“Let us warn Ushurikti to watch him with care,” Sharur said. “He may seek to run away, and he is clever.”
“Were I so clever, would I be here?” Nasibugashi asked.
Neither Sharur nor Ereshguna heeded him. They had no need to heed him. He was a captive, in a city not his own. They took him to Ushurikti the slave dealer.
Habbazu bowed to Sharur. “Master merchant’s son, you have done what you set out to do. Engibil now surely heeds the northern border, not his own temple. This is surely the time to snatch from it the Alashkurri cup.”
“No, my friend from Zuabu, it is not quite the time, not yet,” Ereshguna said to the thief. “Here: see. We have fine gifts for you, better than any you could steal.”
Sharur presented the gifts to Habbazu: a bronze sword, its hilt wrapped with gold wire, in a leather sheath; a helmet of stiff leather, reinforced with bronze plate; and a leather corselet with overlapping bronze scales. “All these are yours,” Sharur said.
“They are very fine.” Habbazu bowed. “You are indeed generous to me. Whether they are finer than any I could steal, I do not know. I have pride in my thieving, as you have pride in your trading. But they are very fine. Still, I must ask of you: why do you give me a warrior’s tools, when I am not a warrior but a thief? Why do you give me these tools now, when thievery is needed? Why do you give me them now, when fighting is not needed?”
“Because fighting is needed: fighting against the Imhursagut,” Ereshguna answered. “After we have beaten them, while Engibil’s eyes remain on the northern border to make sure Enimhursag does not renew the fight, we shall hurry back to Gibil. Then indeed will thievery be needed.” Habbazu’s skinny face twisted into a grimace of distaste. “You think that, if I steal this Alashkurri cup while you are away from Gibil, I will keep it for myself. You think that, if I steal this cup while you are away from the city, I will take it back to Enzuabu.”
“Yes, we think that,” Sharur agreed. “Did you stand where we stand, would you not think that as well?”
To his surprise, the question made Habbazu grin. “Well, perhaps I might, master merchant’s son. Perhaps I might. Will you also pay me to fight for a city that is not mine?”
“We will,” Ereshguna said, and then he grinned, too. “Who says you are not a merchant as well as a thief?”
“I say so,” Habbazu replied with dignity. “Being a merchant is hard work. Being a merchant is also boring work. Being a thief is hard work, too, I cannot deny. But being a thief is never boring work.”
“Not even when you have to wait and wait before you can commit your theft?” Sharur asked slyly.
“Not even then,” Habbazu said. “While I wait, I commonly sit in taverns. I drink beer. I eat salt fish and onions. Sometimes I even eat mutton. If I see a pretty courtesan, I give her metal or trinkets to lie down on a mat with me and do as I desire. Perhaps some men would be bored with this life. If that be so, I am not among them.”
“That is not all there is to a thief’s life,” Ereshguna said. “If it were, all men would be thieves. No one would run a tavern. No one would brew beer. No one would catch fish or salt it. No one would raise onions. No one would herd sheep or butcher them. No courtesan would lie down on a mat for metal or trinkets if she could more easily steal them.”
“Master merchant, what you say is true, but it is true only in part,” Habbazu answered. “Many men are merchants. How many of them lead the life of a master merchant like yourself? Only the handful who are also master merchants, as you are. Many men, too, are thieves. How many of them lead the life of a master thief like myself? Only the handful who are also master thieves, as I am.”
“Indeed, you are not to be despised in argument,” Ereshguna said slowly.
“Indeed, he is not,” Sharur agreed. “If he can fight as well as he can argue, the Imhursagut will have yet another reason to flee the might of Gibil.”
Habbazu said, “I am not part of the might of Gibil. I am part of the might of Zuabu.” He held up a hand. Like his face, his fingers were long and clever. “If you would call me a Zuabi mercenary serving with Gibil, I should not quarrel, over that.”
“How generous of you,” Sharur said. He laughed to show he meant no offense. Habbazu laughed to show he took none. Sharur looked around. Shadows were thickening. Colors were fading. “Let us eat supper, then let us sleep. In the morning, we will march to the north with my brother Tupsharru. We will help beat the Imhursagut, and then we will return.”
No sooner had the words gone forth from his mouth than Tupsharru came into the house. “I see you have given Habbazu weapons,” he said. “He will fight for us before he steals for us?”
“He will,” Ereshguna said. “He is a Zuabi mercenary serving with Gibil. He says as much, so how could it be otherwise?”
“You mock me,” Habbazu said. “I am cut to the quick.” He mimed staggering about after having taken a deadly wound.
When Sharur, Ereshguna, Tupsharru, and Habbazu set out the next morning, they were not alone. The Street of Smiths was emptying. The men who made the weapons for Gibil also carried them to defend their city. Even bald, heavy Dimgalabzu shouldered a long-handled ax with a great head.
“Going to chop down some of those Imhursaggi palms, are you?” Ereshguna called on seeing the fearsome weapon.
“That I will,” Dimgalabzu answered. “That we will, all we smiths. We shall fight in the first ranks. Being full of the power of metalworking, we dread less than others might the force Enimhursag can bring to bear against us.”
“It is good,” Sharur said. “Kimash the lugal is wise to arrange his line of battle so.”
“It is good,” Ereshguna agreed. “We have had great profit by fighting thus against the Imhursagut in our past few wars.”
Habbazu looked interested. Eventually, Sharur suspected, Enzuabu would hear of the way the Giblut fought against Imhursag, and why they fought thus. What the god of Zuabu would make of that remained to be seen.
Dimgalabzu also looked interested—in Habbazu. “Who is this man who marches with you and your sons?” he asked Ereshguna.
“His name is ... Burrapi,” Ereshguna answered. “He is a Zuabi mercenary. Sharur here became acquainted with him when leading caravans through the land of Zuabu. He was here in Gibil when word came that the Imhursagut have gone to war with us. We will pay him well to fight for the city.”
Habbazu took for granted being named by a false name. He dipped his head to Dimgalabzu. The smith gave a similar walking bow in return. Chuckling, Dimgalabzu said, “Be careful that he has come here to fight, not to steal. You know what they say about Zuabut.”
“A few thieves have spoiled the reputation of all of Zuabu,” Habbazu complained. Tupsharru coughed, as if at dust hanging in the roadway. Sharur and Ereshguna held their faces straight. They were both more experienced merchants than Sharur’s younger brother. Sharur did not have an easy time of it, experience or no.
On they marched. The smiths, who were men with powerful upper bodies, did not use their legs so much in their work. They were also wealthy men. They clubbed together to buy a donkey in a village through which they passed, and loaded their weapons and accoutrements onto it. After that, they tramped along with lighter loads and gladder hearts.
Peasants marched north, too. Before long, the road became crowded, for other peasants, men and women and children, were fleeing south, often leading their livestock. “The Imhursagut!” they cried, as if men heading toward the foe with weapons in hand did not know whom they would be fighting.
In time, Ereshguna pointed toward the northern horizon. “Smoke,” he said. “They are burning our fields. They are burning our villages. They will pay the price for burning our fields and villages.”