The Rithmatist (36 page)

Then he picked up the bucket and splashed most of its contents beneath the door, washing away the Line of Forbiddance. The chalklings outside washed away like dirt sprayed off a white wall. Joel threw open the door and, without looking back, took off at a charge toward the gates to the academy.

He knew he’d never be able to run with a bucket of liquid, so he tossed it behind him.

He ran, holding the coin.

What would happen to him if the gates weren’t guarded? What if the Scribbler had managed to kill the policemen or make a distraction?

Joel would die. His skin ripped from his flesh, his eyes gouged out. Just like the people in Mary Rowlandson’s narrative.

No,
he thought with determination.
She survived to write her story.

I’ll survive to write mine!

He yelled, pushing himself in a dash over the dark landscape. Ahead, he saw lights.

People moved near them.

“Halt!” one of the officers said.

“Chalklings!” Joel screamed. “They’re following me!”

The officers scattered at his call, grabbing buckets. Joel was thankful for Harding’s sense of preparation, as the men didn’t even stop to think or question. They formed a defensive bucket line as Joel charged between them and collapsed to his knees, puffing and exhausted, his heart racing.

He twisted about, leaning one hand against the ground. There had been four chalklings following him—more than enough to kill him. They had stopped in the near darkness, barely visible from the gates.

“By the Master,” one of the police officers whispered. “What are they waiting for?”

“Steady,” said one of the others, holding his bucket.

“Should we charge?” asked another.

“
Steady,
” the first said.

The chalklings scrambled away, disappearing into the night.

Joel wheezed in exhaustion, falling backward to the ground and lying on his back. “Another man,” he said between breaths, “is trapped inside the office building. You’ve got to help him.”

One of the policemen pointed, motioning for a squad of four to go that direction. He took his gun and fired it upward. It made a
crack
of sound as the springs released and the bullet ripped through the air.

Joel lay, sweating, shaking. The officers held their buckets, nervous, until Harding raced into sight from the east, riding his springwork charger. He had his rifle out.

“Chalklings, sir!” one of the officers yelled. “At the office building!”

Harding cursed. “Send three men to alert the patrols around the Rithmatist barracks!” he yelled, turning his horse and galloping toward the office. He slung his rifle over his shoulder as he went, trading it for what looked to be a wineskin filled with acid.

Joel simply lay, trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened.

Someone tried to kill me.

*   *   *

Two hours later, Joel sat in Professor Fitch’s office, holding a cup of warmed cocoa, his mother in tears at his side. She alternated between hugging him and speaking sternly with Inspector Harding for not setting patrols to protect the non-Rithmatists.

Professor Fitch sat bleary-eyed, looking stunned after hearing what had happened. Exton was, apparently, all right—though the police were speaking with him back at the office building.

Harding stood with two policemen a short distance away. All of the people crowded the small, hallwaylike office.

Joel couldn’t stop himself from shaking. It felt shameful. He’d almost died. Every time he considered that, he felt unsteady.

“Joel,” Fitch said. “Lad, are you sure you’re all right?”

Joel nodded, then took a sip of his drink.

“I’m sorry, Son,” said his mother. “I’m a bad mother. I shouldn’t stay out all night!”

“You act like it’s your fault,” Joel said quietly.

“Well, it—”

“No, Mother,” Joel said. “If you’d been there, you might have been killed. It’s better that you were away.”

She sat back on her stool, still looking troubled.

Harding dismissed his officers, then approached Joel. “Soldier, we found the patterns you mentioned. There were five—one on the wall outside your room, then four spaced along the ground in the direction you ran. They ended in a box of Lines of Forbiddance. If you hadn’t thought as quickly as you did, you would have been trapped.”

Joel nodded. His mother began crying again.

“I have the entire campus on alert, soldier,” Harding said. “You did well tonight.
Very
well. Quick thinking, bravery, physical adeptness. I’m impressed.”

“I nearly wet myself,” Joel whispered.

Harding snorted. “I’ve seen men twice your age freeze in combat when they saw their first chalkling. You did an amazing job. Might well have just solved this case.”

Joel looked up with surprise.
“What?”

“I can’t speak now,” Harding said, raising a hand. “But if my suspicions prove to be correct, I’ll have made an arrest by the morning. You should get some sleep, now.” He hesitated. “If this were the battlefield, son, I’d put you in for highest honors.”

“I…” Joel said. “I don’t know that I can go back to the workshop to sleep.…”

“The lad and his mother can stay here,” Fitch said, rising. “I’ll stay in one of the empty rooms.”

“Excellent,” Harding said. “Ms. Saxon, I will have ten men with acid guarding this doorway all night, two inside the room, if you wish.”

“Yes,” she said, “please.”

“Try not to be too worried,” Harding said. “I’m sure the worst of this is through. Plus, as I understand, you have an important day tomorrow, Joel.”

The inception ceremony. Joel had almost forgotten about it. He nodded, bidding the inspector farewell. Harding marched out and closed the door.

“Well,” Fitch said. “You can see that the bed is already made, and Joel, there are extra blankets underneath for you to sleep on the floor. I hope that’s all right?”

“It’s fine,” Joel said.

“Joel, lad,” Fitch said. “You really
did
do well.”

“I ran,” Joel said quietly. “It’s the only thing I
could
do. I should have had acid at the room, and—”

“And what, lad?” Fitch asked. “Thrown one bucket while the other chalklings swarmed you? A single man can’t hold the front against chalklings—you learn that quickly in Nebrask. It takes a bucket brigade, dozens of men, to keep a group of the things back.”

Joel looked down.

Fitch knelt. “Joel. If it’s any help, I can imagine what it feels like. I … well, you know I never did very well at Nebrask. The first time I saw a chalkling charge, I could barely keep my lines straight. I can’t even
duel
another person and keep my wits. Harding is right—you did very well tonight.”

I want to be able to do more,
Joel thought.
Fight.

“Exton is a Rithmatist,” he said out loud.

“Yes,” Fitch said. “He was expelled from the Rithmatic school his early years at Armedius for certain … complications. It happens very rarely.”

“I remember you talking about that,” Joel said. “To Melody. Professor, I want you to draw that new line we found, the one with swirls.”

“Now?” Fitch asked.

“Yes.”

“Honey,” his mother said, “you need rest.”

“Just do this one thing, Professor,” Joel said. “Then I’ll go to bed.”

“Yes, well, all right,” Fitch said, getting out his chalk. He knelt to begin drawing on the floor.

“It makes things quiet,” Joel said. “You have to know that. It sucks in sound.”

“How do you know…?” His voice grew much quieter when he finished the drawing.

Fitch blinked, then looked up at Joel. “Well, that’s something,” he said, but the voice sounded far diminished, as if he were distant.

Joel took a deep breath, then tried to yell, “I know!” That was dampened even further, so it came out as a whisper. When he whispered, however, that sound came out normally.

Fitch dismissed the line. “Amazing.”

Joel nodded. “The ones we found at the crime scenes no longer worked, so the line must run out of power after a time, or something like that.”

“Joel,” Fitch said, “do you realize what you just did? You solved the problem your father spent his
life
trying to uncover.”

“It was easy,” Joel said, suddenly feeling very tired. “Someone gave me the answer—they tried to kill me with it.”

CHAPTER

Harding arrested Exton early the next morning.

Joel heard about it from Fitch as they crossed the green on their way toward the cathedral for Joel’s inception. Joel’s mother held to his arm, as if afraid some beast were going to appear out of nowhere and snatch him away.

“He arrested Exton?” Joel demanded. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, hum,” Fitch said. “Murder rarely makes sense. I can see why you might be shocked. Exton was a friend of mine too. And yet, he never
did
like Rithmatists. Ever since he was expelled.”

“But he came back to work here!”

“Those who have intense hatred often are fascinated by the thing they detest,” Fitch said. “You saw that drawing at Charles’s house—the man with the bowler and the cane. It looks an awful lot like Exton.”

“It looks like a lot of people,” Joel said. “Half the men in the city wear bowlers and carry canes! It was a small chalk sketch. They can’t use that as proof.”

“Exton knew where all of the Rithmatist children lived,” Fitch said. “He had access to their records.”

Joel fell silent. They were fairly good arguments. But
Exton
? Grumbling yet good-natured Exton?

“Don’t worry about it, Son,” his mother said. “If he’s innocent, I’m sure the courts will determine that. You need to be ready. If you’re going to be incepted, you should be focused on the Master.”

“No,” Joel said. “I want to talk to Harding. My inception…” It couldn’t wait. Not again. But this was
important.
“Where is he?”

They found Harding directing a squad of police officers who were searching through the campus office. Principal York stood a distance off, seeming very dissatisfied, a weeping Florence beside him. She waved to Joel. “Joel!” she called. “Tell them what madness this is! Exton would never hurt anyone! He was such a
dear.
”

The police officer at her side quieted her—he was apparently questioning both her and the principal. Inspector Harding stood at the office doorway, leafing through some notes. He looked up as Joel approached. “Ah,” he said. “The young hero. Shouldn’t you be somewhere, lad? Actually, as I consider it, you should have an escort. I’ll send a few soldiers with you to the chapel.”

“Is all of that really necessary?” Fitch asked. “I mean, since you have someone in custody…”

“I’m afraid it
is
necessary,” Harding said. “Every good investigator knows that you don’t stop searching just because you make an arrest. We won’t be done until we know who Exton was working with, and where he hid the bodies … er, where he is keeping the children.”

Joel’s mother paled at that last comment.

“Inspector,” Joel said, “can I talk to you alone for a moment?”

Harding nodded, walking with Joel a short distance.

“Are you
sure
you have the right man, Inspector?” Joel asked.

“I don’t arrest a man unless I’m sure, son.”

“Exton
saved
me last night.”

“No, lad,” Fitch said. “He saved himself. Do you know why he got expelled from the Rithmatic program thirty years ago?”

Joel shook his head.

“Because he couldn’t control his chalklings,” Harding said. “He was too much of a danger to send to Nebrask. You saw how wiggly those chalklings were. They didn’t have form or shape because they were drawn so poorly. Exton set them against you, but he couldn’t really control them, and so when you led them back against him, he had no choice but to lock them out.”

“I don’t believe it,” Joel said. “Harding, this is
wrong.
I know he didn’t like Rithmatists, but that’s not enough of a reason to arrest a man! Half of the people in the Isles seem to hate them these days.”