The Rithmatist

by Brandon Sanderson

  “And that is why a Keblin Defense is inferior to the Easton in most situations.” Professor Fitch smiled, turning to regard the class. He was an older man, greying at the temples, with a spindly figure. The coat gave him an air of dignity.

  Do you understand what you have? Joel thought, looking over the unengaged students. This was a class of fifteen- and sixteen-year-old students, making them Joel’s age. Despite their noble calling, they acted like … well, teenagers.

  Fitch was known to run a loose classroom, and many of the students took advantage, ignoring the lecture, whispering with friends or lounging and staring at the ceiling. Several near Joel actually appeared to be sleeping. He didn’t know their names—he didn’t know the names of most of the Rithmatic students. They generally rebuffed his attempts to chat with them.

  When nobody spoke, Fitch knelt and pressed his chalk against the drawing he’d done. He closed his eyes. Seconds later, the drawing puffed away, willed by its creator to vanish.

  “Well, then,” he said, raising his chalk. “If there are no questions, perhaps we can discuss how to beat an Easton Defense. The more astute of you will have noticed that I made no mention of Lines of Vigor. That is because those are better talked about from an offensive viewpoint. If we were to—”

  The door to the lecture hall banged open. Fitch rose, chalk held between two fingers, eyebrows raised as he turned.

  A tall figure strode into the room, causing some of the lounging students to perk up. The newcomer wore a grey coat after the style of a Rithmatic professor of low rank. The man was young, with stark blond hair and a firm step. His coat fit him well, buttoned up to the chin, loose through the legs. Joel didn’t know him.

  “Yes?” Professor Fitch asked.

  The newcomer walked all the way to the floor of the lecture hall, passing Professor Fitch and pulling out a piece of red chalk. The newcomer turned, knelt, and placed his chalk against the ground. Some of the students began to whisper.

  “What is this?” Fitch asked. “I say, did I pass my lecture time again? I heard no sound for the clock. I’m terribly sorry if I’ve intruded into your time!”

  The newcomer looked up. His face seemed smug to Joel. “No, Professor,” the man said, “this is a challenge.”

  Fitch looked stunned. “I … Oh my. It…” Fitch licked his lips nervously, then wrung his hands. “I’m not sure how to, I mean, what I need to do. I…”

  “Ready yourself to draw, Professor,” the newcomer said.

  Fitch blinked. Then, hands obviously shaking, he got down on his knees to place his chalk against the ground.

  “That’s Professor Andrew Nalizar,” whispered a girl seated a short distance from Joel. “He gained his coat just three years ago from Maineford Academy. They say he spent the last two years fighting in Nebrask!”

  “He’s handsome,” the girl’s companion said, twirling a bit of chalk between her fingers.

  Down below, the two men began to draw. Joel leaned forward, excited. He’d never seen a real duel between two full professors before. This might be as good as being at the Melee!

  Both began by drawing circles around themselves to block attacks from the opponent. Once either circle was breached, the duel would end. Perhaps because he’d been talking about it, Professor Fitch went to draw the Easton Defense, surrounding himself with nine smaller circles touching the larger one at the bind points.

  It wasn’t a very good stance for a duel. Even Joel could see that; he felt a moment of disappointment. Maybe this wouldn’t be that good a fight after all. Fitch’s defense was beautifully drawn, but was too strong; the Easton was best against multiple opponents who surrounded you.

  Nalizar drew a modified Ballintain Defense—a quick defense with only basic reinforcement. While Professor Fitch was still placing his internal lines, Nalizar went straight into an aggressive attack, drawing chalklings.

  Chalklings. Drawn from Lines of Making, they were the core offense of many Rithmatic fights. Nalizar drew quickly and efficiently, creating chalklings that looked like small dragons, with wings and sinuous necks. As soon as he finished the first, it shook to life, then began to fly across the ground toward Fitch.

  It didn’t rise into the air. Chalklings were two-dimensional, like all Rithmatic lines. The battle played out on the floor, lines attacking other lines. Fitch’s hands were still shaking, and he kept looking up and down, as if nervous and unfocused. Joel cringed as the middle-aged professor drew one of his outer circles lopsided—a major mistake.

  The instructional diagram he’d drawn earlier had been far, far more precise. Lopsided curves were easy to breach. Fitch paused, looking at the poorly drawn curve, and seemed to doubt himself.

  Come on! Joel clenched his fists. You’re better than this, Professor!

  As a second dragon began to move across the ground, Fitch recovered his wits and snapped his chalk back against the floor. The gathered students were silent, and those who had been dozing sat up.

  Fitch threw up a long wiggly line. A Line of Vigor. It was shaped like a waveform, and when it was finished, it shot across the board to hit one of the dragons. The blast threw up a puff of dust and destroyed half of the creature. The dragon began to wriggle about, moving in the wrong direction.

  The only sounds in the room were those of chalk against floor accompanied by Fitch’s quick, almost panicked breathing. Joel bit his lip as the duel became heated. Fitch had a better defense, but he’d rushed it, leaving sections that were weak. Nalizar’s sparse defense allowed him to go aggressive, and Fitch had to struggle to keep up. Fitch continued throwing up Lines of Vigor, destroying the chalk creatures that flew across the board at him, but there were always more to replace them.

  Nalizar was good, among the best Joel had ever seen. Despite the tension, Nalizar remained fluid, drawing chalkling after chalkling, unfazed by those that Fitch destroyed. Joel couldn’t help but be impressed.

  He’s been fighting the wild chalklings at Nebrask recently, Joel thought, remembering what the girl had said. He’s used to drawing under pressure.

  Nalizar calmly sent some spider chalklings to crawl along the perimeter of the floor, forcing Fitch to watch his flanks. Next, Nalizar began sending across Lines of Vigor. The snaky lines shot across the board in a vibrating waveform, vanishing once they hit something.

  Fitch finally managed to get out a chalkling of his own—a knight, beautifully detailed—which he bound to one of his smaller circles. How does he draw them so well, yet so fast? Joel wondered. Fitch’s knight was a work of beauty, with detailed armor and a large greatsword. It easily defeated Nalizar’s more plentiful, yet far more simply drawn dragons.

  With the knight set up, Fitch could try some more offensive shots. Nalizar was forced to draw a few defensive chalklings—blob creatures that threw themselves in front of Lines of Vigor.

  Armies of creatures, lines, and waveforms flew across the board—a tempest of white against red, chalklings puffing away, lines hitting the circles and blasting out chunks of the protective line. Both men scribbled furiously.

  Joel stood, then took an almost involuntary step down toward the front of the room, transfixed. Doing so, however, let him catch a glimpse of Professor Fitch’s face. Fitch looked frantic. Terrified.

  Joel froze.

  The professors kept drawing, but that worry in Fitch’s expression pulled Joel away from the conflict. Such desperate motions, such concern, his face streaked with sweat.

  The weight of what was happening crashed down on Joel. This wasn’t a duel for fun or practice. This was a challenge to Fitch’s authority—a dispute over his right to hold his tenure. If he lost …

  One of Nalizar’s red Lines of Vigor hit Fitch’s circle straight on, almost breaching it. Immediately, all of Nalizar’s chalklings moved that direction, a frenzied, chaotic mess of red motion toward the weakened line.

  For just a moment, Fitch froze, looking overwhelmed. He shook himself back into motion, but it was too late. He couldn’t s
top them all. One of the dragons got past his knight. It began to claw furiously at the weakened part of Fitch’s circle, distorting it further.

  Fitch hurriedly began to draw another knight. But the dragon ripped through his border.

  “No!” Joel cried, taking another step down.

  Nalizar smiled, removing his chalk from the floor and standing. He dusted off his hands. Fitch was still drawing.

  “Professor,” Nalizar said. “Professor!”

  Fitch stopped, and only then did he notice the dragon, which continued to work on the hole, trying to dig it out enough that it could get into the center of the circle. In a real battle, it would have moved in to attack the Rithmatist himself. This, however, was just a duel—and a breach in the ring meant victory for Nalizar.

  “Oh,” Fitch said, lowering his hand. “Oh, yes, well, I see.…” He turned, seeming dazed, regarding the room full of students. “Ah, yes. I … will just go, then.”

  He began to gather up his books and notes. Joel sank down onto the stone steps. In his hand, he held the letter he had written to give to Fitch.

  “Professor,” Nalizar said. “Your coat?”

  Fitch looked down. “Ah, yes. Of course.” He undid the buttons on the long red coat, then pulled it off, leaving him in his white vest, shirt, and trousers. He looked diminished. Fitch held the coat for a moment, then laid it on the lecture desk. He gathered up his books and fled the chamber. The door to the ground-floor entrance clicked shut softly behind him.

  Joel sat, stunned. A few of the members of the classroom clapped timidly, though most just watched, wide-eyed, obviously uncertain how to react.

  “Now then,” Nalizar said, voice curt. “I will take over instruction of this class for the last few days of the term, and I will be teaching the summer elective course that Fitch had planned. I have heard reports of rather disgraceful performance among students at Armedius, your cohort in particular. I will allow no sloppiness in my class. You there, boy sitting on the steps.”

  Joel looked up.

  “What are you doing there?” Nalizar demanded. “Why aren’t you wearing your uniform?”

  “I’m not a Rithmatist, sir,” Joel said, standing. “I’m from the general school.”

  “What? Why in the name of the heavens are you sitting in my classroom?”

  Your classroom? This was Fitch’s classroom. Or … it should be.

  “Well?” Nalizar asked.

  “I came with a note, sir,” Joel said. “For Professor Fitch.”

  “Hand it over, then,” Nalizar said.

  “It is for Professor Fitch personally,” Joel said, stuffing the letter into his pocket. “It wasn’t about the class.”

  “Well, be off with you then,” Nalizar said, dismissing Joel with a wave of his hand. The red chalk dust scattered on the floor looked like blood. He began dispelling his creations one at a time.

  Joel backed away, then rushed up the steps and opened the door. People crossed the lawn outside, many dressed in the white and grey of Rithmatists. One figure stood out. Joel dashed down the stairs across the springy lawn, catching up to Professor Fitch. The man trudged with slumped shoulders, the large bundle of books and notes collected in his arms.

  “Professor?” Joel said. Joel was tall for his age, a few inches taller, even, than Fitch.

  The older man turned with a start. “Uh? What?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, um, why it’s the chalkmaker’s son! How are you, lad? Shouldn’t you be in class?”

  “It’s my free period,” Joel said, reaching and sliding two of the books off the stack to help carry them. “Professor, are you all right? About what just happened?”

  “You saw that, did you?” Professor Fitch’s face fell.

  “Isn’t there anything you can do?” Joel asked. “You can’t let him take your classes away! Perhaps if you spoke to Principal York?”

  “No, no,” Fitch said. “That would be unseemly. The right of challenge is a very honorable tradition—an important part of Rithmatic culture, I must say.”

  Joel sighed. He glanced down, remembering the note in his pocket. A request from him to Fitch. He wanted to study with the man over the summer, to learn as much about Rithmatics as he could.

  But Fitch wasn’t a full professor any longer. Would that matter? Joel wasn’t even certain the man would take a non-Rithmatic student. If Fitch wasn’t a full professor, might he have more time for tutoring students? Thinking that immediately made Joel feel guilty.

  He almost pulled the letter out and gave it to the man. The defeat in Fitch’s face stopped him. Perhaps this wasn’t the best time.

  “I should have seen this coming,” Fitch said. “That Nalizar. Too ambitious for his own good, I thought when we hired him last week. There hasn’t been a challenge at Armedius for decades.…”

  “What will you do?” Joel asked.

  “Well,” Fitch said as they walked along the path, passing under the shade of a wide-limbed red oak. “Yes, well, tradition states that I take Nalizar’s place. He was hired on as a tutoring professor to help remedial students who failed classes this year. I guess that is my job now. I should think I’ll be happy to be away from the classroom to have some peace of mind!”

  He hesitated, turning to look back toward the Rithmatic lecture hall. The structure was block-shaped, yet somehow still artistic, with its diamond patterns of grey bricks forming the vine-covered wall.

  “Yes,” Fitch said. “I will probably never have to teach in that classroom again.” He choked off that last part. “Excuse me.” He ducked his head and rushed away.

  Joel raised a hand, but let him go, still holding two of the professor’s books. Finally, Joel sighed, turning his own course across the lawn toward the campus office building.

  “Well,” he said softly, thinking again of the crumpled paper in his trouser pocket, “that was a disaster.”

  CHAPTER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Who?”

  “Professor Nalizar,” she said. “I was there when he approached Principal York about the challenge this morning. Swept right in, said, ‘Principal, I believe it right to inform you tha
t I shall soon achieve tenure at this academy.’”

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

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

  “I can imagine,” Exton said.

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

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

  “Professor Fitch,” she said.

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

  She nodded.

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

  “No,” Joel said. “Fitch lost.”

  The two fell silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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