Annan had guessed that the Park shed led underground, but he had never imagined the entire space beneath it had been hollowed out.
Smooth brick walls enclosed a vast underground hall, lit as brightly as day by steady Magic Lamps.
Two Street Sweepers pushed open a wooden door with a small window. Annan followed them into a room with nothing but a desk, much like an interrogation room.
"Would you mind letting us inspect your belongings?"
After Annan sat down, a muffled, gruff voice came from beneath a Crow Mask.
The real King of the North might have taken offense, but Annan wasn't really the King.
The Street Sweepers were pure and noble, the last ones to hold the line. Until a town was completely in a state of Corruption, you could always trust its Street Sweepers—or so Michael had once said. Annan hoped he was right.
Annan emptied his pockets onto the desk: a handkerchief, letters from his sisters, and a Dragonhide Scroll that made the two Street Sweepers tense. Then he produced a Black Crow Badge from among three gold coins and a dozen or so copper coins, and the mood in the room eased.
"Annan Reeves, did you know those guests who turned into Ratfolk?"
"I didn't know them."
One Street Sweeper reached for the letters, but Annan covered them with his hand first.
"Those are letters from my family."
"We need to inspect them."
Annan looked at them steadily. "I'm not your prisoner."
Just then, the door opened. A cloaked figure in a Crow Mask entered, carrying a painting and an empty bottle.
"Centurion."
"No need to inspect them."
The figure the Street Sweepers had called Centurion placed the empty bottle before Annan. The residue at its bottom glowed an ominous green.
Annan looked at it,