The second guard may stay on the floor, tucked partly below the bottom shelf; boards near enough for a casket. Hands fleece pockets, come up with lint, a list: Soap, haddock, cooking oil. A child's tin jack. Isaac lingers over the last. Not long. Tucks them back, away.

The bound man watches, grasping for detail, for the perfect moment of some daring escape. For a chance. An elbow draws near, and he jerks a little, instinct that only serves to throw him off-balance. Isaac steps out.

In murmured Orlesian,

"That's two bodies to be rid of," At least. They have, he thinks, agreed of that much. "And he knows it."

Even if the guard doesn't believe in his death, expects to wriggle out atop the odds — he knows how this story ends. The trick is convincing him otherwise. A man with nothing to lose has no reason not to scream. He's frowning. Hasn't done an altogether good job of silencing his own nerves:

"If we press him for anything, it needs to be quick."