Brandon Sanderson - The Rithmatist

That meant waiting for another person to disappear, which seemed like a bad idea. Better to work on what they had at the moment.

“Here,” Fitch said, looking at the third—and final—sheet. It contained a pattern of looping lines, like the one that had been discovered at Lilly’s house. The sketch was labeled “Strange pattern of chalk discovered on the wall outside the victim’s room.”

“How odd,” Fitch said. “The same one as before. But that’s not a Rithmatic pattern.”

“Professor,” Joel said, taking the sheet and raising it to the light. “I’ve seen that pattern somewhere before. I know I have!”

“It’s a fairly simple design,” Fitch said. “Perhaps you’ve just seen it on a rug or some stonework. It has an almost Celtic feel, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps it’s the symbol of the killer … or, um, kidnapper.”

Joel shook his head. “I feel like I’ve seen it somewhere having to do with Rithmatics. Maybe one of the texts I read?”

“If that is the case,” Fitch said, “it’s no text I’ve seen. That’s not a Rithmatic pattern.”

“Couldn’t there be lines we don’t know about yet?” Joel said. “I mean, we didn’t even discover Rithmatics was possible until a few centuries back.”

“I suppose,” Fitch said. “Some scholars talk about such things.”

“Why don’t you draw that pattern? Maybe it will do something.”

“I guess I could try. What harm could it do?” He got a piece of chalk out of his coat pocket, then cleared off the table.

He hesitated.

A thought struck Joel. What harm could it do? Potentially a lot, if the design really does have something to do with the kidnappings.

In his head, Joel imagined Fitch’s sketch inadvertently calling forth an army of chalklings or drawing the attention of the person who controlled them. One of the professor’s lamps began to wind down, the light fading, and Joel quickly rushed over to rewind it.

“I guess we’ll have to try it sometime,” Fitch said. “Perhaps you should wait outside.”

Joel shook his head. “So far, only Rithmatists have disappeared. I think I should stay, to watch and help in case something happens to you.”

Fitch sat for a moment, then finally he sighed and reached out to sketch a copy of the looping swirl on the desk.

Nothing happened.

Joel held his breath. Minutes ticked by. Still nothing. He walked nervously over to the desk. “Did you draw it right?”

“Hum. Well, I think so,” Fitch said, holding up the sketch. “Assuming the officers at Herman’s house copied it right in the first place.” He reached out and touched his chalk against the looping pattern, obviously trying to dismiss it. Nothing.

“It has no Rithmatic properties,” the professor said. “Otherwise, I’d be able to make it puff away.” He paused, then cocked his head. “I … appear to have made quite a mess on the top of my desk. Hum. I didn’t consider that.”

“We need to do more tests,” Joel said. “Try different variations.”

“Yes,” Fitch said. “Perhaps that is what I shall do. You, however, should go home and return to bed. Your mother will be worried!”

“Mother is working,” Joel said.

“Well, you are probably tired,” Fitch said.

“I’m an insomniac.”

“Then you should go and try to sleep,” Fitch said. “I am not going to have a student in my office until the early hours of the morning. It’s already too late. Be off with you.”

Joel sighed. “You’ll share anything you discover, right?”

“Yes, yes,” Fitch said, waving.

Joel sighed again, louder this time.

“You’re beginning to sound like Melody,” Fitch said. “Go!”

Melody? Joel thought, walking away. I am not!

“And … Joel?” Professor Fitch said.

“Yes?”

“Keep to the … well-lit parts of campus on your way to the dormitories, lad. All right?”

Joel nodded, then shut the door.

The next morning, Joel rose early and left for Fitch’s office. As he crossed the dew-wetted green, he heard a clamor coming from the direction of the campus office. He rounded the hill to find a small crowd outside the building.

A crowd of adults, not students.

Frowning, Joel walked to the edge of the crowd. Exton stood to the side, wearing a red vest with dark trousers and a matching bowler. The rest of the people were dressed similarly—nice clothing, with bright, single-piece dresses for the women, and vests and trousers for the men. None wore coats in the summer heat, but most wore hats.

The adults muttered among themselves, a few shaking fists toward Principal York, who stood in the doorway of the office.

“What’s going on?” Joel whispered to Exton.

The clerk tapped his cane against the ground. “Parents,” he said. “The bane of every school’s existence.”

“I assure you that your children are safe at Armedius!” the principal said. “This academy has always been a haven for those chosen to be Rithmatists.”

“Safe like Lilly and Herman?” one of the parents yelled. Others rumbled in assent.

“Please!” Principal York said. “We don’t know what is happening yet! Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“Principal York,” said a woman with a narrow face and a nose pointy enough it could poke out someone’s eye if she turned in haste. “Are you denying that there is some threat to the students here?”

“I’m not denying that,” York said. “I simply said that they are safe on campus. No student has come to harm while on school grounds. It was only during visits outside the walls that incidents occurred.”

“I am taking my son away!” one of the men said. “To another island. You can’t stop me.”

“The ordinary students can leave for the summer,” said another. “Why not ours?”

“The Rithmatic students need training!” York said. “You know that! If we act rashly now, we could undermine their ability to defend themselves at Nebrask!”

This quieted them somewhat. However, Joel heard one father muttering to another. “He doesn’t care,” the man said. “York isn’t a Rithmatist—if they die here or die in Nebrask, what is it to him?”

Joel noticed a few sharply dressed men standing quietly to the side, making no complaints. They wore vests of muted colors and triangular felt hats. He couldn’t make out any signs of emotion on their features.

York finally managed to break up and dismiss the group of parents. As the people trailed away, the men walked up to Principal York.

“Who are they?” Joel asked.

“Private security,” Exton whispered back. “The ones on the left are employed by Didrich Calloway, knight-senator of East Carolina. His son is a Rithmatist here. I don’t know the other ones, but I suspect they’re employed by some very influential people who also have Rithmatist children here at Armedius.”

The principal looked troubled.

“He’s going to have to let them go, isn’t he?” Joel asked. “The children of the very important.”

“Likely,” Exton said. “Principal York has a lot of influence, but if he butts heads with a knight-senator, there’s little doubt who will win.”

A small group of Rithmatic students watched from a hillside a short distance away. Joel couldn’t tell if their miserable expressions came from the fact that they were worried about the kidnappings, or if they were embarrassed at having their parents show up at school. Probably both.