The Rithmatist

its way closer, then turned around as its feelers brushed his leg. The book assumed that the reader was a Rithmatist. It talked of things like the “chaining” and spoke of something known as a “Shadowblaze.”
    There was apparently far more to the inception than Joel had originally thought. Something happened in that room—something that physically changed some of the children, giving them Rithmatic power. It wasn’t just the invisible touch of the Master.
    If what the book said was true, then Rithmatists had some sort of special vision or experience inside the chamber of inception, one they didn’t speak of. When they went outside to draw their first line, they already knew that they had become Rithmatists.
    It flew in the face of everything Joel understood. Or, at least, that was what it seemed to say. He considered himself well educated when it came to Rithmatics, but this text was completely over his head.
    The chaining of a Shadowblaze, fourth entity removed, is an often undeterminable process, and the bindagent should consider wisely the situation before making any decisions regarding the vessels to be indentured.
    What did that even mean? Joel had always assumed that if he could just get into the Rithmatic section of the library, he’d be able to learn so much. It hadn’t occurred to him that many of the books would be beyond his understanding.
    He snapped the book closed. To the side, the springwork crab was starting to run more slowly. The hour was late, and the groundskeeper would probably pass by soon and either wind the device or pack it up for the evening.
    Joel stood, tucking the book under his arm, and began to wander toward the dining hall. He felt odd, having just spent an afternoon studying. The entire campus was coming under an increasingly tight lockdown, and students were disappearing in the night. It felt wrong to simply sit about and read a book. He wanted to be helping somehow.
    I could get that book Nalizar checked out, he thought. Despite Harding’s words, Joel just didn’t trust the professor. There was something important in that book. But what? And how to get it?
    With a shake of the head, he entered the dining hall. His mother was there—which was good—and so Joel went and dished himself up some of the evening’s main dish: stir-fried spaghetti and meatballs. He dumped some parmesan cheese on, grabbed a pair of chopsticks, then made his way to the table.
    “Hey, Mom,” he said, sitting down. “How was your day?”
    “Worrying,” she said, glancing toward a small group of police officers sitting at a table and eating together. “Maybe you shouldn’t be out alone at night.”
    “This campus is probably the safest place in the city right now,” Joel said, digging into his food. Spaghetti mixed with fried peppers, mushrooms, water chestnuts, and a tangy tomato soy sauce. Italian food was one of his favorites.
    His mother continued to watch the officers. They were probably there to remind people, as Harding had said, that the campus was being protected. However, the officers seemed to also make people more nervous by reminding them that there was danger.
    The room buzzed with the sounds of low conversation. Joel heard mention of both Herman and Lilly several times, though as some of the cooks passed, he also heard them grumbling about “those Rithmatists” bringing danger to the campus.
    “How can they be so foolish?” Joel asked. “We need the Rithmatists. Do they want the chalklings to get off of Nebrask?”
    “People are frightened, Son,” his mother said. She stirred her food, but didn’t seem to be eating much of it. “Who knows? Perhaps this whole thing is the result of a squabble between Rithmatists. They’re so secretive.…”
    She looked toward the professors. Fitch wasn’t there—probably working late on the disappearances. Nalizar wasn’t at his seat either. Joel narrowed his eyes. He was involved somehow, wasn’t he?
    At the table of the student Rithmatists, the teens whispered among themselves, looking worried, anxious. Like a group of mice who had just smelled a cat. As usual, Melody sat at the end of the table with at least two seats open on either side of her. She looked down as she ate, not talking to anyone.
    It must be hard for her, he realized, to not have anyone to talk with, particularly at this time of tension. He slurped up some spaghetti, thinking of how much she’d overreacted to being excluded from his meeting with Fitch and