The weeks that followed were a blur of grueling, unfamiliar labor. Alistair, the academic whose heaviest lifting involved carrying stacks of books, found himself learning the rhythm of the scythe, the ache of turning soil, and the sting of blisters on his soft hands. He worked alongside Ivan and Pyotr from sunrise to sunset, sharing their meager meals of black bread and watery soup.
His actions were a profound shock to the natural order of things. A Baron did not till his own fields. He did not sweat and strain beside his tenants. Yet, every day, Mikhail was there. He wasn't as strong as them, but his stamina was relentless, fueled by a purpose they couldn't possibly comprehend. More than his labor, it was his mind that slowly won them over. He introduced the concept of a simple lever and fulcrum to move a large boulder they'd been plowing around for years. He showed them how to properly compost waste to enrich the soil. Small, simple innovations that chipped away at their skepticism, replacing it with a grudging respect.
This fragile new reality was shattered by the arrival of a slick, black carriage pulled by two well-fed horses. It rolled into the muddy yard of Volkovo like a war machine entering a peasant village. A portly man in a fine wool coat and a beaver-fur hat stepped out, his lip curled in disdain as he surveyed the dilapidated manor. This was Dmitri Semyonov, the merchant from Pskov, a man whose face was etched with the smug satisfaction of someone who always collected what he was owed.
"Baron Volkov," Semyonov boomed, his voice dripping with false deference as Mikhail approached, wiping dirt from his hands onto his trousers. "I trust my last letter found you well. I am here for the spring payment on your late father's debt. One hundred rubles."
He said the number as if it were a death sentence, and for the boy Mikhail, it would have been. Ivan and Pyotr, who had stopped their work to watch, looked pale. This was the end they had feared.
"Merchant Semyonov," Mikhail greeted him, his voice calm and even. He met the man's gaze without a flicker of fear. "You have come a long way for nothing. I do not have one hundred rubles."
Semyonov's expression hardened. "Then as per our contract, I will begin proceedings to seize the land and its assets. The cow, the horse, the harvest… it will all be mine."
"That would be a foolish enterprise," Mikhail said conversationally.
The merchant blinked, taken aback by the sheer audacity. "Foolish?"
"Extremely," Mikhail affirmed, gesturing to the fields where the green shoots of peas and clover were just beginning to show. "As you can see, we have diversified our crops. The rye harvest will be small this year. Seize it, and you will get perhaps twenty rubles for your trouble. The tenants will leave, the house will rot completely, and the land will be worthless within a year. You will have spent good money on lawyers and travel to acquire a corpse. That is bad business, is it not?"
Semyonov's face began to flush with anger. "Are you lecturing me on business, boy?"
"I am proposing a better investment," Mikhail countered smoothly. He was now in his element. This wasn't a desperate plea; it was a corporate restructuring. "You are a purveyor of fine goods in Pskov. You sell grains, but you also sell spirits. High-quality vodka, I imagine."
"The best," Semyonov grunted, unsure where this was leading.
"The quality of vodka is determined not just by the grain, but by the purity of the distillation. My father, God rest his soul, was a connoisseur of drink, if not of finance. He left behind a surprisingly well-made copper still. It is old, but the design is sound." This was a lie; Mikhail had spent two nights secretly modifying the primitive still based on 21st-century designs, creating baffles and a rudimentary reflux column that would dramatically increase its efficiency and the purity of the alcohol.
"I propose a new contract," Mikhail continued, his eyes gleaming with cold intelligence. "You will suspend all interest payments on the 500-ruble principal for two years."
Semyonov laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "Absurd! Why would I do that?"
"Because in exchange," Mikhail said, leaning in slightly, "for those two years, the Volkov estate will grant you the exclusive right to purchase our entire production of potato vodka at a fixed price of 50 kopeks per liter."
The merchant stared at him. Potato vodka was common, cheap. It wasn't worth his time. "I don't deal in peasant swill."
"You will deal in this swill," Mikhail said, his voice dropping. "Because by winter, I will not be producing peasant swill. With my new distillation method, I will be producing vodka of a purity you cannot find outside of St. Petersburg or Warsaw. It will be smooth, clean. You will bottle it under your own brand, sell it for two rubles a liter to the gentry, and make a four-hundred percent profit. You will become the most sought-after spirits merchant in the entire governorate."
He was selling the future, a future only he could see. He knew from Alistair's historical knowledge that a series of crop failures in central Russia would cause grain prices to spike in eighteen months. Those who could produce high-quality alcohol from cheap potatoes would make a fortune.
"And to show my good faith," Mikhail added, playing his final card, "I will add the logging rights to twenty acres of my northern forest to the contract. Timber prices are stable now, but when the new rail spur reaches Toropets next year, the demand for wood will explode. You can hold the rights until then. Consider it a guarantee on your investment in my… potential."
Semyonov was silent. His merchant's mind was whirring, calculating. The boy was either a lunatic or a genius. Suspending interest was a loss, but the potential profit from this high-purity vodka was immense. And the timber rights… he had heard whispers of the new rail spur. If that was true, the timber alone was worth more than the entire debt. The boy was offering him a golden goose and a paid-for insurance policy. But why? What did the Baron get from this?
"And what happens after two years, assuming you don't just drink yourself to death like your father?" Semyonov asked, his voice now laced with grudging respect.
"After two years, I will pay you the 500-ruble principal in cash, in full. And our business will be concluded."
The deal was struck. Semyonov left Volkovo not with a pouch of coins, but with a new contract and a profound sense of unease, as if he had been masterfully outplayed in a game he didn't even know he was playing.
As the carriage disappeared, Ivan approached Mikhail, his face a mask of awe. "My lord… how did you know about the rail spur? And the still?"
Mikhail clapped a hand on the farmer's shoulder, a gesture that felt increasingly natural. "God whispers many things to a man who is desperate enough to listen, Ivan."
Later that night, Mikhail sat in his study, the new contract spread on the table before him. He had won. He had bought himself two years of breathing room and secured a partner—a pawn, really—for his first commercial venture. The vodka would be the start. It would generate the first trickle of capital.
But it was a pittance. A drop of water in the ocean of wealth he would need. Winning a battle against a provincial merchant was one thing. Toppling the Romanovs would require funds on a scale that could move armies and purchase nations.
His eyes fell back to the map on the wall. The 'X' marking Volkovo seemed less pathetic now. It was a base of operations. A laboratory. His gaze drifted west, towards the industrial centers of Poland and the German border, then east, towards the untapped mineral wealth of the Urals.
The vodka was for survival. To truly build power, he would need to think bigger. He would need to harness the engines of the coming age: steel, coal, oil, and railways. And for that, he would need to leave this small pond and swim in the shark-infested waters of St. Petersburg.