Ostensibly this is a reconnaissance mission, but it's the sort of reconnaissance mission that might easily turn into more than that if the opportunity arises; they made sure to pack the supplies they'll need if it does. The shop will almost certainly be guarded, of course, as much to make absolutely sure its workers won't try to steal the ink as to actually prevent sabotage, but the gates of the town were also guarded and here he is. (Admittedly, it's a lot easier to prevent someone from flying invisibly into a shop than to prevent them from flying invisibly over the town walls.)

Either way, though, they'll need to be careful. The work is always dangerous, but this town is going to have much less of the forest-beast sorts of dangers and much more of the Asmodean sort.

And so it happens that a perfectly ordinary flock of perfectly ordinary birds is sitting on the roof of a bakery, just across the street from a somewhat-less-ordinary piecemeal scroll shop, watching as its workers enter for the day.

The shop seems to have only one employee at the moment, although there's desk space for three or four as far as the thrush can see through the decoratively but sturdily grilled window.  Aside from the owner and his wife, who'll turn up later in the morning, and a halfling sweeping the tiny customer-facing front room but more than likely not involved in the scriptorium, the only person it sees enter is a yawning youngish woman, average height with a slight unevenness to her gait, moving like she's sensibly cautious of predators but knows she could spot them and take off before they spotted her.

One of the birds flicks his wings.

His friend asked him to count the people here unless something interrupts him, and to wait for a couple hours to make sure he gets all of them, and he intends to Do A Good Job.

The small person comes out the front and dumps a little sparkly stuff out of a dustpan into the gutter, then goes back inside.

A young man who smells of currants ducks out from the building the thrush is sitting on and hangs around the side door of the Important Building for a little while, until an old man sticks his head out the bakery door and yells something, and he hurries back. (Neither of them drop any crumbs.)

And finally, just as it's almost been a couple hours, there's two more people at once:  a short man in between the two bakery men in age and rounder than either, wearing a very sparkly hat, and a tall thin woman also of middling age, wearing long clothes that make a swooshing sound as she walks.  

Assuming the thrush can count to five, he's done such a good job!

Eventually the perfectly ordinary flock of perfectly ordinary birds takes off.

One of them flies by a couple other locations of potential interest—

—and eventually lands on the windowsill of a private room at an inn.

When the day's work concludes, there's a man who almost looks human leaning against one of the side walls of the bakery, eating a meat pastry and watching the street traffic with the vague disinterest of someone who's mostly trying to make sure he isn't pickpocketed before he finishes his dinner.

The younger woman is the first to leave; she looks maybe in her mid-twenties, hair swept carelessly into a knot at the back of her head, wearing old uniform trousers and a made-over red jacket.  She glances directly at the bakery as she lets herself out, but the guy with the meat pastry evidently isn't who she was looking for; her gaze skips over him as she heads briskly down the street and disappears into the greengrocer's three doors down. 

The proprietor and his wife leave by the front door maybe half an hour later, him looking smug and self-important, her pinched and annoyed.  The halfling evidently sleeps somewhere in the shop, and is joined by a burly and bored-looking night watchman, maybe quarter-orc, just before full dark sets in.

(A perfectly ordinary thrush takes off from the roof of a nearby building a few moments later and wings its way across the sky, in the same general direction as the proprietor and his wife. Presumably it's returning to its nest to roost.)

He is much better than his avian friend at concealing how he feels about the presumable-slave; to external appearances, he cares no more about this than about any other feature of the situation beyond his pastry.

The plan for tomorrow is to allocate his spell slots to divinations targeted at the shop's worker; tonight he finds an abandoned alleyway, turns invisible, and looks over the inside of the shop with a Clairvoyance for mundanely obvious features, before returning to his inn. He'll be back tomorrow under a different face.

The front room is as elegantly appointed as any modiste's or watchmaker's shop, with comfortable furniture where clients can have the merchandise brought out for their approval rather than piles of dry goods on shelves behind the counter.  The night watchman is reading on a tall stool where he'd have a good angle on anyone coming in the side door or breaking the window before they saw him, and if an observer happens to be watching at the right moment, rolls dice on the hour bells.

The side door opens onto a little hall that appears to double as a pantry and eating nook (no fireplaces at all in this building, it must have been built for purpose), with a staircase up to the scriptorium at the other end.  The halfling is curled up sound asleep under the stairs, but seems to at least have slightly more in the way of blankets and personal possessions than average?

The back room has no windows at all, glazed and barred or no, and contains rows of locking cabinets; magical signatures aren't visible over Clairvoyance but presumably they have whatever protections a fourth-circle conjurer who's almost but not quite the biggest fish in the pond would think necessary. 

The scriptorium is upstairs under the wide eaves, with the large glass window that the thrush saw facing the street and another with identical grillwork on the opposite wall, to catch both morning and afternoon light.  There's another cabinet with a multitude of tiny individually locking drawers which must be for the inks, a larger unlocked cupboard, and four writing desks.  Two are just slightly dusty (and one of them has given up its chair to the first floor hall), one is neat but more recently used, and one is a bit untidy- scroll weights left out and just pushed to the side, along with a mirror-glass doodad for focusing a Light on a specific part of the work and a couple of pen ends.

He sketches the layout, and takes stock mentally of which details he wants to add to his written notes later.

(He is, separately, planning for how to counteract their precautions. If the night watchman is really the only guard, it shouldn't be too much of a challenge to silence him before he can raise an alarm. But that still leaves any magical precautions operative, and a scroll shop is hardly going to be short of wizards...)

:...and apparently the owner's been complaining about one of his senior employees using some sort of loophole to leave for the Worldwound.:

:Wow, he sounds like a terrible boss.:

:Thank you, that's good to know. I don't think that changes the plan for tomorrow, does anyone disagree—:

Headshakes all around.

In the morning, there's a completely different woman inspecting a basket full of apples for blemishes and occasionally muttering something under her breath.

And here's the shop's one wizard employee, at around the same time as yesterday but walking a bit faster and finishing up some bread and cheese as she goes.

She sets down an apple, muttering something under her breath in a tone of mild displeasure, and reaches for something in her bag.

The classic divinations are classic for a reason, but it's also helpful to be able to pick up information your target isn't expecting you to be able to gather. Lucio traded this spell from a researcher at Almas University who warned him that for whatever reason most people can't pick it up no matter how good they are at math; he'd been one of the lucky ones. This one lets the caster get a look at what spells the target has prepared — not all of them, not unless they're a fairly low-circle caster, but still enough to have some use.

He pinches a silver disc between his fingers and waits for her to pass by close enough for him to land the spell. Spell Gauge.

She's distracted, and slept poorly, and isn't expecting trouble in a city street on her way to work.  

The spell lands.

Infernal Healing

Mount

Cure Light Wounds

Comprehend Languages 

Floating Disk

Detect Thoughts 

Cure Light Wounds is not a wizard spell.

Lucio has spent years as an adventuring wizard, meeting Eagle Knights with all sorts of strange magical tricks and hearing stories of adventurers in far-off lands with even stranger ones. Arcane Cure spells aren't impossible in principle; he knows a song-sorcerer who can cast them, and he's heard tales of northern witches doing the same. But he's never heard a story he trusts of a wizard being able to prepare it, not without dabbling in something else.

So, how did she do it?

Maybe someone in Cheliax somehow figured out how to do what wizards have been trying unsuccessfully to do for thousands of years and stabilized it as a wizard spell. He doesn't really think so; it's not that Cheliax's wizards have never made novel discoveries, but they really make fewer than you'd expect, and Lucio doesn't actually think the supposed 'discovery' is possible in principle.

Maybe she's dabbled in one of the many obscure magical traditions, arcane or otherwise, that can cast Cure spells. It doesn't seem likely, this isn't the kind of shop you'd expect to find someone like that working at, but it's not impossible.

Maybe she's a cleric. Not an Asmodean cleric — even setting aside the wizard spells she has prepared, it's obvious from her clothes, her bearing, her general demeanor that she's nothing of the sort — but something less licit. In most other countries it would be the obvious guess.