Once you point out that someone's dead everyone wants to have a look and say the same thing:
"Yeh he's dead."
"Wow, dead."
"Didn't believe it myself. But, dead."
"Another round? What? Dead? "

Ulrich's hand moved inside the stranger's jacket and began to pat down the body quickly, before any attention drew to himself. He was looking for a motive. He looked like the bad guy, with his paw in the corpse's doublet, but he had to know for sure what this was. The stranger still had a wallet on him and unfortunatley, that made a lot of sense. This wasn't a robbery gone wrong, or a mugging.

"This was a hit."

There was an assassin running through the city. Probably already gone from here.

A stranger had side-charged through the crowd to get an eye-full of the spectacle. Eyes filled with regret and sorrow. Someone filled with a functioning soul of empathy. The tavern was filled with curiosity.
And growing panic. Ulrich, turned, hearing the mutterings of paranoia spread. and grow. The energy of the bar was growing, on a course to bubble over. If it did, that meant the local police force would arrive and they would all be jailed for the night. Then questions. All the questions, with noone believing that nobody saw anything. While a murderer wandered the streets in broad daylight. It wouldn't be right.

The guards were not understanding. Already kettling the patrons away from the front door.

The blade on Ulrich's back felt hot with purpose. If it could talk, he knew what it would be demanding. His eyes wandered around, window, kitchen. Behind the bar there was another doorway. Hopefully there would be a second floor. First step was leaving the bar without the guards clocking him as someone who was "Escaping".

No point sticking around then.

The magic crackled between his fingertips. Pushing through the crowd in a slow, deliberate manner. Moving towards the bar as he focused his steps into light pats, his total footprint diminishing to a pin. Slipping across the floor and over the bar using the bulk of the crowd to cover his exit. There was a free swinging, ornate door which was the barrier to the freedom he craved. He moved through.

The back room was instantly cooler, larger than he expected and cluttered throughout with barrels and bottles. A staircase led upstairs to a private home, another door to the small pub kitchen. Delicious aromas of herb and stews conflicted with the chaos and panic growing behind him. Ulrich gripped a wooden banister and made to move upstairs. He'd slip out a window and across a rooftop before any more arrived to lock down a useless crime scene.