August 1584, Staraya Ladoga — The Border Court on the Volkhov Road (Near the Swedish Frontier)
August arrived like a man who smiled while he measured you.
The heat stayed, but the nights began to cool enough that breath misted faintly at dawn. The river level steadied, no longer swollen with meltwater, and that steadiness made movement easier—for honest wagons and dishonest men alike.
The ropewalk's first coils cured on racks beyond the ditch, darkened with tar. Sergey Makarovich Zhernokov walked among them each morning with the offended pride of a craftsman guarding a newborn. Bogdan Karev kept the tar kettle working, and the smell of it clung to men's clothes, to the boards of the landing, to the air itself. A smell that said: we intend to move goods where mud cannot follow.
That smell traveled farther than the river.
The first attempt came at noon, when the yard was full and the guards' eyes were tired.
Artemy Savelyevich Kaskinen was returning from the chapel with Father Kirill, having spent the morning translating a dispute between two Finnic-speaking fishermen and a Russian yard foreman. Artemy's work had become mundane—mundane enough that people stopped noticing how valuable he was.
That was when men took him.
It happened at the bend between the outer sheds and the ropewalk path, where a patch of alder bushes hid the ditch line. Two men stepped out as if they belonged. A third waited behind, holding a sack.
They did not draw swords.
They spoke.
One of them called a phrase in a border tongue—Artemy's head turned reflexively, the way a man turns toward his own name. That was the trap.
The sack went over his head.
Father Kirill shouted once, and the shout was not fear; it was accusation. The men dragged Artemy toward the ditch, toward the brush screen that hid the latrines, toward the place where the wall's shadow broke and the woods began.
A guard near the cookhouse hesitated—half a heartbeat, the length of a lifetime.
Konstantin Ivanovich heard the shout from the counting room and stood before Afanasy could finish speaking.
He did not run straight toward the sound. He ran to the window first.
Not for curiosity—for shape.
A crowd surged toward the shout like water toward a crack. If the crowd reached the ditch line, it would trample itself. If the guards panicked, they would swing blades. If blades swung, the yard would become blood and grievance in one afternoon.
Konstantin stepped into the yard and raised the stick, not as a weapon but as a pointer.
"Captain Mikhail!" he called.
Captain Mikhail Danilovich Rozhdestvensky appeared like a knife drawn from a sheath. "My Prince!"
"Close the gate," Konstantin said. "No one leaves. No one enters."
Mikhail blinked. "The kidnappers—"
"Close the gate," Konstantin repeated, and his voice was so calm that obedience became automatic.
Then Konstantin spoke names, fast and precise, because a named man became a tool.
"Roman Pryanishnikov—six men, to the ditch line. No blades unless blades are drawn first."
"Fedor Tishin—two axes, cut through the alder if they reach the brush screen."
"Ilkka Matinpoika—come here. Now."
Ilkka, the Finnic fisherman Artemy had named as an assistant, pushed through the crowd, face pale. He understood enough Russian now to understand danger.
Konstantin pointed toward the brush line where the struggle had vanished. "Listen," he said. "Tell me what they shout."
Ilkka's throat worked. He listened, then spoke quickly in his own tongue. "They are saying… 'down, down, don't fight'—and another word. 'Boat.'"
Konstantin's gaze snapped to the river landing.
Of course.
They did not want Artemy over land. They wanted him into a boat, downriver, where Swedish hands could take him without crossing openly.
"Bogdan!" Konstantin called.
Bogdan Karev looked up from the tar kettle, soot-streaked and startled.
"Two men to the landing," Konstantin said. "Watch the boats. If anyone pushes off, you cut the mooring rope. Cut it."
Bogdan hesitated—rope was precious.
Konstantin's eyes hardened. "Cut it," he repeated. "A boat can be replaced. A translator cannot."
Bogdan nodded once and ran.
Konstantin turned to Father Kirill, who stood trembling with rage rather than fear. "Father," Konstantin said quietly, "keep the crowd back. If they rush, Artemy dies in the crush."
Kirill's jaw clenched. "They are wolves," he hissed.
"Then do not become wolves," Konstantin replied.
Kirill's eyes flicked to Konstantin's face. Then he raised his voice—not shouting, but ringing with that authority priests used when men were about to do something stupid.
"Back!" Kirill commanded. "Back, in God's name! You will kill him with your help!"
The crowd slowed, guilt and obedience mixing into something like restraint.
At the ditch line, Roman Pryanishnikov reached the brush screen first. He moved awkwardly on his lame leg, but he moved with the trained caution of a soldier who had lived through ambush.
He found tracks—three sets, deep, running. He found a torn piece of sack cloth caught on a thorn.
Then he heard Artemy.
A muffled shout, choking, strangled by cloth.
Roman did not charge. He signaled. Two guards moved to flank, as Konstantin had taught: no heroics, only geometry.
Fedor Tishin arrived with axes, panting. He looked to Roman for permission like a man remembering hierarchy.
Roman nodded once.
Fedor swung the axe into alder branches—not at men, at cover. Branches cracked. Light poured through.
The kidnappers froze for the length of a breath.
That breath was enough.
One of them drew a knife.
Roman's guard drew steel only then, and not to kill, but to block. The knife flashed, was caught, and the guard's fist struck the kidnapper's throat.
The sack slipped off Artemy's head.
Artemy fell to his knees, gasping, eyes wild. A guard hauled him upright and dragged him back toward the wall.
The kidnappers ran.
They did not run into the woods.
They ran toward the river landing.
Bogdan Karev was there, already, with two men, and he had done what Konstantin ordered. A small boat's mooring rope lay cut, frayed ends twitching like a severed tendon.
A man shoved the boat anyway. It slid, scraped, then stuck, half-grounded in mud, refusing to leave cleanly.
Bogdan swung a boat hook and caught the stern, yanking it back with a snarl. "Not today," he spat.
The kidnapper turned to flee and ran straight into Captain Mikhail's men, who had come from the gate line, because Mikhail understood roads and exits even when others stared only at the fight.
Two were seized. One escaped into the reeds.
Konstantin arrived at the landing as Artemy was being brought back, shaking, clothes torn, hands bound with his own belt.
Konstantin looked at Artemy first, not the captives.
"You live," he said.
Artemy swallowed, voice hoarse. "They wanted—Sweden," he rasped. "They spoke Swedish when they thought I couldn't hear."
Konstantin nodded once. No satisfaction. Only confirmation.
He turned to the captives.
"Names," he said.
One spat and said nothing.
The other looked at the ground and whispered, in poor Russian, "Johan Andersson."
Artemy's eyes widened. "That is Swedish," he croaked.
Konstantin looked at the man called Johan. "Swedish men do not come to a Russian yard to take a translator," he said calmly. "Unless someone paid them."
The man's eyes flicked—one involuntary glance toward the estate road.
Konstantin followed the glance and saw what the man had looked at:
A wagon, stopped just outside the gate, driver waiting, as if for a delivery.
The wagon bore no banner. But its wheels were too clean.
Konstantin did not shout. He did not accuse. He pointed.
"Stop that wagon," he said to Captain Mikhail.
Mikhail's men moved fast. The driver tried to whip the horse. The horse jerked, then stumbled—mud and panic do not make good speed.
They seized the driver and dragged him down.
Afanasy arrived with a ledger already open, breathless. "My Prince," he said. "If you want names—"
"I want receipts," Konstantin replied.
He looked at the driver. "Who hired you?" he asked.
The driver shook his head, lips pressed tight. He was not brave. He was trained to silence.
Konstantin turned slightly. "Father Kirill," he said.
Kirill stepped forward, eyes like flint. "Son," the priest said softly to the driver, "if you lie, you condemn yourself twice: once to the prince, and once to God."
The driver's throat worked.
Then he said the name.
"Clerk Saveliy Antonovich Zhukov," he whispered. "He said it was a… district matter."
Afanasy's face went white. "The inspector," he breathed.
Darya Belova, who had appeared at the yard edge with her arms folded, laughed without humor. "Paper failed him," she said. "So he tried rope."
Konstantin's gaze stayed steady. "Not rope," he corrected. "Tongue."
He looked at Artemy—shaking, furious, alive. A translator was not a tool. He was a bridge. And bridges were always targeted.
Konstantin turned to Captain Mikhail. "The captives are not to be killed in the yard," he said.
Mikhail's jaw tightened. "They tried to take—"
"They will be questioned," Konstantin said. "Quietly. With witness. With record. And then they will be removed from the world in the correct way."
Father Kirill's eyes narrowed. "Removed," he repeated, hearing the cold inside the word.
Konstantin met his gaze. "If they live, they try again," he said simply. "And next time they take a child by mistake."
Kirill said nothing, but he did not argue. Even priests understood wolves.
---------------
That evening, Konstantin sat with Afanasy in the counting room and did something he had avoided all summer.
He opened a separate ledger.
Not for refugees. Not for grain. Not for rope.
For bloodline.
Afanasy watched him write the title in Konstantin's own hand:
HOUSE LEDGER — CONTINUITY
Afanasy's stylus hovered, uncertain. "My Prince," he said carefully, "is this wise?"
Konstantin did not look up. "It is necessary," he said.
He wrote three names beneath the title:
Konstantin Ivanovich
Afanasy Petrovich Semyonov (Steward)
Father Kirill (Witness)
Afanasy blinked. "You include me," he said, startled.
"I include you as steward," Konstantin replied. "Not as family. You will witness contracts. You will not witness secrets."
Afanasy swallowed. He understood the boundary, and he respected it because he was the kind of man who could live inside a boundary without trying to chew through it.
Konstantin set down the quill.
"Today," he said, voice low, "they tried to take my translator. Next year they will try to take my rope-maker. Or my smith. Or my steward. Or my priest. Or my child—if I have one."
Afanasy did not speak.
Konstantin continued. "A border lord without an heir is a carcass that has not yet cooled," he said.
Afanasy's mouth tightened. "Then you must marry," he said.
"Yes," Konstantin replied.
The room went quiet.
Konstantin did not speak of love. Love was not the currency of survival.
He spoke of ink.
"There will be proposals," he said. "Some from boyars who want to trap me. Some from houses who want protection. Some from houses who fear Moscow's instability and want a man who pays on time."
Afanasy's eyes sharpened. "And some from Novgorod merchants who want your ropewalk," he said.
Konstantin almost smiled. "Yes," he admitted. "And I will choose one that does not put my throat in another man's hand."
"How?" Afanasy asked.
Konstantin turned the quill between his fingers. "By choosing a house that is strong enough to be useful, but not strong enough to command me," he said. "A house that can bring me legitimacy with the Church and stability with the border. A house that has reasons to be loyal."
Afanasy leaned forward slightly. "Do you have a name?" he asked.
Konstantin's eyes went to the icon in the corner of the room, the saint's painted gaze calm and unyielding.
"I will by autumn," he said.
---------------
The next day, Konstantin answered the kidnapping attempt in the only way that would reach beyond his walls.
He sent letters.
Not to Moscow.
To men who mattered in practice: the voevoda at the nearest garrison town, the abbots of two monasteries on the trade road, the senior merchants of Novgorod who counted reputation as carefully as coin.
Each letter included:
1. The names of the captured men
2. The name of Clerk Saveliy Zhukov as instigator
3. The method (kidnapping attempt)
4. The witnesses (Father Kirill, Captain Mikhail, Afanasy)
5. The quiet sentence that made it undeniable:
"We offered lawful inspection with receipts; when that failed, unlawful seizure began."
Afanasy sealed each letter with wax and looked at Konstantin as if seeing him from a new angle.
"You make your enemies pay in ink," Afanasy said.
Konstantin's voice stayed mild. "Ink is cheaper than blood," he said. "But it buys more."
---------------
At the month's end, Bogdan Karev brought another report.
He stood at the river landing with a coil of the new rope over his shoulder, eyes narrowed toward the bend.
"My Prince," he said, "someone tried to buy tar from the kettle men. Quietly."
Konstantin's gaze sharpened. "Who?"
Bogdan shrugged. "A man with a Karelian accent," he said. "He offered silver."
Darya Belova's voice came from behind them. "Swedish silver," she said flatly. "They're adapting."
Konstantin looked down at the rope coil, then up at the river.
They were doing what he expected: when fire failed, they tried kidnapping; when kidnapping failed, they tried bribery. They were moving up the ladder of methods, searching for the cheapest way to make his order crack.
Konstantin's order did not crack.
It tightened.
"Bogdan," he said, "no one sells tar without Afanasy's mark. No one."
Bogdan nodded.
Konstantin turned to Artemy, who stood nearby now with a bruise on his throat and anger in his eyes. "You will not walk alone," Konstantin said. "Two guards. Always. Not because you are weak—because you are valuable."
Artemy's jaw worked, pride fighting sense. Then he nodded once.
Konstantin looked toward the chapel. Father Kirill stood in the doorway, watching the yard like a man guarding souls with his eyes.
Konstantin understood the truth that August had forced on him:
If the Holder House was to become the spine of the realm, it could not remain a bachelor's household with an uncertain line.
A realm did not swear oaths to a man.
It swore to continuity.