Firelight danced across the cabin planks, dividing the room into light and shadow.
A saltwater-soaked leather pouch lay on the table, its corners still carrying the briny smell of the sea.
Carville undid the coarse sealing cord and read in a gravelly voice, "The Red Tide Fief's first merchant convoy will put to sea in two days. Ten ships, dispersed formation, destination: Southeast Province."
First, Carville broke into a broad grin. "At last."
Ten frigates... He repeated the words to himself.
There was neither joy nor fear in his eyes, only the coldness of a man who had calculated every gain and loss.
There were plenty of escorts, but they were merely a drag on the convoy.
The real money lay in the holds packed with precious minerals.
A parchment map lay spread across the table, candlelight trembling over its surface.
Carville took a rusty iron nail and pressed it onto a shipping route, then traced three words across the map with his finger-the Rift Tide Belt.
"A natural graveyard." Carville chuckled, his low laughter all the more chilling.
The convoy had to pass through the Rift Tide Belt, and it was the graveyard Carville had chosen for them.
Small islands on either side offered concealment, and the currents were treacherous. He had already sent ten Ironclaw Fireships there to take up position.
Each boat carried a two-man crew equipped with oil jars and grappling lines. When the tide turned, they would strike from concealment, snare the enemy ships' keels, and capsize them in the undercurrents.
Carville calculated the timing. The tide rose in the afternoons these days, its rhythm coinciding perfectly with the Red Tide convoy's passage.
That thirty-minute tidal turn was an excellent window.
Once the tide rose a foot and the current reversed, his fleet could race