"What do you mean, the supply of stone has run out?" Eilonwy asked the two master masons who had come to speak with her in the Council Chamber. "I distinctly recall the quarry master bragging that there was enough stone at that site to construct five castles and a seawall besides."
"And there is, Your Majesty," the shorter, broad-shouldered mason replied. "The supply of raw stone is ample. Alas, the supply of men to mine it is not. From what we've heard, so many quarrymen have quit over the past few months that the workforce has been slashed to nearly a third of what it was at the outset."
"To a third? Not by a third, even? Why are they quitting in such numbers?" Eilonwy questioned, aghast.
"We know not," the taller mason chimed in, his caterpillar-like brows drawn together into a single bristly line. "They are clearly disgruntled with some condition or other, but we were unable to pull a straight answer from the quarry master. For all his stoutness, Drem is maddeningly adept at slipping past any question posed to him."
"When the supply first began to slow, he claimed the men who'd quit were simply lazy or weak and left as soon as they realized how laborious it was," the first mason continued. "He swore he would find new workers immediately."
"And so he did," the taller mason added. "The supply surged again for a few weeks, and all was well. But then those workers quit, too. Drem had no ready excuse for us the next time we spoke, but swore once again that he would hire more men. And again, he did. But they never seem to last."
Eilonwy drew in a deep breath, attempting to quash her rising anger. "Why was I not told of this sooner?" she asked slowly through clenched teeth.
The two men exchanged a nervous glance.
"Well… ah… Yes, well…" the shorter mason stuttered. "We hoped it would resolve itself, you see—that Drem would sort out his workers himself, and the supply would pick back up before it posed a major hindrance to construction."
"We did not think it necessary to trouble you with the matter when you have so much else to attend to, Your Majesty," the taller mason added.
Eilonwy arched one eyebrow in a look that could have made fresh daisies wither. "So, what you mean to say is: you were afraid to notify me of a problem when doing so might bring trouble upon your own heads. You thought to—"
A sudden knock on the door cut her off midsentence. She huffed out a sigh of vexation. "Yes? Who is it?" she called out.
"Medyr, Your Majesty," he answered through the door.
"Well, don't stand out there like a barrel waiting for rain—do come in," she commanded.
The Steward obliged, bowing first to his Queen, then giving slight nods to the master masons. "Pardon me for interrupting, but I thought it best to notify you immediately that King Taran has returned safely from Cantrev Talgarth. It appears the issue was resolved to his satisfaction, and—"
Eilonwy was up and out the door before Medyr could utter another word, practically running out to the courtyard while he scrambled to dash after her. It took her a moment to spot Taran, who was heading back from the stables with Fflewddur and Llassar. All three looked weary and travel-worn, but pleased to be home. She raced over and threw her arms around Taran's neck.
"Oh, thank goodness you're back!" she cried. "Did you stop the battle? Was anyone injured? What sparked it in the first place?"
Taran merely stood there for a breath or two, elated to have Eilonwy in his arms again, but wondering where to begin the convoluted tale. "No, thankfully there was no bloodshed," he said. "As for what caused it… I myself am still not entirely sure." She pulled back slightly and looked up at him, puzzled. "I shall tell you shortly," he assured her. "Give me time to wash up first while I try to wrap my head around how to explain it. It was an odd situation, to say the least." An amused grunt from Fflewddur confirmed that assessment. "Fflewddur, Llassar," he continued, turning to his companions, "I will see you both later tonight, at supper. Thank you yet again for your unfailing assistance."
Fflewddur dropped a grandiose bow. "Anything for the High King, and still more for a friend," he said cheerily as he rose. "Oh, and my queen—see to it he does not fall asleep for a week and miss the homecoming feast. I fear this journey sorely tapped his reserves," he added, casting Eilonwy a wink. She laughed lightly as he strode off, whistling, to find Telyn.
Llassar took his leave with a much more subdued, though no less happy, farewell, and Medyr bustled off to instruct the chambermaids to prepare water for the royal bath. Then, Taran and Eilonwy retired to their chambers, both eager for the chance of some respite.
"Are you really going to sit there and watch me?" Taran asked, smirking, as he stripped down and stepped into the steaming tub of water.
"Well, of course," Eilonwy replied, plopping down on the edge of the bed across from him. "I need some entertainment to occupy me while I wait to hear the story, don't I?"
Chuckling, he sank lower in the water and settled back against the side of the basin. He closed his eyes, heaving a long sigh as the enveloping heat sank into his aching muscles. Fflewddur was right, he thought dimly through the oncoming haze of relaxation, I probably could sleep for a week, given half a chance…
"So… what happened?" Eilonwy burst out just a few moments later, her feet already jouncing impatiently as she sat.
Taran briefly opened one eye to give her a wry look. "I thought we'd agreed that I could wash up first?"
"We did, but I don't see why you can't talk and bathe at the same time," she countered. "You had plenty of time to think the tale over while we were waiting for the water to be heated. Now tell it, please. It's maddening, having someone dangle a prize in front of me, then pulling it away again."
"I'm not trying to withhold it from you, truly," Taran protested. "As I said before, the story is rather complicated… and there are still missing pieces to be found, too."
"Well, do your best," she urged. "I have a fair bit of practice by now deciphering the thoughts you can't quite wrap words around."
Taran smiled crookedly. "All right," he relented. "But don't say I failed to warn you…" So saying, he went ahead with a description of the events at Talgarth. As he scrubbed up and recounted the tale, he watched Eilonwy's face transition through a gamut of expressions: curiosity, surprise, confusion, vexation, then back to confusion again, mingled with relief. He could only imagine it was the same waves of emotion that had passed across his own countenance in the course of the venture.
"Oh, my. That is a rather odd circumstance, isn't it?" Eilonwy remarked once he'd wrapped up the tale. "I'm happy to hear Tegwyn and Cedrych came to terms somewhat. I only hope that lasts long enough for them to find Lady Morwen."
"As do I," Taran agreed. "I'm still very concerned about her whereabouts and well-being, but could not afford to join in the search; I needed to return here immediately with every warrior at hand. Someone is playing a sinister game with us: at best, they wanted me absent from Caer Dathyl; at worst, they hoped I would be embroiled in a bloody cantrev war." He scowled as his grim ruminations returned full-force. "If it wasn't Tegwyn who captured Morwen, who did? This ruse was not some impulsive act; someone thought it through carefully and waited months to set it in motion—and had to be fairly certain of how Cedrych would react, too. And why were he and Tegwyn targeted in the first place? It's not as though their cantrevs are seats of great power or wealth. I turned it over and over in my mind the entire journey home and I still cannot make any sense of it…"
Eilonwy pondered the matter for a while, thinking back to the Great Council and all she had witnessed. Tegwyn's wife, Carys, had been quite flirtatious with the sundry other lords and warriors present; had Morwen been doing the same? Perhaps with someone from a western cantrev, whom Elgar—if that was even his name—might serve? She couldn't recall the Queen of Buellt behaving so, but it seemed plausible… "Could Morwen have arranged it herself?" she asked aloud, focusing once again on Taran.
"Why in the world would she arrange her own abduction?"
"Well, perhaps she wanted it to look like an abduction when it really wasn't. Perhaps she wanted a way out of her marriage to Cedrych. It seems like a complicated way to go about it to me, but that sort of ploy isn't unheard of, you know."
"Cedrych said they were on good terms, though—adamantly," Taran pointed out. "He became quite offended when he thought I was suggesting otherwise. It was an indignant sort of offended, too, not as if I had prodded an uncomfortable truth."
"Hmm. I don't know, then," Eilonwy said with a frown. "There is a rat scurrying about somewhere in all of this, but I haven't caught hold of its tail yet… Telyn, Gurgi, and I spotted something odd as well while you were away: that messenger, Elgar, headed westward when he departed—and on a fine stallion, too, not some farm-worthy old plow horse."
"What?" Taran sat up straighter in his bath, suddenly fully alert.
Eilonwy nodded once, somberly. "He was no farmer, that's certain, and I'm inclined to believe he wasn't from Talgarth either."
Taran blinked, his mind beginning to spin as it linked the new information to the old. "Westward… So Iscawin likely is involved. Or Meilyr? Or one of their under-lords?"
"I wouldn't put it past any of them," Eilonwy replied.
Taran groaned, slumping down again and leaning his head back in frustration. The water around him was rapidly cooling, and his sense of ease was dissipating in kind. He reminded himself that he needn't solve the mystery that very day, and he now had another clue to work with, but Belin did it wear on his nerves. "Things ran smoothly around here aside from that?" he asked hopefully.
"Well enough."
He waited, fully expecting Eilonwy to continue at length about whatever he had missed, however mundane. Except, she didn't. Her truncated answer hovered there in the air like a bird missing its tail feathers.
"Eilonwy… what are you not telling me?" he asked warily.
She worried her lower lip as if trying to bite back the words. "Oh, it's nothing, really. Merely a problem at the quarry… of which I was only just told, right before you arrived."
"Unngh… What now?" Taran lamented. An instant later, a terrible prospect sprung to mind. "Wait—there hasn't been a cave-in, has there?"
"No, no, no, nothing like that," Eilonwy reassured him with a wave of her hand. "Thankfully, no one has been literally hurt."
"Then what?" he asked, beginning to bristle with impatience.
Her lips pressed together tightly as she huffed out a weary sigh. "I was hoping I could wait until later to tell you…"
"Eilonwy… tell me now," he pushed.
Spurred on by his adamant look, she drew in a deep breath and plunged into recounting the problem. "The quarry master can't seem to keep workers; they've been quitting left and right," she explained. "There have been problems for months, now, as it turns out: more and more grumbling; less and less stone being cut; then, one by one, the men simply stop turning up to work. Drem has been steadily bringing in new workers to compensate, but each round plays out the same way. Now, they're running out of men willing to take the position. The load of stone due to arrive today never came and the stone masons are sitting idle."
Without a word, Taran sprang up from the tub, sheeting water. While Eilonwy looked on, stunned, he hurriedly toweled off, scrambled to don fresh clothes, pulled back on his boots, grabbed his cloak, and headed for the door.
"Wait—where are you going?" Eilonwy exclaimed. She leapt up from the bed and followed him out into the corridor.
"To the quarry. I must hear first-hand what the problem is."
"Right this instant? But you've only just arrived home! Surely, that can wait until tomorrow."
"But then tomorrow's tasks would be delayed until the following day, and that day's tasks delayed in turn… No, I must go now." Taran's resolute tone belied the weary, frustrated look in his eyes. He continued to stride through the corridor and down the tower stairs, with Eilonwy rushing behind him.
"That's not true," she argued. "What if you'd been delayed in returning from Talgarth? It would have waited then… One more day will do no harm—not even a full day if you set out early tomorrow morning. The problem has been going on for months already…"
"All the more reason for me to attend to it immediately," Taran asserted.
"Not when you're exhausted and your mind is still reeling from that mess with Cedrych and Tegwyn! Please, Taran, let it go for a day," she pleaded. "Just one day. Get some rest. We can sit in the garden for a while, if you'd like; it's fairly green yet. Or go for a walk with me, if you're too worked up to sit still. It will clear your head, and you'll be able to sort the problem out that much more easily afterward…"
"Worrying about this will spoil anything else I try to do in the meantime," Taran contended, continuing to stride ahead.
They exited the Middle Tower and he veered off toward the stables. Just before they reached the low-slung building, Eilonwy dashed in front of him and spun around to face him, pressing her hands to his chest, halting him in his tracks.
"Stop for a moment!" she shouted. "You need to just… stop. You're running yourself as ragged as a ten-year old cloak! You're awake before sunrise, then running about all day, and then you don't go to sleep until it's nearly morning again. I hardly even see you anymore—and when I do, your thoughts seem to be a world away; they're certainly not anywhere close to me."
Taran's cheeks grew hot as mixed indignation and shame churned within him. "Eilonwy, there is much to do and only so many hours in a day," he argued. "I never intend to neglect you—never—but nor can I neglect my duties. I will not be gone all day. I am only asking you to wait a few hours more—"
Eilonwy interrupted midsentence. "I am tired of waiting!" she cried, her voice cracking. "I know you have obligations to fulfill, and tasks to accomplish, and problems to worry over, and a thousand other things cluttering up your head. But so have I—and I still make room in my head and time in my day for you. There will always be another thing that must be done, Taran—and another, and another, and another, marching along like a line of ants! I've waited so long to be with you, and now you want me to keep on waiting? Even though I am right by your side?"
"Eilonwy, please… You must understand…" Taran reached out to her, but she swatted his hands away. He recoiled, equally defensive and chagrined. The resentment in her words cut like a hot knife—and the truth in them, more sharply still.
"I chose to stay in Prydain because I wanted to be with you, not an untouchable ghost who looks like you," she continued plaintively. Sorrow and pain seeped out around the anger in her voice like water between the stones of an old dam. "You… You hardly even take the time to kiss me anymore…" Tears glistened in her eyes, but she stamped her foot before they had a chance to fall. "And now you've just about made me cry again, and you know how I hate that. Taran of Caer Dallben, I'm not speaking to you for a good long while! And I truly mean it this time!"
She brushed past him and stormed off, angrily wiping the offending tears from her cheeks. Heartsick, Taran watched her go, entirely at a loss for words. His head bowed wearily as he turned and entered the stables.
As he crossed the threshold, misfortune dealt him another blow: he looked up to find King Rhodri standing there with his horse, bridle in hand, seemingly about to depart for some ride or errand. Taran flushed scarlet with embarrassment. How much had he heard? Likely twice as much as either of them wished; the argument had not been a quiet one.
Rhodri glanced out the doorway at the swiftly retreating, furious queen, then back to his bewildered and crestfallen king. A look of deep understanding flickered across his face, but he withheld comment.
"Headed out, sire?" he asked instead.
"Ah… yes. To the quarry," Taran replied, attempting to hold his head high. "A problem has arisen that must be addressed immediately."
"May I inquire as to its nature?"
Taran hesitated at first, then decided to divulge the issue in hopes that Rhodri might have dealt with similar trouble before. The King of Rheged had already proffered a great deal of sound advice since his return, and Taran knew he himself was in far too great a muddle at the moment to think clearly.
After hearing Taran explain what little he knew of the matter, Rhodri stood with arms crossed for a while, mulling it over. "Alas for your sake, I have not encountered such a problem and have little insight to give," he remarked. "Nevertheless, I shall accompany you to the quarry if you are not opposed to my presence. You ought to have some visible support behind you; a crowd of angry workers is apt to get out of hand."
"Should I have additional guardsmen come, too, then?"
"Eh. Hard to say," came the slow reply. "Showing up with too many warriors might make them feel threatened and provoke them further. I suppose it depends on how well you trust a clever tongue to smooth the situation over."
Taran considered his alternatives for a moment, then said, "I want no violence, and do not want to give the impression that I do. We will go alone, if you are willing…"
"Certainly," Rhodri replied without hesitation. "I was only about to go for a ride. I have nowhere pressing to be and my horse is ready. Saddle your own, and we will be off immediately."
After setting out a short while later, the two men rode in silence for quite some time. Rhodri was never one for idle conversation, and Taran was far too preoccupied to bother with it. They merely kept their eyes on the path ahead: well-trod by the passing of untold carts—clear, and easy to follow. It was not until they crossed between the first stretch of hills that Rhodri finally spoke.
"Queen Eilonwy is rather hot-tempered, I gather…" he remarked with a sidelong glance.
Taran's jaw clenched. He had hoped the older king would not mention the spat he had witnessed. "Yes, she is," he replied tersely, "and has been since the day we met."
"Hmm," Rhodri murmured. "So, it is not only quarrelsome kings and war leaders that raise her ire…"
A humorless laugh burst from Taran's chest. "No, I'm afraid not. It seems I am forever making her cross one way or another, often without even knowing why. And it has only gotten worse of late," he added, frowning in consternation.
"From what I overheard, I gather she feels you are turning away from her?" Rhodri asked.
Taran flushed deeply. "She must understand," he said defensively, "there is so much to be done, and seemingly all at once. The last thing I want is to grow distant from her, but I keep finding myself pulled away by things I dare not push aside. The hours slip by so quickly into days, and the days into weeks, and then I look up to find months have passed and we've scarcely had any time for each other—" He halted suddenly, remembering to whom he spoke. "I know not why I am telling you any of this. It is no concern of yours…" he said with a faint sigh.
"Pardon me. I do not mean to pry if you do not wish to speak of it," Rhodri replied. "That said… I do know something of that particular plight…" His tone was somber now, quiet, lacking its usual gruff edge. "A crown can be a pitiless master to anyone who truly wants to be worthy of it," he continued, echoing the very words High King Math had once spoken. "It will consume every waking hour of every day if you allow it—and many dreaming hours as well, for that matter. Take care to set a measure of time aside for yourself and those you love, lest kingship rob you of both."
Taran looked closely at him, trying to read his expression, but Rhodri was gazing straight ahead into the distance, his jaw set and his back straight. "You speak from experience, I presume?" Taran ventured after a moment.
"Aye—to my sorrow and shame," Rhodri answered. The proud tilt of his chin did not falter, but Taran saw him swallow hard. Roughly, he cleared his throat. "Do not walk the road I have followed," he advised at last. "You will find it comes to a lonely end."
He said no more, and Taran did not ask. The wind stirred around the two kings, kicking up dust with a restless energy as they rode onward toward the quarry, both silent as stone once again.
When they arrived a few hours later, Taran immediately noticed a difference in the quarry. The physical landscape was the same as always—grey rock, and stone dust, and the chiseled legacy of iron tools wielded by toiling human hands—but its living aspect was drastically altered. During his past few visits, there had been a steady stream of activity, and the pervasive, rhythmic sound of hammers and chisels on stone echoing from every side. Despite the backbreaking nature of their toil, the quarrymen had seemed enthusiastic—in high enough spirits to toss occasional jests and jibes back and forth among themselves while they worked. Now, there were scarcely twenty men at hand, and all seemed to wear the same resentful, exhausted scowl. One or two even dared to glare at Taran as he and Rhodri passed by. It set his insides squirming, although he tried to keep his expression impassive.
He and Rhodri headed to the workshop first, hoping to find the quarry master there. When they stepped inside, Taran saw further evidence of hindered production. Typically, there would be another large group of men within the workshop, facing the rough-hewn stone into rectangular blocks before transport. Not so anymore. Of the forty-odd masons who had worked there before, only ten or so remained. Taran's heart sank to the depths of his stomach. Small wonder they weren't able to keep the builders adequately supplied with stone.
"Your Majesty! To what do we owe this unexpected honor?" boomed a gravelly voice from the far side of the workshop.
All heads in the room snapped to attention on Taran, making him instantly uneasy. He and Rhodri glanced over to see a stocky, rough-looking man with an even rougher beard making his way toward them. It was Drem, the quarry master. Taran cleared his throat, somewhat hesitant to begin immediately demanding answers from a man he had spoken to only a few times before.
"Well-met, Drem," he began slowly. "It came to my attention today that stone shipments have been lagging sorely behind schedule, and the masons have now ceased work entirely for want of supplies. I have come to look into the matter. Tell me: what has caused this delay?"
Drem paled a little and looked distinctly queasy. His voice dropped much lower than before, to a level the workers could not hear. "Oh, we'll be caught up again in no time, sire; no need to worry," he assured Taran. "I admit, there's been a spot of trouble with a handful of men quitting, but the others are taking up the slack and I've already put out a call for more workers. We'll have that load of stone to you straight away."
"There are far more than a handful of men absent, Drem," Taran said sternly, casting a look around the workshop to underscore his point. "And from what I heard, that has been the case for months now. Explain to me why have so many workers have quit."
"Oh, you know how such men are, sire," Drem replied conspiratorially. "They're forever grousing about one thing or another. And as soon as one or two begin grumbling, it rolls through the rest of the horde and sets them off, too. Inevitably, a few take it into their heads that they'd be better off elsewhere—foolish really, given that this is some of the steadiest work they could hope to find. Believe me, we're better off without those who quit—indolent lay-abouts, the lot of them."
"Even so, I would still like to know what they were grumbling about," Taran countered. He was rapidly growing irritated with Drem's evasiveness, and suspicious besides.
"About? About, yes… Well…" Drem scratched his bushy beard nervously. "The usual assortment of things. Nothing out of the ordinary; nothing a king should trouble himself with, that's certain. I've already spoken to the remaining men about it."
"Well, I have not spoken to them, and I am interested to hear what they have to say," Taran insisted. "Please, call the rest of them in."
Drem gulped. Reluctantly, he exited the workshop and returned several minutes later with a crowd of dusty, sweaty, extremely sullen-looking quarrymen. Taran's heartbeat quickened as he felt their glares upon him. Once they had all assembled, he addressed them in as courteous but authoritative a manner as he was able.
"No doubt you are wondering why I have called you all in, and why I have even come to the quarry in the first place," he began. "I desire a word with you—or rather, that you have a word with me. As I have heard, there is great discontentment among you, to the point that most of your fellow quarrymen have abandoned their work. I know the trouble that has resulted from this, but am ignorant of what problem caused it in the first place. Please, tell me truthfully: what is so far amiss that it is driving you away?"
One of the angriest-looking workers, a coarse and wiry man standing at the very front of the crowd, opened his mouth to say something but an elbow jab from the larger man towering beside him abruptly cut him off. "Better some pay than none at all," the tall man muttered under his breath, shooting his companion a reproachful glare. "Pride won't feed your family."
The first man glared right back. "Better for my family to live on bartered bread and poached hares than to have a coward for a husband and father. I should have walked away from this pit months ago," he spat. He faced forward again and boldly looked Taran in the eye. "We are not getting our due, Your Majesty. It's as simple as that. Two pounds per week we were promised—two pounds in silver. We'll never be rich men on that, but it's a fair wage and we were content with it for the few months we got it. Now we're handed only one pound and two-hundred forty ceiniog, with rumors that it might be slashed again! And for what cause? We cut the stone just as quickly as before, and sweat every bit as hard to do it."
"Llew, be silent!" the taller man hissed. "You'll cost us our heads!"
"No, I won't be silent anymore!" Llew flung back. "He asked why we're angry and I'm telling him plainly." He looked once again to Taran. "Why, Your Majesty? Why were we promised one thing and given another? I would expect such treatment from a king born into a gilded cradle, but not one raised in a farmer's cottage."
At that, Rhodri took a menacing step forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. "Honesty is one thing and insolence another, you!" he growled, but Llew stood his ground.
Taran quickly waved him back. "I asked for his thoughts, not his courtesy," he said. "I can withstand a few sharp words for the sake of the truth." That earned a respectful nod from Llew and a sigh of relief from several of his companions. In actuality, Taran felt like he'd taken a punch to the gut—and not only from the audacious rebuke. He had not cut the workers' pay, not by a single ceiniog. The accounting ledgers showed the same amount being sent from the royal treasury to the quarry, from the first month to the last. In fact, he'd seen the most recent payment go out the day before he'd left for Cantrev Talgarth.
"Is this true?" he asked, looking to the man beside Llew and then to the other workers. "You have received less than your promised wages for months now?"
A rumble of muffled agreement passed among the crowd. "Since midsummer," one man piped up.
"Aye, since that Great Council ended," another confirmed. "That's when the decision about our pay was made, wasn't it? That's what Drem told us anyway," he added, shooting a dirty look toward the quarry master.
Taran turned sharply to Drem. "What decision is this man referring to? Many issues were discussed in Council, and many decisions made, but a reduction in the quarry workers' wages was not among them."
"I can vouch for that," Rhodri put in sternly. "There was no discussion whatsoever concerning the quarry."
Enraged by his workers' betrayal, Drem's face was rapidly turning a mottled shade of red and purple. "Wha— No! I never— Well, yes, I did tell them that, sire," he spluttered. "But that's what I myself was told! I've passed along exactly what I was instructed to pay them and not a single ceiniog less, I swear!"
"And who instructed you to decrease their pay?" Taran asked, his tone now as hard as the quarry's limestone.
Drem gulped. His mouth twitched a bit at the corners, but he gave no reply.
"If you say no more," Taran warned, "I shall be inclined to think the claims you have made are lies. That would not be in your best interest, would it?"
Drem gulped again and bit his lip. "Cyrvach, Your Majesty—it was Treasurer Cyrvach. The guards who transported the payment brought me a letter from him saying as much. Said the wages were falling to a pound and a half per month, he did. I knew no good would come of it—that the men would complain or cease work altogether—and time has proved me right. I was only doing as I was told, sire—just following orders. Brought me trouble enough, too, what with my having to suffer the rancor of these men every day. But I follow orders."
That accusation dealt Taran another heavy blow. Cyrvach had formerly served High King Math, so he'd assumed the man was trustworthy. If Drem spoke truth, that implied the treasurer had been diverting wealth right from under Taran's nose into his own pockets. And if Drem was lying, how could that be proven? Most likely, it would be one man's word against another, with no hard evidence of guilt. Taran looked to Rhodri, wondering if he had ever dealt with such underhandedness. The older king's usual flinty expression had hardened even further into an outright scowl. He glanced over at Taran and caught his questioning expression.
"A word aside with you?" he asked, with a twitch of his head toward the workshop door. Taran followed him back outside. "As I am sure you gathered from that, you have at least one thief in your employ and likely more," Rhodri said in hushed tones. "It happens often: one person takes a bit here; another, a bit there; a third is given a share to buy his silence."
"Do you think he—or they—were cheating King Math, too?" Taran asked, disgusted by the thought despite knowing it was possible.
"If it is happening at this rate now, it probably has been for years at a less noticeable trickle. Put a new, inexperienced king on the throne and thieves are apt to get brazen—hence, robbing workers of a quarter of their pay."
"What would you do if such a thing happened in your realm?"
"As I see it, there are two options," Rhodri advised. "You could haul everyone involved in for questioning, separately. There is a good chance they will turn on one other, and between the stories you'll find the truth of the matter."
"So, there is no honor among thieves, as they say?" Taran said sardonically.
"Not usually," Rhodri replied with a grim smirk. "Fortunately, that can be used to your benefit."
"And the other option?" asked Taran.
"Devise a means to catch the thieves in the act. It will take some cunning, but the proof would be undeniable."
Taran nodded in agreement, although he could not see at the moment which course to take. Both seemed fraught, with no guarantee of resolution and even less chance of regaining the already stolen silver. It would be a fortnight before the next payment went out, so he did have some time to think on it, but that offered no relief for the disgruntled workers… Somewhat frantically, he scavenged all corners of his mind for some fair manner of recompense. The entire situation was a right mess—like so many things of late.
Finally, decision made, he turned back toward the workshop, gesturing for Rhodri to follow. Upon reentering, they found the quarrymen grumbling and muttering amongst themselves. Drem stood apart, looking as though he had swallowed a toad. Taran raised his hands for silence, then addressed the crowd once again. "I have asked you to air your grievances and you have done so. Now, it is only fair that I answer for them. Alas that I cannot do so in full at this time, for I do not yet know who is to blame for your ill-treatment. Nevertheless, I guarantee that from your next payment onward, you will receive the full measure of your due—as originally set forth—even if I must deliver it safely into your hands myself. So, too, will you have the wages that are in arrears, paid out over a number of months."
He watched the faces of the quarrymen as he spoke, half-fearful that his promise would not be enough to pacify them. Yet, they appeared more surprised than anything, their anger supplanted by blank stares of disbelief. Clearly, none had ever dreamed of addressing their king at all, let alone being granted a chance to openly speak their minds—and still less to have their complaints appeased.
Seeing a break in the tension, Taran forged ahead. "Like the stones you hew from the earth, you yourselves form the foundation of Caer Dathyl," he told them. "Even with the finest masons, the most skilled carpenters, and the hardiest laborers to raise its walls, nothing can proceed without the stone you labor so hard to cut and shape. As we stand here, they sit idle for want of what you alone can provide. Meanwhile, Caer Dathyl itself stands vulnerable to attack, threatening the stability of the realm and the security of all. Will you help set that right? Will you step forward to fill the need as only you can? This is a great burden I am asking you to shoulder, undertaking the work of absent men. So, I offer you this in return: any who are willing to work more than their allotted time will be compensated in equal measure. Will you help restore Caer Dathyl to greatness? Your aid will not go unrewarded."
As he finished speaking, Taran scanned the throng of quarrymen and noticed they were standing a bit taller, a bit more proudly. He had said only what was in his heart, and offered what he deemed fair, but it seemed to have had a significant effect.
Suddenly, Llew strode forth from the crowd. "I'll do it," he said heartily. "You need me to do the work of two men? Ha! I manage that already. I shall cut as much stone as three ordinary men if need be, so long as the terms are fair. And I dare the others here to do any less," he added, casting a stern glance at his fellow workmen. A scattering of "ayes!" sounded among the crowd, accompanied by still more nodding heads.
A wave of relief passed through Taran upon seeing that he'd regained their goodwill. At least one part of the problem was now headed toward resolution. "You have my deepest thanks—all of you—for your toil, your honesty, and your support," he acknowledged. "Those who wish to take on additional work, remain here and we will take an account of your names shortly. All others, please return to your tasks."
As the quarrymen dispersed and Rhodri helped document the roster of workers, Taran pulled Drem aside. "That letter you received, Drem… the one ordering a reduction in the workers' pay? Bring it to me immediately," he commanded.
Drem's eyes went wide. "Ah, I would, sire—most readily—but I discarded it, you see. Didn't think I had reason to keep it. I thought the matter finished until I received further orders. If you wish to know what it said, though, I'm sure Cyrvach can provide the details—"
Taran cut him off with a hard look. "Make no mistake," he said, "this matter is not yet resolved. We shall speak again. And until then, I will be posting a guard here who will report back to me if any—any—further trouble arises." And to keep an eye on you most of all, he thought. If the quarry master was involved, and not working alone, it would not do to have him alerting his fellow thieves.
Not long thereafter, riding from the quarry with Rhodri at his side, Taran found he'd gleaned little satisfaction from his partial victory. The quarrymen seemed content again—for the time being—but the identity of the culprit—or culprits—remained a mystery. It was yet another enigma to pile atop that of the events in Talgarth. Forgeries, abductions, deliberate distractions, untrustworthy messengers, theft… and Eilonwy angry at him besides. Trouble seemed to be closing in on him from all directions—as steep, and hard, and unforgiving as the walls of the quarry itself. How would he ever chisel his way out?
