Walking out of the temple, Sharur realized the gods of the Alashkurru Mountains had proved it, too. Had they been all-powerful, they would have recovered the cup in which they had hidden so much of their strength. Had they been all-knowing, they would have known some wanax or merchant might set the cup in a Gibli’s hands.
For that matter, when Enzuabu sent Habbazu to rob Engibil’s temple, the god of Zuabu had not known all he might have. He had not known the debt of gratitude his thief owed to a Gibli, or how that debt might affect Habbazu’s actions.
Sharur still did not know how that debt of gratitude might affect Habbazu’s actions, either. But Sharur did know he was not a god. Mere mortals were used to dealing with uncertainty.
When Sharur returned to the house of his family, he found Ereshguna and Tupsharru, Betsilim and Nanadirat all gathered downstairs, all of them looking as if they were about to begin the rituals for the dead. They all cried out together when he walked through the door. His mother and sister embraced him; his father and brother clasped his hand and clapped him on the back.
Habbazu was nowhere to be seen. “What became of the thief?” Sharur asked, when he was no longer kissing his parents and siblings.
“He saw you go out the door with the will of the god pressing hard upon you,” Ereshguna answered. “He walked with me for a few more moments, and then, without warning, he fled. He was around a corner before I had any hope of pursuing him.”
“Perhaps the power the god showed put him in fright,” Sharur said with a grimace. “He thought of Engibil as a drowsy god; he reckoned him a sleepy god. He discovered Engibil was not so drowsy, not so sleepy, as he thought.”
“It could be so,” Ereshguna said. “In truth, Engibil has shown himself to be more interested in the city, more interested in the world, than we might have wished him to be.”
“Engibil has shown himself to be more interested in this family than we might have wished him to be,” Betsilim exclaimed. “If not on account of this mysterious cup, why did the god summon you to his temple?”
“Why?” Sharur knew he still sounded bemused. He could not help it, for he still felt bemused. “The god summoned me to his temple because he is more interested in this family than we had thought him to be.”
“I am your mother. I gave you birth,” Betsilim said sharply. “Do not think to twist my words into jokes.”
“Mother, I was not trying to twist your words into jokes,” Sharur answered. “I told the truth. Engibil summoned me to his temple to give me leave to accept a loan from the house with which to pay bride-price for Ningal the daughter of Dimgalabzu.”
That startled his family into silence. He understood, being startled himself. Nanadirat broke the silence first, with a squeal of delight. She hugged Sharur again. Tupsharru spoke to the slaves: “Bring beer! No, bring wine! This news deserves better than our everyday drink.”
Ereshguna said, “This is splendid news indeed, news good beyond the wildest hopes I had when you left our home.” He frowned a little. “It is news so good, I wonder what caused the god to change his mind.”
“Father, I wondered the same thing,” Sharur said. “But, considering what I feared when Engibil summoned me before him—considering what we all feared when Engibil summoned me before him—I did not question him, nor did I question his judgment.”
The wine came then. The sweetness of fermented dates washed from Sharur’s mouth the taste of fright that still lingered there. He drank several cups. His head began to spin. His head had been spinning, one way and another, the whole day. He was still weak fromhis encounter with the fever demon. Meeting Habbazu the thief on the streets of Gibil had astonished him. When Engibil summoned him to the temple, he had thought he would visit his family again only as a ghost. When the god, instead of condemning him, granted him favor, he found himself amazed all over again.
Ereshguna kept frowning—not in anger, Sharur judged, but in continued perplexity. “Why did the god summon you?” he said again, dipping a chunk of barley bread in the honey pot. “Why?”
“Maybe Engibil decided he was wrong,” Nanadirat said. “Maybe the god decided he treated Sharur unjustly, and that he should make amends.”
Sharur laughed. He laughed and laughed. Some of it was the wine laughing through him. Some of it was relief laughing through him. And some of it was nothing but amusement. “My sister, justice for a god is what the god says it is: no more, no less,” he said. “Gods do as pleases them. They are gods. They can.”
Nanadirat pouted. Ereshguna said, “Sharur is right. Engibil will have had some other reason. He laid down a firm decree, and then he changed that firm decree. It is very strange.”
“But what reason could he have had?” Sharur asked. “You are right, Father. That he should change his decree is very strange. When I stood before him, I did not think on how strange it was.”
“You were thinking of what the god might do to you, not of what he might do for you,” Tupsharru said.
“So I was, my brother—so I was,” Sharur agreed. “Now that I am away from Engibil, though, I would try to understand why the god did as he did.”
“Why he did it does not matter,” Betsilim said. “Rejoice that he did it, as your family rejoices. Rejoice that he did it, as the family of Dimgalabzu the smith will rejoice when the news reaches them.” She looked sly. “Rejoice that he did it, as Ningal your intended will rejoice when the news reaches her.”
Thinking of Ningal rejoicing did make Sharur want to rejoice. Thinking of wedding Ningal made him want to forget everything else. Thinking of wedding Ningal made him want to forget Habbazu the thief; it made him want to forget the Alashkurri cup in the temple of Engibil.
“Who will take the news to Dimgalabzu and his family?” Nanadirat asked. “May we all go together? I want to see Ningal’s face when she hears.” .
“That is very forward of you, my daughter,” Betsilim said, sounding disapproving and indulgent at the same time.
Tupsharru leered. “Sharur wants to see Ningal’s face when she hears.”
The kitchen slave dared to speak: “It will be a happy time.” She would reckon it a happy time because, with Ningal come to the house, Sharur would not choose her to minister to his lusts even occasionally.
“Let’s go now,” Nanadirat said. “Bad news can wait. Good news should not.”
“Important news, good or bad, should never wait,” Ereshguna said.
At that, Sharur turned his head to look at his father. He found Ereshguna looking back at him. Both of them had intent, thoughtful expressions on their faces, very different from the joyful ones Betsilim, Nanadirat, Tupsharru, and the slaves were wearing (though the slaves joyful countenances might well have been masks to please their masters, at least in part).
“Could it be?” Sharur asked.
“Have you got any better notion?” his father returned. “Have you got any other notion at all?”
“What are the two of you talking about?” Nanadirat asked impatiently. “When are we going over to the house of Dimgalabzu the smith?”
“Later,” Sharur said, also impatiently. “Father and I need to talk about this.”
But Ereshguna held up a hand. “No. Let us go now. We can talk about this later. If we go now, if we speak with Dimgalabzu now, and if the god is watching and listening, he will see he has accomplished that which he wished to accomplish. Later will be time enough to discuss the other. We have had the notion. It shall not escape our minds.” Sharur inclined his head. “Father, you are wise. As you say, let us go now. As you say, later will be time enough to discuss the other. The notion shall not escape our minds.”