by magic. “Inadapa, conduct the son of Ereshguna to his home once more.”
“Mighty lugal, I obey,” Inadapa said. Of course Inadapa obeys, Sharur thought. What else is he good for? The steward turned to him. “Son of Ereshguna, I will conduct you to your home once more.”
Sharur’s eyes filled with sudden tears when he stepped from the gloom of the palace out into bright sunshine once more. He said, “You need not come home with me, steward to the lugal. Believe me, I know the way.”
“Very well,” Inadapa said, rather to Sharur’s surprise: he had thought the steward would obey Kimash’s instructions in all particulars, simply because it was the lugal who had given them. Seeing Sharur startled, Inadapa explained, “The mighty lugal gives his servitors many duties. The gods, however, give them only so much time in which to do those duties.”
“Ah,” Sharur said; that did indeed make sense. “Go back to your duties, then, Inadapa.” But the steward had already gone.
Up the Street of Smiths Sharur trudged. Every step seemed harder than the one before, as if he were walking uphill, though the Street of Smiths lay on ground as level as any in Gibil. His father had told him to accept the word of the god. Kimash the lugal not only had told him to accept the word of the god but had sought to sweeten that with the promise of whatever woman in Gibil he wanted (save one woman only) and her bride-price as well.
Believe the god. Listen to the god! Sharur kicked at the dirt as he walked along. Gods could err just as men could. Enimhursag had slain a Zuabi—the wrong Zuabi—at the inn where Sharur stayed, thinking he was slaying a spy. Engibil could miss magic that was meant to the missed.
Or Engibil might simply lie, although Sharur could see no reason why he would.
But Sharur seemed to be the only one who considered those possibilities. He thought he understood Kimash’s reasons for neglecting them, just as Kimash thought he understood Sharur’s reasons for believing them. Ereshguna? Well, Sharur’s father had heard Engibil; he had not heard Mitas and Kessis. Sharur was the only one who had heard them, and what was his own word worth, against that of Engibil?
“No one believes me,” he muttered, and scuffed along with his head down.
He did not see the fever demon perched on a wall, not till too late. Batwings flapping furiously, the demon flew into his face. Its foul breath filled his mouth. He staggered back in horror and dismay. Only too late did he reach for the amulet with Engibil’s eyes he wore on his belt. Only too late did he drive the demon from him with the amulet. The demon fled, screeching, but triumphant laughter filled the screeches. The demon knew it had sickened him.