The weather remained horrible all the way to Mehan. If the clouds weren’t following them, as Hadrian imagined, and all of northern Avryn was suffering the same deluge, then Wayward’s pond was likely a lake after the three additional days of downpours that soaked Royce and Hadrian’s travels south. On the morning of the fourth day, the skies woke clear and blue, a huge southern sun shining upon a land of gorgeous rolling hills.

Most of the jobs Riyria took occurred in and around Medford, with a few sending them only as far south as Warric. Although Hadrian had grown up less than fifty miles from the border, this was his first trip to Maranon. If the peninsula of Delgos were a mitten, Maranon would be the thumb, and a green one at that. A land that was deep, velvet-rich, and the color of a forest by moonlight stretched out in all directions, broken by small stands of leafy trees. Maranon was known for its horses — the best in the world. At first, Hadrian thought he saw deer grazing in the meadows, but deer didn’t travel in herds of fifteen or more. Nor did they thunder when racing across the fields, shifting and circling like a flock of starlings.

“Are they owned? Or can you just grab one?” Hadrian asked Royce as they rode their mangy northern mounts, which were at least clean thanks to three days of rain.

Royce, who had thrown his hood off and was letting his cloak air-dry on his shoulders, glanced at the horses racing over a distant hill. “Yes and no. They’re like deer up north — or anything anywhere, really. There’s nothing that isn’t claimed by someone. Those are wild, but everything here belongs to King Vincent.”

Hadrian accepted Royce’s expertise. Despite his partner’s lack of idle conversation, he knew Royce had traveled extensively — at least in Avryn. He appeared most familiar with the congested areas around the big cities of Colnora and Ratibor, those places a thief and former assassin would find the most work. For Hadrian, the trip to Maranon felt like Riyria was taking a holiday. The change in weather only added to the sense that they were in for some relaxation.

Rising in his stirrups, Hadrian gazed across the open land. Aside from the road they followed and the mountains in the distance, Hadrian didn’t see a soul, city, or village. “So what’s to stop me from roping one and taking it home?”

“Aside from the horse itself, you mean?” Royce asked.

“Well, yes.”

“Nothing really. Unless you’re caught, in which case you’ll be hanged.”

Hadrian smirked, but Royce wasn’t looking. “If caught, we’d be hanged for most of what we do.”

“So?”

“So, this looks nicer. I mean . . .” He gazed at the few puffy, white clouds, which cast fleeting shadows over the hills. “This place is incredible. It’s like we crawled out of a sewer and wandered into paradise. I’ve never seen so many shades of green before.” He looked down. “It’s like our Medford grass is sick or something. If we have to steal, why can’t we take horses for a living? Got to be easier than climbing trellises and towers.”

“Really? Ever try grabbing a wild horse?”

“No — you?”

“No, but explain to me how a man on a horse catches a riderless horse. And a Maranon one at that. In a land of endless rolling hills, there’s no place to trap them. And even if you were to catch one, what then? There’s a difference between a wild horse and an unbroken one. You know that, right?”

In one of the back corridors of his mind, Hadrian recalled having heard something like that, but he hadn’t remembered until Royce brought it up. Horses born on farms were raised around people. They weren’t trained and didn’t take to having folk hop on their backs any more than a dog would, but they were still relatively tame.

“Got just as much chance with a wild horse as you would have saddling a stag.”

“Just an idea,” Hadrian said. “I mean, how long will we do this for?”

“Do what?”

“Steal.”

Royce laughed. “Since I teamed with you, I hardly ever steal. Annoying really. There’s a certain beauty in a well-done theft. I miss it.”

“We stole that diary.”

Royce turned to give Hadrian a pitying look and a sad shake of his head. “That’s not theft; it’s petty pilfering. And now this. The idea of preventing someone from assassination feels . . .”

“Dirty?” Hadrian asked.

Another look, this one baffled. “No. It feels wrong, like walking backward. Seems simple enough in theory, but it’s awkward. I’m not even sure what they want me to do. Am I expected to talk to this woman, this walking target? Don’t usually chat with the soon-to-be dead.”

In three years, this was the most Royce had ever said while riding. The angry tone explained it. Royce hadn’t been this far outside his comfort zone since the Crown Tower debacle. The master thief was rarely off balance, but when he was, Royce became chatty.

“She’s noble,” Royce went on. “I don’t like nobles. Always so full of themselves.”

“Brought up that way,” Hadrian said as if he were worldly.

Hadrian had known a number of nobles, but they were all Calian, and that was like saying he knew rodents because he’d fed some squirrels. Calian nobles were nothing like those in Avryn. They were more casual, earthy, less pompous, and far more dangerous. Hadrian thought Royce would actually like most Calian nobles, at least until they hugged him. Hadrian had learned early on that Royce Melborn wasn’t a hugger.

“Exactly.” Royce nodded. “And this one is a woman — a Maranon woman at that.”

“What’s so different about Maranon women?”

“Remember that storm on the Uplands near Fallen Mire? The place where the breezes coming across Chadwick slam into the winds coming down off the ridge?”

“Oh yeah.” Hadrian nodded, remembering a night when neither of them had slept.

“They’re like that.” Royce waved his hand dismissively at the lush, beautiful countryside that ran as far as Hadrian could see. “Look at this place. Do people here work hard? Do you think common folk’s mattocks go dull on the rocks in this soil? Or that people go to sleep hungry three nights a week? The serfs on these manor farms live better than Gwen. Now imagine what their nobles are like. I expect this Dulgath woman will be the worst possible sort. Did you know the Province of Dulgath is the oldest fief in Avryn?”

“Exactly how would I know that?” Hadrian smiled at him, entertained by a talkative Royce.

“Well, it is,” Royce said, irritated, as if Hadrian had disputed him. “If Albert can be trusted to know the history of the various noble houses, Dulgath was founded around the same time as the Novronian Empire, and the family that rules here is as old as the First Empire’s origins. Most nobles adopt the name of the region they’re given stewardship of, but here it’s the other way around. The Province of Dulgath was named for the people who founded it. So, given that, how entrenched do you think Lady Dulgath’s sense of privilege is? Her family goes back for hundreds of generations. And I have to save her?”

“Technically, I think they want to know how you would murder her.”

Royce gave Hadrian a wicked smile. “The hard part, I expect, will be not carrying it out. Having you whispering in my ear not to kill may be of benefit for once.” Royce looked up at the perfect sky stretching far and wide. “There’s no way I’ll get out of here without blue bloodstains.”

----------------------------------------

The road forked; A left turn hooked south while their path continued into the distance where the green hills ended at a wrinkle of green mountains.

Royce paused for a long time, staring down the left branch, which made Hadrian look as well. The road was straight, level, and followed along the skirt of the green ridge toward larger stony mountains tinged blue in the late-morning sun. Minutes passed while Royce continued to stare, and Hadrian became certain his partner had lost his way, something which was more than odd. For three years, Hadrian had never known Royce to lose his inner compass through dense forests, amid fog as thick as a wool blanket, during starless nights, or even in a blinding blizzard. And yet, the thief continued to sit on his horse, staring down that long southern route.

“Is it that way?” Hadrian finally asked.

Royce looked up, as if he’d been asleep. “What?”

“Is that how we get to Dulgath?”

“Down there?” Royce shook his head. “No — no, that’s not the way. That doesn’t lead anywhere.”

Hadrian looked at the broad well-worn track marred by the passage of wagon wheels and the half circles of horses’ hooves. “Pretty well traveled for a dead end.”

Royce smirked, as if Hadrian had made a vulgar joke. “Yes, it most certainly is.”

Urging his horse to stay on their path, Royce continued to look back at the road more traveled, as if he didn’t trust it. Whatever haunted him, he didn’t say, nor did Hadrian ask.

When they’d first begun working together, marrying their unique skills for mutual gain, Hadrian had tried on numerous occasions without any luck to pry open the box of Royce’s history. Only near-death brushes — or, as it would seem, the anticipation of meeting Maranon nobles — managed to loosen that lid. Wherever that southern road led, Hadrian wouldn’t learn about it from Royce. The two things he was certain about were that Royce had been down that road and it went somewhere.

The road they were on went somewhere as well. Up.

After several hours of silent riding, it narrowed through a series of switchbacks until it snaked into a tight pass beyond which a vista opened onto another world. This one even more beautiful than the one they’d left behind. Wildflower meadows and leafy forests sat beside an ocean, a vast expanse of water that cut jagged coves and bays from massive cliffs. Hadrian guessed they had come to the western edge of Maranon and the start of the Sharon Sea. This was his first time seeing it, but at that distance it looked no different from the eastern oceans. On this backside of Maranon, where the roads were narrower and little more than grass-covered greenways, there were more trees, more streams, and many more waterfalls.

Tucked inside a space less than ten miles from mountains to sea was a shadow-valley, cozy and snug, dangling its toes in the vast blue that crashed white against a stony point. Castle Dulgath stood on a singular promontory that hooked south like a crooked finger. Built from cliff stone, it blended with the tortured rock except for the straight edges of its towers and its flags flying blue and white.

“Pretty,” Hadrian said.

Royce huffed. He pointed to the red berries along the trail. “So are those, but I wouldn’t suggest eating any.”

The trip down was quick and silent. Royce drew up his hood as they neared the valley’s floor and farms and travelers started to appear. The homes were built of fieldstone, covered with neat, thatched roofs. Often the buildings were multistoried, and always picturesque. The people were darker than those in Melengar: black-haired, olive-skinned, and brown-eyed. Well fed and healthy, they dressed in colorful clothing of greens, oranges, and yellows, a stark contrast with the people of Melengar. There, the poor wore a natural-wool uniform dyed with dirt to a dingy gray. Mud was the pigment of the north, but the south delighted in color.

Heads turned and friendly faces looked up at them as they passed. Royce never paused, never slowed. Once, he urged his horse to a trot when a man said “Hello,” which sounded like yellow in the Maranon accent. Hadrian, on the other hand, smiled and returned waves, especially from pretty young women.

“We should move down here,” Hadrian said.

“Our contacts are up north. I know my way around better, and we have resources and a reputation. Down here, we’d be starting from scratch and working blind. We don’t even know the laws.”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

“But it’s pretty.”

Royce glanced back. “You said that already.”

Hadrian spotted another young woman, this one with painted eyes. She smiled at him. “It’s gotten prettier.”

They traveled down the road through dappled shade and to the songs of peeping tree frogs. Before long, the sounds of wagon wheels and conversation replaced the frog calls as Royce and Hadrian reached a cluster of buildings. Rounding a bend, they entered into a proper village with candle shops and cobblers. Buildings here displayed tiled roofs, glass windows, shutters, and eaves. Moss covered old foundations, and thick ivy climbed chimneys and wreathed windows. The grassy trail became a stone-covered broadway where it passed through the village, although it was difficult to see the road, given the crowd gathered upon it.

Men and women clustered in the village square — an open market where merchants and vendors might set up displays to sell buttons, copper kettles, and the day’s fresh catch of fish. Instead, a crowd surrounded a large smoking pan suspended over an open fire. At first, Hadrian thought the two of them had stumbled on a festival. He imagined being welcomed to a communal picnic, but he didn’t smell any food. Instead, he smelled the gagging stench of boiling tar. In the middle of the throng of townsfolk, a dozen angry men held an elderly fellow with his wrists bound behind his back. They led him past four sacks of feathers toward the cauldron of bubbling tar.

“We should do something,” Hadrian said.

Royce lifted enough of his hood to see him clearly. “Why?”

“Molten tar can kill an old man.”

“So?”

“So, if we don’t do something, they’ll kill him.”

“How is this our problem?”

“Because we’re here.”

“Really? That’s your argument? We’re here? Haven’t won too many debates, have you?” Royce looked around. “You’ll notice we aren’t alone. The whole village is in on this. That poor bastard is probably a criminal — a poisoner of children, torturer of women — maybe a cannibal.”

“Cannibal?” Hadrian shook his head. “Honestly, the way you think. It’s —”

“Practical? Sensible?”

“Sadistic.” Hadrian pointed. “Royce, look at his cassock. The man is a priest.”

Royce scowled. “Worst sort of criminal.”

Faces had turned their way. People were pointing at the pair of strangers watching them from horseback. Hadrian, and his three swords, received the most attention. The crowd quieted, and four of the bigger men from out front approached and stood boldly before them.

“Who are you?” the biggest one asked. Shoulder-length hair didn’t quite hide the bull neck that was nearly as wide as his head. Broad jaw, wide nose, eyes sunk deep beneath an eave of brow, he narrowed his eyes into a quarrelsome glare and then cracked the knuckles on two massive hands.

Hadrian grinned and introduced himself by name.

Royce cringed.

“No reason not to be friendly.” Hadrian said while dismounting. Then more quietly he said to Royce, “What difference does it make? We aren’t doing anything illegal.”

“Not yet,” Royce whispered back.

Hadrian stepped forward and offered his hand to the four men.

None took it.

“You a knight?” the bullnecked man asked.

“Me?” Hadrian chuckled. “No.”

“Probably another vagabond lord here to freeload after the funeral.” This was said by the slightly shorter gent to Bull Neck’s right, the one whose friendly orange tunic undermined his efforts to appear menacing. Another of the four, who liked his hair short but didn’t know much about cutting it, nodded his agreement.

“Maybe they’re from the church? Seret and Sentinels consider anyone who doesn’t bend a knee at Novron’s altar a heretic,” said a man standing in the back.

“Well, whoever you are,” the bullnecked man said, “you shoulda brought more men with you if you plan to stop us from feathering Pastor Payne.”

Hadrian let his shoulders droop. “Actually, we don’t —”

“Need more men,” Royce broke in.

Hadrian turned to look at him. “We don’t?”

“No,” Royce confirmed. “But they do.” He rose up in his stirrups and waved for the other men who were holding Pastor Payne to come forward. “C’mon up here. Your friends are going to need your help.”

“Ah — Royce?” Hadrian said as five additional men pushed their way through the crowd.

Not all of them were brutes, and none stood as big as the bullnecked man and his buddy in orange. Two were older fellows with graying hair. Three were young, long and lanky, with pretty, unmarked faces. On the positive side, none of them carried so much as a stick.

“So, do you want to know why Hadrian here carries three swords?” Royce asked the crowd. A few nodded, and he gestured toward his partner with a grin. “Tell them.”

The two had done this before. It didn’t always work.

Hadrian pasted a friendly smile on his lips and faced the crowd, paying particular attention to the wall of muscle in front of him. “In my travels, I’ve found most men are reluctant to fight someone wielding a sword unless they also have one. Most good-natured folk — like yourselves — don’t have weapons. So I carry extras in case a situation like this arises. That way, I can hand out a couple so people aren’t so disadvantaged in a fight.”

Hadrian drew both his side blades in an elegant, single motion. The crowd stepped back and let out a communal gasp.

“So you can have your choice.” He spun the smaller weapon against his palm. “This is a short sword, the workhorse of combat, an ancient, reliable design. Great for close quarters and frequently used with a shield. Or . . .” He spun the larger one in his other hand. “This is a hand-and-a-half sword, also called a bastard sword — I think because no one knows where it came from.” He chuckled.

No one joined him.

Hadrian sighed. “Looking at the handle, you can see it has room for two hands, but it’s also light enough to swing one-handed. A really nice, versatile blade.” Hadrian slammed both weapons back into their scabbards with practiced ease. Then, reaching up, he slid the great sword off his back.

Once more, people gasped and gave way, backing up another step as the massive blade swung out.

“Now, this is a spadone.” With one hand, Hadrian held the blade out level, pointing at the crowd. “As you can see — it’s big. Sort of a three-and-a-half sword.”

He grinned at them, but the crowd remained cold. Everyone’s eyes followed the tip of the blade as if it were a snake’s head.

“This is obviously a two-handed weapon and not for the faint of heart. You might be thinking it would be a good choice due to its long reach, but most would have trouble swinging it, much less holding it out as I’m doing now.” Hadrian swung the big sword in large sweeping arcs, making it sing in the wind; then he let go and caught it with his other hand. “And while you’re struggling to raise it, I’d stab you with the short sword.”

“I’ve seen him do that,” Royce lied. “Usually catches a poor sod in the stomach. One quick thrust. A wound like that can take days to kill you. And painful.” He shook his head and frowned. “One sad case screamed and moaned for so long, his own mother wanted to smother him with a pillow.”

Faces blanched. Royce was a good liar.

Bull Neck’s mountain-ridge brow wrinkled, and his stalwart friend in orange retreated a bit more, stepping on the foot of a woman behind him. She cried out and shoved him with both hands.

“And if you’re thinking of rushing him . . .” Royce chuckled. The sound wasn’t at all jovial. Hadrian had never witnessed Royce laughing in good humor. When he laughed, babies cried. “I should mention that he can mow down scores of men with his big sword, and with less effort than you scythe wheat. Of course, doing so is louder and messier. Wheat doesn’t bleed, and straw doesn’t scream.”

Eyes, still locked on the sword, widened. Hadrian knew they were picturing him swinging the blade into the crowd as if through ripened crops.

Royce leaned forward in his saddle, the leather creaking with the strain. The chuckling had stopped, and what smile he wore melted into a grim, straight line. “Now that you’ve met Hadrian, let me introduce myself. I’m the one you don’t want to know.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Let the priest go, or I’ll be forced to demonstrate why Hadrian is the lesser of two evils.”

The wall of muscle retreated, walking backward and forcing the gathered throng to fall back as well. Then everyone scattered, slipping through doorways or darting up side streets. The crowd dispersed so quickly they didn’t bother untying Pastor Payne; they simply left him standing in the noxious smoke of the sizzling cauldron.

The priest shuffled toward them, coughing as he came.

“Thank you — thank you,” he choked out, doubling over. He struggled to draw a clean breath. The old man wore a round felt cap. Two tufts of white hair jutted out from either side. Satchels of loose skin drooped below sad eyes. Around the frame of his jaw and chin flared a bristling white beard, but his upper lip and cheeks were clean-shaven. His cassock, a ruddy rusted color, was buttoned to the neck and skirted the ground so closely it hid his feet.

Hadrian cut the rope off the priest’s wrists before putting the great sword away. “What was that all about?”

Pastor Payne made use of his free hands to cough into. Then he wiped his lips and eyes. He shook his head at the retreating villagers in disgust. “These are backward people, heathens and blasphemers. Time has forgotten this corner of the world, and those who dwell here are lost in barbarism.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” Royce dropped to the ground.

“They resent my presence. No, that’s not exactly right. They resent the Nyphron Church, which has neglected bringing them into Novron’s fold for far too long. They are mired in the past, and it’s my job to bring them into the future.”

Hadrian turned to Royce. “I thought this wasn’t our problem.”

Royce shrugged. “Turns out it was.”

Hadrian surveyed the deserted streets, which, he then noticed, were paved in a pleasant cobblestone. He could still hear the sound of slamming doors and whispered mutterings. “We made a lot of enemies just now. How come?”

Royce grabbed the lead to his horse and pointed at Payne. “Because a dead client doesn’t pay. Pastor Payne is our employer.”

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“By the way, Payne is spelled with a y and an e — not with an i,” he told them, coming to a stop before a rickety shack slapped together from warped boards and cracked stones, perhaps the only building in town not covered in ivy. The priest turned and eyed the two of them carefully, then sighed. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose. Neither of you is literate, correct?”

“Wrong,” Royce said.

“Really?” Pastor Payne pushed up his lower lip. “Down here, only those in the clergy know their letters. I would have assumed that — your sort — wouldn’t.”

“Our sort?” Royce asked.

“Paid killers,” Payne explained. “That’s what you are, correct? I was informed that at least one of you has worked in that capacity for the Black Diamond Thieves Guild. Isn’t that right?”

“And for that reason you assumed we’re ignorant?” Royce said.

The priest nodded with enthusiasm. “People who spill blood for a living are always ignorant.” He looked them both over again. “Well, almost always, I suppose.”

“Ignorance isn’t prejudiced about who it afflicts,” Royce replied.

Payne looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled and nodded, causing Royce to raise an eyebrow at Hadrian, who shrugged.

“Welcome to my church,” the pastor said, indicating the tilting shack that leaned heavily on the twisted trunked of an olive tree beside it.

“This is a church?” Hadrian asked. “In Medford, the church is . . . bigger.”

“Medford doesn’t have a church,” the old pastor said. “It enjoys a cathedral. We’re just starting here. I can assure you things will be much different the next time you visit. Come in. I’ll make you something to eat.”

Lacking any windows, glass or not, the inside of the church was illuminated by stripes of sunlight shining through the gaps between wall planks. Thick dust clouds swirled as the priest moved around in the tiny space. Looking through large ceramic pots resting on the floor and peering into smaller ones shelved above, he finally found what he was after.

“Ah-hah!” He grinned, pulling out a cloth-wrapped wheel of cheese. “Now if I could find — I swear I had some blackberries somewhere. Gathered them myself. I’m sorry I don’t have more to offer.”

Hadrian searched for a seat and didn’t find anything he was confident would hold his weight. Royce refused to venture more than a step inside the door, where he stood with his arms hidden beneath his cloak.

“Found you!” Payne pulled a basket of berries off a dark shelf, grinning at them as if he’d discovered gold in a stream. “Help yourself. I know where there are more.” The pastor popped two into his mouth and chewed, humming in delight. “Food is wonderful, isn’t it? Winter will be a challenge this year.”

“Isn’t it warmer down here?”

“Sure, sure, but the people are ice. At least in summer, I can fend for myself. In winter, I won’t exactly be able to rely on the generosity of my congregation to get me through.” He popped two more berries, then used a whittled stick stripped of its bark to cut away a piece of cheese.

“They certainly don’t seem to like you,” Royce said.

“The monks have turned them against the church.”

“Monks?”

Payne nodded in reply as he chewed with a full mouth then swallowed. He pointed at the western wall. “Up there is the old monastery. Been here since imperial times and named after a ridiculous piece of cloth.” He swallowed again. Seeing their blank faces, he waved a hand before them. “That doesn’t matter. My woes with the monks aren’t your concern. The church will take care of them. You’re here to stop a murder.”

“No,” Royce replied. “Just giving a professional opinion.”

“Right — right, of course. Well, no sense in going to the castle now. Be dark soon. You can stay here tonight, and in the morning I’ll introduce you to Knox. Hugh is the high sheriff of this province. He’ll be the one you’ll be working with. I’ll also introduce you to Lord Christopher Fawkes. He’s been of great assistance to the church and Lady Dulgath recently. Wonderful young man — cousin to King Vincent. He’s actually the one who suggested speaking to Viscount Alan Wind-something. The fellow who referred you.”

“Albert Winslow.”

“Yes, that’s him.” Pastor Payne took a seat on a rolled bundle of straw, making Hadrian wonder if he’d be better off sleeping outside. “He’s close friends with Bishop Parnell from up north. The bishop dropped me off here when he came down to administer last rites to the late earl. Then he went on to the spring conclave in Ervanon. The bishop met with Viscount Winslow, who sent you our way.”

“What can you tell us about Lady Dulgath?” Royce asked.

Payne paused and wiped his mouth. “Well, she’s the only daughter — only child — of Lord Beadle Dulgath, formerly the Earl of Dulgath. She’s young, twenty-two I believe. Very pretty. Got her looks from her mother, who died in childbirth. Beadle never remarried. He was a sentimental man. Emotional sort. Weak is what Bishop Parnell says. He has let this province run wild with lawlessness, as today’s little demonstration can attest. Can you imagine what would happen if the peasants of Medford hauled a priest out in the main square to be tarred and feathered? King Amrath would post their heads on poles lining the King’s Road.”

“You know a lot about Medford,” Hadrian said.

“I studied at Sheridan University. We used to spend our free days in Medford.”

“Small world. We know a Professor Arcadius from Sheridan. He’s the —”

“Can we get back to Lady Dulgath,” Royce insisted.

“Oh yes. Let’s see . . .” The priest tapped his chin. “She’s well liked. Some might even say loved by . . . well, I guess everyone.”

“Apparently not.” Royce started to lean against the doorframe but must have thought better of it and straightened again. “When did the attacks start?”

“Maybe a few weeks after Beadle’s funeral or so I’ve heard.”

“Maybe?”

“It’s hard to say exactly. We only know about the attempts that got noticed, but Knox will tell you more about that.”

Royce had a sour look on his face. Usually Albert dealt with the client who wanted an item taken. Then Hadrian and Royce would watch the place for a few days, noting visitors and guards — if there were any — and determining when the lights went out and from what windows. Only on rare occasions did his partner check out interiors. If they needed floor plans or inside details, Albert would be sent for a visit. Hadrian knew Royce didn’t speak to many people, but he especially avoided priests, nobles, and most certainly high sheriffs. The last law enforcement officer he’d talked with had been found grotesquely butchered and decorating the fountain in Medford’s Gentry Square. Hadrian doubted Pastor Payne was aware of Royce’s involvement in that affair. If he were, he wouldn’t be so casual about introducing the thief around.