The little metal deer glinted in the sunlight as Cinnamon bent down to pick it up. His heart sang; this belonged to Vitus, Cinnamon was sure of it. And it meant Vitus was – or at least, recently had been – alive, and capable of some independent action. It was pure luck that he had managed to trace Vitus this far. Cinnamon reasoned that if these were kidnappers who had abducted Vitus for some purpose, they either had to hide him, or take him with them. Cinnamon had investigated every fallen-down stable and abandoned farmhouse along the road, but there had never been any muddy tracks, or cast-off bits of clothing, or any evidence of Vitus' presence in any of them. So, Cinnamon kept going, hoping for a clue, any clue, and at last he had found one. Still, that patronizing idiot could have thought of a better place to dump his favourite bauble!
Cinnamon straightened up, closing his hand over the brooch. He was standing on the side of a well-built stone road. It was the sort of road maintained by the Emperor's soldiers in peace time, and by the local villagers at times like these, times of war. At this point, the road was crossed by another, similar road – the guardian shrine dedicated to the little god of the crossroads stood just to Cinnamon's left. Both roads were wide enough to allow two chariots to pass abreast, and was made of large, flat stones. It was impossible for wheels to leave tracks on such a surface, and Cinnamon looked at the crossroads, and scratched his head.
Three possible directions, he thought. Three possible roads, and I have no idea which one of them Vitus was taken on. If only the fool had waited a few more minutes before dropping the brooch. Then, at least, Cinnamon would have known which direction to go in!
Cinnamon walked over to the shrine, and sat beside it on the low step meant for kneeling worshippers. The shrine was in the form of a small stone house, with an acutely pointed roof protecting a bronze statue. The god of the crossroads appeared to be a pretty child, chubby and well-fed, carrying a plate of bronze spheres Cinnamon supposed were meant to be apples. Someone had set a bowl of milk at the foot of the tiny house, and Cinnamon was careful to sit beside it rather than in it.
Cinnamon looked at the statue of the chubby child-god, then up at the signpost that marked the way from the crossroad to various nearby towns and cities. One was the Capital. The Capital, where the city guard unit was strong and inquisitive, and where money could get you just about anything you wanted. Including, Cinnamon realised, assistance with finding a lost master.
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The Baby and the Battlefield
FantasyA baby? On a battlefield? Marcus is a clerk in the Imperial army. When he finds an abandoned baby on a battlefield, he has no idea what to do with her. His best friend is no help; he thinks Marcus is a sucker for taking the kid in. The slave who end...
