Sharur laughed, too, ruefully. “Perhaps I was wrong earlier. Then again, perhaps I am wrong now.” He wished he had thought of keeping the cup close by him earlier.
They walked past the house of Ereshguna. The house of Dimgalabzu lay a few doors farther up the Street of Smiths from Engibil’s temple. When Sharur turned to go into the doorway, Habbazu walked on straight for half a step before spinning on his heel to follow. “I am sorry,” Sharur said. “I forgot you did not know which house it was.”
“No harm done,” Habbazu answered. “Now I know which house it is. I shall not forget.” Coming from a master thief as it did, that was a promise Sharur would have been almost as glad to do without.
With Dimgalabzu gone to war, the smithy was quiet: no hammering, no scraping, no hiss of melted bronze burning off beeswax as it poured into a mold, no great crackling roar from the fires. Because the fires did not blaze as they did when Dimgalabzu was at home and working, that lower chamber was also cooler than Sharur ever remembered finding it. It was not cool—it was far from cool—but he did not at once begin to roast in it as if he were a chunk of mutton on a spit.
“Where is everyone?” Habbazu asked in a low voice that suited the dim quiet of the chamber.
“I do not know,” Sharur said. “A slave or two should be down here, if no one else. But slaves are lazy creatures. Perhaps they are lying on their mats instead.”
“Perhaps they have sneaked away to the entertainment you arranged in front of Engibil’s temple,” Habbazu said.
“Perhaps they have.” Sharur had not thought of that. He smiled; if the entertainment had distracted not only the priests but also Dimgalabzu’s slaves, so much the better. He also kept a close eye on Habbazu, not wanting the master thief to practice his craft in this house.
A woman’s voice came from upstairs: “Is someone down there?”
Now Habbazu eyed Sharur. Habbazu could not know whose voice that was. It could have been Ningal’s. It could have been her mother’s. It could have been a slave woman’s. Sharur would know.
Sharur did know. Relief filled him. Now he had at least a chance to do what he had hoped to do. “It is Sharur the son of Ereshguna, and a friend,” he called. Habbazu’s eyes lit up. He mouthed Ningal’s name. Sharur nodded.
But would his intended come downstairs by herself? Would Gulal, her mother, accompany her, as was customary? Would a slave woman accompany her if her mother did not?
She came down the stairs alone. Sharur’s heart leaped. Habbazu spoke in an admiring whisper. “You are a fortunate man.”
“I thank you,” Sharur whispered back. He raised his voice: “Ningal, I present to you my comrade, Burrapi, a mercenary of Zuabu.”
Habbazu bowed low. Politely, Ningal inclined her head. “Why do you and your comrade visit the house of Dimgalabzu?” she asked. By her tone, she meant, I’m glad to see you, but what is he doing here?
“I brought in to Ushurikti the slave dealer an Imhursaggi prisoner I captured,” Sharur replied. “Burrapi here accompanied me to help guard the man. Now we are going back to fight again. Before we go, we have something we need to leave with you.”
“What thing is this?” Ningal asked.
Sharur nodded to Habbazu. Habbazu opened the pouch he wore on his belt—a larger pouch than most men might wear, but nowhere near large enough to draw any special notice—and drew from it the Alashkurri cup he had stolen from the temple of Engibil.
This being the first time Sharur had set eyes on it, he stared with no small interest. But, as Habbazu had said, as the small gods Mitas and Kessis had implied, it was nothing out of the ordinary. He had drunk beer from cups like it many times in the mountains of Alashkurru. It was of yellowish Alashkurri clay, ornamented with twisting black-glazed snakes. The potter who had shaped it and fired it had been a capable enough man, but he was no master.
Ningal’s dark eyebrows rose as Habbazu handed her the cup. “What am I to do with this?” she asked.
“Keep it safe,” Habbazu answered. “Let no harm befall it.”
“Keep it secret,” Sharur added. “Let not Gulal your mother know you have it. Let not Dimgalabzu your father, when he comes home from the war, know you have it. Let not the slaves of this household know you have it. If the servants of Kimash the lugal come through the Street of Smiths searching, let them not know you have it. If the priests of Engibil come through the Street of Smiths searching, let them not know you have it, either.”
The eyebrows of his intended rose higher still, until for a moment they seemed almost to brush her hairline. “I had not thought anyone would speak thus of gold and lapis lazuli, let alone a common cup—except, I gather from your words, it is no common cup. What makes it other than a common cup, if one of outlandish style?”
Habbazu shot Sharur a warning glance. For his part, Sharur needed no warning. He said, “Better you had not asked this question. What you do not know, you cannot tell another.”
“If you cannot keep it thus, give it to us once more, that we may take it elsewhere,” Habbazu said. “For it must be safe. It must be secret.”
Ningal did not return the cup. “It shall be safe here. You have no business doubting that.” She looked indignant. “It shall be secret here. You may be certain of that.”
Habbazu glanced once more at Sharur, saying without words, You know her better than me, can we be certain of that? “If Ningal says a thing is so, you may rely on it,” Sharur said. He turned toward his intended and nodded. “It is good. Now we must go back to the fighting.”
“May Engibil keep both of you safe,” Ningal said. “May the god of this city hold harm away from both of you.”
“May it be so,” Sharur and Habbazu said together. Irony glinted in the master thief’s eyes. Sharur nodded, ever so slightly, to show he understood. If Engibil detected what they had done, he would neither keep them safe nor hold harm away from them. He would be far more likely to put them in danger and bring harm down upon them.
Gulal’s voice came from upstairs: “Who is it, Ningal?”
“A customer of Father’s and his friend, Mother,” Ningal answered. Strictly speaking, that was true, though what Sharur purposed buying from Dimgalabzu was Ningal herself. The words also gave Sharur and Habbazu the chance to slip out of Dimgalabzu’s house unnoticed by anyone but Ningal. She nodded to them both as they left.
While they were making their way up the Street of Smiths toward the northern gate of Gibil, Habbazu said, “That is indeed a fine woman you have as your intended. Not only is she good to look on, she has sharp wits as well. Over the years, you will come to value the second more than the first.”
Sharur made what he thought was a polite, noncommittal noise.
It must have been neither so polite nor so noncommittal as he had thought, for Habbazu burst into raucous laughter. “You think her wits will not matter so very much. You think on how she will look the night of her wedding, when you couple with her for the first time. You think of the pleasure your prong will know. Now, I have nothing against the pleasures of the prong—believe me when I tell you this is true. But believe me also when I tell you the pleasure you take in a woman’s good looks fades far faster than the pleasure you take in her good sense. I have more years than you; I know whereof I speak.”
Sharur considered the marriage between his father and his mother. Betsilim had been a beautiful young woman, nor had the years robbed her too badly. But Ereshguna relied on her now in ways he surely had not when she was younger. That was not because he had lost capacity, but because he had come to respect hers. Thoughtfully, Sharur said, “You may be right.”
“Ha!” Habbazu said in surprise, and clapped him on the back. “I did not look for you to admit even so much.” Side by side, they walked on toward the gate.