Between the Rivers

11

Sharur’s dreams were strange. He realized that he had not known anything nearly so peculiar since the delirium through which he had drifted after the fever demon breathed its foul breath into his mouth. He wondered if he was delirious again. He did not think so, nor had he been so very drunk when he went up to the roof and lay down on his sleeping mat.

Voices called to him from a vast distance, their words echoing and indistinct. Some were male, some female; some might have been either, or both at once ... or neither. He did not think they were speaking the language of Kudurru, but it was a language he understood, or should have understood. Maybe that was because he dreamt. Maybe ...

He needed a while, but finally recognized the tongue that dinned inside his head: it was the speech of the Alashkurru Mountains. With that recognition, he heard the voices more distinctly, as if the men and women using that speech had suddenly come closer.

Men and women? Not all the voices had fit into either category. Up until he realized what language they were speaking, Sharur had seen only blurry flashes of light and color, like a distant landscape fitfully illuminated with lightning bolts.

Now those flashes and colors came closer and closer, too. They and the voices surrounded Sharur, who seemed to be looking up from the bottom of a great bowl at shapes that slowly congealed into faces and bodies. The faces peered down at him as he peered up at them.

“He knows us,” one of them said: a woman—no, a goddess. As she spoke, her entire form became more plain to Sharur. She was nude, with enormously bulging breasts and, below them, an even more enormously bulging belly. Sharur did indeed know Fasillar; he had had dealings with the Alashkurri goddess of birth in the town of Zalpuwas. Now she went on, “He knows who we are.”

“You are the gods and goddesses of the Alashkurrut,” Sharur said, or thought he said—in a dream, how could he be sure?

“We are the gods and goddesses of the Alashkurrut.” The speaker this time had a man’s voice, a deep man’s voice. He wore copper armor and carried a bronze sword. Tarsiyas, the war god with whom Sharur had had dealings in the town of Tuwanas, spoke with touchy pride: “We are the great gods and goddesses of the Alashkurrut.”

Sharur bowed low to him and to Fasillar and to the other deities, whom he still perceived less clearly. “I greet you, great gods and goddesses of the Alashkurrut,” he said; even in a dream, politeness to gods was a good idea. “What do you want with me?” Being in a dream, he could at least feign ignorance.

“You have something of ours,” Fasillar said.

“You have something of ours,” Tarsiyas agreed. “The thing of ours that you have, you have secreted away in a dreadful place.”

“In a dreadful place you have secreted away the thing of ours that you have,” Fasillar echoed. “We tried to send a dream your way before. We could not send a dream your way before. We had not the power to send a dream your way before, not from out of that dreadful place. You were too far from us. Even now, when you are so close, we can barely send a dream your way.”

Tarsiyas nodded his fierce head. “You have met us face to face. Only because you have met us face to face can we send a dream your way at all. We have cried out to Engibihl, but Engibil hears us not. He is a god. He sleeps not. He has no dreams in which to hear us.”

“He has not met us face to face, as you have,” Fasillar said. “He is deaf to us. He hears us not.”

Hiding the Alashkurri cup in the house of Dimgalabzu had truly proved a good idea. The power of the gods was at a low ebb along the Street of Smiths, and lowest in the smithies. Though he knew he was but dreaming, Sharur did not smile. Instead, he asked his own question once more: “What do you want with me, great gods and goddesses of the Alashkurrut?”

“Give back the thing of ours that you have.” Fasillar and Tarsiyas spoke together, echoed by the rest of the great gods and goddesses of the Alashkurrut.

“Give back the thing of ours that you have, and we shall reward you,” Fasillar said.

“Fail to give back the thing of ours that you have, and we shall punish you,” Tarsiyas added, his grim features growing grimmer.

“What will you do to reward me?” Sharur asked. “What can you do to punish me? I am in Gibil. You are in the Alashkurru Mountains.”

“One day, you shall come again to the Alashkurru Mountains,” Fasillar answered. “Would you sooner be rewarded or punished when you do?”

“I would sooner be rewarded, great goddess,” Sharur answered. “I would sooner not be punished, mighty goddess.”

“There, you see?” Tarsiyas rumbled. “I knew this was a wise mortal. I knew this mortal would be able to tell where he would have bread and meat to eat, where he would have had only crumbs and bones.”

When last Sharur had seen and spoken with Tarsiyas, the Alashkurri war god had not praised him. Tarsiyas had reviled him for seeking to seduce Huzziyas the wanax away from the path of obedience to the gods. Belligerence had fit Tarsiyas’s nature. Conciliation did not. A conciliatory Tarsiyas put Sharur in mind of a lion sitting down to a meal of bread and lettuce and dates.

Sharur realized he was thinking more clearly than he was used to doing in dreams. In his ordinary dreams, though, he did not talk with the great gods of the Alashkurrut. “Give back the thing of ours that you have,” Fasillar repeated. “Give it back, and all the women you bed shall bear you many sons and shall come through the pangs of childbirth safe and unharmed.”

“Give back the thing of ours that you have,” the rest of the Alashkurri gods said in blurry chorus. “Give it back, and all...” The chorus broke down, presumably because each god or goddess was making a different promise, one set in a domain over which that deity held power.

“What are your promises worth to me?” Sharur asked. “You are great gods. You are mighty gods. But you are the gods of the Alashkurrut. You are the gods of the Alashkurru Mountains. You are not the gods of the men who live between the rivers. You are not the gods of Kudurru. Your power rests in the mountains. You have no power here between the rivers.”

Tarsiyas glared at him. Now the Alashkurri war god looked and sounded fierce once more. “You are a mortal. You are only a mortal. Soon you will be a whining, carping ghost. Soon you will be gone, gone from this world, gone from memory in this world. Speak no words of who has power and who has not.”

“What you say is true, great god,” Sharur answered politely. “What you say is the way of the world, mighty god.” He had to keep on being polite. Any man who openly opposed a god was liable to come to grief. That, too, was the way of the world. But, though Sharur was only a mortal, where power lay here was not so obvious. He had the thing the great gods of the Alashkurrut wanted, and they were not the gods of this land. They would have to satisfy him before he even thought of satisfying them.

Fasillar must have recognized that, for she said, “What other boons might we grant you, man of Kudurru? What other favors might we give you, man of Gibil?”

Had Sharur chosen to ask the Alashkurri gods to lift their ban against his city’s merchants, he was sure they would have promised to do it. He wondered, though, whether he might not have at his disposal another way to lift the ban. All he said was, “I do not know”—a merchant’s canny answer.

“Send the thing of ours that you have back to the Alashkurru Mountains, and we shall grant you all the good fortune lying in our power,” Fasillar promised. “You shall be rich, you shall be beloved, you shall be healthy, your days in this world shall be long.”

“Keep the thing of ours that you have, send it not back to the Alashkurru Mountains, and we shall inflict on you all the ill fortune in our power,” Tarsiyas vowed. “You shall be poor, you shall be despised, you shall be sickly and puling, your days in this world shall be short and filled with torment.”

Had Tarsiyas not threatened him, Sharur’s dream self would have held its peace. As things were, though, he grew angry, as he would have grown angry while awake. He said, “Suppose, great gods of the Alashkurrut, that I do not send the thing of yours that I have back to the Alashkurru Mountains. Suppose, mighty gods of the Alashkurrut, that I do not keep the thing of yours that I have. Suppose, great gods, mighty gods, that I break the thing of yours that I have. What then?”

Tarsiyas gasped. Fasillar gasped. In the background, all the great gods of the Alashkurrut gasped. All the mighty gods of the Alashkurrut gasped.

Sharur gasped—and found himself awake on the roof of the house of Ereshguna, staring up at the stars. Unlike his fever dreams, this dream he would not forget, not to his dying day.

When morning came, Sharur intended to go straight to the house of Dimgalabzu to recover the cup he had left with Ningal. Before he finished his breakfast porridge of barley and salt fish, though, and before he finished the cup of beer he was drinking with it, Inadapa the steward of Kimash the lugal strode into the house of Ereshguna.

“I greet you, steward to the mighty Kimash,” Sharur said, rising from his stool to bow to Inadapa. “Will you eat porridge of barley and salt fish with me? Will you drink a cup of beer with me? While you eat, while you drink, will you tell me what brings you to the house of Ereshguna so early in the day?”

“I greet you, Sharur son of Ereshguna,” Inadapa said. “I have eaten, thank you. I breakfasted at first light of dawn, the better to serve the mighty Kimash through the whole of the day. But I will gladly drink a cup of beer with you, and I will tell you what brings me to the house of Ereshguna so early in the day, for it concerns you.”

Sharur dipped up a cup of beer with his own hands and gave it to Inadapa. “I listen,” he said, and spooned up more porridge.

Inadapa drank and nodded approval. “The house of Ereshguna brews good beer, as I have known for long and long. Kimash the mighty lugal has ordered me to bring you before him as soon as may be.”

“I obey the lugal. I obey the lugal’s steward.” Sharur ate one more mouthful of porridge, then rose from his stool again. “Let us go.”

“Kimash the mighty lugal will be glad for your obedience.” Inadapa hastily finished the beer Sharur had dipped up for him, smacked his lips, and echoed the younger merchant: “Aye, let us go.”

When they got to the lugal’s palace, it was as it had been on some of Sharur’s earlier visits: workmen swarmed everywhere, some with bricks, some with mortar, some building scaffolding of reeds to support brickwork already made or to support artisans running up new brickwork.

“Kimash the mighty lugal no longer stints himself, I see,” Sharur remarked. “It is good.” He meant what he said; the time when Kimash had gone easy because Engibil was reasserting himself had been difficult and alarming for all those in Gibil who favored the new and flourished because of it.

“Truly it is good.” Inadapa’s nod was emphatic. “The mighty lugal rejoices in his munificence and in his strength.” What that meant was that Kimash rejoiced in Engibil’s weakness and preoccupation, but his steward was far too canny to let himself say—probably far too canny even to let himself think—any such thing.

“For what purpose has the mighty lugal summoned me to his palace?” Sharur asked, as Inadapa led him through the maze of passages within the palace.

“Whatever the purpose may be, the mighty lugal did not see fit to enlighten his lowly servant as to its nature,” Inadapa answered. “Soon you shall come before him. Soon he shall tell you his purpose. Soon you shall hear it from his very lips.”

“Soon I shall hear it from his very lips,” Sharur agreed. Perhaps Inadapa was merely doing as he usually did when bringing men before the lugal. Perhaps Kimash did not want Sharur to know ahead of time why he had been summoned, in the hope that he would not be able to prepare plausible answers for the questions the lugal intended to put to him.

In the throne room, Kimash sat on the raised seat covered in gold leaf. Sharur went down on his face in the dust before him. “I am here at the mighty lugal’s command,” he said, not raising his head. “I have come at the mighty lugal’s order.”

“Rise,” Kimash said. “You are as obedient as you should be. You are as obedient as every Gibli should be.”

“I am pleased to obey the commands of the mighty lugal,” Sharur said as he got to his feet, better to obey your commands than those of the god, he thought He would not let himself say that, but it was there, and Kimash no doubt knew it was there.

Kimash clapped his hands. Inadapa hurried back into the throne room. “Fetch us beer and roasted grasshoppers,” the lugal said. Inadapa bowed and hurried away, returning shortly with the food and drink. After crunching his way through a skewer of locusts, Kimash asked, “Have you seen either Habbazu the Zuabi thief or Burrapi the Zuabi mercenary since your return to Gibil?”

“Mighty lugal, I have not,” Sharur answered truthfully. A thoughtful look on his face, the lugal started on a second skewer. Presently, he said, “You convinced Engibil that you know nothing of the theft from his temple.”

“He asked me questions,” Sharur said. “Because of his power, I had to answer them with the truth.”

“There is truth, and then again there is truth,” Kimash replied, sounding very much like Sharur’s father. “And, gods being as they are, Engibil no doubt relied too much on his power and too little on the common sense that men, having no such power, must develop and cultivate. The ‘truth’ a god will accept does not always stand up under a man’s inspection.”

“Here, though, all is well so long as the god accepts it,” Sharur said.

“Perhaps, and then again perhaps not.” The lugal chose to use his previous phrasing once more. “Engibil is satisfied, aye, but I still wonder whether you and the other men of the house of Ereshguna and the two Zuabut, the thief and the mercenary, obeyed me as completely as I have the right to expect.” He stared down at Sharur from his high seat.

Sharur felt like a mouse on whom a hawk’s gaze falls from the sky. But he bore up under the lugal’s inspection. Kimash was but a man. Enimhursag had searched for Sharur from on high. After that, facing Kimash’s doubts, if not easy, was by no means impossible.

“From what I have seen, thieves, generally speaking, obey only themselves,” Sharur said. “And if Engibil is busy looking for a thief along the western border of Gibil’s lands, he will not be busy within the city of Gibil. He will not be busy trying to take the rule in Gibil out of the hands of the mighty lugal and into his own hands once more.”

“This is so,” Kimash said. “Aye, this is so.” Sharur pulled a locust off a skewer and popped it into his mouth. While he was eating, his expression could not give him away. He could not deceive Kimash by feeding him truths that were useless or misleading, as he had done with Engibil. But he could distract the lugal and get him to think of other things than those perhaps dangerous to the house of Ereshguna.

After eating another grasshopper and sipping at his beer, Sharur said, “The mighty lugal’s refreshments are of the finest.”

“For those whom it pleases me to honor, nothing is too fine, no reward too great,” Kimash said. “This brings me to another matter: indeed, to the other matter on account of which I had you summoned here. You will recall that, in exchange for your not pursuing the presence of the Alashkurri cup in the temple of Engibil, I promised you a marriage tie to any woman in the city of Gibil, this to include even my own daughters.”

“Yes, mighty lugal, I do recall that,” Sharur said with a sinking feeling.

“I am glad you recall it,” Kimash said. “The cup has stirred its own uproar, thanks to the Zuabi thief, but I do not think it is an uproar to threaten my position on the throne. And so, I am pleased to tell you that the promise of a marriage to any woman in the city of Gibil, this to include even my own daughters, still holds.”

“Ah,” Sharur said, and then “Ah” again. He wondered how, or if, he was to get out of this one without offering the lugal deadly insult. After some thought, he decided the truth offered his best hope. “You will recall, mighty lugal, that my oath to Engibil prevented me from making final marriage arrangements for Ningal the daughter of Dimgalabzu the smith.”

“Yes, of course,” Kimash said. “That is, why, out of the kindness and generosity of my heart, I offered you a marriage tie to any other woman in the city of Gibil, this to include even my own daughters.” He bore down heavily on the last phrase; he plainly sought an alliance between his own house and the house of Ereshguna.

“The mighty lugal is kind.” Sharur bowed, “The mighty lugal is generous.” He bowed once more. Mighty lugal is conveniently forgetful, he thought. Part of the reason for Kimash’s offer, as the lugal had himself admitted, was to bribe Sharur out of pursuing his own course of action and into pursuing that which Kimash desired.

“Take advantage of my kindness, then,” the lugal urged. “Take advantage of my generosity.”

Sharur sighed. He could not deflect the moment any longer. With yet another bow, he said, “Mighty lugal, were matters otherwise, otherwise even in the slightest degree, nothing would delight my heart more than doing exactly as you say. But with—”

“Wait.” On the instant, Kimash went from affable to thunderous. “Do you mean you refuse my offer? Do you mean you spurn my offer?”

“Mighty lugal, I mean nothing of the sort,” Sharur replied, though that was indeed what he meant. “As I told you before, the god prevented me from making final marriage arrangements for Ningal the daughter of Dimgalabzu the smith.”

“Even so,” Kimash said. “Those arrangements being prevented, what could possibly keep you from accepting the offer I made to you?”

“Were those arrangements still prevented, nothing could keep me from accepting the offer you made to me,” Sharur replied, feeling sweat break out on his forehead. “But mighty Engibil, in his own generosity, returned to me from his hands and from his heart the oath I had made in his name, and will suffer me to pay bride-price for Ningal to Dimgalabzu from the store of wealth of the house of Ereshguna, not from the profit I unfortunately failed to make on my last trading journey to the Alashkurru Mountains.”

Kimash’s eyes went wide and round and staring. “The god ... returned to you from his hands and from his heart the oath you had made in his name?” He sounded astonished, as Enimhursag had before him on hearing the same news. “I can hardly believe it.”

“Believe or do not believe as best suits you, mighty lugal,” Sharur said. “But, whether you believe or do not believe, I speak the truth. Because I speak the truth, I cannot take advantage of your kindness. I cannot take advantage of your generosity.”

“Engibil returned your oath.” Kimash shook his head. He had the aspect of a man who had just come through an earthquake: shaken but doing his best to preserve his equilibrium, no matter what might happen next. “You realize I can enquire of the god whether you lie.”

“Of course, mighty lugal,” Sharur said. “Enquire all you like. Engibil will tell you I speak the truth.”

“Engibil returned your oath from his hands?” Kimash still did not sound as if he believed it. Perhaps he thought that repeating it over and over would help persuade him it was true. “Engibil returned your oath from his heart? Engibil keeps oaths. He holds oaths. He returns them not.”

“This time, mighty lugal, he did return my oath.” Sharur knew why the god had returned his oath, too, or thought he did. Just as Kimash had done, so Engibil had sought to distract him from pursuing the matter of the Alashkurri cup in his temple storeroom. As far as he was concerned, Ningal made for a far more attractive distraction than any Kimash had set before him. In terms carefully oblique, he said as much: “As I have long desired to wed Ningal the daughter of Dimgalabzu, I shall do so now that the great god, the mighty god, has in his generosity given me leave to pay her the bride-price as circumstances have compelled me to pay it.”

“A match with the house of Dimgalabzu will surely prove advantageous to the house of Ereghguna,” the lugal said. “But will it prove as advantageous as a match with the house of Kimash?”

A match with the lugal’s daughter would swiftly raise the house of Ereshguna high among the nobles of Gibil. But Sharur was sure it would not put the treasures of Gibil into his hands or those of his father. And what rose swiftly could fall swiftly, too. Sharur knew that only too well.

Bowing to Kimash, he once more picked his words with great care: “Mighty lugal, having long desired this match, as I said before, and having obtained for it the blessings of my father, of the father of my intended, and of Engibil himself, I very much hope to go forward with it.”

Kimash sighed. “You are a stubborn man. You are hard to turn aside. If you prove as stubborn in matters of the heart, if you prove as hard to turn aside in matters of your affections, the woman you wed will have little to complain of you. Before you settle once and for all time who that woman shall be, though, would it not please you to make the acquaintance of the daughters of the house of Kimash?”

Sharur bowed again, very low this time. Kimash was offering him an extraordinary concession, and he knew how extraordinary it was. “You are kind beyond my deserts, mighty lugal,” he murmured. “But I must tell you that, since Dimgalabzu and my father, since Gulal and my mother, have completed all arrangements for the wedding save only the nuptial feast, I do not see what point there might be to my meeting your no doubt lovely daughters. I think the meeting would be likelier to cause distress on all sides than to cause joy.”

“It could be so, son of Ereshguna; it could be so,” Kimash said with another sigh. “If that is the way you look on it, likely it will be so. Forcing a man to do what he truly does not wish to do is the surest way I know to make him into an enemy. Do as you wish, then, and may it be well for you, and for me, and for Gibil.”

“I thank the mighty lugal for his forbearance,” Sharur said. Only after the words had left his mouth did he realize that Kimash worried about making him an enemy. That the lugal should worry about him in any way was one more amazement out of many.

Instead of directly answering him, the lugal clapped his hands together. Inadapa appeared in the throne room in a way Habbazu might have envied: one moment he was not there, the next he was, or so it appeared to Sharur. Kimash said, “The two of us have finished our discussion. Escort Sharur back to the house of Ereshguna.”

Inadapa bowed. “Mighty lugal, as you say, so shall it be.” He turned to Sharur. “Come. I shall escort you back to the house of Ereshguna.”

“I thank you, steward to the mighty lugal.” Sharur bowed to Inadapa, and then again to Kimash. “And, once more, I thank the mighty lugal.”

Inadapa led him out through the corridors of the palace and out past the guards at the entranceway, who respectfully dipped their heads to the steward and to Sharur. Just outside the palace, Sharur and Inadapa had to wait while another gang of laborers and artisans went past. Only when the two men were walking up the Street of Smiths toward the house of Ereshguna did Inadapa say, “Do I understand correctly, then, that you shall not unite your house with the house of Kimash?”

“Steward to the lugal, you do,” Sharur replied. “Having made all arrangements to wed the daughter of Dimgalabzu the smith, I did not see how I could in good conscience break them.” Nor did I want to break them, though that is not your affair.

“And the mighty lugal permitted this?” Inadapa asked. He had been hanging around the throne room; he must have heard almost all, if not all, of what had passed between Sharur and Kimash. Yet now he sought confirmation, as if unable to believe what his ears had told him.

“The mighty lugal permitted this,” Sharur agreed. “In his forbearance, in his generosity, in his kindness, he permitted it.”

“I heard it,” the steward said. “I understood it. Having heard it, having understood it, I still have trouble believing it. For the mighty lugal to turn aside from a course on which he had settled is as untoward as for Engibil to give back an oath—which, from what you say, also came to pass. Truly, son of Ereshguna, your affairs of late have been extraordinary.”

“There, steward to the mighty lugal, I can only say that you speak the truth,” Sharur replied. If anything, the steward understated the truth: fortunately, he did not know all of it.

“Here we are, at the doorway to the house of Ereshguna.” Inadapa bowed to Sharur. “I now return to serve Kimash the mighty lugal once more, though I do not expect to be so amazed in his service again any time soon.” He set both hands on his ample belly, shook his head, and went back down the Street of Smiths toward the palace.

Sharur walked through the doorway. As soon as he was inside the house of Ereshguna, he was very glad Inadapa had not accompanied him on those last few steps, for there, talking animatedly with his father, stood Habbazu the thief.

“I greet you, master merchant’s son,” Habbazu said with a bow.

“I greet you, master thief.” Sharur politely returned the bow.

“Your father has told me you have not yet recovered the cup we gave to your intended to hold for us in the house of Dimgalabzu, unless you chanced to do so while returning from the palace of Kimash,” Habbazu said.

“My father speaks the truth, as he usually speaks the truth,” Sharur answered. “Nor did I recover the cup while returning from the palace of the mighty lugal.” He opened his hands to show they were empty. “I might have tried to recover the cup, but Inadapa, Kimash’s steward, accompanied me from the palace, and so I had no chance to go alone to the house of Dimgalabzu.”

“Yes, I can see how having the steward along would make regaining the cup more difficult.” Habbazu’s voice was dry.

“A bit, yes,” Sharur said, and the master thief smiled to hear his own tone so neatly matched.

Ereshguna said, “Before you came back from the palace, son, I had just asked whether Habbazu had recovered the cup you gave to your beloved to hold for you in the house of Dimgalabzu.”

“And I had just said no,” Habbazu added, “I did not feel so brief an introduction to your intended would have persuaded her to give me the cup in your absence, and I would have had a difficult time explaining my presence to Dimgalabzu her father.”

“Yes, I can see how that might be so, even if you have made his acquaintance as Burrapi the mercenary,” Ereshguna said. “Is that the same name you used when you met Ningal?”

“It is,” Sharur and Habbazu said together,

“Well, that is good, at any rate.” Ereshguna nodded approval.

To Habbazu, Sharur said, “Considering the trade you practice, you might have recovered the cup without meeting either Ningal my intended or Dimgalabzu her father.”

“I am, as you say, a master thief.” Habbazu bowed to Sharur. “I am a master thief who has the aid of Enzuabu, the master of thieves. But I would hesitate to steal from a smith’s house in Zuabu. Still more would I hesitate to steal from a smith’s house here in Gibil. Some of the protections I have from the god work less well around smithies than almost anywhere else.”

“Working in metal as they do, smiths deal with raw power of their own,” Ereshguna said. “Perhaps this power will become a divine power, but perhaps it will not. Because the powers of the gods are weaker around smiths and scribes—whose power over words is likewise not divine, or not yet divine—they were among the men whom Kimash set in the first ranks against Enimhursag, as you saw.”

“Yes, I did see that,” Habbazu said, nodding. “The weakening of the gods’ powers worked to their advantage then. It would work to my disadvantage, did I try to, ah, visit the house of Dimgalabzu by stealth.”

That Habbazu might hesitate before trying to rob a smith’s house did not mean he would not try, not after he had robbed a god’s temple. Sharur found another question to ask him: “When you lay down to sleep last night, did you have strange dreams?”

The master thief had been on the point of saying something else. He stopped with his mouth open, looking extremely foolish for a moment. Then, gathering himself, he replied, “Since you ask it, I shall answer with the truth, and the truth is that, yes, I did have strange dreams when I lay down to sleep last night.”

“As did I,” Sharur said, nodding. “Tell me something more, then: were these dreams you had when you lay down to sleep... crowded dreams?”

“Crowded dreams indeed,” Habbazu said. “The very word I should have used. As best I can recall, I have never had such crowded dreams in all my days.”

“And in these dreams,” Sharur persisted, “did those who crowded them insist that you restore to them something they said was theirs?”

“So they did,” Habbazu said. “Aye, master merchant’s son, so they did. They grew quite insistent, as a matter of fact. They also promised great rewards if I restored to them something they said was theirs. And then”—he frowned— “it was very strange.”

“How so?” Sharur asked. Here, for the first time, the words of the master thief took him by surprise.

Habbazu’s frown deepened and grew quizzical. “It was very strange,” he repeated. “In my dream, I was in converse with this crowd, as I say. At times, they threatened me; at times, they sought to cajole me. And then—all at once, it was as if the lot of them let out a great gasp of fright and fled. I do not know what might have frightened them. Certainly, I did not frighten them. I did not know any way to frighten them. But frightened they were. And frightened I was, too. I also let out a great gasp of fright. When I opened my eyes, I found myself alone on my sleeping mat.”

“Ah.” Now Sharur smiled. “I think we must have been dreaming our crowded dreams at the same time, master thief.”

“Why do you say this, master merchant’s son?” Habbazu asked. “Did the crowds in your dream also take fright?”

“They did—and I made them take fright,” Sharur answered. “We were speaking of my possibly restoring something they said was theirs, and we were speaking of my possibly keeping something they said was theirs. Then, in my dream, I asked what would happen if I broke something they said was theirs. They took fright. When I opened my eyes, I, like you, found myself alone on my sleeping mat.”

“If you ... broke something they said was theirs.” Habbazu spoke the words slowly, as if he had trouble bringing them out. His face bore an uneasy mixture of admiration and dread. “Son of Ereshguna, this I will tell you, and tell you truly: only a Gibli could think of such a thing.”

Ereshguna. who had been some time silent, spoke up: “Only a Gibli of my son’s generation could think of such a thing. My heart stumbled within me when I first heard this notion, too.”

“And, you having heard it more than once, what does your heart do now?” Habbazu asked.

“It still quivers,” Ereshguna replied, “but it no longer stumbles. We of Gibil have a way of growing used to new notions.”

“That I have seen.” By Habbazu’s tone, he did not intend the words as a compliment.

Ereshguna studied him. “Do you know, master thief, that you have shown yourself capable of growing used to new notions as quickly as most Giblut?”

“Have I indeed?” Habbazu considered that. “Well, perhaps I have. What of it?” He looked a challenge at Sharur and Ereshguna.

Sharur took it up. “What of it? you ask. Let me ask you a question in return: suppose that, after all this business is done—however it may finally end—you return to Zuabu. Will you feel easy, living once more under the rule of Enzuabu? Will you feel comfortable, living once more under the strong hand of your city god?”

“Enzuabu is not Enimhursag,” Habbazu said. “He is the lord of Zuabu. He is the ruler of Zuabu. He is not the toy-maker of Zuabu, compelling men to move here and there as if they were tiny clay figures.”

“I never claimed he was,” Sharur replied. “I do not claim he is. What I asked was, Enzuabu being as he is, will you feel easy, living under his rule? When he orders you to rob this one or to leave that one alone, will you be glad to obey him as you have always obeyed him?”

“He is my god,” Habbazu said. “Of course I shall obey him.” Then he realized that was not quite what Sharur had asked. “Of course I shall be glad to—” he began, and then stopped. He gave Sharur a sour look. Sharur saw the pans on either side of the scales in his mind swinging up and down, up and down, and finally reach a balance he had not expected. Habbazu’s expression grew more sour still. “I have associated too long with Giblut. I have had too much to do with the ways of Giblut. Giblut and the ways of Giblut have corrupted me.”

Ereshguna and Sharur both smiled. “You have associated too long with free men,” Ereshguna said. “You have had too much to do with the ways of free men. Without quite knowing it, you have become a free man yourself.”

“If that is what you call it, perhaps I have,” Habbazu said. “I would not presume to argue with my host.”

“Well, then,” Sharur said, “in that case, does your heart still stumble within you at the notion of breaking something those in your dream said was theirs?”

“Of course it does,” Habbazu answered at once. “If you were not a mad Gibli, your heart would stumble within you, too. To be free, or largely free, of your city god is one thing. To strike a blow against those in my dream”—he would not say, and Sharur could not blame him for not saying, to strike a blow against the gods—“is something else again. No wonder, then, that my heart stumbles within me.”

“No wonder,” Ereshguna agreed. “Let me, then, ask a different question: regardless of whether your heart stumbles within you, do you think we should go ahead and break something those in your dream said was theirs?”

“Truly, that is a different question.” Habbazu plucked at his beard as he thought. At last, he said, “Perhaps it might not be so bad, if we could be sure of escaping the wrath of those closer to us.”

“We cannot be sure of that,” Sharur said. “We cannot be sure of any such thing. We can only hope—and act.”

“If we do break something those in my dream said was theirs, I can never go back to Zuabu,” Habbazu said. “I can never go back to Enzuabu. How can I tell the god of my city I have disobeyed him? How can I tell him I have chosen my own will, my own path, rather than his?”

“You were the one who said Enzuabu was not Enimhursag,” Sharur replied. “I believed your words. I accepted that you spoke rightly. Do you tell me now that you were mistaken?”

Habbazu shook his head. “Enzuabu is not Enimhursag, to rule every tiny thing in the city. But neither is Enzuabu Engibil, to do as near nothing in the city as he can. When he lays down a command, he expects obedience.”

“Well, so does Engibil,” Sharur said. “The difference between them is, Engibil lays down a command but seldom.”

“And besides,” Ereshguna said, “have you not obeyed the command your god laid down, master thief? Have you not stolen from the temple of Engibil something those in your dream said was theirs?”

“I did steal it from the temple of Engibil, yes,” Habbazu said, “but I did not bring it to Enzuabu. He will fault me for failing to fulfill the greater part of the promise; he will not shower me with praises for fulfilling the lesser part. I shall live out my days in exile from my city.”

“You shall live out your days a free man, or a man as free as he can hope to become in a world wherein gods hold the upper hand whenever they care enough to use it,” Ereshguna said.

“In other words,” Sharur said, “you shall live out your days as a Gibli.”

Habbazu’s eyes twinkled. “Master merchant’s son, I hope you will forgive me, but I prefer your father’s way of putting it.”

“Go ahead—mock this city after you have fought for it in war,” Sharur said, laughing. He quickly grew more serious. “If, now, we break something those in your dream said was theirs, we also help to make into free men those who live a long way away from the land between the rivers.”

“If they live a long way away, why should I care about them?” Habbazu asked. “I did not care much about you Giblut until Enzuabu sent me to this city to rob the temple of the god.”

“And now, though you did not care much about us Giblut, you are practically a Gibli yourself,” Ereshguna said. “Did this not teach you that you should not neglect folk for no better reason than that they live a long way away?”

“It did not,” Habbazu admitted. “Perhaps it should have.”

“Shall we go, then?” Sharur asked. “Shall we recover from the house of Dimgalabzu something those in your dream said was theirs?”

That was the question Habbazu could neither evade nor avoid. He sighed. “Aye. Let us recover this thing.” He sighed again. “And, once it be recovered, I shall, as you say, begin to become a Gibli.” He sighed once more after that. “Well, no help for it, I suppose.”

Dimgalabzu bowed to Ereshguna. He bowed to Sharur. In some surprise, he bowed to Habbazu. After the men had exchanged polite greetings, the smith said, “I did not look to see you here in Gibil, Burrapi.”

Habbazu gave an airy wave of his hand. “A man who is always where you look to see him is a boring sort of man. Would you not agree, master smith?”

“I ''had not thought of it so.” Dimgalabzu’s expression was bemused. “Perhaps you speak the truth, or some of the truth. Still, I did not look to see you here, not with ...” His voice trailed away.

Sharur had no trouble completing the sentence Dimgalabzu was too polite to finish. Not with Kimash’s men looking for you, was one likely way it might end. Another, as likely, was, Not with the god of Gibil pursuing you.

“Father of my intended, the man from Zuabu is with us for good reason,” Sharur said. “He has good cause to be here.”

Dimgalabzu folded thick arms across his wide chest, which was shiny with sweat. “I would hear of the good reason the man from Zuabu has to be with you,” he said. “I would learn of the good cause he has to be here.” Behind his thick beard, his features revealed nothing.

“He came with me after our first fight with the Imhursagut, helping me to guard an Imhursaggi prisoner I was taking to Ushurikti the slave dealer,” Sharur said. “While we were in the city, he and I, we left something here in your house for safekeeping. Now we have come to get it back.”

The smith’s bushy eyebrows rose. “You left... something ... here ... in my house for safekeeping?” he rumbled. “What was this thing, and why did you presume to leave it here in my house?”

Neither of those was a question Sharur much cared to answer. Of the two, he preferred the second. “Father of my intended,” he said, “we presumed to leave it here in your house not least because your house is the house of a smith.” He watched Dimgalabzu bite down on that until he had chewed it up and extracted all the nourishment from it. The house of a smith, by its very nature, was a house into which a god had trouble seeing. Dimgalabzu did not need long to figure out why Sharur and Habbazu might have chosen such a house for that which they wanted to leave in safekeeping. His eyes widened. “This thing you left here in my house for safekeeping,” he began, “is it... ?”

Ereshguna held up a hand before Dimgalabzu could finish the question or Sharur could reply to it. “Some things are better left unasked,” Ereshguna said, “even in the house of a smith. Some things, too, are better left unanswered, even in such a house.”

The words, taken alone, were remarkably uninformative.

Yet Dimgalabzu had no trouble drawing meaning from them. The smith was not a young man, but he was a man of the new. He did not rush out into the Street of Smiths shouting that the thing stolen from the temple of Engibil now lay hidden in his house. In a quiet, thoughtful voice, he asked, “Why had I not heard you left something here in my house? Why did Gulal my wife not tell me? Why did Ningal my daughter not tell me? Why did my slaves not tell me?”

“Gulal your wife did not tell you because she did not know, or so I believe,” Sharur said. “Your slaves did not tell you because they did not know. Ningal your daughter did not tell you because I asked her to tell no one.”

Dimgalabzu’s eyebrows rose again. He plucked at his elaborately curled beard. “Ningal my daughter obeyed you very well,” he said. “Ningal my daughter obeyed you better than she is in the habit of obeying me.” His chuckle was a rumble deep down in his chest. “Ningal my daughter obeyed you better than she is likely to be in the habit of obeying you when she becomes Ningal your wife.”

Ereshguna chuckled at hearing that, too. So did Habbazu. Sharur ignored them. He ignored them so ostentatiously, they laughed out loud. He also ignored that, saying to Dimgalabzu, “Father of my intended, you asked why you did not know I had left something at your house. I have told you.”

“So you have,” the smith said. “So you have.” He plucked once more at his beard. Sharur waited to see what he would do next. Ereshguna and Habbazu also stood quiet, waiting. Dimgalabzu asked, “When you get this thing back, what will you do with it?”

The question made Ereshguna flinch, ever so slightly. It made Habbazu look away from both Dimgalabzu and Sharur. Sharur answered, “I do not yet know. We shall have to see what looks most advantageous.”

Dimgalabzu grunted. “Since I do not even know what sort of thing this is, how can I judge whether your answer is good or bad?” He sighed. “Only one way to find out I suppose. Ningai!” As Sharur had found on the battlefield, the smith could raise his voice to a formidable roar when he so desired.

“What is it, Father?” Ningal’s voice came from above. A moment later, she hurried down the stairs, a spindle still in her hand. When she saw Sharur and Ereshguna and Hab- bazu, she nodded to herself. After sending a quick smile toward Sharur, she said, “Ah. I think I know what it is.”

“Do you, my daughter?” Dimgalabzu said. “Do you indeed?”

“I think I do, yes,” Ningai said brightly, pretending not to notice her father’s tone. She turned to Sharur and went on, “The servants of Kimashdid come to this house while you were fighting the Imhursagut. I told them I knew nothing. The priests from the temple of Engibil also came to this house while you were fighting the Imhursagut. I likewise told them I knew nothing.”

“It is good.” Sharur bowed to her. “I am in your debt.” Habbazu bowed to Ningal. “We are all in your debt.”

“I do not yet know whether this is so,” Dimgalabzu said. He rounded on Ningal. “My daughter, why did you agree to hide this thing, whatever it may be, in our house? Why did you agree to tell no one of it?”

“I could not ask you what to do, Father, for you were in the field against the Imhursagut.” Ningai looked and sounded the picture of innocence and obedience—unless one noticed, as Sharur did, the sparkle in her eyes. “After a woman leaves her father’s home, she owes obedience to her husband. Being my intended, Sharur is almost my husband, and so I obeyed him in your absence—all the more so because he asked nothing dishonorable of me.”

“Why did you not ask your mother?” the smith demanded.

“How could I, Father, when Sharur asked me to speak to no one?” Ningal said in tones of sweet reason. “I would not have been obeying him had I done so.”

“You are not yet Sharur’s wife,” Dimgalabzu said. “You have not yet gone to live in the house of Ereshguna.” He muttered something his mustache muffled, then shook his head like a man bedeviled by gnats. “Let it go, let it go. We could argue for long and long, you and I, and we would end up where we began,” Glancing over to Sharur, he asked, “Do you see how this goes, intended of my daughter?”

“Yes, I see,” Sharur answered. “Once we are wed, though, everything will be smooth as fine clay, smooth as rock oil between the fingers.”

Dimgalabzu, Ereshguna, and Habbazu laughed uproariously. Sharur and Ningal looked miffed. “Let it go,” Dimgalabzu said again, still laughing. He turned to his daughter. “Very well, you obeyed this fellow, with his words smooth as fine clay, his words smooth as rock oil between the fingers.”

“Do not mock him, Father!” Ningal said. “Do not mock his words!”

“What is a young man for, if not to be mocked?” Dimgalabzu held up a hand before Ningal could say anything. “Never mind, never mind. Since you obeyed him, since you secreted away this ... thing, whatever it may be, find it now and give it back to him, that he may take it away from here, that we may do our best to pretend it never was here.”

“I shall obey you, my father,” Ningal said. Her tone of voice remained in perfect accord with her words, but her expression warned that she was less serious than she sounded.

She picked up a stool and carried it over to the wall, into whose clay several shelves had been set. The highest of those, well above the height of a man, was too tall to be convenient, not least because one had to stand on a stool to see what was at the back of the shelf. One of the things at the back of the shelf proved to be the Alashkurri cup, which Ningal now brought down.

“Let me see this thing,” Dimgalabzu said. Ningal’s eyes swung to Sharur to make sure it was all right before she handed the cup to her father. The smith examined it, then gave it back to her. “I had expected something all of gold and silver, encrusted with precious stones. Why so much fuss, why so much mystery, over a foreign cup of cheap clay?”

“I will answer if you insist,” Sharur said, “but I hope you do not insist, for naming certain things draws notice to them.”

Dimgalabzu grunted. Sharur’s answer was not an answer, and yet, in a way, it was. The smith thought for a while before finally saying, “Very well, then. What you tell me does not surprise me, not considering what I saw and heard at the encampment close by the border with Imhursag. You shall tell me in full one day, but not today.”

“I thank you, father of my intended,” Sharur said, bowing.

“Father, what did you see and hear at the encampment close by the border with Imhursag?” Ningal asked. “You have said nothing of this.”

“Nor shall I say anything of this, not now,” Dimgalabzu answered. “I shall tell you in full one day, but not today.” He turned to Sharur. “Were you wise, son of Ereshguna, to embroil my family in this without my leave?” He had made his own guesses about the cup and its provenance, guesses liable to be good.

Sharur bowed again, apologetically. “Perhaps I was not wise, father of my intended, but I could not have embroiled your family with your leave, for, as Ningal your daughter has said, you were at the encampment close by the border with Imhursag. No harm has come of it, for which I am very glad.” He spoke nothing but the truth there.

Dimgalabzu let out another grunt. Sharur’s words were not quite an apology, but were soft enough to make it hard for the smith to take offense. “Let it go,” Dimgalabzu said yet again. “Take that cup out of here, and let it be as if that cup had never been here.”

“So may it be,” Sharur said.

“So may it be,” Ereshguna echoed.

“So may it be,” Habbazu said, adding, “May the god of Gibil always reckon this cup has never been here. May the god of Gibil never learn where this cup has been.” That prayer brought a fresh chorus of “So may it be!” from everyone else in the room.

Sharur, Ereshguna, and Habbazu bowed first to Dimgalabzu and then to Ningal. They left the house of Dimgalabzu. Sharur wanted to run back to the house of Ereshguna, to minimize the time during which the Alashkurri cup was out on the Street of Smiths. But running might have drawn the notice of other men on the Street of Smiths, and might also have drawn the notice of Engibil. Sharur walked, and walked sedately, keeping up a front no less than he did in a dicker.

When he and his father and the master thief reached the house of Ereshguna, though, he did sigh once, loud and long, with relief. So did Ereshguna. So did Habbazu. Ereshguna asked, “Where will you now put this cup, son? What place have we that can match the house of a smith for holding such things safe?”

“We still have a pot or two of Laravanglali tin, have we not?” Sharur asked. He did not wait for his father to reply; he knew where the metal was stored. He carried the cup over to one of the big clay pots, opened it, set the cup inside on the dark gray nodules of tin, and replaced the lid.

“It is good.” Ereshguna nodded. “It is very good. The presence of metal makes a god as shortsighted as a mortal man. Tin is especially good since it has such power of its own, the power to strengthen copper into strong, hard bronze even though tin is neither strong nor hard itself.”

Habbazu also nodded approval. “This hiding place will indeed conceal the cup from a searching god,” he said. “The question of what to do with the cup now that it is back in our hands still remains.”

Another question that still remained, as far as Sharur was concerned, was how to make sure the cup did not come into Habbazu’s hands alone. The master thief might yet repair his position with Enzuabu if he brought the cup to his own city god—and if he could sneak it past Engibil, assuming Engibil was still watching the western border of Gibli territory and had not lazily gone back to fornicating with courtesans in his house on earth.

Ereshguna said, “If we break the cup, it stays forever broken. We must think hard before undertaking a step that may not be revoked.”

“This is so,” Habbazu said. “The very idea of breaking the cup, the very idea of choosing my will over the will of the gods, turns my liver green with fear.”

“You would break something that belongs to the gods?” In Sharur’s ears—and no doubt in Ereshguna’s ears as well—the voice of Sharur’s grandfather’s ghost was a frightened screech. “Are you mad? What will your punishment be when the gods learn of what you have done?”

“They are only foreign gods, ghost of my grandfather,” Sharur said in the mumble mortals used to talk with a ghost when other mortals who could not hear that ghost were present. “And, if we break this thing, the foreign gods will not have the power to punish us.”

“Foreign gods!” Now Sharur’s grandfather’s ghost let out a disdainful sniff. “You have no business dealing with foreign gods in the first place. Leave them alone and pray they leave you alone, is all I can say.”

Ereshguna sighed. “Ghost of my father,” he said in a mumble like Sharur’s, “when you lived among men, you traveled to the mountains of Alashkurru. You dealt with the Alashkurrut. You dealt with the gods of the Alashkurrut. We follow in the footsteps you laid down.”

Habbazu could follow only one side of the conversation, but smiled in a way suggesting he had no trouble figuring out the other side. Sharur’s grandfather’s ghost said, “Aye, I traveled to the mountains of Alashkurru. Aye, I dealt with the Alashkurrut. Aye, I dealt with the gods of the Alashkurrut. And I hated the mountains of Alashkurru. They were too high and rugged. I hated the Alashkurrut. They were too haughty and foreign. I hated the gods of the Alashkurrut. They were even more haughty and even more foreign. I would sooner have had nothing to do with any of them.” Sharur schooled his features to stay straight. Laughing at a ghost who complained about how things had been while he yet lived was rude. But Sharur recalled how many times his grandfather, while a living man, had told him stories of the Alashkurrut, stories that showed far more lively interest than hatred. Pointing that out now would be useless, so he stayed quiet.

Ereshguna said, “Nothing is yet decided, ghost of my father. Nothing will be decided today, I do not think. We shall take time for thought, and then do as we reckon best.”

“It is the Zuabi who led you into this,” the ghost said shrilly. “It is the Zuabi who sneaked into Engibil’s temple. This thing you think of breaking must be the thing he thought of stealing. He is a foreigner, too, and has no business in Gibil.” The ghost roared like a lion, as if seeking to frighten Habbazu away. But Habbazu could not hear him, and stayed where he was.

“All will be well, ghost of my grandfather,” Sharur said. “Truly, all will be well.”

Habbazu still looked as troubled as the ghost sounded. “I am afraid,” he said. “All choices look bad to me now. To take the cup back to the mountains, to smash it—both fill me with dread. Even taking it to Enzuabu, as I had first thought to do, sets me to trembling like a leaf in the wind.”

“We can act in our own interest and be free, or we can be tools of the gods,” Sharur said. “Do you see a third choice, master thief?” .

“If you leave only those choices, doing either the one thing or the other, no,” Habbazu answered. “But could it not be that what is best for the gods will also prove best for mortal men?”

“A good question,” Ereshguna said.

“A very good question,” Sharur’s grandfather’s ghost agreed, so loudly that Sharur was almost surprised Habbazu could not hear him. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe not allZuabut are cheats and fools all the time.”

Maybe you approve of this Zuabi’s words because he says things like the things you say, Sharur thought. But he did not argue with the ghost of his grandfather. He saw no point to arguing with the ghost of his grandfather. Arguing with a mortal man rarely changed his mind. Arguing with a ghost was a waste of breath.

After some thought, Sharur spoke to Habbazu: “What you say could be, master thief. We ourselves would draw great benefit from doing as the gods desire. But would our sons and grandsons, would their sons and grandsons, thank us for it?”

“I do not know,” Habbazu replied. “I can not know. Neither do you know. Neither can you know. But I see you are trying to think like a god, to think of what will be long after you are gone.” The master thief sighed. “I honor you for the effort. Let us think on this once more until morning, and then, if we have not found some compelling reason to change our course ... let us break the cup.”

“Father?” Sharur asked.

Ereshguna also sighed. “Habbazu has spoken well. Let us think on this once more until morning, and then ...” He did not say the words, as Habbazu had said them, but he nodded. His eyes went to the jar of tin nodules wherein the Alashkurri cup rested. So did Habbazu’s. And so did Sharur’s.

Sharur knew he lay sleeping on the mat on the roof of the house of Ereshguna. He did not seem to be there, though. He seemed to have returned to the company of the gods of the Alashkurru Mountains. He was not afraid. For one thing, he half expected—more than half expected—the Alashkurri gods would bring this dream to him otjce more. For another, he knew it was only a dream. Nothing bad—nothing too bad—could happen to him in a dream.

“Why do you hate us so?” Fasillar demanded. She folded her arms over her bulging belly, as if to say without words, How can you hate someone who aids in bringing new life into the world?

The question was one that had a great many possible answers, as far as Sharur was concerned. He chose the softest one he could find. Yes, this was only a dream. Yes, the Alashkurri gods had scant power here. But they were gods, and power was what made them gods. “I do not hate you, gods of the Alashkurrut,” he said.

“Then why do you seek to tamper with that which is not yours?” rumbled Tarsiyas, all shining in his armor of copper.

“Why do you not return that which is not yours to those to whom it rightly belongs?” Fasillar added.

“Why did you gods make life so hard for Giblut in the mountains of Alashkurru?” Sharur returned. “Why have all the gods made life so hard for Giblut outside of Gibil?”

“Because you took that which was not yours to take,” Tarsiyas said angrily. “Because some fool of a mortal gave you that which was not his to give. Because—” He started to go on, but checked himself.

Fasillar said, perhaps, that which he had begun to say but which he had held back: “Because, in taking that which was not yours to take, you have put us, the great gods of the Alashkujrut, in fear. It is not right that mortals should put the great gods in fear.”

“No, indeed. It is not right,” Tarsiyas echoed. He shook his fist in the direction from which Sharur was perceiving him. “What is right is that the great gods should put mortals in fear. That is the natural order of things. That is how things should be. That is how things must be.” He shook his fist again.

If he thought his bombast and ferocious bluster were putting Sharur in fear, he was right. If he thought bombast and bluster would make Sharur more inclined to send the cup back to the mountains of Alashkurru, he was wrong.

Fasillar must have sensed as much, for the Alashkurri goddess of birth put on her face a look of such pleading, such piteousness, that even Sharur, knowing full well the expression was assumed, could hardly resist melting under it. “Will you not do as you should?” she said. “Will you not do as we ask? Would you deprive the Alashkurrut of the overlords they need? Would you deprive them of the gods they cherish?”

Sharur thought of Huzziyas the wanax, who so wanted to trade with the Giblut that he was willing to do so by subterfuge. Only when Tarsiyas directly forbade him to engage in such trade had he desisted. Did he need the gods as overlords? Did he cherish them? Sharur had his doubts.

“Do you think we cannot take vengeance if you seek to harm us?” Tarsiyas said now. “Do you think we shall have no power left with which to punish anyone who tries to do us wrong?”

That was exactly what Sharur thought. That was exactly what Kessis and Mitas, the small gods of the Alashkurrut, had told him. Had they not told him, he would have thought so anyhow. The way the great gods of the Alashkurrut were behaving said more plainly than any overt words how much they feared being brought low were the cup to break.

“You have spoken much,” Sharur said. “Will you answer now a question of mine?”

“You may ask it,” Fasillar said. “Whether we answer and how we answer will depend on what it is.”

“I understand,” Sharur said. That was, as far as he could see, the first sensible response the gods of the Alashkurrut had given him. “Here is my question, then: why did you set so much of your power in this one cup?”

“To keep it hidden,” Fasillar replied at once. “To keep it secure. To keep it stored away where no one, god or man, would think to look for it.” The goddess’s mouth twisted. “This worked less well than we hoped it would.”

“To keep any cowardly wretch from stealing it,” Tarsiyas added. “This also worked less well than we hoped it would.”

“From all that I have heard, from all that I have seen, from all that I have learned, this cup was not stolen from the mountains of Alashkurru,” Sharur said. “This cup was fairly given in trade by an Alashkurri to a Gibli, and so it came to Gibil.”

“This cup was given by an idiot,” Tarsiyas roared. “This cup was given by a fool. This cup was given by a dolt whose mother was a sow and whose father was a lump of dung. Speak to me not of the man by whom this cup was given.” The god’s face turned the color of his burnished copper armor. Sharur wondered if a god could suffer a fit of apoplexy. Had Tarsiyas been a man, Sharur would have judged him ripe for one.

Fasillar took a gentler line: “Mortal, you can not deny that this cup was stolen from the temple in which it was placed. You can not deny it was raped away from the god’s house in which it dwelt. This was not right. This was not just. The cup should be restored to us, its rightful owners.”

In his dream, Sharur bowed. “Goddess, you cannot deny that we Giblut and the city of Gibil have suffered harm for what one of us did unwittingly. This was not right. This was not just. We are entitled to compensation or we are entitled to vengeance. When a surgeon cuts a man with an abscessed eye and causes him to lose the eye, the surgeon pays compensation or has his hand cut off. The victim and his family choose the penalty. That is right. That is just.”

“We have offered compensation,” Fasillar said. “We can offer more. Come to the mountains of Alashkurru, and we shall fill the packs of your donkeys with copper ore. We shall fill them with copper. We shall fill them with silver. We shall fill them with gold. The mountains of Alashkurru are rich in metals. We shall share the riches with the men of Gibil.”

Tarsiyas turned his angry face toward Fasillar. “No!” the war god shouted at the goddess of birth. “The Giblut are liars. The Giblut are thieves. The Giblut will make our own people like unto them if they keep coming into the mountains of Alashkurru. What good will it do us to have our cup back when in two generations our own people will be made like unto the Giblut? They will learn to ignore us. They will learn to pay us no heed.”

“If we have not the cup back, if the cup be shattered, they will pay us no heed in less time than two generations,” Fasillar answered. “How can we do anything but deal with the Giblut, and with this Gibli in particular? What choice have we?”

“But the Gibli will not deal with us!” Tarsiyas howled.

“Not if you keep trying to put him in fear,” Fasillar said.

“That has nothing to do with it,” Tarsiyas said, which was in large measure true. “The Giblut have grown too used to taking gods lightly. They think themselves equal to gods. They think themselves superior to gods. Worse: they think themselves in no need of noticing gods. Have they tried to steal, have they tried to destroy, Engibil’s store of power? No! They have not even bothered. They—”

“Be still,” Fasillar snarled, growing angry in turn. “Be still, or we shall see a generation of nothing but women born in the mountains. Who will fight your precious wars then, when women have too much sense for them?”

Tarsiyas shut up with a snap. Sharur had no idea whether Fasillar could do such a thing. He did not know whether Tarsiyas had any such idea, either. The Alashkurri war god was not inclined to take the chance, though, which struck Sharur as uncommonly sensible of him.

Fasillar turned her attention back to Sharur. “What will you do, man of Gibil?” she asked. “Will you take the road that leads to riches and delight, or will you run wild into chaos and madness and danger?”

Tarsiyas also started to say something to Sharur. Fasillar sent a sharp glance toward her fellow deity. Tarsiyas said not a word. Had he been Tarsiyas, Sharur also would have said not a word. Fasillar looked in his direction once more, awaiting his reply.

He did not want to come straight out and defy a god. He did not dare to come straight out and defy a god. Neither was he altogether certain he ought to defy the gods of the Alashkurrut. “I will do that which seems best to me,” he said slowly.

All at once, he was awake on the roof, under the stars. He wondered whether that meant the gods of the Alashkurrut had believed him or despaired of him. He wondered, too, which they should have done.