The Rithmatist

CHAPTER




The office sat in a small valley between the Rithmatic campus and the general campus. Like most everything at Armedius Academy, the building was of brick, though this building was red. It was only one story tall and had quite a few more windows than the classrooms did. Joel had always wondered why the office workers got a view outside, but students didn’t. It was almost like everyone was afraid to give the students a glimpse of freedom.

“… heard he was going to make a challenge of all things,” a voice was saying as Joel walked into the office.

The speaker was Florence, one of the office clerks. She sat on top of her oak desk—rather than in her chair—speaking with Exton, the other clerk. Exton wore his usual vest and trousers, with a bow tie and suspenders—quite fashionable, even if he was a bit portly. His bowler hung on a peg beside his desk. Florence, on the other hand, wore a yellow spring sundress.

“A challenge?” Exton asked, scribbling with a quill, not looking up as he spoke. Joel had never met anyone besides Exton who could write and carry on a conversation at the same time. “It’s been a while.”

“I know!” Florence said. She was young, in her twenties, and not married. Some of the more traditional professors on campus had found it scandalous when Principal York hired a woman as a clerk. But those sorts of things were happening more and more. Everyone said it was the twentieth century now, and old attitudes would have to change. York had said that if women Rithmatists could fight at Nebrask and the Monarch could use a woman as a speechwriter, he could hire a female clerk.

“Challenges used to be much more common, back closer to the start of the war in Nebrask,” Exton said, still scribbling at his parchment. “Every upstart professor with a new coat would want to jump right to the top. There were some chaotic times.”

“Hum…” Florence said. “He’s handsome, you know.”

“Who?”

“Professor Nalizar,” she said. “I was there when he approached Principal York about the challenge this morning. Swept right in, said, ‘Principal, I believe it right to inform you that I shall soon achieve tenure at this academy.’”

Exton snorted. “And what did York have to say?”

“He wasn’t happy, I’ll say that. Tried to talk Nalizar out of the plan, but he would have none of it.”

“I can imagine,” Exton said.

“Aren’t you going to ask me who he intended to challenge?” Florence asked. She noticed Joel at the side of the room and winked at him.

“I seriously doubt you are going to let me continue my work in peace without hearing about it,” Exton said.

“Professor Fitch,” she said.

Exton stopped. Finally, he looked up. “Fitch?”

She nodded.

“Good luck, then,” Exton said, chuckling. “Fitch is the best at the academy. He’ll take that upstart to pieces so fast that the chalk dust won’t have time to settle before the duel is over.”

“No,” Joel said. “Fitch lost.”

The two fell silent.

“What?” Florence asked. “How do you know?”

“I was there,” Joel said, walking up to the counter in front of the clerks. The principal’s office was behind a closed door at the back.

Exton wagged his quill at Joel. “Young man,” he said, “I expressly remember sending you on an errand to the humanities building.”

“I ran that errand,” Joel said quickly. “And the others you gave me. Fitch’s classroom was on the way back.”

“On the way back? It’s on the complete opposite side of campus!”

“Oh, Exton, hush,” Florence said. “So the boy’s curious about the Rithmatists. The same goes for most of the people on campus.” She smiled at Joel, though half the time he was convinced she took his side just because she knew it annoyed Exton.

Exton grumbled and turned back to his ledger. “I suppose I can’t fault a person for sneaking into extra classes. Have enough trouble with students trying to skip them. Still, fascination with those blasted Rithmatists … it’s not good for a boy.”

“Don’t be such a bore,” Florence said. “Joel, you said that Fitch actually lost?”

Joel nodded.

“So … what does that mean?”

“He will switch places in seniority with Nalizar,” Exton said, “and lose his tenure. He can challenge Nalizar back in one year’s time, and both of them are immune to other challenges until then.”

“That poor man!” Florence said. “Why, that’s not very fair. I just thought the duel would be for bragging rights.”

Exton continued his work.

“Well,” Florence said. “Handsome or not, I’m growing less impressed with Mr. Nalizar. Fitch is such a dear, and he so loves his teaching.”

“He will survive,” Exton said. “It’s not as if he’s out on his ear. Joel, I assume you dallied there in the classroom long enough to watch the entire duel?”

Joel shrugged.

“How was the duel, then?” Exton asked. “Did Fitch acquit himself well?”

“He was quite good,” Joel said. “His forms were beautiful. He just … well, he seemed out of practice with real dueling.”

“Such a brutal way to handle things!” Florence said. “Why, they’re academics, not gladiators!”

Exton paused, then looked directly at Florence, eyeing her over the top rim of his spectacles. “My dear,” he said, “I don’t wonder if there should be quite a few more challenges like this. Perhaps today will remind those stuck-up Rithmatists why they exist. Should Nebrask ever fall…”

“Oh, don’t tell me ghost stories, Exton,” she said. “Those stories are simply tools for politicians to keep us all worried.”

“Bah,” Exton said. “Don’t you have any work to be doing?”

“I’m on break, dear,” she said.

“I can’t help but notice that you always take your breaks whenever I have something important to finish.”

“Bad timing on your part, I guess,” she said, reaching to a wooden box on her desk, then getting out the kimchi-and-ham sandwich packed inside.

Joel glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. He had fifteen minutes until his next class—too short a time to send him away on another errand.

“I’m worried about Professor Fitch,” Joel said, still watching the clock, with its intricate gears. A springwork owl sat on the top of the clock, blinking occasionally, then nibbling at its talons as it waited for the hour to chime so that it could hoot.

“Oh, it won’t be so bad,” Exton said. “I suspect that Principal York will only assign him a few students. Fitch is due for some time off. He might enjoy this.”

Enjoy this? Joel thought. The poor man was crushed. “He’s a genius,” Joel said. “Nobody on campus teaches defenses as complex as he does.”

“A true scholar, that one,” Exton said. “Maybe too much of a scholar. Nalizar may be better in the classroom. Some of Fitch’s lectures could be … a little over the students’ heads, from what I hear.”

“No,” Joel said. “He’s a great teacher. He explains things and doesn’t treat the students like fools, like Howards or Silversmith do.”

Exton chuckled. “I’ve been letting you have too much time off, haven’t I? Do you want me to get into trouble with the Rithmatists again?”

Joel didn’t respond. The other Rithmatic professors had made it clear that they didn’t want him disrupting their lectures. Without Fitch and his lax attitude, Joel would not be sneaking into any more lectures anytime soon. He felt a twist inside of him.

There might still be a chance. If Fitch was going to teach a few students, why couldn’t one be Joel?

“Joel, dear,” Florence said, halfway through her sandwich, “I spoke with your mother this morning. She wanted me to see if I could give you a nudge on your summer elective paperwork.”

Joel grimaced. There were advantages to living on the campus as the son of academy employees. His free tuition was the biggest of those perks, though he’d only been given that because of his father’s death.

There were also disadvantages. Many of the other staff members—like Exton and Florence—earned room and board as part of their employment contract. Joel had grown up with them and saw them every day—and that meant that they were good friends with his mother as well.

“I’m working on it,” he said, thinking of his letter to Fitch.

“The last day of the term is coming, dear,” Florence said. “You need to get into an elective. You finally get to pick one of your own, rather than sitting in a remedial tutelage. Isn’t that exciting?”

“Sure.”

Most students went home during the summer. The ones who did not leave only had to attend for half days, and could choose a single elective. Unless they did poorly during the year and needed a remedial tutelage as their elective. Rithmatists were lucky—they had to stay in school all year, but at least their summer elective was a Rithmatics elective.

“Have you given it any thought?” Florence asked.

“Some.”

“They’re filling up fast, dear,” she said. “There are still a few slots left in physical merit class. You want in?”

Three months of standing on a field while everyone ran around him kicking balls at each other, playing a game that they all tried to pretend was half as interesting as Rithmatic duels? “No thanks.”

“What, then?”

Math might be fun. Literature wouldn’t be too painful. But none would be as interesting as studying with Fitch.

“I’ll have one picked by tonight,” he promised, eyeing the clock. Time to get to his next class. He picked up his books from the corner—placing Fitch’s two books on top—and left the building before Florence could push him further.