Well-Tempered Clavicle (6 page)

“Chopsticks,” Joy’nt said. “Maybe you can play a tune, Picka.”

“No, my music talent is stifled here,” Picka said.

“But you know, that could be a pun,” Dawn said. Then she changed her mind. “No, of course not.”

Picka exchanged a hollow eye-holed glance with Joy’nt. Dawn’s mind had been messed with. That suggested that her original thought was apt, and the Tree did not want her to have it. What was there about the chopsticks?

Picka went to the nook and picked up the two little sticks. Immediately they jerked in his fingers, seeming to possess animation of their own. They rapped down on the table, chipping splinters from it.

“They like to chop!” Joy’nt said. “Well, maybe not.”

So now Joy’nt’s thought was being stifled. That confirmed it.

Picka took the chopsticks and carried them to the Devil Tree. He held them beside its trunk. They started chopping vigorously, chipping the bark.

GO AWAY!
The thought was so strong that Picka stumbled backward. The Tree had evidently been so annoyed by the attack of the chop sticks that it forgot to make the thought seem like his own. But it did stop him from keeping the little sticks close.

“No problem!” Dawn called. “We’re past it, thanks to your distraction.”

Oh. Picka returned the sticks to the dining nook, then walked across to join the others. It seemed they had navigated the third Challenge.

A formerly hidden door in the castle wall opened. “Welcome, visitors!” a woman called. “Come on in.”

“Hello, Wira,” Dawn said. “It’s so nice to see you again.” The two women hugged. “And these are Picka and Joy’nt Bone, and the three former Baldwin Family pets, Woofer, Tweeter, and Midrange.”

“Of course,” Wira agreed. She petted Woofer, stroked Midrange, and proffered her shoulder as a perch for Tweeter. “Dara has treats for all of you.”

“Dara?” Joy’nt asked.

“Magician Humfrey’s Designated Wife of the Month,” Wira explained. “She was his first, and doesn’t mind returning one month in six, though she says that’s about all she can take of him.”

“A demoness?”

“He was young then,” Wira confided. “She tempted him, but then became impatient, so he moved on to the Maiden Taiwan. It’s a long story that we don’t speak of much today.”

“In Xanth a man is supposed to have only one wife at a time,” Dawn said. “But in the course of a century or so Humfrey had five and a half different wives. So now they take turns. Ah, here we are.”

They had arrived at the main reception hall. There was Dara, resplendent in a royal gown. But as they approached it shifted to an ordinary housedress, then to bra and panties, and on to a business suit.

“Oh, bleep!” Dara swore. “I forgot your friend is a skeleton. Illicit flashes won’t freak him.”

“True,” Dawn agreed cheerfully. “He doesn’t even like meaty panties.”

Dara became a skeleton with glowing bones. That made Picka take note. He found himself leaning against a wall. Some time must have passed, because the three animals were finishing snacks that Picka had never seen served.

“Ha!” Dara said. “I did freak him out.”

That made him wonder whether a demoness could be a good girlfriend for him. There were very few walking skeletons in Xanth proper, but many demonesses. Obviously they could be attractive when they tried. But then he realized that most Demonesses wouldn’t have the patience to mess with a dull skeleton.

“So when may I see the Good Magician?” Dawn asked.

“Oh, you won’t be seeing him this time,” Dara said. “He’s busy with something else. But I can brief you.”

“Something else!” Dawn said, tiny sparks snapping from her eyes. “I went through this bleeping Challenges charade just to have him ignore me?”

“At ease, Princess,” Dara said, not at all intimidated. “Humfrey asked me to explain your Service to you.”

“When he hasn’t even given me an Answer?”

“He says you’ll find your ideal significant other by the time you complete the mission.”

Dawn subsided. “He does arrange things that way, sometimes,” she said. “So there is a suitable prince for me?”

“There is an ideal male for you,” Dara said. “I’m not sure whether he’s a prince, but Humfrey says he will be more than worthy of you, and you’ll be well satisfied when the time comes. Now are you ready to learn about the mission?”

Dawn sighed. Her normally straight nose had become slightly crooked. It was evident she wasn’t accustomed to being treated this way—no princess was—but of course the Good Magician was a rule unto himself. A whole complex of rules, as the matter of five and a half wives demonstrated. If she wanted her Answer, she would have to cooperate. “Yes,” she said.

“Humfrey has learned, after a century or so, the whereabouts of Pundora’s Box. He means to recover it.”

“Pandora’s Box?” Dawn asked. “Isn’t that Mundane? It held all the blessings and curses, and when Pandora opened it they all escaped, which is why Mundania is such an awful place. What would the Good Magician want with it? It’s empty, after all, except maybe for one blessing, Hope. We learned about it in Comparative Magic class.” She yawned delicately, clearly not much interested.

“Pundora’s Box,” Dara repeated. “With a U. Pundora was the Xanth equivalent. When she opened the Box, all the confined puns escaped, and they have been infesting Xanth ever since. The only thing that will contain them for any length of time is the original box, securely closed. But though it is possible to sweep up errant puns—if you have a strong stomach—that is pointless, because the Box has been lost. Until now.”

Picka got interested. “So now those puns can be put back in the Box, and not soil Xanth anymore?”

“Exactly,” Dara agreed. “It will finally be possible to clean up Xanth. ’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.”

“But isn’t Xanth mostly made of puns?” Joy’nt asked. “If all of them were taken out, there might not be much left.”

“We’ll be selective. Only the worst riffraff will be culled, at first. Then we’ll see about what else is expendable.”

“Once you recover the Box,” Dawn said. “Where is it?”

“That is another story,” Dara said. “Every time Humfrey got a fix on the Box, and sought to fetch it in, its location changed. It was almost as if the Box knew it was being tracked, and sought to escape. Which doesn’t seem sensible. Why would the Box care? But though Humfrey knows just about everything about everything, somehow that knowledge escaped him. It was frustrating. It made him grumpy.”

“For over a century?” Dawn asked. “That would explain a lot.”

“It does,” Dara agreed. “His grumpiness is legendary. All five and a half of us wives are highly aware of it. Now we know why. We must recover that Box, and not just because of the potential pun cleanup.”

“Yes,” Dawn agreed. “A way to reduce the Good Magician’s grumpiness would be a significant service to Xanth. He might even start seeing querent princesses instead of snubbing them.”

Dara smiled, evidently amused by Dawn’s irony. “Even that, perhaps,” she agreed. “I am glad you appreciate the importance.”

“I do. So exactly where is the Box? I presume my mission will be to go fetch it.”

“Not exactly. Pundora’s Box is in Caprice Castle.”

“What castle? I think I know all the castles of Xanth, but I never heard of that one.”

“It’s a feral castle, escaped from some long-forgotten Magician, never officially classified because it never remained in one place long enough to be identified. Legend has it that it seeks a worthy occupant, scaring off unworthy ones, so has a reputation for being haunted. But Humfrey says it was never haunted, just choosy. So it keeps traveling, looking, but is never satisfied. Maybe it likes being wild, and is only pretending to look for a suitable occupant.”

Picka was interested again. “This castle—Caprice—is alive?”

“We don’t think so, at least not exactly. It may be like you, Picka, animate without being alive. Possibly it derives from demon stock. It does seem to have a will of its own.”

“And it travels,” Joy’nt said. “How does it do that? Does it have legs?”

“No legs,” Dara said, smiling again. “It merely fades out from one location and fades in at another. There’s no implosion or explosion of displaced air. It’s completely silent.”

“Maybe it’s illusion,” Dawn said.

“No, it’s quite solid.”

“How do you know, if nobody can catch it?”

“Nobody catches it, but people have nighted in it on occasion. They report that it’s an excellent host, with good food, soft beds, and all the other amenities. But when it goes, it goes, and they are left standing on empty ground.” Dara paused thoughtfully. “They say that it seems to be studying them, in some manner. We suspect it is considering them for permanent occupation, but when they prove unworthy, it moves on. So it’s still looking, as it has for centuries.”

“You think I might be considered worthy?” Dawn asked. “That it might stay put for me?”

“We suspect that you might be half-worthy,” Dara said. “The other half would be the Master, your husband. When you find him and marry him.”

Dawn brightened. “You saw me coming! You’re getting two birds with one arrow! I need a good man to catch that castle, and you’re making me capture the castle in return for getting that man. What connivance!”

“Humfrey can be devious,” Dara agreed. “Your mission will be to find and tame Caprice Castle. We suspect it will not be easy, even if it finds you worthy. This is a very choosy edifice.”

“Let me see if I understand correctly,” Dawn said seriously. “You can’t tell me where this castle is, because it moves without a forwarding address. So I have to catch it on my own, persuade it to accept me, and nail it down so you can recover Pundora’s Box.”

“That is the essence,” Dara agreed.

“How the bleep do you expect me to find it when it moves randomly?” Dawn demanded.

“Humfrey didn’t tell me that.”

“Which must be why he’s not showing his gnomelike face.” Dawn frowned, pondering. “Maybe I should decline to take this mission.”

“But we really need to get that Box,” Dara protested. “Xanth has survived so far, but it will be overwhelmed by idiotic puns if something isn’t done soon.”

Picka got an idea. “How does the Good Magician track the Box?”

“You are an empty-headed genius,” Dawn said. She looked at Dara. “Well?”

Now Wira answered. She had been so quiet they had forgotten she was still there. “He doesn’t track it constantly, just when he’s in touch with someone who can track it. He gave me a small list of people.” She produced the list.

“Let me see that,” Dawn said, taking it. She looked at it. “Attila the Pun?”

“He hates puns, and destroys them relentlessly,” Wira said. “Somehow he knows where they are. His subtitle is the Punisher.”

“And where is Attila?”

“He moves about, seeking puns to destroy.”

“So we have to track down Attila, so he can track down the Box,” Dawn said. “And how to we do that?”

“He has a distinctive savage primitive odor. Woofer will be able to wind it from some distance, after Tweeter locates a region of freshly dead puns.”

“So all the members of our party will contribute to the effort?”

“In time,” Dara agreed.

“And is there anything else we should know before we start?”

“Yes,” Wira said. “The Good Magician will see Picka and Joy’nt Bone now.”

“He will see them but not me? Exactly whose Quest is this?” Dawn demanded. Now her nose was definitely out of joint.

“Yours. But the skeletons aren’t normal people. They need some assistance.”

“Still, if it’s my Quest—”

“Some definitions,” Dara said firmly. “You are the person with the Quest. But Picka is the protagonist.”

“The what?”

“The viewpoint character. The one from whose perspective the Muse of History will relate the narrative. Protagonists warrant special attention, even if they are merely assisting the main enterprise.”

“But I don’t warrant that,” Picka protested. “I’m just a no-account spook.”

“For the moment, yes,” Dara said. “But things may change.”

Dawn’s nose was bent so badly it was threatening to snap in half. “He’s the main character of this narrative? How does he rate that?”

“Oh, it’s a pretty standard convention. The protagonist needs to be an apt observer. Often a bystander can do that more effectively than the action figure.”

“I am a bystander?” Picka asked. It was just as well he didn’t have a nose, because it would have strained its joint.

“It is important to pick the correct bystander,” Dara said patiently. “One who witnesses most of the most important activities. You happen to be that one.”

“So he’s along to notice what I’m doing?” Dawn asked, her nose relaxing somewhat.

“Yes, approximately. At least until he becomes an action figure himself.”

Picka would have liked to learn more, but Wira was urging him and Joy’nt to follow her. So they left Dawn and the pets to question Dara, while the two of them followed Wira up the narrow winding stairway to the Good Magician’s dingy office.

There he was, a small, wizened, and, yes, gnomelike man seated before a giant open tome, which he was perusing intently.

“Father Humfrey, here are Picka and Joy’nt Bone,” Wira said, introducing them.

The Good Magician looked up. “Give them the spell,” he said grumpily.

Wira delved into her pocket and produced two small spheres, which she handed to the two of them.

“What spell is this?” Joy’nt asked, looking at hers.

“Transformation,” Humfrey answered. “When you invoke it, it will transform you to a living person, for one hour. Then you will revert to your natural state. You will not be able to invoke it again that day, so don’t waste it.”

“A living person?” Picka asked. “With meat on my bones?”

“Gobs,” Humfrey agreed with the trace of a smile.

“Why would we ever want to do that?” Joy’nt asked, repelled.

“To conceal your identities, if the necessity arises.” Humfrey frowned. His face was marvelously formulated for that. “Do not allow any other person to use that spell. It is for the two of you alone.”

“We’re not ashamed of our nature,” Picka said. “We don’t mind who knows we are walking skeletons.”