"Donavin´s Reef - Part 1" by Timothy Pontious

Donavin sat all the way back in his chair, his feet crossed deeply under the desk. He stared out his window and across to the nearby lake with the day's young sun just glinting on the ripples.

The inspiration wouldn't come. He'd been trying to write a poem for a girl he had met, and was completely stuck. Her name was Shara, the daughter of a merchant who owned several large warehouses near the docks. She had a sharp wit, laughing eyes, and a smile that melted something inside him.

But that was beside the point, really. He was working - or that was what he told people. Or at least he was studying for his alchemy exams. It really meant he was doodling pointless shapes on his parchment with his right hand. His left hand twirled a smooth bluish stone marble slowly. At least it wasn't tingling yet. At least he had some peace before the pleas started coming in.

"Stolen away 'neath silv'ry moon
In a boat out on the sea,
Sails snapping out a lively tune;
None awaked but you and me…"

He scratched the lines out with a vengeance. No reason to get personal just yet - he'd only met her a two weeks ago at Minda's debutante ball. Then he wadded up the loose parchment he had scribbled on, and tossed it toward the woven basket where his poems always ended up. He had no idea if she liked boats, the sea, or even poetry for that matter. She was from the Duchy of Mead, so she was more likely familiar with vineyards.

Minda's ball was already two lunches ago, and a trip to the Velvet Sword for some hot taleafa after work. Tonight would be a concert at the Queen's Garter by some bard he'd not heard before. Perhaps the poem should wait anyway.

He wouldn't have even gone to the ball if Minda had not been a cousin, and his attendance was expected. The mead was too sweet, the meat too well done, but the unexpected introduction to Shara was more than worth a bad meal. Shara was brilliantly red-haired with deep blue eyes. She had worn her hair pulled back tightly and then draped around her shoulders in a glorious mantle. She was obviously from the north, since red hair was scarce around these parts. When she spoke, her northern accent was soft as butter. The blue gown she wore was the color of the sky just before sunset - deep blue with blue-on-blue overlays. And she laughed at his jokes. Amazing….

He caught himself from drifting off into a reverie, and stood up to go over to the large glass box that hovered in a corner of the room. Above the box were three crystalline shards worked into an ornate bronze canopy that arched above like a trellis in a garden (which is where he had borrowed it from). He touched each of the shards, and with his silent comand they turned into brilliant white lights illuminating what was in the pond below.

There was a floor of sand about a finger-length deep. On top of the sand rested several interesting rocks of different shapes and sizes. There were caves, holes, bumps, nooks, and crannies all over, and the colors were brilliantly displayed now in purple, orange, reds, and greens. Scattered around the rocks were different snails, starfishes, crabs, and at least one eel that had arrived when his home was put into the tank.

The box had formerly been on a heavy wooden stand made like a cupboard until recently, but now it was resting on a set of enchanted metallic disks set in the air and permanently enchanted by Kinta, who was a young master of the Magnetism school of magic. The disks held the box firmly and level so that the box would not spill any water, nor crack the glass. The space under the box was freed for a small book shelf that now contained several smaller boxes of dried seaweed that Donavin used as fish food.

He was grateful for Kinta's help stabilizing his aquarium, because the Magnetism's magics were completely opposite of his own Mentalism magics. Donavin could do amazing things with his mind, reading minds and seeing or hearing things in other rooms. But he was completely baffled by Magnetism's use of force fields, and the endless use of strange attractions and repulsions.

"Good morning, my fishes." He peered into the swirling waters of his fish-prison and breathed in the familiar salty air. The fish were a little slow to move about at first. A deep blue swordtailed Damita swam out from behind her rocks first. She had a splash of deep red behind her gills and a deep orange (almost bronze colored) swatch on her tummy. Donavin smiled at the recent addition. Then the green jawfish swam by, displaying her large bluish spots and nibbling at tiny bits of food on the rocks.

"Good morning, Nordriss." He intoned in a more formal voice. There was no response from the tank.

"Nordriss!" Donavin's voice was firm. "I said Good Morning!" He flicked his fingers through the top of the water for emphasis. The Damita ducked behind some rocks and hunkered near a small crab for comfort.

"Nordriss!"

"Yesss, Masster." A watery face appeared on the surface of the fish tank. The water elemental usually appeared as if he were sleepy, sanguine, or just bored. Donavin couldn't tell which.

"Report, please."

Nordriss had been assigned to replace the cold-water fish in the tank with warmer-blooded varieties now that the winter chill was gone from the room and the air was wonderfully warm with planting season rains.

Nobody else in the district had a water elemental in their servitude. Nordriss had belonged to his family for four prior generations, and would be released from his service when the fifth generation - Donavin - released him.

"Yesss, Master. There is one new inhabitant this morning that I just found off the coast of Highport that you may like. It is a male Angleback fish. He seems to prefer eating the small waterbugs you detest finding in here." Nordriss made a face as if he found the idea of something disgusting in there with him as purely absurd. "The tank needs replacement for about a stone and a half of water, which I shall remedy immediately. All is well. The light crystals are helping the new reef stones to maintain their color as well, by the way."

The light crystals had been provided by Armina, who was one of the new students. They were easy to make, and she had needed an assignment. It wasn't strictly within the rules, but the headmaster had looked the other way after an informal reprimand.

"Where is this Angleback fish?"

Nordriss must have nudged the new arrival because it started and swam out of its hole amid the rocks. It did have a very high, pointy back and a very deep belly. He was black and white striped vertically with a yellow circle around each eye.

Donavin was growing uneasy with Nordriss. He could let him go and be done with him but he brought such excellent specimens! Donavin couldn't bring himself to fully consider letting Nordriss go. But his insistence that he also served Lar Shiz, the dark god of the murky waters always bothered him. Of course it made sense for water elementals to worship Lar Shiz, and usually Donavin could shake off the feeling of dread he got when Nordriss mentioned his name.

"Very nice addition. Thank you. Make sure the angleback eats well."

"Of course, Master."

Donavin went back to his desk and sat down heavily in his chair. He had managed to get downstairs earlier for a breakfast biscuit with his taleafa, but that was hours ago. He began spinning his blue orb again and began drifting off in thoughts about Shara, and the poem, and what strange new fish Nordriss might bring.

Nordriss had been quite the sensation when Donavin had arrived at the enclave. Many of the other students had been fascinated, and had asked him to walk about the room. This was a hilarious entertainment as this column of water shifted slowly around the room. But Nordriss grew quite weary of this, and began sulking to the point where Donavin had to promise no more walks on the land. It tired Nordriss to do such things, and Donavin would rather Nordriss spent his energy looking for interesting fish.

The blue marble tingled at his fingertips. Donavin sighed deeply and stared at it for a moment. It wasn't a pleasant vibration, so he knew the person making the plea would be upset.

You weren't supposed to be able to get these kinds of impressions from the orb, or so he had been told a number of times. He could tell the mood of the customer, if it was strongly felt by them. Of all the things to be sensitive toward, why did it have to be something like this?

He slowly fingered the metallic shard in the earring he wore, which was the real magic involved here. With the shard in touch, he opened a channel in his mind to the person begging attention.

"Alchemical Theurgy and Thaumaturgy, how can I help you?"

It still seemed odd that he could talk and they could hear him and respond. The original design had called for a purely telepathic enchantment on a device based on his magic background in Mentalism, but this had not worked. Perhaps in the next design we could fix a few of these problems? But the thought of a purely telepathic device scared him all the way to his bones. It was bad enough working with people who could read your mind. Why should the customers be able to do that as well? Lestir had insisted on development of the concept as a means to get a few more coins from his customers. A telepathic device had been a heated debate, which still continued. Since the orbs they had were working fine for voice communication, did they really need an improvement?

"Donavin?"

Oh merciful Goddess! It was Madam Marlean. He could tell by the screech. She was the meanest old sot this side of the Teeth of the World. Donavin put on his best professional manner and replied. "Good morning Madam Marlean. What can I help you with today?"

"Donavin? Is that you? Oh, I'm so glad. It seems my imp has been chasing my tarkin again. What should I do?"

He cursed his masters who made these magical widgets so that their customers could always be in contact with the alchemists who designed, created, and sold these wonderful inventions. The primary use, he guessed, was that they could charge a few extra pieces of gold for the service. He got questions about interesting things all the time, and had learned magical and alchemical tricks and devices that he planned to use if he ever graduated his studies and became a full alchemist.

But certainly AT&T did not sell any imps, and if they did sell an imp to Madam Marlean, it would certainly have been a noted occasion.

It festered in his mind a little that he had to take questions from people he didn't like in order to make ends meet. And it festered more when he had to figure something out that he wasn't responsible for.

"Did your imp scare your dear tarkin with something we sold you?" He crossed his fingers, hoping that a meteor would fall out of the sky and end the conversation.

"I don't know. All I know is that poor Booba has been hiding under the bed since last night."

"Well, Ma'am, I don't think…"
"Don't Ma'am me, sonny. The name is Madam Marlean, and I'm NOT a Ma'am. I am a fully lauded Mistress in three spell schools, you know"

"Ah, I'm very sorry Madam Marlean. But I was just thinking that maybe your tarkin was scared by something else? I mean I don't think we sold an imp to you. I don't know much about imps really. We just sell the magic devices or enchant devices to order. Did you get your imp in a deal of some kind?"

He put a clean piece of parchment into the large book that served as a journal to record his customers' conversations, and scribbled in the date to begin the entry as the conversation wound around tarkins, imps, and why Booba might have been scared. If the old crone were not so wealthy, he could have ended the conversation since they did not sell that imp to her. But she was also Lestir's sister, and he was the Headmaster. He tried to be careful as he wrote quickly, but the ink always ran in unpredictable ways and smudged badly when he was trying to write while he talked.

And so began the morning, the poem uncompleted and rejected, and the taleafa cold too quickly in his earthen mug. Breakfast would have to wait until Sharnissa, the scullery maid, came around in an hour or so to see if he was still alive, and bring him a piece of bread and some cheese, and another mug of taleafa if he was lucky.

Can you call an old crone a "maid", even if just a scullery maid? Even worse, he thought, is if she's having one of her headache fits this morning, and she just sends Raia stumping up the stairs with a tray. No telling how many times he had spilled the contents and put them back on the tray - the poor guy should have retired years ago.

Raia was diminutive, which was normal for people of his tribe, clan and family. They were the Pale Folk, and of old they had always been a bit odd. They are born pasty-white, and are tattooed starting after their first year, covering their entire bodies with brilliantly colored designs to show clan affiliation, family, and heritage. A few spaces were left for adulthood so that each could customize his body art, and this was often done in stages at the ends of the fifteenth and twentieth summers.

On top of the swirling garish colors, the Pale Folk relished in wearing whatever odd bits of color they could find. All of this color must be a way to make up for such a drab start into the world, Donavin supposed. Until he knew these facts, he did not know why they were called the Pale Folk in the first place.

Raia was a good man, but as he complained from time to time, his colors were fading and he was losing interest in life. He stumped around the enclave with a walking stick because of one leg that was bad in the hip. He also carried a gruff demeanor, but he always had words of encouragement for the students here to learn alchemy. After all, wizardry wasn't what it used to be, was it? Everybody specialized, as Donavin had specialized in Mentalism (the study of clairvoyance, clairaudience, reading minds and divinations). Madam Marlean's alleged mastery of three spell schools was exceptional, to say the least.

At least Donavin didn't have to leave his rooms to do his job, and it was shelter over his head. Not a bad deal. Much better than the iron mines or being captive on some pirate ship at sea.

There we go, back to the sea again. It would have to wait, along with his poem. The Sunrise Sea was within sight of his rooms on a clear day, down the road to Port Merit where the fleet docked and the merchants traded. The port was a busy place, and Donavin preferred the quiet of the alchemy enclave.

Donavin rearranged some of the books on his desk without opening or studying them. There were no other pleas coming from customers, and little else to distract him. Sharnissa bustled her way into the room without knocking and left a tray so quickly that Donavin hardly had time to notice and register a greeting.

He couldn't concentrate. His mind kept wandering back to Shara, her amazing red hair, and those deep blue eyes. This would not help him become an alchemist, and his studies were beginning to lag.

Toward lunch time there was a knocking sound that didn't come from the door. The rapping came from a highly polished and decorated wooden box on his desk. The box had a cleverly hinged lid, and was deeply inlaid with different woods and ivory bits that made it into a spiral pattern on the top and sides. Donavin took a deep breath and opened the box.

An imp stood inside the box, his head just barely above the level of the sides of it. This made him look small - even for impkind - hardly taller than a man's pointing finger is long. He was very darkly colored as if wearing charcoal dust except for a dark red sash of a rich-looking fabric, and some swirly spots of lighter gray around his eyes. Perhaps he was an older imp? He had his fur smoothed neatly down, and was holding his hand out in a most formal salutation.

"Hello, imp. I didn't order anything. You must have the wrong address."

Imps were unpredictable, but they usually didn't get the wrong address. They traveled by being able to jump from any area that is in shadow to any other shadow or dark place instantly, traveling on the darkness itself as if it were a highway lit by torches. They were paid by the master who sent them (usually in silver), yet they always waited for a tip when they delivered the item or message. If you didn't want to find something nasty in your impbox in a few days, it was best to tip them something.

The impboxes were a convenient way to get small objects and messages longer distances without entrusting it to the unreliable Post service, or a merchant caravan to deliver it. And not all places could use the Post service either - just major cities.

The imp made a formal bow and produced a large envelope from a pouch around his neck. The envelope was easily larger than the pouch or the box, but somehow it unfolded without any wrinkles in it. The envelope was addressed to: Squire Donavin, Lestir's Alchemy Enclave, Port Merit. There was no mistaking it was meant for him.

"Is this all you have for me, or is there a package too?"
The imp nodded and then shook his head negatively to indicate it was all, and there was no package.

"Is your master expecting a response on this?"
The imp shrugged his little shoulders so hard that it seemed his bones might creak, while wrinkling his long nose like a mouse.

Donavin carefully tore the envelope open. There was no return address on it. Inside was a single sheet of parchment with the message: "You have an object that does not belong to you. Return it, or be at peril." It was signed with a scrawl of red ink, bloody red in the light from the window. A sigil stood in for a signature, with no apparent name amid the scrawl.

"Who is your master and what does hewant?"

The imp shrugged again.

Donavin paced around his desk for a few moments, unsure of how to proceed until the imp held out a small hand.

"This is a mistake or something. I don't have anything that I did not buy, earn, or inherit. Return to your master with that message. I am no thief nor do I associate with thieves."

Donavin rummaged around for a silver coin to tip the little guy, and to pay for the reply. The imp waved off the offered coin though, and made a motion of writing something. "Ah, I see, just a moment. Sorry." Imps were shy, they seldom spoke, and many of them were actually mute (or just very stubborn - it was difficult to tell sometimes). This one evidently either enjoyed the charade or could not speak.

Donavin repeated his message onto a parchment, letting the bluish ink smudge in spots because he was feeling nervous, and in a hurry for the imp to leave as soon as possible. He handed the paper to the imp with the coin, which the imp accepted and shoved deeply into his pouch, without folding or wrinkling the paper. Donavin closed the lid of the box and presumably the imp returned to his master, because when he lifted the lid again, there was nothing inside but the deep, dark cloth lining.

"You have an object that does not belong to you. Return it, or be at peril."

Donavin stared out the window for a moment considering the stern words of the brief letter. His reverie was interrupted by the lunch chime being rung reluctantly in the square below. His stomach agreed that it was time for lunch, and his heart warned it was time to ask many questions.