Turtledove, Harry - Novel 12

by Between the Rivers (v2. 1)

  “As well as it can be,” the ghost answered. “I have only the memory of bread. I have only the memory of beer. I have only the memory of desire.”

  Sharur remembered what Tupsharru had said. “As things are right now, I also have only the memory of desire.”

  The laughter that came from his grandfather’s ghost held a bitter edge. “You know not what you say. Soon enough, you will burn like a furnace again, and you will tip up the legs of that slave or give a courtesan copper to suck your prong. I have only the memory, not the thing itself. I shall never have it, never again.”

  “And even if I slake my lust, what will it mean?” Sharur asked, in his weakness after being ill matching the ghost’s self-pity. “I shall not have the one woman I truly want.”

  “Having any woman is better than having no woman at all.” His grandfather’s ghost was not about to be outdone. “Having thin beer is better than having no beer at all. Having moldy bread is better than having no bread at all.”

  “You have the essence of beer. You have the essence of the bread,” Sharur reminded him.

  “It is not the same.” The ghost’s sigh was like the breeze blowing through the branches of a dead bush. “And you say nothing about the essence of a woman. Tell me, where shall I find the essence of a woman?”

  “That I do not know.” Sharur smiled in the darkness. “Were there such a thing, many living men would seek it: I do know that.”

  “And the house of Ereshguna would sell it. The house of Ereshguna would profit from it. I know my son.” The ghost of Sharur’s grandfather spoke with a sort of melancholy pride. Then it said, “I am glad you remain among those with flesh on their bones. When your spirit ran free of your body, I feared you would join me here among the ghosts for some little while, and then drift down into the underworld, into the realm of the forgotten.”

  On the blanket, Sharur shivered, though the night was not cold and though he was not feverish. “Truly I had a narrow escape from death because of the foul breath of the fever demon,” he said.

  “Truly you had a narrow escape from death,” his grandfather’s ghost agreed. “But while your spirit wandered, you saw more widely than you have while still wearing flesh.” “I saw more confusedly than I could while still wearing flesh,” Sharur said. “Some of it, I suppose, might have been real. Some would have been the real, transmuted by fever. And some, surely, was nothing but fever.”

  “Ah, but which was which?” His grandfather’s ghost used a sly tone Sharur had sometimes heard from his father when he had overlooked something. “Which was real, and which the fever dream?”

  “You sound as if you know the answer,” Sharur said. “Tell me.” ,

  “The question is the essence, not the answer. I am a ghost. I am a thing of essences.” Sharur’s.grandfather’s ghost sighed again. “But not the essence of a woman. Find a way to boil off the essence of a woman and the ghosts of men would give you whatever you wanted for it.”

  “They would give the essence of gold, no doubt,” Sharur said. “Mortals are not things of essences. Tell me: I ask it of you again—which was real, and which the fever dream?’ ’

  “The question is the essence, not the answer,” his grandfather’s ghost repeated. “And now I shall go.”

  Sharur had not known the ghost was there until it spoke. He could not have proved it was gone now. Was it mocking him, or had it tried to tell him something important? Before he could decide, he fell asleep again.

  Slowly, Sharur recovered from the sickness the fever demon had breathed into him. His strength came back, little by little; he ate bread and salt fish and drank beer to restore the flesh of which the fever demon had robbed him. One day, he noticed that, when the Imhursaggi slave woman brought him food and drink, he was eyeing her body. She noticed, too, and departed as quickly as she could. He thought about ordering her back, but in the end did not bother. Though desire had returned, it was not so urgent as to make him want to lie with her.

  A few days after that, he left his home and went out into Gibil once more. His steps were slow and halting, so slow and halting as to make him realize that, while he had regained much strength, he was still a long way from having regained it all.

  He bought beans fried in fat from a man who cooked them over a brazier set up on a small table he would carry from place to place. The fellow handed them to him in a twist of date-palm leaf. Eating gave Sharur an excuse to stand still and rest. His weakness angered him, but he could do nothing about it.

  People and beasts of burden surged past him. He smiled to watch a couple of little naked farm boys with long switches chivvying ducks along toward the market square. The ducks fussed and complained, but kept on moving. Some of them, the lucky ones, might be kept for egg layers. The rest would soon be seethed or roasted. Though few foreigners'came to Gibil these days, the Giblut still traded busily among themselves.

  Sharur had almost finished his beans when a small, thin fellow came up to the man who prepared them and said, “Let me have some of those, if you please.” He opened his right hand to display several broken bits of copper. The cook held out his own hand. He took the copper bits, hefted them, nodded in satisfaction, and gave the newcomer a ladleful of beans in a leaf. The fellow beamed at him. “Thank you, friend. These’ll fill the hole in my belly.”

  He spoke with a Zuabi accent. At first, that was all Sharur noticed about him, for it stood out these days. Then he took a longer look at the fellow. “I know you!” he exclaimed.

  “No, my master, I fear you are mis—” The Zuabi stopped. His eyes went wide and round in his narrow, clever face. He bowed very low. “No, my master, I am the one who is mistaken. It is an honor to see you again.”

  “Come. Walk with me.” Sharur ate the last of his beans, threw the date-palm leaf on the ground, licked his fingers clean, and wiped them on his kilt. “Tell me how you come to be in Gibil, when we last met outside Zuabu.”

  “As you might guess, my calling brings me here,” replied the man who had tried to rob Sharur’s caravan as it returned from the Alashkurru Mountains. He popped a handful of fried beans into his mouth.

  “Yes, I might have guessed that,” Sharur agreed. “And what, if you would be so kind as to tell me one thing more, have you com6 to Gibil to steal?”

  “I should not tell you what I have come to Gibil to steal,” the Zuabi thief said, “for Enzuabu commanded me to come to Gibil to steal it.”

  Sharur walked along without saying anything. He knew, as the thief knew, the Zuabi would not have been able to steal anything in Gibil without the mercy Sharur had shown, and without Sharur’s letting him steal a token bit of jewelry to placate his god.

  “I will tell you my name,” the thief said. “I am called Habbazu.”

  “I will tell you my name,” Sharur returned. “I am called Sharur.”

  They bowed to each other. Habbazu said, “And you are the son of a master merchant? So your men said, back by Zuabu.” Sharur nodded. Habbazu went on, “And I am the son of a thief, and each of us follows his father’s trade. Tell me, master merchant’s son, if a thief could have robbed you and slain you while you lay sleeping but did no more than pass by in the night, what would you owe that man?”

  “In Gibil, we do not reckon thievery an honorable trade,” Sharur answered. “A man owes it to himself not to do anything dishonorable. He does not need any other man to owe him anything for refraining.” .

  “We think differently in Zuabu,” Habbazu said. “With us, thievery is work like any other. If it were not honorable work, would the god of the city command us to undertake it?” .

  “I know little of the ways of gods,” Sharur told him.

  “Of course you know little of that—you are a Gibli.” Habbazu raised a bushy eyebrow. “The god of Gibil drowses. The god of Gibil sleeps.” Sharur wished Engibil had been drowsier; he wished the god had been sleepier. The thief continued, “If the god of Gibil were not a drowsy god, if he were not a sleepy god, I would not have co
me to—” He broke off.

  “—To steal something that belongs to the god?” Sharur finished for him.

  Habbazu walked rapidly along the narrow, twisting street. Sharur had to push himself to keep up with the thief, though he was larger and his legs longer. He got the feeling Habbazu could easily have escaped him, had he so chosen. Sweat rolled down his back. He got the feeling a playful three-year-old could easily have escaped him, had he so chosen.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Habbazu said, “Yes, I am charged to steal something that belongs to the god of Gibil.” He held up a hand to keep Sharur from speaking. “By Enzuabu I swear, master merchant’s son, I have not come to Gibil to take anything of great value from the temple of Engibil. I have not come to Gibil to impoverish the god of the city.”

  “Then why have you come?” Sharur burst out; “Has Enzuabu ordered you to steal something that has no value?”

  Before, Habbazu had looked uncertain about how much he should say. Now he looked uncertain in a different way. “It may be so,” he answered. “For all I know, Enzuabu aims to embarrass Engibil before the other gods, to show that something once in the house of the god of Gibil is now in the house of the god of Zuabu. The gods score points off their neighbors no less than men.”

  “What you say is true,” Sharur admitted. “If someone besides me had caught you, though, thief and son of a thief, what would your fate have been? Did your god care what your fate would have been? Or did Enzuabu think, He is only a man. What does it matter if the Giblut torture him to death?”

  “I am Enzuabu’s servant,” Habbazu said with dignity.

  “Are you Enzuabu’s slave? Are you Enzuabu’s dog? Are you an Imhursaggi, with the god looking out from behind your eyes more often than you do yourself?” Sharur asked. “Is your ensi no more a shield from Enzuabu than that?”

  “I am not a slave. I am not a dog. Enzuabu be praised, I am not an Imhursaggi,” the thief replied. “Even Engibil, I have heard, can give orders from time to time. When Engibil tells a Gibli he shall do this or he shall not do that, is the god obeyed, or is he ignored and forgotten?”

  “He is obeyed.” Sharur spoke in grudging tones made no less grudging because, had he dared ignore Engibil’s command to him, he could have given Dimgalabzu the bride-price for Ningal.

  “Then why complain when a man of another city also obeys his god?” Habbazu said. “How is he different from you?”

  “He is different in that he might harm my god. He is different in that he might harm my city.”

  "Sharur moved slowly into the shade of a wall. “Shall we sit? I am recovering from the foul breath of a fever demon, and have not yet regained all my strength.”

  Habbazu sank down beside him. “It shall be as you say. I am obliged to you. I do not see, though, how I might harm your city. I do not see how I might harm your god, except perhaps, as I say, to make him a laughingstock before the other gods. No god dies of laughter aimed at him over a small thing. No man dies of laughter aimed at him over a small thing, either, though some men wish they could.”

  “What is this small thing you would steal?” Sharur asked. “What is this small thing Enzuabu would have you steal? You still have not told me what it might be.” As a merchant will, he put other words behind the words he spoke, using his voice to suggest to Habbazu that, if the thing was small enough, he might stand aside while the thief stole it. He had no such intention, but had no qualms about creating the impression that he did, either.

  And create that impression he did. Habbazu waggled his fingers in a gesture of appreciation. “It is the smallest of things, master merchant’s son. It is the least of things, merchant of Gibil. Engibil would not miss it, were it to vanish from his temple. Your god would not note its passing, were it to disappear from his shrine. It is, after all, only a cup.”

  “Mighty Engibil has among his treasures many cups he would miss greatly,” Sharur said. “He has cups of gold and cups of silver, cups for drinking beer and cups for drinking date wine.”

  “This is no cup of gold. This is no cup of silver,” the thief from Zuabu assured him. “This is only a cup of clay, such as a tavern might employ. If it falls to the ground, it will shatter. Sharur, I speak nothing but the truth when I say that the god’s treasury would be better off without such a worthless, ugly piece.”

  “If it be worthless, why does Enzuabu want it?” Sharur said, as he had before.

  Habbazu shrugged. “I am not one to know the mind of the gods. I have given you my best guess: that the god of my city wants nothing more than to embarrass the god of yours before their fellows.”

  It was, in fact, far from a bad guess, and better than any Sharur had come up with for himself—until this moment.

  Keeping his tone light and casual, he asked, “Is it by any chance an Alashkurri cup?”

  “Why, yes, as a matter of fact, it is.” The thief gave Sharur a look both puzzled and respectful. “How could you know that?”

  “I know all manner of strange things.” Sharur got to his feet. It was a struggle, and he was panting by the time he made it; his body still craved rest. When Habbazu stayed on his haunches, enjoying the coolness of the shadowed dirt on which he sat, Sharur said, “Rise. Come with me. I think my father should hear the tale you tell. I think Kimash the lugal should perhaps hear the tale you tell.”

  “Kimash the lugal?” Habbazu spoke in some alarm. “What will he do to me?” Without waiting for Sharur’s reply, he answered his own question: “He is a man claiming the power of a god. He will do whatever he likes to me. I am a thief, come to steal from his city. He will not welcome me with beer and barley porridge and salt fish and onions.”

  “Do you think not?” Sharur raised an eyebrow. “You may be surprised.”

  “I am surprised whenever I deal with Giblut,” Habbazu answered. “Sometimes the surprises are for the good. Sometimes—more often—they run in the opposite direction.”

  “True, Kimash the lugal may not welcome you with beer and onions,” Sharur said. “Instead, he may welcome you with gold and silver.”

  “You are pleased to joke with me, knowing you could have me slaughtered like a lamb because this is your city.” Habbazu paused and studied Sharur’s face. “No. You are not joking. You mean what you say. Why do you mean what you say?” His own face, sly and thin, radiated suspicion. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  Sharur recognized those signs, having seen them many times before in dickers. Habbazu had drawn his own conclusion about why the lugal might welcome him with gold and silver. Whatever that conclusion was, he did not intend to share it with Sharur. No matter what else the thief was, he was no fool. His conclusion was likely to lie somewhere on the right road—that the cup was something which would work to Kimash’s advantage and to Engibil’s disadvantage. Sharur realized he had told Habbazu too much, but no man, nor even a god, could recall words once spoken.

  He wondered if he should raise the alarm and have Habbazu hunted through the streets of Gibil. That would take no more than a shout. But Engibil had in his temple several Alashkurri cups. Which was the one into which the gods of the mountains had poured their power? Sharur did not know, and did not know how to learn... unless Habbazu could tell him.

  “Come with me to the house of my father,” he told the thief.

  “I will come with you to the house of your father.” Habbazu did rise then, and bowed to Sharur. “Perhaps what you desire and what Enzuabu desires may both be accomplished.”

  “Perhaps this is so,” Sharur agreed, nodding. Enzuabu wanted the Alashkurri cup stolen from Engibil’s temple. Sharur also wanted it removed from that temple. Sharur was willing to return it to the mountains of Alashkurru, though other notions had also crossed his mind. He was not sure what Enzuabu would do with it if it came into the thief-god’s hands.

  He did not ask Habbazu whether Enzuabu had spoken of his plans for the cup. Having already put more thoughts than he wanted into Habbazu’s mind, he did not wish to give the
thief any further ideas he had not already had.

  Habbazu looked around with interest as he and Sharur made their way toward the Street of Smiths. “Poverty does not pinch Gibil,” he remarked. “Hunger does not stalk this city. In Zuabu, they say women here are poor. In Zuabu, they say women and children here starve.”

  “Many people say many things that are not true about Gibil and the Giblut,” Sharur answered. He looked at Habbazu out of the coener of his eye. “Many gods say many things that are not true about Gibil and the Giblut. If this were not so, Zuabi, would you be here now?”

  “After all this time, I doubt my skeleton would have much meat left on its bones,” the thief said coolly. “My ghost would be wandering my city, telling anyone who could hear what vicious, wanton murderers the men of Gibil were.”

  That struck Sharur as an honest answer. He shook his head in bemusement. Getting an honest answer from a thief was like plucking sweet, fat dates from the branches of a thombush.

  When they came out onto the Street of Smiths, Habbazu pointed down its length. “What is that great building there, the one that looks to be almost the size of the temple to your city god?”

  “That is the lugal’s palace,” Sharur replied. “That is the building wherein the mighty Kimash makes his residence, as his father and grandfather did before him.”

  “All that, for a mere man?” Habbazu shook his head in slow wonder. Then his eyes lit, as if torches had been kindled behind them. “He must have many treasures. And how can a mere man guard what is his as well as a god?” Instead of being angry at the lugal for usurping the god’s place, he saw that usurpation as an opportunity for himself.

  “Do you know, Zuabi,” Sharur said, “you are farther along the path toward thinking like a man of Gibil than you may suspect.”'

  The thief drew himself up, the very image of affronted rectitude. “You have caught me,” he said. “You have spared me. Do you think this gives you the right to insult me?”

  “I meant it for a compliment,” Sharur said mildly. That Habbazu made a joke of it meant he did not take it seriously, either, no matter what he said. Sharur thought Enzuabu would take it seriously. Wherever men lookbd first to their own advantage and only then toward service to their gods, there the unquestioned, unchallenged rule of the gods tottered.