Torches and Pitchforks
Glig looked out through a knothole in the sturdy wooden shutters and studied the mob surrounding the apothecary. They were taking turns throwing themselves into the door.
Mahani, the young apothecarist, pushed in next to Glig and looked through the knothole. “Pitchforks. What a joke. I know for a fact that at least half of those people aren’t even farmers. Look, that one still has the price tag on it.”˙
She went back over to the table, where all of the things Glig had taken from the summoner’s body were laid out. “This is everything there was?”
Glig nodded, clutching the knife and fork he was brought here to his chest. They still smelled like his wife’s cooking.
“Okay. Well, I think I know who this stuff belonged to,” she said, flipping through one of the books, examining the skull key. “I’m guessing she’s dead?”
Glig thought about it, recalling a moment where he had to shake a pair of hands out of a pair of gloves, then nodded.
“Was it you?” Mahani asked.
Glig quickly shook his head.
She looked at him clutching the cutlery. “Didn’t think so.” She closed the book, wrapped the key back up in the cloth map. “And I think I might even know how to get you back, although–“
The door cracked.
“Never mind. First things first. There’s a mob out there who wants to kill us, and they’re gonna get in eventually. This building used to be a gatehouse, but that door only used to be, you know, a tree. So we should figure out how to get out of here.”
Glig stopped packing up the things on the table. He looked at her, confused.
“Yeah, I’m coming with you.” She was already digging through a very large trunk, pulling out scrolls and potions, looking at the labels, shoving one here and there into her apron. “This town has been looking for a reason to put a pitchfork in me since… well, for a long time. And now one just slithered down the chimney. They’ll blame you on me. Believe it.” She dumped a spell component pouch out onto the floor. “We’re in this together, Glig.”
Glig nodded, and went to work. The chimney was out, the mob would be watching the rooftops now. He went over to check the back door, and side windows, but all of them were being banged on by angry villagers, too. He looked down, noticed the gentle slope of the stone floor, and followed it to a small drain.
“The sewer is no good,” said Mahani, “That grate drops right to the main pipe and as soon as they realize we’ve gone down there they’ll run to the outfall and catch us as we spill out into the river.”
Glig walked over to the trunk Mahani was frantically rummaging through and looked inside.
“No Teleport Cloth, no Boots of Escape, no Ghostbody–” Mahani was beginning to lose it.
The door splintered again, a hinge coming loose.
Glig walked back over to the drain, stopping for a second to look at the hissing basket of snakes. He reached down and pulled off the heavy grate.
“Hey, I already told you, the sewer’s no good. As soon as they even see that the grate’s been pulled off they’ll head right to the river and–“
Mahani looked at him. “Clever little devil,” she said.
Glig grabbed his gear off the table, went over and got into the trunk. Mahani climbed in beside him, and together they lowered the lid.
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