Hmm.

Earlier today, he instinctively released a Chromatic Orb spell whilst fighting street thugs, but since he had not prepared one, nothing happened. And the reason it was instinctual to do so was because in past incarnations he has habitually prepared and cast that particular spell, in similar vein to how his fingers are supposed to (judging by the message on his tattoo) remember how to open his locked journal.

Visualization exercise: Imagine you have a spellbook before you. You open to a blank page. You have an entire apothecary catalog's worth of components neatly set out in jars, and you have all the inks that you could desire. You dip your pen into the prepared ink, you bring it to the page, and - what do you do?

Playing that out in his mind, he is at a total loss as to what runes or shapes he would draw.

Yeah. That’s more or less what he expected.

It’s another instance of carefully proscribed knowledge, like the forgetting of names.

The scars of precise scalpel strokes can be felt indirectly all throughout his cognition, now that he is becoming better at inferring them. He remembers the gesture to release the Chromatic Orb spell, but not how to prepare it. He remembers the governor’s mansion at Maha Bluff, crossing the foyer with the balcony and the two-fold grand staircase all done up in neat crimson, but he does not remember the governor’s name, nor his face.

And how would one even begin to attempt such an ambitious work of mental excision? The whole premise is absurd. How many names and faces might a clever and well traveled man have readily available within his mind? Five hundred? A thousand? Imagine commissioning a surgeon to re-arrange all of a patient’s blood veins such that they spelled out words on his limbs but did not otherwise hamper his flow of blood. 

Only that analogy seems to understate how difficult the task would be.

Whoever architected his amnesia eschewed much cheaper and more direct attacks in order to do something very, very intricate. They wanted him precisely as he is, whole and fluent and energetic and deadly, but without the support of any friends or allies, and also deprived of the ability to prepare his most important weapons.

His breathing catches.

He has to effortfully pull himself back from the brink, lest he, for the second time today, begin to doubt the very nature of external reality and his relation to it. For the sheer volume of antagonistic power that now seems leveled at him permits of acts on the order of faking Sigil itself, of populating it with polymorphed demons, and staking him in their midst to be tormented in a grand pageant of bear-baiting.

He continues ruminating on the puzzle, awaiting any chance new insights, as he moves towards the Mortuary.

Leaving Flint Court, he again enters territory that is more squalid.  The density of structures remains the same, but their quality and the volume of foot traffic diminish.  Also, the number of young men openly sizing him up has increased.

After some time though, by merely keeping to the larger and busier streets, he comes without incident to a plaza adjacent to the giant stone edifice of the dustmen’s Mortuary hall.

He passes two dustmen walking the other direction, but neither seems to recognize him.

He eventually reaches the tea house and, shortly thereafter, the place behind the barrels where he left Morte.

The skull is nowhere to be seen.

Are the dustman’s cloak and rag still lying where he left them? Are they visibly disturbed?

Yes and no.

How’s the light? What time of day is it?

It is late afternoon.  The light of peak has not yet diminished noticeably.

Then he has a window to search for Morte.

He’ll have to leave himself some time to find accommodations, especially if the local inns have curfews and lock their doors. Presumably the whorehouse district to the south will have no shortage of short-term lodging choices available at all hours, though they might run dear.

He’ll start by searching outdoors in the area around the alley… one hundred yards radius. Does he see Morte anywhere out among the public?

No.

Okay then.

If he gives an hour to the search, he judges he’ll be able to explore the neighborhood quite thoroughly. Beginning with the buildings directly on either side of the alley, he will briefly enter any structures that appear to be open to the public and look about. Does he find Morte?

The structures here mostly have shared elevated wooden frontages or balconies, and they seem to lean backwards from the streets, which are muddy and unkempt.

Most of the shops are not particularly inviting.  The facade of one of the nicer ones he passes has a sign printed with the image of the Queen of Clovers playing card, with two words neatly stenciled below:

The outer door is a kind of iron gate contrived to descend from the ceiling, and behind it is a set of decorative wooden doors in the batwing style.  The entrance passage makes two swift turns before opening up to a long and narrow interior.

There is a small stage in the back corner with a pianoforte pushed off to the side, and on it stands a colorless looking young man loudly declaiming poetical verse.

Morte is positioned between two gray beards at the bar, evidently at ease.  Excepting the performing youth, the atmosphere of the alehouse is languid and jovial. However, the unhappy man seems to be getting tripped up on his lines, and the patrons, all male and without a youthful countenance among them, alternate between shouts of encouragement and merciless jeers of contempt.

Morte turns to face The Nameless One as he approaches.

“Sigil is a more frustrating place than I recalled.”

“I could'a told you that, chief.”

Then, in a softer voice.  “You remember who you are?”

“No hope of that, I think. And my trip doesn't have much to show for it. Though I have seen some solid proof that I am, in truth, being hunted.

I could begin to search for Pharod, only now that doesn't seem quite right. It's probably better I slow down and think for this evening.”

Morte lifts his chin slightly towards the battle axe showing over The Nameless One’s shoulder.

“New headsplitter at least.”

“New sights, new sounds, new kit, new enemies,” he says, adding a bit more weariness than he really feels.

“But you've been true to your word, and I honor you that. Thank you.”

He studies Morte for a few beats. The mimir uses some vivid language and gestures, but when he returns to stillness, he gives off about as much personality as an obelisk.

“Stand with me apart here.” He withdraws some paces from the drunks seated beside Morte.

The young man solemnly intones:

[…]
Dispensing prologue of suit and bargain
With each side’s prefer - preferrment the lightning stroke

One of Morte's drinking companions promptly stands up and shouts:

“With each side’s prefer-”  He makes a loud hiccuping sound.  “Preferrment”

There’s a roar of laughter and the graybeard sits back down, almost missing his seat.

“So, what’s eating you?”

“Nothing pressing. We may stay for the poet if you like.”

He pauses. “As we have a moment, I would hear more of your own aims, if I may. Supposing you were freed of your commitment to me and granted one hundred pounds of gold, what would you do with your time?”