Nine

''Uh... Who was... huh?'' Agueda murmured, drowsily.

She laid her head on Basky's lap and began fiddling with the ring she wore.

It took every ounce of Baskerville's self-control (and some of Suitov's, too) not to utter the immortal words "While you're down there..."

He watched the jewellery-juggling with vague interest.

The mouse burped. This was an event of interest in itself, as mice are not generally known to burp, even in events of great gastric distress.

It slithered out of the vodka bottle and slouched on the shelf. The fallen cap served for armrest. The rest of its propped self was involved in cleaning indiscriminately dark fur. If it had a color, it had been lost in the spirits. Its beady eyes were faintly red, but again, it could have been the alcohol.

The Bedey eyes, by contrast, were fairly brown. The red-pandalike creature was also sitting on the floorboards, content merely to exist effulgently.

Too late. Agueda had already 'heard' it.

She had intended to sit up rapidly and, whilst keeping a straight face, stare him straight in the eye and cearly state... ok, lie... that she didn't know what on earth he could have meant by such a thought.

The first obstacle came with the sitting up rapidly. As she lifted her head the room began to spin, she lost her balance for the second time in as many minutes, bounced off the bar behind her and back into Basky's lap, with surprising force. From here, it was rather hard to look him in the eye. As for keeping a straight face... no, she was giggling so hysterically she couldn't even begin profess her innocence as to the meaning of the thought.

Oh dear.

Baskerville, though slower off the mark, was giggling too. Even though he'd just been headbutted in the crotch... oh.

Think unsexy thoughts, his duffed-up brain told itself, so he pictured Weft in a dress. And that's when he started laughing out loud.

---

"What is your beast up to?" asked Weft, who had paused rolling knuckles when the "BWA HA HA" filtered up to his rooftop perch.

"Something petty, I've no doubt." Suitov looked approximately equal shares (pre tax) annoying, inscrutable and cute.

Agueda giggled some more.

''Aaawwww... what a pretty boy in his lovely dress!''

She added a big pink bow and some sexy strappy sandals and a floral head garland to Basky's mental image.

Skerv reacted with surprise. In fact, he almost cracked his head on the bartop (which couldn't take much more of this treatment).

Mind-readers were nothing new to him though, and once he got over the initial shock...

"He does look worryingly good," Baskerville agreed, and added pretty fluffy kitty ears. And a neck bell. On a pretty rose-pink ribbon.

''Okay, your turn now!''

Agueda substituted Weft's slim build for Basky's tone and muscle and placed Basky's spike-topped head in place of Weft's well-managed barnet.

''Do unto others...''

She added heavy bikers' boots under the dress.

"Oh, I look better. Definitely." Basky made the little figure preen and flex. The neck ribbon, however, seemed to have grown some studs.

''Very impressive. Do you do private functions?''

Yes. Functions. Definately an n in there.

"I've been known to sing at parties," the hellbeast said hopefully. (A few groans were heard around the room.)

---

Up on the roof...

Suitov rolled Item-Gen 2.3, the spell that came with second-edition Accountants.
"In the drawer you find a white cotton undershirt with one breast pocket, sans pocket-protector. It is your size. It is glowing faintly in the dark."

"Awright," said Weft. "I want to try it on."

"Without double-checking it? A risky investment."

"But in-character. After all, it would be petty to cash in on my misgivings as player."

Suitov rolled a die. It was as ominous as rolling thunder.

And sure enough, there was thunder.

Someone screamed, getting closer and closer to the roof...

But he stopped in midair only inches before he hit the roof. Whatever gaped at the tiles, clutching a rubber chicken in his hands. Or rather, strumming it like it was a guitar and he was a guest musician on the Sonic Cabbagehail album. Frantically, droplets of sweat on his forehead.

The thing with air guitaring a magical rubber chicken was that either it made you float or elastic enough to bounce off obstacles harmlessly. He had been hoping for the former, but would have been glad with the latter, too. Levitation, however, he hadn't been expecting.

"Crikey," Whatever giggled when he realised the rooftop wasn't getting any closer, and thoughtlessly stopped strumming the chicken.

He smashed against the rooftop, immediately sitting up and holding his head. He stared at Suitov and Weft with a grimace as he complained to the whole world about his pained existence. "Oh frell oh frell oh frell oh frell oh frell oh f--"

His eyes focused on Weft.

"AAAGH! It's W--, er, the W--, I mean... oh, hello, you look familiar."

He stared at Weft from under his braids with a broad, nervous grin, hoping the monk hadn't caught wind of what was going on.

Hearing the groans, Agueda thought it best to ignore the previous offer.

''Oooh!'' she said, snapping her head out of Basky's lap. ''Shall we go for a walk? I hardly know where I am or where anything is around here. I'm not even sure how I got here.''

Now she had realised this, it had disturbed her quite a bit. When Agueda moved on she would never come back (she hadn't always had local law enforcement on her side) and so it was important to know where you'd been.

''Where exactly am I, anyway?''

Then she remembered she was supposed to be drunk and so added a hic-giggle and hoped Basky wouldn't notice she was trying to lure him into a drunken stupor.

It had been going well until he'd begun the kareoke brainwave. The little innuendos and double entendres had disappeared and all he wanted to do was sing. And that's not what Agueda wanted. No, that was not what she wanted at all.

The part-Svengale tried to quietly supress his need to excercise his vocal chords (she suspected they may be a bit rusty anyway) and slid a little closer to him.

Aww. He hadn't been that serious about the singing, anyway... that usually came much later on.

Baskerville shook his head. Something itched.

"You, well, we're in a rundown inn which may or may not fall on top of us at any moment. Another of my boss's brainwaves, the lovable idiot... say, are you sure you want to get me alone in the middle of the night? There could be dangerous beasties out there." There certainly are in here.

Skerv frowned slightly; something was not quite right here, though he was damned again if he could remember what it was.

---

"Should I know you?" Weft asked politely (from the crouching guard position he'd reflexively adopted when the large missile dropped at them).

Suitov, succeeding at his charisma roll with ease, suppressed a wicked grin. (Nice chicken, he thought, though a shame about the pulley...)

''I think it may be safer outside than in here'', she said, following a heavy thud on the roof. Basky's words echoed round her head. May fall down on us at any minute

''I was entirely counting on the dangerous beasties, although I hadn't realised it was quite so late. But you'd keep me safe, wouldn't you?''

Of course, Agueda had escaped much more perilous situations in her life with surprising ease, but Basky seemed the loyal, protective type and she though it might appeal to him if she appeared a little helpless.

"I'd be surprised if you did," Whatever grinned nervously, barely realising he was choking the poor chicken. Even with the sunglasses it looked like it's eyes were were about to pop out.

Of course, it was a rubber chicken. The fact that it cawed when strummed was clearly a clever illusion. That, and the rubber egg that bounced down the roof. Yes.

Whatever hesitated for a while as he stared shiftily at both men.

Then: "Are you perchance playing Accountants?"

"Tell you what, I'll hold them and you can punch," Skerv said. Trouble was, he couldn't quite be bothered to move. Comfy.

---

"Yes we are," Weft offered with a trace of shyness, "or I'm attempting and he's letting me win."

"Ooh, you liar," said Suitov, who had been letting him win.

"And the other player's off on a caffeine run, but there's room for another."

Despite his misgivings - and terror -, Whatever displayed his teeth in a nervous grin and set his hat on a little better. He hoped none of them knew who Red Mage was.

"Noooice. And... um. I have caffeine, too, so I won't feel that guilty when I barge in uninvited and so on," Whatever said quietly, rummaging through his satchel and producing two metal cans, while not letting go of the chicken.

They were black and red. Somehow the image of a cup of radioactive coffee complete with warning labels gave the impression that this was the caffeine.

"Don't blame me if you need to go to the lavatory after this," the young man added from behind his jungle of tiny, braids. "Anyway, what sort of people are in play?"

"Aw look," drawled a voice, "we have a four-bit theatre. How cute."

The creature crawling down the chimney-stack was possessed of a very large array of spines, claws, armour plating and webbing. Most of this was less-than-essential accessory to its flight mode, and thus was disappearing smoothly as the creature entered Gaming Configurashon! (but the three pairs of small horns stayed, because the entity had been experimenting with radio waves).

"Hello foul fiend. Did you get my yucky water stuff, Mend?" Weft asked unconcernedly.

"Couldn't find any," said the creature, "so I got natural spring instead. Located teh bitter apple, though." (Yes, it did say teh.)

"Marvellous," quipped the black dark mage.

Mendel dumped the cooler bag, extended a claw and prodded at the chicken. It had a rubber combover. That was just wrong.