The first volley from Nikolai Katorov was not long in coming. It arrived not with the thunder of a cannon, but with the dry rustle of official paper. A trio of dour-faced bureaucrats from the provincial tax inspectorate descended upon Volkovo one morning, announcing a full, unscheduled audit of the estate's production and income. They were armed with ledger books and an air of officious hostility that made it clear they were not there to be fair, but to find fault.
They swarmed over his small operation, demanding records he did not have and questioning his workers in a manner designed to intimidate. Pyotr was accused of using untaxed timber for the kiln; Ivan was grilled about the exact weight of clay extracted per day. They even questioned Matryona about the number of eggs her chickens laid. It was a classic bureaucratic strangulation, designed to bury him in fines, tie up his operations in red tape, and frighten his employees into leaving. This was Katorov's power on display: the ability to weaponize the state against a competitor.
Mikhail remained perfectly calm, treating the inspectors with a chilling politeness that seemed to unnerve them more than any outburst would have. He provided what records he had, answered their questions simply, and watched them work. He knew he could not fight them on their terms. He had no official to bribe, no political heavyweight to call upon. He had to change the battlefield entirely.
That evening, he wrote two letters. The first was a simple, polite request for a brief meeting with Princess Sofia Trubetskaya, to discuss a matter of provincial economic health. The second was a more detailed document, a meticulously researched dossier he had been compiling since the assembly.
He received a reply two days later. The Princess would see him.
He met her in a small, private parlor in the Governor's residence, away from the prying eyes of the court. She greeted him with the same cool intelligence, but there was a new wariness in her eyes.
"Baron Volkov," she began, gesturing to a chair. "Your note was intriguing. I confess I do not see how the audit of a minor brickworks relates to the economic health of the entire province."
"Because it is not an audit, Princess. It is an attack," Mikhail stated plainly. "It is Nikolai Katorov demonstrating that he can use the provincial government as his personal cudgel to crush any potential competitor, no matter how small. Today he does it to me over bricks. Tomorrow, he will do it to a new grain mill that might offer better prices to farmers. He is not a businessman; he is a parasite who maintains his monopoly by strangling innovation. And a province that cannot innovate is a province that will stagnate and fall behind."
He had framed the problem as hers. It wasn't about his survival; it was about the principles of governance and progress they had discussed.
Sofia listened, her expression unreadable. "These are serious accusations, Baron. You are claiming the leading industrialist in Pskov is corruptly influencing the government my uncle leads."
"I am," Mikhail said. He then placed his dossier on the table between them. "And this is the proof."
Sofia opened the folder. It was not a collection of wild accusations. It was a dispassionate, analytical breakdown. It contained a list of three other small enterprises—a smithy, a tannery, a cartwright—that had mysteriously been forced out of business by sudden tax investigations or regulatory hurdles shortly after competing with one of Katorov's ventures. It included a carefully mapped-out analysis of Katorov's textile factory, showing how his wages were nearly thirty percent below the average, leading to the unrest Mikhail had witnessed, and proving this was a pattern of exploitation, not an anomaly. Most damningly, it included land registry records that showed the head tax inspector's brother-in-law had recently acquired a parcel of land from Katorov for a fraction of its market value. It was a web of circumstantial evidence so dense it formed an undeniable picture of corruption.
"He is not just a rock in the soil, Princess," Mikhail said quietly, echoing Katorov's own threat. "He is a poison."
Princess Sofia closed the folder, her blue eyes now blazing with a cold fire. She was a woman of intellect and ambition, trapped in a society that offered her no direct power. But she understood influence.
The next day, Sofia requested a formal audience with her uncle. She chose her words with the precision of a surgeon, speaking of 'growing unrest' at the Katorov mill and 'unfortunate whispers' of favoritism that could reach the capital. She never once mentioned Baron Volkov by name, framing the entire affair as a question of her uncle's firm control over his own province.
A muscle twitched in Governor Trubetskoy's jaw as he absorbed the implications laid out in the dossier. The fool Katorov! Not for his greed—that was an expected part of the landscape—but for his brazenness. To create such a visible problem, to practically beg for an investigation from St. Petersburg, was an act of profound disrespect to the delicate balance the Governor so carefully maintained. It was a threat to his stability.
His response, when it came, was a masterclass in political maneuvering. The audit of Volkovo would not be canceled, as that would be too direct an admission of Katorov's influence. Instead, he "postponed" it, citing the need for the inspectors to focus on a new, comprehensive review of labor practices and wage disputes at the Katorov textile mill, to be overseen by a special magistrate sent from his own office.
The message was unmistakable. The weapon Katorov had aimed at Mikhail had been turned back on him. The auditors left Volkovo with their tails between their legs, and the threat vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Mikhail received the news via a short, unsigned note delivered by a discreet messenger. He stood by his now-thriving kiln, watching his paid workers load a wagon with bricks, and allowed himself a small, dangerous smile.
He had faced his first real enemy and had won without spending a single ruble or firing a single shot. He had used information as a weapon and influence as his shield. He had confirmed Sofia as a powerful and willing ally, and he had learned a vital lesson: in the Russian Empire, true power did not always flow from the top down. Sometimes, it could be channeled from the side, by a whisper in the right ear.
The game was changing, becoming deadlier and more complex. And Mikhail felt more alive than ever.