Upon receiving the king's orders, Gwen raised the investigation into the silver mines to the highest priority. He summoned several inspectors from the Investigation Division and asked them to recommend suitable candidates.
In the end, Gwen selected an agent nicknamed "Blackfish", assigning him to gather intelligence at the Derby silver mine in Nottingham.
"Remember—do not expose your identity. The department will be expanding its manpower soon. Do a good job, and you might be promoted to detective."
Leaving the office, Blackfish went to the Logistics Division to collect his mission funds. Since this assignment was within crown lands—close by and low risk—he was issued only eight silver pennies.
"That's way too little," he muttered.
After grumbling a bit, Blackfish signed his name, pocketed the coins, and left.
Traveling from Londinium to Nottingham took seven days on foot or three days on horseback. As a bottom-tier agent of the Investigation Division, Blackfish could neither afford a horse nor wished to pay to rent one. Instead, he joined a wool-trading caravan and made the slow journey north.
Along the way, the scars of war had yet to fade. Fields that should have been greening with new wheat were instead overrun with nettles and thistles. Burned-out farmhouses occasionally appeared by the roadside, with ravens nesting atop charred beams as if they were newly claimed homes.
After two days, the caravan entered Cambridgeshire, an area second only to Londinium in devastation. Although Cambridge had once been Gunnar's fief, he showed no mercy to his former subjects, forcing them to surrender vast quantities of grain and livestock. As the war dragged on, Frankish discipline deteriorated further, and extortion and plunder became routine.
"They're worse than Viking raiders," the locals said of the Frankish troops.
That night, while camping, Blackfish took out his hardtack, broke it into pieces, and soaked it in a bowl to soften it. Suddenly, more than twenty ragged refugees emerged from the darkness—old and young alike—silently approaching the campfire, their eyes fixed on the food in the merchants' hands.
Unwilling to invite trouble, the caravan leader fetched five long loaves of black bread from the wagons and handed them over.
"Take these and move on. Don't make things difficult for a small business."
Most of the refugees accepted the bread and prepared to leave, but a few remained seated, staring intently at the smoked sausage in a merchant's hand. Frightened, the merchant stuffed the remaining half of the sausage into his mouth, cheeks bulging as he chewed desperately, nearly choking.
"Hey, that's crossing the line," the caravan leader said, reaching for the hatchet at his waist.
The remaining thirty porters, traders, and travelers followed suit—some drew daggers, others grabbed stones from the ground.
Unable to gain more, the refugees shuffled away, silent from start to finish, as if even speaking would cost them the little strength they had left.
After the danger passed, the caravan leader returned to the fire. This was already the fourth group of refugees he had encountered, and he had grown accustomed to it.
Most refugees would leave once given food, but some groups had devolved into outright bandits, openly extorting or robbing passing merchants. The largest of these called themselves the Black Banner Brotherhood, responsible for more than a dozen robberies and even the sack of two villages.
As their numbers swelled to two hundred, the Brotherhood grew increasingly brazen—so brazen, in fact, that they foolishly attacked a passing noble.
That noble was Jorunn, traveling to Winchester with his family and retainers to take up his new fief. He was no easy target. Leading a dozen cavalrymen, Jorunn charged straight at them, scattering the Black Banner Brotherhood with a single assault.
With the Brotherhood destroyed, banditry in the surrounding region dwindled back into mere vagrancy. Merchants benefited greatly, and Earl Jorunn's reputation among the populace rose slightly.
Thinking of this, the caravan leader complained, "Why doesn't His Majesty send more troops to suppress the bandits?"
Blackfish interjected, "The war just ended. More than two-thirds of the officers have taken leave, returning to their fiefs with their families. It'll take at least two or three months before they settle their affairs. During this time, the standing army doesn't have the capacity for large-scale anti-bandit operations."
"How do you know that?" the caravan leader scoffed. "You just making things up?"
Realizing he had spoken out of turn, Blackfish forced an awkward smile.
"Yeah, I made it up. Maybe His Majesty will send out the standing army and the Royal Guard in a few days to wipe out the bandits around Londinium and Cambridge completely."
After leaving Cambridgeshire, the caravan encountered fewer refugees. The winter wheat in the fields was growing well, and now and then they passed villages holding football matches, the atmosphere lively and cheerful, as if the war had never happened.
Upon reaching Nottingham, Blackfish parted ways with the caravan and found a tavern near the market, where he asked the barkeep about the silver mine.
"What are you trying to do?" the barkeep frowned, spilling some ale onto the counter.
"Nothing much. I heard locals talking about the silver mine. They say the workers there are treated well, so I was thinking of finding work," Blackfish said.
As he spoke, he rolled up his sleeves, revealing strong, muscular arms.
"I've worked in iron mines before. I should meet the requirements."
"You'd better think of something else," the barkeep replied, setting down a plate of sliced smoked sausage. "The pay really is good, but the mine supervisors only hire people from nearby villages. Outsiders don't stand a chance."
After spending the night at the tavern, Blackfish left Nottingham and followed a winding path northwest into the hills. Using the ruts left by heavy wagons, he located the silver mine.
As the barkeep had said, the mine lacked no labor and never hired unfamiliar outsiders. With no other option, Blackfish took odd jobs in a village at the foot of the hills, occasionally helping villagers transport river fish and fresh vegetables to the mine, using these trips to observe operations.
At a glance, silver mining looked similar to iron mining. Workers used picks to extract ore, crushed it, removed impurities, and then smelted it in small furnaces to produce rough silver-rich lumps.
The next step, however, was strange.
The workers placed these rough silver blocks into shallow, porous clay dishes and reheated them in the furnace, producing silver of remarkably high purity.
"What kind of process is that?" Blackfish muttered, scratching the back of his head.
The mine workers, however, paid no attention to the outsider and quickly shooed him away.
Over the next few days, Blackfish continued wandering around the foothills and even struck up a casual relationship with a shepherd widow. During one of their chats, the widow mentioned something odd.
"Last month, when I went into the hills looking for sheep, I saw a few figures carrying cloth sacks down a small path. Maybe I imagined it—after all, who would abandon the main road to take such rough mountain trails?"
Blackfish immediately sensed something was wrong. He pressed the widow to recall the scene in detail, then found an excuse to leave the village the next day.
Just as he was leaving, officials dispatched by the Chancellor arrived, prompting furious complaints in his mind.
"They set out earlier than me and arrived later than me. With parasites like these, how could anything ever be done right? Good thing His Majesty has an intelligence service."
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