Stormrider by David Gemmell Page B

had finished the bottle he had an answer.”
    “What was it?”
    “He thought the bottle must have been tied to the branches of an apple tree, with twig and blossom inserted into the neck. The apples would have grown within the glass. After they were ripe, the twig was snipped and the brandy added.”
    “The man is such a delight!” Gaise said happily. “A fine mind.”
    “What do you intend to do when we reach the quartermaster?”
    “Find the wagons I paid for and see them delivered. I’ll not have my men going hungry again. And not a word more about rashness, my friend. There is nothing you can say that I do not already know.”
    Mulgrave knew this was the truth. They had discussed the problem many times during the last year. The quartermaster general, a rich merchant named Cordley Lowen, had friends at court. Those friends were well paid by him from the huge profits he made from supplying food, gunpowder, and weapons to the king’s army. Not content with the fortune he was amassing from this barely legitimate enterprise, Lowen was also engaged in reselling supplies to merchants from outlying towns: supplies already purchased by officers commanding private companies. The scandal was tolerated on two counts. First, Lowen shared his profits with the king’s closest advisers. Second, his list of contacts in the merchant community was second to none, which meant that Lowen could find supplies anywhere and at any time. A more honest quartermaster general would experience enormous difficulty supplying one-tenth of the amount Lowen could provide.
    All of which made the man’s position virtually unassailable.
    Once before the Eldacre Company had received smaller shipments than had been paid for. Gaise had sent Lanfer Gosten to investigate. The sergeant had returned frustrated and angry. Order forms had been misplaced, ledgers apparently had been lost, and no one could find details of the original supply orders. Gaise had written to Cordley Lowen and had received no reply.
    Mulgrave rode on beside the silent Gaise Macon. It was after midnight. The warehouses would probably be locked and guarded. There would be no stable hands or wagons ready.
    The small town was full of soldiers, many of them drunk. Food might be scarce, but liquor was still plentiful. Gaise and Mulgrave rode slowly along the cobbled streets, cutting through the old market square and on toward the merchant district. Three soldiers staggered across the street. They were singing a bawdy marching song. Two women approached the soldiers from the shadows, drawing them toward a darkened doorway.
    The merchant district was quieter. Four musketeers stood guarding the warehouse gates. Gaise Macon rose past, dismounting before a large terraced house fronted with marble pillars. Trailing the gray’s reins, he called Mulgrave to him. “High risk for high stakes, my friend,” he said. Taking a leather gauntlet from his saddlebag, he tucked it into his belt.
    “High risks, indeed,” said Mulgrave.
    Gaise smiled. “Remain behind after I have seen Lowen. Speak to the man with comforting words. He will not want to die. He is a merchant, soft and spineless.”
    Mulgrave sighed. “A merchant with many friends in high places.”
    Gaise Macon clapped him on the shoulder. “It will all end well, Mulgrave,” he said. “I will have my supplies.”
    Gaise Macon walked to the front door and rapped at the bronze knocker. Moments passed, and finally the door swung open to reveal an elderly servant in a night robe, a heavy cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He was carrying a lantern.
    “What do you want?” he asked.
    Gaise moved past him, gesturing Mulgrave to follow. Then he walked into the darkened circular reception room, removing his cloak and draping it over a gilded chair.
    “You can’t come in here,” wailed the servant, holding aloft the lantern in a trembling hand. “The general is asleep.”
    “Best you wake him,” Gaise said softly. “Or I