Well-Tempered Clavicle by Piers Anthony Page A

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.”
    But Humfrey had already returned his attention to his tome. He had tuned them out.
    They put the spells into their skulls for safekeeping and returned to the downstairs room, bemused. Picka doubted they would ever use the spell. The very idea of living meat on his bones was sickening.
    Dawn faced them as they returned. “I think we’re done here,” she said, evidently reconciled to her nonprotagonist status. “Let’s go.”
    Picka was happy to agree. He was not entirely comfortable with the revelations they had received.
    “There is a spell for Dawn too,” Wira said, bringing out another small ball.
    “What’s this?” Down asked, hardly mollified.
    “A transport spell.