"Well," Lambert said, "what do you think?"

"They might still report you to their Baron," Eskel said. "The new one, that is. What did you say the village was called?"

"Glenn Perch," Lambert said. "It was in Temeria or Redania, somewhere in the forest between them where no one knows to whom each village belongs." He took a big gulp of his Kriek. "As to my getting in trouble...you forget, I know where the bodies are buried, literally. Even if they rebury them, they won't be too hard to find for a witcher. No, I think they won't report me to anyone. Their best bet is to keep maintaining they were coerced."

"So I wouldn't worry Vesemir," he continued. "I don't think there'll be a new edition of Monstrum coming out."

"But is this this what really happened?" Vesemir asked.

"Maybe," Lambert smiled. "It's the last ending you are going to hear, that's for sure."

"God damn it Lambert," Geralt said, "why must you be such a troll?"

"Ah, Geralt, what a question. As St. Lebioda had once remarked, I am what my maker made me, not one jot more or less."

"Does Glenn Perch even exist?" Eskel asked. He had gone over to the map of the Northern Kingdoms on the wall. "I don't see it here."

"Of course not," Lambert snapped. "Does the map mark every podunk village in the Northern Kingdoms? Be sensible, Eskel."

"Besides," Geralt added, "The signpost that read Glenn Perch - did it look like it was new?"

"Come to think of it, it did. The wood glistened."

"Then the village might have had a different name not so long ago. Glen means 'valley' in elven. Perhaps a bit of renaming went along with the massacre."

"Well, where is it?" asked Eskel.

"Thereabouts." Lambert went to the map and circled an area with his finger.

"Can you do any better? That might be two hundred square miles you pointed at."

"Well, I'm ploughing sorry Eskel, I'm not in the habit of making maps when I'm out on the path. Mapmaking, along with quilting, knitting, and cross-dressing, was not a skill they taught me at witcher academy. If you have any complaints, take them up with the headmaster." He gestured towards Vesemir.

"And now, gentlemen," he continued, "I think I've had all the alcohol I can handle." He rose from the table, and, somewhat unsteadily, made his way to the tower and began to walk up the staircase.

"God damn it, Lambert," Vesemir shouted after him. "Should I be expecting a mob at our doors? Can't you say plainly what had happened?"

"You know," came back the reply, echoing down the tower, "I think I might have dreamt the whole thing. Really, you should just ignore me when I'm drunk."

Geralt took a sip of his mead. It was warm and delightful and its flavor seemed to dispel the aura of Lambert's story. "You know," he said thoughtfully. "I've met many asses in my life. But I'm pretty sure Lambert is the biggest ass of all."

For once, the three witchers found themselves entirely in agreement.