The Tapjarn Guild

Sy Xen's eyes fluttered open to the sway of a grazerback cart. Pain throbbed through his face every time the horse-like beast pulled the cart over uneven ground. Its porcupine-like spines shifted around as the cart’s driver shouted commands at it. 

He didn’t know where he was or the direction he was headed, but he was still alive. That in itself was an accomplishment. After being hit in the face by a guard, he’d imagined he’d be in a jail cell at the very least. Maybe they were being carted back to Drifton to be apprehended there. 

Looking around, he saw Sobraja sitting on the side of the cart, her gaze locked forward. Sy Xen breathed out in a sigh of relief, resting his head back again and looking up at the sky. She’d somehow saved them both, something she’d never let him forget, probably.

Grimacing, Sy Xen probed the tender flesh around his forehead, fingers tracing the raw line of a gash hidden within his tangled hair. 

 

“Seems my nose has taken a liking to being broken,” he said.

 

“Yeah, you’re lucky it wasn’t worse,” Sobraja said, not even bothering to look at him. “Five Allfell guards neutralized, your sorry state hauled from the chaos—all courtesy of my quick thinking and dwindling favors. You know, we weren’t supposed to leave extra bodies.”

“As long as the right body is among them,” Sy Xen said. He smirked but quickly retracted it as the motion sent pain searing through his face.

Sy Xen, pushing himself up to a sitting position, surveyed their surroundings. Night had cloaked the world, with Aurus, the summer moon, casting an ethereal blue glow across the landscape. The towering cliffs of The Breach stood like sentinels on either side. 

“What’s the time?” Sy Xen asked, flopping back, his gaze lost to the celestial dance of the Weeping, a wall of never-ending shooting stars, beyond The Breach’s gaping maw.

 

“Time lost, thanks to you,” Sobraja snapped. “Expect our pay to suffer, if it comes at all.”

 

“Maurten will see reason,” Sy Xen said with a wave of his hand. “Like I said, the marks were killed. We’ll be fine.” He winced as he adjusted his nose, the bones crunching.

“Your misplaced favoritism has clouded your judgment. Maurten won’t let your antics slide forever.” She pulled on the ribbon in her hair, allowing the strands to cascade down around her face. “You’re good, probably the best, but your ego enters every room before you. Eventually, it’ll trip you on the way in.”

 

Sy Xen rolled his eyes.

 

“Well, eventually I won’t have to worry about Maurten’s opinions,” Sy Xen said.

 

“Please, not this again,” Sobraja said with a hand out. “Maurten isn’t going to name you his successor. He has no reason to.”

“The man is in his late forties, drinks for two, eats for three, and has made enough enemies over the years. Someone needs to hold the guild together after him.”

“And that person is you?” Sobraja asked with a chuckle. “I’m sorry, Sy. You’re good, but I can’t see you leading over two hundred guild members scattered across the city.” 

Sy Xen went to retort, but a sudden shadow eclipsed their view of the night sky, drawing his attention upward. A singular natural bridge connected the two sides of The Breach at its middle. If he squinted, he could just make out the wooden plank that jutted on the Hangroad’s southern side, where Drifton and Allfell pushed lawbreakers to their deaths.

 

“The Hangroad?” he asked, anxiety churning in his stomach. “We’re not even halfway back.” 

 

“Save your strength, Sy Xen,” Sobraja said coolly. “You’ll need it to negotiate that pay you think we’re getting.”

Sy Xen exhaled sharply, resigning himself to the inevitable as he reclined once more. When he finally opened his eyes again, Aurus was directly overhead, and the grazerback cart was near the massive stone front gates of Drifton. The Gates of Pildum.

 

Home sweet home. 

 

The City of Iron unfolded before them. Drifton, with its robust stone buildings, sprawled beneath Chancellor Gar Hu’s looming fortress. The ground before the city fell away in places, the main road a string of bridges that connected over small plateaus. Outcroppings of other small stone buildings dotted the sides of the canyon where soldiers kept watch for enemies or beasts. It was a bastion of power at the western edge of The Breach.

Sobraja pulled a tarp over them as they neared the Gates of Pildum. Sy Xen heard them groan as the massive slabs of sandstone groaned as they opened for the morning. 

A few guards stopped them, speaking with the merchant to inspect the cart. Papers exchanged hands. A curse. Then they were through. 

 

The cart stopped. They jumped down.

 

Coins changed hands.

 

“Let’s go,” Sobraja said.

 

Sy Xen, nursing his nose, matched her step for step, the pain throbbing through his face. He acclimated to it and ignored it. Pain was a byproduct of hard work—a proverb all people in Drifton lived by.

He followed Sobraja through the labyrinth of the city and into the Steel District proper, crossing bridges that arched over the vital waterways, their journey shadowed by the flickering glow of forges and shanties.

“You might have the years in the guild on me, Sy, but I’m still older,” Sobraja said after a while of walking. “Even I can tell improvisation won’t serve you forever.” She paused, glancing over her shoulder with a piercing gaze. “Don’t let Maurten’s past favor cloud your reality. He’s a pragmatist, first and foremost.”

 

“Slipping? Hardly,” Sy Xen said. “And you’re older by one year…so it’s pretty negligible.” 

 

Sobraja waved him off.

 

Sy Xen rolled his eyes. A job done was a job done. He never cared where the contracts came from, only that he was paid at the end of each one. Then he got to drink, find a dice hall, or occasionally a brothel, and collapse into his bed after a hot bath. A cycle was good; it kept the money flowing and his mind focused. 

The scent of fresh water soon gave way to the overpowering aroma of molten metal and tannin as they ventured deeper into the industrial maze. Turning down an alley framed by the soot-stained facades of blacksmith shops, they approached a nondescript stone building. Its entrance, a simple wooden door, opened to reveal a dimly lit front room, awaiting clientele in wooden chairs, avoiding eye contact with each other.

Abi, Maurten’s diligent aide, was a flurry of activity behind the counter, her attention riveted to the ledger before her. Her curly, fire-red hair spilled over her shoulders, brushing the paperwork strewn around her. The sudden rap of Sobraja’s knuckles against the wood made her start, her quill pausing mid-stroke.

 

“Abi, is he available?” Sobraja asked.

 

“Sobraja, Sy Xen, you’re back,” Abi said, the creases on her face a mix of excitement and fear. Her eyes, large and emerald green, seemed tired, strained with bags beneath them. “Maurten is meeting with two newer recruits.” She gestured vaguely toward the ledger, resuming her scribbling. “He expected you hours ago.” 

 

“Ran into a bit of trouble,” Sy Xen said, spinning a dagger once before placing it back down.

 

Abi’s eyes flicked to his nose.

 

“Please, sit. He will see you shortly.”

 

Finding a low wooden chair, Sy Xen reclined, his nose still cradled in his hand, his eyes catching Abi’s worried glances. 

 

“Something on your mind, Abi?” he asked. 

 

"I could ask Turran to examine that," Abi offered, concerned. "It'd be wise to have it set properly.”

"Turran's still here?" Sobraja interjected, her eyes wide with urgency. Turran was a Terve, Blessed with the ability to heal others through touch. "He was supposed to leave The Breach at dawn."

"Turran is aware of the risks," Abi said with a nod. "He stayed for injured recruits—leaves tomorrow."

 

Sinking into her chair, Sobraja stared at the floor. 

 

“He’ll be fine,” Sy Xen said. “This isn’t Allfell. The Blessed are at least tolerated here. Even so, he’s one of us—he’s smart.”

Sobraja ignored him, closing her eyes and squeezing her temples. Turran had been owned by an affluent family once, but ran away and joined the Tapjarn Guild. A Terve caught in the slums faced severe repercussions—imprisonment, exile, etc. If they found a second reason to arrest you, death by plunge from the Hangroad was on the table. 

The front door to the building suddenly opened, and laughter pierced the stillness. Oja Kaval and Vost Vaike, clad in their signature black, pushed through the door. Vost, carrying a small box, spotted Sy Xen first and approached to greet him. 

 

Sy Xen didn’t stand.

 

“Would love to exchange pleasantries, but…” he pointed to his nose. Oja squatted down beside him, his eyes widening in mock horror. 

“Not again, Sy! You sure have a penchant for facial rearrangements,” he joked, clapping Sy Xen on the shoulder before standing. “Just tackled a Cribbing job in the Iron District—can you believe it? Cribbed that box like it was nothing.”

“Iron District?” Sobraja asked, her eyes narrowed. “That’s a stretch even for Maurten’s schemes. It has the highest level of security in the city outside the Chancellor's actual estate.”

“Sometimes, it’s all about playing the right cards,” Oja said with a smile and his hands on his hips. “And Vost? He breezed through the district’s defenses like a ghost.”

“And your role, Oja?” Sobraja asked. “Don’t tell me you squeezed through those tight windows?”

“I scare them,” he said, flexing his muscles. “I leave the acrobatics to Vost. I’m more the ‘stand firm and scare them stiff’ type.”

 

On that, Sy Xen agreed.

 

The back office door opened, and Maurten's face appeared. The guild leader was a mountain in both stature and presence, his ample form barely contained by his lavish attire. A glint of greed sparkled from his diamond tooth, catching the dim light as he surveyed the room. 

 

“Ah, my very - very - late arrivals,” he said, his voice smoky.

 

Twins, Harsk and Halja, both newer Enforcers, shifted past Maurten and made for the door, staring at Sy Xen as they went. Many of the jobs Maurten used to instruct new Enforcers were ones completed by Sy Xen. 

 

“You’re up, you two,” Maurten said, gesturing to his office.

 

Without hesitation, Sobraja stood and strode toward Maurten’s office, her back as straight as a board. Sy Xen followed, exchanging brief, supportive glances with Oja and receiving a silent pat of solidarity from Vost.

Inside Maurten’s office, tobacco permeated the air, but Sy Xen could still smell the acrid air of sweat and blood from the hidden training cellar below. Muffled sounds came from beneath the floodboards, reminding him of the “trainings” he’d received—from how to hold a blade to how to take a beating.

He walked over the trapdoor toward Maurten’s desk in the back—an imposing structure of solid cherry wood with a sprawling green rug beneath.

As Sy Xen took his seat, Sobraja beside him, Maurten settled into his chair, the furniture creaking under his weight, his arms crossing to emit a wave of pungent cologne that filled the space between them.

“You’re late,” Maurten began, his voice stern. He wasn’t normally upset by lateness, as long as the contract was completed. But they were supposed to have already been briefed on a second job. “Do you know what it takes to run the guild?”

 

He paused only briefly, his rhetorical question hanging in the air. 

 

“No, that’s my burden. My job is to ensure the longevity of this enterprise—Cribbers, Tabbers, Enforcers all working in tandem. I discern which contracts are worth our time. Your role is to ensure our reputation precedes us and foster demand. The more money you make with the least amount of issues, the higher in rank you are and the larger your cut.”

Sy Xen’s eyes rolled like a reflex. He knew he should have held back, but listening to Maurten’s droning was always such a bore. At this point, all Sy Xen wanted was the ale he should already be savoring.

 

Maurten’s gaze sharpened on Sy Xen.

 

“I’ve always given you slack, Sy,” Maurten continued. “However, a thriving enterprise isn’t just about acquiring new clients; it’s about nurturing the ones we have,” he thundered, his hands slamming down on the desk to emphasize his point. “You and Sobraja are my elite. If you falter, contracts falter? Your lateness alone,” he continued, voice rising in fervor, “nearly endangered one of our most profitable opportunities ever.”

Sobraja attempted to interject, but Maurten dismissed her with a stern wave. “Spare me, Mavilus,” he snapped. “You knew there was a timeline.” Sy Xen tightened his lips. There was nothing to say. Reasoning with Maurten was like trying to tame a woodmere lion. The man could be merciless if he chose to be.

 

Maurten’s gaze lingered on him.

 

He paused for a moment, his expression softening. 

 

“However, at the end of the day, the contract was successful,” he said. “To that end, thank you for your services. You’ll be able to pick up your earnings on the way out.”

 

Sy Xen looked at Sobraja and smirked.

 

“So what was all that reprimand for if you’re just going to award us for the job?” Sobraja asked.

“I still need to hold you accountable, yes?” Maurten asked as he pulled a sheet of parchment from a pile on his desk. “You want a punishment? Fine, you’re barred from the large job. Sy Xen, you’ll lead it. Pick one partner as usual, but not her.”

 

Sobraja’s jaw dropped, and she buried her face in her hands. 

 

“That’s ridiculous…,” she said, her voice slightly muffled.

 

“Next time, pick your battles,” Maurten said. “Here,” he extended the folded paperwork toward Sy Xen, “the client granted an extension due to the nature of the target. Remember, open this only in privacy.”

Sobraja’s departure was sharp. Sy Xen stood to follow and felt the weight of the room lift slightly with each step he took away from Maurten’s desk. If this was the largest contract the guild had ever taken on, this was his chance to cement himself as the very future of the guild. 

“This is it, Sy Xen,” Maurten said as Sy Xen reached the door. “We have an opportunity here to make more money than ever before. I want efficiency. I want precision. I want this job done. Do what you do best.”

 

“Consider it done,” Sy Xen said as he shut the door.