The Rithmatist

CHAPTER




There! Joel thought with satisfaction, snapping the book closed. After two weeks, he’d finished all of the census records.

He flipped through the stack of papers. The oldest page listed the graduates eighty years back, and he’d been able to cross off every name on that list. The same for the next seven or eight years. The lists went all the way up to the graduates from one year ago. Only one of those had died—during an accident at Nebrask.

Along with the other reports, Joel had also included a special list of Rithmatists who had vanished, their whereabouts unknown. There weren’t any of those that had happened recently—save for Lilly Whiting—but he figured that Fitch might be interested.

He reached over to twist the key in the lantern beside his library desk, letting the clockwork wind down and the light spin out. He was surprised at the sense of accomplishment he felt.

He tucked the pile of sheets under his arm, grabbed the books he’d been working on, and walked through the library. It was late—he had probably missed dinner. He’d been so close, he hadn’t been able to stop.

The library was a maze of bookshelves, though most of them were only about five feet tall. Other people worked in some of the alcoves, their lamps giving each one a flickering light. The building would close soon, expelling its hermitlike occupants.

Joel passed Ms. Torrent, the librarian, then pushed his way out onto the green. He crossed the grounds in the near darkness, trying to decide if he’d be able to beg some food off the kitchen staff. However, he’d just finished something big—he didn’t want to go eat; he wanted to share it with someone.

It isn’t even ten yet, Joel thought, glancing toward the Rithmatic campus. Professor Fitch will still be up. He’d want to know that Joel was finished, wouldn’t he?

Decision made, Joel took off across the grounds, passing between pockets of light shining from clockwork lanterns, with their spinning gears and shining coils. He passed a familiar figure sitting on the green outside the Rithmatist dormitory.

“Hey, Melody,” he said.

She didn’t look up from her sketch pad as she drew by the light of the lantern.

Joel sighed. Melody, apparently, knew how to hold a grudge. He had apologized for his wisecrack three times, but still she wouldn’t speak to him. Fine, he thought. Why should I care?

He moved past her quickly and arrived at Warding Hall with a spring in his step. He climbed the stairs to Fitch’s door and knocked eagerly.

The professor opened the door a few moments later. Joel was right—the man hadn’t even gotten ready for bed. He still wore his white vest and long Rithmatist’s coat. He looked frazzled—hair disheveled, eyes unfocused. But, then, that wasn’t odd for Fitch.

“What? Hum?” Fitch said. “Oh, Joel. What is it, lad?”

“I finished!” Joel said, holding up the stack of papers and books. “I’m done, Professor. I got through every single ledger!”

“Oh. Is that so?” Fitch’s voice was almost monotone. “Wonderful, lad, that’s wonderful. You worked so hard.” With that, Fitch walked away, almost as if he were in a daze, leaving Joel at the door.

Joel lowered the stack of papers. That’s it? he thought. I spent two weeks on this! I worked evenings! I stayed up late when I should have been sleeping!

Fitch wandered back to his desk at the corner of the L-shaped office. Joel entered and pushed the door closed. “It’s just what you wanted, Professor. All the names indexed. Look, I even kept a list of disappearances!”

“Yes, thank you, Joel,” Fitch said, sitting. “You can leave the papers on that stack over there.”

Joel felt a sharp disappointment. He set the papers down, and a sudden horror struck him. Had it all been busywork? Had Fitch and the principal devised this entire research assistant plan to keep Joel out of trouble? Would his lists be forgotten and gather dust like the hundreds of tomes crammed into the hallways?

Joel looked up, trying to dismiss those thoughts. Professor Fitch sat huddled over his desk, leaning with his left elbow on the top, left hand on the side of his face. His other hand tapped a pen against a piece of paper.

“Professor?” Joel asked. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine,” Fitch said in a tired voice. “Well, I just … I feel I should have figured things out by now!”

“Figured what out?” Joel asked, picking his way through the room.

Fitch didn’t answer—he seemed too distracted by the papers on his desk. Joel tried another tactic.

“Professor?”

“Hum?”

“What would you like me to do now? I’ve finished the first project. I assume you have something else to fill my time?” Something having to do with what you’re working on?

“Ah, well, yes,” Fitch said. “You did so well at that research; worked far more quickly than I expected. You must enjoy that sort of thing.”

“I wouldn’t say that…” Joel said.

Fitch continued. “It would be very useful if you tracked down the locations of all the Rithmatists living here on the island who have retired from their service in Nebrask. Why don’t you get started on that?”

“Track down…” Joel said. “Professor, how would I even start something like that?”

“Hum? Well, you could look through the last year’s census, then compare the names on it to the names on the lists of graduates from the various academies.”

“You’re kidding me,” Joel said. He knew just enough to realize that the project Fitch was talking about could take months to get through.

“Yes, yes,” Fitch said. He was obviously barely paying attention. “Very important…”

“Professor?” Joel asked. “Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

Fitch looked up, focusing, as if seeing Joel there for the first time. “Something happen…?” Fitch asked. “Didn’t you hear, lad?”

“Hear what?”

“Another student vanished last night,” Fitch said. “The police released information about it this afternoon.”

“I’ve been in the library all afternoon,” Joel said, stepping up to the desk. “Was it another Rithmatist?”

“Yes,” Fitch said. “Herman Libel. A pupil from my old class.”

“I’m sorry,” Joel said, noting the distressed look in Fitch’s eyes. “Do they still think a Rithmatist is behind the disappearances?”

Fitch looked up. “How do you know that?”

“I … Well, you have me searching out the locations of Rithmatists, and the principal told me you were working on an important project for the federal inspectors. It seemed obvious.”

“Oh,” Fitch said. He glanced down at the papers. “So, you know this is my fault, then.”

“Your fault?”

“Yes,” Fitch said. “I was the one in charge of deciphering this puzzle. But so far I have nothing! I feel useless. If I’d been able to figure this out earlier, then perhaps poor Herman wouldn’t have … well, who knows what happened to him?”

“You can’t blame yourself, Professor,” Joel said. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is,” Fitch said. “I’m responsible. If I hadn’t proven unable to do this task…” Fitch sighed. “Perhaps York should have given this problem to Professor Nalizar.”

“Professor!” Joel said. “Nalizar might have beaten you in a duel, but he’s not even twenty-five years old. You’ve spent a lifetime studying Rithmatics. You’re a far better scholar than he is.”

“I don’t know…” Fitch said. On the desk, Joel could see several sheets with detailed notes and drawings, all in ink.

“What’s this?” Joel asked, pointing at a sketch. It appeared to be a simplified Matson Defense. Or, rather, what was left of one. The detailed sketch showed numerous chunks missing—as if pieces of the defense been clawed free by chalklings. Even where the lines weren’t breached, they were scored and uneven.

Fitch covered the sheet with his arms. “It’s nothing.”

“Maybe I can help.”

“Lad, you just told me that Professor Nalizar seemed too inexperienced at age twenty-four. You’re sixteen!”

Joel froze. Then he nodded, wincing. “Yes, of course. I’m not even a Rithmatist. I understand.”

“Don’t be like that, lad,” Fitch said. “I don’t mean to disparage you, but … well, Principal York told me to be very quiet about this. We don’t want to create a panic. To be honest, we don’t even know if foul play is involved—perhaps it’s just coincidence, and those two young people both decided to run away.”

“You don’t believe that,” Joel said, reading Professor Fitch’s expression.

“No,” he admitted. “There was blood found at both scenes. Not a lot of it, mind you, but some. No bodies though. The children were hurt, then taken somewhere.”

Joel felt a chill. He knelt down beside the desk. “Look, Professor, the principal gave me to you as a research assistant, right? Wouldn’t that imply that he expected me to be involved in this project? I know how to keep a secret.”

“It’s more than that, lad,” Fitch said. “I don’t want to involve you in anything dangerous.”

“Whatever is going on,” Joel said, “it only seems to target Rithmatists, right? So, maybe that’s why Principal York sent me. I know a lot about Rithmatics, but I can’t make the lines. I should be safe.”

Fitch sat for a moment in thought. Then he moved his arms to show the notes on his desk. “Well, the principal did give you this assignment. And to be honest, it would be nice to have someone I could talk to about it. I’ve looked these sketches over hundreds of times!”

Joel leaned in eagerly, looking over the drawings.

“They were made by police at the scene of Lilly Whiting’s disappearance,” Fitch said. “I can’t help but wonder if the officers who did the sketches might have missed recording something. The intricacies of Rithmatic sketches should not be left to laymen!”

“It’s the remnants of a Matson Defense,” Joel said.

“Yes,” Fitch said. “Lilly and her parents attended a dinner party the evening of the disappearance. She left the party early, sometime around ten. When her parents got home a few hours later, they found the front door broken in and this chalk drawing in the middle of the living room floor. Lilly was nowhere to be found, either at the house or at the academy.”

Joel studied the sketch. “Her lines were attacked by chalklings. Lots of them.”

“Poor child,” Fitch said softly. “They found blood inside the circle. Whoever did this knew the Glyph of Rending. That implies they were at Nebrask.”

“But she could still be alive, right?”

“We can hope.”

“What are you supposed to do?” Joel asked.

“Discover who is doing this,” Fitch said. “Or at least provide the inspector with as much information as I can about the perpetrator.”

“All from one drawing?” Joel asked.

“Well, there are these,” Fitch said, pulling over two more papers. They were sketches, realistically rendered, much like one might see an art student do of a bowl of fruit. The first was what appeared to be a sketch of a wooden floor, the second a section of a brick wall. Both had fragments of lines crossing them.

“What are those lines?” Joel asked.

“I’m not sure. They were drawn with chalk, the first on the entryway right inside the house, the second on the wall outside the house.”

“Those aren’t Rithmatic lines,” Joel said. The first was sharp and jagged, like spiked peaks. The second was a looping line that spun around upon itself, like a child’s swirl. Something about that one seemed oddly familiar to Joel.

“Yes,” Fitch said. “Why would someone draw these lines? Are they to throw us off and confuse us? Or is there more?”

Joel pointed back at the first sketch, the one that was a reproduction of a Matson Defense. “We assume Lilly drew this?”

“A cast-off piece of chalk was discovered near the circle,” Fitch said. “It was of Armedius composition. In addition, this Matson pattern is one of my own. Each professor teaches the defenses in a slightly different way, and I recognize my students’ work. This was Lilly’s circle for certain. She was one of my best, you know. Very bright.”

Joel studied the circle. “That … was attacked by a lot of chalklings, Professor,” he said. “Maybe too many. They would have gotten in the way of each other. Whoever did this didn’t have a very good strategy.”

“Yes,” Fitch said. “Either that, or his strategy was simply to overwhelm.”

“Yes,” Joel said, “but last week—when you had Melody and me draw for you—you told us that the Matson Defense was strong against Lines of Making. You said that the best thing to use against it was Lines of Vigor. There aren’t any Vigor blast marks on this circle—just chews and claw marks from chalklings.”

“Very good, Joel,” Fitch said. “You do have a good eye for Rithmatics. I noticed that too, but what does it tell us?”

“He couldn’t have drawn that many chalklings quickly,” Joel said. “To get through a Matson, he’d have to have very detailed, strong chalklings. The defender always has an advantage, since the bind point gives their chalklings strength. Considering that, it’s doubtful that the attacker could have completed enough strong chalklings to do this kind of damage in the same amount of time it took the defender to draw a Matson.”

“Which means…”

“The chalklings were already drawn,” Joel realized. “That explains why there was no circle discovered for the attacker! He didn’t need one to defend himself, since Lilly wouldn’t have had time to mount any kind of offense. The attacker must have had his chalklings waiting somewhere, blocked off by Lines of Forbiddance until Lilly was close. Then he let them loose.”

“Yes!” Fitch said. “Precisely what I think!”

“But that would be nearly impossible,” Joel said. Chalklings were very difficult to control—one had to give them precise, simple instructions. Things like: walk forward, then turn right when you hit the wall. Or: walk forward, then attack when you find chalk. “How could someone possibly have managed to break through the door, then guide an army of chalklings at Lilly?”

“I don’t know,” Fitch said. “Though I wonder if it has to do with these other two lines. I’ve spent the last two weeks searching for clues in my texts. Perhaps this jagged line was to be a Line of Vigor, but was drawn poorly? Some lines, if not executed well, will have no Rithmatic properties—they’ll just be chalk on the ground. This other one could be a Line of Warding, perhaps. The chalk does strange things sometimes, and we don’t know why.”

Joel pulled the stool over, sitting down. “This doesn’t make sense, Professor. If chalklings were easy enough to control to do something like this, then we wouldn’t need Circles of Warding. We could just have little boxes of chalklings ready to attack.”

“That is true,” Fitch said. “Unless someone has discovered something we don’t understand. New instructions for chalklings? This almost feels like…”

“What?”

Fitch was silent for a time. “Wild chalklings.”

Joel grew cold. “They’re trapped,” he said. “On Nebrask. That’s hundreds of miles away.”

“Yes, of course. That’s silly. Besides, wild chalklings wouldn’t run off with a body like this. They’d chew it to bits, leaving a mangled corpse. Whoever did this took Lilly away with him. I—”

He cut off as a knock came at the door. “Now, who…?” Fitch said, walking to the door and opening it. A tall man stood in the entryway. He carried a blue police officer’s helmet underneath his arm and had a long, thin rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Inspector Harding!” Fitch said.

“Professor,” Harding said. “I have just returned from the second crime scene. May I come in?”

“Certainly,” Fitch said. “Certainly. Oh, hum, I apologize for the mess.”

“Yes,” Harding said. “No offense, my good man, but sloppy quarters like this would never pass battlefield inspection!”

“Well, good thing we’re not on the battlefield, then, I should say,” Fitch said, closing the door after the inspector.

“I have vital information for you, Fitch,” the inspector said. He had a deep, resounding voice; he seemed like a man who was accustomed to speaking loud and being obeyed. “I’m expecting great things from you on this case, soldier. There are lives at stake!”

“Well, I will do my best,” Fitch said. “I don’t know how much help I can be. I’ve been trying hard, you know, but I may not be the best man to help you.…”

“Don’t be so humble!” Harding said, stomping into the room. “York speaks extremely highly of you, and there’s no better recommendation for a man than the one which comes from his commander! Now, I think we need to—”

He cut off when he saw Joel. “I say, who is this young man?”

“My research assistant,” Fitch said. “He’s been helping me with this problem.”

“What’s his security clearance?” Harding asked.

“He’s a good lad, Inspector,” Fitch said. “Very trustworthy.”

Harding eyed Joel.

“I can’t do this work alone, Inspector,” Fitch said. “I was hoping that we could maybe include the boy in this project? Officially, I mean?”

“What’s your name, son?”

“Joel.”

“Not a Rithmatist, I see.”

“No, sir,” Joel said. “I’m sorry.”

“Never be sorry for what you are, son,” Harding said. “I’m not a Rithmatist either, and I’m proud of that. Saved my life a few times on the battlefront! The creatures out there, they go for the Dusters first. They often ignore us ordinary men, forgetting that a bucket of good acid will wipe them off the ground as quickly as any Rithmatist’s lines will.”

Joel smiled at that. “Sir,” he said. “Forgive me for asking … but are you a police officer or a soldier?”

Harding looked down at his gold-buttoned blue policeman’s uniform. “I served for fifteen years on the Nebrask eastern front, son,” he said. “Military police. Recently transferred out here to the civilian division. I … well, I’ve had a little bit of trouble adjusting.” With that, the inspector turned back to Fitch. “The lad seems solid. If you vouch for him, then that’s good enough for me. Now, we need to talk. What have you discovered?”

“Nothing more than I told you two days ago, unfortunately,” Fitch said, walking to his desk. “I’m most certain we’re dealing with a Rithmatist—and a very powerful and clever one. I’m going to have Joel look through census records and gather names of all the Rithmatists living in the area.”

“Good,” Harding said. “But I’ve already had that done down at the police station. I’ll send you over a list.”

Joel let out a sigh of relief.

“I also had him look through the old census records,” Fitch said. “Searching for Rithmatists who died or disappeared in strange ways. Maybe there’s a clue from the past that can help.”

“Excellent idea,” Harding said. “But what of the drawings themselves? My people can do research about numbers, Fitch. It’s the Rithmatics, this blasted Rithmatics, that stops us.”

“We’re working on that,” Fitch said.

“I have confidence in you, Fitch!” Harding said, slapping the professor on the shoulder. He took a scroll out of his belt and set it on the desk. “Here are crime scene drawings from the second disappearance. Let me know what you discover.”

“Yes, of course.”

Harding leaned down. “I think these children are still alive, Fitch. Every moment is of the most essential importance. The slime who’s doing this … he’s taunting us. I can feel it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The first girl,” Harding said, settling his rifle on his shoulder. “Her home was just three houses down from a federal police station. After she vanished, I doubled our street patrols. This second student was taken from a building on the very block where we were patrolling last night. This isn’t just about kidnapping. The ones behind this, they want us to know that they’re doing it, and that they don’t care how close we are.”

“I see,” Fitch said, looking disturbed.

“I’m going to get him,” Harding said. “Whoever is doing this, I’m going to find him. You don’t attack children during my watch. I’m counting on you to help me know where to look, Fitch.”

“I will do my best.”

“Excellent. Have a good night, men, and work hard. I’ll check with you soon.” He nodded with a crisp motion to Joel, then let himself out.

Joel watched as the door closed, then turned eagerly to Fitch. “Let’s see what those new sheets contain. There might be more to the puzzle!”

“Joel, lad,” Fitch said. “Remember, this is a young man’s life we are talking about, not just a puzzle.”

Joel nodded solemnly.

“I’m still not convinced that involving you was a good idea,” Fitch said. “I should have talked to your mother first.” Fitch reluctantly undid the tie on the roll of paper. The top sheet was a police report.

VICTIM: Presumed to be Herman Libel, son of Margaret and Leland Libel. Age sixteen. Student at Armedius Academy. Rithmatist.

INCIDENT: Libel was accosted and kidnapped in his bedroom at the family estate, which he had visited for the weekend according to school protocol. The parents slept just three rooms down and reportedly heard nothing. The family servants also reported no sounds.

SCENE: Blood on the floor. Curious chalk drawings (Rithmatic?) discovered on the floor of the bedroom and outside the window.

PERPETRATOR: Unknown. No witnesses. Likely a Rithmatist.

MOTIVE: Unknown.

Professor Fitch flipped to the next page. It was labeled “Chalk drawings discovered at the scene of Herman Libel’s disappearance. Blood spots marked with X’s.”

The picture was of several large squares, each inside one another, with a circle at the middle. The squares had been breached at the corners, and their lengths were scored in the same way as the circle at Lilly Whiting’s house. There were other bits of lines scattered about, the remnants of destroyed chalklings, Joel guessed—but it was hard to tell.

“Hum,” Professor Fitch said. “He boxed himself in.”

Joel nodded. “He saw the chalklings coming, and he surrounded himself with Lines of Forbiddance.”

It was a terrible dueling tactic—a Line of Forbiddance not only blocked chalklings, but physical objects as well. The Rithmatist himself couldn’t reach past one to draw lines and defend himself. By boxing himself in, Herman had sealed his fate.

“He shouldn’t have done that,” Joel said.

“Perhaps,” Fitch said. “But, if he feared being overwhelmed, this could have been the only way. Lines of Forbiddance are stronger than a Circle of Warding.”

“Except at the corners,” Joel said.

Lines of Forbiddance had to be straight—and straight lines had no bind points. The chalklings had gotten in at the corners. But perhaps Fitch was right. Chalklings were fast, and running might have been a bad idea.

The only option would be to bunker in, drawing lots of lines, locking yourself in place and yelling for help. Then you’d wait, hoping someone would hear you and be able to do something. You’d sit, watching while a squirming mass of chalk drawings chewed and clawed their way closer, getting past the lines one at a time.…

Joel shivered. “Did you notice these specks?”

Fitch looked more closely. “Hum. Yes.”

“They look like they might be remnants of chalklings,” Joel said. “After they get torn apart.”

“Maybe,” Fitch said, squinting. “They weren’t re-created very well. Blast! The police sketch artists don’t know what is important and what isn’t!”

“We need to see the scene itself,” Joel said.

“Yes,” Fitch said. “However, it is probably too late now. The police will have moved about, scuffing the chalk, throwing acid on the Lines of Forbiddance to remove them so that they can search the room. And that means…”

He trailed off.

We won’t be able to look at a crime scene unless there’s another incident, Joel thought, and the police know not to touch anything until we get there.

That meant waiting for another person to disappear, which seemed like a bad idea. Better to work on what they had at the moment.

“Here,” Fitch said, looking at the third—and final—sheet. It contained a pattern of looping lines, like the one that had been discovered at Lilly’s house. The sketch was labeled “Strange pattern of chalk discovered on the wall outside the victim’s room.”

“How odd,” Fitch said. “The same one as before. But that’s not a Rithmatic pattern.”

“Professor,” Joel said, taking the sheet and raising it to the light. “I’ve seen that pattern somewhere before. I know I have!”

“It’s a fairly simple design,” Fitch said. “Perhaps you’ve just seen it on a rug or some stonework. It has an almost Celtic feel, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps it’s the symbol of the killer … or, um, kidnapper.”

Joel shook his head. “I feel like I’ve seen it somewhere having to do with Rithmatics. Maybe one of the texts I read?”

“If that is the case,” Fitch said, “it’s no text I’ve seen. That’s not a Rithmatic pattern.”

“Couldn’t there be lines we don’t know about yet?” Joel said. “I mean, we didn’t even discover Rithmatics was possible until a few centuries back.”

“I suppose,” Fitch said. “Some scholars talk about such things.”

“Why don’t you draw that pattern? Maybe it will do something.”

“I guess I could try. What harm could it do?” He got a piece of chalk out of his coat pocket, then cleared off the table.

He hesitated.

A thought struck Joel. What harm could it do? Potentially a lot, if the design really does have something to do with the kidnappings.

In his head, Joel imagined Fitch’s sketch inadvertently calling forth an army of chalklings or drawing the attention of the person who controlled them. One of the professor’s lamps began to wind down, the light fading, and Joel quickly rushed over to rewind it.

“I guess we’ll have to try it sometime,” Fitch said. “Perhaps you should wait outside.”

Joel shook his head. “So far, only Rithmatists have disappeared. I think I should stay, to watch and help in case something happens to you.”

Fitch sat for a moment, then finally he sighed and reached out to sketch a copy of the looping swirl on the desk.

Nothing happened.

Joel held his breath. Minutes ticked by. Still nothing. He walked nervously over to the desk. “Did you draw it right?”

“Hum. Well, I think so,” Fitch said, holding up the sketch. “Assuming the officers at Herman’s house copied it right in the first place.” He reached out and touched his chalk against the looping pattern, obviously trying to dismiss it. Nothing.

“It has no Rithmatic properties,” the professor said. “Otherwise, I’d be able to make it puff away.” He paused, then cocked his head. “I … appear to have made quite a mess on the top of my desk. Hum. I didn’t consider that.”

“We need to do more tests,” Joel said. “Try different variations.”

“Yes,” Fitch said. “Perhaps that is what I shall do. You, however, should go home and return to bed. Your mother will be worried!”

“Mother is working,” Joel said.

“Well, you are probably tired,” Fitch said.

“I’m an insomniac.”

“Then you should go and try to sleep,” Fitch said. “I am not going to have a student in my office until the early hours of the morning. It’s already too late. Be off with you.”

Joel sighed. “You’ll share anything you discover, right?”

“Yes, yes,” Fitch said, waving.

Joel sighed again, louder this time.

“You’re beginning to sound like Melody,” Fitch said. “Go!”

Melody? Joel thought, walking away. I am not!

“And … Joel?” Professor Fitch said.

“Yes?”

“Keep to the … well-lit parts of campus on your way to the dormitories, lad. All right?”

Joel nodded, then shut the door.