The Rithmatist

Egyptians mixing. On many isles, if you’re a foreigner—even an American from just a few isles over—you’re considered an outsider. Can you imagine what will happen to the war effort in Nebrask if sixty different schools—each training Rithmatists in different ways—begin squabbling over who gets to defend what section of land? It’s hard enough with eight schools.”
    “And then there’s the talk of what these schools should be like,” Florence said, eyeing her newspaper. It was from Maineford, one of the isles to the north. “The editorials make Rithmatists sound like they aren’t even really people. A lot of people are calling for the Rithmatists to be pulled out of ordinary classes and be trained only to fight at Nebrask. Like they’re nothing but bullets, to be wound up in a gun and then fired.”
    Joel frowned, standing quietly beside the counter. From her desk, Florence tsk ed to herself and turned back to her work.
    “Brought it on themselves, they did,” Exton said from his place, speaking almost to himself.
    “Who?” Joel asked.
    “The Rithmatists,” Exton said. “Being so exclusive and secretive. Look how they treated you, Joel. Anyone they don’t deem worthy enough to be on their level, they simply shove aside.”
    Joel raised an eyebrow. He sensed some pretty strong bitterness in Exton’s voice. Something having to do with his days as a student at Armedius, perhaps?
    “Anyway,” Exton continued, “the way the Rithmatists treat others makes the common people—who pay for this place—begin to wonder if the Rithmatists really need such a fancy school and pensions for the rest of their lives.”
    Joel tapped the counter with his index finger. “Exton,” he said, “is it true that you went to Armedius?”
    Exton stopped writing. “Who told you that?”
    “I saw it,” Joel said, “in the graduation records when I was working on a project for Professor Fitch.”
    Exton sat quietly for a moment. “Yes,” he finally said. “I was here.”
    “Exton!” Florence said. “You never told me! Why, how did your family manage to pay for your tuition?”
    “I don’t want to talk about it,” Exton said.
    “Oh, come on,” Florence said.
    Exton stopped writing, then stood up. He took his coat and bowler hat off their hooks on the wall. “I’ll take my break now, I think.”
    With that, he left the building.
    “Grouch,” Florence called after him.
    A short time later, the door to the principal’s office opened and Inspector Harding walked out, blue suit pressed and neat as always. He picked up his rifle, which he’d left sitting outside the principal’s office, then slung it over his shoulder.
    “I will see about those patrols,” Harding said to Principal York. “We won’t let something like the brick incident occur again, sir, I assure you.”
    York nodded. Harding seemed to regard the principal with quite a bit of respect—perhaps because the principal looked like a battlefield general, with his large frame and drooping mustache.
    “I have the most up-to-date list for you, Inspector,” Florence said, standing and handing him a sheet.
    Harding scanned it, face going slightly red.
    “What is it?” Principal York asked.
    Inspector Harding looked up. “An oversight on my part, sir. There are still fourteen Rithmatist students whose parents refuse to send them to the academy for protection. That is unacceptable.”
    “It’s not your fault that parents are stubborn, Inspector,” York said.
    “I make it my responsibility, sir,” Harding said. “If you’ll excuse me.” He walked out of the room, nodding to Joel as he passed.
    “Ah, Joel,” Principal York said. “Come in, son.”
    Joel crossed into the principal’s office and, once again, sat down in the chair before the overly large desk, feeling like a small animal looking up at a towering human master.
    “You wanted to talk to me about my grades, sir?” Joel asked as York sat down.
    “Actually, no,” York said. “That was an excuse that you will forgive, I hope.” He folded his arms before him on the desk. “Things are happening on my campus, son. It’s my job to keep an eye on them all as best I can. I need information from you.”
    “Sir?” Joel said. “With all due respect, I’m just a student. I don’t know how much help I can be. I don’t really like the idea of spying on Professor Fitch, anyway.”
    York chuckled. “You’re not spying, son. I had Fitch in here yesterday, and I just