They have a way of speaking, in some cases, that Jaime has long since learned to blink away and cut to the meaning of. The meaning being here; dismissal and lying. His smile is somewhat compulsive, rarely pleasant, just the natural configuration his expression trends to. "Oh, that it is," he agrees, ever sardonic. There might be some other way out of this place, like a backroom for loading up stock, even a window, a stairwell; Jaime is standing in front of the entrance, either way.

He flicks a glance to the pipe, considering it, its length and weight, the grimy spatters that dirty it. Unfairly, Jaime has a sword at his hip, because he always has a sword even when the sky isn't spitting out dread monsters, but at least it isn't in hand.

"What is it they do to thieves where you're from, that makes you so fearless?" he asks, genuinely curious or seeming to be, green eyes skating back up to regard Marty and his prizes.