The clamor in the tavern gradually subsided. The minstrel carrying a battered wooden instrument case paid his bill, pushed open the double wooden doors, and walked into a deep alley.
Allen finished the last mouthful of sour, rancid ale at the bottom of his cup before standing up and following him out at a leisurely pace.
The alley was dark and damp, reeking with the nauseating stench of rotting cabbage leaves and urine.
The minstrel took several turns before stopping in front of an abandoned mill. He looked around vigilantly, bent his fingers, and tapped out an irregular rhythm on the moss-covered stone wall.
The stone wall silently cracked open into a narrow gap, and the minstrel slipped inside.
Allen had no intention of following him in. Since leaving the tavern, he had simply leaned against a streetlamp on the main road. He narrowed his deep blue eyes slightly as an invisible waterfall of data reflected deep within his pupils.
The Allen Network silently unfolded.
