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.

Iromae thanks Merienne for her information about the thread. As the group heads out of the shop, she comments to the others, "Tidings if we return before dusk? I wonder what that might be!  We definitely should try to get back. But that seemed to go well, don't you think?" 

She has in her mind to try something, but she realizes it has a bit of risk. She looks around, trying to decide if there is any chance someone might overhear. With the growing bustle of life, she isn't quite sure if she would really know if something might be overheard. So, as the group walks along, she stays quiet and doesn't say anything on the issue. 'I can always bring it up later if other ideas do not work out.' 

"I guess we find the stall first?" she says. "And Vorenus? Should you handle the talking?"  She thinks a moment, "If he is there at first, maybe we just browse nearby stalls before trying anything. Then there's the bag. I guess we need to figure out how we might use that." 

When she looks over at Vorenus, she has a bit of a sheepish look. The way he slipped back into his act was admittedly useful back in the shop. And his deceptions might be useful here to come. But it still bothered her a little bit. She much preferred the real Vorenus and this just reminded her of how he had hidden his true self before.  She realizes she has much more important things to worry about right now, but she can't help but muse about it a bit. 

"Let's find the stall and we'll figure out what to do with the bag later. There's always time to find some alleyway to prepare the decoy with no one watching," Shenua answers.

As they approach their destination, her first instinct is to grab her shoulder bag tighter to make sure nothing happens to its contents. Then she decides it's better to act casual, as though they're just a group of friends making perfectly ordinary purchases.

She takes a general look, searching for Garrick's stall — an old stall by the fountain, as Merienne said. As they draw closer she scans the crowd for anyone who matches the courier's description and notes whether there are any inspectors nearby, where they're positioned, and what they're doing.

(Perception: ugh...a 5)

"Yes, the stall it is," Iromae says, finally coming around to focusing on the task at hand. She looks around to try to get an idea of area before her. (Perception: 15)

Vorenus looks to Iromae, nodding with a smile.  “Yes, I’ll do so.  But, like Merienne said, I believe we should “Watch carefully and say little.”  I imagine we won’t know which direction to push until we go and observe a while.”  Once they arrive and Iromae spots the stalls mentioned, Vorenus turns to both of them and says, “Okay, are you ready?  Act II, and so it begins… what shall we call it?  Pulling the Silver Thread…. Oh, I’m not so good at such things.  Let’s all play our parts.  Places?  Everyone have their lines memorized?”  He turns and a big grin comes on his face.  This isn’t his first rodeo, and strangely he’s beginning to enjoy the role.. “Now, now, my students.  Let’s go look for some nice bargains.  Scope out the scene.  Do a little haggling.  Mmmm?”  He puts a little hitch into his walk, like his hip might be bothering him, scratching his rough beard a little and looking like someone ready to drive a hard bargain…

The three of you slip from the tight lanes of Tailor’s Row into the wider arteries of morning Suzail, where the city’s pulse is already quickening. The streets slope gently downhill toward Pale Fountain Square, and with each block the sounds sharpen: the scrape of crates on stone, the clatter of shutters being propped open, apprentices shouting deliveries back and forth as though volume alone might keep them on schedule.

By the time the fountain comes into view — its pale marble catching the sunlight with a watery sheen — the square is awake and moving. Not crowded yet, but busy enough that three newcomers can disappear into its rhythm with ease.

Shenua, trying to look casual, feels her hand twitch toward her bag before she forces herself to relax it. Her eyes sweep the scene, but the crowd shifts unpredictably and the morning glare off the marble doesn’t help; nothing stands out, no inspector or courier catches her eye. Just motion, chatter, and the faint spray of the fountain.

Iromae, however, sees more. The Silvershroud stall is immediately recognizable — a narrow wooden counter tucked between the glassblower’s booth and a small, cramped apothecary. Two young assistants are unpacking bundles of wrapped parchment and twine, one yawning wide enough to pop his jaw. Neither looks particularly alert.

She also notes two inspectors, both in the muted grey tabards that mark their station. One leans against a lamppost on the square’s eastern edge, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded but observant. The other walks a slow circuit around the fountain’s far side, occasionally stopping to ask a vendor a question or inspect a crate’s seal. Neither seems especially tense — just performing morning checks.

Vorenus slips effortlessly into character, limping just enough to look believable without drawing stares. His transformation earns a single raised eyebrow from a passing merchant — and a soft snort of amusement from a nearby pair of guards — but nothing more. Between his gruff haggling persona and the bustle around you, the group blends well into the moving tapestry of shoppers.

The Silvershroud stall sits no more than 30 feet ahead. The assistants are busy arranging their morning deliveries, chatting idly about last night’s dice game. No sign of Garrick — yet.

The patrol inspector on the far side of the fountain has now begun circling your direction, though at his current pace he’ll reach the stall in about two minutes. The one at the lamppost has shifted his weight and begun scanning the square with a bit more purpose.

For now, no one is paying you particular attention.

Iromae speaks softly to her other two companions. "The inspector making rounds will be at the stall in a couple minutes. Another is just standing watching. I don't see Garrick, perhaps we should talk to those two now?" She's most concerned about the one just standing by the lamppost and tries to get a sense of where his attention is focused.  Without being obvious about it of course. (Insight: 9)