Location: Map Room, Kiyosu Castle.
Current Date/Time: Early Morning. Late Summer, 1559.
The cedar doors slammed shut along their floor tracks. The oak hit the frame. The quiet of the map room settled instantly.
The shouting of the generals was gone. Cold charcoal ash and the heavy smoke of expensive wood incense hung thick in the stagnant air.
Soma Kurogane knelt in seiza. The posture was brutal on his lower body. He pressed the tops of his bare feet flat against the polished cypress floorboards, putting all his weight on his heels. The stance cut off the blood to his shins, turning his feet numb.
His thighs, still stiff and sore from hauling logs at the Southern Gate, burned like fire. He kept his back straight, stacking his spine to keep his sore muscles from giving out under the strain.
Oda Nobunaga stood up, his dark gray silks rustling against the tatami mats.
The Warlord stepped off the raised platform. The heavy timber floorboards groaned under his weight, the thud of his bare feet shaking right through the cypress and into Soma’s sore thighs.
Nobunaga walked across the parchment map and dropped into a squat directly in front of him.
He was barely a foot away. Nobunaga’s robes hung open, exposing a broad chest marked with pale sword scars and the round pits of old arrow wounds right at Soma’s eye level. Heat rolled off the man’s skin, hitting Soma’s face like an open furnace. The close air smelled of horse sweat, dry cedar, and oiled iron armor.
“You speak of maps and rules as if you built the world yourself, Ghost,” Nobunaga rumbled, his deep voice shaking the floorboards. “My men have spilled blood on every hill in Owari. But they sat in silence while a man covered in mud told them they were wrong. You have a lot of nerve for a stranger.”
Soma locked his jaw. He curled his pale fingers into tight fists against his thighs, digging his knuckles deep into the rough fabric of his clothes.
“I’m a builder, Lord Nobunaga,” Soma said, keeping his back rigid. “I look at a wall and I see where it’s going to fail. Your generals are trying to force the earth to do what they want. I just gave them the measurements to keep the timber from falling.”
Nobunaga’s gold-flecked eyes narrowed.
He moved fast. His heavy hand clamped around Soma’s neck, his thick, calloused thumb pressing directly over the hammering artery under his jaw.
The rough skin of the Warlord’s thumb ground into his throat, tracking the hard, fast thud of his pulse. Soma tried to breathe slowly, drawing air deep into his belly to stop his heart from leaping out of his chest. He kept his eyes locked on the straw mats between Nobunaga’s knees, refusing to look up.
“I didn’t know a Ghost would be this soft,” Nobunaga whispered, his thumb dragging slowly along the skin below Soma’s ear. “You sit with killers without even holding a knife. Your skin has never felt iron. Your mind is a cold blade.”
“I’m a builder, My Lord,” Soma said, his throat completely dry. “A tool doesn’t need a knife to work. I gave you the layout for the gate and the defense lines. The wood and the iron are what’s keeping your walls up.”
Soma shifted his weight forward on his sore knees, closing the distance slightly.
The heavy iron matchlock gun he had fired yesterday lay on the map table close by. The sharp smell of burnt sulfur still clung to the metal flashpan. Soma reached out with his left hand and pulled the heavy stock toward him, sliding the wood an inch across the cedar table.
“This gun doesn’t care about your generals’ pride,” Soma said, resting his hand flat on the cold iron barrel. “The drawings are right. I won’t apologize for doing the math.”
Nobunaga stared at Soma’s hand on the iron. A low chuckle came from his chest. He leaned closer, his broad shoulders crowding Soma even more.
“I don’t want your apologies, Ghost,” Nobunaga said, his eyes tracking the red flush spreading up Soma’s neck. “But a tool has to know who bought it. You think your drawings make you a master of the dirt? I think you’re just a strange toy I haven’t broken yet.”
Nobunaga didn’t move. His rough hand stayed locked around Soma’s throat.
“I don’t want your bowing, Ghost,” Nobunaga whispered, his thumb pressing harder into the side of Soma’s neck, forcing his chin up until he had to look the Warlord in the eyes. “Dogs bow. They put their tails between their legs and look at the floor. You stepped into a room of old soldiers and broke them with a piece of charcoal and some lines in the dirt.”
“I fix broken work, Lord Nobunaga,” Soma said, his voice flat. “Your generals were chasing shadows. I kept things simple to keep us from getting killed.”
“Simple,” Nobunaga repeated, his fingers tightening on Soma’s neck. His calloused thumb tracked the heavy thud of his pulse. “You treat a battle like a ledger of rice. Breaking my commanders with a piece of wood was a dirty trick. You stood in my hall and told my men they were fools because of your drawings.”
The Warlord’s thumb pressed harder into the skin below Soma’s ear.
“If you want me to do this work, I need real tools. My body is completely worn out.”
Nobunaga let out a low laugh. He let go of Soma’s neck and stood up, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the sliding paper screens. He turned toward the hallway doors.
“Toichi!”
The door at the far end of the room slid open with a rattle. The scarred retainer scrambled inside, dropping flat onto his face against the wood.
“My Lord,” Toichi whispered, his shoulders shaking.
“The Ghost is done wearing these peasant rags,” Nobunaga ordered. “Get him the heavy indigo hakama and the blue silk kosode. The silk has to be the best. If I see him in this rough hemp again, I’ll take it out of your skin.”
Toichi sucked in his breath. “Right away, My Lord! I’ll bring the silk now!”
The servant backed out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
Soma sat still, trying to keep his breath steady. Silk wouldn’t scratch like the rough hemp he was wearing. It would be a massive relief for his raw skin.
“I’ll take the clothes,” Soma said, looking up at the Warlord.
Nobunaga tilted his head, his dark gray silks rustling over his shoulders.
“But a silk kosode isn’t going to hold up a falling wall,” Soma said, keeping his voice as steady as he could. His bruised ribs throbbed with every breath. “If you want the work done before the Saito army gets here, I need my gear. I need the black suitcase you locked up in your private quarters.”
Nobunaga leaned down, his face inches away in a second.
His rough, calloused fingers clamped around Soma’s jaw. He gripped his chin with crushing force, his fingers squeezing until Soma’s teeth clicked together.
“You talk of your tools,” Nobunaga growled, the vibration shaking right through Soma’s jawbone as he yanked his head up. He forced Soma to look straight into his gold-flecked eyes. “You forget who owns the forge, Ghost. You sit in my mud and ask for your things back.”
Soma’s hands clenched tight on his thighs, his knuckles turning white. The grip on his jaw was brutal, the callouses grinding hard into the skin of his cheeks. He kept his hands clamped to his legs, refusing to pull away.
Nobunaga held him there, his grip a heavy clamp around his jaw. His thumb rested directly over the wild thumping in Soma’s neck. He stared into Soma’s pale face, waiting for his back to bend. Soma kept his hands locked on his legs and stared straight back into the gold-flecked eyes, refusing to blink.
Nobunaga let go of his chin with a quick flick of his wrist.
“You don’t bend, do you, Ghost?” Nobunaga laughed, rocking back on his heels. He looked at the red fingermarks already forming on Soma’s pale jaw. “I have your neck between my fingers and you still ask for your iron box. You’ve got a stubborn streak. But it’s useful.”
Soma took a shaky breath, keeping his hands locked on his knees.
“I can’t build a wall with empty hands, Lord Nobunaga,” Soma said. “I need my gear.”
Nobunaga stood up in a single, easy move.
“You’ll get your tools, Ghost,” Nobunaga said. “Come to my private room at dark. Get them yourself.”
“Understood, My Lord.”
Soma put his palms flat on the cold tatami mats and bowed low. The move made every sore muscle in his back scream. The rough hemp of his kosode dragged hard against the dried ginger paste on his shoulder. He held his head inches from the wood, closing his eyes.
He could picture his suitcase, tracing the brass dials in his head and counting the clicks as he spun the brass lock.