Prologue
Based loosely on the Grimm version of 'The Master Thief.' Aarne-Thompson Type 1525A.
Once upon a time, in a land not unlike our own, there was a man who called himself a Master Thief. The title was well-deserved, for the former son of a destitute candle-maker had spent his youth robbing the richest and snobbiest nobles of the Four Kingdoms, buying the goodwill of the peasantry with their masters' gold and keeping the lion's share for his own devices. Everywhere he travelled, tales were spun of impossible heists, of a cat-burglar who could slip past the most well-armed knight, or clamber up into the highest window. While many were true, the stories grew greater and more unbelievable with each re-telling, with yet another guard to make the fool, or another princess to romance.
Frankly, Roman thought as he sipped his ale in the corner of the darkened common room, I could do with a little less renown and a little more anonymity. Still, nobles shuddered at the mere mention of his name, and guards crossed themselves in fear of accidentally bringing his wrath down upon them.
After all, Roman Torchwick was the man who could steal anything.
Which was how he'd ended up in the Kingdom of Vale, the collar of his fur-lined coat pulled up against his neck, seated in some crummy bar with a mug of frothy liquid that could only charitably be called 'ale.' He'd been there several days already, and his patience was rapidly dwindling. He was supposed to be scoping out his next heist, listening to the grumblings of the unwashed peasants who came to this dump.
The pub was a dive, but one frequented by a few of the nearby castle's staff. Which, normally, should have made it ideal for his purposes. Servants see everything, and there is no better source of information on puffed-up lords and ladies than a liquored-up guard or scullery maid. By now, he should be three cups in with the junior-under-cook or some such nonsense, planning a run at a rich moronic noble, content and secure in his unearned wealth. The richer they were, the more confidence they had in their security, and the easier it always was to rob them blind.
Unfortunately, the Baron of Forever Fall refused to be that kind of noble. From the snippets and gossip Torchwick heard, the man had suffered some life-changing experience or idiotic epiphany several years back, sealed himself in his suit of armor, and declared that he would refuse any gifts that were not shared amongst his people. Since that day, the man had eaten the same food as his servants, walked the same roads, even worked the same fields for god-knows what reason. He levied far lighter taxes than he could, and what treasury he had was dedicated to helping the people, not merely his own enjoyment. Many of his knights had long since left, furious at having their fortunes and privilege denied to them. Still others flocked to his banner, called by the promises of equality, of integrity.
It was rather inconsiderate of him, really.
Just thinking of the concept was enough to make Roman's stomach turn. The man was a bloody friend to the people, and a poor noble made for a poor target. A hoard of gold and jewels was far easier to steal than public education or a well-built bridge, not that he couldn't pull that one off as well. More importantly, riches were far easier to pawn. It was far harder to find a buyer for the bridge.
Plus, Roman thought, taking a swig of his drink and grimacing at the taste. Pandering to the brain-dead populace is supposed to be my job.
Abandoning his drink, Roman rose from his corner table, tipped his hat to the barkeep, and resolved to leave the barony for more lucrative prospects. No sense in sticking around when there was nothing to steal. There was rumored to be a lovely duchy over in Atlas that he could visit ...
"I 'eard," one intoxicated farmer said to another as the Thief passed them by. "The baron's seekin' a marriage for 'is daughter."
Roman came to a halt, his hand already on the door. Now that might be something worth sticking around for. For him, noble marriage arrangements and courtship rituals translated roughly into an all-you-can-eat buffet. Courting nobility meant visiting lordlings and their attendants, and that meant a bunch of arrogant fops in gilded carriages rolling through the woods with a stash of gold usually hidden somewhere under the seat.
Then again, with the Baron's eccentricities, there probably wouldn't be all that many prospective suitors. The average lord wouldn't have much interest in marrying some girl if there wasn't any money in it.
Still ... might be worth a listen.
Slipping into the shadows by the door, Roman perked up his ears as the second farmer, complete with tangled beard and dirt-stained tunic, snorted and downed half his beer in a single go. "That can't be easy. Not many nobles wan' ta marry the daughter of the 'Pauper Baron.'"
"That's 'bout wot I expected, but Martha said her brother's cousin – you know 'im, the groomsman – 'e 'eard the Baron tell the court that any man can marry 'er, so long as 'e proves 'imself ..." The man paused, looking around the room as if what he was about to say was actually important. Leaning in closer, he brought his hand to his mouth, "Worthy."
"You won't see me givin' it a try," the bearded farmer scoffed. "I saw the Baron tear through a bunch o' bandits two seasons back. Ah'm not gettin' anywhere near 'im so long as 'e got a blade in 'is 'and."
"Gentlemen," Roman purred as he slid into the chair opposite the two men, waving at the barmaid for another round of their swill. "I hate to interrupt, but I think you're missing the full picture. Strength of arms is not the only way to prove you're 'worthy.'"
The two farmers glanced over at their new companion with bleary eyes. But their suspicions vanished as the drinks arrived, and soon they were welcoming the arrival of their new friend who seemed more than happy to pay for their booze.
In fact, the red-haired man insisted.
"That's right." The first farmer, who Roman dubbed 'Scruffy,' leaned forward after he finished another pint. "Anyone who wants ta try can challenge the Baron. Trial of arms, wits, speed, 'e dun care. You beat 'im, you can try to woo 'is girl."
"Yeah, like she's 'bout to get married to whoever wins a 'Trial by Farming,'" the bearded one laughed, his words slurred, breath reeking of alcohol. 'Drunky' it was. "They'll find some noble 'oo can joust or some shite and marry 'er off."
"From what you've said," Roman said, pretending to take another swallow of the god-awful beer. "It sounds like you could challenge the man to, oh ... a game of chess, or even cards, if that was what you wanted."
Scruffy nodded. "Aye, and you'd get your arse handed to you. I've seen the Baron come down to the village on festival days. There's a reason no one'll gamble with 'im."
"It was just a thought." Roman said, flinching back as Drunky belched, turning a bit green and holding his dirt-smudged hand over his mouth before reaching again for his flagon. "Well, this has been an eventful evening. Thank you both for the delightful conversation."
Leaving the coins for another round on the table – might as well get them drunk enough to forget their ever saw him – he gathered up his coat and hat and slipped out the door.
The rain was thick and heavy outside, flying sideways and chilling Roman to the bone. Pulling his coat tighter around him, he walked down the deserted streets, had clasped tightly to his head.
Well, that was interesting, he thought, trying to ignore the storm. Even if the whole 'you must defeat me' thing was a peculiar way to find a son-in-law. Still, it was hardly the worst engagement scheme he'd heard. There was always that thing he'd seen in Mistral with the three boxes. Or that idiotic riddle in Tyre with the incestuous king.
It left him with a few options. On the one hand, he could set up shop along the main roads, catching any number of arrivals coming or going. He could probably even fleece a few good marks before the Baron and his men caught wind of what he was up to. That was the safe route, the one that ended with him a little bit richer and a little bit further down the road. It just wasn't flashy.
On the other, he'd never stolen a whole barony before.
Roman couldn't quite keep the grin from twisting his lips as he vanished into the darkened streets.
Should be fun.
Writer's Note: So, this is something that has been a long time coming. More importantly, this is something I promised to CodyKnight22, who is one of the bigger fans of this particular trash ship. So Cody, here's the start of the Sephora I promised you.
Just as a reminder, this is the third entry in my Remnant Fairy Tales series. Please go check out the previous one, The Princess and the Dragon, if you haven't already.
As usual, reviews are always appreciated.