They trace the edge of the hard, TONKing shape, then excavate around it, until Corvina is able to use his shovel as a lever. He gives a sharp grunt; a small metal trunk pops out of the hole, lands on the bottom of the tunnel with a wet thud, balances on its end, and falls over. Penumbra and Corvina stare at each other, wide-eyed. The trunk is heavily corroded, its surface boiling with rusty warts and green-brown streaks, but it seems to be intact. There is a supremely fat padlock holding the lid tight. “Stand back,” Corvina says. He lifts his shovel high and brings it down, a wrathful bolt of
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