Taran braced himself before relaying the unfortunate news about the quarry workers' missing pay, and the still more unfortunate news that he was not yet sure of the culprit. Even so, the full force of Eilonwy's ensuing fury caught him by surprise. He had not imagined she could still have such lightning in her after passing through the emotional storm he'd witnessed just moments before. Clearly, his imaginings had been wrong—and in hindsight, he figured he ought to have known better by now.

"I can't believe it!" she shrieked. "I mean, I can believe it, of course, but… oooooo, those slimy, rotten, putrid, greedy, swamp-muck monsters! I just…" She pounded a fist on the table in rage, then grimaced and shook out her hand at the ensuing flare of pain. "So they were not only stealing from the royal treasury, but robbing people of their hard-earned pay? The brazen nerve of it! To take such advantage when our resources are so tight and the people are still reeling from the battles with Arawn? It's unconscionable! It's selfish, and… and dastardly, and as spiteful as taking a single bite out of every apple plucked from the tree before anyone else can have a chance at them!" She leapt up from her seat. "Ohh, I have a mind to storm into the treasury and begin questioning Cyrvach right this instant! I'll squeeze his throat until every last secret comes popping out!"

"Eilonwy—" Taran reached out to catch her arm before she could follow through on that urge. "Easy… I am as furious as you, but I fear confronting Cyrvach outright would not be the wisest course of action. He will deny all involvement, regardless of any guilt, and will then be on guard for further investigation. Or, if you do manage to pull any answers from him, you will not be able to trust that he didn't make them up on the spot to get free."

Eilonwy continued to scowl, but the touch of Taran's hand on her arm made her hackles lower. "Oh, I know," she pronounced with a huff. "I wasn't really going to squeeze him—or even storm in there immediately. I do have some control over my temper, you know. But I'm vexed beyond belief by this."

"And rightfully so," Taran agreed. "But I believe we must catch the thief—or thieves—in the act if we can, rather than relying on interrogation. That will be difficult enough already since Drem knows we are wise to the theft; if he is as guilty as I suspect, he will cover his tracks and not attempt it again, making it that much more difficult to gather proof of his crime. Yet, with a carefully laid snare, we might catch any who conspired with him."

"If we fail to act quickly, though, he will simply warn them," Eilonwy pointed out.

"Certainly; we cannot afford any delay," Taran concurred. "However, we must at least take the time to think through how to attack from the flank, so to speak, by stealth. I would rather have hard evidence of guilt than try to piece together the truth from the conflicting testimony of self-serving thieves."

Eilonwy pursed her lips for a moment. "Fair enough," she allowed, "but how?"

Taran could hear the exhaustion in her voice as plainly as he could see it in her red-rimmed eyes, drawn countenance, and slumped posture; she was as spent from the day's emotional tumult as he. "I am not sure yet," he admitted, frowning. He took a deep breath before his next statement. "And I think you were right, earlier—we do need some rest, both of us, in order to collect our thoughts."

He steeled himself for an "I told you so," but it never came; Eilonwy was too drained even to claim her due satisfaction at him acknowledging his mistake. She merely nodded, ran her palms over her face and temples, and heaved out something halfway between a huff and a sigh.

"Could we take our supper here in our chambers, then?" she implored. "I haven't a speck of energy left to contend with other people—and I'm sure my face is in no state to be seen anyway after all of the crying I've done today."

"Yes—of course," Taran heartily agreed. "Eating here, I mean," he hastened to add. "Your face is as beautiful as always."

She replied with a snort. Then, without further ado, she strode over to their bed and flopped down upon it amid the pile of sundry pillows she had never gotten around to stowing away. "Mmrph," she grunted, burying her face in one of them, then thumped her palm a few times on the pallet beside her, summoning Taran to follow suit.

He was only too happy to oblige. As his weary body hit the soft bed, he realized neither of them would be able to stay awake long enough to even bother calling for supper to be brought up. Nor did he much care. He simply draped an arm over Eilonwy, burrowed into the rumpled blankets and pillows, and welcomed whatever sleep would come to favor him.


By the light of the next sunrise, their minds were indeed clearer, and they were able to begin devising a plan while they devoured their breakfast. A sequential snare was in order, tempting all thieves in turn as the silver passed through their hands, with an attendant opportunity to catch them in the act. All would need to happen in quick succession, too, with no chance for one culprit to alert fellow conspirators. That meant everything needed to play out when the next round of payment went to the quarry in two weeks. Two weeks—not even that long, now. They had twelve full days in which to glean whatever information they could about the suspected malefactors before setting and springing a fitting trap. It seemed both more and less time than could be wished for: insufficient to fully learn the habits and foibles of the men involved, and far too much to sit patiently waiting for action, keeping a watch on Drem all the while to ensure no messages from him reached others. Nevertheless, it was the span of time they had. But, with both of their efforts and all of their wits, it might very well suffice.

Taran began his part in the plan that very morning, seeking to learn more about the treasury guards who transported the payments from castle to quarry each month. Llassar confirmed that it was indeed the same men who fulfilled that duty each time—he saw them in early morning when his own shift was ending and they were setting out with the locked coffer of silver in tow. That narrowed the array of suspects considerably. Unfortunately, though, Llassar had little other information to give. On such different watch schedules, he and the treasury guards seldom crossed paths, let alone conversed. A subsequent conversation with Cadfan secured a modicum of additional information: the guards' names, the various cantrevs they hailed from—one from Madoc, two from Arvon, another three from the environs of Caer Dathyl itself—and an assurance from the Captain of the Guard that he'd personally selected each of them for their demonstrated strength and diligence. None of it gave Taran much meat to chew on, but it might yet feed the overall inquiry. At least it had narrowed the range of potential thieves.

Meanwhile, Eilonwy set about chatting up some of the servants who had known Cyrvach for some time, in hopes that it would uncover more about the treasurer's true character. That effort turned up little more than Taran's conversations with Llassar and Cadfan. By all accounts, Cyrvach was a rather quiet and assiduous man not given to discussing his personal matters, but with no readily apparent moral blemishes. He was neither well-liked nor despised, but merely a fixture of Caer Dathyl, present for as long as anyone could remember, counting and scribing away in the Treasury, necessary but unremarkable. All of that could indicate his innocence. Or, it was simply proof that he kept his secrets locked away as tightly as the royal store of gold and silver, doling out only what was absolutely necessary as occasion warranted. In truth, the most useful bit of information Eilonwy gathered was that Cyrvach was predictable to a fault when it came to his routines. She'd guessed as much already, but it was reassuring to have broader confirmation—his strict adherence to habit could at least prove useful in arranging a reliable trap.

The remaining time crept along like an inchworm. As busy as they were with countless other matters, Taran and Eilonwy found themselves inescapably preoccupied by the impending confrontation, counting down the days and hours until they must take action. The night before the silver went to the quarry felt like it stretched on for a full month, nearly devoid of sleep but overfull with nervous ruminations and agitated anticipation that had both of them tossing and turning in their bed. At last, though, morning arrived. The first bird songs drifted in through the casement, the sky eased from indigo, to slate, to tints of lavender and orange, and it was time to set their plan in motion.

For her part, Eilonwy descended into the fortified bowels of the Middle Tower where lay the Treasury, deep in one of the windowless chambers belowground. Quietly as a breath of air, she padded down the spiral stairs and through the narrow corridor, shielding her small lantern to the barest glow that would illuminate her path and taking care to prevent even her skirts from rustling, lest the guards on duty become aware of her presence. She had to witness all who entered the Treasury that morning, but wanted none to know of it before the proper time. Just before rounding the corner that shielded the Treasury from direct view, she ducked into the looming shadows of another doorway, snuffed out her light entirely, and waited for Cyrvach to arrive.

For a moment, standing in that damp, stiflingly musty air, her mind sank back to the depths of Spiral Castle and she mused on the lengths to which royalty need go to safeguard themselves and their riches. This innermost chamber, in the innermost tower, beyond the innermost line of hulking ramparts, under watch every minute of every hour of every day, guarded by sharp steel in mighty hands… and that was to say nothing of the secret recesses tucked behind the very stones of the walls around her. Cyrvach had revealed those to her and Taran when they'd first arrived at Caer Dathyl, pulling forth the precious store of wealth he'd spared from the prying clutches of Arawn's minions. It had saved them, those first few months until taxes could be collected. But how contrived and sad an arrangement it all seemed when compared to the riches of the earth, which lay so open to any who had need of them and a willingness to work…

A pair of shuffling footsteps sounded down the corridor. Eilonwy sucked in her breath and drew herself even flatter against the sides of the alcove that concealed her. The wizened treasurer swept past, unseeing, with a soft swish of heavy robes, then disappeared around the corner. She strained her ears through the thick, stagnant, darkness to catch every sound that followed: Cyrvach's crackling-parchment voice bidding hello to the guards on watch; the clink and scrape of his sturdy key entering and turning the lock; the creak of the massive, iron-banded door as it opened and shut. Then, she waited again—granting just enough time for Cyrvach to weigh and portion out the silver into pouches for each quarryman. She could not afford to wait too long—the sun would be cresting the hilltops soon, summoning the six transport guards to their task.

After a few score more measured breaths—then one deep one to fortify her nerves—she emerged from her concealment, strode the rest of the way down the corridor, and presented herself to the guards at the door. An authoritative nod to each of them was sufficient to gain her entry. One swung wide the heavy door, and she stepped through with all of the queenly self-possession she could muster. Cyrvach was just turning the lock on the filled coffer as she entered. When he looked up to find the queen herself standing tall before him, his crinkled eyelids opened wide.

"Good morning, Cyrvach," she greeted him brightly.

"Your Majesty," he said, bowing low, still with key in hand. "This is most unexpected. I did not anticipate seeing you until our customary meeting tomorrow afternoon."

She detected a prickly edge of irritation in his tone, no doubt at the disruption of routine. Oh, how deft these old servitors were at conveying their displeasure without uttering a single overt word of protest… It was a skill she herself hoped to hone sooner rather than later, the better to turn it back on them. "Yes, well, I would have waited until tomorrow, but that would have been too late," she proceeded, trying to appear unruffled. "There is a problem with the payment being sent out today, you see."

Cyrvach merely stood there for a moment, blinking owlishly. "A problem? I do not understand. The ledger is current and accurate, reflecting the number of men working at the quarry as reported; the payment will be sent out at precisely the same time as always, at the end of the night watch; and there has been no change to—"

"That's just it," Eilonwy cut in. "There has been a change, and one you would not know about. Taran and I remembered late last night that we never informed you the quarry workers are to receive additional pay this month—to compensate them for additional time they have been working for the past fortnight. I really am terribly sorry to trouble you," she continued sweetly, "but I'm afraid I must ask you to weigh out the silver once again, so I can see how much must be added."

One corner of Cyrvach's thin mouth twitched as his look of consternation intensified. "There are two hundred and seventy-two pounds of silver, milady: eight for each of the thirty-four current quarry workers, their customary allotment for the previous month's work," he told her, reciting the information as though he were the walking, talking embodiment of an accounting ledger. Eilonwy wondered for a moment whether he dreamed in numbers and ink instead of images and words.

"All right, but I must ask that you weigh it out again for me to be absolutely certain," she asserted.

"I have done so thrice over already, as I do every payment that leaves or enters this treasury—twice last night, then a final time just now," Cyrvach replied, puffing himself up to the full height his diminutive stature would allow. "I assure you, I always take the utmost care to ensure that my work is accurate to the very last grain measure."

"Oh, I have no doubt that you are quite careful," Eilonwy replied. "Your meticulousness is nearly legendary among the servants of Caer Dathyl. But everyone is apt to make a mistake here and there: a ceiniog could get swept off the counting table by the hem of your tunic sleeve; or the rumblings of your stomach could sway your mind toward the breakfast ahead; or a sneeze touched off by the mold down here could make you lose count. Such things happen to the best of us. But I would hate to have a single quarry worker be short-changed as a result. Do weigh it all out again. I will help, and it will be done in a trice." She flashed him her most charming smile and watched his demeanor soften—slightly.

"As you wish, Your Majesty," he consented with a sigh.

He turned back to the stout, sturdy coffer and unlocked it once again. Then, together with Eilonwy, he began to pull out and re-weigh each pouch of silver therein. She kept close watch on him as they worked, making sure not a single one came up short on the scale, and silently counting and re-counting the bundles themselves. She even peeked quickly into each before returning it to the coffer, just to make sure none were falsely weighted with something other than silver. The entire while, she felt a nervous energy perched high in her throat, wondering whether the effort would expose Cyrvach as the thief. He did not seem the type to swindle them—especially not after passing up the chance to abscond with all of the riches he'd saved from Arawn—but it was not beyond possibility. Thirty-four pouches dwindled to twenty, then ten, then five…

It was all there, right down to the very last ceiniog, as promised. Reluctant as Cyrvach had been to have his work verified, it appeared he had nothing to conceal. Eilonwy found herself both relieved and disappointed. The re-weighing pointed to the treasurer's innocence, and meant he could retain his position besides, yet it left the mystery unsolved. Well, best to be grateful for the one and patient on the other, she supposed.

"Excellent," she pronounced with a definitive nod. "Your accuracy is impeccable, Cyrvach. The King and I could not hope to find a better treasurer." She watched the webs of wrinkles around his eyes deepen as he smiled proudly. "Now," she continued, "let us add four pounds each to twenty-two of those allotments, to cover the additional wages."

Soon enough, that task was complete, and Cyrvach locked the coffer tight with a gratifying metallic click. Mere moments later, the Treasury door swung open again, and in tromped four of the requisite guards to carry it away. Eilonwy watched over them sternly as they hauled it out of the chamber, struggled with it up the stairs, then hefted it into the back of a cart readied for that purpose by their two companions outside. She followed behind as they trundled slowly away through the courtyards, then rushed up to the top of the gatehouse to watch still longer, determined that not one piece of silver would be stolen within range of her sight. At last, the cart and riders vanished like specks of dark dust on the horizon. It was Taran's turn now: one suspect had been absolved, but seven more remained.


As soon as there'd been sufficient pre-dawn light to ride by, Taran had set out for the quarry with Llassar, Gurgi, Fflewddur, Rhodri, and twelve of his most trusted warriors. Swiftly they rode, a host of long shadows cutting though the ghostly fog that draped over the dew-beaded valleys. The sun had barely kissed the summit of the hills when they drew a halt just shy of the quarry. There, they would lie in wait for the shipment of riches to pass by. Copses of birch and rowan alongside the stony roadside embankments offered just enough cover that they would hear the approaching cart well before the accompanying treasury guards could spot them. Then, it was only a matter of waiting—and for Taran, a matter of reining in his charging nerves.

"A rather odd circumstance, this," Fflewddur remarked as he peered expectantly down what he could see of the road, jumping up and down a bit to keep warm in the autumn chill. "Intercepting your own cartload of silver, that is. It rather makes me feel like the robber. Exhilarating, though! It's not every day one has a chance to thwart a plot against the High King! And if these conniving thieves do give battle, then so much the better! I've been itching for a good fight!"

Behind the bard, leaning against one of the tree trunks, Rhodri issued a loud snort. Taran's mouth twisted ruefully. "I, myself, would prefer to avoid battle if we may," he said drily, knowing full well that Fflewddur likely felt the same, regardless of what he claimed. "We do not even know yet that these guards are the thieves," he noted, "and won't know until the moment we open the coffer and see that silver is missing."

"Oh, but if they are, then wicked thieves will face bashings and smashings from brave and vengeful Gurgi!" the shaggy creature cried, shaking a fist in the air and baring his teeth.

"If it comes to that, yes—but do not strike unless I give the command," Taran ordered. "Even if they do turn out to be the thieves, I would far rather capture them unharmed. It is unlikely they will give us any answers when questioned, but slain men will certainly give none."

"True enough," Fflewddur put in. "Although, they also aren't likely to cause further trouble, if you take my meaning."

"No one attacks without my command," Taran restated, more firmly. "And in the meantime, we would do well to keep silent. The guards will not be long behind us."

His companions and the rest of the warriors fell quiet, settling into their positions among the craggy boulders that flanked the quarry road, their steeds concealed farther behind. Save for a few bird calls and the rustle of a light wind through drying leaves, no sounds broke the morning stillness. Even the lingering fog seemed to hover expectantly, its damp fingers trailing shivers of anticipation across the back of Taran's neck.

It was a fair while before they spotted the treasury wagon in the distance, emerging from the mist like a coalescing shade. Apprehensively, the warriors waited as it rolled closer and closer, then closer still. Not until it was near enough to hear the wheels creaking did Taran wave the group forward. Some men blocked the way onward to the quarry while the rest surrounded the guards to bar their retreat. Fflewddur and Gurgi sprung to Taran's side, with Llassar and Rhodri ready at hand mere steps away.

Startled, the treasury guards brought up their swords, not realizing at first who it was they faced. Soon enough, though, one man at the front recognized Taran and immediately shouted to his comrades to lower their weapons. He quickly sheathed his own blade and dropped humbly to one knee. "Forgive us, Your Majesty," he entreated Taran. "We did not realize it was you who approached us, and sought only to safeguard the wealth entrusted to our care. But if I may ask, sire, to what purpose have you barred our way?"

"To ensure the selfsame wealth is arriving at its intended destination," Taran replied with a stern glance. "Word has reached me that, on several previous occasions, a fair amount of silver went missing along the way. Unless there is a hole in the bottom of that coffer, such a loss is cause for suspicion."

He watched closely for any reaction among the guards, but to a man, they remained stone-faced.

"Unlock it," he commanded the guard who had spoken. "We will count it out again right here. If none is missing, you will have my apologies for hindering you and may be on your way."

"I would, sire, and gladly, but we haven't the key," the guard demurred. "There are only two: one in the possession of Cyrvach, and the other with Drem. Not a speck of silver could be missing on our account, I assure you. The coffer remains shut fast every step of the way from Caer Dathyl to the quarry."

"As if a lock cannot be picked!" scoffed Fflewddur. "You'll have to do better than that, old boy, if you're looking to clear yourself of blame. Why, I've picked scores of locks myself—"

Taran cut him off with a wave of his hand. "We shall proceed to the quarry, then, and settle the matter there," he declared.

The treasury guards obeyed, falling into line behind half of Taran's warriors and in front of the rest. Slowly, they traveled onward, along the switchback road into the depths of the quarry. Numerous quarry workers turned to gawk as the unusual travel host passed by, and the hands of a few men stilled entirely at the sight. Taran bestowed a few nods of greeting, but said nothing and did not call a halt until the group had reached the stone-finishing workshop.

Drem, expecting the delivery but not such a quantity of hoofbeats, came rushing out to meet them. His jaw dropped when he saw the sizeable host of warriors with Taran himself at their head. "Your Majesty," he exclaimed, bowing deeply. "Forgive me for the lack of a proper welcome! Never did I expect that you might accompany the treasury funds this day."

"No, I would think not," Taran replied coolly. "Yet, in light of the promises I made to your workers on my last visit, I thought it best for me to deliver their wages in person this time. I trust that you have no objection."

"Oh, no. No, sire. No, indeed," Drem stuttered.

Taran gave him a tight smile. "Good. Then gather your payment records and your scale, assemble your men, and we shall see to it that they receive their fair due."

"Yes, Your Majesty. I will be but a moment," Drem replied, bowing again, then scuttling back into the workshop.

He scarcely even needed to summon the quarrymen to hand; curiosity alone had already drawn most of them away from their work. In no time, they had circled around the treasury wagon, looking inquisitively from their king, to the warriors, to the treasury guards, to Drem, and then back to Taran again.

Once all had assembled, Taran motioned for the guards to proceed with the business at hand. Somewhat reluctantly, they heaved the coffer off of the cart and onto the stony ground, unfastened the sturdy lock with the key Drem brought forth, then threw back the heavy lid. Even without weighing out the silver, it was plain to see that a large portion was missing. Nevertheless, Taran did not raise a finger against the guards.

"Go on," he urged. "Weigh and dole out the payments, worker by worker. Drem will call out their names and state how much silver shall be given to each. The ledger should be right there atop the pile—an account verified by Queen Eilonwy herself this very morning. If any of the pouches come up short, replenish them from those not yet dispersed."

The treasury guards froze for a moment, staring at Taran like deer in the glare of a wolf. Then, slowly, they did as their king commanded. One by one, Drem called out the names of the quarrymen, who stepped forward to receive their due. Payment by payment, the store of silver in the coffer dwindled. Long before the last worker had come forth, the guards found themselves combining the contents of the last two pouches to make one full measure. Then, there was no silver left at all.

An angry murmur rumbled through the quarrymen like an ominous peal of thunder. Taran, still astride Melynlas, cast a disapproving glower down at the guards. "Take hold of them," he commanded his warriors.

In an instant, they closed in, two to each man, before the treasury guards could so much as reach for their blades. One or two put up a halfhearted struggle, but all seemed to know that any escape attempt would be in vain. They stared up at Taran and simultaneously stared down their fate, one or two with a look of fear, and the rest with futile defiance.

"Tell me, Drem," Taran called out then to the quarry master, "do you see a hole in the bottom of that coffer, by which the silver might have fallen out along the road?"

Looking about as nervous as a hare caught in an open field beneath a circling hawk, Drem peered over the coffer's rim. "No, sire. There is nary a crack to be seen—not even a pinhole large enough for water to escape."

"Hmn. And what am I to make of that?" Taran asked. Slowly, he rode past the captive guardsmen, looking severely down at each of them in turn. Not a few squirmed visibly under his scrutiny. "Am I to believe it simply vanished like a puff of smoke? Like an illusion conjured by the Fair Folk? Enchantment is gone from Prydain, so I can only assume that it disappeared by more ordinary means." He came to the end of the group and spun Melynlas around. "Search them," he ordered Llassar, Fflewddur, Rhodri, and Gurgi.

They set right to work, stripping down the guards and turning each article of clothing inside out. Sure enough, tucked away within breeches, and boots, and hidden pockets on the insides of tunics, the stolen silver was found.

"Aha! Thought you could get away with your brazen thievery, did you?" Fflewddur crowed. "I could smell that stolen silver on you weasels from ten paces away! You ought to have turned yourselves in back there on the road and been spared the embarrassment of being stripped to your smallclothes in public!"

Rhodri and Llassar were more subdued in their responses, not uttering any words of insult, but shot equally contemptuous glares at the guilty men. Gurgi shook his fist and snarled at them, but a warning glance from Taran held him at bay.

Once again, Taran addressed the captured guards. "Look!" he commanded, his voice ringing out hard and clear, echoing slightly off of the quarry walls. "Look at these quarrymen standing before you! Look upon the men who have toiled day after day to hew this cold, hard stone from the living earth! Look at these men who sought no more than to earn their bread by honest work! Did you think the only victim of your thievery was a king in a high castle, too removed from his people to notice or concern himself with a few missing pieces of silver? These are the men you truly robbed—these men who sweat under the sun and nearly break their backs to raise Caer Dathyl for the protection of all. Look them in the eyes! Look them in the eyes, and tell them you had the right to deprive them of their hard-won livelihood for your own selfish gain."

A hush fell like lead over the assembled crowd. Not a single pebble rattled the silence. All eyes were fixed on Taran as he gazed down with dismay upon the guilty men held fast before him. He allowed several breaths to come and go, then spoke again, more quietly but with no less iron behind his words. "You have betrayed the trust vested in you, neglected your sworn duty, and stolen from the hands of your own countrymen. That is shameful behavior regardless of any law; but a law you have also broken, and so by law you must be punished."

"Take their heads!" came a shout from amidst the quarrymen.

"Aye! They were caught with the stolen goods in hand! Their lives are forfeit!" cried out another.

"Here, here! String them up from the cliff and let the ravens have at them! Beheading is too good for them!" growled a third.

A deafening wave of cries roared through the crowd, calling for violent death to be visited upon the thieves in their midst. Taran raised his hand for silence. "By law, your lives are indeed the price demanded for your crime. Many would say an example should be made of you: that witnessing stiff punishment will keep honest folk honest." Another roar came from the crowd. Again, Taran called for silence. "However," he continued, "to my mind, taking your lives will do little to appease me, and do nothing to repay the men you have wronged. I seek justice, not vengeance. So, this instead shall be your punishment: to toil beside those very men aggrieved, forfeiting your pay rather than your lives until every last measure of silver has been repaid. You will face those men. You will know them by name, and know their hardship by living it. You will endure their scorn, and know that you brought it upon yourself. And only when you have paid that due will you regain your freedom. I hope that by that time you will have also regained your sense of honor."

At first, Taran could not tell whether his declaration had mollified or further angered the quarry workers. They stood in silence, nearly as motionless as the cliffs around them. Then, Llew stepped forward from the crowd. Nodding his head in approval, he began to clap loudly. One by one, his fellow workers followed suit in a ripple of applause and a chorus of cheers. To be sure, some men looked more enthusiastic than others, but the angry energy radiating from the crowd had dissipated. Taran breathed a surreptitious sigh of relief as he at last swung down from his high seat atop Melynlas.

Then, while Fflewddur, Llassar, Gurgi, and Rhodri handed out the remaining payments from among the recovered silver, Taran went to speak with the thieves. Tightly bound now, they were prisoned in the very cart they had pulled to the quarry. One by one, he had them brought before him, and for some time he questioned them about their plot. Who among them first suggested they turn to robbery? Silence. Had they any reason for it other than a sheer lust for wealth? Silence. Were they working alone or were others involved? Silence. Who had written the letter to Drem, explaining away the diminished store of silver? Silence. Had there even been such a letter? Silence. He may as well have been questioning mute statues: surly glares sharp enough to split an oak tree were the only answers he received for his efforts.

Finally, the sixth thief stood before him: scarcely more than a youth, Taran realized, for all that he had strength and stature well beyond his years. He squirmed a little against his bonds and kept throwing furtive, wary glances back at his accomplices. Of all the men, only he seemed the least bit contrite. But for all he looked like he wished to say something, he remained as tight-lipped as the others. Frustrated, Taran began to turn away, abandoning his interrogation. He could hear his companions finishing up their task in the background, and the quarrymen were dispersing. Any further questions could wait…

"We weren't the only ones involved, you know," the young man blurted out suddenly, quietly enough that only the two warriors holding him captive and Taran himself could hear. "If I'm to spend years grinding myself down to dust in this quarry, I want Drem to do the same!" he spat, his dark eyes flashing with resentment.

Taran stopped mid-stride. He turned to face the thief once more. "What hand did Drem have in this?" he asked somberly, fixing him with a searching stare.

"Took a share for himself, he did—and a hefty one, too," the thief explained. "We got ours for picking the lock and he got his for keeping quiet about it."

"Have you any proof of that?"

The young man shook his head. "No, sire. Wish I did. I'd like to see that greasy rat swinging a pick right alongside the rest of us."

"And what of the letter he described? The one proclaiming I had reduced the wages…" Taran pressed.

"Oh, that was real enough—written up by one of the other guards; I don't know which. Drem flashed it in front of the few quarrymen who can read, but he's likely burned it since."

Taran frowned. "And is there no other proof? Will none of the others bear witness to Drem's guilt?"

"I doubt it," the young man scoffed. "The pair from Arvon hardly need their tongues for all they use them, and the others made it plain enough that any rat who squeaked would answer dearly for it. I shouldn't even have said this much myself…" He went quiet again, aside from a few sniffs that betrayed his nervousness.

"The more you reveal, the more apt I will be to help you in kind by assuring your safety," Taran noted. The words left a foul taste in his mouth as they passed his tongue. Such an exchange—the protection of a life for answers—was unconscionable, and he had no will to follow through on it. Yet, if a guilty conscience would not compel the thief to speak, what other recourse did he have than to make such a bluff? "Tell me," he continued, unsheathing as much steel in his voice as he could, "which of the others began this plot? The guards from Arvon? Or the one from Madoc?" Inwardly, he felt his pulse intensifying. The answer could level a sharp arrow at either Iscawin or Meilyr, depending on which cantrev the instigator hailed from.

Alas, the thief merely shook his head, his as lips tightly fitted as the planks of a barrel.

"You know not, or you will not say?" Taran pushed.

"I know not," the thief admitted. "I took the position later, you see. Had no idea what I was in for until the moment I first saw them breaking into the coffer. And I wasn't about to protest with five sharp swords glinting in my eyes—neither then nor afterward."

Taran suppressed a grunt of frustration. It was a perfectly understandable explanation, and also perfectly capable of being a lie. "What of Cyrvach?" he continued, hoping that branch of interrogation would prove more fruitful. "Did he know of this, too?"

The young man shook his head. "No, not him. He wasn't to know under any circumstances—too close to you, sire. He'd be the first one you'd suspect."

"I see." Taran's jaw tightened. One innocent man out of eight with access to the silver—better than none, but disheartening still. "Is there anything else you wish to tell me?" he continued, continuing to hold the young thief's gaze. "Better to speak now than have me discover later that you withheld information."

Again, the thief shook his head—no, there was nothing else. Taran hardly found it convincing, but he decided to let it go for the moment, grateful that the young man had revealed anything at all. "Very well then," he said. "You have shown courage in sharing this much with me, at least, and you have my thanks for it." He nodded for the warriors holding the young man to return him to the cart with the others. Then, wearily, he went to rejoin his companions.

As he reached them, he spotted Drem attempting to slip back to the workshop unnoticed. "Fflewddur? Rhodri?" Taran called out. "There is yet one more thief to apprehend, if you care to do the honors…" He jerked his head toward the workshop door, just as the stocky quarry master disappeared inside. Fflewddur smirked. Rhodri gave a sharp nod and grabbed another length of leather cord. A few shouts and a bit of scrabbling later, Drem was unceremoniously hustled off to joining his accomplices in the wagon, and the entire party began their way slowly back up the winding quarry road.


Riding home, Taran was as troubled as Fflewddur and Gurgi were jubilant. Although he, Eilonwy, and his companions had won the day, the first flush of victory he'd felt soon drifted away like the morning mist. Yes, there was relief to be found in capturing the thieves and confirming Cyrvach's innocence, but it hardly overcame his disquiet about the theft happening in the first place—or the lack or explanation from most of the men involved. Drem and the guards could be interrogated yet again. Punishment would be served and justice obtained in some measure. But could he find any peace of mind, knowing such crimes were so easily and willfully committed? Who else among his subjects and servants was untrustworthy? Who else sought to take advantage of his raw foothold in kingship? How closely tied were these particular thieves to their overlords, Iscawin and Meilyr? Most importantly, in the great sweep of circumstance, how many more things would crumble underfoot before a time of relative peace and stability could be secured?

Having no answers, Taran focused instead on the rhythmic clop of Melynlas' hooves—steady, and familiar, and sure—as they bore him slowly home.


.


A/N: Bonus chapter this week, because it picked up right where the last one left off and it seemed awkward to have a week of waiting time in between. However, I also have some (mildly) bad news to deliver: I need to hit the pause button on posting for a week or two (hopefully just one) so I can dedicate extra time to working on the final chapters. There are still ten left to go, the majority of them already solidly drafted, but the final few need a fair amount of attention. This was the best point for a break without interrupting the final crescendo of drama and action, so... Sorry for this, but better now than later - trust me. Please stay tuned. :)