doors, where Exton had them draw lots to determine where on the arena floor they—or, if they wanted to work in a team, their group—would begin drawing.
“Hey,” a voice said behind him.
Joel smiled toward Melody. She wore her standard skirt and blouse, though this particular skirt was divided and came down to her ankles to facilitate kneeling and drawing. She probably wore knee pads underneath.
“Come to see me get trounced?” she asked.
“You did pretty well the other night against the chalklings.”
“Those lines barely held them, and you know it.”
“Well, whatever happens today,” Joel said, “you helped rescue about thirty Rithmatists from the Scribbler. The winners of the competition will have to deal with the fact that while you were saving all sixty isles, they were snoozing a few doors away.”
“Good point, that,” Melody agreed. Then she grimaced.
“What?” Joel asked.
She pointed toward a small group of people dressed in Rithmatic coats. Joel recognized her brother, William, among them.
“Parents?” he asked.
She nodded.
They didn’t look like terrible people. True, the mother had very well-styled hair and immaculate makeup, and the father an almost perfectly square jaw and a majestic stance, but …
“I think I see what you mean,” Joel said. “Hard to live up to their standards, eh?”
“Yeah,” Melody said. “Trust me. It’s better to be the son of a chalkmaker.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She sighed with an overly dramatic sound as her parents and brother entered through the doors. “I guess I’d better go get humiliated.”
“I’m sure that whatever happens,” Joel said, “you’ll do it spectacularly.”
She moved on. Joel was about to follow when he saw a set of Rithmatists arrive together. Twelve of them, wearing red shirts with their white pants or skirts. Team Nalizar had arrived.
The professor himself was at their head. How was it that simply by association, he could make a group of students seem more haughty, more exclusive? Nalizar stood beside the doorway with arms folded as they entered one at a time.
Joel gritted his teeth and forced himself to enter the building after Nalizar. He spotted the professor walking down a short hallway to the right, heading toward the stairs up to the observation room.
Joel hurried after. This hall was pretty much empty now, though Joel could hear the buzz of people through the arena doors a short distance away.
“Professor,” Joel said.
Nalizar turned to him, but gave Joel only a quick glance before continuing on his way.
“Professor,” Joel said. “I want to apologize.”
Nalizar turned again, and this time he focused on Joel, as if seeing him for the first time. “You want to apologize for telling people that I was the kidnapper.”
Joel paled.
“Yes,” Nalizar said, “I heard about your accusations.”
“Well, I was wrong,” Joel said. “I’m sorry.”
Nalizar raised an eyebrow, but that was his only response. From him, it seemed like something of an acceptance.
“You came here, to Armedius, chasing Harding,” Joel said.
“Yes,” Nalizar said. “I knew something had gotten loose, but nobody back at Nebrask believed me. Harding seemed like the most likely candidate. I got the authorities to release me on a technicality, then came here. When people started disappearing, I knew I was right. Forgotten can be tricky, however, and I needed proof for an accusation. After all, as you might have figured out, making accusations about innocent people is a terribly unpleasant thing to do.”
Joel gritted his teeth. “What was he, then?”
“A Forgotten,” Nalizar said. “Read the papers. They’ll tell you enough.”
“They don’t know the details. Nobody will speak of them. I was hoping—”
“I am not inclined to speak with non-Rithmatists about such things,” Nalizar snapped.
Joel took a deep breath. “All right.”
Nalizar raised his eyebrow again.
“I don’t want to fight, Professor. In the end, we were working toward the same goal. If we’d helped one another, then perhaps we could have accomplished more.”
“What will accomplish the most,” Nalizar said, “would be if you stayed out of my way. Without your ill-planned dump of acid, I would have had the strength to beat that fool Harding. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get going.”
Nalizar began to walk away.
Would have had the strength…? Joel frowned. “Professor?”
Nalizar stopped. “What is it now?” he said, not turning around.
“I just wanted to wish you luck—like the luck you had two nights ago.”
“What luck two nights ago?”
“The fact that Harding didn’t shoot at you,” Joel said. “He took a shot at Fitch. Yet against you, he didn’t fire his gun, even though you didn’t have a Line of Forbiddance up at first to stop a shot.”