Matt reflected that she must have spent a great deal of time as a cat for its behavior to come so naturally to her. He wondered if the same traits would show in her human form, too, and realized that he had rarely seen her so. He was far more used to seeing her as a cat and made a mental note to be careful not to address her as a kitten when she was in girl-form. An offer to pet her might have drastic consequences.
The carpet rose, slipping to and fro in the evening breeze.
Matt recited,
He wondered if it really meant anything, but the rug seemed to have no problem. It rose in expanding circles, absolutely thriving on Matt’s nonsense verse. He decided to call it postmodemism and let it go at that.
Balkis stared down as the carpet banked, claws stabbing into Matt’s robe. He gritted his teeth and bore the pain, glad the cloth was thick and understanding her fear—he had a lot of it, himself. Flying in a nice, safe jet was one thing. Even flying wedged between the backplates of a dragon was okay. But sitting on a tilting, rocking piece of fabric without even a seat belt was something else entirely.
When he judged they were high enough, he chanted,
“Monotonous, that,” Balkis mewed disdainfully, only a slight tremor left in her voice.
“I know,” Matt said, “but you’d be surprised how far it took some people.”
“How far will it take us?” the cat asked.
The carpet veered away from the thermal, levelled off, and sailed through the night.
“Until we start getting sleepy,” Matt answered. “Then I think we’d better find a nice sheer-sided mountain with a fiat top and camp for the day.”
“A sound plan,” Balkis admitted, but for a moment, the adoration shone from her eyes—only a moment, quickly masked under a haughty feline stare, but enough to chill Matt with apprehension. Sheer good manners and feline pride might prevent her from declaring her feelings—but if they didn’t, how was he going to let her down gently?
A substitute single, of course. Matt decided to be on the lookout for something handsome, masculine, and nearer Balkis’ own age—but should it be a man or a tom?
They sailed over the mountains of the Hindu Kush as night fell. The rug had to climb pretty high to clear their tops, and Matt shivered in his low-country light-cotton robes. Balkis, on the other hand, simply fluffed out her fur and was fine. Matt considered shape-changing himself, then remembered what he’d been thinking about a handsome young tomcat and sheered away from the idea. Of course, he could become a Pekingese, but he wasn’t up for a cat-and-dog fight at several thousand feet of altitude. Some other species—say, a fawn or a raccoon … Then he remembered that at his age, he wouldn’t show up as a fawn but as a passing buck and that cats didn’t generally get on too well with raccoons. With a sigh, he gave it up for the moment.
Down they dove into Afghanistan, sailing on through the gloaming.
“Were we not going to camp for the night?” Balkis asked.
“What are you worried about?” Matt asked. “You can still see.”
“Yes, but I am anxious because you cannot. Where is this flat-topped mountain of yours?”
“Should be any minute now—the foothills of the Himalayas … There!” Matt pointed off to their right.
Balkis looked, with night vision considerably better than his own, and said, “That would seem to have a flat top and sides too sheer for even a chamois.”
Matt noted the European word and regretfully decided that being back in Central Asia hadn’t jogged Balkis’ memory. Still, this was only southern Central Asia, and with only a cat’s brain for storage, she might not have all that much memory accessible. He sang,
The rug slowed, slanted downward, then coasted to the center of the plateau and settled as gently as a feather.
Balkis sprang off, stumbled, and righted herself with offended dignity. “This contraption has stolen my footing!”
“No, you just readjusted to a constantly moving surface.” Matt stood up, feeling his legs protest at having been immobile for so long. “You’ll find you’ll get your land legs back in no time at all.”
Balkis took a few suspicious steps and decided she was stable. “I shall hunt dinner then” she said, and trotted off.
“Hey, come back!” Matt called. “This plateau is barren—that’s what I like about it! Nothing to bother us!”
“But also nothing to eat.” Balkis turned back to him with a glare. “Will you magic up a hot supper, wizard?”
Matt frowned, shaking his head. “Don’t like to use a spell for so mundane a purpose—too much chance of tipping off Arjasp or his minions to our whereabouts. It’s chancy enough using a magical flying rug.”
“Then where are these birds you promised me we would catch on the wing?”
“Well … um …” Matt looked up at the twilit sky, hoping to spot an early owl or a late hawk. Sure enough, a spot moved against the wash of gray.
Balkis followed his gaze, tail twitching. “Let us rise to chase it!”
“Well, I really wanted to stretch my legs a little longer, but I suppose a bird in the sky is worth two in the nest.” Matt folded himself back onto the carpet with a sigh. “Jump aboard.”
Balkis did, and Matt thought for a second, then chanted,
“Can you compel by such single verses?” Balkis’ voice was heavy with doubt.
“Only one way to find out,” Matt said. “Up, carpet, but slowly, then gather speed as you follow that bird!”
The carpet drifted up from the plateau, then sailed into the evening sky, going faster and faster as it rose toward the dot above.
“I see wings.” Balkis tensed.
“Yes, and I see a tail.” Matt frowned. “We can’t be going that fast-the wind would be blowing us flat!”
“It grows larger still,” Balkis reported.
“Much too much larger!” Matt stared in disbelief as the bird descended to fill half the sky. “That’s no early owl—that’s a late roc!”
The golden-brown feathers swung low enough to fill all the rest of the sky, and a bass scream made the whole world shake as talons the size of semitrailers closed about the carpet, the cat, and the man.
CHAPTER 11
Balkis yowled, claws hooking—into the carpet, fortunately, not into Matt. “Wizard, save us!”
“Not in the best position to chant a spell,” Matt grunted with a talon pressing through the carpet around his waist.
“There must be something your magic can do!”
Matt racked his brains and came to the startling conclusion that a bird that size wouldn’t be out that late of its own accord—the land was cooling off, and the thermals were turning to glacials. What was there to glide on?