The man's directions were as bad as his food. Myles hunched down in his fur, pulled the woolens farther over his nose, swallowed the bile, and forced his belly to keep the reaction to the tavern master's fare at bay. He was rarely ill, and now wasn't the time to test if the reason was the good Scot's fare that was always available at his own table, or not. Worse conditions than he was facing were hard to come by. The wind-whipped pelting of sleet he'd endured had changed into a thick-falling world of white, blanketing everything and making the path even harder to find than before. He couldn't be ill.