Элизабет Мун - Moon Flights

“Well—what is it now?’ The king sounded grumpy, too—the worst sort of grumpy.

“Sire—there’s a problem with the treasury. There’s been an overrun in the military medical services sector.”

“An overrun? How? We haven’t even had a war!” Very grumpy, the king, and the accountant noticed the big bony fists at the ends of his arms. Why had he ever let his uncle talk him into civil service anyway?

“A considerable increase in claims made to the Royal Provider Organization. For plastic wizardry.”

The king leaned over to read the details. “Plastic wizardry? Health care?”

“Sire, in the reign of your renowned father, plastic wizardry to repair duty-related injuries was added to the list of allowable charges, and then a lesser amount was allocated for noncombat trauma—”

The king looked up, clearly puzzled. “What’s a reversible reduction mammoplasty?” The chancellor explained, in the tone of someone who would always prefer to call a breast a bosom.

“Those women again!” The king swelled up and bellowed, “GUARDS! FETCH ME THOSE WOMEN!” No one, not even the accountant, had to ask which women.

“But your majesty, surely you want the women of your realm able to suckle their own children?” Mirabel Stonefist, serene in the possession of her own mammae, and surprisingly graceful in her holiday attire, smiled at the king.

“Well, of course, but—”

“And you do not want to pay extra for women’s armor that will protect those vulnerable fountains of motherly devotion, isn’t that right?” She had gotten that rather disgusting phrase from a sermon by the queen’s own chaplain, who did not approve of women warriors. Rumor had it that he had chosen his pacific profession after an incident with a woman warrior who had rendered his singing voice an octave higher for a month, and threatened to make the change permanent.

“Well, no, but—”

“Then, Sire, I’m afraid you leave us no alternative but to protect both our womanhood, and your realm, by means of wizardry.”

“You could always leave the army,” said the queen, in a nasty voice.

Mirabel smiled at her. “Your majesty, if the king will look at his general’s reports, instead of his paperpushers’ accounts, he’ll find that the general considers us vital to the realm’s protection.” She paused just that necessary moment. “As our customized armor is necessary to our protection.”

“But this—but it’s too expensive! We shall be bankrupt. Who wrote this contract, anyway?”

“Perhaps I can explain.” Sophora Segundiflora strode forward. In her dark three-piece robe with its white bib, she looked almost as impressive as in armor. “As loyal subjects of this realm, we certainly had no intention of causing you any distress, Sire….”

The king glared, but did not interrupt. Perhaps he had noticed the size of the rings necessary to fit over her massive knuckles.

“We only want to do our duty, Sire,” she said. “Both for the protection of the realm, and in the gentler duties of maternity. And in fact, had it not been for the tax, we might never have discovered the clear superiority of this method. Even with armor, we had all suffered painful and sometimes dangerous injuries, not to mention the inevitable embarrassment of disrobing in front of male soldiers while on campaign. Now—our precious nurturing ability stays safely hidden away, and we are free to devote our skills to your service, while, when off-duty, we can enjoy our protected attributes without concern for their safety.”

“But—how many times do you intend to switch back and forth?”

“Only when necessary.” Sophora Segundiflora smiled placidly. “I assure you, we all take our responsibilities seriously, Sire. All of them.”

“It was the tax, you say?” the king said. He glanced at the queen. He was remembering her relationship to the chancellor.

“We’d never have thought of it, if you hadn’t imposed that tax,” Sophora said. “We owe you thanks for that, Sire. Of course, it wouldn’t be practical without the military’s medical assistance program, but—”

“But it can’t go on,” the king said. “Didn’t you hear me? You’re not paying the tax. You’re spending all my money on this unnecessary wizardry. You’re bankrupting the system. We can’t spend it all on you. We have the prince’s own plastic wizardry needs, and the expenses of state visits….”

“Well.” Sophora looked at Mirabel as if she were uncertain. “I suppose… it’s not in the contract or anything, but of course we’re very sorry about the prince—”

“Get to the point, woman,” said the queen. Sophora gave the queen the benefit of her smile, and Mirabel was glad to see the queen turn pale.

“As long as the tax remains in effect, there’s simply nothing else we can do,” Sophora said, looking past the king’s left ear. She took a deep breath that strained the shoulders of her professional robe. “On the other hand, if the tax were rescinded, it’s just possible the ladies would agree to return to the less efficient and fundamentally unsafe practice of wearing armor over their… er… original equipment, as a service to the realm.” She smiled even more sweetly, if possible. “But of course, Sire, it’s up to you.”

“You mean, if I rescind the tax, you’ll go back to wearing armor over your own… er…”

“Bosoms,” offered the chancellor. The king glared at him, happy to find someone else to glare at.

“I am quite capable of calling a bosom a breast,” he said. “And it was on advice from your accounting division that I got into this mess.” He turned back to Sophora. “If I rescind the tax, you’ll quit having these expensive wizardy reversals?”

“Well, we’ll have to put it to a vote, but I expect that our proven loyalty to your majesty will prevail.”

“Fine, then,” the king said. The queen stirred on her throne, and he glared at her. “Don’t say a word,” he warned. “I’m not about to lose more money because of any parchment-rolling accountants or Milquetoast chaplains. No more tax on women’s armor.”

“I shall poll the ladies at once, Sire,” said Sophora. “But you need not worry.”

“About that,” growled the king. “But there’s still an enormous shortfall. We’ll have to find the money somewhere. And soon. The prince must have his spells renewed—”

“Ahem.” Sophora glanced over her shoulder, and the wizard stepped forward. “As earnest of our loyalty, Sire, the Ladies’ Aid & Armor Society would like to assist with that project.” She waved the wizard to the fore.

“Well?” the king asked.

“Sire, my latest researchers have revealed new powers which might be of service. It seems that the laterally reposed interface of the multidimensional—”

“His new black box came with some free spellware,” Sophora interrupted before the king’s patience shattered.

“Not exactly free,” said the wizard. “But in essence, yes, new spells. I would be glad to donate the first use to the crown, if it please you.”

“Nigel!” the king bellowed. The prince shuffled forward, head hanging. “Here he is, wizard—let’s see what you can do.”

The small demon in the new black box received the prince’s less appetizing morsels with surprising eagerness. In a large multitasking multiplex universe, there’s always someone who wants a plague of boils, and a wicked fairy godmother who wants to give some poor infant a receding chin. Available at a reasonable price on the foreign market were a jutting chin, black moustache, and excessive body hair, recently spell-cleared from a princess tormented by just such a wicked fairy. It spit out those requirements, causing a marked change for the better in Prince Nigel’s personal appearance. A tidy profit, it thought, and turned its attention to retrieving the final sets of mammary tissue.