Habbazu’s eyes twinkled. “Master merchant’s son, I hope you will forgive me, but I prefer your father’s way of putting it.”
“Go ahead—mock this city after you have fought for it in war,” Sharur said, laughing. He quickly grew more serious. “If, now, we break something those in your dream said was theirs, we also help to make into free men those who live a long way away from the land between the rivers.”
“If they live a long way away, why should I care about them?” Habbazu asked. “I did not care much about you Giblut until Enzuabu sent me to this city to rob the temple of the god.”
“And now, though you did not care much about us Giblut, you are practically a Gibli yourself,” Ereshguna said. “Did this not teach you that you should not neglect folk for no better reason than that they live a long way away?”
“It did not,” Habbazu admitted. “Perhaps it should have.”
“Shall we go, then?” Sharur asked. “Shall we recover from the house of Dimgalabzu something those in your dream said was theirs?”
That was the question Habbazu could neither evade nor avoid. He sighed. “Aye. Let us recover this thing.” He sighed again. “And, once it be recovered, I shall, as you say, begin to become a Gibli.” He sighed once more after that. “Well, no help for it, I suppose.”
Dimgalabzu bowed to Ereshguna. He bowed to Sharur. In some surprise, he bowed to Habbazu. After the men had exchanged polite greetings, the smith said, “I did not look to see you here in Gibil, Burrapi.”
Habbazu gave an airy wave of his hand. “A man who is always where you look to see him is a boring sort of man. Would you not agree, master smith?”
“I ''had not thought of it so.” Dimgalabzu’s expression was bemused. “Perhaps you speak the truth, or some of the truth. Still, I did not look to see you here, not with ...” His voice trailed away.
Sharur had no trouble completing the sentence Dimgalabzu was too polite to finish. Not with Kimash’s men looking for you, was one likely way it might end. Another, as likely, was, Not with the god of Gibil pursuing you.
“Father of my intended, the man from Zuabu is with us for good reason,” Sharur said. “He has good cause to be here.”
Dimgalabzu folded thick arms across his wide chest, which was shiny with sweat. “I would hear of the good reason the man from Zuabu has to be with you,” he said. “I would learn of the good cause he has to be here.” Behind his thick beard, his features revealed nothing.
“He came with me after our first fight with the Imhursagut, helping me to guard an Imhursaggi prisoner I was taking to Ushurikti the slave dealer,” Sharur said. “While we were in the city, he and I, we left something here in your house for safekeeping. Now we have come to get it back.”
The smith’s bushy eyebrows rose. “You left... something ... here ... in my house for safekeeping?” he rumbled. “What was this thing, and why did you presume to leave it here in my house?”
Neither of those was a question Sharur much cared to answer. Of the two, he preferred the second. “Father of my intended,” he said, “we presumed to leave it here in your house not least because your house is the house of a smith.” He watched Dimgalabzu bite down on that until he had chewed it up and extracted all the nourishment from it. The house of a smith, by its very nature, was a house into which a god had trouble seeing. Dimgalabzu did not need long to figure out why Sharur and Habbazu might have chosen such a house for that which they wanted to leave in safekeeping. His eyes widened. “This thing you left here in my house for safekeeping,” he began, “is it... ?”
Ereshguna held up a hand before Dimgalabzu could finish the question or Sharur could reply to it. “Some things are better left unasked,” Ereshguna said, “even in the house of a smith. Some things, too, are better left unanswered, even in such a house.”
The words, taken alone, were remarkably uninformative.
Yet Dimgalabzu had no trouble drawing meaning from them. The smith was not a young man, but he was a man of the new. He did not rush out into the Street of Smiths shouting that the thing stolen from the temple of Engibil now lay hidden in his house. In a quiet, thoughtful voice, he asked, “Why had I not heard you left something here in my house? Why did Gulal my wife not tell me? Why did Ningal my daughter not tell me? Why did my slaves not tell me?”
“Gulal your wife did not tell you because she did not know, or so I believe,” Sharur said. “Your slaves did not tell you because they did not know. Ningal your daughter did not tell you because I asked her to tell no one.”
Dimgalabzu’s eyebrows rose again. He plucked at his elaborately curled beard. “Ningal my daughter obeyed you very well,” he said. “Ningal my daughter obeyed you better than she is in the habit of obeying me.” His chuckle was a rumble deep down in his chest. “Ningal my daughter obeyed you better than she is likely to be in the habit of obeying you when she becomes Ningal your wife.”
Ereshguna chuckled at hearing that, too. So did Habbazu. Sharur ignored them. He ignored them so ostentatiously, they laughed out loud. He also ignored that, saying to Dimgalabzu, “Father of my intended, you asked why you did not know I had left something at your house. I have told you.”
“So you have,” the smith said. “So you have.” He plucked once more at his beard. Sharur waited to see what he would do next. Ereshguna and Habbazu also stood quiet, waiting. Dimgalabzu asked, “When you get this thing back, what will you do with it?”
The question made Ereshguna flinch, ever so slightly. It made Habbazu look away from both Dimgalabzu and Sharur. Sharur answered, “I do not yet know. We shall have to see what looks most advantageous.”
Dimgalabzu grunted. “Since I do not even know what sort of thing this is, how can I judge whether your answer is good or bad?” He sighed. “Only one way to find out I suppose. Ningai!” As Sharur had found on the battlefield, the smith could raise his voice to a formidable roar when he so desired.
“What is it, Father?” Ningal’s voice came from above. A moment later, she hurried down the stairs, a spindle still in her hand. When she saw Sharur and Ereshguna and Hab- bazu, she nodded to herself. After sending a quick smile toward Sharur, she said, “Ah. I think I know what it is.”
“Do you, my daughter?” Dimgalabzu said. “Do you indeed?”
“I think I do, yes,” Ningai said brightly, pretending not to notice her father’s tone. She turned to Sharur and went on, “The servants of Kimashdid come to this house while you were fighting the Imhursagut. I told them I knew nothing. The priests from the temple of Engibil also came to this house while you were fighting the Imhursagut. I likewise told them I knew nothing.”
“It is good.” Sharur bowed to her. “I am in your debt.” Habbazu bowed to Ningal. “We are all in your debt.”
“I do not yet know whether this is so,” Dimgalabzu said. He rounded on Ningal. “My daughter, why did you agree to hide this thing, whatever it may be, in our house? Why did you agree to tell no one of it?”
“I could not ask you what to do, Father, for you were in the field against the Imhursagut.” Ningai looked and sounded the picture of innocence and obedience—unless one noticed, as Sharur did, the sparkle in her eyes. “After a woman leaves her father’s home, she owes obedience to her husband. Being my intended, Sharur is almost my husband, and so I obeyed him in your absence—all the more so because he asked nothing dishonorable of me.”
“Why did you not ask your mother?” the smith demanded.
“How could I, Father, when Sharur asked me to speak to no one?” Ningal said in tones of sweet reason. “I would not have been obeying him had I done so.”