September 1584, Staraya Ladoga — The Border Court on the Volkhov Road (Near the Swedish Frontier)
September came with mornings that tasted like iron.
Mist lay low over the Volkhov at dawn. The sun rose slower, and men who had grown used to summer's forgiveness began to count daylight again—counting meant fear, and fear meant discipline if the household was lucky, or madness if it was not.
The ropewalk's coils cured well in the cooler air. Sergey Zhernokov smiled at them with a craftsman's private pride. Bogdan Karev's tar kettle smoked less now; the tar thickened properly, and that alone made the yard feel more like a machine than a camp.
Machines drew customers.
They also drew the kind of attention that came with seals and threats.
On the third of September, Afanasy Petrovich Semyonov received a packet at the gate. It bore Boyar Kurbatov's wax—newer wax, sharper stamp, as if the boyar wished his authority to be smelled from a distance.
Afanasy did not break the seal until Father Kirill stood beside him.
Inside was not a demand for grain this time. It was worse.
It was a list.
"Road permits suspended," it said, in a clerk's hand that pretended to be neutral.
"Wagon movement subject to district security inspection."
"Unauthorized transport to be confiscated."
Afanasy's face remained calm, but his eyes hardened. Confiscation was famine wearing a legal mask.
Konstantin Ivanovich read the list once, then handed it back without comment.
"Captain Mikhail," he said.
Captain Mikhail Danilovich Rozhdestvensky stepped in as if he had been waiting outside the door. He probably had.
"They will seize wagons on the road," Konstantin said. "Not here. Outside our walls, where blood can be blamed on bandits."
Mikhail nodded. "Yes."
Konstantin turned to Afanasy. "Which wagons are scheduled this week?"
Afanasy opened the Transport Book immediately. "Two salt wagons from Novgorod," he said. "One iron shipment from Tikhvin. One barley wagon from a monastery exchange. Also three small carts for timber."
Konstantin's gaze narrowed. "They will take salt," he said. "Salt is leverage."
Afanasy's stylus scratched. "And they will take iron," he added, grim. "Because it looks like fortification."
Konstantin exhaled once. He did not swear. Swearing made you feel better without changing the world.
"We do not fight them on the road," he said.
Mikhail blinked. "My Prince—"
"We do not give them a battle they can call rebellion," Konstantin continued. "We give them paperwork they cannot escape."
Afanasy's mouth tightened. "Receipts," he said softly.
"Receipts," Konstantin agreed. "And witnesses. And the Church."
Father Kirill's eyes narrowed. "They will not allow priests on every wagon," he said.
"No," Konstantin replied. "So we will change the wagons."
Afanasy blinked. "Change… the wagons?"
Konstantin turned to the window, toward the yard, where refugees and old households moved around each other like gears that had not yet fully matched.
"Break the loads," he said. "No single wagon worth seizing."
Afanasy's stylus paused in midair. That was expensive. More drivers. More trips. More time.
Konstantin continued. "Salt comes in small sacks on ten carts, not one wagon. Iron comes as tools and fittings, not bars, each cart with a different invoice. Barley goes under monastery seal, escorted by a monk."
Kirill's brows rose. "I can provide a monk," he said quietly. "Brother Gavriil from the Saint Anthony skete. He is stubborn."
"Names," Konstantin said. "Good."
Captain Mikhail exhaled, half admiring, half frustrated. "You make theft inefficient," he said.
Konstantin nodded. "Thieves prefer fat prey," he replied.
And then he did the second thing: he prepared for the theft anyway.
"Stepan," he said.
Stepan Soroka was already there, as if he had never left the walls since August.
"Yes, my Prince."
"You will send a message to Darya Belova," Konstantin said. "Tell her: the road is poisoned. We need alternative buyers and alternative routes. Tell her to bring names of river pilots who can move small loads quietly."
Stepan bowed. "Yes."
Konstantin looked at Mikhail. "And you," he said. "You will place two men in civilian clothes on the road—not to fight. To watch. To record names. If Kurbatov's men seize a cart, we will know exactly who held the rope."
Mikhail nodded once. "Yes."
The war was becoming what Konstantin preferred: a war of proof.
---------------
The marriage offer arrived that same week, which told Konstantin something unpleasant: Kurbatov's pressure and the proposal were not separate.
They were synchronized.
It came on a clear afternoon, when the yard looked almost peaceful. The chapel bell had just rung. Children—still alive, still dirty—were chasing each other near the outer sheds under Varvara Dronova's watchful eye. The ropewalk stood quiet in the sun like a long, patient creature. The tar kettle smoked thinly.
A carriage rolled into the yard.
Not a boyar's wagon. Not a merchant cart.
A proper carriage, with a coat of arms painted on the door and a driver who sat stiff as if his spine were made of oak.
Captain Mikhail's men watched it with hands on spear-shafts but did not block it. You did not block a carriage like that unless you intended to start a war in the yard.
The footman dismounted and called, loud enough to make everyone notice:
"House Ustyuzhin requests audience with Prince Konstantin Ivanovich Rurikov-Palaiologos."
Afanasy's eyes went sharp. He knew houses the way merchants knew coin.
Konstantin stepped out into the yard without hurry.
The carriage door opened.
A woman stepped down.
She was not young in the way girls were young. She was young in the way people with discipline were young: perhaps nineteen, perhaps twenty-two, hard to tell because her posture made her older.
She wore a simple dark cloak—good wool, not ostentatious—fastened with a brooch that was expensive but not loud. Her hair was covered properly. Her hands were gloved, and the gloves were clean in a way that meant she had not traveled far through mud.
Behind her stepped an older man—her uncle or guardian by posture—who bowed and introduced himself.
"I am Boyar Mikhail Fyodorovich Ustyuzhin," he said. "This is my niece, Anastasia Mikhailovna Ustyuzhina."
Konstantin's gaze flicked to the niece. Her eyes met his without flinching.
She was here to be evaluated.
So was he.
Afanasy stood slightly behind Konstantin, ready to listen for traps.
Father Kirill stood near the chapel doorway, ready to see whether the offer offended God or merely politics.
Darya Belova was not in the yard, but Konstantin felt her absence like a missing knife.
Boyar Mikhail spoke smoothly. "We have observed," he said, "that your household maintains order in a time when order is rare."
Konstantin did not smile. Praise was always the first rope of a snare.
"We have also observed," the boyar continued, "that you are unmarried."
Silence held for a breath.
Then Anastasia spoke.
"My uncle is courteous," she said, voice calm, Russian clear. "I will be direct."
Her gaze did not move from Konstantin's face.
"I offer marriage," she said.
The yard seemed to pause around them, as if even the flies were listening.
Afanasy's breath caught. Not because he was shocked—because he was calculating. Marriage was a merger. Mergers created ledgers that killed men.
Konstantin studied her. "On whose authority?" he asked.
Anastasia did not blink. "On mine," she said.
Boyar Mikhail's eyes tightened slightly. He did not like his niece claiming agency in front of strangers, but he did not interrupt. That told Konstantin something too: the girl had weight in her house.
Konstantin nodded once. "Then I will ask you questions," he said.
"Ask," Anastasia replied.
Konstantin spoke plainly. "Why me?" he asked.
Anastasia's eyes narrowed—not offended, but sharpening.
"Because Moscow is unstable," she said. "Because the border is honest about its dangers. Because your household pays men on time and does not break promises. Because you record things. And because someone will try to kill you if you do not marry."
Afanasy's stylus twitched in his hand as if craving to write that sentence down.
Konstantin's voice stayed even. "And what does House Ustyuzhin want?" he asked.
Boyar Mikhail opened his mouth, but Anastasia spoke again, cutting him gently.
"We want safety," she said. "We want a husband who will not gamble us in Moscow's games. We want a household where a woman can see the accounts and know the truth."
That last line was the real offer: she had just offered him something rarer than beauty.
Competence.
Konstantin looked at Boyar Mikhail. "Your house is close to Kurbatov?" he asked.
The older man smiled in a way that pretended innocence. "We are neighbors in a world where neighbors must speak," he said.
Konstantin nodded slowly. "That is not an answer," he said.
Anastasia's mouth tightened. "We are not his," she said simply. "But if you refuse us, we will be forced to speak more politely to men like him."
That was honest blackmail. It was also realistic.
Konstantin's gaze remained calm. "If I accept you," he said, "Kurbatov will claim you as his influence. If I refuse you, he will claim you as proof I am arrogant. Either way, he will speak."
Anastasia inclined her head slightly. "Yes," she said. "That is politics."
Konstantin looked past them at the yard—at the ropewalk, at the refugees, at the smoke-stained causeway. He thought of continuity like a knife in his pocket: never forgotten, never shown.
"Your offer is received," he said at last. "It will not be answered today."
Boyar Mikhail's smile tightened. "We would appreciate promptness," he said.
Konstantin's eyes returned to him. "So would I," he replied. "But my household does not move on other men's schedules."
Anastasia's gaze flicked—approval, just a flicker.
She had come to test whether he could be pressured.
He had answered.
---------------
That night, Konstantin met with Afanasy, Kirill, Captain Mikhail, and Darya Belova—who had arrived by dusk with mud on her hem and impatience in her eyes.
Darya listened to the marriage offer summary and snorted. "Ustyuzhin," she said. "Not the strongest house. Not the weakest. Enough connections to be useful. Enough hunger to be loyal."
Kirill's eyes narrowed. "And enough ties to Kurbatov to be dangerous," he added.
Afanasy said softly, "She's intelligent. That matters."
Captain Mikhail spoke last. "Marriage gives you a hostage," he said bluntly. "And it gives you one."
Kirill shot him a look, but Mikhail did not withdraw the truth. Borders did not run on politeness.
Konstantin listened, then said, "We do not choose based on beauty or rumor. We choose based on constraints."
Afanasy leaned forward. "What constraints?" he asked.
Konstantin held up one finger. "First: the house must not be able to command me," he said. "Second: the house must have reasons to fight for continuity. Third: the Church must not oppose it. Fourth: it must not provoke Sweden into believing I am building a court."
Darya laughed softly. "That last one is hard," she said.
Konstantin nodded. "Then we keep the wedding small," he said. "No spectacle. No parade. We make it look like a border necessity, not a coronation rehearsal."
Kirill's gaze sharpened. "You are thinking of the realm already," he said quietly.
Konstantin did not deny it. "The realm is thinking of me," he replied.
Outside, the September night cooled. The river mist crept back. Somewhere in the darkness, men counted coins and measured ropes and decided what could be stolen next.
Inside, Konstantin opened the House Ledger—Continuity and wrote one new line:
"September — Offer received: House Ustyuzhin. Candidate: Anastasia Mikhailovna. Inquiry opened."
Not accepted.
Not refused.
Recorded.