Duke Flint struck the map hard enough to send a brass marker spinning into the waiting wine cup.
The officers left the marker soaking while Flint reread the dispatch about forty serpent-crested wagons passing his bastions under escort. Seliza's convoy rolled on toward Blackwood Vale with every wheel unbroken, and his toll orders lay beside the wine, worthless.
He flung the dispatch beside the spilled wine and slammed his fist above the border line, "Forty wagons through our bastions without one cracked rim, so tell me, what exactly are those garrisons defending?"
"Our remaining trade, Father." The heir stepped forward with the expense accounts instead of the answer Flint wanted.
"Fire on Seliza's personal convoy and the consortium sanctions every port we own before the smoke even clears."
"And letting it through pays the exile instead," Flint snarled, catching the wine cup before the marker could escape beneath it.
