He’d have to get the bowl off his head, too, at some point in the near future, or they’d figure out he wasn’t what he seemed and he wasn’t unconscious. Definitely before he got unwrapped, or he’d be in a far more uncomfortable position than he was now. So as the man jogged along, Skif worked his hands, a little at a time, up toward his head.

The blanket smelled of so many things, all of them horrid, that he hated to think of what had happened in it and to it. It wasn’t so much a blanket as a heavy tarpaulin of something less scratchy than wool. Was it sailcloth? It could be. He wasn’t so tightly wrapped up in it that he couldn’t move. He’d been “sleeping” with his arms up against his chest, so he shouldn’t have too far to work them to get his hands on that bowl. . . .

He was glad he hadn’t eaten much, since his head and torso were dangling upside down along his captor ’s back, the stench of the blanket was appalling, and the man’s shoulder essentially hit him in the gut with every step. If there was a better recipe for nausea, he didn’t know it. He’d have been sick if he hadn’t been cautious about not eating much beforehand.

Bit by bit, he worked his arms higher, moving them only with the motion of the man who carried him, slowly working his hands up through the canvas towards the bowl. Then, at long last, with the tips of his fingers, he touched it.

With a sigh of relief, he pushed with his fingertips and ducked his head at the same time as the man stumbled. The bowl came off his head and fell off into the folds of the blanket. He was rid of it, and now he could—

—not relax, certainly. But wait, be still, try to ignore the reek of the blanket, and remember the next part of the plan.

:It looks as if your uncle’s warehouse really is the goal,: Cymry said.

He wished he could see. Hellfires, I wish I could breathe!

But if Londer’s warehouse was the goal, it couldn’t be very much longer. Alberich was supposed to have scouted the place during the day, so he’d be familiar with the outside, at least. Skif just wished that the Weaponsmaster was as good at roof walking as he was—if only they could have switched parts—

Don’t worry about your partner. If he says he can do something, and you’ve got no cause to think otherwise, then let him do his job and concentrate on yours.

Well, that was easy to say, and hard to do, when it all came down to cases.