Rick Riordan
Percy Jackson and the Olympians
47
47
The old man smiled. “Tell me something I don’t know, Icarus. Now hurry. It will take at least
an hour to attach them. Come.”
“You first,” Icarus said.
The old man protested, but Icarus insisted. “You made them, Father. You should get the
honor of wearing them first.”
The boy attached a leather harness to his father’s chest, like climbing gear, with straps that
ran from his shoulders to his wrists. Then he began fastening on the wings, using a metal canister
that looked like an enormous hot-glue gun.
“The wax compound should hold for several hours,” Daedalus said nervously as his son
worked. “But we must let it set first. And we would do well to avoid flying too high or too low. The sea
would wet the wax seals—”
“And the sun’s heat would loosen them,” the boy finished. “Yes, Father. We’ve been through
this a million times!”
“One cannot be too careful.”
“I have complete faith in your inventions, Father! No one has ever been as smart as you.”
The old man’s eyes shone. It was obvious he loved his son more than anything in the world.
“Now I will do your wings, and give mine a chance to set properly. Come!”
It was slow going. The old man’s hands fumbled with the straps. He had a hard time keeping
the wings in position while he sealed them. His own metal wings seemed to weigh him down, getting
in his way while he tried to work.
“Too slow,” the old man muttered. “I am too slow.”
“Take your time, Father,” the boy said. “The guards aren’t due until—”
BOOM!
The workshop doors shuddered. Daedalus had barred them from the inside with a wooden
brace, but still they shook on their hinges.
“Hurry!” Icarus said.
BOOM! BOOM!
Something heavy was slamming into the doors. The brace held, but a crack appeared in the
left door.
Daedalus worked furiously. A drop of hot wax spilled onto Icarus’s shoulder. The boy winced
but did not cry out. When his left wing was sealed into the straps, Daedalus began working on the
right.
“We must have more time,” Daedalus murmured. “They are too early! We need more time for
the seal to hold.”
“It’ll be fine,” Icarus said, as his father finished the right wing. “Help me with the manhole—”
CRASH! The doors splintered and the head of a bronze battering ram emerged through the
breach. Axes cleared the debris, and two armed guards entered the room, followed by the king with
the golden crown and the spear-shaped beard.
“Well, well,” the king said with a cruel smile. “Going somewhere?”
Daedalus and his son froze, their metal wings glimmering on their backs.
“We’re leaving, Minos,” the old man said.
King Minos chuckled. “I was curious to see how far you’d get on this little project before I
dashed your hopes. I must say I’m impressed.”
The king admired their wings. “You look like metal chickens,” he decided. “Perhaps we
should pluck you and make a soup.”
The guards laughed stupidly.
“Metal chickens,” one repeated. “Soup.”
“Shut up,” the king said. Then he turned again to Daedalus. “You let my daughter escape,
old man. You drove my wife to madness. You killed my monster and made me the laughingstock of
the Mediterranean. You will never escape me!”
Icarus grabbed the wax gun and sprayed it at the king, who stepped back in surprise. The
guards rushed forward, but each got a stream of hot wax in his face.
“The vent!” Icarus yelled to his father.
“Get them!” King Minos raged.
Together, the old man and his son pried open the manhole cover, and a column of hot air