Merlin's Booke by Jane Yolen

time.”
    â€œBut … but … but.” It was not a good beginning.
    â€œNo buts,” said the dragon.
    â€œBut …” Artos began again, needing greatly to uphold his end of the conversation.
    â€œShush, boy, and listen. I will pay for your visit.”
    The boy sat. It was not greed that stayed him. Rather, he was comforted by the thought that he was not to be eaten.
    â€œSo, Artos, how would you like your payment? In gold, in jewels, or in wisdom?”
    A sudden flame from the center of the cave lit up the interior and, for the first time, Artos could see that there were jewels scattered about the floor as thick as pebbles. But dragons were known to be great games players. Cunning, like an old habit, claimed the boy. Like most small people, he had a genius for escape. “Wisdom, sir,” he said.
    Another bright flame spouted from the cave center. “An excellent choice,” said the dragon. “I’ve been needing a boy just your age to pass my wisdom on to. So listen well.”
    Artos did not move and hoped that the dragon would see by his attitude that he was listening.
    â€œMy word of wisdom for the day is this: Old dragons, like old thorns, can still prick. And I am a very old dragon. Take care.”
    â€œYes, sir,” said Artos, thinking but not saying that that was a bit of wit often spoken on the streets of the village nestled inside the castle walls. But the warning by the villagers was of priests and thorns, not dragons. Aloud he said, “I will remember. Sir.”
    â€œGo now,” said the dragon. “And as a reward for being such a good listener, you may take that small jewel. There.” The strange clanking that Artos had heard before accompanied the extension of a gigantic foot with four enormous toes, three in the front and one in the back. It scrabbled along the cave floor, then stopped not far from Artos. Then the nail from the center toe extended peculiarly and tapped on a red jewel the size of a leek bulb.
    Artos moved cautiously toward the jewel and the claw. Hesitating a moment, he suddenly leaned over and grabbed up the jewel. Then he scuttered back to the cave entrance.
    â€œI will expect you tomorrow,” said the dragon. “You will come during your time off.”
    â€œHow did you know I had time off?” asked Artos.
    â€œWhen you have become as wise as a dragon, you will know these things.”
    Artos sighed.
    â€œThere is a quick path from the back bridge. Discover it. And you will bring me stew. With meat!” The nail was suddenly sheathed and, quite rapidly, the foot was withdrawn into the dark center of the cave.
    â€œTo—tomorrow,” promised the boy, not meaning a word of it.
    The next morning at the smithy, caught in the middle of a quarrel between Old Linn the apothecary and Magnus Pieter the swordmaker, Artos was reminded of his promise. He had not forgotten the dragon—indeed the memory of the great clanking scales, the giant claw, the shaft of searing breath, the horrendous whisper had haunted his dreams. But he had quite conveniently forgotten his promise, or shunted it aside, or buried it behind layers of caution, until the argument had broken out.
    â€œBut there is never any meat in my gravy,” whined Old Linn.
    â€œNor any meat in your manner,” replied the brawny smith. “Nor were you mete for battle.” The smith rather fancied himself a wordsman as well as a swordsman. And until Old Linn had had a fit, falling face first into his soup in the middle of entertaining the visiting High King, the smith had been spitted regularly by Old Linn’s quick tongue. Now Linn was too slow for such ragging and he never told tales after meals anymore. It was said he had lost the heart for it after his teeth had left prints on the table. But he was kept on at the castle because Lord Ector had a soft heart and a long memory. And because—so backstair gossip had it—Linn