Well-Tempered Clavicle (18 page)

“I remember,” he said. “You climbed all over me.”

“How would you have reacted if I had done that when you had flesh on?”

He visualized the way she had flashed him with her bra and panties, then wrapped her legs about his head so that his face had been blinded by her lower belly. He had not understood how arousing that would have been for a fleshly man; now he did. “I would have wanted to summon the stork with you.”

“Yes. And when you had flesh on, you did do that, though I took a potion that prevented the signal from going out. And there’s the irony.”

“Irony?”

“I wanted to be sure you had no romantic or sexual interest in me, so that I could trust you not to get all eagerly male. Now I want exactly such interest, and you can’t give it. I never thought of myself as foolish, but I have put myself into a truly foolish situation.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I brought it on myself. Now we have to figure out what to do about it.”

“I’ll be your friend until you find a handsome living human prince. Then you can forget me.”

She shook her head. “Unlikely, and not just because there don’t seem to be any suitable princes available at the moment. Picka, I fell for you because of the absolute beauty of your music. You will only get better, musically, and my love will intensify accordingly. I know you for a thoroughly worthy male, surely better than any prince I might encounter. I don’t
want
to forget you.”

“But—”

“But it’s impossible. I know. Unless you should be willing to convert permanently to a fleshly man.”

“Then I could not play my ribs. I would lose my music.”

She sighed. “True. But I’m not sure I want to convert to a skeleton, if that were even possible. So we have a problem.”

Picka pondered. “Dawn, we are friends, and I do like you, and after that hour I do understand your feeling. If you wish to marry me, I will do it. I could invoke the spell once a day.”

“I don’t want you to marry me out of friendship, Picka. I want you to fall madly in love with me. Your prospects for finding a suitable female skeleton are about as dim as mine for a prince. We might make a couple of convenience. An odd couple, but a couple. Can you consider that?”

“Yes. But I can’t promise love.”

“I am going to court you, Picka. If I can make you love me, in your natural state, then we’ll reconsider marriage. Is that fair?”

“Yes.”

“Then lie here beside me as I sleep. Be tolerant when I wake and kiss you. If it is possible to arouse love in a skeleton, I mean to do it. Just give me a fair chance.”

“Of course.” He believed in fair chances, even when the odds were impossible.

She lay back and closed her eyes, but continued holding his hand possessively. Soon she was breathing evenly in sleep.

She was a beautiful creature of her kind. She was, as she said, a princess and a Sorceress. She had a crush on him. She intended to win his love along with his passion. But was it possible for him ever to love her back while in his natural form?

He didn’t know.

10

C
APRICE

In the morning Dawn woke and kissed Picka on the skull. He had not slept, of course, but he had spent the time pondering, wishing he could be what she wanted him to be. She was a good person, a worthy partner. But she was
alive.

“And you are not,” she said, divining his thought though she could not fathom things about the un-alive. “It is a challenge.”

“I will give you some privacy to get dressed,” he said, remembering that she had preferred it in the past.

“Nu-uh. You’ll watch everything. Maybe it will impress you.”

He did not argue, not wanting to make her feel bad about her chances of impressing him in that manner.

She got up, washed, and dressed, all in his sight. He recognized that she was an extremely sightly creature, one of the prettiest in Xanth. But there was no obscuring the fact that she was simply not his type. All that meat on her bones! Only if he invoked the transformation spell would she impress him, and then only for an hour. It wasn’t worth it.

“I had hoped there would be more of a lingering effect,” she said.

“I remember how impressed I was when I had flesh,” he said. “But now that I am myself, I know better.”

“Let’s go out and see whether this hospitable castle serves breakfast.”

It did. Dawn and the pets had a nice breakfast, and food was sent out for Granola in the courtyard.

When they were finished, they blinked, and the dirty dishes and crumbs were gone. It seemed that all chores were magically accomplished.

“Now it is time for our mission,” Dawn said. “Somewhere in this castle is Pundora’s Box. I thought it would be easy to find, once we got in the castle, but now that I see the size of the premises I’m not so sure.”

“We can split up and search many areas at once,” Picka suggested.

“No. We must not forget that we are in a castle whose nature and loyalties we do not properly understand. We should search in pairs, and the pairs should be in constant touch with the others.”

“This is sensible,” Skully agreed. “Joy’nt and I will pair.”

“And Picka and me,” Dawn said. “And the three pets. That leaves Granola to search outside, just in case.”

They went to work. Now all doors were open. Picka and Dawn searched the higher turrets first, looking in closets, under beds, even behind hanging tapestries. The castle was well-appointed throughout, but there were no boxes.

“This is such a nice castle,” Dawn murmured. “I wouldn’t mind living here.”

“It does seem suitable for a princess,” Picka agreed.

“Yes. But a princess does not rate her own castle until she marries; it’s an unwritten rule.” She glanced sidelong at him. “So all I need to do is tame this castle, find Pundora’s Box, and marry you.”

“Maybe we’ll find that Box.” Picka was being careful, trying not to annoy her.

She laughed, with a trace of bitterness. “We’ll start with that, anyway.”

By noon they had gone over all the upper sections, admiring the well-kept chambers, but finding no Box.

“I just realized,” Picka said. “There are no puns in this castle.”

“They probably stay well away, lest they get caught and boxed.”

“Do puns make decisions?”

“Some do. Remember Attila the Pun? But more likely they have simply been swept out. Caprice Castle may not like puns. It would hardly be alone in that.”

They returned to the ground floor.

“Woof!”

“Woofer!” Dawn said gladly. “What have you found?”

“Woof.”

“A book? We’d better check.”

They followed the dog to a small chamber where Tweeter and Midrange waited. There on an ornate pedestal was a single book. Dawn picked it up, glancing at the cover. “
History of Caprice Castle
,” she read. She looked up. “I think this is something we all need to share.”

They located Skully and Joy’nt, who had been searching the basement levels with no success. Then they went out to the courtyard, where Granola also had not found anything. Picka, Joy’nt, and Skully dropped their bones on the ground, and the three pets lay down beside them, ready to listen.

Dawn settled on the rim surrounding the fountain and opened the book. She began reading aloud. Her words sailed out across the fountain, and the water there formed into a picture. The group of them watched, amazed.

*   *   *

“You have lost the wager, Pundit,” the dramatic voice of a Demon said.

Pundit bowed his head, acknowledging. Demons lived for status, and that was won and lost solely by Demon wagers. The bets could be on anything, often foolish chance—like whether a human child might sneeze before evening, or the course of a scouting ant. Demons generally did not interfere; they merely watched with demonic patience, for an instant or a millennium. Whatever it took.

“Your status is already beneath notice,” the voice continued. “Therefore we impose an alternate penalty. You are the Demon of Puns, as lowly a venue as can be imagined. You are barely a Mini-Demon, minuscule to us though still more powerful than any mortal creature or low-caste demon. You will gather and confine every pun in the universe. Only when the universe is without free-ranging puns, apart from yourself, will your penalty be expiated.”

Pundit nodded.

“This must be accomplished without fanfare or public notice, because puns are notorious for detesting restrictions. If they catch on that they are being hunted, it will be impossible to catch them all. That is all.”

Pundit nodded again, and vanished. The scene faded.

*   *   *

Dawn looked up from the page. “I didn’t know there was a Demon of Puns.”

“It does explain a lot,” Granola said. “No wonder they are so tenacious.”

“But how does this relate to Caprice Castle?” Joy’nt asked.

“Pundora’s Box is here,” Skully reminded her.

“Oh. Yes. I forgot.”

Dawn resumed reading, and again her words touched the fountain and became a scene. This time it showed Demon Pundit flying between planets, looking for something. “First I need a suitable site for a toxic waste dump,” he said. “Where can that be?”

He peered down. “There,” he decided, and descended toward a world the shape of a peninsula. “No one will ever think to search for a pun here in the Demon Xanth’s domain.”

Dawn paused, and the picture froze motionless. “Is this making sense? Xanth is overrun by puns!”

“The History may explain,” Picka said.

“I hope so.” She resumed reading, and the picture resumed animation.

*   *   *

Demon Pundit landed on a barren plain. He struck the ground with one finger and it cracked open, forming several large fissures. Indeed, even the least important Demon had gross power. He tapped it again, and a pit formed, so deep that the bottom was not visible. “Here is my toxic waste site,” he said, satisfied. He snapped his fingers, and the hole filled in, leaving only a manhole cover.

He looked around. “Now I need a mechanism to transport the captive puns here. One that that does not arouse suspicion. So I will make it blend in with its surroundings, and enable it to travel silently.”

He concentrated, and Caprice Castle formed, perched directly over the deep dump. Picka realized that this was the origin of the magic castle: it had not been built, but magically crafted by the will of the Demon. That explained a lot already.

“And I need an occupant to work my will while I am occupied elsewhere,” Pundit said, “so I won’t have to tend to the tedious business of actually collecting egregious puns. Five minutes of that would turn my stomach, but the job will require years of it, because puns have infested every unsupervised corner of the universe. Now how can I best set this up, so that others won’t notice what is being done?”

He pondered, and the intensity of his thoughts caused steam to rise from his head. The steam interacted with the cooler air above, and formed a dense cloud. Demons seldom had to think, and it was obviously an effort. The cloud roiled and darkened, and lightning jagged from one side to the other. Then the entire cloud went up in a nova flash: the Idea.

“Music,” he said. “I will fathom the music that relates to the pundamental nature of all puns, irresistibly summoning, weakening, and pacifying them so that they can be confined. Only puns will relate to that special aspect; others will hear it as merely melody, and won’t realize what else it is accomplishing. It will siphon out the puns without anyone realizing.”

But there was an aspect missing. “I will need a suitable musician,” he concluded. “Someone apt enough to be able to master this special aspect, which will not readily be invoked. Someone who won’t advertise his ability, or abuse it. Where can I find such a person?”

Pundit cast his awareness out in a widening circle, exploring the primitive life of this backward world. He found a musician, a highly talented piper, but ugly in feature, so that others did not want to associate with him. That seemed ideal.

Pundit summoned the musician by conjuring him abruptly to the new castle. “Here is the deal,” he said, speaking from seemingly empty air because he did not care to reveal himself to this inconsequential mortal. “You will play your pipes to summon puns, which you will confine so that they will no longer bother regular folk. You will proceed from place to place, conveniently transported by the castle, cleaning out all puns, leaving the region clear of them. In return you will be allowed to reside in this nice building, all your needs provided, and you will be rendered handsome so as to impress any maidens who see you. You will not age while you occupy the castle. Once you have completed the chore, confining all puns, you will become immortal and permanently handsome. Just see that those captive puns are never released. Do you agree?”

“Sure,” the homely man said without hesitation.

For the following century or so Piper did his job, traveling around the universe collecting puns. He piped them into a bag, and when the bag was full he dumped them into a nondescript box in the castle basement. He was always careful to seal the basement vault during his absences, in case the pun box should leak. It would be a shame to have any hard-won puns escape. When he had enough, he would dump them in the toxic waste site.

Along the way he encountered assorted maidens who were charmed by his music and his looks. In fact, he discovered that the same music that pacified puns also pacified maidens. He brought them to private spots for romantic nights. But he could not bring them into the castle itself; only he and the puns could enter. That was frustrating, but he could handle it. The mass of puns in the basement box swelled.

Then he captured a very special pun. Her name was Pundora, and she was more beautiful than any natural girl could ever be. Just the sight of her made him tremble with desire. He wanted to embrace her and spend romantic nights with her. He knew he shouldn’t, because she was a pun, but he couldn’t help himself. He let her out of the bag and took her to the main bedroom, where they had a phenomenal night.

But he had not entirely lost his wits. In the morning he played his pipes, rendering her eerily passive, and put her in the box with the other puns. Then he went out to collect more puns.