Well-Tempered Clavicle (39 page)

The four pets went out and joined Dawn.

Skully and Joy’nt walked out, and took two more chairs on the verge. The audience was ready.

Picka walked out, unlimbering his clavicles. He walked resolutely toward the monster.

Piper blasted him with kill-music. The battle was on.

Picka felt his joints fraying; they had not completely recovered from the prior damage. But he had faced this theme before, and played the countertheme that stifled it. Then he shifted to a fire theme, and sent scorching fireballs at the monster.

Piper shifted his own tune, dousing the fire. Then he played the rock-fragmenting music that undermined Picka’s footing. Not enough to make sand, just enough to interfere.

Picka countered that, and played a theme that melted the earth on which the monster rested.

Piper lurched forward, advancing on Picka, corrosive acids glistening on his surface.

Picka played pacification music, causing the monster to slide to a halt. He was unable to approach Picka physically.

Thus they fenced with variations of kill-music, neither gaining an advantage. They were evenly matched in this respect. Picka’s practice was paying off.

Demon Pundit appeared. “This is a stalemate. Proceed from kill-music to skill music. Each victory of melody is one point. A lead of two points will be decisive.” He vanished.

They had been indulging in mere preliminaries, knowing there would be no decision there. Now they moved on to true music. This was the phase Picka feared, because Piper could play more notes and chords, and play them better. He really was the superior practitioner.

There was a brief silence. Then Picka led off with a simple melody. What else could he do?

The monster waited silently until Picka was done. Then he played the same melody the same way, except that he blew sustained notes instead of percussion notes. He had matched the melody. After that he played it again, this time elaborating. His version was beautiful; this confirmed his expertise.

After that Picka played the variant the same way, then played it again with his own flourishes, making it about as complicated and pretty as it could be.

The monster matched that, but did not take it further; that theme had been embellished as far as was feasible. So the first melody was a draw.

Piper played a new theme. Picka matched it, then embellished it. Piper matched that and enhanced it further. Picka matched that and let it be. Another draw.

The first melodic round was done. It was really more like a practice session, establishing the format. Picka had held even, but that meant little. The contest would be decided on the more challenging tunes.

The monster played a piece with four voices: soprano, alto, tenor, and bass. This was considerably more sophisticated than the prior single-note melodies.

Picka matched it, using both ends of both clavicles. This was a technique he had mastered in practice. Because his clavicles were a fixed length, he could not readily play adjacent ribs with a single clavicle. He did it by angling the clavicles between the ribs, playing the front end of one and the back end of the next. The notes were the same for each rib, regardless where they were struck. So if the monster had thought to mess him up this way, the effort had failed.

But if Piper played more than four voices, Picka would be lost.

Piper did not. Apparently he had been so sure that four parts would suffice that he had not practiced more complicated ones. Picka was in luck. So far.

Then he noticed something. The animals that had fled the scene of combat were returning. They were sitting around the scene of the contest, quietly listening. There had been no summoning music; they had come to appreciate the beauty of the melodies.

Picka played a different type of theme, one that gradually quickened its tempo. Piper matched it, accelerating similarly. That was Picka’s disappointment; he had hoped the monster would not have had experience with that type of music.

Then Piper played another kind: two merging themes, each with its own tempo. Five beats of one matched six beats of the other. That was more sophisticated. Picka barely matched it, but only because Dawn had drilled him on the type, and because he could play anything he heard. But then the monster played a 3-5-7 beat combination, and that was beyond Picka’s means. He might master it if he had time to work at it, but couldn’t manage it now. He lost the melody, and was behind one point.

“Monster’s point,” Joy’nt said. There was a tweet of agreement. They were merely confirming what Picka already knew.

The ground beneath his foot bones softened, and he sank into it up to his knee bones. This was not Piper’s doing; it was a signal of his disadvantage. If he lost again, he would sink out of sight and be gone. But his skill remained; he was not yet finished. He knew that Dawn, the other skeletons, and the pets were watching, knowing he was in trouble. He couldn’t disappoint Dawn! She had trusted him to win Caprice Castle for her and save her from the monster, and he had to do it if it was conceivably possible.

They went back and forth, each matching the other, neither gaining any clear advantage. Picka was playing better than he ever had before, as if Dawn’s faith in him was charging him up. Piper was still better, but it was by a narrow margin that few others would be aware of. Picka had almost closed the gap between them.

The surrounding animals remained rapt. They didn’t mind who played, or who won or lost. They simply appreciated the music.

Suppose this contest ended in a draw? Who would get Dawn and the castle? Or would the Demon Pundit, disgusted, wipe them both out? Picka suspected that the monster was no more comfortable with that thought than he was. There had to be a winner. Yet there seemed to be no advantage to be had.

Picka tried a tweedle. That was a fast alternation of the two ends of a clavicle, one end striking one rib, the other the adjacent rib, making a kind of double note. He had heard the effect once, and made it his own. The monster matched it with alternating pipes. Picka added the second clavicle, so that four notes alternated rapidly, a double tweedle. Piper tried to match it, but his pipes were slower and stalled out with a tangled tweedle.

“Skeleton’s point,” Joy’nt said, with a tweet of agreement.

He had won a point! The ground pushed Picka back up and firmed beneath him. He was even again.

The monster went into an interactive piece. He played it once, complete, then played it with every second note missing. Picka had to supply the missing notes. Well, this was something else he could do; Dawn had practiced such pieces with him, possibly anticipating this.

Picka filled in the notes when Piper played it again. Then he played his own elaboration, with every third note missing. Piper matched it when Picka played it again, and sent it back with two notes played, two missing throughout. Thus it was two organ pipe notes followed by two clavicle notes, a rather nice effect.

Picka duplicated that, then played a variation with one note, the second note missing, then two notes, and two missing, then three notes, and three missing. This was fun!

But it wasn’t fun for the monster. This was evidently a new pattern, and he hadn’t practiced it. He was superlative when playing familiar music, but uncertain when it was new. When he tried to fill it in, he hit one sour note.

“Skeleton’s point,” Joy’nt said, with the tweet of agreement.

Picka had gained the lead! He was ahead, against his expectation. If he could just win one more point he would have the victory. But he knew he needed to do it now, because he was unlikely to get another chance.

The ground beneath the monster shifted and sank. He was in a hole. He could still play well, but he was in trouble.

They continued matching themes and variants. Neither found any further advantage. The prospect of a draw loomed larger.

Then Picka thought of something. He had, as a frivolous exercise, practiced variants of “Ghost of Tom.” Could he now make use of that peripheral skill?

He played the melody through. The monster readily matched it. Then Picka spoke. “This is a round, normally sung by four voices offset. Like this.”

He played the first line as before. “Have you seen the ghost of Tom?” Then, continuing the next line, “Round white bones with the flesh all gone,” he added the first line for the second voice, so that they overlapped. It was like a two-voice melody, except that the first line was overlapping the second line. Then the second line overlapped the third, “Oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo!” And the third overlapped the fourth, “Wouldn’t it be chilly with no skin on!” Finally the second voice finished, the first voice silent.

The monster tried, though it seemed he had not done this before. He managed to overlap the voices, but his notes were ragged and it was not very melodic. However, after finishing he tried it again, and this time did it better. He had lost style points, perhaps, because he had required two tries, but he had done it. That was what counted.

Then Picka played it again, this time with three voices. He carried it through to the end, suddenly glad that he had tackled this supposedly irrelevant exercise.

The monster did well on the first voice and the first overlap, but the third one threw him. He had obviously never practiced a round done this way, and had trouble balancing the offset melodies. He got through again, but in an inferior manner.

Then Picka played all four voices. He covered them perfectly, making a lovely song with the “Oo’s” sounding above the other parts, providing a special flavor. He tapered off at the end, as each voice finished in turn.

When he finished, he looked at Piper—but there was not much to see. The monster had melted into the earth, and was now no more than a messy pool of goo-soaked dirt. He had not even attempted the four-voice variant, and had been defeated. He had paid for it with his substance.

Picka was, in his fashion, sorry. Piper had been a worthy opponent, and probably should have won. Picka had just happened to find the variants that gave him the edge. Maybe in time he would truly become a superior musician, but he owed his victory mostly to luck.

The animals, aware that the music was done, faded back into the forest.

Demon Pundit reappeared. “The verdict?”

“Picka,” Joy’nt said.

“Tweet!”

“And I agree,” the Demon said. It had been a formality, considering the fate of the monster. “Picka Bone, take possession of princess and castle and commence your duties collecting and storing puns. I will expect to see steady progress.” He frowned. “And no messing up.”

“No messing up,” Picka agreed. Then he surprised himself by trying something dangerously daring. “Demon Pundit, I beg a boon.”

The Demon was surprised. “You dare?”

Picka plowed ahead. “Piper is worthy. He did what he had to do. He made a mistake trusting a treacherous woman. He has been punished. He does not deserve extinction. I beg you: spare him.”

“I’ll be bleeped,” the Demon said in wonder. “You are a more generous being than I took you for. But if I spare him, he may interfere with the pun-collecting mission.”

“Not if you put a geis on him not to interfere. He might even help, making the job go faster.”

The Demon pondered a micro-moment. He cared not half a whit for any person, but did want efficient collection. Then the gooey dirt where the monster had melted heaved, and formed into the man, Piper.

“You are spared by Picka’s request,” the Demon told him. “You will retain existence as long as you labor diligently to assist in pun collection. If you enter Caprice Castle you will transform to monster form until you depart it. If you touch Princess Dawn you will dissipate in smoke.” He turned to Picka. “Is that satisfactory?” The sarcasm fairly dripped. “Will you now get to work?”

“First we will need to report to the Good Magician,” Picka said, still dazed by his sudden victory, “so he knows Dawn has completed her mission to tame Caprice Castle and fetch Pundora’s Box.”

“Caprice will take you there, and anywhere else,” Pundit said shortly. He vanished.

Piper spoke. “Thank you for a favor beyond anything I would have done for you. You are not only Xanth’s greatest musician, you bid fair to be Xanth’s best person. You and I have been enemies. That is over. I will support you in every respect to the best of my ability. I will go collect puns.” He turned and strode away.

Dawn jumped up and ran to him. “I knew you could do it, Picka!” she exclaimed, kissing his skull so hard that little heart-shaped skulls flew out.

The Demon reappeared. “One other minor thing: either of you will be able to assume either form at will for as long as you desire, while on the castle premises. The same is true for the two other skeletons, and the giantess if she chooses. You no longer need the transformation spells. Return them to the Good Magician.” He faded.

“Thank you, Demon,” Picka said belatedly.

“Enter the castle, all of you,” Dawn said, also beckoning the sky where Granola stood. “We have a trip to make, and a job to do.” She glanced around. “Plus a phenomenal victory celebration, a royal wedding inside Caprice Castle, and anything else I happen to think of.” She glanced at Picka. “You will assume fleshly form for the wedding, and for the wedding night, until I am quite satisfied.” She winked in a manner that would have unsettled a stork. “I may even tease you by becoming a skeleton while you are in amorous flesh form. Any objections?”

“No, dear,” he agreed dutifully. In fact, her notions threatened to be quite intriguing.

“I knew that,” she said, and kissed him again.

Author’s Note

I planned to start writing this novel SapTimber 1 (Ogre Calendar; their months are more descriptive than the mundane ones) 2009. I cleared all my projects and tag-end chores by the end of AwGhost, so as to have no distractions. It is said that nature abhors a vacuum. Well, nature must have considered that clearance to have been a vacuum, because things came in from left field to take my time. Such as the copyedited manuscript for my historical novel
Climate of Change
, which I had to page through and check. Such as a necessary blood test for a doctor’s appointment. Such as material to review for the high school writer I was mentoreeing. I also answered four or five fan letters those two days. But on the second day of the month I did manage to squeeze in five-hundred-word notes organizing the novel.