Soul Weaver: A Fantasy Novel

As usual, it was a beautiful day. The afternoon was hot, the temperature just shy of being too hot. The sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky studded with wispy clumps of cloud. Throughout the countryside, birds sang as they flitted from branch to branch. Squirrels and other small creatures frolicked between the trees and through tall grass caught somewhere between the rich greens of spring and the faded golden hues of autumn. People moved about the countryside as well, and for the most part they were happy people. They went about their business if business they had, and if not they made picnics in the fields or went swimming in the cool waters of mountain streams or deep, blue ponds. Trading ships moved up and down the rivers or out on the deeper expanse of the sea which separated the large island kingdom from the mainland.

In the southern reaches of that land, not far from the coast, lay a large and bustling city. Solstice was technically the capital, though the seat of government had moved outside the city a century or so earlier. Still, the city of Solstice was an affluent one and its people well-off for the most part. It was an orderly city of broad streets and tall buildings made of stone and brick and wood. Slate roofs topped the higher buildings, while here and there a one- or two-story house or inn might be covered with golden thatch.

The city walls blocked out most of the breeze, and throughout the city the air was still and just a little bit humid and stuffy. It was mid-afternoon, the hottest part of the day, and most of the citizens were indoors or keeping to the shade. There was a customary indolence to the people at this hour, when many retreated inside for afternoon naps or cool drinks in a dimly lit common room. Even so, the sprawling lower market district that made up the northwestern quarter of the city was still active and busy. There were visitors from other towns and the surrounding countryside, many of whom were wrapping up their day’s business in the city and turning their thoughts to getting outside the walls where it was cooler and making their way home, or perhaps hiring a room in one of the many inns. There were local merchants who braved the afternoon swelter to take advantage of the visitors in hopes of gold. There were hawkers moving up and down the market streets crying their wares while others leaned on counters in their stands or shop fronts and watched the others go by with varying degrees of laziness.

The market wasn’t crowded certainly, but it was hardly deserted. Here, a seller of meat pies pushed his cart along the streets. There, a jeweler lounged against the door frame out front of his modest, brick-walled shop. Across the street, a fabric seller examined the passers-by with a sharp eye out for signs of wealth and good taste. On the nearest corner was an open-fronted smithy, the ringing of steel emanating from within alongside shimmering gusts of almost visible heat. Across from the smithy was a bakery with a long window beside the front door. The window sill formed a wide, flat counter over which breads and pies passed in one direction, coin in the other. The bakery added its own heat to the swelter of the intersection, which was one reason few lingered at this particular crossroad. Those who did most often ducked inside the tavern sitting opposite the baker’s. Inside, they wiled the time over ale or wine, dallying until the baker and the smith closed up for the night and the sun set.

The sixteen-year-old girl who lounged against one wall of the tavern was certainly out of place. For one thing, no one ever lounged on that particular corner. Sweat beaded on the girl’s forehead and ran down the sides of her lean face. Her shoulder-length, somewhat shaggy dark hair was partially matted down with perspiration. Her dark brown eyes flashed this way and that, sharply alert in spite of her lazy stance and affected disinterest in those who passed her way.

Shel might have given the impression that she had merely stopped to lean against the wall and lost herself in some daydream or flight of fancy, but she was certainly not lost in thought. Again and again, her wandering eyes returned to the mark. She’d been watching him for days.

The fat man came trundling up the street pushing his ponderous cart laden with trinkets and cheap jewelry – more often gilding than gold, paste rather than gemstones. The street vendor was sweating profusely in the sticky heat of the market district, his face red with the exertion of pushing his heavy cart through the streets. He paused every few steps to wipe at his glistening face with a damp handkerchief which was always in his hand. The fat man had been at his trade since the earliest hours, even before the city gates were opened with the dawn, and now his day was drawing to its end. He lived in a three-story boarding house two streets further along from where Shel waited, and he passed by this way every single afternoon at this time. She had watched him all week, the way a hawk might watch its prey when it isn’t particularly hungry and hunts more for the pleasure of it than the need.

A less experienced thief might have strayed over a few streets, to a more closely packed section of the market where jeweler’s shops and haberdashers crowded so close together that they spilled thickly into the street and made walking a difficult and slow process. In that part of the city market, gold and jewels and other fancy trinkets were never far from a quick thief’s fingers – and Shel was one of the quickest. But while the opportunity was greater in that district, so too was the danger. Suncloaks – the imperial guardsmen who patrolled every town and city – stood watch on every corner and moved through the ever-present crowds in groups of three and four with their hands resting at the ready atop the heavy cudgels they carried.

Shel had learned her trade in those densely packed streets, but she had long since graduated from that dangerous school. And while the fat man’s wares were mostly garbage, fake relics and cheap imitations of fine jewels, Shel knew the bulging purse he kept hidden under his lightweight coat was filled with real gold. She could estimate to within five pieces or so exactly how much gold there was. She had watched him carefully, learning his habits and his history. It was a long and drawn-out process of preparation, but at last the moment had come. Today was the day. Today, the fat man would lose his purse.

He passed her by without stopping to mop his brow. The combined heat of the bakery and the smithy hung heavily over the intersection. No one stopped there, and the fat man was no exception. He pushed on by without so much as a glance in Shel’s direction. A few steps beyond the intersection he stopped, panting and wiping his brow repeatedly before pressing on. He was almost home. Shel watched him go, then pushed herself up from the wall and moved out into the flowing crowd to follow. In the same instant, she saw Rickon coming out of the flower shop one street further along. The boy – he was barely fourteen – clutched a ratty bouquet of wilting sunflowers and wore a goofy expression. He looked completely distracted, and it was no surprise when he stumbled against the fat man’s cart as though he hadn’t seen it.

“Watch it!” shouted the fat man angrily, always quick to anger. His beady eyes darted about, no doubt searching for nearby Suncloaks to call on to beat the foolish boy over the head for his insolence. Shel shook her head. So far as she knew, the fat man had never been targeted by any of the thieves who called this city home. Yet he was suspicious of everyone he saw and immediately assumed that any accident was the prelude to a violent robbery. She shouldn’t be surprised – the fat man made his living selling cheap fakes and imitations, though he charged prices fit for the real thing. In his own way, he was as big a thief as Shel or any of her gang – bigger, to Shel’s way of thinking – and no one fears a thief so much as another thief.

“Pardon, pardon,” stammered Rickon, his already wide eyes widening further until they looked to fall from their sockets. “So sorry!”

The fat man grumbled something at Rickon, but Shel had stopped listening. She slipped past the fat man’s cart on the other side, one hand darting deftly out and then vanishing back beneath her light cloak. Immediately, she veered away from the cart and into the narrow alley that ran between a brewer and a soul trader’s stall across from the florist. By the time Rickon satisfied the fat man and wandered away, she was safely hidden from view near the back of the alley.

The back of the soul trader’s stall was open to the tiny courtyard Shel’s alley opened into, a narrow space that stank of yeast and hops from the brewer’s. She stayed close to the back wall of the brewery and tried to look inconspicuous. Her eyes were drawn into the open stall, making sure the soul trader hadn’t noticed her. She needn’t have worried; the man was busy wheedling a young boy who couldn’t have been much more than ten.

“More gold than you’d know how to spend,” the trader promised the lad, who certainly looked like he could use the gold. He was a beggar-boy, dressed in crusted rags, his face grimed with dirt and sweat. He was scrawny and underfed and his eyes held the haunted look Shel had seen in the faces of so many of the poor.

The boy licked his lips at the mention of gold and nodded vigorously. The trader rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Beneath the counter of the stall, to either side of the merchant’s legs, Shel could see the open-topped barrels filled with cheap gemstones. In one barrel, the stones were dull, often colorless. The other barrel was less full, but its gems sparkled and shone with deep, vibrant colors. Some were smoky, seeming to swirl and pulse with inner turmoil.

Shel repressed a shudder and turned away from the transaction. More gold than he’d know how to spend. That was certainly one way to put it. She had seen Soulless before, and she thought she would almost rather be poor. The Soulless didn’t seem to know how to do anything, whether it was spending gold or just getting up to walk across the room. If that beggar boy didn’t have someone to look after him once he’d sold his soul, he’d likely end up dead within a month. Shel didn’t have much sympathy for the poor – who did? – but at least the beggars had a will to live.

Out on the street, the fat man had stopped glaring after Rickon and begun pushing his cart full of wares again. It was time to move on, and Shel was grateful for the chance to get out of the alleyway and away from the beggar-boy and the soul trader. She’d rather not think about such things.

As she came out of the mouth of the alley, the fat man was already straining his way up a hill. Two more intersections, and he would turn into the dead-end street where he made his home. Shel hurried after him, trying to catch up just shy of the top of that hill.

Ten paces behind the fat man, Shel looked over her shoulder. She saw West, stumbling drunkenly out of the brewery. She hoped it was an act and that he hadn’t been drinking while he waited. Further along, she saw that Rickon had dropped his flowers and was now idling along the side of the street. The others were all around, mostly hidden from view but she knew they were there. She’d be counting on the other members of her gang if anything went wrong. For now, though, she was glad they kept their distance. Shel enjoyed the spotlight, and this was her show.

“Mister!” she shouted just as the fat man and his heavy cart reached the crest of the hill. He stopped to mop his brow, but hearing her shout he looked around suspiciously. “Wait, hey wait! Mister!”

He spotted her then, beady eyes narrowing. All around them, people moved this way and that. The crowd split around the fat man’s cart and came together again behind him as people moved up and down the hill paying him no attention. He sneered at Shel. He probably thought she was a beggar, like that poor, stupid boy at the soul trader’s stall. Shel took the golden bracelet – fake, of course – from beneath her cloak and waved it at him. The gilded metal flashed in the slanting sun.

“Mister, wait!” she shouted again. “You dropped this!”

Beady eyes widened, and the fat man’s hands unconsciously ran up and down the outside of his coat as he patted down his pockets. He glanced back at his heavy cart, then turned back to Shel. She had almost reached him now, and she held out the gaudy bracelet toward him.

“It fell from your cart, mister,” she lied. “I saw it fall, and knew you’d miss something so beautiful and precious.”

“Gracious!” exclaimed the fat man. He mopped at his forehead with the sodden handkerchief, reaching his other hand for the bracelet. Shel let him take it. The cheap trinket was worthless to her; it was a means to an end. That end was the fat man’s fat purse. “Oh, gracious me! I didn’t even notice. How careless of me. Thank you, child, thank you so much.”

Despite his words, there was little gratitude in his expression. He still eyed her suspiciously. Shel smiled winningly and batted her eyes at him. She had worn her best cloak today, as well as her best fitting shirt and breeches. She didn’t want him to take her for a beggar. He should think she was just a well-meaning citizen, spending some coin in the market when she saw his misfortune. Most of all, he must not think she was a thief.

There wasn’t much worry of that. Shel was a good thief. She’d been at it for five years almost, and she had never been caught. Every time she came close, she was able to bat her eyes and talk her way out of it. Everyone in her gang agreed Shel had a silver tongue and a convincing face. She was persuasive, charming, and quick-thinking. As soon as the fat man stopped, his purse was as good as hers.

“Think nothing of it, kind sir,” she said, pouring honey over the words and giving her best smile. “I saw it fall, and knew you’d miss it sooner or later. Such a fine piece of work! Clearly, you're a man with fine taste and fine wares. Returning it was the least I could do.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be sure of that,” said the fat man, amusement tugging up the corners of his fleshy mouth. “There’s many in this quarter wouldn’t think of bringing it back. They’d have snatched it up and disappeared all at once.”

“Thieves,” spat Shel, sounding genuinely offended by the notion. “It’s a terrible thing, kind sir. Thieves in the city, and all. They're as bad as the lazy beggars or worse.”

“That they are,” agreed the fat man, nodding his head in mock sadness at the thought. “It’s a marvel to me that anyone could allow themselves to fall so low. I know that things aren’t what they once were, but that’s hardly an excuse. Any man – or comely young woman,” he added with a sly look Shel’s way, “can find work, take up a trade. There’s no excuse for poverty and thieving, none at all. There’s opportunity enough for everyone, that’s what I say.”