As the three of them walk inside, one after the other, Gwenhwyfar passes out of everyone else's field of view.

It is almost impossible to cast most spells without the person next to you noticing what you're doing. Most spells involve mystical chanting and bizarre gesticulation, even for spellcasters who have the knack for casting without material components. Metamagic can circumvent this problem, but only at the cost of occupying higher-level spell slots, a price rarely worth paying when spell slots are at a premium.

Gwen does not have any Silent Stilled spells prepared. What she has is Auditory Hallucination, a spell that does exactly what it sounds like it does. Auditory Hallucination has no mystical chanting, and little enough bizarre gesticulation that it can be cast covertly.

She targets the cleric. They typically have strong Will, but whether he believes or disbelieves the illusion is irrelevant. She's not planning to be subtle.

PLEASE TRY NOT TO REACT. MY NAME IS LIEUTENANT GWEN. I AM THE SHORTER ONE. MY PARTNER HAS BEEN BEHAVING ERRATICALLY SINCE THIS MORNING, AND CLAIMS UNDER TRUTH MAGIC TO HAVE LOST ALL OF HER MEMORIES. SHE HAS BEEN IN ESCADAR FOR AT LEAST THREE DAYS AND CANNOT ACCOUNT FOR HER WHEREABOUTS OR ACTIONS DURING THIS TIME. IF YOU HAVE PROTECTION FROM EVIL PREPARED, MAKE A COMMENT ABOUT THE WEATHER.

There's a mirror mounted to the wall of the foyer, angled towards the door. It's hard not to get a good look at herself on the way in.

She's… seen better days? No, that's sugarcoating it. She's a botched taxidermy job with fluff leaking through the stitches. Diseased, intemperate, bloated. Even the minuscule imperfections smoothed away by positive energy are conspicuous in their absence.

Her face is doing something that does not correspond to a normal emotion. She tries to adjust it. Fails.

"How'd you know to come here for healing?" the cleric asks.

"Divine revelation."

She tugs fruitlessly on a tangled knot of hair hanging over her shoulder. Her hair, at least, is redeemable. Five minutes with a brush and she'll be able to masquerade as presentable to anyone standing behind her.

"Is that what the kids call it these days? Hmmph."

Merlus fetches a tinderbox and a carton of tea from his pantry. Once the fireplace in his kitchen is lit, he empties a jug of water into a kettle and hangs it from the trammel, talking all the while.

"You two must be provosts. Like I said, I don't imagine I know much about this business that you haven't heard already."

She should probably give this man her full attention instead of playing with her hair, but she's almost got it… just about… perfect. All she needs is a ribbon to tie it back.

"Absalom city watch, and it never hurts to get a fresh perspective from a local."

Gwen shows him her commission. The biographical information on it is sparse – name, rank, species, service number – but below the enumerated powers of officers of the Eagle Garrison is Gwen's Arcane Mark and the Primarch's signature. While any competent rogue could forge that signature with their eyes closed, the penalty for doing so is stiff. She doesn't really expect to be challenged on this one.

He's seen these before. It's either legitimate or a polished hoax with an unfathomable purpose.

"Long arm of the law had to reach a bit further than usual," he muses, making eye contact with Lieutenant Gwen. "Safe travels over the channel, I hope? We've had calm weather for weeks. Overdue for a storm, I reckon."

"I enjoyed the journey. It gave me time to catch up on my correspondence."

IF YOU HAVE ANY OTHER AVAILABLE SPELLS OR TECHNIQUES FOR ENDING COMPULSIONS OR POSSESSIONS, CONTINUE DISCUSSING THE WEATHER WITH ME. OTHERWISE, CHANGE THE TOPIC.

"I made it in one piece, and that's what counts." This is only a blatant lie if you squint at it.

"Lying to a cleric now, are we? I seem to recall you saying you 'still can't remember anything' just a moment ago. That could be a sickness or a curse, festering in your nob. Best to pull it out by the roots – quickly, while you still can."

He's frustrated, or maybe distracted. Men with circumscribed power chafe under the constraints of what they cannot do, and he… thinks you've overestimated him, and that you now believe you're fine? No, that's not it. What's bothering him?

Your metaphysical vitality-meter is full to the brim, but metaphysical vitality-meters don't reflect status conditions. You need stronger medicine.

He would have offered that if he could. Ask him about other clerics in the city, preferably ones who serve Shelyn or Sarenrae. You may need their charity.

"Where would I go to find a gardener? I understand the appeal of verdure, nothing wrong with an au naturel look, but if I let the weeds grow out of control the neighbors will start to think I'm – I've lost track of the metaphor, sorry. Who does the curse-removal around these parts?"

I DON'T UNDERSTAND IT EITHER. I THINK SHE'S JUST LIKE THAT. DON'T OFFER TO CAST PROTECTION FROM EVIL UNTIL THE TEA IS SERVED.

"High priest Biel Mas or Archbanker Sekhemty. Make friends with some adventurers, if you're desperate. Talk to Prelate Valdemar, if you're really desperate."

"That's an awfully short list for a city of this size."

"Powerful clerics don't get where they are by cooling their heels. You want a list of sailors on shore leave, ask Valdemar. Or don't, because he's a prickly bastard on a good day."

"And what about you? Hung up your vestments and retired before you reached those lofty heights?"

"Reaching third circle was never in the cards for me. Milani chose me when I was already past my prime – She needed a fighter, not a priest, though these days I'm more of the latter than the former."

Of all the rotten luck – it would be a stretch to describe Milani as the goddess of Not Cooperating With Police, but that sure is Gwen's primary point of reference for Her. She's not going to count on him being helpful as soon as they're out of the frying pan.

"That sounds like quite the tale. How'd you come to Her attention?"

"It was fifteen years ago, or thereabouts. Cheliax hadn't joined the war yet, is the important part. I was doing some work for a merchant in Kintargo, clearing out some unwelcome gentlemen who'd taken up residence on the toll roads in the North Plains, and when the dust settled my employer said I'd have to wait for gold, 'less I wanted to be paid in kind. Ha, nothing doing! What would I do with a wagonload of spices? So I spent the night in Jarvis End with a, hmm, friend offering lodgings, and I was still there when the warships came in. I woke up the next morning to a Mage's Decree, which informed me that the duke and the fleet admiral had come to an agreement. 'Damn', I thought, 'if only I had taken the spice!'"

He chuckles. "I knew a little about the war, and capturing Kintargo didn't make much sense to me. Like I said, Cheliax still had its head buried in the sand, and Kintargo was a foreign shipyard far from the theater, not a stronghold. Well, it had one thing the Runelords wanted: bodies. They didn't even bother with a census, just started rounding up anyone that wouldn't be missed. Not a figure of speech; we only found out a few days later, when the first ships left for Thassilon and they started hounding people who would be missed. After receiving a visit myself, I decided to perform my civic duty and meet with everyone who'd done the honorable thing by resigning from the watch – no offense to present company – and it was a good thing too, because reinforcements from Nisroch weren't keen on striking out until they had all their ducks in a row."

Merlus spreads his hands to frame the scene. "We have two dozen armored men, hiding in a Private Sanctum. The ex-dottari are arguing with the paladins, the Alabaster wizards are arguing with the elves, and all the clerics in the room are whining about all the clerics who aren't in the room. It's a good way to accomplish fuck-all, and that's the course we were on. So I got everyone's attention and offered a few words on revolutionary values: strategic goals, chain of command, everything they harp on about in officer school. What's good for the goose is good for the gander, I figure. Someone butts in to ask who died and put me in charge, I say 'Milani', as is tradition, and then She decides to weigh in Herself. That's the long and the short of it."