Lambert shrugs. Turned partly away from Childermass, his tail is the worst of the visible changes, though it continues to move with lifelike grace as the witcher draws it in, whisks it to the side away from the magician’s direct line of sight.

“That, or a sack,” he answers, lightly. A flicker of thought brings the Gamma’s illusion up again, taking both the sight and sound of him away again. “But until then, this’ll do. Can’t sit around here feeling sorry for ourselves forever. There’s still the rest of the place to clear out.”