“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 argue 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?”