Excerpt from Gaebrel’s Gamble

Here is an excerpt from Gaebrel’s Gamble

The first book of the Nine Suns

“Almost time to die, you maggots!” The chief jailer whacked his baton against the iron bars of the cells, laughing as several of the inmates scrambled back. “That’s right, practice your shakin’! The mob expects a good show, don’t you know! Better not disappoint!”

The jailer laughed again, being one of those fortunate fellows easily amused by anything and everything he came across. He passed by the last cell on the block, his fat greasy face peeking through the bars of the door. “Here now, don’t you look a pretty sight! How much for a kiss then, my lovely?”

“You couldn’t afford me,” Gaebrel Harrn answered back calmly, adjusting the collar of his freshly laundered shirt. “Better stick with dogs and pigs, they’re more to your liking.”

The jailer laughed uproariously, as if those were the funniest words he’d heard in years. “Sun and bones, you be a clever one, Harrn! Gotta say, I be missing you after.”

“Then maybe you can open that door, let me walk out.” Gaebrel picked up his coat from off the back of the chair. “You’ll then have ample opportunity to share in my cleverness.”

“Would that I could, boyo.” The jailer shook his finger. “But mob wants its show, and you be the prize attraction at the moment. They be calling your name.”

“I always aim to please.” The faint lilt in his voice became more pronounced as he put on the coat, his eyes focused on the wall, his mind on what was to come.

The jailer frowned. “Been meaning to ask you, Harrn…where the hell be you from? No accent like that I ever heard, and I heard a lot. Jasovani? The Northern Duchies? Or Tiazhaad, maybe?”

“The Harza States.”

The jailer frowned. “Where be that? One of them strange lands down in the South?”

“Far away from here.” Gaebrel gave the coat one last adjustment. No mirror in here, he had to use his best judgment. At least it fit, they got his size right.

Further bantering with the jailer was cut off by the sound of an iron door banging open, followed by indistinct shouts. The jailer looked over with a smile. “It’s time.”

“As it shall be for every man.” Gaebrel turned about, fastening one last button. “Lead on, if you please. Let’s get this over with.”

The prisoners were led out of the cells, guards armed with muskets and blunderbusses watching with wary eyes as they marched down the long central hallway and through a wide open door to a waiting courtyard. Wagons stood there, the beds surrounded by iron bars that turned them into cages with wheels, each pulled by a pair of flightless birds taller than a man with gray plumage. One of them pecked forlornly at the ground in search of something to nibble, the others waited placidly, their size matched only by their intelligence in the inverse.

“In you go!” Guns were pointed and one by one the condemned were herded in, the doors locked and chained behind. The jailers gave them cheerful waves as the wagons rumbled out of the courtyard, through a main gate and into the crowded streets beyond, lined with people eager for a glimpse of men about to make a close acquaintance with Death. A few ragged cheers came from some throats, duly accepted by the more magnanimous inmates as though they were kings enjoying the accolades of peasants. Others hurled cabbages and moldy fruit, splattering the projectile against the bars to the sound of insults and curses, partaking in that ancient peculiarity of the human soul of mocking those whom fortune had seemingly abandoned.

Gaebrel ducked his head aside as an apple core bonged against one of the bars, bits of juice and pulp splattering across the convicted thief and rapist sitting next to him. Ignoring the man’s curses, he looked out at the faces passing off to the side, the men in the shirt vests and round caps typical of this kingdom, the women in those odd headdresses. Six years now he’d been on Cunerin, the most ever spent on a single world since he left the place of his birth. Half of them spent wandering about Tiazhaad, perfecting his grasp of the local languages, then taking a seagoing ship to those strange lands of the southern continent (which hadn’t seemed so strange to his eyes, truth be told. The locals did have the habit of going about bare above the waist, men and women both, which made perfect sense given the climate but scandalizing those living to the north.) Then across the Sea of Spires, so named for the ancient stone pylons rising up from the sea bed to stab at the sky, a marvel to behold and a constant source of hazard to navigation. Never staying in one place, never putting down roots. There was always a new horizon to cross, new lands to see, new voices to hear…new riches to steal. Always somewhere else to go. Nothing would tie him down…except now he was bound for death, about to make friends with the hangman’s noose. And the one thing truly annoying about this whole affair – they weren’t hanging him for anything that he actually did, but for something that he didn’t. A different man would have found it ironic…but that fellow likely wouldn’t be dancing on air within the hour.

As that particular thought passed through his head, a hand drifted involuntarily to the inside pocket of his coat. The clothes were delivered last night. The guards never got a clean look at the one who delivered them, except that it was a woman. Which didn’t clarify things in the slightest, since there were any number of ladies in Tasevanya who might be likely candidates. He’d only been here a few months, but they were busy ones, to say the least.

He found the note tucked in a pocket. Plans are in motion, it said. The hangman is one of ours, do as he says and you will live through this. Your friends haven’t forgotten you.

One of the birds made a honking sound, clattering its peak and skipping slightly in the traces. The driver cursed, jabbing the beast with a long prod, forcing it back into position. The wagon jerked a bit, the men in the back swaying as they rounded a corner and entered the main square. A roar of applause struck them like a wave, city watchmen keeping a clear path through the masses for the condemned to pass through. Gaebrel resisted the urge to stand up and bow like an actor on the stage. One by one the wagons came to a halt, to be met by yet more armed guards – city watchmen this time from the bowl-shaped helmets on their heads – who removed the contents of each conveyance one by one, escorting them up to the gallows for the all-important preliminaries.

The crowd had already been subjected to the pre-hanging speech, delivered this day by one of the senior priests from the Temple, who expounded greatly on the virtues of obedience to the law and necessity of resisting ones baser urges, along with the importance of loyalty to the current occupant in the Royal Palace, looming over the proceedings like some sort of ancient beast which it would be best not to awaken. Since the fellow delivering it was a priest, the crowd listened with respect, many making any number of holy signs when he was done.

Onto the main event. The first batch of prisoners were brought up, fourteen men in all. A notary read off their names and the crimes for which they were condemned from a list, while the hangman in his traditional green hood and jacket fitted each neck with a noose. Afterward, he might allow those whose crimes were truly heinous or who possessed some measure of notoriety to make a speech, uttering a few final words of repentance or a fiery declaration of defiance unto death.

But all of the men in this first lot were petty thieves and hardly merited the honor. One of them tried to speak anyway, but only got out a few words before a black hood was pulled over his head. “I swear I never….!”

The priest uttered a brief prayer then stepped back smartly. A yank on the lever, the bottom hatch fell, and fourteen men dropped as one, the muffled cracks of their necks hidden under the roar of the crowd, who watched the bodies jerk and twist on the ropes with the appreciation of true connoisseurs. Much to his disgust, the hangman had botched one of the nooses and it failed to snap the neck, so there was a delay of several minutes while the fellow in question was strangled to death. The hangman was embarrassed out of professional pride, though no one else seemed all that upset.

Afterward the final death check was made in the traditional manner for this region by pressing a glowing hot brand against the face of each corpse, which also served the purpose of marking it as the remains of a condemned criminal to be disposed of like so much other trash. Tasevanyan’s were nothing if not efficient in such matters. The corpses were tossed back into the wagon that brought them here, while the next batch was led up.

Being in the fourth wagon, Gaebrel had ample opportunity to observe the proceedings, noting the differences in the local methods versus others he’d seen in other lands and other worlds. Hanging…well, that was a classic. Hard to go wrong with a rope and wooden beam. In Tiazhaad they went for public beheadings, sometimes a dozen at a time, right in the market square. A man could go out to buy a sack of onions and as an added bonus see some other fellows head bounce across

the ground. But perhaps the most exotic method of disposing those deemed surplus to requirements had to be the Pig of Calabrenas…seen from afar as a boy with his father. A giant brass contraption made in the shape of a boar, the insides would be stuffed with five or six miscreants and one time and then roasted over an open fire until red hot. The screaming coming out of the nose vents sounded much like that of an angry hog from a distance…

Nothing like that here, the good people of Tasevanya seeing themselves as hearty, no-nonsense folk with little patience for such degenerate methods! No, mass hangings followed by a general holiday, that was the civilized way of doing things.

Gaebrel’s reverie was cut short when the back of his wagon opened. “Let’s go,” said a watchmen. One by one the men stepped out. Gaebrel stood up straight, arms bound in front, bearing up the scorn of the crowd with pride. He would not die here today…not like this. Unless that note had been a cruel joke of some sort…his eyes met that of the hangman, and there was a flash of recognition. The fellow knew his face.

The notary bellowed out their names as nooses were fitted to their necks. “Yavlan Isuvarias! Convicted of burglary, theft of livestock and damage to property! Condemned to death by hanging!”

A cheer followed this, blood lust running through the crowd.

“They’re running late,” the hangman whispered in his ear as he fiddled with the knot.

“What?”

“Ododvan Harviadanen! Convicted of the stealing of corpses for illegal dissection! Condemned to death by hanging…”

“I can’t slow the proceedings without drawing suspicion. You have to delay them somehow…”

“…of sodomy, rape and general lewdness…”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“…death by hanging…”

“Think of something, you’re a clever man.”

“…death by hanging…”

“I hate it when people say that…”

“…death by hanging!” The notary, his voice a bit raw at this point, went to the last name on his list. “Gaebrel Harrn! Convicted of the most grievous ravishment of a lady of noble rank…”

“That was you?” the hangman asked with some astonishment.

“‘Ravishment’ isn’t how I’d describe it.”

“Condemned to death by hanging!”

“Speech! Speech!” came the cry, picked up by others in the crowd. “Speech! Let him speak…”

“There’s your chance.” The hangman shoved him forward. “Talk as long as you can.”

Gaebrel raised his bound hands high. “People of Tasevanya!” he called out, his voice carrying across the square. “I am Gaebrel Harrn, and it seems I am to your afternoon’s entertainment!”

A wave of laughter followed. “I can only hope that my performance will exceed those of the men came before me!” He gestured at the cart loaded down with stiffening corpses. “Yet in truth there is no man here more deserving of punishment than I! Many are the crimes that stain my soul. I confess to stealing the property of other, of lifting purses from the pockets of distracted wives, of smuggling various contraband across countless borders! I have insulted men and women of high station, patronized houses of ill repute and committed all manner of acts nefarious and shameful! I confess, my soul is tainted…so it is an supreme irony that the crime for which I am to swing is the one offense I have never engaged in! Ravishment…such an ugly word, and hardly the truth of what happened that night, unless it has a different meaning here!” He spotted the young lady in question, the cause of his recent travails, sitting on a reserved stand near the gallows. Clothed in black, a slender maiden barely out of her teens who blushed prettily at his gaze. Beside her was a man much older and fatter, who glowered first at her, then at him.

“I confess to enjoying her company on that clear summer night…and that she was eager for it to begin and reluctant for it to end. Hardly ravishment by any measure! I would also pay honor to her husband, a man whose name is well known among the people of this realm.” Gaebrel bowed ostentatiously at the man, all eyes in the square turning to the stand. “A man of great wealth and…ample appetites. Though I do hear rumors about his lack of stamina certain respects.” He made a flopping gesture with one of his hands.

The husband, red-faced with outrage, shouted something back towards the gallows, but was drowned out by the roar of laughter from the crowd. Gaebrel grinned, bowing again and taking a breath for another spate of wordifying. The notary made a chopping gesture with his hand and two watchmen hauled him back.

“Enough!” the notary snapped at the hangman. “Get it over with!”

The hangman nodded, then waited until he was out of earshot to whisper, “Nice speech. Is that how it happened?”

“Every word. What now?”

“Well…” The hangman set the knot of the noose just under and behind his left ear. “Seeing as we’re out of time, I’ll have to pull this lever and send you to whatever gods you worship.”

“What…”

“Looks like they’re not gonna make it. My apologies.”

“Wait a moment…”

The hangman stepped to the lever, wrapped his hands around the shaft, ready for the final pull…

BOOM!

The top floor of a building on the far side of the square suddenly vanished in a cloud of smoke and debris. Everyone turned to look, watching in amazement as the roof transformed into a cloud of fragments, taking with it a pair of spectators who’d climbed up for a good view of the executions. Screams filled the air as another house exploded, followed by several barrels stacked against a wall.

A loud rolling squawk cut through the din as several riders mounted on giant birds trotted in the square, firing off pistols and waving swords above their heads. Their leader drew a truly fearsome looking saber and pointed it at the gallows. With a yell he spurred his mouth, feathers flying behind as he charged through the crowd, people diving out of his way Within moments the place was in chaos, ordinary citizens running away as fast as they could, many of them being trampled underfoot, watchmen and soldiers trying to get at the riders. More guns fired and a pair of watchmen went down with holes where their faces should have been. The rest of the riders caught up with their leader, shooting and slashing anyone who got in their path.

The remaining watchmen fled. The hangman came up beside Gaebrel. “Lucky for you, eh?” he said, cutting the ropes around his wrists before jumping off the gallows and legging it.

A rider trotted up by the gallows, wearing a broad floppy hat, his face hidden below the eyes by a scarf. “Get on!” he said, voice slightly muffled by the cloth. Gaebrel didn’t argue, jumping onto the back of the mount, wrinkling his nose slightly at the smell of musty feathers. He glanced leftwards to the young woman staring at him from the stand. Of her husband there was no sign. He gave a wink and a grin, just before the rider snapped the reins and they sped off, headed out of the square and down a side street. The others followed behind, alarm bells ringing in their wake.

Left, right, left…past the square the streets narrowed into a maze of tiny alleys and passages. One of the men cursed as his head banged against a shop sign, knocking away his hat. People scattered before them, men ducking into alleyways, women pulling their children inside houses and slamming the doors.

They halted before a livery stable. “Dismount!” came the order, the riders sliding to the ground and slapping the backsides of their steeds. Outraged squawks sounded as the giant birds galloped away riderless, headed in any direction that was open. “That’ll buy us some time,” said the leader. “Everyone inside!”

They went into the stable, closing the doors behind. Birds of various shapes and sizes stared at them from behind the stable doors, large eyes devoid of anything resembling intelligence. The riders – his rescuers – pulled away their masks and hats. Gaebrel recognized one of the faces. “Halvarin.”

“Gaebrel.” The man was a respected leader among the rebels, known for his dash and daring and complete lack of any sense of fear. The bearded face with the scar on his forehead was said to haunt the dreams of the current Grand Prince, not to mention the fantasies of any number of youths and maidens. “Got there just in time, it seems.”

“My thanks and my compliments. No one else could have pulled that off.”

“Well…it’s the least one can do for a friend.”

“And you can never have too many friends.” Gaebrel looked around the stable. “So, what’s the next step? Do we take these mounts and ride for the country?”

“Not exactly. Turn around, if you please.”

Gaebrel heard the sudden change in tone. “Is something wrong?” he said, turning back to Halvarin and finding a pistol pointed right between his eyes. Halvarin’s thumb cocked back the hammer.

“What is this?”

“Hands up, that’s a good fellow.”

Gaebrel slowly raised his arms. “Was it something I said?” he asked, just before a burlap sack was dropped over his head.

“As you can guess, we’re somewhat upset with you.”

Someone whipped the bag off his head, leaving behind the faint odor of stale turnips. Gaebrel blinked, his eyes adjusting to the sudden infusion of light from the lamps. They’d seated him on a chair and bound his arms to the back with cord. “I can’t imagine why,” he replied, looking about, taking in the surroundings.

It was a warehouse, judging from the stacked crates and wide door at the far end., currently closed and barred. What light there was came from several oil lamps placed on the tops of boxes. Standing about were men and women, all of them armed, wearing dark clothes accented with red sashes around their waists, which he supposed was meant to make them look dashing. The women had forgone the usual peaked headdresses of this land, many preferring floppy bag-like hats atop their unbound hair that hung off to one side. Rebellion had its fashions like any other endeavor.

“Think hard,” Halvarin said, standing before him, arms crossed over his belly, a pistol in each hand. “I’m sure it will come to you.”

Gaebrel shook his head. To the left, he caught the eye of one of the women, a face he knew…among other body parts. A grin curved his lips as he met her gaze. She rolled her eyes and looked away, cradling a musket in her arms.

“Hey!” Halvarin poked him with a gun barrel. “Eyes up front! None of your smiles now, they won’t be of much use to you!”

“What did I do to merit such a disagreeable welcome, Halvarin? I thought we were friends, all us friends…”

Halvarin laughed at that, the others chiming a moment later. “You have a strange way of treating your friends, Gaebrel Harrn…robbing them blind behind their backs while smiling to their faces. Do you think we risked life and limb and everything in between breaking you free of the gallows because we’re friends?” He snorted at the very thought. “It was done because if anyone is going to kill you, it’ll be me! Someone fetch a chair!”

One of his men brought over a stool and set it on the ground. Halvarin sat down with a sigh. “Glad to rest my feet. Now Gaebrel, every man has his fault, some quality that overwhelms whatever virtues he might possess deep in his soul, which in turn only adds to the general degradation of the universe. Your fault is being a scheming bastard of an outworlder who never knows when to leave well enough alone. But me…my fault is that I am forgiving. I overlook the failings of others far more than is healthy or wise. Take those guns you sold us, five crates of muskets you swore were a match for anything the army had in its arsenal and proved to be anything but. Now another man would have been upset by all that rust fouling the barrels, but not I. Or that half the flints were swapped out with chunks of colored glass…but there also I forgive you. Rust can be polished off and flints replaced. The ancestors know we’ve had to make do with worse over the last few years.”

Then he leaned forward, grips tightening on the pistols. “But you selling us those same guns five times over, that I will not forgive.”

Gaebrel could feel the eyes of the rebels bearing down on him, goads to a guilty conscience that he did not possess. “You’re upset,” he said, adopting the most reasonable tone he could under the circumstances. “It’s understandable. Perhaps if I offered a refund…”

“Do I look like an old woman returning a spoiled apple to the grocer?” Halvarins face reddened. “Men like you…all the same, they never change. Mercenaries, thieves and whores in fine coats, selling their own grandmothers for a handful of tarnished brass. But we…” he swept his arm across his followers gathered in the warehouse. “We are patriots! Freedom fighters, who will gladly shed our blood to overthrow the usurper and restore the rightful Grand Prince, may the ancestors protect his soul!”

The other rebels stamped their feet in salute, observing a moment of silence for their lord in exile, deposed three years past by his perfidious younger brother. Fighting to replace once inbred wonder with another, Gaebrel thought to himself. Once he’s in power you may as well be invisible. “Sounds like a capital fellow.”

“And once he returns, Tasevanya will be restored to her rightful glory…but thanks to you that may not happen.”

“Five crates of old guns are the cause of your downfall?”

Halvarin shook his head. “Those guns were needed for a reason. You see, Gaebrel…three years ago, when Prince Yusavari plotted his coup, he knew that all the traitors in the realm willing to side with him wouldn’t be enough to defeat our lord. So he made an arrangement with the Wennatan’s. You’ve heard of Wennata, I trust?”

Gaebrel nodded slowly. “Only rumors. It’s a moon around one of the outer planets in the system. Ruled by a bunch of Arcanist’s.”

“And a real vile lot they are…little wonder they got along with our putrid Prince. They agreed to provide all the help he needed to seize power, in return for a truly outrageous price. Yusavari got the throne and for the last three years bled Tasevanya white from taxes and confiscations so he could pay his debt. A treasure ship is due to arrive in six months time to carry it all back to Wennata. Our plan was to seize it in the name of the rightful Grand Prince, giving us funds for the revolution and ruining the Usurpers relationship with his allies, who look on unpaid debts the way other men look on cockroaches. Your scheme has blown a wide hole in our planning…you can’t mount a job like this without lots and lots of guns. Unless something changes we’ll have to watch that ship fly away with the wealth of the realm and our lord remain in permanent exile.”

Havildan shook his head. “Right, enough talk. Time to die.” He stood, slipping the pistols into his belt and pulling out a knife. Going behind Gaebrel, he pulled back his head, exposing the neck. The cold metal of the knife pressed against his flesh…

“Sst! One of the rebels stationed by the door raised his hand. “Some noise in the street…” His eyes widened. “Cavalry!”

“What?” The knife dropped from Gaebrel’s throat. “How did they find us? Were you followed?”

“No, never, I swear…”

Something heavy bashed against the warehouse door. The bar locking it shut cracked and fell to the floor. Muffled shouts came from outside, wheels rumbled on cobblestones. The floors flew open with such force that they fell off their hinges. The back end of a large wagon stood in the gap, reinforced with iron bars and sporting a ram shaped like a clenched fist. It pulled away, replaced by a squad of shouting soldiers firing wildly into the warehouse.

“Resist!” Halvarin yelled, pulling out his pistols. The rebels fired back, shouting curses at the forces of the Usurper. Cries filled the air along with acrid white smoke.

Gaebrel ducked down. There was a scream to his left and he thought he saw someone fall to the ground. Footsteps came up from behind, there was the scrape of a knife, and then his hands were free.

“Come on!” said a familiar voice, jerking him to his feet.

Gaebrel didn’t need to be told twice, springing to his feet and following his rescuer away from the gunfire. Halvarin shouted something incomprehensible as they ducked out a back door and went down an alleyway, the sounds of battle following behind.

They came to a halt alongside a rundown building nearby. The woman shoved Gaebrel against a wall and kissed him hungrily on the mouth. She was older than him by a decade, full-lipped and full-figured, her long curly hair tumbling down her back. “You didn’t think I’d leave you there?” she growled.

“Perish the thought! After all the things we shared…”

“One thing in particular.” A smile crossed her face. “Tell me Gaebrel, did you really spend the horizontal with that skinny little girl like they say you did?”

“Rest assured I thought of you the entire time, Rovinda my dove!”

“That’s what I wanted to hear.” A spate of shouts erupted in the distance to the east, followed several shots and the sound of breaking glass. “You need to get off world and quick.”

“What about you?”

She laughed. “Isn’t that sweet? The brave gallant and his blushing maid…wait, have that backwards don’t I? Don’t worry about me, I have to find Havildan…”

“How do you know he’s still alive?”

“Trust me, it’ll take more than a few soldiers to take him down! But as for you…head to the landing field and look for a ship called Illia’s Wager, should be over on the western edge. The captain is an old friend, mention my name and he’ll take you aboard.”

“An old friend?”

“You’re not going to get jealous on me?”

“Well…”

“Sweet boy.” She kissed him again, then nipped his ear.

“Best be off with you. They leave at dawn.”

And then she was gone, disappearing into the night.

Gaebrel shook his head. “What a woman,” he whispered. More gunfire sounded this time disturbingly close. Shadows moved further down the streets, footsteps echoed off the walls, reminding him of the needs of the present.

Gaebrel turned and ran the other way.