Split Heirs by Esther Friesner, Lawrence Watt-Evans Page A

punish.
    Or rather, it would have been reversible if the Gorgorian man over whom the ladies tussled had not come in just then, noted his senior wife’s use of magic, decided that if he did not do something to indicate his displeasure she might next use her powers on him, and very prudently lopped her head off.
    There was general rejoicing in the harem tent and a flurry of in-house promotions all around, but poor Mungli was left out of the fun, high and dry, permanently silenced — if any of the other Gorgorian women had the ability to restore her tongue, they weren’t admitting it. And although most men joked about the advantages of having a silent wife, no one seemed eager to acquire one who lacked a tongue.
    It was a fortunate day for Mungli when news of her predicament reached the queen’s ears and she was summoned into the royal service. With Ludmilla gone, Artemisia longed desperately for someone in whom to confide. Not confide everything , you understand, just bits and pieces that might casually drop into the conversation. It was such a relief finally to have someone about the queen’s apartments before whom she could speak freely, without weighing every word! And, like most Gorgorians, Mungli was illiterate, so the danger of the girl writing down anything she might learn was nil.
    â€œAll those years, all those years…” Artemisia mused, tilting her head to one side in a fetching manner. “I don’t know how I could have managed if not for you.”
    â€œHnng,” Mungli agreed.
    â€œSpeaking of which, do be a dear and bring me my tea, won’t you?” the queen requested.
    Dutifully Mungli trotted off to the sideboard where a silver teapot was bubbling over a spirit-flame. To the boiling water she added three pinches of a dried herb mixture which she carried in a tiny, carefully sealed casket around her neck. When the brew had steeped to her satisfaction, she poured off two cups and brought them to the queen. Together the ladies sipped their tea.
    Artemisia smacked her lips. “Hmmm, tastes great,” she remarked. “But I’d drink it even if it tasted like stewed mule’s hocks, just to be sure I never again have to bear Gudge another child! Three — I mean he is quite enough. He being Prince Arbol. Ah, ha, ha, ha.”
    â€œAnh, anh, anh,” Mungli laughed. She patted her own flat belly smugly, a testimony to the powers of the contraceptive tea.
    The queen set aside her empty cup. “Are you sure, dear Mungli, that there is no similar tisane known to the women of your tribe that is capable of, uhhh, preventing a young girl from, mmmm, ever embarking upon that stage of life where this tea is necessary?”
    Mungli stared at the queen, then made the Gorgorian sign meaning someone did not have all his oxen in the corral.
    â€œNo, of course not.” Artemisia was downcast. “It’s quite natural for a woman to want to save herself from too many childbirths, but why would any sane person want to keep a girl from becoming a woman? Well, never mind.”
    Mungli cocked her head at the queen and made soft, inquiring noises in her throat. She was more than fond of her royal mistress, for if not for Artemisia she would have either starved in the streets or been shipped to one of the most distant Gorgorian outposts where men were men and the mares were skittish. She would do anything she could to relieve the queen’s distress, but Artemisia waved her off.
    â€œThere’s nothing for it but to trust to luck. And we have been pretty lucky so far. Blood will tell. I recall one of my governesses telling another that I was an especially late bloomer, and the other replying that it was because I was such a hoyden, running and riding and sneaking off to take exercise with my brother Mimulus and his companion, dear Lord Tadwyl. ‘If she keeps up such antics,’ Lady Dromedri said, ‘she’ll never get Vimple’s