[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

The monstrous echoes of the turnstile's destruction echoed away into the distance, punctuated by the obligatory last trickle of debris to the floor. A great smoky miasma of dust blocked out most of the light that wasn't there, and the companions stood choking by the remains of the elaborate entrance to the Subways.

Suddenly there was a bout of coughing from a new set of lungs, which resounded hollowly in the confines of the tunnel. As this died away a voice spake thusly:

"Wot the bleedin' 'ell is goin' on 'ere? Wossappened to me turnstile eh? You bloody kids'll be the death o' me!"

Faster than thought, a lurid pink glow lit the tunnel, reacting with the clouds of dust in a way that would have been reminiscent of a cheap discotheque if any of the company had ever seen one. Pettygast's wand was once more their sole and rather tasteless source of light. Framed by neon-backlit billows of stone dust nobody could have failed to look impressive. Nobody, that is, apart from the figure who faced them, who clearly found looking shabby and superfluous as easy as our heroes and heroines found looking windswept and interesting.

The new arrival was about four feet tall, pale and grimy. Aside from two notable exceptions its garb was baggy, ragged and nondescript, but the exceptions are well worth our attention, as they are the reason why Earnur suddenly blanched, read the label on his bottle of Strangereek's and hurled the receptacle as far away from him as he could.

The dog-eared yet mysterious figure was wearing a brightly coloured clip-on tie and an official-looking hat with a shiny peak and a badge. The badge appeared to be some sort of religious symbol, consisting of a red circle bisected by a blue line, which bore the legend Lindon Underground in once-white runes. A badge pinned to its chest identified it as Errol and, more in hope than expectation, invited whomever might be reading it in the dark to solicit help of its wearer.

"That's destruction of Underground property, that is, mate", said Errol, picking a figure at random to be the ringleader. "I'll 'ave to charge you for that."

Two swords were instantly at his throat: Lord Gormlessar and Lord Etceteron had been unable to decide which of them was being addressed; although had they but known it the dusty aggressor had been talking to one of the horses. His eyes were never good at the best of times, and being full of grit and reliant on 1980s nightclub illumination they had given up the ghost entirely.

"Charge them?" said Kuruharan in a shocked voice. "I've never heard the like." There was a distinct possibility that this unimpressive official would bill him for the damage as well and this offended his sense of financial aesthetics. In Kuruharan's economic model the flow of money was strictly one way.

"I could sell you a nice pair of dust-removing spectacles for a once-in-a-lifetime bargain introductory price..." he added automatically, but without real hope. Their new acquaintance was clearly more down-at-heel than a man with no feet.

"He's not going to charge us for any damage," said Oragarn Two quietly. "Are you, friend?"

"Our business concerns you closely, little err.. man?..." ventured Earnur.

Bloody kill 'im! Wotcha waitin' fer? 'E's wearin' a bleedin' clip-on! That's wot people wot wear 'em was invented fer

"...and though I would fain hold civilised discourse with you, my blade desires to ... umm ... 'slit you up a treat'."

I didn't say that! I said...

"Peace, my blade!" thundered Earnur (in the shadows his horse snorted in scorn)

"He means we won't pay for your shoddy turnstile. And I can't control my weapon for long either; so you'd better scarper before l’En’viey gets the better of you." Halfullion interjected good-naturedly.

The little man looked panicky. His eyes darted this way and that, finding nothing but sharp weapons and steadfastly-closed wallets at every turn. Even Merisuwyniel, normally generous to a fault, could ill afford to replace an entire gate of Mithril, and there was no time to lose if they were to arrive in Topfloorien before the shops closed.

"It was an accident," she said sweetly. "Couldn't you just let us off?"

The little porter pounced on this opportunity like a domestic cat on an unwary piece of chicken. "Well, nobody uses that entrance anyway; and it does save me waterin' those flamin' trees. Go on with ye. But mind you don't so much as touch the fixtures."

"We'll be careful," assured the slender Elven-maiden, demonstrating her impeccable diplomatic skills.

"You'll be dead." replied the small figure disconcertingly, and before they could ask (or, for that matter, tell) him where to go he was gone.

You bugger! You never let me kill anyone! Ev'ry time we meet some little tit 'oo ain't a flippin' Orc you lets 'im cheek yer like a...

"Enough, noble brand." spake Earnur gravely. "Be not so eager to deal out death in judgement."

I wasn't judging 'im you toffee-nosed pillock! I just wanted ter kill 'im!

In the shadows, Baklava, bored as ever, had found a brightly-coloured yet dusty map. It was composed of a series of intersecting lines drawn in primary colours, and with circles at regular intervals. Not for the first time in his life, the horse felt very keenly his want of literacy. It would probably be hours before any of his idiotic two-legged companions noticed the plan, least of all his lush of a master. He sidled a little closer to Pasdedeux. Perhaps this delay wouldn't be a complete loss after all.

[ January 24, 2003: Message edited by: Squatter of Amon Rudh ]