Piss off. I want to go back to the void.

You can no more go back than sand can run upwards to the top of the hourglass. The path of life is a one-way street, and U-turns are out of the question.

Here's another sensation for you. It's a smell. A familiar smell.

… is it a pleasant smell?

It is the smell of unmixed hard liquor and bodily fluids. It is extraordinarily noxious.

Why are you doing this to me? Haven't I suffered enough?

Aaaaaand there's the headache. The mining prospectors must have found a particularly rich vein just behind your eye sockets, what with all the hammers and pickaxes swinging around in there.

She's in a bedroom. Probably. Typically one sleeps on the bed in a bedroom, which invites the question of why she is prostrated on the disgusting hardwood floor instead of something more comfortable, such as the jumble of destroyed things in the corner, or the pile of ruined goose down beneath the shuttered window. There are a plethora of questionable stains on virtually every surface in this room, including her bare skin. The volume of damaged detritus is too great to catalog all of it from where she is, but the items nearest her on the ground are a discarded red blazer and an empty bottle.

A potential source of questionable stains.

The quantity and variety of stains suggest multiple sources.

She gets up unsteadily, resting on her knees until she feels capable of standing without swaying. It takes a little longer than she'd like.

A lot longer.

Standing up takes a good four and a half minutes. The important part is the destination, not the journey.

Her future sprawls before her like the ink-smudged blank sections on the edges of the map. A map made by a really shoddy cartographer, one who didn't even bother to spice up the unsurveyed regions with paper towns or declarations of HIC SVNT DRACONES. Countless potential pathways are open to exploration – probably best to head down the ones that don't feature public nudity. Just as well, because the door is locked and nobody is getting anywhere until that little hiccough is smoothed over.

The blazer sits innocently on the floor, saying nothing. The wool is mostly unblemished, despite its apocalyptic surroundings, and it's the right size for a certain someone.

There might be other articles of clothing that fit you in here! Check the jumble of destroyed things in the corner.

There are a lot of unrecognizable fragments of things buried in that pile of splinters and shredded fabric, but there is also a pair of trousers. They're tight around the hips and come up three inches short above her ankles, but they match the blazer and are undeniably stylish. In the back pocket is a large metal key with a tag tied to the bow: Room №1.

That's it. No boots, no garments, nothing. Whatever comes next, she's facing it barefoot.

You have a key, and you're trapped in a room with a single locked entrance. You are hereby absolved of your sacred duty to kick down the door.

The bedroom is sealed no more. Escape! What kind of dungeon is this, anyways?

It's the mezzanine of an inn. Early morning sunlight streams in from a nearby open window, illuminating the halo of cigarette smoke around the balcony's only other occupant. Below the railing are the long wooden dining tables of the inn's tavern, quiet save for the sounds of intermittent footsteps.

A solar dungeon! Radiant damage, direct hit to the retina!

She reels from the blow, but rallies before she can lose her nerve entirely. As tempting as it is to go right back into the bedroom and lie down in the darkness again, her internal clock has been firmly set to 'day'. The next reprieve from life is sixteen hours away.

"Good morning, officer."

The smoker is a diminutive woman, leaning precariously over the railing. She is both pretty and fully-clothed, which means she's probably doing better than you on the other fronts as well. A trail of ashes drifts from the tip of her cigarette into the tavern below.

What a strange comment. There's no one else up here, which means…

"Officer? Am I a soldier?"

"… no."

"Then why call me that?"

"Because you're a law enforcement officer?"

She sounds unsure, like she expects this to be a trick question.

A law enforcement officer?

'Cop' does not match with her current internal zeitgeist (this is more of a 'dead rodent lying in the gutter' period), which makes that a dubious assertion. Being in the city watch doesn't feel more true than any other profession, although there's a certain amount of external evidence pointing towards 'destitute vagabond'.

"You're sure about that?"

"I suppose you could've been spinning an elaborate yarn for the past three days."

"That sounds unlikely," she says. "So, supposing that was all true, what sort of cop business have I been on for the last three days?"

"I really couldn't say. From what I've seen, mostly drinking."

She takes a heavy drag from the dying cigarette, burning it down to embers between her fingertips. Then she turns away, heading back to her room.

Something stirs in you as she's about to leave. The need to interrogate, to dig deeper, to find the intersection between her warp and your weft. This is an opportunity to get your bearings, which you desperately need right now, and you've got to seize it with both hands before it disappears.

You're a cop. Start asking questions.

"Wait. The room you're staying in is close to mine. Did you hear anything last night?"

She stops.

"Apart from the crickets, you mean? Music, for an hour or two. Singing. Crying. Loud impacts."

"What kind of music?"

"Lamentations, officer. These walls were too thick to hear all the lyrics, but the words to every sad song are the same no matter which one you're singing: heartbreak, futility, loneliness."

She pauses to lick the cigarette butt, extinguishing it with her tongue.

"Then you started hammering on the floor and breaking the furniture. The frame of the bed, I think, and perhaps the window too. It was quite loud. Someone outside on the street asked you to stop, though not in so many words, and you screamed that you were trying to but did not know how. There was a great deal of cursing after that, followed by more property damage. I listened to you weeping as I fell asleep."

This woman is unperturbed as she describes your recent nervous breakdown in lurid detail. Her body language shows genuine interest now; the way she pauses between sentences suggests she's taking her time to review the memories and phrase them just right. She's not just making eye contact – she's watching you, observing your reaction.

A quick word from your libido: she is your type, insofar as you have one, and she's clearly into you. Start setting up for the pass. You'll thank me later.

What? No. Do not even attempt to sleep with someone who finds your suffering entertaining.

Change the tenor from probing to flirtatious. Use her interest to keep her talking.

"Did my performance do it for you last night?"

She grins unabashedly.

"It was a nice change of pace. Every evening the usual crowd gets sloshed and wanders around the plaza, picking the same fights and singing the same songs about drinking and wenching. I had almost forgotten that drinking and wenching could have consequences."

"I take it I'm not part of the usual crowd?"

"Hardly. There's no city watch to speak of out here, only the provosts, and they're not exactly spendthrift drunks themselves. Something spectacular must have happened for them to ship you all the way out to Escadar."

The hair on the back of your neck rises. A cold wind blows across the sea, swirling through the reeds in the shallow water, carrying whispers from distant shores.

You're a long way from home, stranger. How did you get here?

That was a weird question and a weird reaction. She thinks you're weird now. If you want to salvage this you need to end the conversation on a high note and move on.

"Spectacular is my middle name. Have a nice day, miss."

That was smooth, right?

"Take care of yourself, officer."

The smoker waves goodbye and departs for Room №3.

She ambles down the stairs, going slowly to avoid aggravating anything. Her guts aren't quite in open rebellion just yet, but they've started delivering threatening ultimatums to the local barons and forging surplus farm equipment, the kind with sharp bits that double as weaponry in a pinch. Appeasement is the order of the day.

Having escaped the bedroom and surmounted the descent, you have now reached the tavern. It has certain distinctive elements, but they're distinct in the manner of snowflakes and fingerprints – you've seen too many taverns to find meaning in the details of this one. The scratches on the table surfaces and grooves worn in the floor tell a story that you have neither the time nor the inclination to read.

The young woman standing near the entrance is waiting for you. The barkeep notices your arrival but seems determined to ignore you.

It's a bit disturbing that taverns are so familiar, especially since no other taverns are coming to mind for comparison. At least there's an obvious next course of action.

The barkeep continues to ignore her, even though she is now standing directly in front of him and looking contemplatively at the row of uncorked bottles in the well. A true professional, he is fully absorbed in his work, heedless of potential customers.

What are you waiting for, your preferred drink order? You know what, that's fair. It's gin served neat, most of the time, but if you're looking for a pick-me-up I suggest one part single-malt to one part mineral water – stirred, not shaken. We'll have you feeling right as rain in no time.

The barrier to inebriation is insolvency, a fact which only occurred to her after it was too late to pretend she was doing anything other than buying a drink ten minutes after waking up. The hair of the dog that bit her will have to wait until she has enough pocket change to afford it.

The barkeep is working to repair a placard, the kind that's normally mounted on a wall. The visible portion says 'TO EACH OTHER'; the rest is obscured behind the bar.

"Hey there…"

She leans over a bit further, trying to get a better look at the placard while maintaining plausible deniability. It doesn't quite work out.

"I hear there's been some chicanery around these parts. Something that requires the attention of a cop, even. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

His apparent indifference towards you is a clever ruse. In reality he is acutely aware of your presence, and wants you to go away.

She can take a hint – but two hints would be even better.

"Before I leave, can I get directions to the—"

"Ask your partner," he says curtly.

Oh good, this isn't going to be a solo gig. Time to meet the person heading up this investigation! The mystery of the broken sign can wait.

The woman waiting for her isn't any taller than the smoker from the mezzanine, though she looks young enough to be adolescent rather than short. A heavy black cloak with the hood up hides most of her body from view; her only obvious accessory is a steel gorget etched with a winged eyeball.

Less obvious: a low-profile tiara, just barely visible beneath her hair and the hood, and a pair of bejeweled rings on two fingers of her left hand.

She's armed, no question about it. The weapon isn't bulky enough to show an outline through her cloak, and she's on the scrawny side for a cop. Think finesse rather than brute strength.

She extends her hand. "My name is Gwen. Lieutenant, First Guard. You must be from Starwatch…"

She's waiting for a name. Presumably one exists, but if so it's missing in action. Awkward.

This is your chance to reinvent yourself. Your name is the first face you present to the world, your herald in matters of paperwork and shouting across back alleys while chasing suspects, the psychic resonance that links your noumenon to the collective conscience. Deploy your creative streak! Make sure to use plenty of glottal stops and diphthongs.

Wait, wait, wait. These things take time. You don't know the first thing about yourself yet. How can you sculpt a masterpiece if you don't understand the medium you're working in?

Also you're hungry and hungover. Don't go creating art while you're discontent, it'll turn into a reflection of some transient mood rather than your true self. Wait until after breakfast before you experiment with something as fundamental as your identity.

This calls for a non-answer. Firm handshake, serious expression.

"So, it has come to this. You. Me. This moment."

"Ideally this moment would have come earlier. There have been too many delays in this case already… do you not have your uniform?"

"I am an officer of the law. This is my uniform, because I am wearing it."

The blazer is doing its job as best it can, but it can only protect her modesty so far without a shirt underneath.

"As you say. Have you scheduled the initial interviews?"

You need to phrase this diplomatically. Try not to ruin your working relationship with Gwen in the first eighteen seconds.

"This will be much more efficient if you assume I've done nothing productive prior to right this second."

Good effort.

"Then we should get to work quickly. This murder is already several days old – we need to inspect the crime scene before the trail grows any colder. It also wouldn't hurt to inform the provosts that the city watch has arrived. By your leave."

Lieutenant Gwen has joined your party! As the junior officer on the beat she will defer to you unless you've opted to do something particularly egregious. With great responsibility comes great power – don't let it turn your head.

Oh no, she's in charge? This cannot possibly end well.

"Is something wrong?" Gwen asks, after a prolonged silence.

"It can wait. We should…"

She looks around. Two heroes meet in a tavern, check, they receive a quest, check, but it's too early for a mysterious stranger or politically-charged barroom brawl to provide any context.

"We should talk to the barkeep, see what he knows," she decides. It even sounds like a good idea after she says it out loud.

The alcoholic inquisitor is coming back. He's not any happier about her now than he was the first time, but at least she brought someone else with her.

"How can I help you?" he asks, addressing the one with the demonstrated ability to wait quietly.

She produces a document from beneath her cloak and unfurls it over a dry section of the bar.

"Lieutenant Gwenhwyfar, First Guard. This is my colleague…"

She trails off expectantly once more.

"From the Caydenite Inquisition, yes, I know," the barkeep says, scanning the document briefly.

The what?

Gwen thinks she's part of something called Starwatch. This guy thinks she's part of something called the Caydenite Inquisition. Are those the same thing by different names? Are they different organizations, with her working for both? Is she a double agent?

"I see." Gwen considers this for a moment. "We need to ask you a few questions pertaining to the murder, and it would be ideal to get your statement under truth magic. Will you consent?"

"Let's get this over with," he says through gritted teeth.

"Do you have Tell or Zone?" she asks her partner.

This is the kind of pointlessly cryptic jargon she absolutely does not need right now. Regardless, the only things she has that Gwen can't see are her room key and a hangover.

"No."

Wrong answer. Whatever 'Tell or Zone' means, Gwen thinks you not having it is deeply improbable.

That doesn't make sense. Abadar's Truthtelling and Zone of Truth are almost indispensable for detective work (Interrogation also has its uses, but non-Evil inquisitors tend to avoid learning it). Fortunately, she has an alternative.

"Wand of Abadar's Truthtelling, command word is 'Shalalalala'," she says, handing over the item in question.

"Oh?"

It's a wooden stick. A long, smooth stick covered in indecipherable runes, but it's definitely a stick. She could snap it in half without even really trying.

"We didn't pick the command words," she says defensively. "The purchase order specified something short, memorable, and impossible to say by accident."

This is the opposite of how command words are normally chosen, but cops need their tools to be as interchangeable as possible more than they need to deter theft. Forcing them to memorize puns in dead languages is counterproductive.

But what is she supposed to do with it?

Abadar's Truthtelling is a first-circle divine spell. Touch range, single target. If the target's will is overpowered by the spell, they become temporarily incapable of telling deliberate and intentional lies.

This is a stick. It'll be more useful with the end sharpened to a point. You are not a cleric.

Wait, how sure are we about that? Maybe you've forgotten your clerichood! Quick, try to cast Delay Pain and see if it cures the dead rodent feeling.

'Praying to Cayden Cailean' is a euphemism for several things you're good at, but you haven't even been awake long enough for an hour of supplication to the beer god.

I hate to be the bearer of good news, but you don't need to understand spellcraft to use a wand. Abadar's Truthtelling is already in there, quiescent until the magic word passes your lips. It will come when you call.

The wand will only answer to a priest, which is why you're going to be a divinely empowered holy woman for the next twelve seconds. Focus on the thread of celestial light you may or may not have in your soul. Really feel it, like you have an invisible best friend standing next to you being judgemental and supportive at the same time. As far as the wand is concerned, your day job is channeling positive energy seven times a day. Got it?

This is easier to do than she expected. Maybe she has practice.

Good, you're almost there. Now repeat after me: I am a cleric.

I am a cleric.

It must be spoken aloud, my liege. 'I am a cleric. I play a supporting role in every escapade that doesn't prominently feature the undead.'

This seems unnecessary. Why can't she just believe in herself? It's not as if the wand is listening to her. The wand doesn't even have ears.

If you were charged with evangelizing to this fallen world, sanctioned by a god, would you shy away from admitting it? No! Loud and proud: beer for the beer god, disco for the Elysian throne!

'I am the voice of God. I am the will of Heaven.'

'Longswords are for people who can't cast Spiritual Weapon.'

'Heavy armor would be ideal but Ironskin and Cure Light Wounds are acceptable consolation prizes.'

Steel rings against steel in the coliseum, on the battlefield, in the lonely wilderness as the storm howls and all nature joins in harmony. A thousand breeds of monster crawl beneath the earth, dead things returned to menace the living, advancing from the lightless places towards civilization. This is all you have. Will you spill blood to protect it?

'I am the most clerical cleric in all the clergy.' Say it. Say it because it's true.

"I am the most clerical cleric in all the clergy," she whispers.

"What the f—"

She jabs him with the wand and believes in herself as hard as she possibly can.

"SHALALALALA!"

It still looks and feels like an ordinary stick, but the illusion that flickers over his skin like a mirage tells a different story.

"Ouch."

And since Abadar's Truthtelling doesn't force him to go on, that's all he has to say about that.

Gwen maintains a neutral expression.

"Name and occupation?"

"Cordell Birdwhistle. I work mornings and afternoons at the Cannon's Jaws."

"Can you tell us—"

"Who is the murderer?" she interjects.

"How should I know? I'm not the detective; that's your job."

"Are you the murderer?"

"Are you mad? Of course I'm not."

"What was your relationship with the victim, Cordell?"

"No relationship. I only saw him here once before he died, and we didn't exchange words."

"A man shows up in your tavern, then a few days later that same man turns up dead. Very suspicious. Why did you kill him?"

"Do I have to answer her?" he asks Gwen. "Is this mandatory?"

"The spell's duration is limited," she says, in case he actually expects an answer.

Gwen is privately bewildered by her partner's questions, but she's the one with decades of experience using truth-magic. She'll have to ask for her reasoning later.

"I did not kill him, I do not know who killed him, and I do not appreciate this line of inquiry."

It's not looking good for her 'Cordell is the murderer' theory. The main thing it has going for it is her very, very short list of suspects. Perhaps Cordell can help by expanding it.

"Has anyone arrived in or left Escadar recently? Anyone who stood out to you as shady or potentially murderous?"

"I am the co-owner of an inn within walking distance of one of the Inner Sea's largest naval ports." You moron. "I don't know precisely how many sailors come and go, but the coming and going is hardly unusual."

"Is there anyone you've interacted with since, let's say two weeks before the murder, whom you believe has any connection with the deceased?"

Cordell attempts to respond with 'no' and finds he cannot.

"Only the two of you," he manages to say.

"Take a few seconds to think about it, then tell me anything you imagine might be useful to the investigation."

"You should pay a visit the Temple of Hormesis and ask them some questions," he says vehemently.

He didn't answer immediately, but it can't hurt to check.

"Did you spend that time considering what I might want to know?"

"I did, and I decided you might want to know about the cult of Norgorber operating next door. In case you missed it. Detective."

That's a better lead than she was expecting. In fairness, she may have known about it and forgotten already.

"Good to know. That concludes our business here, then. We'll come back if we have any further questions."

"Not quite, detective. You still owe one hundred and thirty gold measures. Sixty for your room, thirty for your tab, and forty for miscellaneous damages."

Abadar's Truthtelling is still active as he says this.

Net worth: −130 gp

Is this what having a heart attack feels like? There's something wound painfully tight in her chest, constricting her breathing like a python crushing her ribs between its coils. She takes a single breath with deliberation and tries to make it go away.

Good! That's good. Keep your face and your upper body relaxed, focus on your breathing, and let the tension flow out of you. You've got this.

130 gold measures? Even if her partner refused to pay for anything up front, that's an impressive bill.

"Do you have that itemized?" she asks, more out of genuine curiosity than anything else.

He does, in a guestbook that doubles as a ledger. The damages include furniture, structural elements of the building itself, and several pieces of equipment that a guest would have to try very hard to actually damage. The bar tab is an absolutely terrifying quantity of alcohol. The room fee…

That doesn't quite add up. The Cannon's Jaws charges fifteen measures a night? A palatial suite in the Petal District marketed to foreign adventurers could hardly cost more than eight.

"Do you normally charge fifteen measures a night?"

Cordell looks somewhat chagrined.

"No. We don't have a fixed rate, but my brother rarely charges more than three, even for guests that decline an advance payment."

Arrest him. This is ridiculous.

Not helpful.

"She was four times as expensive to quarter as the average merchant? Did she drink enough for four women as well?"

"That number matches the amount of missing gin."

Abadar's Truthtelling expires.

Gwen was not kidding about them being behind schedule. She would almost rather walk out now and let what's-her-name face the music on her own.

Actually, she's going to do just that. If she doesn't leave in the next minute, Gwen's going to leave her behind and examine the crime scene on her own.

Gods damn it.

"Can I settle up later?"

Why are you asking permission? Hit the bricks! He can't stop you.

"That's– where are you going?"

"Later!" she calls over her shoulder, following her partner out into the street.

It's a temperate spring morning. A tītī resting on a nearby tree calls in greeting to the half-risen sun, blocking out the noise of the city. The sun remains companionably silent.

The Cannon's Jaws is the second-to-last building on a street overlooking a drowned river valley, stretching from the Isle of Erran's hidden heartlands to the Inner Sea, with the city of Escadar built into the slopes of the estuary's hills. The buildings are indistinct, details shrouded in early-morning fog, but the maze of pinewood docks tiling the water is clear. The men at work in the harbor – sailors, stevedores, and merchants alike – go about their work like ants in a colony. Their work started long before the birds said hello to the sun.

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?"

"I don't think so."

She runs her fingers tentatively over the surface of her skull just in case, searching for anything that might've gone unnoticed.

The skin is unbroken, unwashed and slick. You're not currently bleeding from any open wounds, but there could still be an injury lurking below the surface. It's hard to sense what you have in your hair through touch alone – this would be more conclusive if you bathed first.

Surely you have not forgotten about the splitting headache plaguing your every waking moment. You don't need me to remind you of that, I trust? Good, just letting you know that the ongoing torment above your shoulders might be relevant.

That is a hangover, not a head injury. Between the state of your room and the testimony of that lady whose name you forgot to ask you can be pretty damn certain that you were drinking hard last night. Open and shut case.

Not necessarily. The headache fits both theories, but think of it this way: the empty bottle in your room and your past behavior are commonplace evidence of this being a hangover, but the total retrograde amnesia and the absence of a magical mindwipe are much stranger and therefore stronger evidence of brain damage.

Suppose you lost your balance and clipped your head after a fall. Or you drank until you couldn't defend yourself, then took a blow to the head from an assailant in your room late at night. Nothing says you can't have a hangover and brain damage at the same time.

Crap.

"I miiiiight have a head injury," she says sheepishly.

It is at this moment something even more worrying belatedly occurs to her.

"Was your equipment missing when you got up this morning? Your commission, weapons, handcuffs, tools, anything else you might have brought?"

"These are my weapons," she says solemnly, holding out her empty hands. "I'm missing everything else though, including some of my clothes. What's a commission?"

"It's the document that proves that you're in Starwatch. Look, the clock is still ticking on the murder case we came here for, but we need to find your gun as soon as possible. Is there any chance you might have lost it underneath something in your room?"

"None whatsoever."

Gwenhwyfar nods.

She has Locate Object prepared, for all the good it'll do. In a city like Escadar, locating a specific gun with magic would be like finding a needle in a haystack – a subsection of a haystack, not necessarily the one the needle's in. Even if her partner can somehow cast Locate Object herself, it won't work unless she can visualize the gun. Their best bet is for her to heal quickly and hopefully regain some of her recent memories.

The hope is vain if she's not actually suffering from a head injury, of course. Gwen knows that comprehensive mind-wipes are rare but not impossible. Are undetectable comprehensive mind-wipes possible? Probably not, but if you only wanted to pass some basic scrutiny…

You are no longer the party leader.

"We need to visit a temple and expose you to positive energy. If that doesn't work, clerics know more about medicine than I do. Do you have a preference– no, you don't. We'll use whichever one we get to first."

That's not a bad idea, especially if the brain damage theory has merit. There is a non-zero chance that internal bleeding is on the verge of punting her off the mortal coil. She's willing to put the case on hold until she's back in fighting shape.

"After you, lieutenant."

Escadar is a vertical city riddled with outdoor staircases, most of them quite steep. Navigating from one tier to another in a timely fashion is an exercise in checking every alley you pass and poking your head out to see whether the stairs there will take you where you want to go. If they're descending to sea level, where most of the city's temples are, it will take them a few minutes to find the fastest route down.

She has more than enough questions to fill the time. Gwen has never met her before and presumably can't tell her anything about herself, but underpinning that fact is one of the other absurdities regarding this whole situation.

"Why are two different city watch departments working together on a single murder case? For that matter, I don't think I even live in Escadar. What's going on here?"

This is not a conversation that Gwen wants to have. It will not make anyone look Lawful or righteous. Her partner's confusion is tragically reasonable, however, so she will do her best.

"Like everything else in Absalom, our august law enforcement bodies are engaged in an eternal pissing competition. There are ten district watches, which answer to the council of the district they patrol and have no authority outside it. Starwatch's charter grants it jurisdiction over the entire city of Absalom. You and your colleagues investigate interdistrict crimes, internal affairs, and criminals that district watches are not equipped to handle. The First Guard is Absalom's army and intelligence service, charged with defending Absalom from external threats. In the event of an invasion the First Commander is the general of Absalom's military, outranking the admirals and Spell Lords. During peacetime we're responsible for manning the gates, several euphemistic tasks that primarily amount to espionage, and hunting dangerous wildlife on the Isle of Kortos. Both Starwatch and the First Guard answer to the Grand Council rather than the Primarch, if you were wondering."

"It doesn't sound like Starwatch and the First Guard have any overlapping duties."

Gwen laughs bitterly.

"You'd think. After thousands of years, most of the conflicts have been obviated by tradition and decree. The First Guard patrols the interior of the Isle of Kortos, so it acts as law enforcement in settlements too small to have their own law enforcement – except for the villages adjacent to Absalom, which Starwatch patrols because their headquarters are outside the city in one such village. The First Guard is headquartered inside Azlanti Keep, which is large enough to count as a district of Absalom for some purposes, so we have an internal department of provosts that doubles as a sort of district watch, except Starwatch has jurisdiction everywhere inside Absalom including Azlanti Keep, which they have so far only made use of in emergencies but could theoretically abuse at any time. Starwatch is the sole legitimate law enforcement body within Precipice Quarter, which also has no official district watch, but sometimes it's hard to tell whether a particular problem in the Precipice Quarter is organized crime or a foreign adversary, so the First Guard maintains a presence there as well."

Gwen pauses to check whether the next alley has the staircase they're looking for. Not so.

"The district watch in the Docks is the Harbor Guard, which only has authority on land and in practice is mostly interested in fraudulent shipping manifests. Crimes committed underwater are supposed to be handled by the Wave Riders, but they rarely have the manpower to spare so that's often delegated to Starwatch, except Starwatch doesn't always have aquatic personnel, so the First Guard is frequently involved in patrols out of necessity. That's only underwater, mind you; crimes committed on ships that haven't berthed yet are the jurisdiction of the Harbormaster's Office, which doesn't employ any watchmen itself. The current Harbormaster delegates that job to Starwatch, but in the past that's been the First Guard, the Wave Riders, the Pilot's Guild, and sometimes nobody at all. The Warden's Office operates prisons with their own guards, but jails are run by Starwatch. There's one prison, Black Whale, that's run by the First Guard on paper but in practice is staffed not by the First Guard, not by Starwatch, not by the Warden's Office, but by members of every single district watch, despite being located half a mile offshore most of the time. Foreign dignitaries are protected by a detachment from Starwatch while visiting Absalom – apart from the monarch of Cheliax, who is protected by a detachment from the First Guard, and the Grand Prince of Taldor, who is allowed to bring their own guard into the city. There are many such asinine details in our line of work."

Another alley. This staircase looks promising, so Gwen takes it down to the next tier.

"Escadar ought to have its own city watch. It's the second-largest city on the archipelago, larger than Diobel, which has a watch. It does not. Nearly everything in Escadar revolves around the navy and the Wave Riders, including the watch. The Provost's Office is responsible for enforcing the law in Escadar. Unless," she growls, "they decline to do so, on the grounds that they don't think the victim or the perpetrator are affiliated with the military. Then it's someone else's problem. There is no tradition or decree here – both Starwatch and the First Guard have a reasonable claim to jurisdiction over Escadar's civilian population."

"That does not sound reasonable. That sounds completely insane."

"Then maybe you and I will get along after all."

"We've been sent to assert territorial claims," she surmises. "This isn't cop cooperation, it's a cop-off. Two cops enter, one cop leaves. The survivors of the copocalypse are the rightful cops of Escadar."

This elicits a half-smile.

"Perhaps. I suspect it's less a matter of who gets to police Escadar than who has to. Be that as it may, I assure you I did not come here to participate in a 'cop-off' against Starwatch. Our win condition is apprehending the responsible party – there are no bonus points for embarrassing ourselves in the process."

Gwen is more competitive than she lets on. She's interested in winning, but not against you. You are not her opponent.

Against the perpetrator? They've killed a person; they're not going to go quietly.

Against everyone. Cops have statistics, which is a kind of score if you squint at it, and if there are scores there are high scores. Whether it's cases closed or some other metric, Gwen is aiming for a leaderboard position.

That must be why Gwen was dispatched without backup. Everyone else was dissuaded by the political ramifications, and with someone coming from Starwatch she wasn't going to be stuck without help.

But then… why did she come here alone? And why does that question make her feel nervous?

The nearest temple is the converted residential building you're about to pass. Go left here, follow the stairs around the bend to get to the front door.

Right, and how is she going to explain this unaccountable intuition to Gwen without sounding like a lunatic?

You don't have unaccountable intuitions. Your intuitions are more accountable than a kid whose hand is trapped in a cookie jar. Nothing but valid arguments and sound conclusions. Raw facts harvested from the bounty of your sensorium, seasoned with delicious inferences and refined into a banquet of comprehension. Master of deduction, you know whereof you speak.

All of these flowers are roses, even the white ones.

The roses? Really? That's induction, not deduction. I withdraw my endorsement.

You're going to miss the turn if you keep overthinking it. Just go, and let Gwen follow you if she wants. She will.

"It's this way," she says, stepping awkwardly behind Gwen to get to the left side of the intersection.

"How— fine, if you say so," she mutters. No sense demanding an explanation for this yet; she may not even know the reason herself.

There's a reason all right, not that she feels competent to explain it. The best she can come up with is the garden's mere existence. None of the other greenery they've passed up until now has been intentionally cultivated. Are gardens rare enough that spotting one incidentally rises to the level of a clue? Is there a god of gardening? Why do the roses matter?

It was definitely a residential building at some point, which means finding the entrance isn't hard. She knocks.

After a long delay, the door is answered by an elderly man. He stoops with age; nothing about his attire shouts 'cleric'.

"Yes?" he says expectantly.

"I think I'm going to die. Can you fix that for me?"

"Everyone dies, kid. Anyone offering to fix that, you'd best stay away from them."

"No, I mean I'm potentially mortally wounded and need magical healing. Potentially wounded, not potentially in need of– I don't know exactly how much, but, if you imagined a lot of people kind of like me and tried to pick– can you please channel positive energy at me?"

"She claimed to have a serious head injury while under Abadar's Truthtelling less than five minutes ago," Gwen clarifies, though she couldn't sound any more bored by the situation if she tried.

Merlus Ragar does not advertise his ordainment. He's barely even a cleric, and the days when that mattered were long ago. Nevertheless, these two know something they shouldn't. One of the sad truths of this world is that the kind folks at your door are often up to no good, and that goes double when they're the strange sort.

Trouble is, he can't think of what their plan might be. Even the most convoluted fiendish plots rarely start with a sincere-sounding request for healing – sophisticated Evildoers have their own ways of recovering, and wouldn't go begging for help unless the need was dire. If they're trying to get him to waste his first channel of the day, if something depends on him being at full capacity… no, that kind of Asmodean madness is silly. Best to take them at their word for now. If they need setting straight, he can do that later.

Merlus plucks his holy symbol off the thin chain it hangs from, holds it in front of his heart, and channels positive energy.

Do you feel that, sister? Do you feel the sizzle beneath your skin, the crackle running through your bones? That's positive energy: torch of the gods, first light of the cosmos. Bask in it, and let the problems you didn't even know you had disappear like bad dreams.

The pretty light show has not restored your memories. It was also massive overkill for a couple of scratches and a hangover, all of which have now been reduced to the purely psychological fraction. You are not fragile by any stretch of the imagination.

"Did that work?" Gwen asks, once the golden light fades away.

"I feel much better. Still can't remember anything."

She can't help but feel disappointed, even though this was the expected outcome. The cleric's posture also hasn't improved, despite being subject to the same wave of healing magic. There are limits to what channeling can do – limits that seems to hew towards the mortal conception of 'injury', come to think of it.

Kyphosis is a disease of old age, and the ravages of time are not so easily unwound. Positive energy can restore you to perfect health if you're missing four pints of blood but fares poorly on illness and amputated extremities. Those call for more specialized magic.

But now is not the time for amateur theology. Now is the time for action! If she has to solve both mysteries with this millstone around her neck then so be it.

"Thank you," she says, addressing the cleric. "That solved the hard-to-describe bad thing I was worried about. On a hopefully-unrelated note, I am a lieutenant in the watch, as is she. We're here to investigate a murder that happened in this part of Escadar a few days ago, and I want to ask you a few questions."

"Glad I could help. If you've got a blank spot in your memory that shouldn't be there, it could be sorcery hiding something from you. You'll need someone stronger than me to deal with that." He sighs. "I don't know what else I can tell you about the death, but you may as well come in. I'll put the kettle on for tea."

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.