The first firing of the downdraft kiln was an event of almost religious significance in Volkovo. As the fire was stoked for two days straight, a nervous tension settled over the small estate. Ivan and Pyotr watched the sealed structure with the anxiety of men who had staked their futures on their young lord's strange magic. When the kiln was finally cool enough to open, Mikhail himself pulled out the first brick.
It was perfect. Deep red, flawlessly straight, and when he struck it with a hammer, it rang with a clear, metallic note instead of the dull thud of a common brick. It was heavier, denser, and smoother than any they had ever seen. He handed it to Ivan, whose calloused hands held it with a kind of reverence. This was not just baked clay; it was proof. It was the physical manifestation of their lord's mind, a tangible product of his impossible knowledge.
A week later, Mikhail, cleaned and dressed in his late father's best—if slightly worn—coat, rode to the neighboring estate of Baron Fyodorov. Fyodorov's manor was larger than Volkovo's but possessed a similar air of neglect, born not of poverty but of sheer apathy. Fyodorov himself was a corpulent man in his fifties with a florid face and small, suspicious eyes. He received Mikhail in a cluttered sitting room that smelled of stale tobacco and hunting dogs.
"Volkov," Fyodorov grunted, forgoing any formal pleasantry. "To what do I owe this… visit? Come for a loan, have you? Your father always came for a loan."
Mikhail inclined his head politely, ignoring the jibe. "I have come to make you a gift, Baron."
He unwrapped the perfect brick he had brought with him and placed it on the table between them. Fyodorov poked it with a sausage-like finger. "A brick. How generous."
"A Volkovo brick," Mikhail corrected him gently. "The first of many. I am starting a brickworks on my land. But my clay requires a specific grade of sand to achieve this quality, and the best sand, as you know, lies in the bed of the river that borders our lands."
Fyodorov's eyes narrowed. "My sand."
"Your sand," Mikhail agreed. "I propose a partnership. Allow my men access to a small portion of your riverbank, and for every ten bricks we produce for sale, my works will produce one for you, delivered to your estate at no cost. I couldn't help but notice the poor state of your garden wall. I estimate we could provide enough bricks to rebuild the entire northern section by the end of summer. A gift, from one neighbor to another, to beautify your historic estate."
The Baron stared at him. The boy was asking for something for free, yet framing it as a gift to him. It was a maddeningly clever proposal. His wall was an embarrassment, and hiring masons and buying bricks from Pskov would be an expense he couldn't be bothered with. This boy was offering to solve the problem for him, and all he had to do was let a few peasants scoop sand from a riverbank he never looked at. It was an appeal directly to his vanity and his sloth.
"One brick for every eight you produce," Fyodorov grumbled, attempting to assert his dominance in the negotiation.
"Of course, Baron. A wise and fair amendment," Mikhail conceded instantly, bowing his head in a show of deference. He had been prepared to offer a one-for-seven ratio. Fyodorov thought he had won, but he had merely accepted the hook, line, and sinker. The deal was done.
Production began in earnest. Mikhail, applying principles of workflow Alistair would have taught in a business school lecture, organized the work with ruthless efficiency. Pyotr, with his steady hand, oversaw the kiln. Ivan managed the digging of the clay and the transport of the sand. Matryona's two teenage grandsons, previously idle, were tasked with the mixing and molding. It was a miniature factory, a system of production rising from the feudal mud.
Word of the superior Volkovo bricks, carried by a boastful Baron Fyodorov, soon reached Pskov. A building contractor, skeptical but intrigued, made the journey to the estate. He left with an order for two thousand bricks at a price twenty percent higher than the standard, paying half in advance. The sack of silver coins Mikhail held was heavier than all the vodka profits combined.
But it also created a new problem: demand now outstripped their capacity to produce. They needed more hands.
That evening, Mikhail made an announcement that was, in its own way, more revolutionary than the kiln itself. He sent word to the impoverished surrounding villages. The Volkovo estate was hiring laborers. Not tenants, not serfs bound by obligation, but free men. He would pay a wage: ten kopeks a day, plus a midday meal. It was a pittance, but it was more than the textile factory offered, and it was reliable.
Within a week, five men had arrived, thin and desperate, their eyes holding the same beaten-down look as the protesters in Pskov. Mikhail hired them all. He now had a payroll. He was no longer just a feudal lord managing tenants; he was an employer, a capitalist. The transition felt momentous.
Standing on the hill overlooking his small valley at twilight, Mikhail watched the scene below. The fiery orange glow of the kiln pulsed against the darkening sky. The neat stacks of finished bricks grew like geometric monuments. He could hear the murmur of voices from the men—his paid workers—sharing a meal around a campfire.
He had created an asset. Not just a product, but a system. He was turning dirt and labor into capital, and that capital, he knew, was the nascent lifeblood of power. He had taken a dying feudal fiefdom and transformed it into a profitable, expanding enterprise in less than a year.
His gaze drifted northward, in the direction of St. Petersburg. The satisfaction he felt was cold and sharp. This small victory was intoxicating, but it was merely proof of concept. To play the game he intended to play, he would need to operate on a scale a thousand times larger, in an arena filled with men infinitely more dangerous than Baron Fyodorov.
Volkovo was his laboratory. Soon, he would need to find his boardroom.