The Rithmatist (29 page)

Fitch was convinced that if there were other Rithmatic lines, there would be mentions of them in such records. Drawings, like Estevez had done, lost in time but now suddenly relevant.

“Hey,” Joel said, noticing what Fitch was reading, “are those my notes about the census reports?”

“Hum? Oh, yes. I never did get a chance to go over these.”

“You probably don’t need to worry about it now. I doubt those death records will be all that helpful.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Fitch said, leafing through the pages. “Perhaps this isn’t the first time events like the ones here have occurred. What if there were other such disappearances, but they were so isolated that they were never connected? We just…”

He trailed off, holding up one of the sheets.

“What?” Joel asked. “Did you find something?”

“Hum? Oh, no, I didn’t.” Fitch quickly put the sheet back down. “I should get back to work on my other reading.…”

Fitch, Joel decided, was a terrible liar. Probably came from the man’s inability to stand confrontation of any type. So what had Fitch seen on that sheet that had caught his attention? And why didn’t he want to mention it to Joel?

Joel was trying to figure out a way to inconspicuously glance at the stack of sheets on Fitch’s desk when the door at the end of the narrow chamber opened and Melody entered. Her class with Fitch had ended a half hour ago. Why had she returned?

“Melody?” Fitch asked. “Did you forget something?”

“Hardly,” she said, leaning against the doorway frame. “I’m here on official business.”

“Official?” Fitch asked.

“Yeah,” she said, holding up a slip of paper. “Nalizar still has me running errands after classes, you know. By the way, I’ve realized that my sorry state is
completely
your fault, Joel.”

“Mine?”

“Sure,” she said. “If you hadn’t gotten yourself into trouble visiting all those Rithmatic classes, then I wouldn’t have had to end up running all over campus every afternoon like a windup toy. Here’s your note, Professor—it says the principal wants Joel to come to the office.”

“Me?” Joel asked. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Something about your grades. Anyway, I have more menial, tedious, obnoxious busywork to be about. See you at dinner?”

Joel nodded, and she took off. He walked over to take the note, which she’d stuffed between two books. Grades. He knew that he should have felt alarmed, but something as mundane as grades seemed distant to him at the moment.

The note had been sealed shut, of course, but Joel could see where Melody had pried it open on the side to peek in. He walked over to grab his book bag. “I’m going to go, then.”

“Hum?” Fitch said, already absorbed in a book. “Ah, yes. Very well. I will see you tomorrow.”

Joel walked past the desk—and quickly scanned what Fitch had been reading—on his way out. It was one of the census lists of students who had graduated Armedius in a given year. Joel had marked the ones who had died suspiciously. There were two of these, but Joel didn’t recognize either name as being all that important. Why, then …

He almost missed it, just like last time. Exton’s name was at the top of the list, among the graduates from the general school that year. Was that what Fitch had noticed, or was it just a coincidence?

Outside, Joel crossed the green, heading toward the office. Armedius had changed during the last seven days. The police were far more plentiful now, and they checked identification at the front gates and the springrail station. Rithmatic students weren’t allowed off campus without an escort. He passed several nearby, grumbling that Armedius was starting to feel like a prison.

He also passed a group of regular students playing soccer on the field. Their efforts seemed subdued, and there were far fewer of them than before. Most parents of ordinary students had pulled their children out of the academy for the summer, and they were being allowed to continue to do so. While non-Rithmatists had been killed now, it was clear that the Rithmatists were still the targets. Normal students should be safe off campus.

There hadn’t been another disappearance since Charles Calloway. A week had passed, and everyone just seemed to be waiting. When would it come? What would happen next? Who was safe and who wasn’t?

Joel hurried along, passing closer to the front gates. Outside them was one of the other big changes at the academy.

Protesters.

They carried signs.
GIVE US THE TRUTH. DUSTERS ARE DANGEROUS! SEND THEM TO NEBRASK!

Numerous editorialists around the Isles had decided that the deaths of the four Calloway servants had been the fault of the Rithmatists. These editorialists saw some sort of hidden war—some called it a conspiracy—between sects of Rithmatists. There were even those who thought that all of it—the existence of Rithmatists, the inception ceremony, the fight at Nebrask—was a giant hoax used to keep the Monarchical Church in power.

And so, a small—but very vocal—group of anti-Rithmatist activists had set up a vigil outside the front of Armedius. Joel didn’t know what to make of such nonsense. He
did,
however, know that several homes of Rithmatic students—all of whom were now staying full-time at the school—had been vandalized in the night. The policemen at the gates, fortunately, kept most troublemakers away from Armedius. Most of them. Two nights ago, someone had tossed in a series of bricks painted with epithets.

Joel didn’t stop to listen to the protestors, but the sounds of their chanting followed him. “We want the truth! Stop Rithmatist privilege! We want the truth!”

Joel hurried up the path to the office. Two rifle-bearing policemen stood at the sides of the doorway, but they knew Joel and let him enter.

“Joel!” Florence said. “We didn’t expect you to come so quickly.” Despite the grim circumstances on the rest of the campus, the blonde clerk insisted on wearing a bright yellow summer dress, complete with a wide-brimmed sun hat.

“Of course he came quickly,” Exton said, not looking up from his work. “
Some
people don’t ignore their responsibilities.”

“Stop being such a bore.”

Joel could see over the counter to a newspaper lying on Florence’s desk.
CRISIS IN NEW BRITANNIA!
the top headline read.

“The principal is seeing someone right now, Joel,” Florence said. “I’m sure he’ll be done soon.”

“How are things holding up here?” Joel asked, glancing out the window toward the police officers.

“Oh, you know,” Florence said. “Same as always.”

Exton snorted. “You seem perfectly willing to gossip other times. Why the coy face now?”

Florence blushed.

“The truth is, Joel,” Exton said, setting down his pen and looking up, “things are
not
good. Even if you ignore those fools at the gates, even if you don’t mind tripping over a police officer every other step, things are bad.”

“Bad how?” Joel asked.

Florence sighed, folding her arms on her desk. “The islands without Rithmatic schools are talking about starting their own.”

Joel shrugged. “Would that be such a disaster?”

“Well, for one thing, the quality of education would plummet. Joel, hon, Armedius isn’t just a school. It’s one of the few places where people from all across the Isles work together.”

“Jamestown is different from most cities,” Exton agreed. “In most of the world, you don’t see JoSeun people and Egyptians mixing. On many isles, if you’re a foreigner—even an American from just a few isles over—you’re considered an outsider. Can you imagine what will happen to the war effort in Nebrask if sixty different schools—each training Rithmatists in different ways—begin squabbling over who gets to defend what section of land? It’s hard enough with eight schools.”

“And then there’s the talk of what these schools should be like,” Florence said, eyeing her newspaper. It was from Maineford, one of the isles to the north. “The editorials make Rithmatists sound like they aren’t even really people. A lot of people are calling for the Rithmatists to be pulled out of ordinary classes and be trained only to fight at Nebrask. Like they’re nothing but bullets, to be wound up in a gun and then fired.”

Joel frowned, standing quietly beside the counter. From her desk, Florence
tsk
ed to herself and turned back to her work.

“Brought it on themselves, they did,” Exton said from his place, speaking almost to himself.

“Who?” Joel asked.

“The Rithmatists,” Exton said. “Being so exclusive and secretive. Look how they treated you, Joel. Anyone they don’t deem
worthy
enough to be on their level, they simply shove aside.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. He sensed some pretty strong bitterness in Exton’s voice. Something having to do with his days as a student at Armedius, perhaps?

“Anyway,” Exton continued, “the way the Rithmatists treat others makes the common people—who pay for this place—begin to wonder if the Rithmatists really need such a fancy school and pensions for the rest of their lives.”

Joel tapped the counter with his index finger. “Exton,” he said, “is it true that you went to Armedius?”

Exton stopped writing. “Who told you that?”

“I saw it,” Joel said, “in the graduation records when I was working on a project for Professor Fitch.”

Exton sat quietly for a moment. “Yes,” he finally said. “I was here.”

“Exton!” Florence said. “You never told me! Why, how did your family manage to pay for your tuition?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Exton said.

“Oh, come on,” Florence said.

Exton stopped writing, then stood up. He took his coat and bowler hat off their hooks on the wall. “I’ll take my break now, I think.”

With that, he left the building.

“Grouch,” Florence called after him.

A short time later, the door to the principal’s office opened and Inspector Harding walked out, blue suit pressed and neat as always. He picked up his rifle, which he’d left sitting outside the principal’s office, then slung it over his shoulder.

“I will see about those patrols,” Harding said to Principal York. “We won’t let something like the brick incident occur again, sir, I assure you.”

York nodded. Harding seemed to regard the principal with quite a bit of respect—perhaps because the principal looked like a battlefield general, with his large frame and drooping mustache.

“I have the most up-to-date list for you, Inspector,” Florence said, standing and handing him a sheet.

Harding scanned it, face going slightly red.

“What is it?” Principal York asked.

Inspector Harding looked up. “An oversight on my part, sir. There are still
fourteen
Rithmatist students whose parents refuse to send them to the academy for protection. That is unacceptable.”

“It’s not your fault that parents are stubborn, Inspector,” York said.

“I make it my responsibility, sir,” Harding said. “If you’ll excuse me.” He walked out of the room, nodding to Joel as he passed.

“Ah, Joel,” Principal York said. “Come in, son.”

Joel crossed into the principal’s office and, once again, sat down in the chair before the overly large desk, feeling like a small animal looking up at a towering human master.

“You wanted to talk to me about my grades, sir?” Joel asked as York sat down.

“Actually, no,” York said. “That was an excuse that you will forgive, I hope.” He folded his arms before him on the desk. “Things are happening on my campus, son. It’s my job to keep an eye on them all as best I can. I need information from you.”

“Sir?” Joel said. “With all due respect, I’m just a student. I don’t know how much help I can be. I don’t really like the idea of spying on Professor Fitch, anyway.”

York chuckled. “You’re not spying, son. I had Fitch in here yesterday, and I just talked to Harding. I trust both men. What I really want is unbiased opinions. I need to
know
what is happening, and I can’t be everywhere. I’d like you to tell me about the things you’ve seen and done while working with Fitch.”

And so, over the next hour, Joel did so. He talked about the census studies, his experience visiting the scene of Charles Calloway’s disappearance, and the things he’d read. York listened. As the hour progressed, Joel found his respect for the principal growing.

York
did
care, and he was willing to listen to the opinions and thoughts of a simple, non-Rithmatic student. As Joel neared the end of his explanation, he tried to decide if he should mention his suspicions about Nalizar. He eyed the principal, who had gotten out his pen and had begun scribbling notes as Joel spoke.

“All right,” York said, looking up. “Thank you, Joel. This is precisely what I needed.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” Joel said. “But … well, there is one other thing.”

“Yes?”

“Sir,” Joel said. “I think Nalizar might have something to do with all of this.”

York leaned in. “What makes you say that?”

“Nothing really substantial,” Joel said. “Coincidences, really. Nalizar showing up when he did mixed with some of the things he’d done.”

“Such as?”

Joel flushed, realizing how foolish he sounded. He was sitting in the principal’s office, accusing one of the men York himself had hired.

“I…” Joel said, his eyes dropping. “I’m sorry, sir. I spoke out of turn.”

“No you didn’t. I’m suspicious of Nalizar too.”

Joel looked up with a start.

“I can’t decide,” York said, “if it’s simply my
dislike
of the man that is making me react this way, or if there is more. Nalizar has spent a lot of time in the office trying to find out more about the investigation. I keep asking myself if that’s because he wants to know how much
we
know, or if he’s just jealous.”

“Jealous?”

York nodded. “I don’t know if you realize this or not, but Professor Fitch is gaining quite a bit of notoriety. The press got hold of his name, and now he’s mentioned in nearly every article having to do with the disappearances. Apparently, he’s the federal inspectors’ ‘secret weapon against the kidnappers.’”

“Wow,” Joel said.