The Rithmatist

by Brandon Sanderson

  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 dis
covered 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?”