Turtledove, Harry - Novel 12

by Between the Rivers (v2. 1)

  “If I, a god, cannot find this thing, why do you imagine that you, a mortal man, will have any better fortune?” Engibil demanded. “I do not believe this thing even exists, no matter what the small gods of Alashkurru may have told you.”

  “If it does not exist, my searching will do no harm,” Sharur answered. “If it should exist, my searching may do some good.” Was he contradicting the god? He did not worry about that until he had already spoken, by which time it was too late.

  If contradiction there was, Engibil, fortunately, once more failed to notice it. “When mortals have so little time,” he said, “I marvel at the ways in which they choose to fritter it away. Do what you will in this, son of Ereshguna. You will discover nothing, the reason being there is nothing to discover.”

  Sharur did a very human thing: he accepted the permission and ignored the scorn behind it. “I thank you, great god,” he said, bowing low.

  Now the fires of Engibil’s eyes were banked, hooded. “I do not say you are welcome,” the god replied. “Be gone from my sight.”

  6

  “My son,” Ereshguna said as he and Sharur made their way back toward their home from the temple, “my son, in some things in life you will win, in others you will lose. I do not think you will win in this. If you keep at it, you will only bring grief down upon yourself. If you persist, you will only break your heart.’’

  “Grief has already tumbled down upon me, like an avalanche in the mountains,’’ Sharur answered. “The falling stones of grief have already broken my heart, as a pot breaks when it falls on hard ground. Unless I go on, my heart can never be whole again.”

  “The god asked of you a fair question,” Ereshguna said. “If with his power he. cannot find this thing that may or may not exist, how can you hope to do so?”

  “If I cannot hope, what sort of man am I?” Sharur lowered his voice to a wary whisper. He covered the eyes of Engibil’s amulet that he wore on his belt. “Was it a god who learned to free copper from its ore? No: it was a man. Was it a god who learned to mix tin with copper to make bronze? No: it was a man. Was it a god who learned marks on clay might last longer than a man’s memory? No: for gods’ memories fail not. It was a man.”

  “Power lies behind all those things,” Ereshguna answered. “They may yet grow gods who feed from that power.”

  “May it not come to pass! ” Tupsharru exclaimed.

  “They may indeed grow such gods,” Sharur admitted. “But they also may not. The power may remain in the hands of the men who work the metal. The power may remain in the hands of the men who inscribe the clay. Has this not been the hope of Giblut since the days of the first lugal?”

  “It has,” his father said. “I would not deny it. It is my hope now, no less than it is yours. But I do not see how the power in metalworking will help you find the thing of which the Alashkurri small gods told you. I do not see how the power in writing will help you find the thing into which Alashkurri great gods poured their power—if such a thing there be.”

  Sharur walked along for several paces before he spoke again. His strides were angry; his sandals scuffed up dust.

  At last, he said, “If I find this thing, I can take it back to the gods of the Alashkurrut.” Or I indeed break it, he thought savagely, but he did not speak that thought aloud. Ereshguna no doubt knew it was in his mind. “If I do not find it, how shall I find the bride-price for Ningal? Engibil holds my oath in his hand. He holds my oath in his heart. He will not let it go. If he does not let it go, I cannot buy the bride I desire. Dimgalabzu has given me a year, no more. Time is passing. Time is fleeting. I must find the thing.”

  “Many a man comes to grief, forgetting the difference between must and shall," Ereshguna answered. “That you want to find this thing—if thing there be, as I say—that you need to find it, no one can doubt. That you shall find it—if it be there for the finding—you cannot know.”

  “Your words hold truth, Father,as they always do,” Sharur said. “But this I know, and know in fullness: if I search not for this thing, whatever it may be, I shall not find it. Therefore I will search, come what may.”

  Ereshguna’s breath hissed out of him in a long sigh. “If you will not heed the god, perhaps you will heed your father. Son of my flesh, I tell you this is not a wise course. Son of my heart, I tell you this way heartbreak lies. I do not believe you will find the thing you seek. A man who turns aside from the road to chase a mirage is never seen again.”

  “A man who walks past an oasis, thinking it a mirage, dies of thirst in the desert,” Sharur replied. “If I do not wed Ningal, I know my heart shall break within me. If I search for the thing and fail to find it, perhaps my heart shall break and perhaps it shall not. If I search for the thing and do find it, of a certainty my heart shall not break. You are a merchant, Father. Which of those strikes you as the best bargain?”

  “Bargains are for copper. Bargains are for tin. Bargains are for barley. Bargains are for wine of dates,” Ereshguna said. “For my son’s happiness, for my son’s safety, I do not speak of bargains. I care nothing about bargains. With some things, a man should not bargain.”

  “For your son’s happiness,” Sharur repeated. “Unless I do this, I shall not be happy. This I know. If I do it, I may be unhappy. I know this, too. I am a man. I may fail. Even gods fail. But I will try. I must try. What have I to lose?”

  “Your life, my brother!” Tupsharru blurted.

  Ereshguna walked on for several more steps. At last, he said, “Tupsharru is right. If you hold to this course, it could even be that you will lose your life.”

  Before Sharur could reply, his grandfather’s ghost spoke up: “Sooner or later, this is the fate of all men.”

  Ereshguna looked exasperated. “Ghost of my father, how long have you been listening to us?”

  “Oh, not long,” the ghost replied in airy tones. “I was just coming up the street and saw the three of you coming down, looking glum as if your favorite puppy just died. If you want to talk about death, you should talk with someone who knows what he’s talking about.”

  “When a man rich in years dies, he will be a ghost rich in years, too,” Ereshguna said, “for his grandchildren will recall him well, and he will be able to speak with them even when they grow old themselves, and will not sink down to the underworld to be forgotten by mortals until they die. But when a young man passes away, his stay as a ghost is also cut short, for only those of his age or older could know him while he lived on earth.”

  Sharur’s grandfather’s ghost sniffed. “The real trouble is, some people don’t care to listen.” Sharur could not see the ghost, but got the distinct impression that it indignantly flounced off.

  His father said, “I meant my words. You play no game here. If you seek a track where the god says there is no track, if you go on where the god bids you halt, you put yourself in danger. It may be that you put yourself in such danger, no mortal man may, escape it.”

  “I will go on,” Sharur said. Maybe the shadows from the harsh sun above carved the lines in Ereshguna’s face deeper than Sharur had ever seen them before, or maybe, for the first time, his father looked old.

  Inadapa, the steward to Kimash the lugal, drank a polite cup of beer before getting to the business that had brought him to the Street of Smiths: “The mighty lugal would speak with the son of Ereshguna over what passed in the temple of Engibil yesterday.”

  Sharur drained his own cup of beer and rose from the stool on which he sat. “I will gladly speak with Kimash. I will gladly tell him what passed in the temple of Engibil yesterday.”

  “The mighty lugal will be glad to learn once more how readily you obey him,” Inadapa said. “Let us go.”

  “I obey him as I would obey the god,” Sharur said. He bowed to Ereshguna. “My father, I shall soon see you again.”

  “And I shall soon see you again,” Ereshguna replied, returning the bow. His face w'as calm now, but Sharur could hear the worry in his voice, though he did not think
Inadapa could. Sharur understood why his father sounded worried.

  He obeyed Engibil only grudgingly, under the compulsion of the god’s superior strength. Such grudging, partial obedience, if given to Kimash, would be less than the lugal wanted.

  “Let us go,” Inadapa repeated; like any good servant, he was impatient in the service of his master.

  Pausing only to put on his hat, Sharur walked with the lugal’s steward along the Street of Smiths to the palace. As had happened when he went to the palace with his father, he had to wait while a stream of donkeys and slaves carrying bricks and mortar blocked his path. “The mighty lugal adds to his own glory,” he remarked, to see how Inadapa would respond.

  As usual, the steward’s face was bland. “The lugal’s glory is the glory of Gibil,” he replied, and now he seemed to wait for Sharur’s answer.

  In most cities of Kudurru, a man would have said, The god's glory is the glory of my city. Men still did say that in Gibil, but how many of them meant it? If Kimash could go on building for himself even while Engibil sought to reassert his own pdwer, the lugal must have thought his hold on the rule fairly secure.

  Sharur said, “May the lugal’s glory prevail.” Inadapa weighed the words, as Sharur would have weighed gold brought in by a debtor. They must have brought down the pan of his mental balance, for he nodded once, in sharp satisfaction, and set no more word-lined traps for the master merchant’s son.

  As soon as the donkeys and slaves had passed, Inadapa led Sharur through the maze of hallways, past the endless storerooms and workrooms of the palace, to the audience chamber of Kimash the lugal. As Kimash had before, he sat on his high seat. As Sharur had before, he groveled in front of that high seat, lying with his face in the dust until the lugal bade him rise.

  “I come in obedience to your summons, mighty lugal,” he said, brushing dirt from his kilt.

  “Yes, you do,” Kimash agreed. He had the arrogance of a god, if not the inherent powers. “Speak, to me of your journey to Imhursag, to the land of our enemies.” Sharur told that tale, and also the tale of his visit to Engibil’s temple. Leaning forward on his high seat, Kimash asked, “And did Engibil find this secret thing of which you spoke, this thing into which the great gods of the Alashkurrut poured their power?”

  Regretfully, Sharur spoke the truth: “Mighty lugal, he did not. He found himself unable to tell it from any other offering he has received. He is of the opinion that the thing does not exist.”

  Kimash might not have had the inherent powers of a god, but he did own sharp ears and sharp wits. “He is of that opinion, you say. What of you, son of Ereshguna? Do you hold a different opinion?”

  “I do, mighty lugal,” Sharur answered. “I believed then, and I still believe now, that the Alashkurri gods intended no one to know this thing for what it was. The wanax or merchant who traded it to us knew it not, the trader who took it knew it not, and I think the god of the city also knows it not. But when will a god admit to ignorance? When will a god say he does not know?”

  Kimash’s chuckle was harsh as windblown sand. “When will a man admit to ignorance?” he returned. “When will a man say he does not know? Truly w'e are shaped in the image of those who made us; is it not so? Why do you believe your own thoughts, not those of the god, who knows so much more than you?” .

  As he would have done in a hard bargain, Sharur worked to hold his face still. What he concealed now was not the lowest price he would accept but dismay. Of all the men in Gibil, he had judged Kimash likeliest to believe him, likeliest to support him. Instead, the lugal made it plain he sided with Engibil. -

  Carefully, Sharur said, “Mighty lugal, as I answered before, this is a secret thing. Gods may keep secrets from gods. Even men may keep secrets from gods, provided always the gods do not know secrets are being kept.”

  “Speak not of this, son of Ereshguna, lest a certain god hear,” Kimash said.

  Sharur bowed his head. “I obey.” Of all the men in Gibil, likely of all the men in Kudurru, perhaps of all the men in the world, the lugal kept the most secrets of that sort from the gods.

  “Has your judgment not another reason?” Kimash asked. “Has your opinion not another source? The Diyala rises from many springs. The Yarmuk flows out of many streams. Do you not believe that, if this thing of which you speak exists, you will gain profit and favor not only from Engibil but also from the gods of the Alashkurrut? Do you not believe that, if this thing into which the gods of the mountains have poured their powers is real, you will be able to wed the woman you have long desired?”

  “Yes, I believe those things.” Sharur bowed his head again. “You are able to see deep into the heart of a man, mighty lugal; you would have made a formidable merchant.” On his high seat, Kimash preened like a songbird displaying himself before a possible mate. But Sharur went on, “I do not believe this has clouded my judgment. I do not believe this has shaped my opinion. My views spring from what I have seen and heard, not from what I have hoped.”

  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 w?hat he could hardly deny.

  “Does not this truth color your view of othfcr 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 co
uld 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. “Ina- dapa, conduct the son of Ereshguna to his home once more.”