The cheese knife can stay, as it has been claimed for a higher purpose. Namely, the slicing of said cheese.

That leaves the other throwing knives. Picking one at random, Alistair yanks on its hilt hard enough to stumble back a step once it comes free. He throws a glance over his shoulder: no footsteps that he can make out, no hissing, no whispers. Good. A quiet start to the night.

He scales the ladder with all intent to take up his perch as soon as he's ascended. When his head pops over the edge of the loft, and he spots Cullen...he pauses again, uncertain whether to keep climbing or duck back down.

Eventually, as quietly as possible, he steps up the last few rungs. Alistair returns to his seat and settles his forearms across his knees, the knife hanging loosely from his grasp.