The senior delegates had just started toward the corridor when Siban checked the timing again.
The Chernigov security man was midway through the far side of his route, facing the high table where Yuri's steward organized the consultation order. Siban had tracked the route throughout the evening. One complete sweep took forty-five seconds. From the guard's current position, it would take the full cycle before his attention returned to the corridor entrance.
That was his window.
Traffic through the corridor had stopped after the last servant carried the preparation materials inside. The stretch between the hall tables and the wine station stood open now. A servant crossing that floor would attract no notice.
Siban studied Gleb's cup.
Three-quarters empty.
A servant would refill it automatically. No one in the hall would question that.
He picked up the cup and started walking.
