Chapter 1

Mato staggered to the well. It wasn’t that his load was so heavy, it was that the yoke around his neck was awkward. He set two large buckets down and nodded to the waterman. A clerk collected two gold coins from him, one for each bucket.

The waterman used a ladle on a pole to dip water from the well, then poured it into Mato’s buckets.

The well kept Abo alive. Deep in the center of the city, it offered crystal clear water in a land of sun baked salt flats. They drank from the well, cut ice from the well, and fished from it. The city relied on the well, and the well never faltered.

They were about a hundred feet below the earth’s surface, and the well was at least seventy-five paces wide. Ice formed around the edges constantly, though much slower in summer than in winter.

A massive dome formed the roof over the well, and there were dozens of places where citizens came to pick up water.

A floating dock ringed the well, and people worked constantly to bring in fish and ice, along with water.

“Thank you,” Mato said. He positioned himself under the yoke, then lifted the buckets.

It took many stairs to reach the ground level of the city. Mato wiped his forehead, then walked the tunnel toward his home.

“Thank you, Mato,” Mother said.

He smiled at her and lifted one of the buckets so she could dip water from it.

Their home was ten paces underground, down where it was cool. Above them the sun scorched everything in view. Or the moon froze everything.

Once mother had enough water, Mato dumped the rest into their holding barrel and took the buckets back to the well. He collected two gold pieces from the treasury agent, then proceeded past the guards and into the well area.

* * *

Abo was the most remote city in the world, or at least the part of the world they knew about. Caravans made the journey during spring and fall, but winter was too cold and summer was too hot.

There was a layer of salt two paces thick, and underneath that was a layer of hardpan between two and three paces thick. Mato couldn’t imagine how the first settlers had survived. Once the Abo had lived in the mountains to the north, where game, timber, and water were so common you had to work to get them out of the way.

Then war came, and the Aret fought the Abo. Year after year, decade after decade, they fought. At first the Abo held the high places and laughed at the lowland weaklings. But every year the Aret learned a little, and the fighting grew stiffer.

“Mato? What are you doing?”

“Sorry, Mother.” He set the scroll aside and went to the cavi pens. He scooped the waste, and transferred it to a cart. Then he put fresh litter down.

The cavi pens were in a circular room ten paces across. Part of the room had a domed ceiling, but the center had a hole five paces across to let light in. In the very center of the room a large planter held a date palm. The tree’s crown reached a bit above the surface, and the light that filtered through was pleasant and green.

They fed the cavi the same things they ate, generally. The furry little animals would eat unappetizing leaves and stems. They positively loved grasses and seeds, and happily ate any food left on melon rinds and other table waste.

When the pens were clean, he rolled the cart through an archway into another large room. The worm garden was the life’s blood of Abo farming. Anything the livestock couldn’t eat went to the worms, along with the contents of chamber pots, and the scrapings from livestock pens.

Mato spread the cavi waste over the worm beds and added water to any beds that felt too dry. He turned enough soil to collect a bowl of worms, then went to the quail hutches. The birds needed light, so the room had no roof.

He divided the worms among the half dozen hutches, then cleaned them and spread fresh cover. One of Abo’s most common crops was pomegranates, and the seeds were good quail food. He gave the birds a nice helping of seeds along with their worms, and collected eggs. Today’s harvest was excellent, and he wound up making six trips before he got them all.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

The most difficult thing about life in Abo was cooking. Every bit of fertile land was inside the walls, and required digging below the hardpan. There was no possible way to grow enough wood for fires. The solution was a set of mirrors, made from hammered gold, that focused the heat of the sun onto a small area.

The poor ate raw food a great deal, and cooking was a sign of wealth. Mato was proud of their sun oven, and often invited friends over for roasted meats, nuts, and vegetables.

Breakfast came late in the morning, and today it was quail eggs, yams, peppers, and eggplants. Mother had diced the vegetables small, then mixed in the eggs and baked the dish until it was perfect.

The kitchen area was painted yellow, and had several small skylights. The oven was on the other side of a thick wall, in the sun room. The sun room had mirrors arranged at the surface to direct light down into the room. It was blinding bright, and very hot. Any time work was required on the sun room, they did it in the hours before sunrise, when the room had had time to cool.

Sometimes one of Mato’s brothers or sisters would join them for breakfast, but Mato was the only one still at home. Today it was just Mother, Father, and him.

Mato sat, and Mother served him a slice of vegetable pie.

“Have you had a chance to speak with Chenoa’s parents?” Mato asked.

Father sighed and gave Mato a sad look. “Her father was very rude to me, Mato. He said his daughter was not going to live in some westside dung hole, and made me leave their house. I see no way to change his mind.”

“Oh,” Mato said, and put his head down. Suddenly breakfast didn’t smell good.

“Mato,” Mother said. “I’m so sorry.”

A sound caught his attention, and he turned his head to focus his left ear on the source.

Mother put a slice of pie in front of Father, and Mato turned back to the table.

A breath of air flowed over his neck, the way it always did when the front door was opened. He glanced at Father, and Father’s eyes flickered to the doorway.

Mato put his hands on the table, in preparation of pushing his chair back, and a knife pressed against his throat.

“Good morning, stranger,” Father said. “We are just about to eat. Please join us.” He sounded friendly and sincere. Mato didn’t know how he managed it.

“Gold,” a voice rasped in Mato’s ear.

“All of our gold has gone into the sun oven,” Father said. “We have two mirrors left before it is complete, but we are able to use it now. Of course the mirrors are too hot to collect now. Could I offer you quail eggs?”

The knife bit in, and Mato felt blood trickle down his throat.

“Wait, wait,” Father said, waving his hands. “Perhaps there is something other than gold that you need?”

“If you don’t have gold, I will take blood,” the voice rasped.

“Perhaps I could interest you in something else,” Father said. “Would a sapphire do?”

The pressure on Mato’s neck increased slightly. “Bring it to me.”

“It’s okay, Mato,” Mother said. She backed up against the counter behind her.

“Shut up,” the voice said.

Mato’s eyes flickered over the room. The pan Mother had used to cook the pie was heavy. It was a potential weapon. The kitchen knives were behind Mother. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had managed to get one already. There were other things in the room too, such as the chair he was sitting on.

“Here,” Father said, returning to the room. He held his hand out, and in his palm was a sapphire the size of Mato’s thumbnail. Ten years wages for a laborer. How the hell did they have this kind of wealth?

“You have more,” the voice said.

“Please,” Father said. “This is more than all of the gold in the mirrors.”

The knife slid a bit, and Mato felt the edge bite. More blood flowed.

“Of course, of course, I remember,” Father said. “I hid a bit more this way.” He left the kitchen in the other direction.

“Steady, Mato,” Mother said.

“I told you to shut up,” the voice said. “If I have to tell you again, I’ll take everything you have and rape you before I leave.”

Mother’s lips curled back. “If that will save my son, then follow me to my chambers.”

The voice took on a husky note. “I should have visited you years ago.”

Father returned and held out five amethysts. “They’re not worth as much as the sapphire, but they will still buy you a decent home.”

“You still care about wealth more than you care about your family,” the voice said.

“No!” Father shouted. He put the amethysts on the table, added the sapphire, and then ten gold coins. “This is all I have. Obviously, there are some dregs, but you’re a man of taste. Please take this and go. It is all I have.”

The man behind the voice stood, and the knife left Mato’s throat. He took a step toward Father, and Mato realized he was going to kill them anyway.

As quietly as he could Mato slipped off of the chair and lifted the pan. The handle burned his hands, but that was nothing.

The man stabbed Father, and Mato brought the pan down on the back of his head. From the side Mother descended on him and slit his throat.