"Fair enough. It probably would be dangerous work. Antiva's assassins hardly have a monopoly on the trade. Still, I would imagine there would be some benefit to—"

He stops. It's abrupt, with the comedy-adjacent cadence of someone who's run themselves into a logical wall. Laurentius's hand has wandered absently back to the pocket into which he'd stuffed that letter writing assignment, though surely the contents of the page can't be so relevant as all that. The gesture must be automatic, thoughtless.

"Is there anything else I should know? About the work, specifically."