"Disappeared?"
"Yes, he disappeared." Martin silently opened his mouth, as if to spit those heavy, horned words into the supervisor's face and smash that long-out-of-practice face to pieces. But noticing the crowd of people around them, he restrained the impulse. "Instead of squeezing into a place two people could seal off, search the entire banquet venue. Then find out which bastard hired that servant."
The other man accepted Martin's suggestion—or rather, his order. Kraft figured they probably knew each other. Martin might even outrank him, though he didn't seem keen to make that clear in front of outsiders, deliberately maintaining the air of someone "unimportant."
The people in the corridor gradually dispersed. It wasn't easy to clear out a crowd of people, each with their own standing. It wasn't that they didn't value their lives; it was that some notion of "honor" held them in place. They had to show some courage in front of their peers, as long as the situation remained under control. Few of them dared approach the scene of the crime, but that didn't stop them from offering "insights" of uncertain origin.
The supervisor listened to each of them offer their "insights" from their own perspective: a phantom thief who could scale walls and leap across rooftops with people in tow, a potion that could cause permanent unconsciousness, the aid of evil forces, and a brief prayer for exorcism and protection from the Theology School.
The people from the Medical School stayed until last. Someone who had been drinking with them just moments earlier had vanished from the lounge next door. It was hard not to feel shaken. If that devious servant had shifted his finger slightly, he could have taken out half—or even all—of Westermin's top medical talent. It would take them decades to recover.