“Fetch me my unicorn,” Bell said. That Major Zibeon could do.

That Major Zibeon plainly did not want to do. “Sir, wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a buggy?” he asked.

“No,” Bell snapped. So far as it went, that was true. Bell would not be comfortable in a buggy. He wouldn’t be comfortable anywhere, probably not till they laid him on his funeral pyre. He might perhaps be less uncomfortable in a buggy, but he had no intention of admitting that to his aide-de-camp. “My unicorn is what I asked for, Major, and my unicorn is what I require.”

Zibeon’s long, sad face got longer and sadder. “Sir, if you were to fall off the beast, the result would be unfortunate for you. It would also be unfortunate for the kingdom, if I may take the liberty of saying so.”

“Fall off?” Bell echoed in tones of disbelief. “Fall off? How in the seven hells can I fall off the gods-damned beast?” He gestured toward his pinned-up pantaloon leg. “You’ve got to tie me aboard the miserable animal to get me to stay on at all. Does a lashed-on sack of beans fall off an ass’ back? My name isn’t George, Major, but I doubt it.”

The laudanum took the edge off his temper, as it took the edge off his torment. It would have left most men as insensitive as they were insensible. Bell, now, Bell reached for his swordhilt, although, considering his mobility, he would have had a better chance trying to brain any foe with a crutch.

With a sigh, Major Zibeon yielded. “Let it be exactly as you say, Lieutenant General.” He raised his voice, shouting for a serf.

The blond groom fetched the unicorn in short order. Bell clambered aboard the splendid white beast, disdaining help from either the blond or his aide-de-camp. He wasn’t weak, even now. Certain parts were missing, sure enough, or didn’t work as the gods intended, but what remained in working order still worked well. He tolerated the straps that did indeed make him feel like a sack of beans. Without them, he could not sit the unicorn.