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Though the Marketplace of Ideas never stops moving, it does get quieter at night, when sleepy scholars stumble their way home or fall into murmuring sleep at their booths, the ink of half-finished treatises smearing against their cheeks.
It is precisely this hour that Hugo Khan, Emperor of Chandara, likes best to visit. He always enjoys his daytime rambles through the city and his conversations with his subjects, but some of the newer scholars get dreadfully nervous when he hops up close and turns his head this way and that to read what they’ve written. Of course there are those who don’t get nervous at all but who instead are so driven by their passions that they argue loudly and vehemently in their favor, but Hugo has the unfortunate habit of making those ones his advisors, and so there are fewer of them crowding the booths than there once were.
Indeed, many of the scholars these days are virtual unknowns to him. Hugo inspects them sharply, pleased to see so many new faces resting in repose on crossed arms. New faces means new ideas, new innovations, and new directions - and Hugo does love new directions.
He glides down low over a purple-patterned booth, alighting on a thin perch with such quiet grace that the diminutive Oculudentavis who has fallen asleep on it does not even stir. It seems the tiny lepidosaurian is the brain behind this booth, as Hugo’s sharp raptorial eyes note that each broad page on the table beneath the perch contains a tiny script in the upper-left corner that is then repeated in large, human-sized letters in the center of the page, most likely courtesy of the human behind the booth, who has fallen asleep with their face planted in their purple cap.
The next booth over is unoccupied, though the size of the stools behind it indicate that two dinosaurs perhaps Hugo’s size shared it. He peruses the scrolls they left behind carefully. Whoever these scholars are, they have quite a gift for puns! He will have to send someone down in the morning to invite them to compete in the autumn festival, as Hugo has decided that the theme this year will be “Turns of Phrase,” set in a specially shaped footprint amphitheatre that will encourage a creative use of the available space.
The booth across the way stands derelict, but the booth behind that, where a young Scleromochlus sprawls over the table in a deep sleep, is papered over with countless little scraps and sayings. Hugo gently nudges his subject’s flared tail to one side with his beak to get a closer look, then flaps his wings in delight. Ah! It is so lovely to find a scholar just beginning their journey with such potential for deep thought!
Hugo spends some time debating his options before closing his beak around a particularly unique koan. His prize thus acquired, he sets off again, rising high over the marketplace and catching a brisk autumn wind that sends him soaring over the canal and towards his palace.
He enters through one of the high eastern windows, flapping his wings to smooth his descent onto the nearest perch, an iron pole topped with a golden half-circle that overlooks a small meeting table.
At this time of night, most of his advisors are asleep, and most rooms in the palace are deserted. But Kiri Uru, Mistress of the Art of Tea, keeps a schedule that only she understands, and she only raises her steaming mug in silent acknowledgment of his presence before she returns to drinking it, sitting straight-backed and regal with her robes overflowing the small chair on which she sits. Her only concession to the late hour is her headdress, which sits abandoned behind a small blue teapot covered in a motif of falling leaves. Gedzu, her Mononykus companion, inclines his head more properly in Hugo’s direction, though he does not wait for acknowledgement before returning to lap at his own tea.
“Tonight’s blend has been provided by traders from Prosperine,” Kiri Uru says directly into her mug between long, considering swallows. “The leaves, carefully selected from the highest and most flavorful boughs, have been smoke-dried over a pinewood fire. The resin and ash are still present in the aroma, but the tea itself is smooth and sweet.”
Hugo hops down from his perch and leans over her mug, inhaling deeply. He and Kiri Uru have very different tastes, not least because their respective species leave them literally unable to taste the same things, but tea is a shared passion of theirs, and microraptors are very good at smelling smoke. The aroma is unmistakable - deep, rich, and not in the least bit unpleasant.
Gedzu takes the teapot’s handle gingerly between his teeth and pours Hugo a cup of his own without needing to be asked, using his short, skinny arms to stabilize the cup. Hugo trills a polite thank-you and leaves the koan beside the cup in return.
Kiri Uru stretches one long-fingered hand over the koan, keeping it flat so Gedzu can read it. “‘What is the way?’” Gedzu recites, lowering his voice from its more natural high pitch so that Kiri Uru can hear him. “‘Go!’”
The three of them pause thoughtfully, drinking from their respective cups. The tea is indeed delicious, as perfectly smooth as the koan, and Hugo spends a moment enjoying the two together.
Then Kiri Uru says, “I don’t get it.”
“Perhaps it is not to be gotten!” Hugo says.
“Hmm,” Kiri Uru says, clearly unimpressed. Gedzu, always a bit more politic than his companion, says nothing, which from Gedzu is essentially loud agreement.
Ah, well. His two tea advisors are more concerned with material things, like the quality and taste of their drink - not a bad thing to be concerned with, in Hugo’s opinion. But perhaps he will invite the young koan writer to compete in this year’s autumn festival as well. Hugo has a feeling that it is going to be a very good one.