The Rithmatist

CHAPTER




“‘Professor Fitch,’” Melody read from the paper, “‘is a little squirrel of a man, huddled before his books like they were the winter’s nuts, piled and packed carelessly in his den. He’s deceptively important, for he is at the center of the search to find the Armedius Killer.’”

“Killer?” Joel asked.

Melody held up a finger, still reading.

Or, at least, that’s what one source speculates. “Yes, we fear for the lives of the kidnapped students,” the unnamed source said. “Every officer knows that if someone goes missing this conspicuously, chances are good that they’ll never be found. At least not alive.”

Professor Fitch is more optimistic. He not only thinks that the children are still alive, but that they can be recovered—and the secret to their whereabouts might have to do with the discovery of some strange Rithmatic lines at the crime scenes.

“We don’t know what they are or what they do,” Professor Fitch explained, “but those lines are definitely involved.” He declined to show me these drawings, but he did indicate that they weren’t composed of any of the basic four lines.

Fitch is a humble man. He speaks with a quiet, unassuming voice. Few would realize that upon him, our hopes must rest. For if there really is a Rithmatist madman on the loose in New Britannia, then it will undoubtedly take a Rithmatist to defeat him.

She looked up from the paper, their empty ice cream dishes and soda glasses sitting dirty on the table. The parlor was growing less busy as many of the students left for Armedius to make curfew.

“Well, I guess now you know the whole of it,” Joel said.

“That’s it?” she said. “That’s all you were talking about with the inspector?”

“That’s pretty much it.” The article contained some frightening details—such as the exact nature of Lilly’s and Herman’s disappearances, including the fact that blood was found at each scene. “This is bad, Melody. I can’t believe that got printed.”

“Why?”

“Up until now, the police and Principal York were still implying that Herman and Lilly might have just run away. Parents of Rithmatists at the academy guessed otherwise, but the people of the city didn’t know.”

“Well, it’s best for them to know the truth, then,” Melody proclaimed.

“Even if it causes panic? Even if ordinary people hide in their homes because they’re afraid of a killer who may not exist, and who undoubtedly isn’t going to hurt them?”

Melody bit her lip.

Joel sighed, standing. “Let’s get back,” he said, folding up the newspaper. “We have to make curfew, and I want to get this to Inspector Harding, just in case he hasn’t seen it yet.”

She nodded, joining Joel as he walked out onto the street. It felt darker now, and Joel again wondered at the wisdom of going out when there could be a killer about. Melody seemed to be in a similar mood, and she walked closer to him than she had before. Their steps were quick, their conversation nonexistent, until they finally arrived back at the gates to Armedius.

The same two officers stood at the entryway. As Joel entered, the campus clock beat fifteen minutes to the hour. “Where is Inspector Harding?” Joel asked.

“Out, I’m afraid,” one of the men said. “Is there something we can help you with?”

“Give him this when he gets back in,” Joel said, handing one of them the paper. The officer scanned it, his face growing troubled.

“Come on,” Joel said to Melody, “I’ll walk you back to your dorm.”

“Well,” she said, “aren’t you chivalrous all of a sudden?”

They strolled down the path, Joel lost in thought. At least the article hadn’t been belittling of Fitch. Perhaps the reporter had felt guilty for lying to him.

They reached the dormitory. “Thank you for the ice cream,” Joel said.

“No, thank you.”

“You paid for it,” he said. “Even if you gave me the money first.”

“I wasn’t thanking you for paying,” Melody said airily, pulling open the door to the dormitory.

“For what, then?” he asked.

“For not ignoring me,” she said. “But, at the same time, for ignoring the fact that I’m kind of a freak sometimes.”

“We’re all freaks sometimes, Melody,” he replied. “You’re just … well, better at it than most.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Very flattering.”

“That didn’t come out as I meant it.”

“I’ll have to forgive you then,” she said. “How boring. Good night, Joel.”

She vanished into the dormitory, door closing behind her. He slowly crossed the lawn, his thoughts a jumble, and found himself wandering around the Rithmatic campus.

He knew where most of the professors lived, so it was easy for him to determine which previously unused office probably housed Nalizar. Sure enough, he soon found the door bearing Nalizar’s nameplate resting on the outside wall of Making Hall.

Joel loitered outside the hall, looking up at the dark second floor. Making Hall was the newest of the four, and had a lot more windows than the older ones. The windows of Nalizar’s rooms were dark. Did that mean he wasn’t in, or that he’d retired already?

Melody said that Nalizar wanted the books delivered to his office. They’re probably sitting on his desk, or maybe waiting at the top of this stairwell.…

Joel found himself reaching for the doorknob.

He stopped himself. What am I doing? Was he really considering breaking into the professor’s office? He needed to think before trying something so drastic. He walked away across the lawn. As he did, he heard something and turned.

The door to Nalizar’s stairwell opened, and a figure with a dark cloak and blond hair stepped out. Nalizar himself. Joel felt his heart leap, but he was standing far enough away—and shadowed enough in darkness—that Nalizar didn’t notice him.

The professor put on a top hat and strode off down the sidewalk. Joel felt his heart beating in his chest. If he had gone up those stairs, Nalizar would have caught him for sure. He took a few deep breaths, calming himself.

Then he realized that now he knew for certain that the professor was gone.

And if he returns quickly? Joel thought. He shook his head. If he did decide to sneak into the professor’s room, he’d need to have more of a plan.

He kept moving, but didn’t feel like going home. He was too awake. Eventually, he decided on a different course of action. There was someone he knew would be up late this night, someone he could talk to.

He knew all the normal places to check for his mother, and he tried those first. He didn’t find her, but he did find Darm, one of the other cleaning ladies. She sent him to the right place.

It turned out that his mother was cleaning the dueling arena. Joel walked up to the door, which was propped open slightly, and peeked in. He heard the sounds of scrubbing echoing inside, so he pulled open the door and slipped in.

The dueling arena was in the middle of Making Hall and took up most of the central space in the building. The room’s ceiling was of glass squares with iron supports between. Rithmatic duels, after all, were best watched from above. During the Melee, professors and local dignitaries watched from the best seats up there.

Joel had never seen that room, though he had been lucky enough to get a lower seat for a couple of the Melees. The room was shaped like an ice-skating rink. There was the playing field floor below—black so that chalk would show up well on it—with enough space for dozens of people to draw defensive circles at once. Seats ran around the outside, though there weren’t ever enough for all the people who wanted to attend the Melee.

There were dueling competitions throughout the year, of course. The Melee, however, was the most popular. It was the last chance for the juniors to show off their skill before they were shipped to Nebrask for their last year of training. Winners in the Melee were given important posts in Nebrask, and would have a much better chance of becoming squad leaders and captains.

Joel’s mother crouched on hands and knees in the middle of the room, scrubbing at the blackrock floor, a single springwork lantern beside her. She wore her hair tied back with a kerchief, her sleeves rolled up, her brown skirt dusty from crawling around.

Joel felt a sudden stab of anger. Other people went to plays, lounged in their rooms, or slept while his mother scrubbed floors. The anger immediately turned to guilt. While his mother scrubbed floors, he had been eating ice cream.

If I were a Rithmatist, he thought, she wouldn’t have to do this.

Melody had spoken with disdain about the money and power many Rithmatists coveted. She obviously had no concept of what it was like to have to go without.

Joel walked down the steps between the bleachers, his steps echoing. His mother looked up. “Joel?” she said as he stepped onto the blackrock floor. “You should be getting ready for bed, young man.”

“I’m not tired,” he said, joining her and picking up the extra brush floating in her bucket. “What are we doing? Scrubbing the floor?”

She eyed him for a moment. Finally, she turned back to her work. She was far more lax with his sleep habits in the summer. “Don’t ruin your trousers,” she said. “The floor has a rough texture. If you aren’t careful, you’ll scuff your knees and fray the cloth.”

Joel nodded, then began to work on a section that she hadn’t yet scrubbed. “Why do we need to clean this place? It doesn’t get used that often.”

“It has to look good for the Melee, Joel,” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear. “We have to apply a finish each year to keep the color dark. The playing field needs to be clean before we can do that.”

Joel nodded, scrubbing. It felt good to be active, rather than just sorting through books.

“That girl seemed nice,” his mother said.

“Who? Melody?”

“No, the other girl you brought over for dinner.”

Joel blushed. “Yeah, I suppose. She’s a bit strange.”

“Rithmatists often are,” his mother said. “I’m glad to see you with a girl, though. I worry about you. You always seem to have people to talk to, but you don’t go out in the evenings. You have a lot of acquaintances. Not a lot of friends.”

“You’ve never said anything.”

She snorted. “One doesn’t have to be a professor to know that teenage boys don’t like hearing about their mothers’ worries.”

Joel smiled. “You have it easy with me. As teenage sons go, I’m not much of a headache.”

They continued to work for a time, Joel still feeling annoyed that his mother should have to do such hard work. Yes, Rithmatists were important—they helped protect the Isles from the dangers in Nebrask. Yet, wasn’t what his mother did important as well? The Master chose Rithmatists. Didn’t he, in a way, choose cleaning ladies as well?

Why was it that people valued what his mother did so much less than what someone like Professor Fitch did? She worked twice as hard as anyone Joel knew, and yet she gained no notoriety, no wealth or prestige.

Melody had wondered where his mother’s money went, and it was a good question. His mother worked long hours. So where did their money go? Was his mother saving it all?

Or was there something else? An expense Joel had never considered.…

He sat upright, feeling a chill. “The principal didn’t really give me free admittance to Armedius, did he? That’s just what you tell me, to keep me from feeling guilty. You’re paying for me to go here.”

“What?” his mother asked, still scrubbing. “I could never afford that.”

“Mother, you work double shifts most days. That money has to be going somewhere.”

She snorted. “Even with double shifts, I couldn’t afford this place. Do you have any idea how much in tuition most of those parents pay?”

Joel thought for a moment, remembering that Melody had spoken of a student who got ten dollars a week in allowance. If that much was simple spending money, then how much were they paying for the students to go to Armedius?

Joel didn’t want to know.

“So, where does it go?” he asked. “Why work all these extra hours?”

She didn’t look up. “Your father left more than a family behind when he died, Joel.”

“What does that mean?”

“We have debts,” she said, continuing to scrub. “It’s really nothing for you to worry about.”

“Father was a chalkmaker,” Joel said. “His workroom was provided by the school, as were his materials. Where did he get debts?”

“From a lot of different things,” she said, scrubbing a little bit harder. “He traveled a lot, meeting with Rithmatists and talking about their work. The springrail wasn’t as cheap then as it is now. Plus there were the books, the supplies, the time off to work on his various projects. He got some from Principal York, but he got the greater part from outside sources. The type of men who would lend money to a poor craftsman like your father … well, they aren’t the kind of men you can ignore when they come asking for payment.”

“How much?”

“It doesn’t matter to you.”

“I want to know.”

His mother glanced at him, meeting his eyes. “This is my burden, Joel. I’m not going to have it ruining your life. You’ll be able to start fresh and clean with a good education, thanks to Principal York. I’ll deal with your father’s problems.”

Obviously, she considered that the end of the conversation. She turned back to her scrubbing.

“What did Father spend all that time working on?” Joel asked, attacking a section of floor. “He must have believed in it a lot, if he was willing to risk so much.”

“I didn’t understand a lot of his theories,” she said. “You know how he would go on, talking about chalk composition percentages. He thought he was going to change the world with his chalk. I believed in him, Master help me.”

The room fell silent, save for the sound of brushes against stone.

“It was his goal to send you to Armedius, you know,” she said softly. “He wanted to be able to afford to send you here, to study. I think that’s why Principal York gave you the scholarship.”

“Is that why you always get so mad at me for not doing well in my classes?”

“That’s part of it. Oh, Joel. Don’t you see? I just want you to have a better life than we did. Your father … he sacrificed so much. He might have made it, too, if his blasted research hadn’t ended up costing his life.”

Joel cocked his head. “He got wounded in a springrail accident.”

She paused. “Yes. That’s what I meant. If he hadn’t been out traveling on one of his projects, he wouldn’t have been on the train when it derailed.”

Joel eyed her. “Mother,” he said. “Father did die from a springrail accident, didn’t he?”

“You saw him in the hospital, Joel. You sat with him while he died.”

Joel frowned, but couldn’t dispute that fact. He remembered the sterile rooms, the physicians bustling about, the medications they gave his father and the surgeries they did on his crushed legs. Joel also remembered the forced optimism they’d all displayed when telling Joel that his father would get better.

They’d known he would die. Joel could see it now—they’d all known, even his mother. Only the eight-year-old Joel had hoped, thinking—no, knowing—that his father would eventually wake up and be just fine.

The accident had happened the third of July. Joel had spent the fourth—the day of inception—at his father’s side. His stomach twisted inside. He’d held his father’s hand as he died.

Trent hadn’t ever woken up, despite the hundred prayers Joel had offered during that day.

Joel didn’t realize he was crying until a teardrop splatted to the black stone in front of him. He wiped his eyes quickly. Wasn’t time supposed to dull the pain?

He could still remember his father’s face: kindly, set with affable jowls and eyes that smiled. It hurt.

Joel stood up, putting his brush back in the bucket. “Maybe I should go get some sleep,” he said, and turned away, worried that his mother might see his tears.

“That would be for the best,” his mother said.

Joel walked for the exit.

“Joel,” she called after him.

He paused.

“Don’t worry about things too much,” she said. “The money, I mean. I have it under control.”

You work yourself half to death, he thought, and spend the rest of the time worrying yourself sick. I have to find a way to help you. Somehow.

“I understand,” he said. “I’ll just focus on my studies.”

She turned back to her scrubbing, and Joel left, crossing the green to their dorm. He climbed into bed without changing, suddenly exhausted.

Hours later, sunlight shining on his face, he blinked awake and realized that—for once—he’d fallen asleep with ease. He yawned, climbed out of the bed, and made it for when his mother got done with work in an hour or so. He changed into some clothing from the small trunk at the end of the bed.

The room was basically empty, otherwise. A dresser, the trunk, the bed. The room was so small that he could almost touch the walls opposite one another at the same time. Yawning, intending to make his way to the restroom at the end of the hall, he opened the door.

He stopped in place as he saw people rushing about in the hallway outside, talking excitedly. He caught the arm of one woman as she hurried past.

“Mrs. Emuishere?” he said. “What’s going on?”

The dark-skinned Egyptian woman eyed him. “Joel, lad! Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what? I just woke up.”

“A third disappearance,” she said. “Another Rithmatist. Charles Calloway.”

“Calloway?” Joel said. He recognized that name. “You mean…?”

She nodded. “The son of the knight-senator of East Carolina, Joel. The boy was kidnapped right out of his family’s private estate late last night. They should have listened to the principal, I say. Poor kid would have been far safer here.”

“The son of a knight-senator!” This was bad.

“There’s more,” she said, leaning in. “There were deaths, Joel. The boy’s servants—ordinary men, not Dusters—were found at the scene, their skin ripped off and their eyes chewed out. Like…”

“Like they were attacked by wild chalklings,” Joel whispered.

She nodded curtly, then bustled off, obviously intent on sharing the news with others.

The son of a knight-senator kidnapped or killed, Joel thought numbly. Civilians murdered.

Everything had just changed drastically.