Part 9 (2/2)
”You still can't fly?”
Che spread his wings and flicked his side. He did not lighten. ”Correct.”
”It is interesting the way these Challenges are tailored to the querents,” she remarked. ”An ogre could bash his way out.”
”I suspect an ogre would find his strength missing. He would have to use his mind.”
”His what?”
Che had to smile. ”True-ogres are justifiably proud of their stupidity. But he might make a face and scare a wall into collapsing.”
”Yes, I understand that an ogress can curdle milk with half a glare.”
”And crack a mirror just by thinking of looking into it. But this isn't solving this Challenge. I suppose you could reach the top of the wall by standing on my back and jumping, but I would be too heavy for you to pull up after you.”
”Surely so. Still, it would not hurt for me to look. There might be a ladder on the other side that I could pa.s.s back to you.”
Che looked down at his four hooves. ”I don't think I could use a ladder.”
”Maybe a long board for a ramp.”
He nodded. ”You seem to be thinking better than I am.”
”Unlikely. Everybody knows zombies have rotten brains.”
”What everyone knows is not necessarily true.”
She glanced obliquely at him. ”I gather you're not much for conventional prejudice.”
”Not much,” he agreed. But he had to admit to himself that he had made a reasonable effort of prejudice, before getting better acquainted with this zombie.
He went to stand beside a wall, and she got on his back, then carefully stood. ”I can't quite reach the top.”
”Maybe if I stand on a crate.” But the crates were in poor repair, and he couldn't find any he could safely use.
”Maybe if you just lift me with your hands,” she suggested.
”I can try.”
”I'll delete some weight.” She removed her small helmet, letting her hair hang loose, and her short sword.
He stood beside the wall again, and she stood before him. He put his hands on her waist just above her metallic skirt, and lifted. She came up, surprisingly light; she was a slender woman. In a moment her nice knees were before his face.
”Not quite high enough,” she said. ”My fingers can't quite catch the top.”
”I can't lift you higher,” he said. ”In fact, I can't hold you here long. My arms aren't strong.”
”Let me get on your shoulders.” She lifted her right leg and put her metallic slipper on his left shoulder. Then she stepped up with the other foot. Now she was squatting over his head. ”Don't let go; I'm unsteady. Just slide your hands down my legs and take another grip so I can stand.”
He did so. Her legs were marvelously sleek and firm. He found her knees, and gripped just below them.
Then she straightened her legs. Her balance s.h.i.+fted. He glanced up, trying to judge which way she was leaning, so he could correct it-and caught a glimpse of her inner thighs and metallic panty. I'm not human, he thought determinedly. I can't freak out. That steadied him, and he in turn steadied her. He had thought that human men were foolish to freak out at the sight of female human underwear, but that peek under her skirt had given him a jolt. There was definitely magic there.
”Got it!” she said, and suddenly her knees slid out of his grasp as she hauled herself up. In two moments she was sitting on the top of the wall, dangling her feet. A light breeze ruffled her loose hair. She was looking increasingly feminine.
”Good enough,” he said, gratified that they had succeeded to this extent. A silvery image remained in his mind, and he realized that it was the memory of that panty. The magic was still trying to get him, attacking his human aspect. ”Anything you can fetch for me?”
Zyzzyva looked around. ”Nice gardens all around, girt by similar walls. This seems to be one of those greenhouse puzzles, with hedges and paths and barriers every which way. We just happened to land in a closed section.”
”By no coincidence, I think.”
”I don't see anything I could fetch that could help you. Shall I come down?”
”No need. I'll just have to find my own way clear.”
He reconsidered the yard. There were the battered crates, a.s.sorted wood boards, several partial rolls of canvas fabric, a short length of chain left over from something, a half full box of nails with a rusty hammer, and several huge feathers weighted down by stones. He smiled. Did someone think the feathers would fly away by themselves?
Then he re-reconsidered. Could those be roc flight feathers? If so, they could indeed fly; they were what enabled the big birds to do it.
He trotted to one of them, took hold of its quill, and rolled the stone off. Immediately the feather sailed up, eager to fly. It was indeed a flight feather. It was all he could do to hold it down. It took a lot of lift to launch a roc, so the magic was strong.
Now the rest of it fell into place. He could use the other junk to build a craft to anchor the feathers, a flying machine that would carry him out of here. That was the solution to this riddle.
He got to work. As it happened, the boards and bits and nails were the right size to make a crude boatlike vessel. Happened? That had been the point all along, just waiting for him to catch on. He felt stupid for not doing so before, and he did not like feeling stupid.
Soon he had a craft with a canvas rudder operated by the chain, a central basin large enough for a lying centaur, and oarlocks for six big feathers. He fitted the feathers one by one, weighting each down with its stone, until all six were securely in place.
Now at last he was ready to fly. But he paused. Once he removed the stones, those feathers would fly, carrying him up. But how would he land again? He would not be able to weight them down again once he was airborne.
”You have a problem?” Zyzzyva asked from above.
”Yes. I'm not sure how to land this flying machine, once I'm aloft.”
”Why will you need to?”
This seemed like a stupid question, but he answered carefully. ”Because a fall from the heights could be dangerous if not lethal.”
”But once you're clear of the Challenge, won't your own power of flight return?”
Che's jaw actually dropped. She was of course correct. He would have no need to land the flying machine; he could land far more conveniently on his own. ”Once again, your brains are functioning better than mine.”
”Thank you. But I wonder: a.s.suming it flies away, never to return, what will happen to it?”
”I suppose it will crash somewhere. Does it matter?”
”Yes, it matters. That machine is like a zombie, having a kind of half-life. It should not be thrown away after it gives good service.”
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