Well-Tempered Clavicle

by Piers Anthony

  * * *

  “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.

  So it continued, with Pundora confined by day, and released by night to share his bed. It seemed ideal to him.

  But not, for some reason, to her. “You think I’m good only for one thing!” she complained.

  “And very good at that,” he agreed.

  “Well, I don’t like being constantly used and boxed. I want to have more of a semblance of a life, as I had before you captured me. Let me go.”

  “I can’t do that,” he said reasonably. “You are a pun, and I am obliged never to release a pun.”

  “At least let me stay in the castle while you go out collecting,” she wheedled.

  “No. It’s against the rule.”

  She sat on his lap. “Pretty please?”

  “No.” But he was weakening.

  She opened her blouse, showing her overflowing bra under his nose. “With honey on it?”

  “No.” But it was getting hard for him to breathe.

  She pulled her skirt out so that now her full panties sat on him, heating his flesh. “With kisses and squeezes on it?” She flexed her bottom.

  His will broke. “Very well. But stay out of mischief while I’m out.”

  “Oh,
thank you!” she exclaimed, kissing him ardently. She was extremely pleased, and excellent at showing it.

  After that session she had to change her blouse, skirt, bra, panties, and socks, which had become hopelessly compromised. Piper hardly noticed. He felt as if he were in danger of floating away.

  So that day he left her free in the castle while he went out collecting.

  When she was alone, Pundora went straight to the basement. She opened the vault, and then the box. She untied the straps that bound it closed, unlocked the lock, and pried up the lid.

  The compressed puns burst out explosively. They whirled around the chamber and siphoned out of the basement. They poured out the castle windows. In no more than half an instant all of them were gone.

  Except one. “Pundora!” he exclaimed. “You did it!”

  “Attila the Pun!” she replied. “I had to rescue you! You are my one and only love.”

  They embraced and kissed. They made love. Then they too fled the castle.

  When Piper returned with a new bag of puns, he discovered the disaster. All the puns of a century’s labors had been lost. But that was not the worst of it. Demon Pundit learned of the loss.

  “You have failed!” he intoned from the air. “You are banished from these premises.”

  Piper fell down in supplication. “Please! I was deceived. It won’t happen again. Give me another chance.”

  Pundit relented half a notch. “Here is your chance: You will be banished until you succeed in marrying a beautiful mortal princess who will come to the castle and manage it in your absence, so that never again will it be untended.”

  “Thank you!”

  “I’m not finished. You deserve some token punishment, so that you properly appreciate the value of what you sacrificed. Until that time, you will be a monster.”

  “But then how will I ever win a lovely princess?”

  “Consider it a challenge.” Then magic power flashed, and Piper became a monster. In fact, he had been changed into something vaguely resembling his instrument: musical pipes.

  Castle Caprice faded, leaving Piper alone on the ground, an awful blob of foul-smelling, musical goo.

  * * *

  Dawn paused in her reading, and the picture froze again. “Challenge? What lovely princess would ever let such a monster touch her?”

  “There must be some theoretical way,” Picka said. “Demons always make sure their wagers can be won, even if the chance is so unlikely as to seem worthless.”

  “True,” Dawn agreed.

  “Pundora’s boyfriend,” Skully said. “Did you catch that? Attila the Pun!”

  “He did refer to a girlfriend,” Joy’nt agreed. “Could that still have been Pundora?”

  “We know what happened to Attila,” Picka said. “I wonder whether we can track Pundora? She is certainly relevant to this History.”

  “Let’s find out,” Dawn said. She returned to her reading.

  * * *

  The scene shifted to Attila and Pundora. He was shaken by his recent captivity, and not pleased by the manner she had rescued him. “You nighted with Piper? Then I’ll night with other girls, as I choose.”

  “I did it to rescue you,” she pointed out.

  “You should have found some other way.”

  She was plainly not pleased, but she dropped the issue. “What do you plan to do now?”

  “I hated being jammed in with all those abysmal puns. I’d like to be rid of all puns!”

  “But you and I are—” She broke off, reconsidering. “Dating,” she concluded.

  “In an open relationship.”

  Again, she stifled her objection. “So let’s go somewhere far, far away and be happy.”

  But his thought had not finished. “In fact, I think I’ll make it my life mission to destroy puns. That way I’ll never be jammed in with those wretched things again.” Now he paused. “But it occurs to me that you and I are—”

  Pundora grabbed him and kissed him. “In love!” she repeated. She proceeded to distract him most effectively, so that his thought never achieved its likely conclusion.

  That was the way it was thereafter. Whenever Attila was in danger of realizing that he himself was a pun to be destroyed, or that she was, she distracted him out of it. This had the incidental advantage of keeping him too busy to pursue other girls, so he was true to her despite his shallow male nature. Thus they had an enduring relationship.

  * * *

  Dawn paused again in the reading. “Uh-oh,” she said.

  “We caught up to Attila while Pundora was away,” Joy’nt said.

  “And acquainted him with the paradox of his nature,” Picka said.

  “And inadvertently abolished him,” Dawn concluded.

  “I wasn’t there for that scene,” Skully said, “but it is my guess that Pundora will not be pleased.”

  “With reason,” Dawn agreed heavily. “But what can she do?”

  “She’s not exactly a woman scorned,” Joy’nt said. “But she may be equivalently dangerous.”

  “True,” Dawn agreed again. “I wish I had held my tongue.”

  “At least there’s a bright side,” Picka said. “It set us up to find Granola, who is really better for our mission than Attila would have been, and nicer too.”

  “Thank you,” the giantess said appreciatively.

  Dawn resumed reading. This time the narrative followed Piper, the banished monster. He looked like a giant mass of bubbling goo, which was not surprising because that was what he was. He traveled by blowing jets of gas out of his underside, and honked by blowing gas out of his topside. He ate by settling on anything organic, dissolving it with digestive acids, and taking it in. This process evidently generated the gas he used, and the way ordinary creatures avoided him suggested that it was a smelly process. In fact, there was a whiff of stink horn in the air as they watched the scene. He was a monster in every sense.

  But he could still play music. His multiple gas vents were organ pipes, and as time passed he became increasingly proficient in blowing them. They heard the music as he practiced, and it was powerful, covering a vast range of notes. He could make phenomenal harmonies.

  “Piper must be the best musician in Xanth,” Dawn murmured, impressed.

  Picka could only agree. He could hardly aspire to music like that.

  “More than that,” Skully said. “With that ugliness and stink, you’d think he couldn’t get close to anyone or anything. But look how he forages.”

  They saw. Piper could run down plants without difficulty, but animals were trickier. Yet he developed a way. He retained his ability to musically summon, weaken, and pacify puns, only now he used it on animals. So when he was hungry, which was often, he played his irresistible music and lured them in to be consumed. It was ugly but effective.

  He could impress regular people too. Sometimes he would pause at a village, and summon the villagers for a musical recital. They came and sat and listened, pacified but appreciative. It was certainly better than having him raid the village, as it was not feasible to oppose him. His music made them unable to resist. Sometimes he lured in maidens, and they half-willingly submitted to his sticky touches because of the magnetism of his music. His form was no longer human but his taste in maidens was unchanged. They were disgusted afterward as they washed and scrubbed to get the goo and stink off, but that was when the compelling music no longer sounded. Again, it was better than having him raid, and perhaps consume them. No villagers spoke of it afterward, partly from fear, partly from shame.

  Princesses, however, forewarned, remained well clear. They did not want to get goo-ed, no matter how lovely and evocative the music. Only ugly princesses, trolls, ogres, or disfigured humans allowed themselves to be reluctantly courted, and they did not qualify to abate his curse. So Piper’s quest for a suitable princess was balked.

  Dawn paused again, and the picture faded. “I’m not sure this actually helps us tame the castle,” she said.

  “There
must be more about the castle,” Granola said.

  Dawn resumed reading. This time the text was about Caprice Castle. It had lost its occupant, and Demon Pundit seemed to be occupied for the moment elsewhere, so it was without direction. However, it was resourceful and set about improving its lot, as it were. What it wanted was a worthy occupant, preferably a prince or king, and a suitable plot of ground to occupy. It had never had its own ground, which was one reason it was compelled to constantly travel. So it traveled, searching somewhat randomly for these things. When it saw a nice piece of land it considered the location, but on closer inspection there was always something wrong with it. When it encountered a prospective occupant, it might allow that person to enter and spend a night, while Caprice studied that person carefully. If the person proved to be unsuitable, Caprice simply moved on, leaving him behind. There were scenes of frustrated one-night occupants standing on the ground where the castle had been. So far, no prospect had proved to be sufficiently worthy. But there was always hope.

  “We’re prospects!” Dawn exclaimed, interrupting her reading. “It’s watching us!”

  “Well, you are a pretty princess,” Joy’nt said. “You should qualify.”

  “It wants a couple,” she said. “I will have to marry Picka first.”

  Picka had given up trying to dissuade her. He shrugged.

  “It doesn’t want just any couple,” Granola reminded them. “Does it consider Picka worthy?”

  “How can we know?” Dawn asked.

  “Maybe there’s more in the History,” Joy’nt suggested.

  Dawn resumed reading. This time there was a surprise: the scene seemed to be contemporary. It was of Pundora, returning to discover Attila gone.

  “What happened here?” she demanded. “Did some hussy steal him away from me?”

  There was an answer from a potato lying on the ground. “You might say that,” it said.

  She glared at it. “You’re a common tater, aren’t you?”

  “Commentator,” it agreed. “My eyes see everything.”

  “So what happened here?”

  “Princess Dawn saved me from getting baked.”

  “I mean, what happened to Attila?”