“Of course you know little of that—you are a Gibli.” Habbazu raised a bushy eyebrow. “The god of Gibil drowses. The god of Gibil sleeps.” Sharur wished Engibil had been drowsier; he wished the god had been sleepier. The thief continued, “If the god of Gibil were not a drowsy god, if he were not a sleepy god, I would not have come to—” He broke off.
“—To steal something that belongs to the god?” Sharur finished for him.
Habbazu walked rapidly along the narrow, twisting street. Sharur had to push himself to keep up with the thief, though he was larger and his legs longer. He got the feeling Habbazu could easily have escaped him, had he so chosen. Sweat rolled down his back. He got the feeling a playful three-year-old could easily have escaped him, had he so chosen.
Slowly, reluctantly, Habbazu said, “Yes, I am charged to steal something that belongs to the god of Gibil.” He held up a hand to keep Sharur from speaking. “By Enzuabu I swear, master merchant’s son, I have not come to Gibil to take anything of great value from the temple of Engibil. I have not come to Gibil to impoverish the god of the city.”
“Then why have you come?” Sharur burst out; “Has Enzuabu ordered you to steal something that has no value?”
Before, Habbazu had looked uncertain about how much he should say. Now he looked uncertain in a different way. “It may be so,” he answered. “For all I know, Enzuabu aims to embarrass Engibil before the other gods, to show that something once in the house of the god of Gibil is now in the house of the god of Zuabu. The gods score points off their neighbors no less than men.”
“What you say is true,” Sharur admitted. “If someone besides me had caught you, though, thief and son of a thief, what would your fate have been? Did your god care what your fate would have been? Or did Enzuabu think, He is only a man. What does it matter if the Giblut torture him to death?”
“I am Enzuabu’s servant,” Habbazu said with dignity.
“Are you Enzuabu’s slave? Are you Enzuabu’s dog? Are you an Imhursaggi, with the god looking out from behind your eyes more often than you do yourself?” Sharur asked. “Is your ensi no more a shield from Enzuabu than that?”
“I am not a slave. I am not a dog. Enzuabu be praised, I am not an Imhursaggi,” the thief replied. “Even Engibil, I have heard, can give orders from time to time. When Engibil tells a Gibli he shall do this or he shall not do that, is the god obeyed, or is he ignored and forgotten?”
“He is obeyed.” Sharur spoke in grudging tones made no less grudging because, had he dared ignore Engibil’s command to him, he could have given Dimgalabzu the bride-price for Ningal.
“Then why complain when a man of another city also obeys his god?” Habbazu said. “How is he different from you?”
“He is different in that he might harm my god. He is different in that he might harm my city.”
"Sharur moved slowly into the shade of a wall. “Shall we sit? I am recovering from the foul breath of a fever demon, and have not yet regained all my strength.”
Habbazu sank down beside him. “It shall be as you say. I am obliged to you. I do not see, though, how I might harm your city. I do not see how I might harm your god, except perhaps, as I say, to make him a laughingstock before the other gods. No god dies of laughter aimed at him over a small thing. No man dies of laughter aimed at him over a small thing, either, though some men wish they could.”
“What is this small thing you would steal?” Sharur asked. “What is this small thing Enzuabu would have you steal? You still have not told me what it might be.” As a merchant will, he put other words behind the words he spoke, using his voice to suggest to Habbazu that, if the thing was small enough, he might stand aside while the thief stole it. He had no such intention, but had no qualms about creating the impression that he did, either.
And create that impression he did. Habbazu waggled his fingers in a gesture of appreciation. “It is the smallest of things, master merchant’s son. It is the least of things, merchant of Gibil. Engibil would not miss it, were it to vanish from his temple. Your god would not note its passing, were it to disappear from his shrine. It is, after all, only a cup.”
“Mighty Engibil has among his treasures many cups he would miss greatly,” Sharur said. “He has cups of gold and cups of silver, cups for drinking beer and cups for drinking date wine.”
“This is no cup of gold. This is no cup of silver,” the thief from Zuabu assured him. “This is only a cup of clay, such as a tavern might employ. If it falls to the ground, it will shatter. Sharur, I speak nothing but the truth when I say that the god’s treasury would be better off without such a worthless, ugly piece.”
“If it be worthless, why does Enzuabu want it?” Sharur said, as he had before.
Habbazu shrugged. “I am not one to know the mind of the gods. I have given you my best guess: that the god of my city wants nothing more than to embarrass the god of yours before their fellows.”
It was, in fact, far from a bad guess, and better than any Sharur had come up with for himself—until this moment.
Keeping his tone light and casual, he asked, “Is it by any chance an Alashkurri cup?”
“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, it is.” The thief gave Sharur a look both puzzled and respectful. “How could you know that?”
“I know all manner of strange things.” Sharur got to his feet. It was a struggle, and he was panting by the time he made it; his body still craved rest. When Habbazu stayed on his haunches, enjoying the coolness of the shadowed dirt on which he sat, Sharur said, “Rise. Come with me. I think my father should hear the tale you tell. I think Kimash the lugal should perhaps hear the tale you tell.”
“Kimash the lugal?” Habbazu spoke in some alarm. “What will he do to me?” Without waiting for Sharur’s reply, he answered his own question: “He is a man claiming the power of a god. He will do whatever he likes to me. I am a thief, come to steal from his city. He will not welcome me with beer and barley porridge and salt fish and onions.”
“Do you think not?” Sharur raised an eyebrow. “You may be surprised.”
“I am surprised whenever I deal with Giblut,” Habbazu answered. “Sometimes the surprises are for the good. Sometimes—more often—they run in the opposite direction.”
“True, Kimash the lugal may not welcome you with beer and onions,” Sharur said. “Instead, he may welcome you with gold and silver.”
“You are pleased to joke with me, knowing you could have me slaughtered like a lamb because this is your city.” Habbazu paused and studied Sharur’s face. “No. You are not joking. You mean what you say. Why do you mean what you say?” His own face, sly and thin, radiated suspicion. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Sharur recognized those signs, having seen them many times before in dickers. Habbazu had drawn his own conclusion about why the lugal might welcome him with gold and silver. Whatever that conclusion was, he did not intend to share it with Sharur. No matter what else the thief was, he was no fool. His conclusion was likely to lie somewhere on the right road—that the cup was something which would work to Kimash’s advantage and to Engibil’s disadvantage. Sharur realized he had told Habbazu too much, but no man, nor even a god, could recall words once spoken.
He wondered if he should raise the alarm and have Habbazu hunted through the streets of Gibil. That would take no more than a shout. But Engibil had in his temple several Alashkurri cups. Which was the one into which the gods of the mountains had poured their power? Sharur did not know, and did not know how to learn... unless Habbazu could tell him.
“Come with me to the house of my father,” he told the thief.
“I will come with you to the house of your father.” Habbazu did rise then, and bowed to Sharur. “Perhaps what you desire and what Enzuabu desires may both be accomplished.”