Under his fingers, Lambert's shoulder rises and falls in a shrug. No promises, Childermass -- or at the very least, he'll do his part if the magician does his. Once he's certain he's situated, Lambert will lead them on, adjusting his stride to keep his pace something Childermass might be able to keep up with without losing his footing. As he takes them through the backyard, the wind carries distant voices and the faint smell of cooking food. The scents and sounds of the carnival are all sharper without sight, the only noticeable absence of the latter from the man beside him. Still, it isn't completely quiet: damp cloth and leather creak as he walks, still wet from stumbling back into the water, and his tail waves lazily through the air with the occasional whipping sound. Occasionally, they pass through shadows, offering the magician a brief reprieve from the sun.

Depending on how good a sense of direction Childermass has, he'll likely realize they're heading for the medical tent. If he doesn't catch on sooner, the astringent scent when Lambert pushes the flap open ought to give it away.