by Jean Lorrah
The Post remained open and crowded, although now people came to share feelings instead of to forget their troubles. Zhag and Tonyo, having had their performances cut short two nights in a row, refused to cancel any of their sold-out shows. They changed their setlist, adding emotionally-charged pieces in place of some trivial bar songs, and restored the Unity Hymn as final encore.
If anything, the fear gas attacks had united Gulf Territory in determination to end the Kill. Even in Lanta, word was, perpetrators were hunted down and made examples. Before the Night of Fear Lanta’s juncts might have resented being forced to disjunct, but they resented even more being used as weapons against their will.
Baird had to deal with the swarm of auditors who descended even before his father’s funeral, assessing inheritance taxes, property taxes, licensing fees, and conversion fees. Treavor Axton had kept meticulous records, so although it took up a great deal of Baird’s time, he assured Jonmair he would not have to close down even temporarily.
But with Baird handling Treavor Axton’s work and more, there was no one to do Baird’s job. Jonmair happened to see Chef, Lukis, and Cord coming down the hall toward the office in which Baird was ensconced with another accountant and, without thinking, merely wanting to save Baird an interruption, asked if there was anything she could do.
Chef had the day’s menus. Jonmair knew he would have estimated correctly the amount of food they would require, and told him, “Just go ahead. I know Mr. Baird trusts you to handle the kitchen.”
She told Lukis the same about stocking the bars, and went upstairs with Cord to “help him sort the linens,” which turned out to be simply agreeing with decisions he had already made about what was too worn to be used again.
When she came back downstairs, it was time for lunch with Zhag and Tonyo—but as they were eating Miz Delancy came in. “Ah, there you are, Jonmair! I’ve been hoping you would come to see me.”
“I was going to,” Jonmair said, “but I’ve been too busy here since Mr. Axton died.”
“She’s doing the work Baird used to do,” said Tonyo.
“Really,” she said. “So the son recognizes your abilities as the father refused to. Still, I would like to see some sketches from you when you have time. My staff can do the sewing.”
While Jonmair arranged an appointment for later in the week, one of the other customers came over to their table, a young woman wearing a dress of fine silk, even though she was obviously only out shopping. She wore green enamel citizenship tags on a perfectly-fitted gold collar even more elegant than the ones Zhag and Tonyo had had made.
“Hello, Tonyo,” she said in a way that subtly indicated that she was one of his conquests—or considered him one of hers.
“Hi, there,” the Gen performer replied. “Nice to see you again.”
Ever the gentleman, Zhag supplied the name Tonyo had forgotten—if he had ever bothered to find it out. “Hello, Merita. I don’t know if you’ve met Jonmair, our costume designer. I think you know Miz Delancy.”
As the women exchanged “how do you do’s,” Zhag continued, “I hope your family got through the Night of Fear without any problems.”
“We were fortunate,” Merita replied, but her attention was fixed on Jonmair, studying the dress she wore.
Jonmair had not dressed in her Post livery this morning, because her status had changed. However, she had little else in her wardrobe, and had chosen the blue cotton dress she had made in her first days here, saving her two better dresses for upcoming formalities. The scrutiny from this well-dressed woman made her all too aware that her outfit was made from a bedsheet rescued from the rag bin—but she held her head high, pretending that it was as good as the other woman’s silk.
“Jonmair,” said Merita, “I love your costumes for Zhag and Tonyo. Do you design women’s clothes as well? Did you make the dress you’re wearing?”
“Yes,” Jonmair replied warily.
“Jonmair is going to create some designs for me, Merita,” said Miz Delancy.
“Too late,” Merita sighed. “I was hoping to commission a wardrobe by Jonmair before her prices went through the roof.” She turned to Jonmair. “May I?” she asked, lifting the collar of Jonmair’s dress, and then investigated the tucks in the puffed sleeve. “Exquisite!” she said. “Such workmanship in plain cotton—what could you do with fine fabric?”
Realizing where the conversation was headed, Jonmair offered, “I have two other dresses I’ve made upstairs, if you would like to see them. One is a formal gown—”
“The one you wore to the opening!” Merita exclaimed. “I remember. Now I’m sure I want your designs even if I have to pay Delancy prices.”
“And you will show them off perfectly,” said Miz Delancy. “If you buy a whole wardrobe, we can arrange a discount.”
Jonmair watched in disbelief as her dream came true before her eyes.
Merita grinned. “Good. You’re going to be all the rage, Jonmair.”
When Merita and Miz Delancy had gone, not without first making an appointment to choose materials and discuss designs, Zhag said, “Congratulations, Jonmair. Merita’s right: you are going to be all the rage. I don’t think you’ll be serving drinks much longer.”
* * * *
BAIRD EMERGED FROM THE OFFICE THAT EVENING to find The Post running as smoothly as if he had supervised it himself. In every quarter, he was told, “Don’t worry—Jonmair’s already taken care of it.”
Just as she had taken care of him last night.
He found Jonmair, back in her Post livery, serving drinks in the gambling hall until it was time to go to the main salon.
Baird frowned. Why did it feel wrong for Jonmair to go about business as usual?
Nothing, he realized, would ever be “as usual” again. He had changed, and Jonmair had changed. She looked wrong, now, as just another Post staff member. He remembered her last night, strong and in charge, the way everyone had described her today. He wanted that woman, not a barmaid.
Wanted?
True, his post reaction was not sexual, mixed as it was with grief—but he now had no doubt that it would be normal in the future. It was actually a good thing that his head was clear on the subject. He didn’t want a sex partner so much as...a life partner. A partner in everything—transfer, business, and love.
But why should Jonmair want him? He had used her from the moment they met, treated her as he would one of his prized horses. Even when he had encouraged her to face up to his father, he had known that after he had invested so much in her, Treavor Axton would never let her leave The Post.
For the first time in his life, Baird thought about what a Gen thought of him—this Gen, this perfect complement to his Simeness. What if Jonmair had no special interest in him except as a friend—the way she was friends with Zhag and Tonyo? She had slept in his bed last night, but only slept. Did she care about him, Baird, or had she risked her life to save his only because she cared about saving a life?
She could go anywhere she pleased now. He would never use the debt she had owed his father to keep her here. What could he offer her that would allow her to use her talents in a way that could not be seen as demeaning?
You fool, he told himself. Weren’t you just thinking about what you want your relationship to be?
* * * *
BY THE TIME BAIRD APPROACHED HER, Jonmair had gone into the main salon, where he found her listening to Lukis explain how he determined which drinks to stock each evening.
“Chef tells me you approved the menus,” Baird said. “Cord tells me you approved his inventory, and now I find you busy learning how to stock our saloons. Are you planning to take over my job, Jonmair?”
“I didn’t mean—” she stuttered, fearing that he might feel she had overstepped her bounds. “You were so busy—”
“We asked her,” Lukis came to Jonmair’s defense. “We didn’t think you wanted to be interrupted when you were doing all that legal stuff today.”
“It’s fine,�
�� Baird said. “Everything’s running smoothly. Jonmair, please come with me.”
They went to the office, where Baird asked her to sit down, and went to sit behind the desk. “Jonmair, I want to thank you,” he said. “I hadn’t even thought about training someone to take over my duties, because I didn’t want to think about having to take over Dad’s.”
“I understand,” she said.
“No,” he replied, “I don’t think you do. There isn’t anyone else now. Dad’s gone. Elendra’s gone. The Post requires two people, one to run the business end—which will be more work than ever until everything is transferred to my name—and one to supervise the personnel. I’d like you to take over my old job of supervising personnel.”
“But I don’t know anything about that!” Jonmair exclaimed in amazement.
Baird smiled wearily. “You’ve been doing it all day. You know all about handling Simes, and all the staff except you and Penta are Sime. As for the details, Lukis was teaching you. Chef and Cord will do the same. Emlou takes care of her girls—all you have to do is make sure the staff keeps the rooms up.”
“I…don’t know what to say,” Jonmair whispered.
“Say yes,” said Baird. “We’re transfer partners. Why shouldn’t we be business partners as well?”
Because I want to be your partner in life, not business! Jonmair thought, her heart sinking. But she didn’t say that. Instead, she said, “I got another offer today. I’m designing a wardrobe for Merita Hardin.”
“Oh.” He seemed taken aback. “I know you want to design clothes. But perhaps you can do both? At least for now? Frankly, Jonmair, I need your help, at least for a time. If you don’t like the job, I’ll help you train someone else to take it over.”
She understood his use of the word “need.” The Post, after all, was Baird’s life—it was all he had ever known, and he loved it. She had grown to love it, too.
The immensity of what he offered slowly dawned on her: a Gen in charge of the staff of the largest entertainment establishment in Norlea? How far she had come from that holding cell in which she had waited to die!
She remembered the day in the square when she had first seen Baird. She had been so eager to grow up then, to be independent, out from under her parents’ authority. She had dreamed of running her own life, designing clothes, becoming famous.
And now, half a year later, despite turning out to be the wrong larity, she had it all! Every single thing she had dreamed of then was now hers: she was free, she was a designer on the brink of fame, and she had the choice of what she would do with her life.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll do it, Baird. Thank you for the opportunity.”
And she viciously pushed down the ache in her heart, telling herself that when she had everything she had asked for and even more, it was childish and selfish to want something more. If Baird couldn’t love her, he certainly liked and respected her.
It would just have to be enough.
* * * *
TREAVOR AXTON’S FUNERAL COULD NOT BE HELD FOR THREE DAYS, for there had been so many deaths ahead of his that the cemeteries were overwhelmed. The arrangements fell to Jonmair, in her new capacity as personnel supervisor. She consulted Baird about his father’s wishes, then enlisted Zhag and Tonyo’s help, and closed the gaming hall for the day. The staff covered the tables with flowers and Chef and Penta laid out a feast.
The mourners were legion. Customers, old friends, and the merely curious, they overcrowded the gaming hall and spilled into the corridors. Baird, who had never intended to leave Jonmair to cope with the inevitable crises alone, could not escape yet another auditor until almost the announced time—and emerged to find a procession of mourners moving quietly past the office.
“Put out more cheese buns and fruit,” he heard Jonmair’s voice, “and tap another keg of porstan.”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied one of Chef’s helpers, and scurried off to the kitchen, while another staff member headed for the cellar. Baird watched and zlinned in satisfaction. Surely if his father could see how well The Post was functioning, even he would have to agree that Jonmair was doing a fine job.
Wearing her wine-colored dress, her hair twined at the back of her head, Jonmair moved as if she had been running The Post all her life. She went from table to table, making certain that trays and glasses were replaced as quickly as they were emptied. The room had been made dignified, gambling equipment hidden beneath flower arrangements and tablecloths. His father’s coffin was at the front of the room, on the platform near the bar.
Baird in no way grudged the cost of providing food and drink to all these people—but he nevertheless noticed how Jonmair had arranged the lines so that people were encouraged to take something and continue on. There was no easy way to return for seconds.
Zhag and Tonyo, in conservative plain clothes, managed the ambient around the bier, allowing people their feelings but ready to shield if necessary. Baird knew he should join them, to accept people’s condolences, but he wondered if he would ever get over not knowing how deeply involved his father had been in the fear gas conspiracy.
But propriety ruled, and he began moving through the crowd toward where his father’s coffin stood heaped with flowers. Jonmair reached the other side of the room, turned, and started making her way back past another tier of tables. Baird was about to try to get her attention when she suddenly stopped, staring and turning pale.
Baird was too far away, and Jonmair too low-field, for him to zlin her through the crowd between them, but he saw that something had upset her. People near her zlinned it, turning to look at her, one woman putting a hand on Jonmair’s arm, obviously asking what was wrong.
Jonmair shook her head and said something to the woman with a forced smile, then returned to stare at what to Baird appeared nothing more than a middle-aged Sime couple greedily sampling the delicacies laid out on one of the tables. He could not recall seeing them before, but there were many curiosity seekers in The Post today.
Baird worked his way through the lines, holding his field in a pattern that kept people from accosting him, and reached Jonmair’s side just as the two Simes that had startled her looked up from the food—and shocked the ambient with their own reaction.
“Jonmair!” the woman gasped.
“We thought you were dead!” said the man.
Jonmair’s field had disappeared, so Baird could not tell what she was feeling except from her outward appearance. That was calm as she said, “I’m alive, no thanks to you.”
Who were these people? Working class, Baird judged from the conservative but cheap clothing they wore. What could they have to do with Jonmair?
“Is there anything wrong?” Baird asked as he stopped beside Jonmair, ready to defend her.
She gave him a faint smile and replied, “No. I just...never thought I would see my parents again.”
These were her parents? The people who had sold her as a Choice Kill? Baird had to grasp control of himself as other people turned to stare and zlin.
“It’s all right,” said Jonmair, gently touching his upper arm. “They’ve only come to pay their respects to your father. They didn’t know I was here.”
“How could they not—?”
Even as he said it, Baird realized how foolish his question was. Of course they would never have attempted to find out what had happened to their daughter. That was what it was to be junct. Whether you gave up your Gen child willingly, or whether that child was taken from you by force of law, the only way to survive was never to think of him or her again.
That was the moment Baird truly felt it—not when he had resisted touching Jonmair on the Night of Fear, not when she had given him transfer, but now, finding it unimaginable to think and feel as juncts throughout history had thought and felt.
He was no longer junct.
I will never kill again because I could not stand to do so.
“You work here?” Jonmair’s father asked.
“Yes,” she repl
ied, but did not elaborate.
“You got lucky,” said her mother, eyeing the fine cloth of Jonmair’s dress, the gold collar with her citizenship tags.
Baird felt ashamed that both the dress and the very expensive collar were gifts from Zhag and Tonyo, not from him. But he could give her something that would mean more to her. “Jonmair is a fine designer. You’ve heard of Zhag and Tonyo?”
“Yeah. They gonna play at the funeral?” asked the Sime woman eagerly.
“They are,” Jonmair replied flatly.
“Jonmair is their costume designer,” said Baird. “She’s very talented.” He stopped himself from telling them they should be proud of her. They had no right to be proud: they had had no tentacle in Jonmair’s success.
Nor did Jonmair accord them any special attention, except to say, “If either Faleese or Wawkeen should establish as a Gen, I want you to send them to me. Don’t bother to contact me for anything else.”
As Baird and Jonmair moved away, preparing for the ceremony to begin, Baird asked, “Faleese and Wawkeen?”
“My younger brother and sister. I wouldn’t put it past our parents to try to keep them as wards and sell their selyn. Not that they’re likely to establish. I was the one in three in our family.”
He didn’t bother to remind her that it was only a statistical average that one in three children of Simes became Gen, and each case was individual. The important thing was that Jonmair would not allow the junctness of her parents to prevent her helping her younger siblings if they required it.
Once Baird took his place, the remembrance service for his father began. Nearly a hundred people answered the invitation to say something in memory of Treavor Axton, but most of them said only a few words: “He built this place into the best entertainment value in Norlea,” or “He provided the best fun to be had after the Last Kill.”
But some revealed things Baird hadn’t known. At least half a dozen people told variants of “He hired me when no one else would, and got me back on my feet.” One man told how Treavor Axton had lent him the money to build a saloon that was now one of The Post’s major rivals. A woman said, “He banned me from the gambling tables when he saw I was addicted—and made me so mad I overcame it to prove him wrong.”