Sword Mountain by Nancy Yi Fan

extract information from. And teaching is a good alibi. Draws the least suspicion.”
    â€œNobird will deny that an owl is wise,” said the archaeopteryx. “And wouldn’t it be nice to be somebird important among creatures of the day?”
    â€œTrue, true,” said the owl once more. “I’ll need an unstylish suit, some spectacles, I expect.... Something is still missing.” Tranglarhad paced restlessly. “A weapon for the job,” he muttered.
    â€œA crossbow? An assassin’s blade?”
    The owl laughed. “Holy hoot, no! I need,” said he, “a textbook.” Tranglarhad turned to Kawaka, reaching out a talon. “Give me the Book of Heresy !”
    â€œWhat?” Kawaka leaped aside, hugging the book to his chest. “This is the life work of my emperor.”
    Tranglarhad snatched again. “Only that book will do! Do you or don’t you want me to succeed in stealing the Leasorn gem from the eagles? I am risking a lot if I go to assume this paltry post of tutor and leave my mine to my underlings.” The owl glowered. “You, you who started our pact, are you not willing to make an equal sacrifice?”
    Kawaka unclenched his talons and slowly handed the leatherbound book to the owl. “The moment you return, you give it back to me!” he growled.
    Pleased, Tranglarhad left to prepare.
    He unearthed an antiquated coat and shook its folds heartily, sending forth a moldy cloud of dust. As the initial odor cleared, he sprayed cheap cologne that only made it smell worse. Then he draped his attire over a stalagmite and crept to an underground pool for a bath. Tranglarhad did not recall ever having a bath in his life. I must rise—rinse—to the occasion , he thought, and dipped himself in. His feathers were a drastic shade lighter when he climbed out. As his plumage dried, Tranglarhad used a pair of tiny silver scissors to trim his bristles. He perched a pair of thick round spectacles upon his beak and looked at his reflection in a pool. Suave and debonair, as usual , he thought.
    Satisfied, Tranglarhad put on the old coat and tied on the tackiest bow tie in his possession. He swept several other unfashionable outfits and a gift-wrapped package into a suitcase. “Ah! I almost forgot,” he muttered, and rummaged through his alchemist’s potions to produce a vial containing a single golden pill. This too went into the suitcase. Finally, Tranglarhad surprised Kawaka by packing a bottle of peanut oil and a small black cauldron.
    â€œWhat are those for?” asked the archaeopteryx.
    â€œI have my reasons,” huffed the owl. At length he stood up and tucked the Book of Heresy into the pocket of his coat.
    â€œGood luck,” said Kawaka.
    â€œLuck? I don’t need any.” The owl laughed. And on silent wings, he emerged from the bowels of the mountain and headed for its summit.

    News spread through Skythunder mountain range so that before dawn, dozens of applicants were camped outside the castle waiting for their interviews. A spot in the Iron Nest! With all the bragging rights and privileges attached, it was a true once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
    At noon, the hopefuls were allowed inside. The birds that strutted in with beaks overflowing with verse and poetry stumbled out again within minutes, their feathers quivering and their faces mournful. The line was fast dwindling, but as evening fell, a latecomer appeared. The last applicant sat on his suitcase by his cauldron and waited calmly.
    â€œAll right. Your turn!” shouted a guard.
    The applicant sauntered in, ready to combat the chilling gaze of an austere bird who sat in judgment.
    Queen Sigrid was slumped on her couch, a foot stuck out on a cushion for a pedicure. The applicant blinked with relief. He noted the hummingbird filing the nails on the queen’s toes and repainting them cherry red, and he knew the right words to say.
    â€œElegant choice of