Morning came to Novigrad the way it always did, with the loud sound of the bells of the Great Temple before the sun had fully cleared the horizon, yet in room seven of The Kingfisher, Sebastian slept through all of it.
He lay sprawled across the narrow bed in a tangle of wool blankets and linen sheets that had long since been kicked into disarray. One arm hung over the edge of the mattress. His mouth was slightly open. His hair, dark and disheveled spread across the pillow. He had not dreamed. Or if he had, he did not remember. For the first time in weeks now, he had slept deeply, completely, without the nagging awareness of danger that usually kept him hovering on the edge of consciousness.
It was, perhaps the deepest sleep he had had since leaving Kaer Morhen.
Which was why he did not hear the door open, he did not hear the boots cross the floor.
He did not hear the soft grunt of amusement from the figure standing over his bed.
But he certainly felt the sword hilt connecting with the side of his head.
Thwack.
"What the f.." Sebastian's eyes flew open. His hand shot toward the dagger he kept beneath his pillow, a reflex, trained into him by a thousand hours of Vesemir's drills. But his fingers closed on empty air. The dagger was not there. He had forgotten to put it there, too careless.
"Relax," said a familiar voice, deeply amused. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. You sleep like a troll."
Sebastian blinked the sleep from his eyes. Lambert stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, his swords were already strapped to his back. His leather jerkin was laced. His hair still a disaster, in his right hand, he held his steel sword's pommel, the very same pommel that had just introduced itself to Sebastian's skull.
"Actually," Lambert added, "trolls are much more careful than you are, I've seen trolls wake up when a leaf falls on their heads. You? I could have robbed you, shaved your head, and painted your face with goat blood, and you would still be asleep."
Sebastian groaned. He sat up slowly, pressing a hand to the side of his head. There would be a bruise. There was always a bruise when Lambert was involved.
"What the fuck, Lambert?" Sebastian's voice was gravel and irritation. "This is the first time I've slept in a somewhat decent bed since I left Ard Carraigh. Give me a break."
Lambert shrugged, utterly unapologetic. "You've had your break, now get dressed." He tossed something onto the bed a leather strap, Sebastian realized, for securing his swords. "There's someone I'm going to meet, and you're coming with."
Sebastian caught the strap before it could hit his face. He squinted at Lambert through the morning light filtering through the grimy window. "This has to do with your little business, the one you didn't share with me yesterday."
Lambert turned toward the door. "I'll tell you on the way."
Sebastian swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards were cold against his bare feet. He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to coax his brain into wakefulness.
"Fine," he said. "Let me get ready."
"Sure." Lambert paused at the threshold, glancing back. "Just hurry up."
Sebastian made a face. "Ha ha."
Lambert was already gone, his boots thudding down the hallway toward the stairs.
Sebastian dressed quickly, he tightened the sword straps, adjusted the weight across his back, and ran his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to make himself look less like he had been dragged backward through a hedge, he splashed water from the chipped pitcher on the nightstand onto his face, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and headed downstairs.
The common room was busier than it had been the night before, morning patrons sat at the tables, laborers with bread and cheese, a courier with a satchel full of letters, a young woman in a servant's apron staring into a cup of tea as if it held the answers to all her problems. Willy the innkeeper was behind the bar, already wiping down the surface with a rag that had seen better days. He nodded at Sebastian as he passed.
"Morning, witcher. Sleep well?"
"Well enough, thanks for asking." Sebastian muttered, he pushed through the door and into the grey morning light.
Lambert stood outside, holding the reins of both horses, his own scruffy gelding and Sebastian's mare. The animals had been fed and watered, their coats brushed, their hooves picked clean. Lambert had been busy while Sebastian slept.
Sebastian approached 'the mare', running a hand along her neck. She snorted and nudged his shoulder. He checked her tack, saddle, cinch, bridle, all secure. Then he checked his own gear, the small pouches attached to the saddle that held his whetstones, his potion ingredients, his spare change of clothes. Everything was where it should be.
He made himself comfortable in the saddle, Lambert was not looking at the mare. He was looking at Sebastian's back. More specifically, at the sword on Sebastian's back, the steel one, the one that was not witcher steel, the one whose pommel was set with a small green stone.
"Whoa," Lambert said. "Where did you get that?"
Sebastian glanced over his shoulder, following Lambert's gaze to the sword hilt and then he smiled.
"Oh, this?" He reached back and touched the pommel, his fingers brushing the green stone. "It was a gift, from my friends." He looked at Lambert, his yellow eyes bright. "Told you, they're decent folk."
Lambert dismounted, or rather, he swung one leg over and dropped to the ground in a single fluid motion. He circled around to Sebastian's side, his eyes fixed on the sword. Up close, he could see the craftsmanship: the elegant curve of the crossguard, the fine etching along the scabbard, vines and leaves and something that might have been elven script, it was not a witcher's sword. It was something finer.
Lambert let out a low whistle. "Pretty damn nice sword." He stepped back, still staring. "Maybe the Scoia'tael aren't so bad after all, I might do a favor or two for a steel like that."
Sebastian chuckled. He gathered the mare's reins in one hand. "You need a whole school to teach you how to be a nice person, a sword won't fix that."
Lambert swung back onto his own horse with a grunt. "Very funny, now back on topic." He tugged the gelding's head around, pointing him toward the street that led deeper into the city. "Let's go. The man I'm meeting will be waiting for us, at a brothel. Near St. Gregory's Bridge."
Sebastian's hands froze on the reins. He turned his head slowly, staring at Lambert as if he had just announced something wild.
"A what?" Sebastian said.
"The Passiflora," Lambert said, as if that explained everything. "I know you don't know it, you're new, It's fine." He nudged his gelding into a walk. "Besides, don't worry, we're just going there for a talk. I'll keep an eye on you, otherwise, Ciri would kill me."
Sebastian urged the mare to follow, falling into step beside Lambert, his expression was a complicated mix of confusion, embarrassment, and reluctant curiosity.
"That's not what I meant by my question," Sebastian said carefully. "I just... meeting a man in a brothel feels weird to me. That's all."
Lambert snorted. "It's a very fine place overall." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "Just... uh... a brothel. Yeah."
Sebastian shook his head, but he didn't argue further. The two witchers rode in silence for a moment, their horses' hooves clattering against the cobblestones. The streets of Novigrad were already crowded, pedestrians weaving between carts, merchants hawking their wares, beggars holding out cupped hands. The Eternal Fire was everywhere: braziers burning at intersections, priests in white robes gliding through the crowds, statues of the Flaming Rose watching from every corner with bronze eyes that seemed to follow them everywhere they go.
"Okay," Sebastian said finally. "Go on with it, what is this about? And who is this man?"
Lambert guided his gelding around a cart piled high with fish, he was quiet for a moment, his yellow eyes fixed on the street ahead.
"Before last winter," Lambert began, "I gave a loan to a certain trader, he was in a bad spot, debts, bad investments, the usual merchant nonsense. He promised me that with time, I would get my money back. Alongside a promise of something extra, for my troubles."
Sebastian's brow furrowed. "Kind of strange for you of all people to do that. Giving a loan, but what's wrong? He didn't pay?"
Lambert's jaw tightened. "It's been over a year. Last I heard, he hit it off pretty well. In Tretogor, made a fortune, supposedly." He spat to the side, a gesture of disgust. "My problem is that I considered him a friend. Once. I helped him, he helped me, a while back. Tit for tat. But the money I gave him wasn't insignificant, and I haven't heard from him since."
Sebastian listened, his expression thoughtful.
"He proved hard to track," Lambert continued. "For some weird reason.. I even went to Tretogor and didn't find him, turned out he only did business there and I only found clues that he was last seen here in Novigrad." He glanced at Sebastian. "The man I'm meeting supposedly knows his actual whereabouts."
Sebastian was quiet for a long moment, processing. Then: "Here's what doesn't make sense, if he hit it off so well as a merchant, made his fortune, he should be able to give you back your money without an issue." He looked at Lambert. "Something's off."
Lambert's laugh was short and bitter. "You think I don't know that? He wasn't so bad before. But you never know with people, money changes them, fear changes them, desperation changes them." He shrugged, "Either way, I'm going to find out."
Sebastian nodded slowly. "Alright, I'm interested in this."
"I knew you would be." Lambert said with a smile.
/-\
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