The Rithmatist (20 page)

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?”