“Oi, watch where you’re going!” The scaly little beastie rapped Ben’s thigh and regarded him with a mean set of eyes, blowing smoke out of its flared nostrils. The creature smelled like a wet dog and looked like a cross between a mole and a crocodile.

“I’m sorry,” Ben stammered, arms raised in an offer of peace. It resumed its way as it muttered angrily under its breath. Ben felt the spirit probably didn’t have time to waste on the likes of him; it appeared that everyone in Dool had urgent places to be, all rushing about.

This was the third time in the last hour that he had almost flattened a diminutive spirit as he tried to shove his way through the throngs of the multitude. He was feeling woozy from the sheer number of people that flowed from one street to another, from the hodgepodge of aromas and vistas. Moreover, the magic in the air was unlike anything he had experienced before. It certainly added to his dismay, to say the least.

Although he was certain he had disembarked from the snail-coach near a city square, the avenues twisted and turned, offering no straightforward path. About an hour had passed when Ben realized that he was back where he started. Disheartened, he made his way to a vacant bench, and not for the first time that day, he wondered how he’d find Wilhelm and Sybil in such a vast place.

Grr. His empty stomach rumbled in protest. When was the last time he ate something? Ben instinctively reached for his knapsack, and his mood was further dampened—he hadn’t seen it since his misadventure in the Hengeway. Ben sighed as he imagined his belongings floating in that weird dimension ad infinitum. Much good they’ll do over there, he brooded.

“Hey you, on the bench,” said a shrill voice, rising above the hubbub of the crowd.

Ben lifted his head, a look of confusion on his face as he tried to ascertain if he was the one being spoken to. On the other end of the street, in front of a plain building with flaking, plastered walls, a mousey man beckoned at him with his index finger. He had sparse whiskers and protruding front teeth, and marked bags under his eyes stamped on him an eternally tired appearance.

“Yeah you, moppet. Come on over, I ain’t biting.”

Upon closer inspection, Ben wasn’t so sure of that. But for the lack of a better lead, he decided to approach the dubious personage. He wore a creased uniform that was buttoned up to the neck and a bonnie hat with a wide brim, upon which was embroidered a brass insignia that depicted a rodent.

Ben got close enough to continue the conversation but kept an ample distance from the grubby stranger. “How can I help you?”

He sniffed aloud and, satisfied, pointed a thumb backward to the tumbledown building behind him. “I’ve been working the rat-mail for two decades, yessir I have. I know when I sees meself a newly-minted sorcerer, yessir. Just alighted in Dool, I’d wager, and you haven’t been to the post office yet, am I right?”

“Uh…” Ben trailed off, and the mailman’s watery eyes shone with excitement.

“Ha! I knew it, never been wrong ‘bout this in me life. A man oughta check his mail, ya know? Especially when one’s just-crossed like so. I’d wager you’ll have some korespondunce to check on, yessir. Well, what ya waiting for? Come along now, reckon ya best stick close to my heels!”

And with that, he turned around and entered the post office without waiting to see if Ben followed. “Huh,” he murmured, and he went inside as well.

Ben hesitated for a moment at the entrance of the post office, his eyes widening with wonder as he took in the sight before him. The interior was dimly lit, and the air was heavy with the scent of parchment and ink. His gaze was drawn to the back wall, where rows upon rows of cages were stacked high, with countless rats contained within. The creatures scurried about, their whiskers twitching with curiosity. They emitted tiny squeaks as they peered out through small, iron bars.

Intrigued, Ben approached the cages, his eyes widening as he marveled at the sheer number of rats housed within the small space. Each cage had a tiny hole in the wall, barely big enough for them to squeeze through. He watched in fascination as one rat darted through the opening, disappearing into its unknown confines.

Lost in his observations, Ben nearly jumped when a loud pop broke the silence. He turned to see a plain reception desk in the corner, behind which sat a bored-looking woman chewing gum. She blew a bubble absentmindedly, barely glancing up as the mailman approached; she was absorbed in the contents of a magazine.

“I brought another new one,” the mailman announced proudly, gesturing towards Ben.

The receptionist spared him a cursory glance before returning to her magazine, dismissing him without a second thought. “Name?” she asked, her voice flat and disinterested.

“Benjamin Umber, ma’am?” Ben replied, his voice uncertain.

Without looking up, the receptionist pulled open a drawer and retrieved a big, brown rat. Ben recoiled instinctively, feeling queasy at the sight of the creature from such a close distance. The receptionist held the rat out toward him. “You heard the man,” she said, before dropping it into a nearby brass tube.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The three of them stood in awkward silence, the receptionist engrossed in her magazine, the mailman fidgeting nervously, and Ben unsure of what to do next.

“So, rat-mail, huh?” Ben ventured, attempting to break the tension. The receptionist merely grunted in response, but the mailman was pleased to share his expertise.

“Yessir! They’re the bestest, surest way to get your korespondunce on time,” he scratched his head as if a thought had just occurred to him, doubt written all over his face. “Well, there’s arachnicodes too, but those are expensive as all hells. Not many understand spider-speak, y’see. But these rats of ours—why, they’re the most reliable little fellers in the whole World That Is Not. They coulda tell twins apart from their magical aura alone. It’s all in their noses, it is.”

The rat scuttled its way out of the tube by the time the mailman had finished speaking, a rolled piece of parchment strapped to its back. It was sealed with red wax. The receptionist untied it expertly without even looking at it, a practiced motion she’d probably done hundreds, if not thousands, of times. She extended the letter to Ben as she blew another gum bubble. Pop.

Ben stepped forward, grabbed it, and began to peel the wax off without further ado. The mailman immediately stopped him, putting a hand over his. “A man oughta have some privacy to hisself when handling their mail! You shouldn’t open it here in front of us offishuls.”

“Alright, I won’t,” Ben said, respecting the mailman’s propriety. His mind worked furiously as he pocketed the letter, an idea beginning to form. “Say, mister, you mentioned these rats can find anybody. Does that mean they don’t need an address at all?”

“I sure did, and they sure don’t,” he said, pleased with himself.

“Can I send a letter, then?” Ben asked.

The mailman’s eyes widened in surprise. “Why, of course you can!” he exclaimed, slapping Ben on the back with an excited chuckle. “Just write the recipient’s name on the top, and our little critters will take care of the rest. There’re some empty desks over there—oh, and that’ll be sixpence groats, by the by.”

Ben pulled the leather pouch Lunden had given him after the hunt out of his jacket, and he thanked his luck. After all, he hadn’t put it in his knapsack with the other supplies. He rummaged its contents until he found a coin with the word sixpence engraved into it, the face of an old, bearded sorcerer above it. The receptionist extended an empty hand without looking up, and he promptly let it fall on her palm.

“That-a-way, mister,” said the mailman, and Ben walked toward one of the desks he had previously mentioned. There were multiple inkwells, a bottle filled with quills, and a mountain of parchment to write with. He took a seat, grabbed a piece, and dipped a pinion into the deep blue ink. Ben stared at the empty paper for a moment, making sure of what to write; he kept it brief to not overshare for Sybil’s sake. The message went like this:

To Wilhelm Grayson and Co.,

I’m already in Dool, but the city’s much bigger than I thought. I don’t think I’ll be able to stumble upon you on my own. I’ll head to the biggest plaza I can find and wait for you there. I hope that you receive this message to begin with. The mailman assured me these rats could find anyone, and I’m at a loss for better ideas.

Best Regards,

Benjamin Umber

P.D. You could have spared more details about the Two-Faced Man. I had a terrible time on the Hengeway.

Satisfied, Ben folded the parchment into a roll similar to the one he had received, walked over to the receptionist, and handed it to her. She pulled out a wooden stamp and a wax container and sealed it with a loud thump. She finally wrested her gaze away from the magazine with a dramatic sigh and walked over to one of the cages that lined the wall.

The receptionist settled on one by random and opened the cage door, tying the letter to a rat’s back as it sniffed it curiously. Its minuscule eyeballs shone with understanding, as if it knew what to do and where to go. With that, the hairy messenger disappeared into a hole in the wall.

Done with his task, Ben thanked both adults for their assistance and made for the door. The receptionist ignored him, but the mailman grinned and waved heartily. “Just doing my job, yessir! Someone’s gotta teach you the inturkeecies of the postal service. You take care now. There’s been some seedy stuff happenin’ lately.”

After promising he would, Ben swiftly made his way back onto the bustling street. A chill ran down his spine; the watchman had mentioned the same before letting them into the city, and he couldn’t shake the feeling it was somehow related to the very people he sought. There’s only one way to find out, he thought, and then merged into the crowd.

⦶⦶⦶

“Excuse me, sir, if you would just—sorry, passing through! Here, let me just squeeze by.” It had taken Ben about two hours to navigate the labyrinthine lanes of Dool before he finally happened upon a public court, but as he approached, the mob of people became denser. People crowded together in a circle. They stepped on each other’s toes and pushed at each other’s backs in a vain attempt to take a peek into the source of the commotion. He could hear jeering and booing coming from the front.

Ben maneuvered through the tumult and finally made it to the improvised ringside. The court’s floor was composed of mosaic tiles. Whatever image they had once depicted had blurred long ago with the passage of countless pedestrians. Edging the enclosure, he could see the second and third stories of old-fashioned buildings looming over them.

The outcry intensified, and Ben directed his gaze to the object of the public’s derision. In the center of the square, a wooden scaffold rose high above the crowd, its weathered planks creaking under the weight of its occupants. Surrounding the scaffold, a circle of sorcerers clad in scarlet robes maintained a vigilant perimeter. They wore pointed hats that matched the hue of their robes, and a black patch covered their right eyes. The unorthodox attire imbued them with an air of zealotry.

Atop the scaffold, one of the sorcerers stood tall, his voice cutting through the clamor. “Hark, my brethren! Do not fear my words, but embrace them with joy. The days of the World That Is and the World That Is Not are counted. That blasphemous Rive and the separation it imposes over us, soon to be swept away by blessed winds. The One-Eyed Lion shall once again walk among us, to resume his holy crusade. The World That Was shall be returned to us that are faithful!”

“Traitors! Crazy fanatics!” came the decisive answer from the people. Ben watched the exchange with fascination, unsure of what to make of it. Who was this One-Eyed Lion that they spoke of? This holy crusade? Questions bubbled in his head like a wellspring, overflowing with curiosity and uncertainty.

The preacher smiled in a paternal manner, unfazed by the insults being thrown his way. “The World That Is grows like an insatiable beast; its diabolical machines and the petty squabbles of its kings threaten to ruin the land that we once shared. Brutes, the lot of them! Magic seeps away under our watch, and what are we doing to stop it, to protect our way of life?”

A hush fell over the mob, stifling the previous cacophony with an eerie stillness. Ben could sense that he had struck a nerve. He felt a wave of unease wash over him. He knew he was way over his head, but there was an enmity to the preacher’s tone that he instinctively disliked.

Ben examined the faces around him as the sermon continued, and he saw one that jolted his body with fear. On the opposite end of the court, a man in a black hood stared intently in his direction—the upper half of his face was shaded, but he could feel the intensity of his gaze boring on him.

He’d seen enough black-hooded men in the past month to know they weren’t harbingers of good news. His heart raced with apprehension. Time to sound the retreat, Ben thought, and he faded into the anonymity of the crowd. The preacher’s ominous augurs carried over, following him like a dreadful shadow.