Ereshguna said, “Strange to think that, if we set men free by doing this, they are men far from Gibil, men far from the land between the rivers.”
“Yes, it is strange,” Sharur agreed. Something Tarsiyas had said during the dream the night before still rolled back and forth in his mind. Did Engibil have an object wherein he stored his power, as the gods of the Alashkurrut had stored theirs in this cup? Did other gods have such objects? Did, for instance, Enimhursag have such an object hidden in his city?
“Are we truly resolved to do this thing?” Ereshguna asked.
Habbazu was silent. Tupsharru was silent. Sharur said, “Father, I think we are. Freeing men anywhere will in the end help free men everywhere.” Habbazu did not contradict him. Tupsharru did not contradict him. And, in the end, Ereshguna, whose contradiction he would have taken most seriously of all, did not contradict him, either.
“Who will do it?” Habbazu asked. His voice was surprisingly small and surprisingly shaky. He had come further out from under the shadow of his city god, probably, than any other Zuabi. He was further put from under the shadow of his city god, probably, than many Giblut were out from under the shadow of Engibil. But he was not so far out from under the shadow of his city god as were Sharur, Ereshguna, and Tupsharru.' .
“I will do it,” Sharur said, and his voice was surprisingly small and surprisingly shaky, too. He did his best to strengthen it: “Most of the troubles we have known of late have sprung from my travels. Let us hope that, once the deed is done, the troubles will also be done.”
“We are men. We shall always have troubles,” Ereshguna said. Habbazu nodded. After a moment, so did Sharur and Tupsharru. Ereshguna went on, “Let us hope that, once the deed is done, these troubles will also be done.”
“Aye,” Sharur said. “Let us indeed hope that.”
He looked around. His eye fell on a bronze vase decorated with reliefs of lions and crocodiles, and with a proud line of writing around the rim: dimgalabzu made me. Though they could not have read the inscription, the men of the mountains of Alashkurru would have cherished such a vase—had their gods let them trade with the Giblut. Now they would cherish the vase for a different reason, one they would never know. Sharur picked up the vase by the neck and hefted it in his hands. It was of a good size. It was of a good weight.
“It is made from bronze,” Tupsharru said, nodding at his choice. “That is right. That is fitting.”
“It is made from bronze, and it has syllables cut into the bronze,” Ereshguna said, also nodding. “That is very right. That is very fitting.”
“Such was my thought,” Sharur said, and he nodded in turn. “Metal and the written word: these are the powers of men. They did not come to us from the gods. We found them for ourselves.”
Still holding the vase by the neck, he walked over to the counter and stood in front of the cup in which the great gods of the Alashkurrut had hidden so much of their power. Suddenly, he stared at the cup—was that a cry of appeal he had heard? He rubbed at his left ear with his left hand, but the cry had not sounded in his ears, and he knew as much.
But he was not the only one to have heard it. “They know what you are about to do,” Habbazu whispered. “They know. Even here, they know.”
“They know,” Ereshguna agreed. “They know, and they fear.”
That steadied Sharur. With a grunt of effort, he brought the upended vase down on the cup. The cup broke into a thousand sharp-edged shards of clay. They flew all around the room. One of them bit into Sharur’s hand, as if the great gods of the Alashkurrut were taking what vengeance they could.
It was but a small vengeance, though—a tiny vengeance. When the vase smashed down on the cup, Sharur heard another cry, or the beginning of another cry, but after only an instant it guttered down to a low wailing and was gone, as a torch will gutter out after burning all its fuel.
“What a wailing and crying and gnashing of teeth!” Sharur’s grandfather’s ghost exclaimed. “What a howl of anguish! What a shriek of despair! My ears still ring with it, or they would if I still had ears.”
“That cry was heard in your realm, too, ghost of my father?” Ereshguna asked.
“Heard?” the ghost said. “I should say it was heard. It echoes yet, and makes me tremble and shake. How could you have been bold enough, how could you have been mad enough, to do as you did?”
Now that Sharur had done it, he wondered the same thing himself. Nervously, he asked, “Will others in your realm know who did this? Will the gods be able to tell who did this?”
“I saw you do it,” his grandfather’s ghost replied. “I heard the gods of the Alashkurrut cry out when you did it. Everyone in my realm from the mountains of Alashkurru to the swamps of Laravanglal, I daresay, heard the gods of the Alashkurrut cry out when you did this, so great was that cry. So great was that cry, I think, that no one who did not see you do it will be able to know whence precisely it came.”
“For this news I thank you, ghost of my grandfather,” Sharur said sincerely.
“For this news you are welcome, my grandson,” the ghost told him. “But I say this plainly: it is news you have by luck, not by design. Did you think on what this cry would be like in the world beyond the world of the living?” The ghost answered its own question before Sharur or his father or his brother could speak: “No, you did not. Manifestly, you did not.”
Since he was correct, neither Sharur nor Ereshguna nor Tupsharru argued with him. In musing tones, Sharur said, “I wonder what is happening in the mountains of Alashkurru now. If Tarsiyas, say, was speaking in his temple, was he suddenly struck dumb? If Fasillar was aiding a woman in childbirth, will the woman have to finish giving birth alone?”
“Those are good questions,” Ereshguna agreed. “I also wonder what will become of the people of the mountains of Alashkurru now that their great gods have lost this power. If such befell the Imhursagut, many of them would go mad, no longer having the god to take charge of their lives.”
“Some there may do that,” Sharur said. “I do not think many will. Huzziyas the wanax, for instance, is a man much like Habbazu here, a man who has come a long way out from under the shadow of his gods and who would have come further had he but had the chance. Now he has the chance. The land of the Alashkurrut may know some chaos for a time, but the Alashkurrut are not like the Imhursagut.”
“I wonder what Enimhursag thinks of men and the things men say after you tricked him,” Tupsharru said. “He will surely be less trusting of those from beyond his city. I wonder if he will also be less trusting of those from within his city.”
“A point,” Sharur said, nodding. “I wonder if he will be less trusting of those from within his city whom we captured in the late war. I wonder if he will think they have been corrupted, living among us Giblut. I wonder if, thinking them corrupted, he will let their kin pay ransom for them.”
“If he will not let their kin pay ransom for them, then Ushurikti will sell them as slaves, as will other dealers in the city, and we Giblut shall have new backs and new hands to do our labor,” Tupsharru said. He smiled and added, “And we shall have profit from the Imhursagut Sharur captured.”
Habbazu smiled, too, in a different way. “Here you boast of setting the Alashkurrut free, but you also boast of profit from selling the Imhursagut as slaves.”
“They are not slaves of the gods,” Sharur said. “They are the slaves of men, in the same way that a lugal rules in Gibil rather than a god or even an ensi.”
“That a lugal rules in Gibil rather than a god or even an ensi may be an improvement—or, then again, it may not,” Habbazu said. “But will any man who is sold into slavery tell you it is an improvement over his earlier lot?”
“If he is starving and sells himself to a master who will feed him, yes,” Sharur said. “If he is not a man but a child whose father sells him to a master who will feed him where the father can not, yes again.”
“Hmm,” Habbazu said, and then “Hmm” again. “You a
rgue well—and why should you not? You are a Gibli, after all.”
“You steal well—and why should you not? You are a Zuabi, after all,” Sharur returned. He and Habbazu both laughed. He went on, “I will tell you another man who will say slavery is an improvement on the lot he might have had: Duabzu the Imhursaggi, whom I captured with the sword when I might have slain him with it.”
“Well,” Habbazu said this time, and then “Well” again. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I spoke too soon.”
“Perhaps you did,” Sharur said. “Perhaps you did.”
Ushurikti bowed low when Sharur came into his establishment. The slave dealer’s face was red, and he wheezed a little as he straightened. Like Dimgalabzu, he was prosperous enough to be plump: an upstanding pillar in the community that was Gibil. “How may I serve you, son of Ereshguna?’ ’ he asked. “Will you drink beer with me? Will you eat bread and onions with me?” .
“I will gladly drink beer with you. I will gladly eat bread and onions with you,” Sharur replied. Ushurikti clapped his hands. One of his own personal slaves—not one of the men and women in whom he traded—fetched food and drink. After Sharur had refreshed himself, he asked if he might see Nasibugashi and Duabzu. .
Ushurikti’s mobile features twisted into a sorrowful frown. “Truly my heart grieves, my master, that I cannot give you everything you desire on the instant. I have lent them, among others, out to Kimash the mighty lugal, and they are hard at work repairing canals that have begun to fall into decay. They eat of the lugal’s bread. They drink of the lugal’s beer. As they cannot eat of my bread or drink of my beer while they labor for the mighty lugal, I do not add their maintenance on these days to their ransom.”
“You are an honest man,” Sharur said, and Ushurikti bowed again. Sharur went on, “With mention of ransom, though, you come to the question I would ask you concerning Nasibugashi and Duabzu and other Imhursaggi captives who did not fall to me: is Enimhursag permitting their kin and their friends to ransom them?”
“Ah.” Ushurikti bowed yet again. “This is a most astute question indeed, master merchant’s son, though of course I should have expected nothing less from one so clever as yourself.” He smiled an ingratiating smile. He was also a merchant, and knew the value of flattery.
So did Sharur, who hid a smile at seeing the techniques he used himself now aimed at him. He noted that, despite the flattery, the slave dealer had not answered his question. He tried again: “What does Enimhursag say about ransoming prisoners? Will he permit it, or not?”
“All I can tell in that regard is this: the god of Imhursag will permit it—or not,” Ushurikti replied, now looking somewhat less happy because he was compelled to admit his own lack of omniscience.
“How do you mean?” Sharur asked. “You have succeeded in confusing me, I will tell you so much.”
“I am also to be numbered among the confused,” Ushurikti said. “I would not deny it. I could not deny it. As is the custom between Gibil and Imhursag after our wars, I have written to the kin of those Imhursagut whom we captured, seeking ransom for their loved ones. As is also the custom between Gibil and Imhursag, I have written to the temple of Enimhursag in Imhursag, asking leave to seek ransom for those Imhursagut whom we captured. For long and long, this has been but a formality, with agreement always promptly forthcoming, else I should have written to the god at his temple before writing to the captives’ kin.”
“But not this time?” Sharur said.
“But not this time,” the slave dealer agreed.
“But Enimhursag has not refused to let the Imhursagut ransom their kin,” Sharur persisted. “Had he done so, you would have told me plainly.” I hope you would have told me plainly.
“Enimhursag has not refused, but neither has Enimhursag assented,” Ushurikti said. “Enimhursag has not responded at all. In most such times, the god will say aye while my courier waits at his temple; sometimes he will even say aye through a chance met man while my courier is still on the road toward the city of Imhursag. But my courier delivered the customary letter, and the god told him he would respond in his own time. That time has not yet come round.”
“How strange,” Sharur said, and the slave dealer nodded emphatic agreement. “I wonder why.”
“So do I,” Ushurikti replied. “It is a puzzlement. It is most unlike Enimhursag, of all the gods there be, to break custom. He has ever been one to stand for doing things as they were always done.”
“That he has; it is one of the reasons he hates Gibil and the Giblut so,” Sharur said. He scratched his head. “I wonder if he fears letting the Imhursagut whom we captured return to his city, lest they tell their kin we live better and more pleasantly than they. For, having been to Imhursag, I speak the truth when I say we do live better and more pleasantly than the Imhursagut. No one who has seen Gibil and Imhursag both could doubt it.”
“Not even a slave?” Ushurikti asked.
“Not even a slave,” Sharur declared.
Ushurikti also scratched his head. He plucked at his beard, a caricature of a man thinking hard- At last he said, “It could be so, master merchant’s son. It could well be so, in fact. It makes more sense than any notion J have had for myself. And, while I have never seen Imhursag, I have had enough dealings with Imhursagut and with Enimhursag himself to know that I would never want to live in a city with those men and ruled by that god.”
“Nor would I,” Sharur said.
“But I will tell you something else,” Ushurikti said, “and that is that, even here in Gibil, living is not always so easy as we wish it would be. Why, not long after you and that Zuabi mercenary brought that Duabzu fellow in to me, the priests of Engibil came through here like locusts—locusts, I tell you—in search of something they said had been stolen from the god’s temple. I think they only wanted the chance to snoop, and I shall not change my opinion. As if I, a reputable trader, would for a moment harbor stolen property, human or otherwise, here in my establishment.”
“I heard the priests of Engibil and also the servants of Kimash the mighty lugal were searching through the city for some such thing,” Sharur said. “I do not know much about this, for I had already gone back to the camp in the north and to the fighting we did there.”
“Of course.” The slave dealer’s head bobbed up and down. “But I mind me, master merchant’s son, that the priests were asking a good many questions about this Zuabi. All Zuabut being thieves, my guess is that they wanted to blame the crime—if crime there was—on him so they would not have to do anything more in the way of proper looking themselves.”
“It could well be so,” Sharur replied. Ushurikti was indeed a man of no small weight in the city—if he believed something that cast scorn upon Engibil and his priests, he would help make others in Gibil do likewise, which would in turn help reduce the influence of the god and his priesthood.
“I should say it could,” Ushurikti said now. “Why, at that entertainment you put on outside the god’s house on earth—for which, honor to you and to your generosity—did you hear that white-bearded fool of a priest ranting and raving against everything that makes life worth living? If he had his way, life would not be worth living.”
“No doubt you are right,” Sharur said. “Old Ilakabkabu is more sour than a pickled onion.” And yet, the old priest had been far closer to correct about Habbazu’s attempted thievery of two nights before the entertainment—and about much else besides—than had Burshagga, who was a man of the new. But being right had done him no good, a twist of fate Sharur savored.
“Ha!” Ushurikti said. “Well put, master merchant’s son. Well put. I shall send a messenger hotfoot to the house of Ereshguna when the lugal restores to me Nasibugashi and Duabzu, in whom you have an interest, or when I hear from Imhursag—or rather from Enimhursag—on the matter of ransoms.”
“You are gracious.” Sharur bowed. “I know I may rely on you. You are a conscientious man.”
Ushurikti beamed. “Praise from a man who
is praiseworthy is praise indeed. Insofar as I can make it so, everything shall be as you desire.”
“For your kindness and your care, I am in your debt,” Sharur said. After exchanging more polite formulas with the slave dealer, he went on his way. He had not learned what he had come to learn, but he had learned that what he had come to learn was there to be learned. That, too, was knowledge worth having, and he took it back with him to the house of Ereshguna.
A druggist came into the house of Ereshguna and asked Sharur, “Have you any of that powdered black mineral from the mountains? You know the one I mean: the one I mix with perfumed mutton fat and sell to the women, that they may darken their eyebrows and eyelashes with it, and perhaps paint beauty marks on their cheeks or on their chin.”
“My master, I believe I do, but it has been some little while since anyone asked me for it, so I shall have to rummage about to find it.” Sharur duly rummaged on shelves and through storage jars, and at last came up with a small pot ornamented with the face of a woman with entrancing eyes. “Here you are: first grade, finely ground. How much do you require?”
Before the druggist answered, he took a tiny pinch of the powder, brought it up to his face to examine it closely, and rubbed it between forefinger and thumb to see just how finely it was ground. At last, grudgingly, he nodded. “It is as you say it is. Weigh me out four keshlut.”
“It shall be as you say,” Sharur replied. As he piled the cosmetic powder on one pan of the scales to balance the four little bronze weights on the other, he went on, “The price is two thirds of the weight in silver.”
The druggist screamed at him. He had expected nothing else, and screamed back. They settled on a price of one half the powder’s weight. Sharur would have settled for even a little less than that, which was nothing the druggist needed to know. The man took broken bits of silver from the pouch on his belt and set them on the scales until he had two keshlut there.
Turtledove, Harry - Novel 12 Page 40