Brandon Sanderson - The Rithmatist

“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.