Merienne listens intently, fingertips steepled beneath her chin as Iromae speaks. When asked about the silver thread itself, she exhales softly through her nose. “No, I’m afraid not,” she says at last. “The weave is singular — spun through with moonlight and memory both. Even if I could reproduce its sheen, it would not feel the same to one attuned to the Weave. You would sense the falsehood immediately.” Her tone softens as she adds, “But the satchel bears a faint trace of where the thread once rested. If your sight runs deep enough, you might glimpse its echo.”
At Iromae’s question about the inspectors, Merienne’s expression hardens. “They rarely arrest without cause — or at least without claiming one,” she says, lips thinning. “Most who draw their notice are simply questioned, their parcels seized ‘pending verification.’ If they find contraband or anything that might be, the goods vanish into bureaucracy, and the person is left shaken but free.” A faint flicker of contempt crosses her face. “But if an inspector believes they’ve found a trail worth following … or if the item’s magic whispers too loudly, the bearer sometimes disappears with it. Be discreet.”
Her attention turns to Vorenus next. “Unattuning?” She considers the word. “Yes, though it requires deliberate effort. The mirrorcraft’s bond fades after a short rest if the wearer wills it so — though doing so repeatedly weakens the protective weave. It’s meant as a disguise, not a revolving door.” Her eyes stray toward his bloodied hand, and she waves it off before he can smear it anywhere near her silks. “Water, there — please, for the sake of my sanity.” A porcelain basin gleams beside a rack of brushes and dyes.
When the trio make to leave, Merienne moves to the doorway behind them, arms folded loosely across her chest. Morning sunlight spills in from the lane, catching the dust motes in the air like drifting sparks. “Watch carefully, and say little,” she calls after them. “Garrick’s stall lies at the fountain’s east edge, between the glassblower and the apothecary. If he’s not there himself, his helpers will be. They chatter more than he does.”
Her mouth curves in a half-smile, dry but not unkind. “And if you return before dusk, I may have tidings of my own. There are other threads tugging loose in Suzail today.”
The door shuts gently behind you. Outside, the city’s day is already gathering pace — the clang of a distant gate, the rolling murmur of carts over cobblestone, the scent of baking bread and wet stone in the air.
Pale Fountain Square lies only a few streets away, and from here you can already hear the faint rhythm of its heart: hawkers calling, hooves striking stone, and the splash of the fountain itself rising above the morning din.
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Merienne listens intently, fingertips steepled beneath her chin as Iromae speaks. When asked about the silver thread itself, she exhales softly through her nose. “No, I’m afraid not,” she says at last. “The weave is singular — spun through with moonlight and memory both. Even if I could reproduce its sheen, it would not feel the same to one attuned to the Weave. You would sense the falsehood immediately.” Her tone softens as she adds, “But the satchel bears a faint trace of where the thread once rested. If your sight runs deep enough, you might glimpse its echo.”
At Iromae’s question about the inspectors, Merienne’s expression hardens. “They rarely arrest without cause — or at least without claiming one,” she says, lips thinning. “Most who draw their notice are simply questioned, their parcels seized ‘pending verification.’ If they find contraband or anything that might be, the goods vanish into bureaucracy, and the person is left shaken but free.” A faint flicker of contempt crosses her face. “But if an inspector believes they’ve found a trail worth following … or if the item’s magic whispers too loudly, the bearer sometimes disappears with it. Be discreet.”
Her attention turns to Vorenus next. “Unattuning?” She considers the word. “Yes, though it requires deliberate effort. The mirrorcraft’s bond fades after a short rest if the wearer wills it so — though doing so repeatedly weakens the protective weave. It’s meant as a disguise, not a revolving door.” Her eyes stray toward his bloodied hand, and she waves it off before he can smear it anywhere near her silks. “Water, there — please, for the sake of my sanity.” A porcelain basin gleams beside a rack of brushes and dyes.
When the trio make to leave, Merienne moves to the doorway behind them, arms folded loosely across her chest. Morning sunlight spills in from the lane, catching the dust motes in the air like drifting sparks. “Watch carefully, and say little,” she calls after them. “Garrick’s stall lies at the fountain’s east edge, between the glassblower and the apothecary. If he’s not there himself, his helpers will be. They chatter more than he does.”
Her mouth curves in a half-smile, dry but not unkind. “And if you return before dusk, I may have tidings of my own. There are other threads tugging loose in Suzail today.”
The door shuts gently behind you. Outside, the city’s day is already gathering pace — the clang of a distant gate, the rolling murmur of carts over cobblestone, the scent of baking bread and wet stone in the air.
Pale Fountain Square lies only a few streets away, and from here you can already hear the faint rhythm of its heart: hawkers calling, hooves striking stone, and the splash of the fountain itself rising above the morning din.