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Lanterns floated from the eaves like moons set adrift, their light folding over the dark water. The barge's wood was old and deep in colour, the kind that remembers footsteps and keeps them for itself so the river can hold the night. Music traced a narrow thread across the deck, a single string touched once and left to speak without company.
The attendant moved ahead without haste, his lantern shaping a soft path along the rail where willow shadows leaned over the planks. The river's skin slid past in patience. Far beyond, a fisherman's call rose into the dark, then was taken into the current and made quiet again.
Shy Lin stayed half a step behind Lin Xun, her hands folded, her eyes open to each movement the night allowed. Sparrow Chen kept to the left, quiet as a creature that has decided the world may be safe for this short stretch. The old pot rested in Lin Xun's hands, warm though no flame had touched it yet.
At the centre of the deck a man in river green sat at a low table. Two cups waited before him. Beside them, a kettle stood upon a ring of smooth stones that held a banked, unseen heat. His hair was tied back with plain cord. His robe was clean but carried no sign of wealth. He lifted his gaze as they approached and rose in a movement without sharpness.
"Thank you for coming," he said. His voice was even, neither loud nor soft, like water sure of its course. "Bring what the willow heard."
Lin Xun inclined his head. He placed the pavilion's cloth upon the table, then set the pot at its centre. The cloth seemed to breathe with the scents it had carried... dry straw, old wood, a trace of bamboo. The deck felt calmer, as if it too could sense the weight of memory.
The man in river green watched the cloth take its place. "I am called the patron," he said without pride. "A role is lighter to carry than a name. Names here try to do too much. Tonight we let the cup work."
"Thank you for the invitation," Lin Xun said.
"Thank me if the cup earns it," the man replied, and a smile moved faintly in his eyes.
Two attendants brought a shallow bowl of river water to the stones. Lantern light broke on its surface in small pieces, returning them one by one. The heat rising from the stones was a curl only visible when caught from the side. No coal, no brazier... only a quiet pact between the river and the stone.
A sound came from the far side of the deck. A man in pale silk stood with his hands behind him, the kind of hands that had learned the weight of coins. Sandalwood walked in with him. His eyes did not smile.
"An audience," Sparrow Chen murmured.
The patron did not turn. "A public deck invites all who can stand without breaking the quiet."
The man in silk bowed slightly, as though each word from another was a coin he could take or leave. He stood where the wind would bring the first steam to him if it chose.
Lin Xun untied a twist of paper and let two threads of Quiet Reed fall into the warm pot. He followed with Bright Lotus, for a clean line without pressure, then a breath of his roasted oolong so the cup would rest easy on a tongue that had argued too long. He placed the willow man's metal petal upon the lid. The clay accepted it, the weight becoming a calm that sat gently at the mouth of the pot.
From the bowl, Lin Xun drew water in silence. The ladle touched, tilted, and the water entered without a sound. A single drop clung where it landed, holding its place. He poured in a thread along the wall, then through the centre, then let stillness return. Calm Pour. The cup and kettle held their silence. Only the river spoke, and even that was the voice of a friend who sits beside you in the late hours.
The lid lifted, then set, then again. Three breaths. The steam rose in a pale ribbon, moving toward the willow shade. The small wind tested it, but it held its shape before settling.
The patron leaned forward. His eyes closed, then opened. Only the faint easing of a mouth's corner showed anything had changed.
He did not drink first. His gaze went to the rail. "Let the water listen before we do."
Lin Xun set the first cup a hand's width from the edge. Steam unrolled toward the current. The river carried it, then returned it. For a moment nothing moved. Then the hull gave the faint sound of old wood remembering a story and wanting its end.
"Now us," the patron said.
One cup for the man in green. One cup for Shy Lin and Sparrow Chen to share. The patron lifted his, breathed with it, then drank. No closing of eyes, no speech, only the simple act of meeting the right moment.
"The willow heard well," he said. "The cup remembers."
A breeze brought a spiced, heavy scent. The man in silk had opened his own pot. Steam ran ahead of it, strong and insistent, asking for the room's attention like a bell in a crowded hall.
"Pour again," the patron said to Lin Xun, "and let the cup answer in its own way."
The pot warmed a little longer. The lid lifted, this time leaving a finger's width open so a trace of breath met the night early. The steam rose and met the spice without chase or retreat. It held its line, soft and clean. The stronger scent passed on like a cart too loud for the lane. The quiet one remained.
"Customers like to be impressed," the silk man said. "The market rewards a strong hand."
"The river rewards a steady one," Sparrow Chen replied.
Shy Lin's gaze touched the deck's corners. Twice she settled her eyes on a place and twice it chose to rest.
The patron drank again. "The Pavilion tires of tricks," he said. "They want words to settle matters, but pour smoke instead. I need a cup that can lower the voice without forcing it down. A cup that can remind a hard thought it might be softer."
"You want a cup that makes a room honest," Lin Xun said.
"I want a cup that lets the room remember itself."
An attendant shifted a shutter, turning the wind just enough to push the silk man's steam into his own face. His eyes watered. The smile stayed, but it worked harder.
"Brew once more from the river," the patron said. "Set the cup by that ribboned post. If the steam turns it, no more need be said."
Water measured, poured in three quiet arcs. The quiet scale joined the petal on the lid. The pot took both without strain. A cup set near the post. The ribbon hung, then turned, drawn not by force but by presence. It stayed there.
The deck grew quietly kind. People breathed without knowing they had stopped.
The silk man tapped his jar. The ribbon did not mind.
"You will pour on the new moon," the patron said. "Men will come who trip over their words. Help them step down."
He set a token of river stone on the cloth, carved with a willow branch of three leaves, the middle leaf crossed by a groove. "Present this when the moon thins to a thread. Bring your pot, the cloth, a simple leaf, and a quiet one. No crowds."
"We will come as we are now," Lin Xun said.
"Good." His gaze turned to Shy Lin. "You hold rooms steady. Do not feed it applause." To Sparrow Chen, "You hear when a place pulls. You leaned out twice. Keep that."
The silk man stepped forward. "Our guild could protect such gatherings."
"Protection that must speak its own name every time it enters is a parade," the patron said. "I do not host parades."
The silk man's smile held while his face tired. He bowed, then left. Sandalwood faded toward the stern.
A bell rang at the bow. Lantern shutters closed one by one. The music moved farther into the night.
"You have given what I asked," the patron said. "I will ask again. Not tonight."
Attendants gathered the kettle, folded the cloth with care, and withdrew. A shadow stood by the rail, marked by the scent of pine and clean iron, then gone.
Lin Xun bowed with the pot in hand. Shy Lin and Sparrow Chen followed. The attendant's lantern walked with them to the plank.
At its head, the street brewer waited with a bundle. "I laughed last night," he told Lin Xun. "Then you poured. I thought on it all day. This is my father's stone. It keeps heat steady, cracks under shouting. If it breaks, it is my fault."
Lin Xun felt the weight through the cloth, old and sure. "If it cracks, we will set the pieces side by side and teach them to be useful again."
The man laughed once, true, then left.
They walked back toward their lodging. The city was half asleep. A dog lifted its head, listened, and lay down again. A giggle passed through a window and quieted.
In their room, Shy Lin lit the lamp. Sparrow Chen set three cups on the table, then added a fourth, left empty. Lin Xun unwrapped the stone, smooth and grey with a pale band. He rested his palm upon it. Cool, then warm, then still.
"New moon," Sparrow Chen said.
"We will pour for a room that wants itself," Shy Lin answered.
The river token lay beside the petal and scale. Lin Xun covered them with the cloth. The kind of tired that leaves a clean table settled over him. His breath matched the river's slow line.
A single bell sounded on the barge. The night moved closer. Past the willow bend, sandalwood tried to hide worry and could not.
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