The Rithmatist

CHAPTER




“So, what’s it about Rithmatists that makes you so keen on being one?” Melody asked in the waning summer light. Old Barkley—the groundskeeper—passed them on the path, moving between campus lanterns, twisting the gears to make them begin spinning and giving out light. Melody and Joel would have to be back from this outing soon to obey Harding’s curfew, but they had time for a quick trip.

Joel walked beside Melody, his hands in his trouser pockets, as they strolled toward the campus exit. “I don’t know,” he said. “Why wouldn’t someone want to be a Rithmatist?”

“Well, I know a lot of people think they want to be one,” Melody said. “They see the notoriety, the special treatment. Others like the power, I think. That’s not you, Joel. You don’t want notoriety—you’re always hiding about, quiet and such. You seem to like to be alone.”

“I guess. Maybe I just want the power. You’ve seen how I can get when I’m competing with someone.”

“No,” she said. “When you explain the lines and defenses, you get excited—but you don’t talk Rithmatics as a way to get what you want or make others obey you. A lot of people talk about those kinds of things. Even some of the others in my class.”

They approached the gates to the school grounds. A couple of police officers stood watching, but they didn’t try to bar the exit. Beside the men were buckets. Acid, for fighting off chalklings. It wasn’t strong enough to hurt people, at least not much, but it would destroy chalklings in the blink of an eye. Harding wasn’t taking any chances.

One of the guards nodded to Joel and Melody. “You two take care,” he said. “Be careful. Be back in an hour.”

Joel nodded. “You sure this is a good idea?” he asked Melody.

She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Nobody has disappeared from ice cream parlors, Joel.”

“No,” he said, “but Lilly Whiting disappeared on her way home from a party.”

“How do you know that?” Melody said, looking at him suspiciously.

He glanced away.

“Oh, right,” she said. “Secret conferences.”

He didn’t respond, and—fortunately for him—she didn’t press the point.

The street looked busy, and the kidnapper had always attacked when students were alone, so Joel probably didn’t have to worry. Still, he found himself watching their surroundings carefully. Armedius was a gated park of manicured grass and stately buildings to their right. To their left was the street, and the occasional horse-drawn carriage clopped along.

Those were growing less and less common as people replaced their horses with springwork beasts of varying shapes and designs. One shaped like a wingless dragon crawled by, its gears clicking and twisting, eyes shining lights out to illuminate the street. It had a carriage set atop its back, and Joel could see a mustached man with a bowler hat sitting inside.

Armedius was settled directly in the middle of Jamestown, near several bustling crossroads. Buildings rose some ten stories in the distance, all made from sturdy brick designs. Some bore pillars or other stonework, and the sidewalk itself was of cobbled patterns, many of the individual bricks stamped with the seal of New Britannia. It had been the first of the islands colonized long ago when the Europeans discovered the massive archipelago that now made up the United Isles of America.

It was Friday, and there would be plays and concerts running on Harp Street, which explained some of the traffic. Laborers in trousers and dirty shirts passed, tipping their caps at Melody—who, by virtue of her Rithmatist uniform, drew their respect. Even the well-dressed—men in sharp suits with long coats and canes, women in sparkling gowns—sometimes nodded to Melody.

What would it be like, to be recognized and respected by everyone you passed? It was an aspect of being a Rithmatist that he’d never considered.

“Is that why you don’t like it?” he asked Melody as they strolled beneath a streetlamp.

“What?” she asked.

“The notoriety,” Joel said. “The way everyone looks at you, treats you differently. Is that why you don’t like being a Rithmatist?”

“That’s part of the reason. It’s like … they all expect something from me. So many of them depend on me. Ordinary students can fail, but when you’re a Rithmatist, everyone makes sure you know that you can’t fail. There are a limited number of us—another Rithmatist cannot be chosen until one of us dies. If I’m bad at what I do, I will make a hole in our defenses.”

She walked along, hands clasped in front of her. They passed underneath the springrail track, and Joel could see a train being wound up in the Armedius station to his right.

“It’s such pressure,” she said. “I’m bad at Rithmatics, but the Master himself chose me. That implies that I must have the aptitude. So, if I’m not doing well, it must mean that I haven’t worked hard enough. That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”

“Ouch,” Joel said. “Harsh.”

“Yeah.”

He wasn’t certain what else to say. No wonder she was so touchy. They walked in silence for a time, and Joel noticed for the first time that a smaller number of those they passed didn’t seem so respectful of Melody as the others. These glared at Melody from beneath worker’s hats and muttered to their companions. Joel hadn’t realized that the complaints about Rithmatists extended beyond the jealousy of the students on campus.

Eventually, they passed the downtown cathedral. The imposing structure had broad metal gates set with clockwork gears twisting and counting off the infinite nature of time. Springwork statues and gargoyles stood on the peaked walls and roof, occasionally turning their heads or shaking wings.

Joel paused to look up at the cathedral framed by the dusk sky.

“You never did answer my question,” Melody said. “About why you want to be a Rithmatist so badly.”

“Maybe it’s just because I feel like I missed my chance.”

“You had the same chance as anyone else,” Melody said. “You were incepted.”

“Yeah,” Joel said. “But in December instead of July.”

“What?” Melody asked as Joel turned away and started walking again. She rushed up in front of him, then turned to face him, walking backward. “Inception happens in July.”

“Unless you miss it,” Joel said.

“Why in the world would you miss your inception?”

“There were … complications.”

“But by December, all the year’s Rithmatists would already have been chosen.”

“Yeah,” Joel said. “I know.”

Melody fell into step beside him, looking thoughtful. “What was it like? Your inception, I mean.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about these things.”

“No. I’m not supposed to talk about them.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Joel said. “My mother and I went to the cathedral on a Saturday. Father Stewart sprinkled me with water, marked my head with some oil, and left me to pray in front of the altar for about fifteen minutes. After that, we went home.”

“You didn’t go into the chamber of inception?”

“Father Stewart said it wasn’t necessary.”

She frowned, but let the matter drop. They soon approached the small commercial district that thrived outside of Armedius. Awnings hung from the fronts of brick buildings, and wooden signs swung slightly in the wind.

“Wish I would have worn my sweater today,” Melody noted, shivering. “It can get cold here, even in summer.”

“Cold?” Joel asked. “Oh, right. You’re from Floridia, aren’t you?”

“It’s so cold up here in the north.”

Joel smiled. “New Britannia isn’t cold. Maineford—that’s cold.”

“It’s all cold,” she said. “I’ve come to the conclusion that you northerners have never experienced what it is to be really warm, so you accept a lesser substitute out of ignorance.”

“Aren’t you the one who suggested ice cream?” Joel asked, amused.

“It won’t be cold in the parlor,” she said. “Or … well, maybe it will. But everyone knows that ice cream is worth the trouble of being cold. Like all things virtuous, you have to suffer to gain the reward.”

“Ice cream as a metaphor for religious virtue?” Joel said. “Nice.”

She grinned as they strolled along the brick-cobbled sidewalk. Light from whirring lanterns played off her deep red hair and dimpled cheeks.

Yeah, Joel thought, when she’s not acting crazy—or yelling at me—she really is quite pretty.

“There!” Melody said, pointing to a shop. She dashed across the street; Joel followed more carefully, staying out of the way of vehicles. The parlor was, apparently, a popular one. He’d never been here before—he didn’t go to the commercial district much. What would he buy? The academy provided for his family.

Joel recognized some of the students inside from Armedius. Richardson Matthews was outside, and gave Joel a little wave—the tall student was a year ahead of Joel, and had always been nice to him. He eyed Melody, then winked at Joel.

Well, Joel thought. If there weren’t rumors about Melody and me before, there will be now. He wasn’t certain what he thought of that.

He walked toward Richardson, intending to chat with him. Melody went to read the ice cream flavors.

Then Joel saw the prices hanging beside the list of flavors. That stopped him flat.

He cursed himself for a fool. He should have realized, should have stopped to think. He rarely left campus, and he almost never spent money on anything.

“Melody,” he said, grabbing her arm before she could enter. “I … can’t afford this.”

“What?” she asked.

Joel pointed at the prices hanging on the window outside. “Nine cents for a scoop? That’s ridiculous!”

“Well, it is June,” she said. “Still, it’s not that bad. I doubt you’ll be able to find a scoop for less than seven cents anywhere on the island, and five is the cheapest I’ve seen in winter.”

Joel blinked. Were things really that expensive?

“How much do you have?” she asked.

Joel reached in his pocket and pulled out a single silver penny. It was as wide as his thumb, and thin, stamped with the seal of New Britannia. His mother made him carry it with him, should he need to pay cab fare or buy a ticket on the springrail.

“One penny,” Melody said flatly.

Joel nodded.

“That’s all the allowance you get a week?”

“A week?” he asked. “Melody, my mother gave me this for my birthday last year.”

She stared at it for a moment. “Oh, wow. You really are poor.”

He flushed, stuffing the penny in his pocket. “You just get what you want. I’ll wait out—”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the warm parlor room. She stepped into line behind Richardson and a long-lashed girl that Joel didn’t know. “I’ll pay for both of us.”

“I can’t let a girl pay for me!”

“Vain masculine pride,” she said, reaching into her pocketbook. She pulled out a shiny gold half-dollar. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “Now you can pay for us.”

“That’s ridiculous!” he protested.

“You’d better order, because it’s our turn.”

Joel hesitated, glancing at the soda jerker behind the counter. The man raised an eyebrow at him.

“Uh…” Joel said. “Hi.”

“Oh, you’re hopeless,” Melody said, elbowing Joel aside. “I’ll take a triple-scoop chocolate sundae with fudge sauce and chocolate sprinkles.” She eyed Joel. “He’ll have vanilla. Two scoops. Cherries. And a cherry soda for each of us. Got that?”

The soda jerker nodded.

“He’ll pay,” Melody said, gesturing to Joel.

Joel handed over the half-dollar. He got a couple of pennies in change.

Melody gestured to a table, and Joel followed her. They sat down, and he tried to hand her the change.

Melody waved indifferently. “Keep it. I absolutely hate carrying small coins. They rattle about.”

“How much money do you have?” Joel asked, looking down at the coins.

“I get a dollar a week from my family,” Melody said, pulling out a full golden dollar, about two inches in diameter.

Joel gaped. He’d never held a full dollar before. It was complete with a glass face on either side to show the gears inside, marking its authenticity.

Melody turned it over in her fingers, then took out a small key and wound the tiny gears. They began to click softly, spinning around and around inside the glass face.

A dollar a week, Joel thought with amazement.

“Here,” she said, rolling it across the table to him. “It’s yours.”

“I can’t take this!” he protested, stopping the dollar before it rolled off the table.

“Why not?”

“It wouldn’t be right. I…” He’d never held so much money before. He tried to give it back, but Melody snapped her pocketbook closed.

“Nope,” she said. “I’ve got like fifty of those back in my rooms. I never can figure out what to do with it all.”

“That’s … that’s amazing!”

She snorted. “Compared to most of the students at this school, that’s nothing. There’s a kid in one of my classes who gets ten dollars a week from his family.”

“Dusts!” Joel said. “I really am poor.” He hesitated. “I still can’t take this, Melody. I don’t want handouts.”

“It’s not a handout,” she said. “I’m just tired of carrying it. Why don’t you use it to buy your mother something nice?”

That made him pause. Reluctantly, he put it in his pocket.

“Your mother looks like she could use a break,” Melody said. “She works a lot, doesn’t she?”

Joel nodded. “A lot.”

“So where does her money go? To pay for your education?”

Joel shook his head. “The principal gave me free tuition when my father died.”

“Your mother has to get more compensation than just room and board,” Melody said, nodding to the server as he brought their order. Joel felt daunted by the mound of frozen cream topped with sliced cherries and whipped cream. And his was only two-thirds the size of Melody’s chocolate behemoth.

She dug right in. “So, where does your mom’s money go?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I never thought about it before, I guess.” He fingered the dollar coin in his pocket again. So much. Did Rithmatists really get that much money from their stipend?

They had to fight for a decade at Nebrask. They could stay longer if they wanted, but so long as they put in their ten years, they could retire from the battlefront, only to be called up if needed. That happened rarely—only once in the last thirty years, when a large breach in the circle had occurred.

For those ten years of service, they were given a stipend for the rest of their lives. Joel didn’t know the exact numbers, but if Rithmatists needed more money, they could work for the springrail companies. Those had contracts from the government allowing them to use chalklings—drawn with the Glyph of Rending to let them affect the world, and not just chalk—to wind the enormous springs that powered the rail line.

Joel knew very little of this—it was one of those things Rithmatists didn’t discuss with others. He wasn’t even certain how chalklings could push. They did, though, and the work paid Rithmatists very, very well.

“The money seems like a pretty good reason to be a Rithmatist,” he said. “Easy income.”

“Yeah,” Melody said softly. “Easy.”

Joel finally took a bite of his ice cream. It was way better than the stuff the cooks at Armedius served. He found it difficult to enjoy, noting how Melody had begun stirring hers about disconsolately, eyes downcast.

What did I say? he thought. Had their discussion reminded her of her lack of skill? “Melody,” he said, “you really are good at Rithmatics. You’re a genius with chalklings.”

“Thanks,” she said, but didn’t perk up immediately. That didn’t seem to be what was bothering her.

Still, she soon began digging into her sundae again. “Chocolate,” she said, “is the greatest invention of all time.”

“What about springworks?” Joel said.

She waved indifferently. “Da Vinci was a total hack. Everyone knows that. Completely overrated.”

Joel smiled, enjoying his sundae. “How did you know what flavor to get for me?”

“Just felt right,” she said, taking another bite. “Joel … did you mean what you said about chalklings a bit ago? About my skill?”

“Of course,” Joel said, and took a sip of his soda. “I’ve snuck into a lot of lectures, and I’ve never seen a professor on campus create chalklings anywhere near as detailed as yours.”

“Then why can’t I get the other lines right?”

“So you do care?”

“Of course I do. It wouldn’t be nearly as much of a tragedy if I didn’t.”

“Maybe you just need more practice.”

“I’ve practiced a ton.”

“I don’t know, then. How did you keep your chalklings back behind your defenses? It didn’t seem tough to you at all, but it’s supposed to be very difficult.”

“Supposed to be?”

“I don’t know for certain,” Joel said, shoveling a bite into his mouth. He savored the sweet, creamy flavor, and then licked the spoon. “I haven’t studied much about chalkling theory. There isn’t a lot of material about them in the ordinary stacks, and Professor Fitch doesn’t teach chalkling classes—he’s the only one who would let me sneak in and listen on a regular basis.”

“That’s a shame. What do you want to know about them?”

“You’ll tell me?” Joel asked with surprise.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Because you flipped out when you realized that I was learning about inception ceremonies.”

“That’s way different,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Are you going to ask or not?”

“Well,” Joel said, “I know that sometimes, chalklings respond better to instructions than other times. Why?”

“I don’t know if anyone knows that. They usually do what I want them to, though others have more trouble.”

“So, you know the instruction glyphs better than others?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Melody said. “Chalklings … they’re not quite like the other lines, Joel. A Line of Forbiddance only does one thing. You draw it, and it sits there. Chalklings, though … they’re versatile. They have a life of their own. If you don’t build them correctly, they won’t be able to do what they’re supposed to.”

Joel frowned. “But, what does ‘building them correctly’ even mean? I keep looking through the books, and what I can find says that detail will make a chalkling stronger. But … well, it’s just chalk. How can the chalkling tell if you drew it with a lot of detail or not?”

“Because it can,” Melody said. “A chalkling knows when it’s a good picture.”

“Is it the amount of chalk that’s important? A lot of chalk makes a ‘detailed’ drawing instead of a nondetailed one?”

Melody shook her head. “Some students my first year tried to simply draw circles and color them in as their chalklings. Those ones always died quickly—some just rolled away, not going where they were supposed to.”

Joel frowned. He’d always seen Rithmatics as … well, something scientific and measurable. A Line of Warding’s strength was proportionate to the degree of its curve. The height of a Line of Forbiddance’s blocking power was proportional to its width. The lines all made direct, measurable sense.

“There’s got to be some number involved,” he said.

“I told you,” Melody said. “It has to do with how well they are drawn. If you draw a unicorn that looks like a unicorn, it will last longer than one with bad proportions, or one that has one leg too short, or one that can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a unicorn or a lion.”

“But how does it know? What determines a ‘good’ drawing or a ‘bad’ drawing? Is it related to what the Rithmatist sees in their head? The better a Rithmatist can draw what he or she envisions, the stronger the chalkling becomes?”

“Maybe,” she said, shrugging.

“But,” Joel said, wagging his spoon, “if that were the case, then the best chalkling artists would be the ones with poor imaginations. I’ve seen your chalklings work, and they’re strong—they’re also very detailed. I doubt that the system rewards people who can’t imagine complicated images.”

“Wow. You really get into this, don’t you?”

“Lines of Making are the only ones that don’t seem to make sense.”

“They make perfect sense to me,” she said. “The prettier the drawing is, the stronger it is and the better it’s able to do what you tell it to. What’s confusing about that?”

“It’s confusing because it’s vague,” Joel said. “I can’t understand something until I know why it happens the way it does. There has to be an objective point of reference that determines what makes a good drawing and what doesn’t—even if that objective point of reference is the subjective opinion of the Rithmatist doing the drawing.”

She blinked at him, then took another bite of ice cream. “You, Joel, should have been a Rithmatist.”

“So I’ve been told,” he said with a sigh.

“I mean seriously,” Melody said, “who talks like that?”

Joel turned back to his own ice cream. After how much it had cost, he didn’t want it to melt and get wasted. To him, that was secondary to the flavor, good though it was. “Aren’t those members of your cohort?” he asked, pointing at a group of Rithmatic students at a table in the corner.

Melody glanced over. “Yeah.”

“What are they doing?” Joel asked.

“Looking at a newspaper?” Melody said, squinting. “Hey, is that a sketch of Professor Fitch on the front?”

Joel groaned. Well, that reporter certainly does work quickly.

“Come on,” he said, downing his soda and shoving the last spoonful of ice cream in his mouth, then standing. “We need to find a copy of that paper.”