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matter. Surely the getting of wisdom was a time for putting aside feelings of hurt. He’d need a lot of help in reading the dragon’s book. And since none of the other boys could read even half as well as he and Sir Ector couldn’t read at all and Lady Marion must never know about such frightening things as dragons and Father Bertram would burn his book, Old Linn was his only hope.
    As Artos grimly climbed the stairs to the tower, the book weighed heavily under his arm. He rehearsed his speech at each step.
    â€œOld Linn,” he whispered to himself. “Sir Linn.” That was better. “I feel a great need at this time in my life to get wisdom and…” Would he believe that? “I met this dragon the other day and he thought I needed to…” No, best keep the dragon secret. After all, old dragons like old thorns… “I came upon this book and…” Surely Old Linn would know the list of books left over from the Father Bertram’s fires. It was no good. Each step closer to the tower room made the excuses seem feebler.
    There were 113 steps in all. Artos counted them between speeches. 113. A magical-sounding number. The last few steps he had to take in utter darkness because the torch at the top of the stairs by the door had guttered out. When he touched it, he found it so cold he knew it had been dead for hours.
    Because of the darkness, he couldn’t see the many runes on the door. Indeed, he couldn’t see the door, only feel its hard wood under his hand. He found a great metal knocker by feel as well and used it to tap lightly on the door.
    When there was no answer, he hammered more loudly.
    After thirteen loud knocks ( Another magical number, he told himself), he knew there was no one inside. He couldn’t tell if he were unhappy or immeasurably relieved. Trotting down the stairs, he was too late for dinner and too upset to be hungry. So, chancing a whipping by ignoring his after-dinner duties, he went instead to speak to Old Linn’s best friend, the smith.
    â€œCome now, young Art,” the smith called out. “And wasn’t you here just this morning with a grim and gruesome look? What is’t?”
    Artos smiled, all the while trying to think of a way to introduce Old Linn seamlessly into the conversation, but failing.
    â€œShouldn’t you be at work, boy? Shouldn’t I?” asked the smith. “The ayes ( bang ) have it,” he said, turning back to his anvil and starting out on another round of word jokes.
    In order to stop the jokes and, partially because it seemed as good a time as ever, Artos reached up and took the leather bag from around his neck. He fingered it open and drew out the red jewel, dropping it onto the anvil, where it made a funny little pinging sound.
    Magnus Pieter sucked on his lower lip and snorted solemnly through his nose. “God’s truth, boy—where’d you get that stone?” He let the hammer down slowly till it rested by his boot.
    To tell the truth would mean getting swat for a liar, that much Artos knew. So he borrowed the lie he’d prepared to tell Old Linn who was, at any rate, a great deal sharper than the smith.
    â€œI was left it by my mother. Same as this ring.” He lifted out the little golden circle, which could only rest on the tip part of his pinkie, being so tiny and perfect. The lie, using his unknown mother as a base, sat uneasily in his mouth. He was, by inclination, an honest boy though his imagination sometimes led him into a storyteller’s exaggerations. But the smith didn’t seem to notice.
    â€œKept it till now, have you?” Magnus Pieter asked. “Well, well, and of course you have. There’s not much in Beau Regarde to spend such a fine jewel on.”
    â€œIs it fine then?” asked Artos quietly. Up until then he’d no idea if the jewel were real or only colored glass.
    Magnus Pieter nodded, his head moving up and down