Unsettled Conditions (Pindone Files #2)

Unsettled Conditions

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Unsettled Conditions

Ann Somerville

These stories are a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Visibility: Good To Poor Copyright © 2006 Ann Somerville.

Unsettled Conditions Copyright © 2006 Ann Somerville.

Cover image ©PL Nunn 2015

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For more information please visit my website at http://annsomerville.net

Smashwords Edition 2, September 1015

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Published by Ann Somerville

Contents

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Unsettled Conditions:5

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It had taken Markin Tejnu a mere twenty-eight years to achieve, but now he could say that he truly had a place for his every mood and need. Was he feeling bitchy? Needing to gossip, to shred a few reputations, learn who was fucking who and with what accessories? Then he had only to call Meferil Kahn—minister’s wife, young, pretty and bored—for an afternoon of refined hefi drinking and less refined toe sucking, and he barely needed his talent to get the information. How about contemplative? Then it was the ruins of old Ursiq, a long and pleasant drive up the coast, that was called for. There, he could sit on the slabs of granite and admire the still graceful dome of the Academy, and wonder what this old capital had been like in the days before vahns and airships, and the destruction of the port which had led to the downfall of the original builders of the city.

If he was in need of mental stimulation, he had even more choices—his official job, of course, kept him busy, but when he got tired of code and numbers and systems, and just wanted to touch a pure intellect, there was Mori. Always Mori—calm, open, always enquiring Mori, with his deep, beautiful voice and exquisite mind. In the right mood, when he could accept what Mori could offer, it was a balm on Tejnu’s heart to be in their house, the one they had designed together and called home for nearly nine years. There he would sit as Mori invoked the rituals, recited the words and names while Tejnu listened and connected with the spirits of those of their kind, the true inheritors of the human heart. At times like that, he felt as close to Mori as he could possibly get, and it warmed him. Those were rare moments, blessed moments, and Tejnu...only wished he could find that to be enough for him.

But it wasn’t, and so he had other needs, other places to find, when his mood turned vicious, his thoughts darkened and embittered. On nights like this, forced against the implacable wall of Mori’s perfect control and resolve, what he wanted—what he needed—was to beat the living crap out of someone. And of course, he had the perfect place for that too.

He dressed to get a reaction, a pointless exercise when it was Mori from whom he looked for a reaction. It wasn’t that Mori didn’t see the leather and the wrist guards, or didn’t know what the symbols hanging from Tejnu’s ear and painted on his cheeks meant, or even what Tejnu planned to get up to. Mori just thought it was Tejnu’s business, and nothing to comment on, which drove Tejnu crazier and crazier as the years went by and he could never get the slightest hook into the tiniest crack in Cowdem Moriakei’s perfect control, make him stutter or protest or even whisper the mildest, Are you sure about this, Teji? as Tejnu headed to the door with lust and fire scorching along his veins, looking for trouble and bound to find it. Mori trusted him, which was a compliment beyond price—but just once, Tejnu wished he would question that trust, not let him pass with nothing but a slight smile and a quiet good hunting as if Tejnu wanted to be screwing some random stranger in a club or a hotel, and not having his brains turned to water by Mori’s skilful lovemaking. Not that he got much of that these days, but he lived on memories, and hope, and raw, raw need that Mori....

That Mori knew about, cared about—even sympathised with him over—and yet did nothing to assuage because there was a gulf between them made of circumstance and fate and choices freely made years before. Mori lived at a different level, and Tejnu, staring up from below, could only long for what he could not have. And then head to his special place and inflict all kinds of torment on perfectly willing empty ones, hating them and their vacuous minds, their leaden spirits and their arrogant assumptions, because loving Mori was all kinds of agony, and Tejnu didn’t see why he shouldn’t spread the pain around.

The music spilling out from the bars along the street, harsh, loud, dissonant, fit his mood perfectly as he left the vahn and walked towards the club. He felt the familiar tightening at the base of his belly, the quickening of his heart rate as he was ushered through the doors of Jlala, barely acknowledging the respectful bows from the attendant for one of their best-known doms, a celebrity in his own special world. Inside, the sounds were different—still loud, but the music here was deeper, smokier. He stopped for a moment, inhaled, let the beat and the throb fill him, hit his chest like a caressing blow. His place. His kingdom. And tonight, he would hunt.

The commotion his arrival caused was familiar, and he let people scurry about to accommodate him, knowing he didn’t have to make his wishes explicit. Subs knew to stay back until he was ready, the waiters came to him first, and his preferred booth was always ready for him, even if it meant some lesser creature had to be hastily evicted. He had absolutely no conscience over using his reputation this way—the club needed people like him to keep the eager young seekers coming in, and he had trained any number of the doms who were also part of the attraction here. He was simply collecting on the debt he was owed, and tonight, he planned to take back a bit of what he had given over the years. Tonight was going to be about him.

An ice-cold glass of qozo was placed before him with a bow. He sipped it, enjoying the bitter, medicinal taste on his tongue, and looked through heavy-lidded eyes at the crowd of pretty people milling around below on the floor under the flickering red lighting. At the end of the room, on another platform at the same height as Tejnu’s booth, a band played. It was a feature of the club to always have live music, but Tejnu often wondered why they bothered. People didn’t come here for the music, but he supposed it was like the leather seats, the erotic sculptures, the theatrical, obscured lighting—all intended to give a sense of occasion, of a special, intimate place. For him, these things mattered little—he was more interested in what the tide brought in, what potential playmates he might find among the hopeful seekers. Later he would go down among them, brush against them and their laughably open thoughts, reel in anything that smelled good. But for now, he just watched. He sat with his legs sprawled, one hand resting on his crotch, a thumb hooked in the waist of his leather trousers. Subtle, it wasn’t, but he didn’t need to be subtle yet.

It was busy, but it was always busy, and he had long ago learned to tune out the noise, the music and the waves of conversation, to concentrate on small things, individual features which caught his eye. Hmmm—now that was nice. Lovely legs, and the paint on her belly was nicely done—he didn’t recognise the artist. He’d have to find out, see if they could do some work for him. She was new to the club, he thought, but not new to the scene, of that he was sure. She wasn’t making the usual mistakes—she was demure without being abject, knew how to draw attention to her breasts without being obvious. He made a note, even though her dom was at her side—she might do for later, if he couldn’t get someone less obviously breakable to wear out first. Pretty female subs were a bit too fragile for what he had in mind, and tended to cry and complain in a way that pissed him off when he got a bit too rough. Pretty boys were worse. No—for what he needed tonight, he needed someone who was in a mood to be broken, and broken hard.

He sensed someone coming up to his side, but waited until the man came around in front of him and bowed. Master Tejnu, a pleasure as always.

Tejnu put his booted foot up on the table and raised his glass lazily in acknowledgement of the club owner. Palen was a friend, and this was for show, but the show was important too. Palen, he said briefly. Ziko in?

Yes, and he asked if you’d drop by if you came in and had the time. Tejnu lifted an eyebrow—Ziko should come to him. He’s got a sub that you might be interested in playing with. Something...rather special.

Special, how?

Palen smirked. Best you see for yourself, Master Tejnu. He jerked a thumb towards the playrooms in the back. Number Five. He’s got quite the audience.

Tejnu nearly growled. This wasn’t what he’d come here for, to trail around after Ziko and watch him play. Ziko was good, and they’d tag-teamed on subs any number of times, but Tejnu had neither the patience nor the inclination to share tonight. How lovely, he said in a flat tone, hoping Palen would pick up on his displeasure.

Your loss, Palen said, his smile disappearing. Would you like another? he said more politely, gesturing at Tejnu’s glass.

Not yet. Tejnu stared at him coldly until Palen shrugged a little and walked away. Idiot empty one, Tejnu thought, scowling. Did the man have no idea of the way things were supposed to go? Ziko was Tejnu’s junior, trained by him personally—an empty one, but not as stupid as most, and Tejnu had long ago accepted the necessity of dealing with the things—but if Ziko had something to show his master, then he should come to him personally.