"A Count from Bosnia? Really?" you mutter, eyeing the mouse / count warily. "How do I know that I can trust you? After all, you just look like a rodent to me."
Its whiskers twitching madly, the Count rears up on his tiny legs. "I swear on the cheese that I mean you no harm!" he squeaks. Sighing, you tear off a piece of said cheese (it smells like Roquefort, but you could be wrong. Cheese was never your forte. Mincing was.) "Ok, I'll give you some cheese as an act of good faith," you say. "But if you try anything suspicious I will crush you under my bootheel. Do we have a bargain, Count Bosnia the mouse?"
Eensy head bobbing up and down in what you assume is meant to be a nod of assent, the mouse snatches the morsel of cheese from your fingers. "Deal," he squeaks. "Now, follow me!" He clambers up your leg and perches on your shoulder, almost uncomfortably close to your ear. He could chew it off, if he wanted to.
Mincing out into the hallway, you wait for the mouse to point you in the right direction. "Go down the hall and turn left, then open the second door on the right!" he declares. You're still not entirely sure that you can trust the Count, so you hesitate for a moment. How does a mere mouse know so much, anyway?