thudded. It was an awful racket.
The dragon woke, annoyed. The noise continued, surely tingling the creature’s sensitive ears. It issued a blast of steam, but that didn’t stop the panning; it just got louder and less in tune. This was almost guaranteed to deliver a headache.
The dragon gave up and moved away, trying to shake the headache out of its noggin.
Now he could change. He became a tortoiseshell cat nine or ten years old named Mystery; it had a name tag on its collar.
The dragon sent a plume of steam that took live aim on the cat. The Factor leaped out of the way and bounded toward the nearest small tree. He jumped into its branches and hid behind its trunk.
But in a moment the dragon’s snoot nudged around the trunk. He leaped clear just as the next superheated jet of steam was loosed at point-blank range. And landed by sheer random coincidence on the dragon’s head.
Uh-oh. This was not the most secure place to be. But he couldn’t leap off without becoming an immediate target. So he clung where he was.
The dragon shook his head violently. The cat clung tightly. It was a standoff—for all of one and a third moments. Then the cat flew high and wide.
But already the dragon’s snoot was orienting, ready to send a spear of steam to catch the target in midair.
The Factor changed forms again. And became a pairing knife. The jet of steam struck it—and split in two. That was the knife’s talent: to make pairs of things.
The Factor fell safely between the pair of jets. But he couldn’t move out of range this way. If the dragon attacked him, he might make two of it, which would be twice as bad. He had to find a better random form.
He became a bone. It seemed to be the long bone of some creature’s arm or leg. It was bound to be magic in some way; all his changes were. But what good was it?
The dragon’s charging foot came down on the bone. And the dragon burst out laughing. He couldn’t stop; he laughed so hard he rolled on the ground.
Now the Factor realized what kind of bone it was: a humoris bone, that made anyone who touched it laugh uncontrollably. Well, that did eliminate the threat, for the moment. But he still couldn’t go anywhere, and he didn’t want to lie here forever. The dragon showed no sign of departing; it was too busy laughing. Striking a funny bone wasn’t really all that funny, but the magic didn’t care.
He had only one magic stunt left today. That one would have to be something useful, or he was stuck.
He changed—and became a cue card, in the shape of a Q. It seemed impossible to become anything that would be really useful! Printed on the card was advice on the right time to say and do things. So what did this one say? LIE LOW UNTIL THE STORM COMES.
What did that mean? The Factor was still trying to figure it out when there was a crack of thunder. Suddenly it was drenchpouring. The dragon was soaked, which rather quenched his humor, and the Q card floated on the surface of the flooding path. It was borne away from the dragon, carried along by the forming river.
And soon enough it was well clear of the danger. The Factor reverted safely to his natural form. The Q card advice had been accurate, though it had left him soaking wet. Well, that was one way to survive, but he hoped he would not have to do it again. He found a tree to hide in; he would have to finish the day and night here.
In the morning, recharged, gorged on freshly harvested pies—so much better than black bread!—he was ready for action. What now? This business of touring Xanth was turning out to be less fun than he had anticipated. He was tempted to return to the nymphs for another night, but random travel was unlikely to take him there. Still, travel seemed more promising than changing forms. He traveled.
He arrived in a village. It was eerily silent; no one was speaking a word. Was this where the deaf folk lived?
“Hello,” he said experimentally to the nearest man.
The man turned to him and
The dragon woke, annoyed. The noise continued, surely tingling the creature’s sensitive ears. It issued a blast of steam, but that didn’t stop the panning; it just got louder and less in tune. This was almost guaranteed to deliver a headache.
The dragon gave up and moved away, trying to shake the headache out of its noggin.
Now he could change. He became a tortoiseshell cat nine or ten years old named Mystery; it had a name tag on its collar.
The dragon sent a plume of steam that took live aim on the cat. The Factor leaped out of the way and bounded toward the nearest small tree. He jumped into its branches and hid behind its trunk.
But in a moment the dragon’s snoot nudged around the trunk. He leaped clear just as the next superheated jet of steam was loosed at point-blank range. And landed by sheer random coincidence on the dragon’s head.
Uh-oh. This was not the most secure place to be. But he couldn’t leap off without becoming an immediate target. So he clung where he was.
The dragon shook his head violently. The cat clung tightly. It was a standoff—for all of one and a third moments. Then the cat flew high and wide.
But already the dragon’s snoot was orienting, ready to send a spear of steam to catch the target in midair.
The Factor changed forms again. And became a pairing knife. The jet of steam struck it—and split in two. That was the knife’s talent: to make pairs of things.
The Factor fell safely between the pair of jets. But he couldn’t move out of range this way. If the dragon attacked him, he might make two of it, which would be twice as bad. He had to find a better random form.
He became a bone. It seemed to be the long bone of some creature’s arm or leg. It was bound to be magic in some way; all his changes were. But what good was it?
The dragon’s charging foot came down on the bone. And the dragon burst out laughing. He couldn’t stop; he laughed so hard he rolled on the ground.
Now the Factor realized what kind of bone it was: a humoris bone, that made anyone who touched it laugh uncontrollably. Well, that did eliminate the threat, for the moment. But he still couldn’t go anywhere, and he didn’t want to lie here forever. The dragon showed no sign of departing; it was too busy laughing. Striking a funny bone wasn’t really all that funny, but the magic didn’t care.
He had only one magic stunt left today. That one would have to be something useful, or he was stuck.
He changed—and became a cue card, in the shape of a Q. It seemed impossible to become anything that would be really useful! Printed on the card was advice on the right time to say and do things. So what did this one say? LIE LOW UNTIL THE STORM COMES.
What did that mean? The Factor was still trying to figure it out when there was a crack of thunder. Suddenly it was drenchpouring. The dragon was soaked, which rather quenched his humor, and the Q card floated on the surface of the flooding path. It was borne away from the dragon, carried along by the forming river.
And soon enough it was well clear of the danger. The Factor reverted safely to his natural form. The Q card advice had been accurate, though it had left him soaking wet. Well, that was one way to survive, but he hoped he would not have to do it again. He found a tree to hide in; he would have to finish the day and night here.
In the morning, recharged, gorged on freshly harvested pies—so much better than black bread!—he was ready for action. What now? This business of touring Xanth was turning out to be less fun than he had anticipated. He was tempted to return to the nymphs for another night, but random travel was unlikely to take him there. Still, travel seemed more promising than changing forms. He traveled.
He arrived in a village. It was eerily silent; no one was speaking a word. Was this where the deaf folk lived?
“Hello,” he said experimentally to the nearest man.
The man turned to him and
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