PROLOGUE

  On the pale flats of the Subar desert there stood a grove, like a grassy stain on a crisp white sheet, and in the shadows of the date-palms crowding the grove’s pool a trio of bandits waited. One knelt over the still water and by its reflection shaved, scraping stubble with a flint-knapped knife, while his little cousin, whose upper lip had yet to blossom, groomed a lean donkey. As the brush passed between its twitching ears it turned to kick him, but the boy maneuvered alongside. “Hush.” he said, and stroking the animal he glanced at the trio’s eldest. A full beard wreathed his face and a single eye bejeweled it, and the eye spared no glance in return but stared straight ahead at the mud-brick walls of a dilapidated villa. There, whoever cultivated the date grove dwelled.

  The one-eyed man drummed the haft of his spear and muttered. “By the gods. Where is he?” And then, as if to answer the question, a hand sprang up and gripped the villa’s wall. A second hand followed, and between them a young man’s face. Eresh-Kigal, the last Gray Wolf, grinning through the knife in his teeth. He mounted the wall side-saddle and the one-eyed man stepped closer. How many? he mouthed. Eresh-Kigal took the knife in hand and licked his gums. Adjusted his headband and his long, plaited hair. One-eye scowled. How many? he repeated. The Gray Wolf held a finger up, stroked an imaginary beard, and rested his face against an open palm. Then he let himself fall, dropping to the ground as quietly as an over-ripened fig. He motioned for the youngest to toss him his loincloth, left behind to keep from getting dirty, and snatching it out of the air he unfurled the triangular sheet of linen and fastened two of its corners around his slender waist.

  “Not enough to last four till harvest,” he said, “and not much worth taking.” The triangle’s third corner, which dangled like a tail, he pulled between his legs and through the belt he’d tied so that it covered his manhood. “Might still be Chosen out there. I say we’re guests. Pilgrims who’ve missed the last caravan.” He glanced at the donkey and the boy. “Keep watch and look after Fleafarm. We’ll bring you something to eat.” The boy nodded, and then looked to the one-eyed man.

  “Eresh-Kigal,” he said, striding towards him, “I took you into my band out of respect for your father, but let me make one thing clear. Never again will I or any of my kin ever take orders from a Gray Wolf.” The two stood face to face. Eresh-Kigal’s smile failed to reach his eyes, which were a pair of empty wells and in truth were wells no more, for a well without water is no well at all but a portal to the Undergloom, never again to slake men’s thirst or reflect the stars but only to hazard lives. And he did not step back. He had joined the band a weak and desperate boy, but he had grown, and now as the men stood nose to nose he stood the taller. Change was in the air. He’d seen it, One-eye more prickly by the day. Feeling the change. And though Eresh-Kigal was the younger man and the less experienced he was reared with the sons of kings. He’d hunted orynx from the back of a chariot. Had danced the war dance and boasted in verse. Had grappled nude and bent strong bows and thrown the javelin and sparred with all kinds of weapons—and with blades he’d never lost. He squeezed the handle of his knife. The two men stared, inhaling one another’s breath, each man waiting for the violence. And then One-eye’s brother, face half shaven, knife dripping, stood beside his kin—and offered Eresh-Kigal a scabbard. The Gray Wolf smiled. He had won a small victory, since One-eye had failed to handle him alone. But change would have to wait. “I didn’t presume to give orders.” Eresh-Kigal said, sheathing his blade and tucking it into his belt. “Only good advice.”

  “That’s what I thought.” said One-eye, and he shot a glance at the boy, “Keep watch and look after the ass. We’ll bring you something to eat.”

  They stood before a gate fashioned of dried and woven fronds. One-eye pounded it against the crossbar. “Anybody home?” he said. “Travelers starve at your door.” And they waited for the old man to stir. “Anybody?” One-eye pressed his face against the peephole and jerked suddenly back. It framed a bleary eye, which counted the men and the spear and vanished. The crossbar jiggled free. “Remember.” One-eye said. “I am the one who talks.” The date farmer groaned as he dragged the door aside. Then he stood in the threshold panting. A beard like a goat’s quivered beneath his toothless smile.

  “I am Jebé,” he said, “thrall to the Shrike Tree clan to whom this orchard belongs.” He stepped aside and gestured to a squat adobe hut. “On behalf of my noble masters, please allow me to offer the shade of this humble roof. Come in! Get yourselves out of the heat.” One-eye propped his spear against the wall and they followed Jebé through the courtyard and down into the hut. It was half-way underground, and instead of having windows the walls were perforated, letting in beams of sunlight speckled with floating dust. At the rear stood a row of earthenware jugs. All but the last were lidless and void. Jebé took the pile of rags that were his bed and, shaking the dirt free, spread them out over the cool, packed earth. “Please.” he said. They sat in a ring, with legs crossed and palms resting on thighs. He wiped a clay bowl and went to the last jug. Lifting the lid, he reached in shoulder deep and scooped a mound of dates. Though he walked slowly some rolled down the heaping bowl and fell upon the ground. Jebé set the bowl carefully before One-eye, the eldest, and waited for him to eat. “Please, it’s good.” But the single eye did not even look. He was holding out for more. “Of course!” Jebé said, smacking himself on the brow. “How could I forget?” And from a smaller jug he poured amber date-wine into a cup of clay. “Drink. You must be parched!”

  One-eye looked at him. “You’re far too kind.” he said. “Jebé, I could never take this.”

  The stone in Jebé’s throat bobbed. “Please, my lord, don’t insult my clan. We could spare twice as much! When this bowl is empty, you shall have another. When this cup is empty, you shall have another.” Overbrimming droplets ran down the clay and off his gnarled fingers. They were trembling. He glanced at his jug of dates mournfully. “And when you carry on with your travels, I insist you take that with you,” he said, “and the rest of the wine.”

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  “But Jebé.” One-eye said. “That’s the last of your food. You’ll starve to death before harvest.”

  Jebé waved a hand. “It’s nothing. I have the pits to grind. I will bake the flour.”

  “By Enlil, that’s generous. Are you sure?

  “I insist.”

  “Well.” One-eye said. “If you insist.” He took a sip and a date and passed the cup and the bowl to his brother.

  Jebé watched them accept his hospitality, and after each man had done so he sighed in relief and sank into his seat. “Now,” he said, crossing his legs, “now that you’re my guests, it’s time for a proper introduction. Tell me, strangers. Who are you? From where do you hail?”

  “My name is Keb-Relek,” One-eye said, speaking falsely, “and ashamed as I am to say it, we are beggars.” And he gave the Wolf a smile and a sidelong glance. “From Tidnum.”

  Jebé’s countenance fell. “By the gods,” he said, “to think that after all these years there are still survivors with no place to call their own. Curse the Gray Wolves! I tell you, those bastards deserved everything they got. They were cowards, craven and blasphemous! They observed no peace. They kept no promise. They broke every sacred custom known to gods and men!” And he stood, encouraged by One-eye’s countenance. “They could never have taken on the brave people of Tidnum in a fair fight. The Gray Wolves were weaklings! I tell you, old man that I am, that if I’d only gotten hold of one I’d have torn him limb from limb! Their men were women and their women were whores! Oh, Shepherd of Wandering Spirits,” Jebé said, raising his hands in prayer, “Oh, Deathless Ner’gal, may you curse the Gray Wolves! May you let their shades wander mute and senseless for all eternity! May they never find peace!” And the old man stood there huffing and glanced from guest to guest. One-eye and his kin exchanged knowing smiles. Eresh-Kigal, placidly chewing his dates, offered Jebé the bowl. “Thank you.” he said, and popping a date into his mouth he sat down and chewed—and joined the circuit of knowing smiles, though he did not know. He passed the bowl along. Eresh-Kigal took a draught and wiped his lips clean.

  “When my friend here told you who I was,” he said, “he did not tell the truth.”

  “Hmm?” The old man’s mouth was full.

  “I am not a beggar.” Eresh-Kigal said. “And I am not from Tidnum. I’m a Gray Wolf.”

  Jebé stopped chewing. He looked to One-eye, who barked out a laugh and thrust the bowl at his companion. “A joke, my friend. Only a joke.” Jebé mustered a weak smile. The Gray Wolf was staring at him and ignoring the bowl and slowly shaking his head.

  “I am Eresh-Kigal. My father was Kigal-Rem. Surely even a yokel like yourself has heard of him.”

  The old man gawped. A half-chewed date fell from his mouth. “You fool!” One-eye said, throwing the bowl at Eresh, who batted it aside and sent dates rolling in the dust. “Do you realize what you’ve done? Come harvest, these lands will be crawling with Chosen.”

  Eresh-Kigal looked at him. “Only if Jebé here gossips.”

  “My lords,” the old man said, painfully swallowing his morsel, “my lords, you have nothing to fear from me. I don’t gossip! Didn’t mean what I said about your clan, young prince. Forgive me, I was only making conversation. I won’t speak a word. I swear by Enlil the Oathkeeper himself! I’ll make a formal oath!”

  Eresh-Kigal grinned. “Do you believe him?” he said. “I don’t believe him.”

  “By the gods,” One-eye said, “I won’t have any part of this.” And standing he went to the door. “This is your mess. You clean it up.” His kin followed him out and left Jebé and the Gray Wolf alone.

  They sat amidst the scattered dates. Eresh-Kigal righted the overturned bowl. He picked a date up, cleaned the dust off, and dropped it in. Jebé’s voice was hoarse and tremulous. “Please, good prince. I’ve slaked your thirst I’ve quelled your hunger. You’re my guest—you can’t hurt me now!”

  Eresh-Kigal gathered dates. “But you said it yourself.” he said. “I’m a Gray Wolf. We keep no peace. We heed no sacred custom.”

  “My lord I am a poor witless fool and I spoke like one. I beg your forgiveness! A man of your noble bearing would never risk offending the gods.”

  “Damn the gods.” he said. “They’ve already cursed me. What more is there to fear?” And he pointed to Jebé’s foot. “There.”

  The old man blinked.

  “A date, by your foot.”

  There was a date by Jebé’s foot. “Oh.” he said, handing it over.

  “Thank you.” Eresh-Kigal said. He looked around for more spilled dates and, finding none, he stood. “Well, Jebé. It’s time.”

  The old man dove till his forehead slapped the ground and he grabbed the Gray Wolf’s ankles. “My lord spare me! I am dust beneath your feet!”

  “You called the Gray Wolves weaklings.”

  Jebé looked up. Tears were streaming down his wrinkled cheeks. “Empty words, my prince! The words of a fool!”

  “You said you’d tear us limb from limb. Now you’ll have a chance to prove it. Must have a knife around here somewhere.”

  “My lord, no! You are my guest. I could never dare to raise a hand against you!”

  Eresh-Kigal kicked free of the old man’s grip and rummaged through the basket in the corner. “Ah.” he said, withdrawing a bundle. Inside was a small blade of flint. “You should know that my one-eyed companion fears the gods, and I don’t think he likes me very much. If you prevail, I doubt he’d avenge me. Now stand.”

  The date farmer stood on wobbling legs. Eresh-Kigal presented the knife, handle first, and to Jebé it was a scorpion. “Take it.” But the old man recoiled. Eresh-Kigal seized his fingers and wrapped them around the handle, and as soon as he let go the date farmer did also and the flint fell to the ground. Jebé dropped in supplication and hugged the Gray Wolf’s knees.

  “Spare me I beg you! I will not tell a word!”

  The Gray Wolf looked down at him and sighed. “I cannot bring myself to kill an unarmed man. You’ll swear an oath?”

  “By Enlil, I thrall Jebé of the Shrike Tree clan will say nothing of your true name! I’ll say you’re from Tidnum. A beggar. If I lie, may the Sky Father himself smite me from this earth!”

  Eresh-Kigal frowned. “Very well.” he said, sheathing his knife, and he glanced over Jebé’s head. “But do me a favor. I missed a date.”

  “A date?”

  “Behind you.”

  The old man stared. “Behind me?”

  “Behind you. Right there on the ground.”

  Jebé released the Gray Wolf and turned slowly. Saw that there was no date. Then he gasped and reached behind him for the knife protruding and groaned as it plunged and plunged again and stayed there and twisted, and his final breath rattled out from his pierced and broken lungs.

  He lay there unshrouded and unburnt but he did not rise, for after two days he was found by a troop of thirsty Chosen. Lacking the wood or dried dung to fuel a pyre they buried him, face up, so that when his neck twisted and his head turned he would only dig himself deeper. And they swore an oath, that despite the lateness of the season and the leanness of their horses and the urgency of their waiting obligations they would hunt his killer down.