The Rithmatist

CHAPTER

Joel left the dormitory building early the next morning, crossing over to the Rithmatic campus. He breathed in deeply, enjoying the scent of the flowering trees and the recently cut lawn. The Rithmatic campus consisted of four main buildings of stately brick, named after each of the four Rithmatic lines. The professors made their offices on the upper floors of each building.

Joel opened a door on the outside of Warding Hall, then entered a cramped stairwell. He climbed to the third story, where he found a thick wooden door. It was gnarled and knotted, which gave it the aged feel that prevailed across the Rithmatic campus.

Joel hesitated. He’d never visited any of the Rithmatic professors in their offices. Professor Fitch was a kindly man, but how would he respond to finding out that Joel had gone over his head, approaching Principal York directly?

There was only one way to find out. He knocked on the door. A short time passed with no answer. He reached up to knock again, but at that moment, the door was flung open. Fitch stood inside, his grey Rithmatist’s coat unbuttoned, showing the white vest and trousers he wore underneath.

“Yes? Hum?” Fitch asked. “Oh, the chalkmaker’s son. What brings you here, lad?”

Joel hesitantly raised the form that Principal York had given him.

“Hum? What is this?” Fitch took the form, looking it over. “Research assistant? You?”

Joel nodded.

“Ha!” Fitch exclaimed. “What a wonderful idea! Why didn’t I think of this? Yes, yes, come in.”

Joel let out a relieved breath, allowing Fitch to usher him through the door. The chamber beyond felt more like a hallway than a room. It was much longer than it was wide, and was cramped with piles of books. A few slot windows in the right wall illuminated an amalgamation of furniture and knickknacks piled against both walls. Two small springwork lanterns hung from the ceiling, their gears clicking as they shone.

“Indeed,” Fitch said, picking his way through the stacks of books, “I should have known York would make everything work out. He’s a brilliant administrator. Heaven only knows how he manages to balance all of the egos bumping around this campus. Sons of knight-senators mixing with Rithmatists and men who see themselves as heroes from Nebrask. My, my.”

Joel followed the professor. The room ran along the outside of the building; at the corner, it turned at a ninety-degree angle, then continued northward along that wall as well. The room eventually ended at a brick wall, against which sat a small, neatly made bed. The tucked-in sheets and quilted covering seemed quite a contrast to the clutter in the rest of Fitch’s dark, brick-walled office.

Joel stood at the corner, watching Fitch rifle through his books, stacking some aside, uncovering a plush stool and matching easy chair. There was a musty scent to the place: the smell of old books and parchment mixed with that of dank brick walls. The air was slightly chilly, despite the approaching summer weather outside.

Joel found himself smiling. The office was much as he had imagined. The left wall was hung with sheets of paper bearing aged Rithmatic sketches. Some were protected in frames, and all were covered with annotations. There were so many books that the piles themselves seemed to pile on top of one another. Exotic knickknacks lay half buried—a flute that looked Asian in origin, a ceramic bowl with a colorful glaze, several Egyptian paintings.

And the Rithmatic Lines … they were everywhere. Not just on the wall hangings. They were printed on the covers of the books, scratched into the floorboards, woven into the rug, and even sketched onto the ceiling.

“I asked York for an assistant,” Fitch was saying as he puttered about, “but I would never have dared ask for a non-Rithmatist. Too untraditional. But there must not be a rule about it, and … Lad?”

Joel looked at the middle-aged Rithmatist. “Yes?”

“You seem distracted,” Fitch said. “I’m sorry the place is such a mess. I keep meaning to clean it, but since nobody ever comes in here but me—and, well, I guess now you—there didn’t ever seem to be a point.”

“No,” Joel said. “No, it’s perfect. I…” How could he explain? “Coming in here feels like coming home.”

Fitch smiled. He straightened his long coat, then settled into the chair. “Well then,” he said, “I suppose I should put you to work! Let me see—”

He cut off as a quiet knock echoed through the room. Fitch cocked his head, then stood. “Now, who … Oh yes. The other student.”

“Other student?” Joel asked, trailing Fitch as he rounded the corner and walked down the cluttered hallway.

“Yes, hum,” Fitch said. “York assigned her to me for a remedial tutelage. She gave a very poor showing in my—well, Professor Nalizar’s—Rithmatics class.”

Joel hesitated. “It’s not…”

He trailed off as Fitch pulled open the door. Sure enough, the red-curled Melody stood outside, wearing her white skirt. She’d traded her grey sweater for a short-sleeved, buttoned blouse. She was actually kind of pretty—she had nice eyes, at least.

“I’m here,” she announced with a loud voice. “Let the flogging commence!”

Too bad she was crazy.

“Flogging?” Fitch said. “My dear, are you well?”

Melody stepped into the room. “I’m merely resigned to my fate, Professor.”

“Ah, good, very well.” Fitch turned around and walked back past Joel, waving for Melody to follow. She stopped beside Joel as Fitch began digging through some piles.

“Tell me honestly,” Melody said, whispering to Joel, “are you following me?”

Joel started. “What?”

“Well, you did take the same math class that I did.”

“We get assigned our classes by the campus office!” Joel said.

“After that,” she continued, speaking as if she hadn’t heard his protest, “you got a job at the campus office—the same place that I, unfortunately, have to do service.”

“I’ve had that job since the beginning of the term!”

“And finally,” she said, “you followed me to Fitch’s office. Pretty suspicious.”

“I didn’t follow you. I was here before you!”

“Yes,” Melody said, “a convenient excuse. Just don’t show up outside my window at night, or I shall have to scream and throw something at you.”

“Ah!” Fitch exclaimed, pulling out a large artist’s sketch pad. Then he regarded the wall, rubbing his chin in thought. He eventually pointed at one of the hangings—it depicted a simplified Matson Defense.

Fitch took the hanging off the wall, then shoved aside some books with his foot, making room on the floor. “You, young lady,” he said to Melody, “may think that you are a lost cause. I hardly believe that to be the case. You just need some practice in the fundamentals.” He set the diagram of the Matson Defense on the ground, then ripped a sheet out of the large sketch pad and laid it over the top.

Melody sighed. “Tracing?”

“Yes indeed.”

“It’s something we did back in seventh grade!”

“That, my dear,” Fitch said, “is why this is called a remedial tutelage. I should think that you’ll be able to complete ten copies or so by the time the day is through. Make certain you trace the crosslines in the center and mark the bind points!”

Melody sighed again—she did that a lot, apparently—and shot Joel a glance, as if she blamed him for witnessing her humiliation. He shrugged. Drawing Rithmatic patterns seemed like a fun way to spend the afternoon.

“Get to work, Melody,” Fitch said, rising. “Now, Joel, I have something for you to do as well.” Fitch began to walk down the hallway, and Joel hurried after, smiling in anticipation. Principal York had said the project Fitch was working on was at the request of the federal inspector, so it must be very important. Joel had spent much of the night lying in bed, thinking about what kind of work Fitch was doing. Something involving Rithmatics, lines, and …

“Census records,” Fitch said, hefting a pile of hardbound ledgers and handing them to Joel.

“Excuse me?” Joel asked.

“Your job,” Fitch said, “is to look through the death notices in these ledgers and search out all of the Rithmatists who have died during the last twenty years. Then I want you to cross-reference those with the lists of Armedius graduates I have over here. Every Rithmatist who has passed away, cross off the list.”

Joel frowned. “That sounds like a lot of work.”

“That is precisely,” Fitch said, “the reason I requested a student assistant!”

Joel glanced through the books Fitch had handed him. They were obituary reports from all across the sixty isles.

“It will be easier than you think, lad,” Fitch said. “In those reports, a Rithmatist is always noted by an asterisk, and their obituary will state which of the eight schools they went to. Just scan each page looking for deceased Rithmatists who went to Armedius. When you find one, locate them on this other list and cross them off. In addition, when you find a former Armedius student who died, I want you to read the obituary and note anything … odd in it.”

“Odd?” Joel asked.

“Yes, yes,” Fitch said. “If they died in an unusual way, or were murdered, or something of that nature. Armedius has about twenty Rithmatic graduates a year. Figure an eighty-year period; that means we have over fifteen hundred Rithmatists to look through! I want to know who among them is dead, and I want to know how they passed.” The professor rubbed his chin. “It occurred to me that the school should have this information, but a check with Exton at the office informed me that they don’t keep strict track of alumni deaths. It is an oversight for which we—well, you—will now have to pay the penalty.”

Joel sank down on the stool, looking at the seemingly endless stacks of census reports. To the side, Melody glanced at him, then smiled to herself before turning back to her sketching.

What have I gotten myself into? Joel wondered.

“My life,” Melody declared, “is a tragedy.”

Joel looked up from his stack of books, names, and dead people. Melody sat on the floor a short distance away; she’d spent hours drawing copies of the Matson Defense. Her tracings were terrible.

Professor Fitch worked at a desk in the corner. He ignored Melody’s outburst.

“Why,” she continued, “out of all people on the Isles, did I have to get chosen to be a Rithmatist? I can’t even draw a perfect circle when I’m tracing!”

“Actually,” Joel said, closing his book, “it’s impossible for the unaided human hand to draw a perfect circle. That’s one of the things that makes Rithmatic duels so interesting.”

She glared at him. “Technicality.”

“Here,” Joel said, getting down and taking out one of the sheets of paper. He picked up an ink and quill and drew a freehand circle.

She leaned over, getting a closer look. “That’s not bad,” she said grudgingly.

He shrugged, glancing about. A piece of string hung from a dusty tome. Joel pulled it free, then used it to measure the circle he’d drawn—sticking one point at the center, then tracing the rest around the perimeter. “See,” he said, “I’m off by about half a millimeter.”

“So?” she said. “You were still freakishly accurate.”

“Yes,” Joel said, “but if we were dueling, and you could determine just where the arc of my circle was off, you’d be able to attack me there. It’s my weak point. Anyway, drawing a Circle of Warding isn’t about getting it perfect—it’s just about getting as close as you can.”

“They should let us use a tool, like that string.”

“You can’t always count on having a compass,” Joel said. “And drawing with a tool takes much longer. My circle here might not be perfect, but it’s close enough that finding the weak spots will be tough, particularly when my opponent is sitting inside their own circle five or ten feet away.”

He sat back on his stool. “It’s just better to learn how to draw a good freehand circle. That will help you more in the long run than pretty much anything else in Rithmatics.”

The girl eyed him. “You know a lot about this.”

“It interests me.”

She leaned in. “Hey, you want to do my tracing for me?”

“What?”

“You know, finish this work for me. We’ll trade. I can look through those books for you.”

“Professor Fitch is sitting right there,” Joel said, pointing. “He can probably hear everything you’re saying.”

“Sure can,” Fitch said, scribbling at a notebook.

“Oh,” Melody said, wincing.

“You’re a strange girl,” Joel said.

Melody leaned back, crossing her legs beneath her skirt and sighing melodramatically. “Maybe you’d be strange too if you’d been forced into a life of abject, unrelenting slavery.”

“Slavery?” Joel asked. “You should be proud to have been chosen.”

“Proud?” she said. “Of being forced into a career since my eighth birthday? Of having to spend my days being told that if I don’t learn to draw a stupid circle, it could cost me my life—or even the safety of the entire United Isles? I should be proud having no freedom or will of my own? Proud that I’ll eventually get shipped off to Nebrask to fight? I figure I have at least a little bit of a right to complain.”

“Or maybe you’re just spoiled.”

Melody’s eyes opened wide, and she huffed as she stood and snatched her oversized sketch pad. She marched away, rounding the corner to sit in the other hallway, accidentally knocking over a stack of books as she went.

“More work, please, Joel,” Fitch said without looking up from his work. “Less antagonizing of the other student.”

“Sorry,” Joel said, picking up a ledger.

Fitch was right—the work moved more quickly than Joel had first anticipated. Still, it was boring. What was the point? Was his “important project” nothing more than an excuse to update the school’s records? Maybe the principal wanted to search out old graduates and get them to donate money or something to the school.

After all he’d gone through to get into a tutelage with Fitch, he wanted to be involved in something interesting. It didn’t have to be spectacular. But bookkeeping?

As he worked, he found his mind drifting toward thoughts of Nebrask. Fitch’s work had something to do with why the inspector had visited. Was Lilly Whiting really involved?

Maybe she’d run off to Nebrask. Melody might not want to go, but Joel thought the place sounded terribly exciting. The dark island in the middle of the others, an island where terrible, dangerous chalklings sought to escape and flood the other islands.

The Rithmatists maintained an enormous chalk circle there, the size of a city. Outside the circle, camps and patrols worked to keep the chalklings in. And on the inside, the chalklings attacked the lines, trying to breach, work their way out. On occasion, they’d break through, and the Rithmatists would need to fight.

Wild chalklings … chalklings that could kill. Nobody knew who had created them. Joel could imagine that circle though, drawn on concrete poured into the ground. Storms were said to be the worst. Though canopies kept most of the rain off, water would seep in, particularly from the side of the wild chalklings, washing away the chalk, creating breaches.…

The grandfather clock in the corner slowly ticked toward noon, the hour when summer elective classes ended. Joel worked on the ledgers, trying to focus, though thoughts of the chalklings, and Rithmatic circles, invaded his mind.

Eventually, Joel closed his latest census book and rubbed his eyes. The clock said fifteen till noon. Joel stood to stretch his legs and walked over to Professor Fitch.

The professor quickly closed his notebook as Joel approached. Joel caught a brief glimpse of some sort of drawing on the page. Rithmatic? A circle that had been breached?

“Yes, Joel?” Fitch asked.

“It’s almost time to go,” Joel said.

“Ah, is it? Hum, why, yes indeed. So it is. How went the research?”

Research? Joel thought. I’m not sure that’s the right word for it.… “I managed to cross off thirty or so names.”

“You did? Excellent! You can continue tomorrow, then.”

“Professor? I don’t mean to be rude, but … well, it would help if I knew the point of this. Why am I looking through census records?”

“Ah … hum … well, I don’t know that I can tell you that,” Fitch said.

Joel cocked his head. “This has to do with the inspector who visited the school, right?”

“I can’t really say.…”

“The principal already told me that much.”

“He did?” Fitch scratched his head. “Well, then, I guess you can know that. But really, I shouldn’t say more. Tell me, during your research, did you … find anything suspicious?”

Joel shrugged. “It’s a little bit creepy, to be honest—looking through lists and lists of dead people. In a way, they could all be suspicious, since there aren’t a lot of details. Most of them seem to have died from sickness or old age.”

“Any accidents?” Fitch asked.

“A couple. I marked them, like you said.”

“Ah, very good. I’ll look through those this evening. Excellent work!”

Joel gritted his teeth. But why? What are you looking for? Does it have to do with the girl who ran away? Or am I just hoping that it does?

“Well, you should run along then,” Fitch said. “You too, Melody. You can go early.”

Melody was out the door in a few seconds. Joel stood for a few moments, trying to decide if he should push Fitch further. His stomach growled, however, demanding lunch.

He left to get some food, determined to think of a way to get Fitch to show him the notebook.

CHAPTER

Joel crossed the lawn toward the dining hall. The campus wasn’t very full; over half of the students would be gone for the summer. Many of the staff took the summers off too, and even some of the professors were gone—off in France or JoSeun Britannia, doing research and attending symposiums.

Still, lunch was likely to be a little crowded, so he rounded the building and ducked through a back door into the kitchens. They were normally off-limits to students, but Joel wasn’t just a student.

Hextilda herself was supervising the lunch duties that day. The large woman nodded to him. “Joel, lad,” she said in her thick Scottish accent, “you enjoying your first day of summer?”

“Spent it trapped in a professor’s dungeon,” Joel said. “He had me reading census records.”

“Ha!” she said. “Well, you should know that I have news!”

Joel raised an eyebrow.

“M’son has gotten our whole family a traveler’s permit to visit the homeland! I’ll be leaving in a month’s time!”

“That’s fantastic, Hextilda!”

“First time any McTavish will have set foot on our own soil since my great-grandfather was driven out. Those dirty Sunnys. Forcing us to have a permit to visit our own land.”

The Scots had lasted a long time in their highlands, fighting the JoSeun invasion before being driven out. Trying to convince a Scot that the land was no longer theirs was next to impossible.

“So,” Joel said, “want to celebrate by giving me a sandwich so I don’t have to wait in line?”

Hextilda gave him a flat look. But less than five minutes later she delivered one of her signature, well-stacked sandwiches. Joel took a bite, savoring the salty flavor of the wood-smoked haddock as he left the kitchens and started across campus.

Something was going on—the way Principal York had acted, the way Fitch had closed the notebook when Joel approached … it was suspicious. So how could he get more involved?

Fitch did warn me that the life of a Rithmatist wasn’t glamorous, he reminded himself. But there has to be a way.

Perhaps he could figure out on his own what Fitch was researching. Joel thought for a moment. Then he looked down at the last few bites of sandwich in his hand, an idea forming in his head. He rushed back to the dining hall.

A few minutes later, he left the kitchen with two more sandwiches, each in a small paper sack. He ran across the campus green to the office.

Florence and Exton looked up when Joel entered. “Joel?” Florence said. “Didn’t expect to see you today. It’s summer!”

“I’m not here to work; I’m just here to say hello. What, you think that because it’s summer I’m never going to drop by?”

Florence smiled. Today she wore a green summer dress, her curly blonde hair tamed in a bun. “How thoughtful. I’m sure Exton will be pleased for the diversion!”

Exton continued to write at one of his ledgers. “Oh yes. I’m excited to have yet another item striving to distract me from the two hundred end-of-term grade reports I must fill out and file before the week is over. Delightful.”

“Ignore him, dear,” Florence said. “That’s his way of saying he’s happy to see you.”

Joel set the two packages on the countertop. “Well, I have to admit that it’s not just a social visit. I was in the kitchens, and the cook thought you two might want something for lunch.”

“That’s sweet,” Florence said, walking over. Even Exton grunted in agreement. Florence handed him a bag, and they immediately began to work on the sandwiches. Joel got out the remnant of his own meal, holding it and taking small bites so that he wouldn’t look out of place.

“So,” he said, leaning against the counter, “anything exciting happen during the four hours since summer started?”

“Nothing much,” Florence said. “As Exton already pointed out, there is a lot of busywork this time of year.”

“Dull, eh?” Joel asked.

Exton grunted into his sandwich.

“Well,” Joel said, “we can’t have federal inspectors visiting every day, I suppose.”

“That’s the truth,” Florence said. “And I’m glad for it. Quite the ruckus that one caused.”

“Did you ever figure out what it was about?” Joel asked, taking a bite of his sandwich.

“Maybe,” Florence said, lowering her voice. “I couldn’t hear what was going on inside the principal’s office, of course.…”

“Florence,” Exton said warningly.

“Oh, hush you,” she said. “Go back to your sandwich. Anyway, Joel, did you hear about that Rithmatic girl who vanished a few days back? Lilly Whiting?”

Joel nodded.

“Poor dear,” Florence said. “She was a very good student, by the look of her grades.”

“You read her records?” Exton asked.

“Of course I did,” Florence said. “Anyway, from what I’ve heard, she didn’t run away like they’re saying in the papers. She had good grades, was well liked, and got along with her parents.”

“What happened to her, then?” Joel asked.

“Murder,” Florence said softly.

Joel fell silent. Murder. That made sense—after all, a federal inspector was involved. Yet it felt different to have it spoken out loud. It made him remember that they were talking about a real person, not just a logical puzzle.

“Murder,” he repeated.

“By a Rithmatist,” Florence said.

Joel stiffened.

“Now, that’s just useless speculation,” Exton said, wagging a finger at her.

“I heard enough before York closed the door,” Florence replied. “That inspector thinks a Rithmatist was involved in the killing, and he wanted expert help. It—”

She cut off as the front door to the office behind Joel opened and closed.

“I delivered the message to Haberstock,” a female voice said. “But I—”

Joel groaned.

“You!” Melody snapped, pointing at Joel. “See, you are following me!”

“I just came to—”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses this time,” Melody said. “I have evidence now.”

“Melody,” Florence said sharply, “you’re acting like a child. Joel is a friend. He can visit the office if he wants.”

The redheaded Rithmatist huffed at that, but Joel didn’t want another argument. He figured he’d gotten as much out of Florence as he was going to be able to, so he nodded farewell to the clerks and made his exit.

Killed by a Rithmatist? Joel thought once outside. How would they know?

Had Lilly died in a duel gone wrong? Students didn’t know the glyphs that would make a chalkling dangerous. Usually a chalkling drawn with a Line of Making would be unable to harm anything aside from other chalk drawings. It took a special glyph to make them truly dangerous.

That glyph—the Glyph of Rending—was only taught at Nebrask during the last year of a student’s training, when they went to maintain the enormous Circle of Warding in place around the Tower. Still, it was not outside of reason that a student could have discovered it. And if a Rithmatist had been involved, it would explain why Fitch had been brought in.

Something is happening, Joel thought. Something important. He was going to find out, but he needed a plan.

What if he got through those census records as quickly as possible? He could show Fitch how hard he was willing to work, that he was trustworthy. Professor Fitch would have to assign him another project—something more involved, something that gave him a better idea of what was going on.

Plan in place, he headed back toward Fitch’s to ask for a few of the census ledgers to take home with him tonight. He’d been planning to read a novel—he’d found an interesting one set during the Koreo Dynasty in JoSeun, during the first days when the JoSeun people had turned the Mongols to their side. It would wait.

He had work to do.

CHAPTER

By the end of the week, Joel had discovered something important about himself. Something deep, primal, and completely inarguable.

The Master had not meant for him to be a clerk.

He was tired of dates. He was fed up with ledgers. He was nauseated by notes, cross-references, and little asterisks beside people’s names.

Despite that, he continued to sit on Fitch’s floor, studying page after page. He felt as if his brain had been sucked out, his lips stapled shut, and his fingers given a life of their own. There was something about the rote work that was mesmerizing. He couldn’t stop until he was done.

And he nearly was. After one week of hard work, he was well over halfway through the lists. He had started taking records home with him each day, then worked on them until it grew dark. He’d often spent extra hours after that, when he couldn’t sleep, working by the light of lanterns.

But soon, very soon, he would be done. Assuming I don’t go mad first, Joel thought, noting another death by accident on one of his lists.

A paper rustled on the other side of Fitch’s office. Each day, Fitch gave Melody a different defensive circle to trace. She was getting better, but still had a long way to go.

Each night at dinner, Melody sat apart from the other Rithmatists. She ate in silence while the others chatted. So he wasn’t the only one to find her annoying.

Fitch had spent the last week poking through old, musty Rithmatic texts. Joel had sneaked a look at a couple of them—they were high-level, theoretical volumes that were well beyond Joel’s understanding.

Joel turned his attention back to his work and ticked off another name, then moved on to the next book. It was …

Something bothered him about that last list—another list of graduates from Armedius, organized by year, for checking off those who had died. One of the names he hadn’t checked off caught his attention. Exton L. Pratt. Exton the clerk.

Exton had never given any indication that he was an alumnus. He’d been senior clerk in the office for as long as Joel could remember. He was something of a fixture at Armedius, with his dapper suits and bow ties, sharp clothing ordered out of the Californian Archipelago.

“All right, that’s it!” Melody suddenly declared. “I, Melody Muns, have had enough!”

Joel sighed. Her outbursts were surprisingly regular. It seemed that she could only stand about an hour or so of silence before she simply had to fill it with a dramatic eruption.

“Hum?” Professor Fitch asked, looking up from his book. “What is that?”

“I have had enough,” Melody said, folding her arms. “I don’t think I can trace another line. My fingers won’t do it. They will sooner pull themselves free of my hands!”

Joel rose, stretching.

“I’m just no good at this,” she continued. “How bad does a girl have to be at Rithmatics before everyone will simply give up and let her move on?”

“Far worse than you are, dear,” Fitch said, setting aside his book. “In all my years here, I’ve only seen it happen twice—and only because those students were considered dangerous.”

“I’m dangerous,” Melody said. “You heard what Professor Nalizar said about me.”

“Professor Nalizar is not the expert in everything he claims,” Fitch said. “Perhaps he knows how to duel, but he does not understand students. You, my dear, are far from hopeless. Why, look at how much your tracings have improved in just one week’s time!”

“Yeah,” she said. “Next time you need to impress a group of four-year-olds, you can send for me.”

“You really are getting better,” Joel said. She still wasn’t great, but she’d improved. It seemed that Professor Fitch really did know what he was doing.

“See, dear?” Fitch said, picking up his book again. “You should get back to it.”

“I thought you were supposed to be tutoring me,” she said. “Yet all you do is sit there and read. I think you’re trying to shirk your duties.”

Fitch blinked. “Tracing Rithmatic defenses is a time-tested and traditionally sound method of training a student to focus on basic techniques.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m tired of it. Isn’t there something else I could do?”

“Yes, well, I suppose seven days spent only on tracing could be a little frustrating. Hum. Yes. Maybe we could all use a break. Joel, would you help me move these books here…?”

Joel walked over, helping Fitch move aside several stacks of books and clear away about a six-foot-long space on the ground.

“Now,” Fitch said, settling down on the floor, “there is a lot more to being a successful Rithmatist than lines. The ability to draw is very important—indeed, quite foundational. The ability to think is even more important. The Rithmatist who can think faster than his or her opponent can be just as successful as the one who can draw quickly. After all, drawing quickly does you no good if you draw the wrong lines.”

Melody shrugged. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Excellent,” Fitch said, getting a bit of chalk out of his coat pocket. “Now, do you remember the five defenses I had you work on this week?”

“How could I forget?” she said. “Matson, Osborn, Ballintain, Sumsion, and Eskridge.”

“Each are basic forms,” Fitch said, “each with built-in strengths and weaknesses. With them in hand, we can discuss what Rithmatists often call ‘keening.’”

“Keening?” Joel asked. Then he cursed himself. What if Fitch noticed that he was watching, and decided to order him back to his census records?

Fitch didn’t even look up. “Yes, indeed. Some younger Rithmatists like to call it ‘anticipating,’ but that has always felt mundane to me. Let us imagine a duel between two Rithmatists.”

He began to draw on the floor. Not a wide, full-sized circle, but a smaller instructional one instead. It was only about a handspan wide, drawn with the very tip of Fitch’s chalk so that the lines were rather thin.

“Pretend you are at this duel,” he said. “Now, in any given duel, you have three options on how to start. You can pick your defense based on your own strategy—a powerful defense if you want to push for a longer fight, or a weaker defense if you want to get done quickly and attack aggressively.

“However, you could also wait to draw your defense until you’re certain what your opponent is doing. We call this keening your opponent—you let them take the lead, then gain an advantage by building your defense to counter what they are doing. Let us assume that your opponent is drawing the Matson Defense. What would be your response?”

Fitch filled out the small circle in front of him, drawing smaller circles on the top and bottom bind points, then adding small chalklings at the other bind points. When he finished the first one—a snake—it wiggled to life, then began prowling back and forth in front of the circle. The snake was attached to the front bind point by a small tether around its neck.

“Well?” Fitch asked. “Which of the defenses would be best to use against me?”

“I don’t know,” Melody said.

“Ballintain,” Joel guessed.

“Ah,” Fitch said, “and why is that?”

“Because the Matson commits my opponent to drawing a large number of defensive chalklings. If I can get up a basic defense that is quick to draw, but leaves plenty of space at the top for me to draw Lines of Vigor, I can start shooting before my opponent finishes his defense.”

“Excellent,” Fitch said. “This is, um, unfortunately the strategy that Nalizar used against me. I doubt that he keened me—he started drawing too fast. Undoubtedly a quick defense is often his style, and he likely knew that I favor complex defenses. He could have predicted that his strategy would be a good one.”

Fitch hesitated, laying his chalk against his small circle defense. A few seconds later, it puffed away into dust. Any Rithmatist could dismiss their own lines this way, though one could not dismiss those drawn by someone else. You just had to touch chalk to lines you’d drawn and intentionally will them away.

“But,” Fitch said, “don’t assume that just because you are aggressive, you will beat a good defense. True, a strong defense is generally more viable against multiple opponents—however, a skilled duelist can build their defense even against a determined offense.”

“So,” Melody said, “what you’re saying is it doesn’t matter which defense I use.”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all!” Fitch said. “Or, well, I guess I am. It doesn’t matter which defense you use, for strategy is most important. You have to understand the defenses to know what advantages you gain by picking a certain one. You have to understand your opponent’s defense so you can know their weaknesses. Here, what about this?”

He drew an ellipse on the ground, then began to sketch it out with Lines of Forbiddance and a chalkling at the top.

“That’s the Osborn Defense,” Joel said.

“Very good,” Fitch said. “Of course, that shouldn’t be too hard to determine, since there’s only one basic defense based on an ellipse. Now, which defense would be strong against the Osborn?”

Joel thought for a moment. Osborn was an elliptical defense—which meant that the front and back of the defense were much stronger than the front and back of a circle. At the sides, however, it would be weak.

“I’d use another Osborn,” Joel said. “That way, I’d be matched with him in strength, and it would turn into a test of skill.”

“Ah,” Fitch said. “I see. And you, Melody? Would you do the same thing?”

She opened her mouth, probably to say that she didn’t care. Then she hesitated. “No,” she said, cocking her red-curled head. “If I’m watching my opponent to see what they are doing, then I can’t just go with the same defense they do—because I’d have hesitated and let them get ahead! I’d have to play catch-up the entire match.”

“Aha!” Fitch said. “Correct.”

Joel blushed. He’d spoken too quickly.

“So,” Fitch said to Melody, “if you’re not going to use another Osborn, which would you use instead?

“Um … the Sumsion Defense?”

Joel nodded. Sumsion was a quick defense that was open on the sides. It was often used by people who preferred offensive chalklings—which would be the main way to defeat someone with Osborn. You’d send your chalklings to attack the exposed flanks.

Melody gave Joel a triumphant smirk as Fitch used his chalk to erase his drawing.

Oh, that’s it! Joel thought. “Do another, Professor.”

“Hum. Shouldn’t you be working on those ledgers?”

“Just give me one more chance to beat her,” Joel said.

“Very well then. Both of you, get out your chalk.”

Joel hesitated. He didn’t have any chalk on him at the moment. “Can I … borrow a piece?” he whispered sheepishly to Melody.

She rolled her eyes, but handed him one. They both knelt on the ground next to one another. Fitch began drawing. Joel watched, trying to guess which defense he was going to go for. A circle, so it wasn’t Osborn. Fitch then placed a smaller circle at the very top, crossed with Lines of Forbiddance.

Sumsion, Joel thought. It’s the Sumsion Defense again.

Sumsion had a Line of Forbiddance at the front, which—once in place—would block Fitch from drawing further on that side. The Sumsion Defense, then, started with a very strong front side, but that front couldn’t be protected. The Rithmatist would spend their time drawing chalklings at the sides and sending them out to attack.

I need to strike hard at that front, Joel thought. Break through in the place where he thinks he’s strong, but can’t protect himself.

That probably meant Ballintain was the best. Joel, however, didn’t draw that one. He wanted something more dramatic. He scribbled furiously on the rough wood floor, constructing a nine-point circle with a large number of bound chalklings around it, giving himself a very strong defense. He didn’t bother with Lines of Forbiddance to anchor himself. He went straight into drawing Lines of Vigor to launch at the very front of Fitch’s circle.

“All right,” Fitch said, standing. “Let us see here. Hum…”

Joel glanced to the side. Melody had drawn the Ballintain Defense, and done a fairly good job of it, for her. The lines were wobbly, and the circle lopsided, but she’d gotten each part in the right place.

“Yes indeed,” Fitch said. “That’s actually quite good, my dear. You may not have an eye for circles, but you can think like a Rithmatist.” Fitch hesitated, then leaned down to inspect her work more closely. “And, my! Will you look at that chalkling! Indeed!”

Joel leaned over. Most Rithmatists used simplistic chalklings. Snakes, spiders, occasionally a dragon. Fitch himself favored more intricate drawings—they were stronger, apparently, than ones with fewer lines. Joel hadn’t been able to study a lot of chalkling theory.

Melody’s single chalkling—there was only room for one on Ballintain—was incredibly detailed and complex, despite the small scale. The tiny bear was shaded with shadows, had little lines for fur, and had perfect proportions. It walked back and forth across the wood in front of her circle, connected to the bind point by a tiny chalk chain, each link drawn individually.

“Wow,” Joel said despite himself.

“Yes indeed,” Fitch said. “And Ballintain was the correct choice in this instance, I believe—though something with a very strong defense against chalklings would have been good as well.”

Fitch glanced at Joel’s circle. “Ah, a nine-pointer? Showing off a little, are we?”

Joel shrugged.

“Hum,” Fitch continued. “Not bad, Joel, I must say. The third point is a few degrees off, but the others are within reasonable limits. Is that a Hill Defense?”

“A modified one.”

“No Lines of Forbiddance?”

“You drew Sumsion,” Joel said. “So you probably weren’t going to use many Lines of Vigor—not unless you’re an expert at reflecting them, but you didn’t set yourself up to do that. So you couldn’t have pushed me about. That means I didn’t need the stabilization.”

“Excellent point,” Fitch said. “Unless, of course, I were to notice what you’d done. Remember, I could always dismiss the Line of Forbiddance and attack you from the front by surprise!”

“That would take you a few seconds,” Joel said. “I’d notice and stabilize my defense.”

“Assuming you were watching carefully,” Fitch said.

“I would be,” Joel said. “Trust me.”

“Yes … I believe that you would be. Well, that’s certainly impressive. I think that both of you might very well have defeated me!”

Doubtful, Joel thought. He’d seen Fitch draw, and the man was good. Uncertain of himself in a duel, true, but quite good. Still, Joel suspected that the professor wasn’t trying to be patronizing, just encouraging.

Judging from Melody’s response, it was working. She actually seemed excited to be drawing. “What’s next?” she asked.

“Well, I suppose we can do a few more,” Professor Fitch said, making his lines disappear. Melody did the same.

Joel just stared down at his. “Um…” he said. “Do you have an eraser?”

Fitch looked up, surprised. “Oh! Well, hum, let me see.…”

After about five minutes of searching through the room’s scholarly debris, Fitch managed to produce an eraser. Joel used it, but it didn’t work all that well. The lines just smudged on the floor, which hadn’t been designed for chalk drawing.

Joel felt his face redden as he brushed harder.

“Perhaps we should have you draw on a board from now on, Joel…” Fitch said, digging out a small chalkboard.

Joel looked down at the poorly erased chalk drawing in front of him. It seemed like a sharp and distinct reminder of what he was. No matter how hard he tried or studied, he’d never be a Rithmatist, able to make his chalk lines come alive or vanish with a thought.

“Maybe I should get back to my research,” Joel said, standing.

“Oh, do a few more with us,” Fitch said, wagging the board as he proffered it. “You’ve worked too hard on those census reports, and it will be good for Miss Muns to have some competition.”

Joel’s breath caught in his throat. It was the first time that a Rithmatist had actually offered to let Joel participate. He smiled, then reached out to take the board.

“Excellent!” Fitch said. He seemed to find the prospect of teaching them far more exciting than research.

Over the next few hours, they went over a dozen more examples of defenses and counters. Fitch drew more complicated circles, challenging Joel and Melody to discuss two or three ways to attack each one. There were no actual duels. Professor Fitch seemed to shy away from such things.

Instead, he would draw, explain, and coach. They talked about which defenses were best against multiple opponents. They discussed why it was important to think about being surrounded—since on the Nebrask battlefield, a Rithmatist might have to fight in several directions at the same time. They also discussed timing, drawing to their strengths, and some general theory. All of this was interspersed with more drawings.

Joel threw himself into it with excitement. Though this wasn’t the deep Rithmatic lecture he’d been hoping for, it was actual drawing with actual Rithmatists. It was wonderful.

And it was far better than looking at census records.

Eventually, Fitch glanced at the clock. “Well, we should move on for the day.”

“What?” Melody demanded, looking up from their latest set of drawings. “You can’t! He’s winning!”

Joel smiled smugly. By his count—and he suspected Melody had kept a similar count in her head—Fitch had approved of Joel’s counter-defenses seven times, while Melody had only done the right defense three times.

“Winning?” Fitch said. “Why, this isn’t a competition.”

“Yes, Melody,” Joel said. “It’s not a competition—at least, it’s not a competition when you are involved. None at all.”

She flinched, looking like she’d been slapped. Joel hesitated, realizing how harsh those words had been.

Instead of snapping back a retort, Melody grabbed her sketchbook. “I’ll just … keep practicing some more sketches, Professor.”

“Yes, dear,” Fitch said, shooting a glance at Joel. “That is a good idea. Joel, I need to run some of these books back to the library. Would you help me carry them?”

Joel shrugged, then picked up the indicated stack of books and followed the professor out into the stairwell. Melody remained behind, sniffling.

They stepped out of the stairwell onto the campus green, and Joel blinked against the sunlight—it was easy to lose track of the hours in Fitch’s office.

“You’re quite accomplished at Rithmatic drawings, Joel,” Fitch said. “I honestly don’t know that I’ve ever seen a student as skilled as you. You draw like a man with thirty years of practice.”

“I usually get the nine-point wrong,” Joel said.

“Few Rithmatists even come close with nine-point drawings,” Fitch said. “Your ability, particularly as a non-Rithmatist, is nothing short of astounding. You are, however, also an insensitive bully.”

“A bully!” Joel exclaimed.

Fitch raised a finger. “The most dangerous kind of man is not the one who spent his youth shoving others around. That kind of man gets lazy, and is often too content with his life to be truly dangerous. The man who spent his youth being shoved around, however … When that man gets a little power and authority, he often uses it to become a tyrant on par with the worst warlords in history. I worry this could become you.”

Joel looked down. “I wasn’t trying to make her look bad, Professor. I was just trying to draw my best!”

“There is nothing wrong with doing your best, son,” Fitch said sternly. “Never be ashamed of aptitude. However, the comment you made in there … That was not the sign of a boy who was proud of his aptitude. It was a boy who was proud of being better than another. You disappointed me greatly.”

“I…” What could he say? “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t believe I’m the one to whom you should apologize. You are young, Joel. Young enough that you still have time to decide the type of man you would like to become. Do not let jealousy, bitterness, or anger be what guides that path. But, here now, I have probably been too hard on you in turn. Just promise me you will think about what I have said.”

“I will.”

The two of them continued across campus, Joel feeling shamed to the bones as he carried the books. “Professor, do you really think you can train her to be a great Rithmatist?”

“Melody?” he replied. “Her uncertainty is her only true hindrance. I’ve looked into the girl’s records. It’s remarkable that she’s kept going, all things considered. I think that, with proper training in the basics—”

“Why, Professor Fitch!” a voice called.

Fitch turned, surprised. Joel hadn’t noticed it before, but a small crowd was gathered near the campus quad, where the grass was broken by a hilltop plateau of concrete. A man in a red Rithmatic coat stood there, arms folded as he looked down at Joel and Fitch.

“Professor Nalizar,” Fitch said. “Shouldn’t you be in class right now?”

“We are having class out here today,” Nalizar said, nodding toward the top of the hill, where a large group of Rithmatic students knelt on the concrete, drawing. “The only way to learn is to do, and the only way to win is to fight. These students have had enough time of dusty classrooms and lectures.”

It also lets him show off, Joel thought, noting the attention Nalizar’s display had drawn from the students and professors who had been playing soccer nearby.

“Hum,” Fitch said. “Yes. Interesting. Well, have a nice day.”

“Are you certain you wouldn’t like to come up here, Professor?” Nalizar called. “Have a little match, you and I? Give the children another glimpse of how it is really done? I let them each duel me in turn, of course, but they hardly give me a fair contest.”

Fitch paled. “Um, I don’t think—”

“Come now,” Nalizar asked. “Considering the rather unimpressive display you gave last time, I should think you’d be eager for a chance to redeem yourself!”

“Go on, Professor,” Joel whispered. “You can beat him. I’ve seen you draw. You’re way better than he is.”

“No thank you, Professor,” Fitch called, laying a hand on Joel’s shoulder and turning him away. That hand, Joel noticed, was shaking noticeably.

Joel reluctantly allowed Fitch to pull him away. He could hear as Nalizar barked something to his class. It was followed by laughter.

“Why?” Joel asked as they walked. “Why not duel him?”

“It would be meaningless, Joel,” Fitch said. “I couldn’t earn my tenure back for another year. If I fought and lost, I’d be humiliated again. If I won, all I would do is make an ever bigger enemy of Nalizar.”

“He’s a hypocrite,” Joel said. “All that talk about keeping non-Rithmatists out of his classroom, and then he comes out here in the open and displays his students for everyone to see?”

“They will be on display at the Melee as well,” Fitch said. “I suspect Nalizar wishes to acclimatize them to drawing in front of a crowd. But, yes, I see what you mean. Regardless, I will not put myself in a position where I must fight him again. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly in this situation.”

“Nalizar doesn’t deserve to be treated like a gentleman,” Joel snapped. He clenched his fists. If anyone was a bully, it was Nalizar. “You really should have dueled him again. Pride or no pride. You don’t have anything to lose—everyone already assumes that Nalizar is better. However, if you did win, you’d be making a statement.”

Fitch fell silent for a time. “I don’t know, Joel. I’m just … well, I’m just not good at dueling. He defeated me, and deserved to. No. No, I should not like to duel him again, and that is that. We shall have no more of it.”

Joel couldn’t help but notice that the professor was still trembling slightly as they continued on their way.

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.

CHAPTER

The next morning, Joel rose early and left for Fitch’s office. As he crossed the dew-wetted green, he heard a clamor coming from the direction of the campus office. He rounded the hill to find a small crowd outside the building.

A crowd of adults, not students.

Frowning, Joel walked to the edge of the crowd. Exton stood to the side, wearing a red vest with dark trousers and a matching bowler. The rest of the people were dressed similarly—nice clothing, with bright, single-piece dresses for the women, and vests and trousers for the men. None wore coats in the summer heat, but most wore hats.

The adults muttered among themselves, a few shaking fists toward Principal York, who stood in the doorway of the office.

“What’s going on?” Joel whispered to Exton.

The clerk tapped his cane against the ground. “Parents,” he said. “The bane of every school’s existence.”

“I assure you that your children are safe at Armedius!” the principal said. “This academy has always been a haven for those chosen to be Rithmatists.”

“Safe like Lilly and Herman?” one of the parents yelled. Others rumbled in assent.

“Please!” Principal York said. “We don’t know what is happening yet! Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“Principal York,” said a woman with a narrow face and a nose pointy enough it could poke out someone’s eye if she turned in haste. “Are you denying that there is some threat to the students here?”

“I’m not denying that,” York said. “I simply said that they are safe on campus. No student has come to harm while on school grounds. It was only during visits outside the walls that incidents occurred.”

“I am taking my son away!” one of the men said. “To another island. You can’t stop me.”

“The ordinary students can leave for the summer,” said another. “Why not ours?”

“The Rithmatic students need training!” York said. “You know that! If we act rashly now, we could undermine their ability to defend themselves at Nebrask!”

This quieted them somewhat. However, Joel heard one father muttering to another. “He doesn’t care,” the man said. “York isn’t a Rithmatist—if they die here or die in Nebrask, what is it to him?”

Joel noticed a few sharply dressed men standing quietly to the side, making no complaints. They wore vests of muted colors and triangular felt hats. He couldn’t make out any signs of emotion on their features.

York finally managed to break up and dismiss the group of parents. As the people trailed away, the men walked up to Principal York.

“Who are they?” Joel asked.

“Private security,” Exton whispered back. “The ones on the left are employed by Didrich Calloway, knight-senator of East Carolina. His son is a Rithmatist here. I don’t know the other ones, but I suspect they’re employed by some very influential people who also have Rithmatist children here at Armedius.”

The principal looked troubled.

“He’s going to have to let them go, isn’t he?” Joel asked. “The children of the very important.”

“Likely,” Exton said. “Principal York has a lot of influence, but if he butts heads with a knight-senator, there’s little doubt who will win.”

A small group of Rithmatic students watched from a hillside a short distance away. Joel couldn’t tell if their miserable expressions came from the fact that they were worried about the kidnappings, or if they were embarrassed at having their parents show up at school. Probably both.

“Very well,” Joel faintly heard Principal York say from the office doorway, “I see that I have no choice. Know that you do this against my wishes.”

Joel turned to Exton. “Has anyone sent for Inspector Harding?”

“I don’t believe so,” Exton said. “I couldn’t even get into the office! They were here before I was, crowding the way in.”

“Send Harding a messenger,” Joel suggested. “He might want to hear about the parents’ reactions.”

“Yes,” Exton said, watching the security men with obvious hostility. “Yes, that’s a good idea. This isn’t going to do much to ease tensions on campus, I’d say. If those students weren’t afraid before, they will be now.”

Joel moved away toward Fitch’s office, passing James Hovell being walked by his parents to class. He walked with shoulders slumped, eyes toward the ground in embarrassment. Perhaps there were advantages to having a mother who worked all the time.

Fitch took a long time to answer Joel’s knock. When he did pull open the door, he looked bleary-eyed, still wearing a blue dressing gown.

“Oh!” Fitch said. “Joel. What hour is it?”

Joel winced, realizing that Fitch had probably been up late studying those strange patterns. “I’m sorry for waking you,” Joel said. “I was eager to find out if you discovered anything. About the patterns, I mean.”

Fitch yawned. “No, unfortunately. But it wasn’t for lack of trying, I must say! I dug out the other version of that pattern—the one copied from Lilly’s house—and tried to determine if there were any variations. I drew a hundred different modifications on the theme. I’m sorry, lad. I just don’t think it’s a Rithmatic line.”

“I’ve seen it somewhere before,” Joel said. “I know I have, Professor. Maybe I should go to the library, look through some of the books I’ve read recently.”

“Yes, yes,” Fitch said, yawning again. “Sounds like … a capital idea.”

Joel nodded, heading toward the library and letting the professor go back to sleep. As he crossed the green toward the central quad, he noticed one of the parents from before—the woman with the sharp nose and pinched face—standing on the green, hands on hips, looking lost.

“You,” she called to him. “I don’t know the campus very well. Could you tell me where might I find a Professor Fitch?”

Joel pointed toward the building behind him. “Office three. Up the stairwell on the side. What do you want him for?”

“My son mentioned him,” she said. “I just wanted to chat with him for a short time, ask him about things here. Thank you!”

Joel arrived at the library and pushed open the door, passing out of the crisp morning air into a place that somehow managed to be cool and musty even during the warmest summer days. The library didn’t have many windows—sunlight wasn’t good for books—and so depended on clockwork lanterns.

Joel walked through the stacks, making his way to the familiar section dedicated to general-interest books on Rithmatics, both fiction and nonfiction. He’d read a lot of these—pretty much everything in the library that he was allowed access to. If he really had seen that pattern somewhere, it could have been in any of these.

He opened one book he remembered checking out a few weeks ago. He only vaguely recalled it at first, but as he flipped through, he shivered. It was an adventure novel about Rithmatists in Nebrask.

He stopped on a page, reading—almost against his will—paragraphs on a man being gruesomely eaten by wild chalklings. They crawled up his skin under his clothing—they only had two dimensions, after all—and chewed his flesh from his bones.

The account was fictionalized and overly dramatic. Still, it made Joel feel sick. He’d wanted very badly to be involved in Professor Fitch’s work. And yet, if Joel were to face an army of chalklings, he wouldn’t be able to build himself a defense. The creatures would crawl right over his lines and get at him. He’d be no better off than the man in the book.

He shook himself free from imaginings of chalklings scrambling up and down his body. He had wanted this. If he was really going to become a scholar of Rithmatics—if that was his goal—he’d have to live with the idea that it could be dangerous, and he would not be able to defend himself.

He put the novel away—it had no illustrations—and moved to the nonfiction section. Here, he grabbed a stack of books that looked familiar and walked to a study desk at the side of the room.

An hour of searching left Joel feeling even more frustrated than when he’d started. He groaned, sitting back, stretching. Perhaps he was just chasing shadows, looking for a connection to his own life so that he could prove useful to Fitch.

It seemed to him that his memory of the pattern was older than this. Familiar, but from a long, long time ago. He had a good memory, particularly when it came to Rithmatics. He gathered his current stack of books and walked back toward the shelves to return them. As he did so, a man in a bright red Rithmatic coat walked into the library.

Professor Nalizar, Joel thought. I sure hope that someday, some upstart young Rithmatist challenges him to a duel and takes away his tenure. He …

The first student hadn’t disappeared until Nalizar arrived at the school. Joel hesitated, considering that fact.

It’s just a coincidence, Joel thought. Don’t jump to conclusions.

And yet … hadn’t Nalizar talked about how dangerous the battlefield in Nebrask was? He thought the students and professors at Armedius were weak. Would he go so far as to do something to make everyone more worried? Something to put them all on edge and make them study and practice more?

But kidnapping? Joel thought. That’s a stretch.

Still, it would be interesting to know what books Nalizar was looking at. Joel caught sight of a swish of red coat entering the Rithmatic wing of the library. He hurried after Nalizar.

As soon as Joel reached the doorway to the Rithmatic wing, a voice called out to him.

“Joel!” said Ms. Torrent, sitting at her desk. “You know you’re not supposed to go in there.”

Joel stopped, cringing. He’d hoped she wouldn’t be paying attention. Librarians seemed to have a sixth sense for noticing when students were doing things they weren’t supposed to.

“I just saw Professor Nalizar,” Joel said. “I wanted to go mention something to him.”

“You can’t enter the Rithmatic section of the library without an escort, Joel,” Torrent said, stamping pages in a book, not looking up at him. “No exceptions.”

He ground his teeth in frustration.

Escort, he thought suddenly. Would Fitch help?

Joel rushed out of the library, but realized that Fitch might still not be dressed or might have returned to bed. By the time Joel got the man back to the library, Nalizar would probably be gone. Beyond that, he suspected that Fitch would disapprove of spying on Nalizar—he might even be afraid to do so.

Joel needed someone who was more willing to take a risk.…

It was still breakfast time, and the dining hall was just a short distance away.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, he thought, but took off at a dash for the dining hall.

Melody was sitting at her usual place. As always, none of the other Rithmatists had chosen to sit next to her.

“Hey,” Joel said, stepping up to the table and taking one of the empty seats.

Melody looked up from her plate of fruit. “Oh. It’s you.”

“I need your help.”

“To do what?”

“I want you to escort me into the Rithmatic section of the library,” he said quietly, “so I can spy on Professor Nalizar.”

She stabbed a piece of orange. “Well, all right.”

Joel blinked. “That’s it? Why are you agreeing so easily? We could get in trouble, you know.”

She shrugged, dropping her fork back to the plate. “Somehow, I appear to be able to get into trouble just by sitting around. How much worse could this be?”

Joel couldn’t refute that logic. He smiled, standing. She joined him, and they rushed from the room back across the lawn.

“So, is there any particular reason why we’re spying on Nalizar?” she asked. “Other than the fact that he’s cute.”

Joel grimaced. “Cute?”

“In an arrogant, mean sort of way.” She shrugged. “I assume you have a better reason?”

What could he tell her? Harding was worried about security, and … well, Melody didn’t seem the safest person to tell a secret.

“Nalizar got to Armedius right about the same time those students started disappearing,” Joel said, sharing only what he’d figured out on his own.

“And?” Melody replied. “They often hire new professors before summer elective starts.”

“He’s suspicious,” Joel said. “If he was such a great hero back at the battlefront, then why did he come here? Why take a low-level tutor position? Something’s going on with that man.”

“Joel,” she said. “You’re not honestly implying that Nalizar is behind the disappearances?”

“I don’t know,” Joel said as they reached the library. “I just want to know what books he’s looking at. I’m hoping Ms. Torrent lets me use a student for an escort.”

“Well, all right,” Melody said. “But I’m only doing this because I get to take a peek at Nalizar.”

“Melody,” Joel said. “He’s not a good person.”

“I never said anything about his morality, Joel,” she said, opening the door. “Only his face.” She swished into the room, and he followed. Ms. Torrent looked up as they passed her desk.

“He,” Melody said, pointing dramatically at Joel, “is mine. I need someone to carry books for me.”

Ms. Torrent looked like she wanted to protest, but—thankfully—she decided not to do so. Joel hurried after Melody, but stopped in the doorway to the Rithmatic wing.

He’d spent years trying to find a way to get into this room. He’d asked Rithmatic students before to bring him in, but nobody had been willing. Nalizar wasn’t the only one who was stingy with Rithmatic secrets. There was an air of exclusion to the entire order. They had their own table at dinner. They expressed hostility toward non-Rithmatic scholars. They had their own wing of the library, containing all the best texts on Rithmatics.

Joel took a deep breath, following Melody—who had turned toward him and was tapping her foot with an annoyed expression. Joel ignored her, reveling. The room even felt different from the ordinary library wing. The shelves were taller, the books older. The walls contained numerous charts and diagrams.

Joel stopped beside one that detailed the Taylor Defense—one of the most complicated, and controversial, Rithmatic defenses. He’d only ever seen small, vague sketches of it. Here, however, its various pieces were dissected and explained in great detail, along with several variations drawn smaller to the sides.

“Joel,” Melody snapped. “I didn’t abandon half my breakfast so you could stare at pictures. Honestly.”

He reluctantly turned his attention to their task. The bookshelves here were high enough that Nalizar wouldn’t be able to see Joel or Melody enter the room—which was good. Joel hated to contemplate the ruckus Nalizar would cause if he caught a non-Rithmatist poking around these texts.

Joel waved to Melody, quickly moving down the rows. They seemed placed more haphazardly than back in the main wing, though the library wasn’t really that big. He should be able to find—

Joel froze midstep as he walked past an aisle between shelves. There was Nalizar, not five feet from where Joel stood.

Melody pulled Joel aside, out of Nalizar’s line of sight. He stifled a grunt and joined her in the next row. They could peek through a crack between bookshelves and catch a glimpse of Nalizar, though the poor view didn’t let Joel read the title of the book the professor had.

Nalizar glanced up toward where Joel had been. Then he turned—never noticing Joel and Melody peering through the small slit at him—and walked away.

“What books are shelved there?” Joel whispered to Melody.

She rounded the other side—it wouldn’t matter if Nalizar saw her—and took one off the shelf. She wrinkled her nose and held the book up toward the crack for Joel. Theoretical Postulations on Developmental Rithmatics, Revised Edition, with a Foreword by Attin Balazmed.

“Dry stuff,” she said.

Theoretical Rithmatics, Joel thought. “I need to know the exact books Nalizar is carrying!”

Melody rolled her eyes. “Wait here,” she said, then walked off.

Joel waited nervously. Other Rithmatic students poked about. Those who saw him gave him odd looks, but nobody challenged him.

Melody returned a few minutes later and handed him a slip of paper. On it was written the titles of three books. “Nalizar gave these to the librarians,” she said, “then left for class, instructing the staff to check the books out to him and deliver them to his office.”

“How’d you get this?” Joel asked with excitement, taking the paper.

“I walked up to him and mentioned how much I hated my punishment running errands.”

Joel blinked.

“It made him give me a lecture,” Melody said. “Professors love giving lectures. Anyway, while he was chastising me, I was able to read the titles on the spines of the books in his arms.”

Joel glanced again at the titles. Postulations on the Possibility of New and Undiscovered Rithmatic Lines, the first one read. By Gerald Taffington. The other two had more vague titles having to do with theoretics, but that first one seemed an absolute gem.

Nalizar was researching new Rithmatic lines.

“Thank you,” Joel said. “Really. Thank you.”

Melody shrugged. “We should get going. I just got a lecture from Nalizar—I don’t want to get one from Fitch for being late.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “Just a second.” He glanced at the shelves full of books. He’d tried for so long to get in. “I have to get a few of these,” he said. “Will you check them out for me?”

“You can take one. I’m determinedly impatient today.”

He decided not to argue, and instead looked over the nearby stack where Nalizar had been idling.

“Come on,” she said.

Joel grabbed a volume that looked promising. Man and Rithmatics: Origins of Power. He handed her the book and they left. Ms. Torrent gave them another dissatisfied glance, but reluctantly checked the book out to Melody. Joel let out a deep breath as they walked out onto the green.

Melody handed him the book, and he tucked it under his arm. At the moment, however, it seemed far less important than the little slip of paper. Joel had proof that Nalizar was interested in new Rithmatic lines.

Of course, Fitch was convinced that the looping swirl was not Rithmatic. This was really just another suspicious connection—it wouldn’t prove that Nalizar was involved. I need to get that book, Joel thought. If it contains anything like this looping pattern, I’ll have evidence.

That sounded extremely dangerous. Perhaps it would be best for Joel to simply go to Harding and express his concerns. Undecided, he folded the paper and stuffed it in his pocket. Melody walked beside him in her white skirt, binder held against her chest. She had a distant expression on her face.

“Thank you again,” he said. “Really. I think this is going to be a big help.”

“Good to be useful for something, I suppose.”

“Look, about what I said the other day. I didn’t mean it.”

“Yes you did,” she said, voice uncharacteristically soft. “You were only being honest. I know I’m no good at Rithmatics. My reaction only makes me doubly a fool for trying to deny the truth, right?”

“You’re not being fair to yourself, Melody. You’re really good with chalklings.”

“For all the good it does me.”

“It’s a great skill,” Joel said. “You’re way better at that than I am.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, you’re laying it on thick. There’s no need to be so melodramatic—I know you’re just trying to make yourself feel better. I forgive you, all right?”

Joel blushed. “You’re an annoying person. You know that?”

“Okay,” she said, holding up a finger. “Now, see, you’ve gone too far the other direction. If you try really hard, you should be able to find a happy medium between patronizing me and insulting me.”

“Sorry,” Joel said.

“Regardless,” she said, “the fact of the matter is that no matter how good I am with Lines of Making, I still can’t build myself a decent defense. One good shot with a Line of Vigor will take me out of a duel.”

“Not necessarily,” Joel said. “You know, for all Professor Fitch’s talk about keening, maybe that strategy isn’t right for you.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously, apparently expecting another insult.

“Have you ever tried the Jordan Defense?”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s advanced,” Joel said. “One of the most advanced I’ve ever read about. But it could work. You have to draw a Forbiddance net, then…” He hesitated. “Here, I’ll just show you. You have chalk?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course I have chalk. During your first year at Rithmatic school, if any professor catches you without chalk, they’re allowed to make you scrub floors for two hours.”

“Really?”

She nodded, handing him a piece. The quad was nearby, and it didn’t look like anyone was using it. Joel rushed up the hill, Melody following. “Hey,” she said. “Aren’t we going to get into trouble for being late to Fitch’s office?”

“I doubt it,” Joel said, reaching the concrete-covered top of the hill. “Fitch was up late last night, and he got interrupted a couple of times this morning. I’ll bet he’s still dozing. Okay, here, watch this.”

Joel set his book aside and knelt, doing a rough sketch of the Jordan Defense. It was an ellipsoid defense, with a line at each bind point to stabilize it. The main feature of the defense wasn’t the primary ellipse, however, but the large cage made from Lines of Forbiddance around the outside. It reminded Joel a little bit of what Herman Libel had tried.

“That boxes you in,” Melody said, squatting down beside him. “You can’t do anything if you surround yourself with Lines of Forbiddance. That’s basic Rithmatics—even I know that.”

“That’s a basic rule of thumb, true,” Joel said, still drawing. “A lot of advanced Rithmatic designs break with early wisdom. The really good duelists, they know when to take a risk. Look here.” He pointed with his chalk to a section of the design. “I’ve made a large box on either side. The theory with the Jordan is to fill these boxes full of offensive chalklings. If you’re good with chalklings, you should be able to instruct them to wait and not attack your own line from behind.

“So, while your opponent is wasting time blasting away at your front, you are building a single overpowering attack. When you’re ready, you let out the burst of chalklings, then quickly redraw that Line of Forbiddance. You use Lines of Vigor to destroy any enemy chalklings that got inside while your defenses were down, then you build another wave of chalklings.

“While you might be slower than your opponent, it doesn’t matter because your attacks come in huge rushes that leave him confused and unable to respond. Matthew Jordan, the one who designed the defense, won a couple of very high-profile duels with this and caused an uproar among academics because of how unconventional it was.”

Melody cocked her head. “Dramatic,” she said.

“Want to give it a try?” Joel said. “You can use my little sketch as a pattern.”

“Probably shouldn’t,” she said. “I mean, Professor Fitch…”

“Come on,” Joel said. “Just once. Look, I got you into the library so you could ogle Nalizar, didn’t I?”

“And get yelled at by him.”

“That was your idea,” Joel said. “Are you going to draw or not?”

Melody set down her notebook and knelt on the concrete. She took out her chalk, eyed Joel’s miniature drawing, then began to draw an ellipse around herself.

Joel began to draw as well. “I’m going with the Ballintain,” he said, drawing a circle all the way around himself. “But with your Jordan Defense, you don’t need to pay much attention to what I’m doing. Just draw as fast as you can.”

She got into it, doing a defensive rectangle around the Circle of Warding, then quickly beginning her chalklings.

Joel drew, hoping his instincts were right. The big weakness in the Jordan Defense was the chalklings. Controlling them in this way was difficult; it was only possible because it was a formal duel, and she could orient them right at her target.

For some reason, chalklings were difficult to control if you wanted them to just wait around. That was why most Rithmatists either sent them out to attack or stuck them on a bind point.

I really need to study more chalkling theory, Joel thought as he finished his defense. Maybe I can get Melody to check out a few books on it.

“Okay,” he said, reaching out to draw a few Lines of Vigor. “This is going to take some imagination, since I can’t make my lines do anything. Pretend that I’m good at drawing Vigor Lines—which I am, by the way—and that each of these is hitting your defense at the same point, weakening it. A well-drawn Line of Warding can take about six hits from a Vigor; a Line of Forbiddance can take ten. When you see where I’m shooting, draw another Forbiddance line behind your first to slow me down.”

She did so, drawing a line.

“Now I have to get through two lines of Forbiddance and one Line of Warding. That means that with this defense, you have about twenty-six Vigors to get your chalklings done. That’s not much time, with how—”

He fell silent as she whipped her hand forward and laid her chalk against the inside of her Line of Forbiddance to release her chalklings.

So fast! he thought. I only got through six of my Lines of Vigor! True, he hadn’t been going as quickly as he could, but even still …

Melody’s line puffed away—it took four seconds to dismiss a line—and a wave of eight complete chalklings rushed across the ground toward him.

“Wow,” he said.

Melody looked up, brushing a bit of curly red hair from her eyes. She blinked in surprise, as if shocked that she’d actually done it. Joel scrambled to draw a few more Lines of Vigor and defend himself against the creatures.

But, of course, that did nothing. In the heat of battle, Joel almost forgot that he wasn’t a Rithmatist.

The chalklings reached his defenses and hesitated. For a moment, he felt a stab of fear—similar to what he assumed Herman Libel must have felt while sitting defenseless against an attacking group of chalk monsters.

Joel doubted that Herman had been forced to face down unicorns though.

The creatures finally tested Joel’s defenses—which, of course, didn’t stop them. They rushed forward eagerly, surrounding Joel, then running about in circles. Joel cringed, imagining them stripping off his flesh. Fortunately, these chalklings were harmless.

“Unicorns?” he asked sufferingly.

“The unicorn is a very noble and majestic animal!”

“It’s just an … undignified way to be defeated, particularly with them prancing about like that.”

“Well,” she said, rising, “at least I don’t have any pink chalk. They won’t let us use colors until we’re juniors.”

Joel smiled. “You did really well. I can’t believe you drew those so quickly!”

She walked over and placed her chalk against one of the unicorns. It stopped prancing immediately, freezing in place as if it had become simply a drawing again. Four seconds later, it was gone. She repeated the process with the others. “That wasn’t hard,” she said. “I just had to get my chalklings to wait before attacking.”

From what little Joel had read, it hadn’t sounded that easy. If you didn’t give the chalklings precisely correct instructions, they’d attack your own Line of Forbiddance. Then, when you dismissed it, they’d be confused and mill about instead of rushing your opponent.

“I told you Jordan would work for you,” Joel said, standing.

“You went easy on me,” she said. “Plus, my lines weren’t that great. I’ll bet you could have broken through my Forbiddance wall with half as many shots as it would otherwise have taken.”

“Maybe,” Joel said. “I didn’t expect you to work so quickly. Your ellipse was a disaster—but that didn’t matter. You did a great job, Melody. You can do this. You just need to find patterns and defenses that work for your skills.”

She smiled hesitantly at that. “Thanks.”

“It’s true.”

“No,” she said. “Not for the compliment. For showing me this. I doubt it’s going to revolutionize my style—I’m never going to be a good Rithmatist unless I can learn circles. But, well, it’s nice to know I can do something right.”

Joel smiled back. “All right. Well, maybe now we should get to class. Professor Fitch…”

He trailed off, noticing a figure in the distance—a figure in a policeman’s uniform and hat, sitting astride a large horse. Remembering that he’d asked Exton to send for the inspector, Joel waved.

“Joel?” Melody asked.

“Just a moment,” he said. “You can go on ahead. I need to talk to that policeman.”

She turned. “Dusts! Is that an Equilix Stallion?”

As she spoke, Joel noticed that she was right. Harding trotted his mount forward, but that mount was not a horse. It was shaped like one, true, but it was made of metal, with glass sides that showed the twisting gears and clicking springs.

“Joel, son,” Harding said as he walked his mount up, its metal hooves leaving deep prints in the soil. “How goes the academic front?”

“It goes well, Inspector,” Joel said.

Joel had seen springwork horses before, of course. They were expensive, but by no means uncommon. An Equilix, however, wasn’t just any springwork. Built from the newest of springwork technologies out of Egyptia, they were said to be amazingly intelligent. They had a woman there, a genius scientist, who had figured out new ways of winding springs to pull energy through the harmonic winds.

Joel looked into the machine’s clear glass eyes, and could see the tiny springs and rotors moving inside, miniature arms popping up and down like the keys of a typewriter, driving the functions of its complicated clockwork brain.

“Now, who is this pretty young lady?” Harding asked. His tone was civil, but Joel could sense the hesitation.

Pretty? She annoyed him so often, he forgot how cute she could be when she smiled. Like she was doing right now. “She’s a student of Professor Fitch’s,” Joel said.

“Miss…?”

“Muns,” she said.

Wait, Joel thought. Muns. I’ve heard that name somewhere recently. For someone other than Melody.…

“Miss Muns,” Harding said, tipping his blue helmet. Then he turned to Joel. “Thank you for the tip about the parents, Joel. We need to secure this campus; I’ve ordered that from this point forward, no students are to be allowed out for the evenings or weekends. I’ve asked for reinforcements, making this our base of operations and front line of defense!”

Joel nodded. “I thought it would be a bad idea for the parents to start running off with their children. Anywhere they go, the … person could follow.”

“Agreed,” Harding said.

Melody glanced at Joel, her eyes narrowing.

“By the way, soldier,” Harding said to Joel, “have you seen a blonde woman, five foot seven, hair in a bun, about thirty-five years old, wearing a blue dress? She has sharp features and a narrow face.”

“I saw her,” Joel said. “She’s a parent of one of the Rithmatist students.”

Harding snorted. “Hardly. That’s Elizabeth Warner—reporter.”

“A woman reporter?” Joel asked.

“What’s wrong with that?” Melody said with a huff.

“Nothing,” Joel said quickly. “Just … never heard of it before.”

“Times are changing,” Harding said. “Women Rithmatists fight on the battlefield, and I’ll bet there comes a day when even ordinary women join the ranks of soldiers. Regardless, women or not, press are the enemy. If they have their way, this entire island will go into a panic! Where did you see her, son?”

“She was heading toward Professor Fitch’s office.”

“Blast it all,” Harding said, turning his mount. Joel could hear clicks and springworks moving inside. “Watch my retreat!” Harding called.

He took off in a gallop toward the Rithmatic campus.

“And what exactly was that all about?” Melody asked.

“Uh … nothing.”

She rolled her eyes with an exaggerated expression. “I’m sure.”

“I can’t tell you,” he said.

“You’re going to relegate me to continued ignorance!”

“Uh, no,” Joel said, shuffling. “Look, I really don’t know anything.”

“Is that a lie?”

Joel hesitated. “Yeah.”

She sniffed in annoyance. “And I thought we were starting to get along so well.” She grabbed her notebook and stalked away. “My life,” she snapped, holding her hand aloft, “is a tragedy! Even my friends lie to me!”

Joel sighed. He picked up the book she’d checked out for him, then rushed after her toward Fitch’s office.

CHAPTER

“Well, yes, I did talk to that woman,” Professor Fitch said, looking confused. “She was uncertain about letting her son stay at Armedius. She wanted to know that we were making honest efforts to protect the children.”

“And so you told her,” Inspector Harding said.

“Of course. She was on the edge of tears. Um, my, I can never handle women on the edge of hysterics, Inspector. I didn’t say much. Just that we were sure a Rithmatist was behind it, but that we hoped the children might still be alive, and that we were working on some strange chalk drawings left at the crime scenes.”

“Professor,” Harding said, rubbing his forehead, “this is a terrible breach of security. If you were a soldier under my command, I’m afraid I’d have to discipline you for this.”

“Oh dear,” Fitch said. “Well, I guess there’s a reason I’m a professor, rather than a soldier.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, trying not to feel too smug about the fact that both Harding and Fitch had insisted Melody wait outside, but hadn’t forbidden Joel.

“Unfortunately,” Harding said, pacing up the hallway of Fitch’s office, hands clasped behind his back, “it can’t be helped now. Our fortifications have been breached, and a spy escaped with our battle plan. We must bear it and hope for the best. I strongly suggest, Professor, that you avoid speaking of these matters with anyone else.”

“I understand, Inspector,” Fitch said.

“Good,” Harding replied. “Now, I think you should be aware that I’ve asked the knight-senator of New Britannia for permission to set up a perimeter here at Armedius. He’s agreed to grant me a full legion from the Jamestown militia to use in defending this location.”

“You’re going to … occupy the school?” Fitch asked.

“Nothing so drastic, Professor,” Harding said as he paced, spinning on one heel then coming back the other direction. “Rithmatists are one of the Union’s greatest resources; we need to make certain they are protected. I will have men patrolling the grounds. Perhaps we can use sheer intimidation to keep this phantom kidnapper from striking again.

“Principal York has assigned me a room on campus to use as a base of operations. My men will not interfere with the day-to-day workings of the school. However, we want to be seen—and to let the students know that they are being protected. Perhaps this will also be of aid in placating the parents, who seem determined to fracture morale and isolate their children for easy defeat.”

“What’s this?” Fitch asked. “The parents are doing what?”

“Some of the parents of Rithmatist children are pulling their students out of the school,” Harding said. “Young Joel was quick-witted enough to warn me of this. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to secure the grounds quickly enough. A good dozen children—mostly Rithmatists—were pulled out this morning.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Fitch said. “All of the attacks happened off campus. Why would they want to take their children away from Armedius?”

“Parents are unpredictable when their children are involved,” Harding said. “I’d much rather fight a squadron of Forgotten than deal with an affluent mother who thinks her son is in danger.”

Fitch glanced at Joel, though Joel wasn’t certain what to make of the look.

“You are now briefed on the situation, men,” Harding said. “I must get back to my rounds, assuming there’s nothing else we need to discuss.”

I should tell them, Joel thought. I can’t just sneak about and try to fight Nalizar on my own.

“Actually,” Joel said, “I … um … Well, there’s something I should probably mention.”

They both turned toward him, and suddenly he felt self-conscious. How exactly did one accuse a professor of being a kidnapper?

“It’s probably nothing,” Joel said. “But, well, I saw Professor Nalizar acting suspiciously earlier today. These kidnappings didn’t start happening until he got hired by the principal, you know.”

“Joel!” Professor Fitch said. “I realize that you’re upset with the man for dueling me, but this is uncalled-for!”

“It’s not that, Professor,” Joel said. “It’s just … well…”

“No,” Harding said. “It’s good, Joel. You should mention things like this. However, I don’t think we have anything to worry about from Andrew Nalizar.”

Joel looked over. “You know him?”

“Of course I do,” Harding said. “Nalizar’s a legend back in Nebrask. I know a good two dozen men who owe their lives to him—and I count myself among them.”

“You mean he really is a hero, like he keeps telling everyone?”

“Of course he is,” Harding said. “Not a humble one, I’ll admit, but I can forgive something like that if it’s earned. Why, there was a time when the chalklings had penetrated along the river to the eastern front! If they’d passed us by, they could have flanked our force—maybe taken the entire eastern front. From there, it would only be a matter of sailing on fallen logs to invade the nearby islands and wreak havoc.

“Anyway, my squad was in serious trouble. Then Nalizar arrived and built us a fortification all on his own. He stood against hundreds of chalklings. Dusts be cast aside if he didn’t save all of our lives. I could share more than one story like that. I’ve rarely seen a Rithmatist as skilled and level-headed as Andrew Nalizar. It was a shame that…”

He trailed off.

“What?” Joel asked.

“Sorry, son,” Harding said. “I just realized you don’t have clearance for that. Regardless, Nalizar is no threat. In fact, I’m happy he’s here on campus. It feels good to have that man at my back.”

Harding nodded to them—he appeared to almost give them a salute, before halting himself—and made his way out of the room and down the stairs.

“I didn’t expect that,” Joel said. “About Nalizar, I mean.”

“To be honest, Joel,” Fitch said, “neither did I.”

“Nalizar can’t be a hero,” Joel said. “He’s a pompous windbag!”

“I will agree with the adjective,” Fitch said, “but the noun … Well, he did defeat me quite handily. Regardless, it is unseemly for a student to be referring to a professor of the school in such a manner. You must show respect, Joel.”

A knock came at the door. It flew open a second later, revealing Melody, who had obviously decided not to wait for someone to answer her knock.

“I assume,” she said with a huff, “that all the secret, valuable, interesting discussion is finished with, and we ordinary people can come in now?”

“Melody, dear,” Fitch said. “It’s not that we wanted to exclude you, it’s just—”

She held up a hand. “I assume I’m going to have to do more tracing today?”

“Well, um, yes,” Fitch said. “It’s very good for you to practice that, Melody. You will thank me someday.”

“Right,” she said. She gathered up a sketch pad and a pen, then turned to leave.

“Melody?” Professor Fitch asked. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to sketch out here,” she said, “on the mundane, unimportant doorstep. That way, I won’t be able to interfere with significant conversations you two might need to have.”

With that, she pulled the door shut behind her.

Fitch sighed, shaking his head and walking back to his desk. “I’m sure she’ll get over it,” he said, sitting and shuffling through his papers.

“Yeah,” Joel said, still looking after her. Would this make her bitter against him again, after he’d just gotten on her good side? He was having a devil of a time figuring that girl out. “What do you want me to do, Professor?”

“Oh, hum? Ah. Well, I honestly don’t know. I planned for you to be working on those census reports for a few more weeks yet. Hum.” Fitch tapped the table with his index finger. “Why don’t you take the day off? You worked so hard the last few weeks. It will give me an opportunity to sort through what Harding has given me. I’m certain I’ll have something for you to do tomorrow.”

Joel opened his mouth to protest—he could certainly help with the professor’s research into the strange lines—but then hesitated. He glanced at the book he was still carrying, the one Melody had checked out for him.

“All right,” he decided. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Fitch nodded, turning back to his papers. Joel pulled open the door to walk out. He nearly stumbled over Melody, who had indeed set up drawing right in front of the doorway. She grumpily made way for him, and he left via the stairwell, intent on finding a shady spot in which to poke through the tome in peace.

Joel sat beneath a tree, book in his hands. Some students played soccer as their summer elective on a field in the distance, kicking the ball back and forth toward the goal. Joel could hear their shouting, but it didn’t bother him.

Police officers patrolled the grounds, but they kept to themselves, as Harding had promised. A bird whistled in the branches above him, and a small springwork crab puttered along on the green, clipping at patches of grass. Long metal feelers dangled in front of it, keeping it from wandering off the green and from clipping things it shouldn’t.

Joel leaned back against the trunk of the tree, staring up at the sparkling leaves. When he’d chosen the book, he’d assumed from the title—Origins of Power—that it had to do with the way that Rithmatics had been discovered, back in the early days when the United Isles had still been new. He’d expected an in-depth look at King Gregory and the first Rithmatists.

The book, however, was about how people became Rithmatists.

It happened during the inception ceremony, an event that occurred every Fourth of July. Every boy or girl who had turned eight since the last inception ceremony was brought to their local Monarchical chapel. The group was blessed by the vicar. Then, one at a time, the children walked into the chamber of inception. They stayed inside for a few minutes, then walked out the other side—a symbol of new birth. They were then given chalk and asked to draw a line. From that point on, some could create sketches with Rithmatic power. The others could not. It was that simple.

And yet, the book made the process sound anything but simple. Joel leafed through it again, frowning in confusion as the groundskeeping crab clipped its way closer, then turned around as its feelers brushed his leg. The book assumed that the reader was a Rithmatist. It talked of things like the “chaining” and spoke of something known as a “Shadowblaze.”

There was apparently far more to the inception than Joel had originally thought. Something happened in that room—something that physically changed some of the children, giving them Rithmatic power. It wasn’t just the invisible touch of the Master.

If what the book said was true, then Rithmatists had some sort of special vision or experience inside the chamber of inception, one they didn’t speak of. When they went outside to draw their first line, they already knew that they had become Rithmatists.

It flew in the face of everything Joel understood. Or, at least, that was what it seemed to say. He considered himself well educated when it came to Rithmatics, but this text was completely over his head.

The chaining of a Shadowblaze, fourth entity removed, is an often undeterminable process, and the bindagent should consider wisely the situation before making any decisions regarding the vessels to be indentured.

What did that even mean? Joel had always assumed that if he could just get into the Rithmatic section of the library, he’d be able to learn so much. It hadn’t occurred to him that many of the books would be beyond his understanding.

He snapped the book closed. To the side, the springwork crab was starting to run more slowly. The hour was late, and the groundskeeper would probably pass by soon and either wind the device or pack it up for the evening.

Joel stood, tucking the book under his arm, and began to wander toward the dining hall. He felt odd, having just spent an afternoon studying. The entire campus was coming under an increasingly tight lockdown, and students were disappearing in the night. It felt wrong to simply sit about and read a book. He wanted to be helping somehow.

I could get that book Nalizar checked out, he thought. Despite Harding’s words, Joel just didn’t trust the professor. There was something important in that book. But what? And how to get it?

With a shake of the head, he entered the dining hall. His mother was there—which was good—and so Joel went and dished himself up some of the evening’s main dish: stir-fried spaghetti and meatballs. He dumped some parmesan cheese on, grabbed a pair of chopsticks, then made his way to the table.

“Hey, Mom,” he said, sitting down. “How was your day?”

“Worrying,” she said, glancing toward a small group of police officers sitting at a table and eating together. “Maybe you shouldn’t be out alone at night.”

“This campus is probably the safest place in the city right now,” Joel said, digging into his food. Spaghetti mixed with fried peppers, mushrooms, water chestnuts, and a tangy tomato soy sauce. Italian food was one of his favorites.

His mother continued to watch the officers. They were probably there to remind people, as Harding had said, that the campus was being protected. However, the officers seemed to also make people more nervous by reminding them that there was danger.

The room buzzed with the sounds of low conversation. Joel heard mention of both Herman and Lilly several times, though as some of the cooks passed, he also heard them grumbling about “those Rithmatists” bringing danger to the campus.

“How can they be so foolish?” Joel asked. “We need the Rithmatists. Do they want the chalklings to get off of Nebrask?”

“People are frightened, Son,” his mother said. She stirred her food, but didn’t seem to be eating much of it. “Who knows? Perhaps this whole thing is the result of a squabble between Rithmatists. They’re so secretive.…”

She looked toward the professors. Fitch wasn’t there—probably working late on the disappearances. Nalizar wasn’t at his seat either. Joel narrowed his eyes. He was involved somehow, wasn’t he?

At the table of the student Rithmatists, the teens whispered among themselves, looking worried, anxious. Like a group of mice who had just smelled a cat. As usual, Melody sat at the end of the table with at least two seats open on either side of her. She looked down as she ate, not talking to anyone.

It must be hard for her, he realized, to not have anyone to talk with, particularly at this time of tension. He slurped up some spaghetti, thinking of how much she’d overreacted to being excluded from his meeting with Fitch and Harding. And yet … perhaps she had a reason. Was it because she was so commonly excluded by the rest of the Rithmatists?

Joel felt a stab of guilt.

“Joel,” his mother said, “maybe it isn’t a good idea for you to be studying with Professor Fitch during this time.”

Joel turned back to her, guilt overwhelmed by alarm. His mother could end his studies with Fitch. If she went to the principal …

A dozen complaints flashed through his mind. But no, he couldn’t protest too much. If he did, his mother might dig in her feet and decide it needed to be done. But what, then? How?

“Is that what Father would want?” Joel found himself asking.

His mother’s hand froze, chopsticks in her spaghetti, motionless.

Bringing up his father was always dangerous. His mother didn’t cry often about him, not anymore. Not often. It was frightening how a simple springrail accident could suddenly upend everything. Happiness, future plans, Joel’s chances of being a Rithmatist.

“No,” she said, “he wouldn’t want you to ostracize them the way others are. I guess I don’t want you to either. Just … be careful, Joel. For me.”

He nodded, relaxing. Unfortunately, he found his eyes drifting back toward Melody. Sitting alone. Everyone in the room kept glancing at the Rithmatists, whispering about them, as if they were on display.

Joel shoved his chopsticks into the spaghetti, then stood up. His mother glanced at him, but said nothing as he crossed the room to the Rithmatist table.

“What?” Melody asked as he arrived. “Come to flatter me some more so that you can get me to sneak you into another place where you shouldn’t be?”

“You looked bored,” Joel said. “I thought, maybe, you’d want to come eat over with my mother and me.”

“Oh? You sure you’re not going to just invite me over, then kick me out as soon as you have to talk about something important?”

“You know what? Never mind,” Joel said, turning around and stalking away.

“I’m sorry,” she said from behind.

He glanced back. Melody looked miserable, staring down at a bowl filled with brownish red spaghetti, a fork stuck into the mess.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’d … really like to join you.”

“Well, come on then,” Joel said, waving.

She hesitated, then picked up her bowl and hurried to catch up with Joel. “You know how this is going to look, don’t you? Me running off with a boy twice in one day? Sitting with him at dinner?”

Joel blushed. Great, he thought. Just what I need. “You won’t get into trouble for not sitting with the others, will you?”

“Nah. We’re encouraged to sit there, but they don’t make us. I’ve just never had anywhere else I could go.”

Joel gestured toward his open spot at the servants’ table across from his mother, and some people on each side made room for Melody. She sat down, smoothing her skirt, looking somewhat nervous.

“Mom,” Joel said, sitting and grabbing his chopsticks, “this is Melody. She’s studying with Professor Fitch over the summer too.”

“Nice to meet you, dear,” his mother said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Saxon,” Melody said, picking up her fork and digging into her spaghetti.

“Don’t you know how to use chopsticks?” Joel asked.

Melody grimaced. “I’ve never been one for European food. A fork works just fine.”

“It’s not that hard,” Joel said, showing her how to hold them. “My father taught me when I was really young.”

“Will he be joining us?” Melody asked politely.

Joel hesitated.

“Joel’s father passed away eight years ago, dear,” Joel’s mother said.

“Oh!” Melody said. “I’m sorry!”

“It’s all right,” Joel’s mother said. “It’s actually good to sit with a Rithmatist again. Reminds me of him.”

“Was he a Rithmatist?” Melody asked.

“No, no,” Joel’s mother said. “He just knew a lot of the professors.” She got a far-off look in her eyes. “He made specialty chalks for them, and in turn they chatted with him about their work. I could never make much sense of it, but Trent loved it. I guess that because he was a chalkmaker, they almost considered him to be one of them.”

“Chalkmaker?” Melody asked. “Doesn’t chalk just come from the ground?”

“Well, normal, mundane chalk does. It’s really just a form of limestone. However, the chalk you Rithmatists use doesn’t have to be a hundred percent pure. That leaves a lot of room for experimentation. Or so Trent always said.

“The best chalk for Rithmatists, in his opinion, was that which is constructed for the purpose. It can’t be too hard, otherwise the lines won’t come down thickly. It also can’t be too soft, otherwise it will break easily. A glaze on the outside will keep it from getting on the Rithmatist’s fingers, and he had some compounds he could mix with it that would make it put out less dust.”

Joel sat quietly. It was difficult to get his mother to talk about his father.

“Some Rithmatists demand certain colors,” she said, “and Trent would work for hours, getting the shade just right. Most schools don’t employ a chalkmaker, though. Principal York never replaced Trent—could never find someone he thought was competent enough for the job. The truth is, a chalkmaker isn’t really necessary, since ordinary chalk will work.

“But Trent always argued with those who called his work frivolous. Taste is frivolous when eating, he’d say—the body can get the same nutrients from bland food as it can from food that tastes good. Colors for fabric, paintings on walls, beautiful music—none of these things are necessary. However, humans are more than their need to survive. Crafting better, more useful kinds of chalk was a quest for him.

“At one point, he had belts filled with six different kinds of chalk—different hardnesses and curves to their tips—for use in drawing on different surfaces. A lot of the professors wore them.” She sighed. “That’s past, though. Those who want specialty chalk now just order it in from Maineford.”

She trailed off, then glanced at the large ticking clock set into the wall. “Dusts! I have to get back to work. Melody, nice to meet you.”

Melody stood up as Joel’s mother rushed away. Once she was gone, Melody sat back down, digging into her meal. “Your father sounds like he was an interesting person.”

Joel nodded.

“You remember much of him?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Joel said. “I was eight when he died, and we have some daguerreotypes of him hanging in our room. He was a kind man—big, burly. More like a fieldworker than an artisan. He liked to laugh.”

“You’re lucky,” Melody said.

“What?” Joel asked. “Because my father died?”

She blushed. “You’re lucky to have had a parent like him, and to be able to live with your mother.”

“It’s not all that fun. Our room is practically a closet, and Mother works herself near to death. The rest of the students are nice to me, but I can’t ever make good friends. They’re not sure how to treat the son of a cleaning lady.”

“I don’t even have that.”

“You’re an orphan?” Joel asked with surprise.

“Nothing so drastic,” she said with a sigh, scooping at her spaghetti with the fork. “My family lives down in the Floridian Atolls. My parents are perfectly healthy, and they are also perfectly uninterested in visiting me. I guess after their fourth Rithmatist child, the novelty kind of wears off.”

“There are four Rithmatists in your family?”

“Well, six if you count my parents,” she said. “They’re both Rithmatists too.”

Joel sat back, frowning. Rithmatics wasn’t hereditary. Numerous studies had proven that if there was a higher likelihood of a Rithmatist having Rithmatist children, it was very slight at best.

“That’s impossible,” Joel said.

“Not impossible,” she said, taking a bite of spaghetti. “Just unlikely.”

Joel glanced to the side. The book he’d spent all day reading still sat on the table, dark brown cover aging and scuffed. “So,” he said offhandedly. “I’ve been reading about what happens to Rithmatists when they enter the chamber of inception.”

Melody froze, several lines of spaghetti hanging from her mouth and down to her bowl.

“Interesting reading,” Joel continued, turning the book about. “Though, there are some questions I had about the process.”

She slurped up the spaghetti. “That?” she said. “That’s what the book is about?”

Joel nodded.

“Oh, dusts,” she said, grabbing her head. “Oh, dusts. I’m going to be in big trouble, aren’t I?”

“I don’t see why. I mean, what’s the problem? Everyone goes into the chamber of inception, right? So, it’s not like everything about the place has to be kept secret.”

“It’s not secret, really,” Melody said. “It’s just … well, I don’t know. Holy. There are things you’re not supposed to talk about.”

“Well, I mean, I’ve read the book,” Joel said. Or, at least, as much of it as I could make out. “So, I already know a lot. No harm in telling me more, right?”

She eyed him. “And if I answer your questions, will you tell me about the things you and Fitch talked about with that police officer?”

That brought Joel up short. “Um … well,” he said. “I gave my word not to, Melody.”

“Well, I promised I wouldn’t talk about the chamber of inception with non-Rithmatists.”

Dusts, Joel thought in annoyance.

Melody sighed. “We’re not going to argue again, are we?”

“I don’t know,” Joel said. “I don’t really want to.”

“Me neither. I have far too little energy for it at this present moment. That comes from eating this slop the Italians call food. Looks far too much like worms. Anyway, what are you up to after dinner?”

“After dinner?” Joel asked. “I … well, I was probably just going to read some more, see if I can figure out this book.”

“You study too much,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“My professors would generally disagree with you.”

“Well, that’s because they’re wrong and I’m right. No more reading for you. Let’s go get some ice cream.”

“I don’t know if the kitchen has any,” Joel said. “It’s hard to get in the summers, and—”

“Not from the kitchen, stupid,” Melody said, rolling her eyes. “From the parlor out on Knight Street.”

“Oh. I’ve … never been there.”

“What! That’s a tragedy.”

“Melody, everything is a tragedy to you.”

“Not having ice cream,” she proclaimed, “is the culmination of all disasters! That’s it. No more discussion. We’re going. Follow.”

With that, she swept out of the dining hall. Joel slurped up a last bite of spaghetti, then followed in a rush.

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.”

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.