The Rithmatist

track of alumni deaths. It is an oversight for which we—well, you—will now have to pay the penalty.”
    Joel sank down on the stool, looking at the seemingly endless stacks of census reports. To the side, Melody glanced at him, then smiled to herself before turning back to her sketching.
    What have I gotten myself into? Joel wondered.
    * * *
    “My life,” Melody declared, “is a tragedy.”
    Joel looked up from his stack of books, names, and dead people. Melody sat on the floor a short distance away; she’d spent hours drawing copies of the Matson Defense. Her tracings were terrible.
    Professor Fitch worked at a desk in the corner. He ignored Melody’s outburst.
    “Why,” she continued, “out of all people on the Isles, did I have to get chosen to be a Rithmatist? I can’t even draw a perfect circle when I’m tracing !”
    “Actually,” Joel said, closing his book, “it’s impossible for the unaided human hand to draw a perfect circle. That’s one of the things that makes Rithmatic duels so interesting.”
    She glared at him. “Technicality.”
    “Here,” Joel said, getting down and taking out one of the sheets of paper. He picked up an ink and quill and drew a freehand circle.
    She leaned over, getting a closer look. “That’s not bad,” she said grudgingly.
    He shrugged, glancing about. A piece of string hung from a dusty tome. Joel pulled it free, then used it to measure the circle he’d drawn—sticking one point at the center, then tracing the rest around the perimeter. “See,” he said, “I’m off by about half a millimeter.”
    “So?” she said. “You were still freakishly accurate.”
    “Yes,” Joel said, “but if we were dueling, and you could determine just where the arc of my circle was off, you’d be able to attack me there. It’s my weak point. Anyway, drawing a Circle of Warding isn’t about getting it perfect—it’s just about getting as close as you can.”
    “They should let us use a tool, like that string.”
    “You can’t always count on having a compass,” Joel said. “And drawing with a tool takes much longer. My circle here might not be perfect, but it’s close enough that finding the weak spots will be tough, particularly when my opponent is sitting inside their own circle five or ten feet away.”
    He sat back on his stool. “It’s just better to learn how to draw a good freehand circle. That will help you more in the long run than pretty much anything else in Rithmatics.”
    The girl eyed him. “You know a lot about this.”
    “It interests me.”
    She leaned in. “Hey, you want to do my tracing for me?”
    “What?”
    “You know, finish this work for me. We’ll trade. I can look through those books for you.”
    “Professor Fitch is sitting right there, ” Joel said, pointing. “He can probably hear everything you’re saying.”
    “Sure can,” Fitch said, scribbling at a notebook.
    “Oh,” Melody said, wincing.
    “You’re a strange girl,” Joel said.
    Melody leaned back, crossing her legs beneath her skirt and sighing melodramatically. “Maybe you’d be strange too if you’d been forced into a life of abject, unrelenting slavery.”
    “Slavery?” Joel asked. “You should be proud to have been chosen.”
    “Proud?” she said. “Of being forced into a career since my eighth birthday? Of having to spend my days being told that if I don’t learn to draw a stupid circle, it could cost me my life—or even the safety of the entire United Isles? I should be proud having no freedom or will of my own? Proud that I’ll eventually get shipped off to Nebrask to fight? I figure I have at least a little bit of a right to complain.”
    “Or maybe you’re just spoiled.”
    Melody’s eyes opened wide, and she huffed as she stood and snatched her oversized sketch pad. She marched away, rounding the corner to sit in the other hallway, accidentally knocking over a stack of books as she went.
    “More work, please, Joel,” Fitch said without looking up from his work. “Less antagonizing of the other student.”
    “Sorry,” Joel said, picking up a ledger.
    Fitch was right—the work moved more quickly than Joel had first anticipated. Still, it was boring. What was the point? Was his “important project” nothing more than an excuse to update the school’s records? Maybe the principal wanted to search out old graduates and get them to donate money or something to the school.
    After all he’d gone through to get into a tutelage