“This is so,” Habbazu said frankly. His eyes flicked from Sharur to Ereshguna and back again, as they had flicked from donkey train to smithy as he walked along the Street of Smiths. In easy, relaxed tones, he went on, “If, though, you hated me as you might hate me, you would bind my hands and feet and deliver me to the temple of Engibil trussed like a hog for the slaughter, that the god of this city might punish me for my crime.”
“Nothing prevents our doing that now,” Ereshguna said.
“That is so, my master,” Habbazu said with a polite bow. “But it is not the first thought in your minds, as it would be had I fallen into the hands of, say, the Aggasherut. They would have given me over to Eniaggasher at once, to let the goddess do her worst to me.”
“We are not Aggasherut, for which I am glad,” Sharur replied. He scratched his cheek, at the line where his beard stopped. “Shall we bargain, thief from Zuabu?”
Habbazu smiled at him. “What else have we been doing?”
Sharur inclined his head. “You speak the truth; there can be no doubt of it. The question is, how much loyalty do you owe to a god who has twice sent you to steal from Giblut and twice left you at the mercy of Giblut?”
“That is half the question,” Habbazu said. “The other half is, how much loyalty do I owe to the Giblut who twice showed me mercy?”
“Even so,” Ereshguna agreed. “Also to be remembered is the question of how much mercy the said Giblut will continue to show you.”
“Believe me, my master, this question is never far from my mind,” the thief said. “You still have not said what you would have me do. Until I learn this, how can I judge whether I am more loyal to Enzuabu or more grateful to you for your mercy?”
“That is a fair question,” Ereshguna said slowly. Sharur nodded. It was, in fact, the question of the moment. Sharur felt fairly certain that he wanted Habbazu to steal the Alash- kurri cup from Engibil’s temple if he could. Of what should happen after that, of what would happen after that, he was less sure.
He did not want Habbazu to take the cup back to Enzuabu. The god of Zuabu might keep it for himself or might return it to the great gods of the Alashkurrut. In neither case would Gibil or the Giblut gain any credit with those great gods.
If Habbazu stole the cup and promised to deliver it into the hands of Sharur and Ereshguna, could he be trusted? Or would he say he would help the Giblut who had been merciful to him and then try to escape from Gibil with the cup and take it to the god who had ordered him to steal it?
If he did deliver it into the hands of Sharur and Ereshguna, what should they do with it? Sharur knew returning it to the great gods of the Alashkurrut would be the sure course, the safe course. He did not know whether he cared about the sure course, the safe course. The notion of smashing the cup, letting the power of the gods spill out of it, held an appalling sweetness. Sharur had suffered. Why should not the gods of the Alashkurrut suffer in turn?
He glanced over to his father and saw the same questions in Ereshguna’s eyes. Habbazu saw the intently thoughtful expressions on both their faces, too. “Perhaps, my masters,” he said with surprising delicacy, “this is a matter you wish to discuss further between yourselves before telling me what you decide.”
“Perhaps,” Sharur said. “But perhaps, while we discuss this matter between ourselves, you will slide out the door and never again be seen by a Gibli who knows you for what you are.”
Habbazu bowed. “Perhaps,” he said with a broad smile.
Sharur’s grandfather’s ghost broke into the conversation: “Best thing you can do is knock the cursed Zuabi thief over the head and fling his body into a canal. No one will miss him, not in the least.”
“No, ghost of my grandfather. It would not do,” Sharur said. He said no more than that, not with Habbazu in earshot. But not only did the thief, know too much, Enzuabu also knew too much. If Habbazu vanished, the god of Zuabu was only too likely to send forth another thief, one Sharur would not be able to recognize.
“My son is right, ghost of my father,” Ereshguna said. His thoughts and Sharur’s might have been twin streams of molten bronze poured into the same mold. After a moment, he spoke directly to Sharur in a low voice: “I think we have no choice but to let the thief pay a call on the temple. He and only he knows which cup among the many in Engibil’s treasure contains the power of the Alashkurri gods. Once he has it, once we learn which it is, we go on from there.”
“Father, I think you are wise. I too think we have no other choice,” Sharur said, nodding. He turned to Habbazu. “You will pay a call on the temple. You will bring forth this Alashkurri cup. If we aid you, will you deliver it into our hands, not into the hands of Enzuabu?”
Habbazu hesitated. Had he agreed at once, with fulsome promises, Sharur would have been sure he was lying. As things were, he could not say with certainty whether the thief lied or told the truth—which, no doubt, was exactly what Habbazu wanted. He scowled, angry at himself and Habbazu both.
At last, the thief said, “I will deliver the cup into your hands, not into the hands of Enzuabu. Were it not for your forbearance, Enzuabu could not have sent me here. Were it not for your mercy, Enzuabu could not have ordered me to Gibil. I remember my debts. I repay them.”
“It is good,” Sharur said, hoping the thief remembered debts to men more than whatever he owed to the god of his city.
“Speak to me of the priests of Engibil,” Habbazu said. “Speak to me of their comings and goings. Speak to me of their prayers and offerings. Speak to me of their duties and rituals, that I may avoid them while they perform those duties and rituals.”
Now Sharur and Ereshguna hesitated in turn. In revealing, would they also be betraying? And then, before either of them could reply, Engibil spoke, his voice resounding inside Sharur’s mind as he said, You shall come at once to my temple. You shall come alone to my temple. You shall obey me.
7
“I will come at once to your temple. I will come alone to your temple. I will obey you,” Sharur said, and he left his father’s house, the house in which he had dwelt all his days, and he walked up the Street of Smiths toward Engibil’s temple. When the god spoke in that way, a man could not disobey.
Engibil must have spoken to Ereshguna at the same time as he ordered Sharur to come before him, for Ereshguna neither exclaimed in alarm nor shouted out questions. Habbazu did both, but Sharur took no notice of Habbazu, not then. All he noticed was the god’s resistless command.
As he walked up the Street of Smiths, his own thoughts slowly began to return. His will, however, remained enslaved to the god’s greater, stronger will. He could not stop his feet from moving closer to the temple, one step after another. But he could be bitterly amused at his folly—and also at Habbazu’s. So the thief had believed, as Sharur had believed, Engibil to be a drowsy god, a sleepy god? Would they had been right! Now Engibil, not so drowsy, not so sleepy, had caught them plotting against him. What would he do? Whatever he wants, Sharur thought. Fear made him tremble—all but his legs, which kept walking, walking, walking.
The temple loomed before him. The priest Burshagga stood waiting in front of the entrance as he approached. Sharur’s mouth shaped words: “I am come at the command of the great god. I am come at the order of the mighty god.”
“This I know,” Burshagga answered. “I was commanded to wait here. I was ordered to bring you before the god the moment you arrived.” His voice was steady, but fear had a home in his eyes. He was used to obeying the orders of Kimash the lugal, not those of Engibil.