“Well,” says Mr. Jashenzizok. “That ought to just about do it.”
“But,” Shyan says, faltering. “Your head.”
Abianarin gently touches Mr. Jashenzizok’s mushroomy head.
“I would thank you not to insult my form,” he says. “I have always been a puffball boy.”
“Eh, all right,” Cang says. “So now that you’re mobile, how about our reward?”
“Certainly,” says Mr. Jashenzizok. He claps his hands, and a smile of genuine mirth blooms upon his puffball mushroom face. From his pocket, he withdraws a weighty gold sovereign; a chunk of solid metal valuable to many in the realm. He hands it to Burbaloo.
“Gonna cut that coin up five ways?” asks Shyan, brandishing a blade as though to do just that.
“No, no,” says Burbaloo. “Mr. Jashenzizok can make more. Lots more! Just watch.”
Mr. Jashenzizok grins. “Of course.” His teeth are mushroom also. “Bring me the dipyetrodranhar.”