Protesters.
They carried signs. GIVE US THE TRUTH. DUSTERS ARE DANGEROUS! SEND THEM TO NEBRASK!
Numerous editorialists around the Isles had decided that the deaths of the four Calloway servants had been the fault of the Rithmatists. These editorialists saw some sort of hidden war—some called it a conspiracy—between sects of Rithmatists. There were even those who thought that all of it—the existence of Rithmatists, the inception ceremony, the fight at Nebrask—was a giant hoax used to keep the Monarchical Church in power.
And so, a small—but very vocal—group of anti-Rithmatist activists had set up a vigil outside the front of Armedius. Joel didn’t know what to make of such nonsense. He did, however, know that several homes of Rithmatic students—all of whom were now staying full-time at the school—had been vandalized in the night. The policemen at the gates, fortunately, kept most troublemakers away from Armedius. Most of them. Two nights ago, someone had tossed in a series of bricks painted with epithets.
Joel didn’t stop to listen to the protestors, but the sounds of their chanting followed him. “We want the truth! Stop Rithmatist privilege! We want the truth!”
Joel hurried up the path to the office. Two rifle-bearing policemen stood at the sides of the doorway, but they knew Joel and let him enter.
“Joel!” Florence said. “We didn’t expect you to come so quickly.” Despite the grim circumstances on the rest of the campus, the blonde clerk insisted on wearing a bright yellow summer dress, complete with a wide-brimmed sun hat.
“Of course he came quickly,” Exton said, not looking up from his work. “Some people don’t ignore their responsibilities.”
“Stop being such a bore.”
Joel could see over the counter to a newspaper lying on Florence’s desk. CRISIS IN NEW BRITANNIA! the top headline read.
“The principal is seeing someone right now, Joel,” Florence said. “I’m sure he’ll be done soon.”
“How are things holding up here?” Joel asked, glancing out the window toward the police officers.
“Oh, you know,” Florence said. “Same as always.”
Exton snorted. “You seem perfectly willing to gossip other times. Why the coy face now?”
Florence blushed.
“The truth is, Joel,” Exton said, setting down his pen and looking up, “things are not good. Even if you ignore those fools at the gates, even if you don’t mind tripping over a police officer every other step, things are bad.”
“Bad how?” Joel asked.
Florence sighed, folding her arms on her desk. “The islands without Rithmatic schools are talking about starting their own.”
Joel shrugged. “Would that be such a disaster?”
“Well, for one thing, the quality of education would plummet. Joel, hon, Armedius isn’t just a school. It’s one of the few places where people from all across the Isles work together.”
“Jamestown is different from most cities,” Exton agreed. “In most of the world, you don’t see JoSeun people and 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 tsked 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 talked to Harding. I trust both men. What I really want is unbiased opinions. I need to know what is happening, and I can’t be everywhere. I’d like you to tell me about the things you’ve seen and done while working with Fitch.”