The council stilled by noon.
Lamp-smoke hung under the vault, as if the talk still held in the stone. The benches went quiet. The heat remained - not the air, but the body of the hall, which had memorized the weight of the words.
Metropolitan Ilarion stepped to the center. He raised the cross - not high, to his chest. His voice - sharp as a blade:
- Peace to all. The prince's word is spoken. The compact - by the cross
He stepped to the stand, laid the cross - on the trestle, between the candles. The face turned upward. Not for blessing - for oath.
The cross flashed with wax. Alexander bent, touched it with his lips - without prayer, without sign - as a seal.
After him - Stanislav: a movement exact as a carpenter's measure along a sharp edge. Vyshata - with delay, not taking his eyes away. Ignat - quick, as if saluting. Igor coughed into his palm - the wax trembled, as if the meaning itself had stumbled.
Oleg - dully, barely touching. Dobrynya - firm. Radomir - slowly, as if measuring whether the hall still pulsed. Fingers touched the edge - like water at a ford: cold, but you must go.
Stepping away, Dobrynya held his gaze on Alexander for a moment. The eyes - not a question. But something in them cracked. He knew: not all decisions - will hold.
Gavriil the Gold-scribe drew the scroll closer - not a record, a verdict. Everything that had been discussed - now not an opinion, but a term.
A candle dripped. A ring of wax settled in the nest of the seal. The princely ring - down and up.
The mark remained.
Simeon dusted the line with sand - so it wouldn't be washed away, even if the rains came.
The steward Tverdyslav stepped to the center, turned the cross toward the rows:
- So be it. Seals are affixed. Elders - forward, the rest - by rank. With peace - disperse
And his voice quivered on the word "elders." One word - and a shadow passed along the rows, as if even stone knew: it's heavy.
By the doors the shaft of a spear struck the floor twice - dully.
Alexander stepped first.
Ilarion made the sign of the cross over the door. Quickly. Without theater. As one seals a dead man. As one fixes a will.
He looked at no one. Turned - and went aside, into the church.
Alexander did not stop. He only listened. As if the hall - held its breath.
In his temple - a knock. One. Not pain - a nail. He did not know what exactly had been decided. But understood: back now - no.
Ilarion did not bless. He sealed. As if not merely shut - drove a nail into the fabric of the world.
In the doorway the draft fell silent for a moment. The flame of the candle did not stir.
Outside a dog that had been pulling the leash sat. And tugged no more.
The silence grew heavier. The air already knew: all was said.
The thought moved - and stopped. Nothing needed to be added. He simply knew: it had closed. Without words. Without a conclusion. As if someone had placed a stone into the center of the scales - and everything stood firm.
The chest did not inhale - it tightened. As after a blow. And only then - he exhaled. Not like relief. Like a release of pressure.
And everything kept to its order.
Stanislav stood shoulder to shoulder - calm. Vyshata shifted from heel - without a pause. Ignat clicked his fingers on the belt. Igor pulled his cloak, but in the gesture there was fuss, almost fear.
Oleg checked his ring, Dobrynya - silently ran his finger along the seam of his belt. Radomir kept his palm on the table - as if checking whether the heat remained.
Gavriil was rolling the scroll. Simeon was gathering the seals. It kept to its order.
But at the foot of the cross a drop remained. Not wax - blood. Someone had cut himself. Or someone had clenched a fist too hard.
Alexander saw - and did not forget. On the first decision - already blood.
No one spoke. But they noticed it. And walked around it.
Alexander went out. Everything else - shifted together.
The small chamber stayed behind. The stone - dull, the silence - with weight. As if the walls held breath. Wax, ink, the dry rustle - everything remained inside the decision.
Alexander walked along the passage.
The floor underfoot was warm, the ceiling pressed lower. It smelled of resin, soot, coal. To the left - a blind window into the princely yard: shouts, clatter, whinnying came from there. Life out there already lived by the decision.
From the edge of the carpet to the first brick shadow - only ten steps. But the difference - like between an intent and a blow.
He left the terem.
In the morning, ranks had stood here. Now - a swarm. Shields leaned on the wall, swords hung at the hips, pulled downward, and the druzhinniki stood slightly bent, as if the weight had already lain not on the iron, but on Rus' itself.
They spoke in half-voices; someone brushed a shoulder, a sack swung - both gave a short grin and parted. Crates thudded into a row, sand poured on dust. At the smithy two held a lock, a third shouted, as if the court's whole quarrel were being decided in the iron.
And then the hammer missed - aside, sparks slashed the air. The boy jerked back, the smith cursed - and Alexander marked it: nerves.
The gridni by the exit caught step by the shadow. They stood in a half-circle, not looking, but the whole of their line breathed like a wall. One held his palm on an ax-haft, another watched the passage.
Dobrynya's key-keeper twisted the ring - fumbled. The iron fell with a boom, a neighbor hissed: "Pick it up!" The line quivered - a hairline crack, but visible. Alexander caught it like a gap in a formation.
A horse chewed oats and suddenly shied sideways - the harness clinked. A dog yelped - the yard gridni failed to hold their line. And only then it became clear: the tremor had passed through the whole yard.
Alexander went ahead. On his left shoulder - Stanislav. Behind them - the gridni. A small circle. The steps sounded dull, without fuss. That was enough: the yard knew the center was already here.
Voices settled. A quarrel choked off. A scribe froze with a blot, a key-keeper was still shaking iron free of dust, the boy at the smithy fussed with a sack. Alexander saw: the yard was seeking balance.
Stanislav stepped to the side. Not beside - half a step ahead. As one brings forward a shield.
The air thickened. Alexander did not raise his voice. Did not stop. He said - into the passage, to all who were on the way:
- Don't stand. Do what was begun
The words went down the line. The nearest nodded, turned.
Keys clinked. A board snapped. At the smithy the breath broke: the tongs trembled, the bellows heaved, the boy tossed coal off beat. Alexander saw - three were searching for one breath. For a moment it tore, then gathered back into rhythm.
The forge drew in air. And again - the ring. Already uneven, but it held.
The yard breathed heavily - horse, forge, human
Alexander went sideways - to the cart where there was an argument. Then to the row of crates where the scribe rubbed a stain. Everything hooked his eye not as things, but as moves: argument - means a crack, keys - means a tremor, blood on a finger - means the bottom has slipped too. The prince checked the weight of the entire yard.
Stanislav kept close, going so that his shoulder touched the prince's shadow. Even when the prince turned, he shifted with him, staying half a step ahead.
And from behind the cart a boy was already coming - dragging a sack bigger than himself. He bent, pressed it to his chest, looked aside to slip past the wagon. The weight pushed him forward, he didn't see who was coming toward him.
The sack bumped into Stanislav's knee and toppled. Grain spilled into the dust.
The boy cried out, fell to his knees, scooped grain with his hands. Stanislav paused a moment. Lifted the sack himself - with one jerk, as if it were not a load but a timber. Set it on the cart's edge. His palm lay on the boy's shoulder - a push, short, even.
- Hold it
And he went on, stride unbroken.
And from behind someone already shouted:
- Hey, hold tight! - threw the overseer by the granary, hurrying past.
The key-keeper, passing by, muttered through his teeth:
- Lucky you, lad. If it were someone else - you'd be thrown out of the yard
The boy raised his head. He watched them go: the back of the voivode - straight as a wall, the prince beside him, behind them - a small circle. No one said him a harsh word. And in that silence the yard held.
Behind them keys rang again, the bellows rasped, a dog barked - the noise returned like water closing after a boat. But Alexander no longer listened.
His eyes held Radomir. The treasurer was going up to the log structure by the southern wall - low, sunk into the slope. Blind beams on a stone undercellar; from the cracks came the damp of furs, cloth, iron.
On the outer loading door hung a heavy lock; nearby - a tablet with a lead seal. A sign: all sealed, access only through the treasury.
Two gridni stood at the door, shields set on edge at the foot. Radomir climbed the narrow steps, held his palm on the crossbar - as on a line dividing his world - and vanished behind the oak door of the upper "counting hut."
Alexander knew: under the black roof furs and iron were packed tight, grain in pits, cloth in the damp of the undercellar. And above that - the silence of inked boards, where each number decided more than a sword. Everything converged here. The knot that held power.
When Radomir slipped behind the oak door with bolt and crossbar, Stanislav asked quietly:
- The first council is passed. Does the taste remain?
Alexander was silent, looking at the door. He inhaled - as if the air there was still the thick of arguments.
- The taste… Bitter
He fell silent again, as if testing the words on his tongue.
- Each pulled his own. Land, blood, God. And all - into me
He narrowed his eyes at Stanislav:
- But I held. I didn't collapse
Then lower, almost to himself:
- So there is a taste. Heavy. But real
Stanislav stood without turning. Shoulders - slightly loosed. He spoke not so much with words as with an even weight beside him:
- Then what next, prince?
He slid a glance to the door where Radomir had vanished. Not as a question, but as a hint. He did not push - only set a brace under the next step.
Alexander did not answer at once. He took two steps forward, as if he were listening not to words, but to the hum under the stone. He listened to the end.
- To the treasury, - he said at last. - To see what holds the land's blood. And where it will go next
He did not smile. But his voice was closer to the living.
- Let them get used to it, that the prince not only judges. He counts - too
Stanislav nodded. Without surprise. As if he already knew this answer - just waited for the prince to speak it himself.
- Then forward
They came up to the log building. The gridni at the door stepped back in silence. One pressed the shield to his chest - not as for battle, but as in a bow.
Stanislav touched the crossbar. He didn't push, didn't call. He just stood. And the silence inside became a little less deaf.
Alexander laid his hand on the doorjamb - as on a shoulder. He did not press. He was listening.
He knew: beyond this wood - not merely a store. A knot. The body of power. A heart where gold and grain flow like blood. Where decisions do not shout, but add up into lines.
He pushed the door.
The board creaked - like a chest long unopened.
They were met by a smell: not dust, but account - ink, leather, iron, glue. Air you think about the future with.
They entered.
The antechamber was short. To the left hung a hook, under it a bench; on the bench - a leather bag with weights, the lid slipped, and round bronze discs glinted in the half-light. On the wall - bundles of hemp cords and a handful of lead seals with a slit for the cord. The gridin at the threshold stood still, his eyes held on the prince.
Alexander passed by. Stanislav pushed the inner door.
The hut met them with the dark gloss of tarred logs. Along the long wall - the counting bench: scales, little weights, a standard piece of silver set apart, beside it a stone for the "ringing test" and a knife with a handle blackened by hands. To the left - the scribes' table, a quill rustled on parchment, a stylus scratched in wax.
When the prince entered, no one sprang up. Movements only grew even. The senior scribe raised his eyes, but did not take the pen away; the lad froze half-line. At the far wall two gridni by the hatch clenched their spears, not changing stance, only their gaze turned to the prince.
The second scribe slowed, the inkwell swayed under his hand. A gridin at the door coughed shortly - and fell silent. In the tight hut everything seemed to stand on the edge of a line: no extra sound, only the scratch of the pen and the measured thud of a heart in the quiet.
Seeing the prince, Radomir barely lifted a brow - he had not expected him. Only recently they had sat in the Council, and princes usually went from there to the terem or to the church. But Alexander stood here.
The treasurer set the scales aside.
- Prince
Alexander did not answer at once. He looked. And in that silence the quiet was heavier than a word.
He stepped to the counting bench.
The beam of the scales was slightly shifted aside, the brand on the silver still shone with wetness. The prince did not touch the weights, only ran his finger along the test stone: smooth, but all notched with tiny specks - traces of hundreds of checks.
The finger pad snagged - and ripped a splinter. Finer than a hair, almost no pain. But blood welled at once.
He did not flinch. He only took his hand away, wiped it on the edge of his belt.
A thin drop remained on the stone. Red. In the inky air it looked darker.
He shifted his gaze to the scribes.
The senior did not break the line, but the hand became slower. The lad at the wax pressed the stylus in anew - the previous entry had been scraped off. The parchment on the boards already held specks of sand.
Somewhere by the wall a ring of keys clicked - short, as if from another room. Alexander caught it.
Only then he turned to Radomir. His voice low, like a tap on lead:
- You said: before, each land held its own - now everything flows to Kiev. I want to see whether your treasury will stand this pressure
Radomir did not answer at once. Not from fear - from account: as if he weighed each word like a weight. He shifted his gaze to the scales, to the parchment, to the scribes. Inhaled.
- I hold, prince. But if the pressure does not fall - the account will flow back. In the lines - and in the minds
Alexander did not look away.
- What problems? Besides hay, which we already discussed at the Council?
Radomir ran his fingers along the edge of his belt. Short. As if wiping off a word. His lips parted - and closed at once. The breath broke, then returned. Then he spoke after all:
- Roads - no. All has stopped. Tribute - hangs. Whoever heard about the princes' death - pressed. "Till clarity," - that's what they say. They hold even honey. Even wax
Alexander frowned, his palm tightened involuntarily, as if he were holding a rein and waiting for a jerk:
- What do you mean "roads no"? Villages burned? Robbers?
- No, prince. The roads are whole. But whoever carries - risks. All see: there are no princes. Only you remain. People think: will you hold? Will all the cities recognize you? Won't another come tomorrow - with a druzhina and a banner? So they wait. Caravans stand. The goods warm the granary, but better that than being robbed twice. Better let it rot than go into others' hands
He did not say it with complaint. He counted aloud - evenly, without lament, as if each word was already entered into the book.
Alexander did not answer at once. His gaze slid to the table, his breath stalled for a moment. The scribe's pen scratched - and that thin sound cut sharper than a word.
Radomir slid out one of the parchments - a report. He pinned the corner with a finger. As if he were passing not a sheet - the account of fate.
Alexander took it. Unrolled. Read. His brow twitched - up. The breath held, and only then did he inhale. The sheet felt colder than his hands.
Stanislav stepped nearer at his side. Shoulders - like a wall. His voice - without ornament.
- Prince, do as your father did. Show force - and those merchants will jump faster than wind when they see a boyar druzhina with swords.
Alexander listened. He nodded. Slowly - like a bolt sliding into its seat. He passed the report to Stanislav.
- Then send them. Today. Thirty riders to each large caravan - that's enough
- I know whom. - Stanislav nodded. Like a blade drawn from its sheath.
He snapped his head toward the gridni at the door, called one closer and put a tablet in his hand.
- You'll deliver this: thirty riders to the convoys that stand outside Kiev, at the ferries. Let them move
The gridin bowed shortly and went out.
For a moment the scent of wax turned to iron. Radomir felt it.
- And also, - Alexander said sharply, almost cutting himself off. - We suspend the toll for long-haul merchants
Radomir narrowed his eyes. His beard stirred - as if the calculations in his head were turning like abacus. He wanted to object. But he understood: this way the merchants will run. Faster than fear. After all, the loss from idleness is higher than the toll. As soon as the first passes - the crowd goes behind him.
- Prince… The treasury will take a hit. But if the convoys go twice as often - the treasury will be in profit. The toll from ten caravans is more than from two
- So be it. Better silver on the road than rot in the granary. Three months without toll on all except furs and wax. After the Intercession - the usual levy resumes.
Radomir nodded. Not out of respect - like scales that took the weight and swung even. The move was exact. Two blows - and the trade would revive. While the prince is here - you must forge.
He bent slightly forward. The edge of his palm - to another scroll.
- Expenses have increased… - he began quietly, as if sifting ash. - Many went to funerals
Alexander did not move. He waited.
- The funeral feast for the Grand Prince. Yaroslav. Monasteries. Boyar host. Bishops. Gifts. Charters. All - from the treasury
He broke off - as if a knife entered the edge of a line.
- Then your brothers. One after another. Within a month. Each - with blood, with a body, with a burial. Rus' was being written off line by line. The living - into the ground
He raised his eyes:
- In forty days - we buried almost all. The father. Four sons. You - the last
The silence did not fall - it strained. The air grew thick: a torch smoked, dragged with fumes, in the corner one of the scribes coughed and fell silent at once.
Stanislav stepped forward. Not to Alexander. To Radomir. His eyes - sharp, like a beast on a track.
- That is not your business, Radomir. All who must - will pay. With blood
Radomir did not recoil. He only blinked. As from a blow that went into bone, not the skin.
Alexander did not interfere. He only turned his head. His hand on his knee pressed into the cloth. The breath broke - and only then the voice came.
- True. Better tell me - how much remains. What we hold. What we can raise
Radomir nodded once. Exactly. Like scales that have taken the weight.
- Good
The table was low, heavy - as an altar. Radomir bent over. Scrolls rustled. It smelled of leather, wax, sweat. A lamp smoked, the smoke stung the eyes. Ink by one of the young apprentices crept into a droplet; the neighbor nudged his elbow. He froze, as if the ink blot were a leak of the treasury itself.
Radomir pulled out a wax tablet. Then another. On top - parchments with seals. The lead pulled his fingers down. He shifted one - as if opening an old scar.
- The common treasury - twenty-eight thousand grivnas. By weight. Fur, wax, iron - what holds Rus'. The rest - grain, horses, weapons, ingots - everything that flows and leaves
Alexander nodded in silence. His shoulders tightened a little, his breath grew shorter. His fingers clenched into a fist at his belt - as if he held an unseen hilt. His lips twitched, as if he wanted to ask again.
The count ran by itself in his head - in fractions. One grivna - one hundred and fifty grams. Silver - near four tons. If all is alive. If it stretches.
- Is that all - in Kiev?
The corner of Radomir's mouth trembled. Not a smile - a crack in the stone of account that closed at once. As if he had wanted to say "I wish," but it came out otherwise:
- No, prince. Here - only part. Seven thousand: five in goods, two - in ingot. With this you are free to dispose. Without looking back
Alexander frowned.
- Then where are the remaining stores?
- In key cities, - Radomir said quietly. - Chernigov, Pereyaslavl, Novgorod, Smolensk. Together they hold - fourteen thousand. It has long been so: you and your brothers received shares. The inheritance from Grand Prince Yaroslav
He pushed one of the wax tablets. A sign that this is a record, not words.
- I hope you remember, prince: you received one and a half thousand. Now they stand in the Volhynian principality. The rest - five and a half thousand - scattered across the volosts: Polotsk, the Rostov-Suzdal land, Turov-Pinsk, Peremyshl-Terebovl, Tmutarakan
Alexander ran his hand along the tablet.
- Of course I remember. Now all that remains is to use the entire treasury properly, - he said. But his fingers lingered longer. As if he wanted to wipe off the figure and rewrite it with blood.
Radomir caught the word "entire." For a moment he held his gaze, as if weighing whether to speak. Then briefly reminded:
- Prince, the entire - won't work
Alexander slowly raised his head from the wax tablets. His look - straight, heavy:
- What do you mean - I can't? Am I not the only heir?
Radomir calmly laid several lead seals on the table.
- The treasury is tied to the place and the seal, not to all Rus'. Chests, books and stores in each land are closed with the seals of the late prince and his service - steward, key-keeper, seal-keeper. While they hang - the chest does not open
Alexander took one. The cold of lead burned the skin; a gray trace remained on his fingers. He turned the seal, looking now at the metal, now at Radomir.
- Then the boyars will hinder me? Whose is the treasury - the prince's or the boyars'?
- The prince's, prince. But after the Prince's death the treasury "locks" onto the local boyars and the synodal seal. So that payments do not stop, markets do not empty, the people do not rise. Any issuance without a new upper seal will be considered theft
Radomir fell silent. His eyes were fixed on the prince. Alexander was silent - as if weighing what was heavier: the metal in his palm or the cities behind it.
From his side Stanislav watched Radomir. But the treasurer remained impenetrable. The voivode could not read him: neither fear nor obsequiousness, only dry account. The treasurer went on:
- Where your seal is - there is your money. Kiev - is yours. The rest: Chernigov, Pereyaslavl, Novgorod - under their own locks. Enter - you'll be opened. Send a steward - we will record. A double seal - and the account is yours. Until then - they hold. It is built so: that the treasury does not go after you if you yourself have not yet stood
Alexander nodded and looked straight at Radomir.
- For my accession to the throne the boyars will arrive, - he paused. - Those who want to keep their estates. Their seals will come to me by themselves. Right?
Radomir raised his brow. For a moment his fingers lingered on the edge of the scroll - as if he wanted to press the figures to the table.
- Right. The boyars will bring seals - to fasten loyalty, to receive records for the estates. But the keys to the storehouses are not carried. The state mark is not in a pouch. The treasury books are not carried from place to place. Everything stays in its place. Like a stone in the ground. Until you come yourself - it won't open
At that moment there was a quiet rustle in the corner: the lad who was writing dropped his stylus, and it poked the tablet with a greasy spot. His neighbor nudged him, he froze, as if he understood - a drop of ink in such silence equals a leak of the treasury itself.
Alexander leaned forward, his palm lay on the edge of the table, as if holding the weight.
- And if I at once appoint governors to every city? Here. They will also confirm. Then it will be my man
Radomir wanted to answer, but Stanislav cut in first. His voice - dense, firm:
- Prince, all correct. After the accession you will take oaths, confirm estates, appoint governors. But it's not enough. A seal-keeper must go with him, a steward and a dozen good swords. And a written order to the bishop and senior boyars to assist
The prince nodded. His look - to Radomir. He hesitated, slid his hand along the inkwell, as if weighing a word. Then briefly:
- True. The treasury will become accessible through your governors. After re-sealing in each city
Alexander already raised his hand to fix the decision. But Radomir stopped him with a gesture. The scribe's pen froze. In the quiet one could hear only the smell of ink and resin, as if speech itself were preparing to lie down in a line. And then Radomir spoke not of number:
- Prince, - he said. - I advise writing down support for widows and children from the principalities' treasury. Then the boyars will have no pretext to hold all "till clarity"
Alexander peered into him. Slowly, as if tasting the flavor on his tongue:
- I will do so. I do not abandon my own blood. My brothers would not abandon them either. And I will not abandon them
Alexander set the seal down - heavy. The wood took it dully, as if the word had been sealed by a blow.
- In Kiev we have seven thousand grivnas in the treasury, yes? - he rose. Radomir nodded shortly. - For now it's only a record. But in reality - is all as said?
Radomir did not avert his gaze.
- Yes, prince. Under my control - all
Hearing this, the key-keeper stepped to the inner hatch that led to the lower store. Lead seals hung on the oak boards. Two gridni stood by the very hatch, shields - at their feet.
They were not guarding the scribes, but the lock itself: so that no one in the hut would dare lift the lid without the prince's word. Outside - two more, by the lower doors. The treasury held on a double lock and double guard.
- We'll raise it, - Alexander said.
The key-keeper took a thin knife, cut the seal, turned the key twice. The iron creaked. The hatch did not give at once: the board seemed to brace, the hinge jammed. The key-keeper leaned his shoulder, jerked - and only then the heavy lid trembled and went up.
The hinge sighed, as if it did not want to open itself.
Already at that moment the air grew heavy, as if each number lay on a shelf. As if the treasury itself pressed with the weight of its lines.
From the darkness came a draft of cold - dry, like from old wood. But not only from the earth: as if time itself rose from the hatch - with the burden of all those who had counted before you.
Outside, by the loading door, the watch rustled. A cough. A short tap on a spear shaft. It was the sign: they had heard the opening.
The gridin by the hatch answered with the same tap. Our own.
Without the sign and answer the opening was considered a break-in - then the iron went not upward, but on the heads of those who had touched the seals.
- We'll go down, prince, - Radomir said. - I'll name the sections. Fur - separate. Iron - by the far wall. Grain - in pits. Wax and honey in casks. Spices - in bundles. All received, weighed, sealed
The treasurer took a torch from the gridin. And despite his age, he stepped first. His step - even, heavy, like a weight being set on the scales. The fire lit the narrow flight, walls of raw timber, and the darkness trembled, backed away.
- Here everything holds in place. Only what goes under shields comes out to Sophia.
Alexander nodded. The boards creaked under his foot, his chest clenched - as if with him the account of the treasury itself went down. He noticed: Radomir's fingers were black with ink and lead dust. It was stronger than any oath.
Below Radomir raised the torch higher, touched the flame to a lamp's wick. The fire leapt, the darkness backed away further, opening the sections. To the left - sacks, furs; to the right - stacked iron. But no silver, no gold.
- Where are the grivnas? The gold? - Alexander asked.
Radomir lifted his brow a little, catching that the prince asked this on purpose. He answered calmly:
- Gold, silver, regalia - under the subcellar of the Cathedral of Sophia. The "Great Treasury": ingots, princely icons, relics, books. Where the metropolitan is, stone and oath guard it. Not in the palace - under the holy
Alexander nodded. Stone against fire and plunder.
The cathedral stood like a fortress: wall thickness, undercellar, chancellery at hand, seals, archive, scribes. And sacral immunity. There was no better place for the treasury.
- Clear. How much revenue per year?
- Last year - sixteen thousand grivnas by weight. This year - less. Fourteen. The quagmire and the change of seals delayed it. So the account will go down
Radomir spoke with certainty: he knew everything by memory. It was his account, and he always paid for it.
Alexander walked to the furs. He lifted sable. The skin smelled of cold and animal strength. He ran his fingers - smooth, as if Rus' itself lay in his hands: fat prey at which dozens of hunters had already set their eyes.
- What gives such revenues?
- Tribute and regular levy from the volosts: fur, wax, honey, flax, hemp, iron, salt. Then we convert part into silver. Fur and wax - the base. We sell them to neighbors
Radomir showed the furs. Then he went to the casks - pine, oak, rectangular blocks of eight to twelve kilograms. Each was sealed: a cord over the lid, a lead seal with the prince's stamp.
Alexander set down the fur, came closer.
Radomir cut the seal with a knife, threw the lid back. Inside lay bars of wax - yellow, dense, like metal. The prince bent in surprise. He had expected candles ready for the church or the court. But here - raw wax stacked like silver ingots.
Radomir took out two, laid them in the prince's palm.
- Fur is the most expensive. But wax is the most necessary. For the church, for the court. And convenient to carry: it goes together with honey
Alexander turned the bars. It smelled of resin and sun. He understood: soft to the eye, yet it holds the market more tightly than iron. From one such block a hundred candles will be made - the light for a church, or a merchant will carry a dozen of these and sell them thrice dearer.
Stanislav gave a quiet grunt, as if hearing an inner count:
- Merchants gnaw for fur. And priests - blind without wax. The treasury holds both trade and prayer
Radomir narrowed his eyes. He did not object. He only nodded short: the account matched.
Suddenly Alexander tossed the bar of wax lightly. The dark-yellow block turned in the air, smacked dully into his palm, like meat on a table. He threw it up again - and caught it once more. A thin trace of resin remained on his fingers.
- Is all this - only for candles?
- In Byzantium and among the Latins the candles burn by the thousands. The liturgy - a sea of fire. Wax there is dearer than bread. We need it too - for churches and for receptions. So we keep it "at hand"
Radomir answered at once, watching how the prince held the treasury like a toy. His lips pressed for a moment, as if he had swallowed bitterness. But his voice went even, like account. Stanislav slanted a glance, his brow twitched.
Alexander caught it again. Now firmly, he squeezed his palm. The bar crunched plaintively, a corner cracked. The smell of resin cut the air. The prince's gaze went icy.
He looked into the depth of the dark - as if he saw there not bars but churches, embassies, the lights of Rome.
- Then if the wax doesn't go, - he said evenly, - candles will go out not only in church. But in the eyes of faith. And in the eyes of those who look at us from Rome and Constantinople
The scribe behind them flinched. The pen slid, ink dropped on the tablet.
Radomir held the gaze.
- That is why we keep it, prince. Without wax - darkness
His voice was exact - as an inscription on a seal.
Alexander nodded. Carefully he returned the bars to the cask and went on.
At once Radomir closed the lid, drew the cord, tightened the knot - the seal pulled taut again like a noose. The torchlight trembled a moment - as if the wax in the cask had recognized its fate. And without stopping he went after the prince.
Stanislav cut a glance, noticed, and smiled with the corner of his mouth:
- Radomir. Why didn't you seal it at once?
The treasurer answered quickly, without slowing his step:
- The metropolitan asked for it after the Council. This cask will go to him
He spoke as he counted: by the weight of a thing. Alexander was moving among the sections, counting the rows with his eyes, in his mind forming convoys. From the corner came the bitterness of hemp and the salty crumb of split sacks of salt.
Without turning, he asked:
- What other sources of revenue? You haven't said all
Radomir walked beside him, did not fall behind.
- True. Beside fur, wax, honey and the rest - the main income comes from the toll. Trade duties from cities and ferries: Kiev, Novgorod, Smolensk… - he listed like weights onto a scale.
Radomir hesitated, inhaled. The hut grew quieter.
- Court fines. Vira and prodae. For murder - forty grivnas by the Short Pravda. For the prince's man - dearer, by the Extended
The torch cracked, resin flew and dripped down. All heads twitched a little, but no one spoke. It seemed the darkness itself put a period into the account.
Radomir finished briefly:
- That income is small. But noisy. Each case rings through the whole land - and each echo is heard by power
Alexander did not answer. He only ran a finger along the edge of the nearest chest, as if checking not the figure - the seal. His look - short, but one could hear: he had taken it in.
He went to a cask. It smelled thick - of honey. Much honey. The air drew cold from the earth, the damp of wood, furs and wax. A lamp smoked over the passage, its fire trembled, throwing shadows on the beams.
- Show here, - he said.
Radomir nodded to the key-keeper. He removed the tag: "Novgorod. Wax/honey. Third week." On the crosspiece - two seals: the prince's and Sophia's.
The seal-keeper stepped forward. The pinchers clicked - the seal split clean; the fragments went into a pouch. The cord snapped, the bung creaked - and the smell of honey struck fuller, with sweetness and warmth.
- Clean, - Radomir said. - Look, prince
He tilted the cask. The seal-keeper dipped a ladle, lifted it - the thread drew out fine. Radomir ran a finger along the edge, stretched the drop - it held and shone.
- The pull is good. No water, no sour. The weight by the mark should match, - he nodded to the scribe.
He had already noted: "Cask №17. Inspection before the prince. Return at once."
- Enough, - Alexander said.
The bung returned, a new cord lay as a cross. The seals set again - the prince's and Sophia's. The scribe added: "Sealed again." Radomir nodded - like scales that took the weight and stood even.
Alexander went off to the far wall. There, in a niche, lay iron ingots in rows - dark, heavy, with patches of rust. The smell changed: instead of the sweetness of honey a dry scorch struck the nose, the damp of ore.
He ran his palm over the top ingot. The skin darkened at once with gray bloom.
- What are the expenses? - he asked, looking at the iron as if counting not ingots but men in a rank.
Radomir seemed to have been waiting for this. His voice dry as a tally:
- The same items. War - the druzhina, garrisons, trains, fortresses. Church and books - clergy, temples, scriptoria. Court and governance - stewards, key-keepers, the courier relay, court. Roads, bridges, trade, toll posts. Diplomacy - gifts, feasts, marriages, envoys
He adjusted a lamp, like scales. The light swayed, shadows skewed for a moment along the walls. Old, but he remembered every figure.
- For reserve, - he continued. - Silver in the subcellar of Sophia, grain in pits, stores for collection time. Last year - two thousand four hundred grivnas. The center of silver - by Sophia: stone and seals. The in-kind reserves - by nodes
The echo of his words went dully into the vaults. Alexander frowned. Reserve - only two thousand four hundred. Little. So the silver goes not into stone, but is eaten: roads, garrisons, feasts.
He went deeper. Under the wall lay not only ingots - bundles of rods, bunches of chain links, small casks of arrowheads. The iron there was not a number, but bodies of future warriors.
Alexander bent down, took a handful of arrowheads, ran one along a strut. The wood squealed, a chip fell. The edge held sharpness.
Stanislav came after. He picked up a chain link, pulled. The metal rang low, dense. He nodded to Mstislav nearby - the latter took the link, ran a finger along it like along a string.
Radomir stood a little aside, both hands on his staff. His thumb tapped the wood unhurriedly, as if measuring the beats of time. His eyes followed - not the men, but how they touched the goods: an extra movement could cost a grivna.
- Why is so much spent? - Alexander asked, still holding the arrowhead in his hand.
Radomir raised his eyes, said evenly:
- The druzhina - stipend and gifts. The church - tithe and patronage. Roads and ferries - bridges, levies, toll posts. Fortifications and guard - after Grand Prince Yaroslav's works they became a constant expense
Alexander frowned. The arrowhead clinked when he threw it back into the cask. The sound short, like a cut-off thought.
The silence lay heavy. No one moved: the gridni - still as posts; Radomir - with the staff, as if guarding the air itself. Only the torch crackled, resin slid down and dripped in rare drops.
Stanislav came closer. He took one of the rods, bent it in his hands. The metal squeaked.
- Raw, - he threw quietly, - a link broke like a tooth
He put the rod back, and his look at the prince was heavy: like a reminder that the druzhina is always here, but it too needs metal that holds.
Alexander sat on the bench by the wall. He looked long at the bundle of mail, at the rods and ingots. Thoughts went in fractions: revenue this year is lower. More reforms, changes, less silver. Means - cut. The first that can be - diplomacy. Not feasts, not gifts, not others' words.
He is not Yaroslav the Wise. He was not going to feed Byzantium, the Scandinavians and the Romans with gifts. He wanted to raise economy, markets, the host - on this everything else will stand.
He raised his gaze.
- Revenue this year is lower. We will have to cut much. Diplomacy - too. Each year it eats a thousand grivnas. We'll do without
Radomir did not move a brow. He spoke as if laying out iron by heaps - even, without spark.
- We can take off half. But not lower. Otherwise tomorrow we will pay thrice
Alexander looked sharply:
- Why?
- Novgorod, prince. Without gifts and rows the Veche will easily "pinch" fur and wax. It's cheaper to make a feast, give small gifts - and open trade than to lose a third of the silver. Byzantium - too. Envoys without gifts - a weak sign. A small present with a charter keeps the road open
He spoke on his fingers: one, two, three - as if counting coins.
Stanislav stepped forward. His voice firm:
- Radomir speaks to the point. The steppe, too, can be soothed for a month with a loaf and a small present. It's cheaper than feeding the druzhina's horses. Without that - you'll more often call shields
Alexander thought. The air below was thick: honey, wax, furs and iron mixed, pressed stronger than words. Radomir saw the pause - and finished:
- A "gift" is sometimes the price of quick seal change and a quiet launch of governorship. You save months. When the boyars arrive, with gifts it is easier to set your governors
The prince's lips pressed, as if he held back cutting, but he nodded - he understood that arguing was foolish.
- But a thousand - is still too much
Radomir inclined his head slightly forward, his voice even, like iron on an anvil:
- True. But it can be "dried out." From feasts and marriages - into charters, seals, hostages, market privileges. And targeted gifts for cause
Alexander held him in his gaze. Then shortly:
- Good, we'll continue upstairs
He turned. The torches swayed behind him, shadows crawled toward the exit. Stanislav adjusted his sword at the belt, coughed hoarsely - as if also setting a seal to the decision - and moved after him. The gridni lifted their spears.
The undercellar hummed with steps - and the smell of honey, iron and damp earth remained behind.