There's a cittern lying on the roof of a building one street lower, the neck broken clean off at the point where it once joined the body. Only one string remains intact to connect the two severed pieces.

Oh.

Spall radiates across the surface from where the cittern landed. This instrument was destroyed on impact, as was part of the roof. That kind of force suggests it was thrown down from a greater height, rather than following a parabolic trajectory from a lower location.

This is not making her feel any better.

It really isn't. You should find something else to stare at instead. Look, you can see Arazlant Mox from here!

She wrenches her gaze away from the cittern before she takes any more psychic damage and tries to admire the view of the twin peaks across the channel. She has no idea how tall they are, but the fact that she can't see any of the land at the base is suggestive. The very highest areas are wreathed in thin cirrus clouds and permafrost so white it's almost blue, radiating immovable tranquility.

… okay, she's not trying anymore, she is actually admiring the view. It is a picturesque mountain range, and she's glad it came along to cheer her up.

"Are you planning to explain yourself?"

A teachable moment!

"Always ask questions in unexpected ways, in case you're dealing with a criminal that planned ahead. Repeat the important ones. If that guy hired an assassin to do his dirty work he might be able to deny being the killer, but he'd never be able to claim he to not know who did it. Trip them up by asking about facts that the killer is more likely to know, like the motive or the murder weapon."

"If the assassin was anonymous he could truthfully claim to not know who they were," Gwen points out.

"He would have to be very clever and not even a little bit wise to say that. And if he did, so what? We can always come back to him later if the evidence points his way. Only criminals who think they're smart try to get away with their crimes by anticipating every question the cops will ask. Actually smart criminals avoid being questioned by the cops in the first place."

"That is… good to know, but not what I meant when I said that. How did you manage to lose a hundred and thirty measures in four days?"

The irony of a conversation on avoiding deflection being used to unsuccessfully deflect is not lost on her. Worse yet, she doesn't have a good answer. The truth sounds like a weak excuse.

"I have no idea."

"Are you seriously insinuating that you have been blackout drunk for multiple days running?"

That sounds impossible. Surely that much alcohol would kill you. Then again, Gwen has seen her bar tab. Is she some kind of poison-resistant demihuman? Can she cast any of the spells that manage intoxication, while heavily intoxicated? Is she a Caydenite inquisitor after all?

Is she blackout drunk right now?

Tell her you were possessed by a shadow demon. It's not a perfect cover, but you don't think anyone's going to suddenly accuse you of behaving virtuously, do you?

If she believes that she's going to ditch you as soon as possible and come back with a posse of clerics for the exorcism. Good luck talking your way out of that one. Tell her it's none of her business and move on.

Gwen will accept that, but it's better in the long run to admit that you have no idea what's going on as soon as possible. You can't convincingly pretend to have a clue if she's following you around all day, but with her on your side you can at least put up a united front.

"I don't remember anything. Not just the last few days, anything. I don't remember where I live or how I got here. I don't even know my own name."

Gwen was not expecting this to be an easy or rewarding assignment, but this is farcical. Her partner is failing to meet some exceptionally low standards.

"That's nice," she says, mentally resigning herself to the task of solving the murder on her own.

She doesn't believe you. Why would someone with no memory of being a cop know anything about cop procedure? You're an obstinate drunkard who plays stupid games when confronted, she thinks. It's not as uncommon in the city watch as one might hope.

But how is she supposed to prove– nevermind, that's an easy one. The wand, still in her hand, comes to rest against the hollow of her own throat.

"Shalalalala. I don't remember anything from my life prior to waking up this morning."

What? This is such a bizarre problem to have. You can't just forget everything, that's even less possible than—

Gwen notices that her thoughts are chasing each others' tails and gives herself a mental shake. It's not literally impossible, merely improbable. Something bad has happened – step one is to figure out if there's anything they need to do urgently.

"Uh huh. I'm going to cast Detect Magic to check whether your memories have been suppressed by a spell."

"Is there a spell to make you lose all your memories?" That would be convenient, both as an explanation and for finding a solution.

She watches as Gwen performs the cantrip, her hands tracing rehearsed pathways in the air while she mutters under her breath. There's nothing visibly supernatural going on, but it sure does look like she's casting a spell.

"Spells of that kind," she says vaguely, after she finishes the incantation. "The duration doesn't match. Some occultists know how to erase a few hours of memory, but that's the longest span of induced memory loss that doesn't call for an exotic method."

Detect Magic is negative. No lingering magical auras of any kind.

No active effects, although Detect Magic only reaches a few minutes into the past. It can't rule out an instantaneous effect. Getting a second opinion from Greater Detect Magic would be ideal, except she doesn't have it prepared. She'll have to do that tomorrow.

"You're clean. Do you have a head injury?"