Nutmeg hurried through the tunnels beneath the streets of London, scampering along on all fours for the most part. He paused occasionally to stand up and test the air with his whiskers or adjust the bandolier of tools across his chest. It wasn't easy being a rattus faber but things had been better since he'd discovered a talent for sneaking, pilfering and thieving. He had a talent for making sure precious items wound up owned by the correct people; which normally meant taking them away from the people who currently thought they owned them and giving them to the people who'd pay well to own it themselves.

Scuttling up a long, slimy brick wall Nutmeg pulled himself over the lip of the drain and peered out at the street above. It was dank, dark and quiet at this time of day, though that could be said for any time of day. The 'neath didn't have day or night, Fallen London's rhythm was set by the lamps and the ethereal glow from the spires of the bazaar and the tolling of ancient bells in their clock towers.

Most humans spoke of the sun, of day and night but it was myth to the rats of London. Some few elders still spoke of the times when they had been beasts, mindless and living on instinct. But after the fall, after the Traitor Empress sold London the animals of the city had fallen alongside the humans to this dark cavern. Scuttering in the darkness beneath the city the rats had eaten the secrets of the bazaar, fed on the milk of echoed memories and learnt. Now they were larger, almost as big as cats, smarter, using their dextrous hands to use tools, slowly pulling themselves up out of the gutters and sewers.

Rumour had it that there were rattus faber living in their own mansions now, with human servants of their own. It was all dreams and whispers amongst the company, tonight had been quite successful and Nutmeg had to report in. Darting across the street he scaled the side of the building and let himself in through a loose pane of glass that rolled aside easily when touched in the correct place. Once in the warmth of the Baronet's cellar the brown rat abandoned walking on all fours and made his way proudly toward the place where he made his nest, it'd be nice to wash his fur and rest.

Candle light illuminated his fur, glinted off the tools of his trade in their place across his chest, lockpicks, grapple, oils, waxes. All made by the finest smiths of rat kind for the company's personal use only. It was a point of honour that Nutmeg was permitted to carry them, he'd been raised from a kit to be a thief, his claws sharpened on the only training program the company recognized; success. If you failed you died but if you passed then you could truly call yourself a thief; anyone not in the company was an amateur.

"Nutmeg," a smooth voice greeted him as he passed amongst a pile of ancient candles, "I hear whispers that the Sapphire Net is missing and that Dreinle the jewel smith is working on a new project, congratulations."

Nutmeg bowed, whiskers twitching, bare pink paws clasping his bandolier, it was rare to receive a compliment like that, "I did as I was asked, no more, no less boss."

"You do it well Nutmeg, the company is blessed by a thief such as you. Few can match you which is why I want you to be the rattus who performs this next job for us."

Nutmeg's ears twitched and he raised his head, he'd never been sent straight out on a job after returning home before. He'd been looking forward to seeing Cinnamon and their kits but when the Shadows asked you obeyed, "What is it I must do? My fur is oiled still, my scent dampened, I can go straight back out."

The large rat moved out of the shadows, black body gleaming under the light of flickering flames; he was powerfully built and Nutmeg recognized him as Erida of the Council and bowed lower. "I need you to be a sleeper, St Raphael's Sanctuary is squeezing the market, stockpiling wax and candles. We cannot get inside through our usual means so we have need of a sleeper to let us in from the inside."

Nutmeg froze, paws clutching his bandolier tightly, to be asked to become a sleeper was both the greatest honour and the deadliest of tasks. It was great magic, the highest form known to the company. You risked never returning however or being lost for years to the shadows, your mission a failure, your name a disgrace. But for those who returned, who succeeded a place on the wax council awaited; every rat on the council, from the boss before him to the others who scuttled in the shadows had passed through the wax.

"You can say no, not every rat dares to reach for the wax, you have kits, a doe of your own," Erida grinned, "You can say no."

Shaking his head Nutmeg stood tall, "I will say yes, I am of the company, if the wax calls me I will answer."

"I knew you would say yes, come," he turned and walked into the shadows and Nutmeg scuttled after the larger rat as they moved deeper into the cellar. "Cinnamon will be told, if all goes well it will take us but a month or two to move you into place."

"What is my task when I wake?"

"Simple, let us in, we'll be ready, you must simply open the way from within that we cannot breach from without," Erida stopped by a large hole in the brickwork surrounded by ancient lumps of wax and motioned for Nutmeg to go ahead, "Last chance to say no, if you accept this mission leave everything behind."

Nutmeg hesitated for a moment then removed his bandolier, tugged off his bandana, his tail ring and handed them all over to Erida. Taking a deep breath he nodded to the council rat and stepped through the hole and started down the slick tunnel beyond. The bricks were caked in a layer of wax, he had to squish his claws through it to hold on as he padded deeper beneath the earth. It was slick and tacky against the skin of his paws and as he walked it grew softer as the air grew warmer.

The cavern at the end of the slope was brilliantly lit, Nutmeg's eyes watered as he found himself dazzled by their brilliance. Looking around through slitted eyes the rat couldn’t see much, just the dazzling mirrors reflecting the light of hundreds of candles. Before him was a sort of raised plinth with a large dollop of glistening golden wax on it, everything else was a mirage of hazy light. Taking a half step forward he was caught around both fore-legs by a pair of rats whose heads were covered in thick looking hoods with smoky lens over their eyes.

"Come sleeper," one of them squeaked as he was walked around the room, "We have much to do," Nutmeg knew enough not to struggle, the legends and stories of this chamber were many but when he first achieved the bandolier he'd been taught some of what would be expected of him should he ever be selected to be a sleeper. First he was made to climb into a pool of cold salty water, dunked beneath the surface and scrubbed with brushes that felt like wire.

By the time they were done Nutmeg’s skin felt raw but he let himself be ushered out of the pool and up onto a mirror bright platform. His tail and paws had never felt so clean, the skin scraped clean of a lifetime of London grime. The barely seen rats guiding him started to position his limbs, making him crouch on his hind legs, forepaws resting on his thighs. They then looped his tail up the length of his back and along his neck, sticking it in place somehow until it stood a good two inches above his head. His whiskers were smoothed out, his claws filed and sharpened and his muzzle positioned to make his rodent buck teeth really stick out. It was a weird pose and just as Nutmeg had worked up the courage to ask them why they stepped back and he lost them in the glare of white light.

One, two, three seconds then darkness rushed him from either side, he had a moment to glimpse heavy grey blocks before they clamped around his body. Nutmeg was squished into the tacky substance that oozed around his body, forming a skin tight outline. Holding his breath, Nutmeg was frozen, fright at the sudden attack locking him in place. Then with a sticky squelch the blocks were pulled off him, retreating back into the blinding light. He had a moment to see the block in front now held a perfect impression of his former pose, complete with whiskers but then it was gone and the hooded rats were back.

They guided his steps back to the plinth he'd seen at the start, the golden ball of wax was before him so Nutmeg reached out and picked it up. It was solid yet had a strange oily sheen to it, a thousand reflections of maybe rainbows danced across the surface as he examined it. It smelt faintly of apple and as he stood there mesmerized he lost track of time, it was only when his drool splattered against his feet that he realised he'd just been standing there. He'd been warned about this, every rat had one chance to eat the Hesperidean Wax, if they failed the wax masters would complete the process and you'd be consigned to the ranks of the failed. Squeaking Nutmeg hurriedly stuffed the wax into his maw before he was mesmerized by it again. It bubbled against his tongue, melting and then he swallowed heavily and the world span as his body started to tingle.

One of the hooded rats loomed up out of the brightness, gripped his shoulders and shoved him forwards over the now empty plinth. He fell through white light before hitting a burnished surface that was glowing white hot. His forearms deformed as he struck it, his shoulder caved in and twisted as the bubbling sensation filled every part of him. The heat should have seared him, roasted him, but all it did was melt his body. That alone should have been unusual, terrifying but he was strangely calm, as his fur and flesh surrendered to the searing heat. Nutmeg managed to scream once, a shriek of pleasure that followed him down into the swirling light as his body collapsed under the intense heat and started to run like molten wax. His thick rodent body was oozing away, shape and form, curves and flesh dissolving, flowing into a pool of opaque viscous brown wax.

It took minutes, or hours, seconds or days he didn't know, all he could focus on was how good it felt and the faint aftertaste of apple that raced through his thoughts as he melted. The pleasure ended as the last lump of his body melted into the pool. All Nutmeg could feel was the heat of the roasting hot dish his viscous body now filled and a faint whispering voice filling him with knowledge he couldn't consciously retain. IHe could feel it settling into his body, teaching him, preparing him and then the voice faded away as the last lingering remnant of divine taste faded.

After that there was just the heat, the strange knowledge of knowing he was still alive just... wax, it all made sense now. The Wax Council, why the Company demanded wax and candles as payment and stole so much of it. Still trying to come to terms with this Nutmeg suddenly found himself falling, sliding, pouring out of the dish, into a funnel and down into a confining space. His form splashed down around the piece of rope in the centre then filled the void to either side, conforming to the shape and outline of the mould. The wick was bent to emerge out of the back of his neck, blended into the space for the tail so it would stand above his ears. Nutmeg would have smiled if he had been able to as he settled into the mould the hooded figures had made of him. He filled it from feet to ears, not a drop of his waxy body wasted as he began the long, slow process of cooling, hardening, setting into shape.

When the mould was finally removed Nutmeg's thoughts had sunk into a quiet reverie, a soft slumber that was barely aware of the world outside. Rats manhandled him, moved him, carried him, there was a brief glimpse of other rats in a darkened room. Living wax bodies gleaming, moving, circling him before declaring him a genuine Rat of Glory and shipping him out. The only time he saw himself was in the reflective surface of a large collecting tray, a rat shaped candle made from light powdery grey and brown wax with a pale green wick standing tall above his head.

It was strange to see himself like this, to feel humans picking him up, passing him around, carrying him, talking about him, passing him from hand to hand, person to person each figure expressing desire to own such a fine specimen.

He was never lit, no flame came to his wick. Until one evening when he was sat on a shelf in a room surrounded by wax a slender woman dressed in the habit of a nun struck a match and applied it to his wick. She waited until the flame took then left and Nutmeg awoke, wax eyelids flickering open to reveal black eyes that darted from side to side. Limbs began to move, no longer solid parts of a single candle but fluid, working body parts. Wax moulded itself into new shapes and he stood up, stretching as if he had been asleep then reached up a paw to snuff out the flame eating its way down his tail. He was alive, he was wax and secrets and with a squeak he scampered forwards toward the giant stockpile of candles. He had a job to do, a life to resume but forever more he was wax and oil, candle and rat.
~fin