Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 57
The banquet table was laden with the ill-gotten gains of a clandestine empire. Piled meats and delicacies from two-dozen worlds were displayed on a long table, snatched up by eager hands. Wines were plentiful, the least bottle on the table would have beggared a working family for three generations. Platters of fine dishes were served in courses, and the warmth of the fireplace made the room cosy, inviting the guests to relax and enjoy themselves. Few did. Plates were cleaned quietly, wines sipped not guzzled and many hands twitched as if missing guns. Trust was in short supply at this table, and not a one of them would dare appear vulnerable, not for a moment.
The setting was grand yet the guests were anything but refined. Hulking men in leather tunics, hard-bitten scrappers with knife scars aplenty and women with quick eyes, and quicker hands. They were all out of place in such sophisticated surroundings, more accustomed to street fights and beat-downs in warehouses. Not a one of them was born of noble blood, no gentle schools of deportment and erudition for this lot. They had started from nothing and clawed their way to the top, each of them leaving a trail of bodies in their wake. They were coarse, quick to anger and paranoid, but between them they controlled the criminal elements of every world in the Boscage. Not a coin changed hands in the brothels and gambling dens of two-dozen worlds without the Underbosses claiming their cut, and they all paid tribute to the Bronze Beast.
Methuselah sat in a thick ermine robe, his bulk straining its stitching. He should be sweating in this heat, but he was cooled by his backpack's mechanisms. A specially built chair allowed him to lean back as a man taking his comfort. His picked at his plate, sampling the delicacies, though his metabolism demanded chemical laden sustenance he did enjoy the tastes on offer. His lightning claw lay heavy on his right hand, comically large in this setting, and drawing many fearful glances from the guests, but his left hand was free to pick at his plate.
"Are you enjoying these Saseel larva?" a worried looking underboss at his side asked.
"A strange flavour, I thank you Hupac," Methuselah allowed.
Hupac nodded sycophantically, "I brought ten cryo-casks with me from Caracol, for your enjoyment."
A red-haired lady to his right sneered, "Bugs! This is not worthy tribute; I bring a hundred cases of Kassa birds. They are eaten live, feathers and all. Their struggles in the stomach as they die are extremely pleasurable."
Methuselah agreed, "I look forward to trying some Kardes."
The woman smiled smugly at her rival Hupac, who glared back in annoyance. He was whipcord thin, with scars on his shaved head attesting to many a knife fight in the gutter. It galled him to kowtow to anyone, but was keenly aware his head barely came up to the Bronze Beast's bicep. One wrong word and Methuselah would end him, and they both knew it. Kardes was a study in contrasts, face unmarked and her frame slight. One would not believe she ruled the criminal underworld of nearby Marajo, but she had climbed to the top with a stunning talent for arranging accidents. Everyone above her had died in improbable circumstances, that in no way could be tied to her. Admirable, such strength of will spoke well of her genes.
From further down the table a tall man in a buttoned coat and with two burly minders at his back remarked, "I am amazed you can smuggle Kassa birds with the Orruk invasion going on."
Kardes grinned back, "You'd be amazed how easy it was, war is good for business, Torgan."
"Drugs, drink, gambling, streetwalkers, the demand for our services has never been higher," Hupac agreed in a toadying faction.
Torgan however frowned, "Desperate people demand more distractions, but should we not be more concerned with the Greenskin menace? If Marajo falls, this moon will be next."
That caused some disquiet around the table, nobody was comfortable with their proximity to the warzone. The underbosses ruled planets across the Boscage and rarely gathered together. Methuselah however had reason to address them, and so had arranged passage on various cargo ships and troop transports. It had been expensive but not difficult to arrange. The Boscage comprised two dozen human settlements but there was no higher government to speak of. Each world looked to its own affairs and gave no heed to the laws of others. What one world considered outlawed its neighbour supplied in excess, making smuggling and drug-running a highly profitable business. Methuselah knew this well, he had helped make it so.
The Bronze Beast tapped the table with one finger, drawing all eyes as he said, "Greenskins are not our problem to deal with. The defenders of various worlds muster their armies to confront the danger. They will dispose of this rising Warlord in short measure and life will go on."
Torgan frowned, "We are placing a lot of trust in the courage of others."
But Methuselah shrugged, "The kings of the Boscage are petty men, but they recognise a common enemy when they see one. The Greenskins would overrun all worlds if left unchecked, so the armies of men march to stop them. Even Alar-Median and the Smoke Jaguars send their forces to aid Marajo."
That wasn't reassuring. The criminal underbosses feared the Space Marines, as all men did. The Smoke Jaguars were legendary warrior lords, sons of the Sun-Emperor, their feats at arms had held the Greenskins at bay for five centuries, but they did not confine themselves to fighting Xenos. Many times they had fallen upon corrupt kings and tyrannical gangsters, storming their castles in nights of fire and blood. Other times criminal underbosses had been found beheaded in their beds, without a single guard being alerted. Nobody knew when the Smoke Jaguars would stir to action, or why they would permit others to rampage unchecked for a lifetime, the reasoning behind their harsh judgments was unknown to outsiders. Some folk held they were instruments of divine judgment, others fickle shades of the warp-storm that isolated the Boscage, but all feared that they may be violating one of the secret taboos. They were capricious, mercurial and prone to act as they saw fit. If Methuselah had genuinely cared for his underlings he would have found it annoying.
Methuselah waved his free hand, "Orks multiply like weeds. Chop down a dozen today and a hundred more will spring up tomorrow. You can't beat them like that, but their weakness has ever been their instability. So long as they have no united leader they are no threat, beyond the occasional raid. Shade-Lord Palanque understands that well, doubtless he will have warriors sneaking into Greenskin camps, looking for their biggest leader."
Hupac looked doubtful, "You know the mind of the Smoke Jaguar's leader?"
Methuselah sniffed, "Their thought process is easy to predict, for one such as I."
Torgan retorted, "Few would claim to know their thinking."
The reply was blunt, "Astartes are simple creatures, made for simple tasks. Dressing up in bones and animal furs doesn't change what they are. Which is why it was so distressing that someone thought to use them against me."
Everybody at the table froze in terror at the grim pronouncement. The implication was plain, as was the accusation. Eyes fluttered from face to face, searching for guilt but all were veteran liars and betrayers, none of them revealed complicity. Methuselah didn't need that though. His hand strayed to his belt and he reduced his dose of Blue. The acid bite of his blood made veins darken across his skin, giving him a Daemonic aspect.
He addressed the room, "My most secure holdfast was penetrated by a Smoke Jaguar assassin, intending to take my head. Centuries has my home been hidden from them, but now they learn its location. Someone told them where to find me, someone thought to use them against me."
Kardes went pale in shock, "Surely you don't think it was one of us?!"
Methuselah growled, "I know it was one of you, every person who knows where I reside is accounted for, and none of my servants would dare betray me. You however thought to take advantage of the Ork invasion, using the anarchy as cover. Admit it, you crossed me, Torgan!"
The underboss froze, jaw dropping in shock. His twin minder's hand fell to concealed knives, but did not dare draw them. The other underbosses shrank back, trying to avoid drawing attention. If any of them had wondered why Torgan had been allowed bodyguards it was now evident, and obviously useless. Nobody doubted the Bronze Beast would dismember the trio with ease.
Torgan chose to lie, "It wasn't me!"
"I know it was you," Methuselah growled, "If I were eliminated you could take my place. Almost admirable, I would applaud, if it was not so amateurishly done."
"You have no proof!"
"Proof?! I made you what you are! I know you, I know your mind: petty, grasping, venal and weak. You don't deserve to draw another breath."
His lightning claw twitched and he dialled up a dose of Red, but before the drug could hit his bloodstream the bodyguards acted. The one on the left whipped out his knife but instead of going for Methuselah he went for his partner. One slash of the knife and his comrade went down with a slit throat, thrashing on the ground as blood poured between his fingers. Torgan spun about only to have the reddened knife stab into his eye, punching through to the brain, He collapsed with a knife sunk up to the hilt in his face, dead before he hit the floor.
All froze as they awaited the Bronze Beast's response, "Surprising, and yet effective. Tell me young man, what motivated that?"
The bodyguard shrugged, "He was dumb enough to cross you, I have no wish to die for his stupidity."
"And your comrade...a kinsman?"
"My brother, he also planned to betray Torgan. We wanted to take over his operations, but there's only one chair free."
"You kill your underboss and think I will reward you with his seat at my table?"
"Torgan was stupid, you deserve a better underboss."
Silence fell as all awaited Methuselah's response. Seconds crawled by as the pool of blood spread under the table, causing nearby feet to be lifted off the flagstones. Every mind was calculating how much profit they could reap with Torgan's share of their criminal enterprise, but none dared tempt the wroth of Methuselah. They feared his ire more than they desired wealth. But as it happened he dialled up a sizeable dose of Yellow and laughed aloud. Everyone else chuckled nervously, not understanding, but too afraid not to echo his amusement.
Methuselah chuckled, "This one has a spine, I like it! You must let me examine your gene-code, there is promise in your blood young... oh, what is your name?"
"Yehren," the man replied confidently.
The Bronze Beast beamed through his high mood, "Yehren understands the term survival of the fittest. Servants! Mop up this blood and drag those corpses away, and fetch Underboss Yehren a clean chair. We have much to discuss, starting with how he plans to take over Torgan's operations, and how much tribute I expect him to send."