There isn’t much to see, dim torchlight or not. There’s an inn, but it’s already shuttered for the evening, and houses and shops are shut tight. Close to the man now, something that wasn’t as obvious before becomes immediately evident: the reek of unwashed body, and over that, the smell of bile and alcohol. The man is blind drunk, though the nekkers have done much to sober him up. He also may or may not have pissed himself in terror, but it can’t make him much worse than he already is.

“You’re a sorcerer!” the man bleats, eyes darting between Lambert and Childermass — and settling on Lambert, fearfully. Lambert’s smirk turns cruel, and he slides his sword home back into its scabbard, mostly to keep him from wanting to stab it through the man. This isn’t how this story goes, not exactly, but if Childermass wants them out of the story so badly he can’t wait? Then he might as well help things along.

“That’s no way to talk to someone who just saved your life, is it?” He grabs the man by the collar, hauling him up to his feet. “You can do better than that.”

The man blanches, and not just because Lambert’s jostled his broken bones. “Please, Master Witcher! Anything you want!“