DAN HENG
Dan Heng fingered the crack on the wooden table he had set up his workstation. He was perhaps the first person to make a fruit-table meant as an afterthought in a brothel into something of a base of scientific and knowledge-gathering operation, and the thought did tickle his funny bone.
His eyes were fixed on the computer screen, healthily supplied by a cord plugged into a polygonal dagger-like stand. The remote anchor was running on the Express' astral fuel, pulsating blue light all over the candleless room. It was the very picture of technologically-dependent people running on a portable generator in a planetwide blackout.
Dan Heng leaned against the bare backrest and breathed. Package compiled, and... sent.
He counted exactly fifteen seconds on his clock before his group chat application lit up.
-Welt- Well received. Thanks.
Of course it was Welt still online. The old man almost never slept.
-Danheng- That's just the preliminary evaluation. Expect changes, revisions, and amendments as we find out more.
-Welt- Where are you three?
Dan Heng's fingers paused on the keyboard for a time.
-Danheng- We are booked into... a house of ill repute is how they call it? Given where we landed that was the best we could find in short notice.
-Danheng- We did get a room for each of us. Small favors.
-Welt- I see.
Welt didn't judge, as usual. Because he was Welt.
-Welt- That means the remote anchor is in your room.
-Welt- I do wonder... March and Stelle let you keep it to yourself? Their phones' batteries wouldn't like that, I do believe.
-Danheng- You can't imagine the epic argument we had.
He posted that sticker of a carrtoonishly puffy-faced, pouting March for emphasis.
-Danheng- Jokes aside. Please let me know what you think.
Welt was taking his time answering. That was unlike him. Normally he went through the database faster than Dan Heng could record it.
So Dan Heng took the time to stand up, and yawn, and stretch, and paced a lap round the room.
The walls were thin. He could hear the girls snoring from either side. March had always been a loud sleeper. He didn't expect Stelle to be louder. Well, this is going to be a long business trip.
He returned to the table just as the chat app's thumbnail flared.
-Welt- I guess this means there is no shortcut to information about that theoretical Stellaron burst?
-Danheng- We aren't always going to run into movers and shakers of a world from the get-go.
-Danheng- Besides, I suspect a high chance of turmoil of a political nature. Complicates thing even more.
-Welt- Precisely.
Welt's typing paused.
-Welt- Answer truthfully. Do you wish to proceed?
-Danheng- "You"
-Danheng- as in I,
-Danheng- or "You", as in all of us?
Welt posted a sticker of himself with a thumb on his chin. March would be delighted, the old man was starting to adapt to the new age of information technology for the noble purpose of wise-cracking.
-Danheng- You know me, I would not have signed up for the Express if not for a particular degree of curiosity.
-Danheng- And observing a world on the verge of political turmoil is
-Danheng- as tragic as it is fascinating.
-Welt- As long as you can remain a neutral observer.
-Danheng- We're a little late for that.
-Danheng- Have you checked the profile of the people I have gathered?
-Welt- Yes.
-Danheng- So you can probably guess the only way you could dissuade March from taking that Princess Rhaenyra's side
-Danheng- bad comes to worse
-Danheng- is if she does something phenomenally stupid. Or cruel. Or both.
Another "thinking Welt" sticker came at once.
-Welt- You give her too little credit.
-Danheng- And what is that supposed to mean?
-Welt- Get your rest. Don't you have to check out a particular establishment on behalf of your planetside contact?
-Danheng- … good point.
He left the chat as it was, and stood up. It was a stuffy room, he noted. More than he had thought at first. He closed the laptop lid, and briefly considered if he should turn off the remote anchor before opening the window just to be on the safe side.
Maybe not, he thought. The feeling of being stuck without tech access was more than a little haunting. He went over to the window and pushed it open with some effort. It creaked mightily – no one must have thought to open it for however long for obvious reasons.
He rested his elbows on the frame, and looked out into the city skyline. At first sight there was nothing to see: The sun had yet to rise, and the inhabitants of King's Landing had not advanced beyond lamp and torchlight.
But then something else caught his attention.
There, up on a high hill due North, was a tall, massive dome. It stood like a hill upon the hill, as a stadium made to accommodate some grand sporting events, except several times greater in each dimension by Dan Heng's estimation.
It was nothing he had not seen before. The civilized races of the universe did share in the obsession with building large, ornamental things for sentimental purposes as best as their technological level allowed them. Even Jarilo-VI, reduced and in tatters, had a lavish administrative district, a vast fortress for Belobog's rulers, a statue built for commemoration, and a grand theater regularly holding shows. But this building was so vast it dominated the skyline, and it most definitely wasn't a castle or a palace or center of political power, and it was far too large to be a public stadium.
Then what is it?
That was one of those things Mysaria did not tell them, and he could hardly fault her. Live somewhere long enough, and even its most outlandish features would stop sticking out.
Embrace the trailblazer spirit, he thought, and let his curiosity guide the way. Let the girls sleep a little bit more. He could check this out on his own.
So Dan Heng set off. He closed the window (loosely). He shut the door behind him, and tucked the key in his pocket. He tiptoed his way down the two flights of stairs, and made his way past the foyer, now empty but for a drunk snoring and drooling next to the hearth. Brothels never quite closed, as it happened: dawn was the closest they would have to a downtime.
He entered the coordinates into his phone's auto-mapping function, and began making his way North. He went down steps and up steps, along streets and across streets, weaving lithely through entirely empty pedestrian paths. The air cleared as he went further and further from the brothel. The rows upon rows of ramshackle timber and rough-hewn stone constructs gave way to paved walks and tiled roads. He must have left the so-called Flea Bottom.
Now he was climbing up that hill, dotted with much nicer-looking townhouses of painted bricks and red-tiled roofs. Small patches of garden, public and private, lined the progressively broader walks.
Before long, and just as he guessed, at the end of the largest, most lavishly decorated hill-street, was the monument. It stretched out even larger than his initial estimation: Dan Heng thought the whole of Herta Space Station would fit inside the dome, and that made the purpose of its construction even more of a curious thing.
As Dan Heng draw closer he noticed a low wall surrounding the perimeter, dotted with raised platforms and watch-posts. A half-dozen men were stationed around just one entrance of its outer wall connected to the hill avenue. The men were all clad in black oiled breastplates and pristine gold-dyed cloaks.
Behind that curtain wall was a great terrace of stairs, maybe a hundred steps altogether, leading up to the grand entrance.
Now a couple of the guards were starting to look at him, as though telling him he was not supposed to be there. He must act more naturally. Dan Heng thought quickly, and nodded, and stepped to the side. He went behind a stall just off the corner. They couldn't stop him looking: he had his phone camera zoomed in and a bass booster. His observation continued, slightly more clandestinely.
The gate of bronze and iron must have been a hundred feet tall and across. It stood nested between the dome's huge pillars of marble, and the chains that would drag it open and close were attended by a dozen more men in gold capes. Dan Heng zeroed in on the emblems plastered on the door: a three-headed dragon spewing flame, fashioned into a circle sigil.
And speaking of dragons.
It was a familiar thing, rushing in like clouds to cover a full moon. The feeling came before anything else heralded its approach. When the air trembled and the sky parted, Dan Heng's head was well tilted upwards. It was coming down: a black silhouette cutting through the murky-grey low clouds a thousand feet above.
He thought he had been prepared. He was wrong. The emergence sent him a few steps back. The creature was quite something all right, casting a shadow over a half-dozen blocks of townhouses below when its wings were fully extended. Each full flap of its wings sent gusts of wind that sent dust and loose litter flying across the streets. From its throat (dominated by a huge, old, leathery bag) came a low roar, rumbling like a giant industrial furnace continually churning molten steel and slag.
So, he thought, these were the dragons of this world.
Deep inside him there was some sort of resonance hard to pin down, rising and falling with the creature's wings. Dan Heng knew what it was, yet he would loathe to put that familiarity into words.
He waited, and bated his breath as the dragon descended towards the roof of the dome. His fingers reached for his phone. March would give him no end of complaints why she wasn't there to snap that one instance the dragon disappeared into the dome. Yes, that had to be the reason. March had him by the throat. That was why he had to capture this image of this black, spiky, leathery, roaring thing that was kin and not kin at the same time. Not any sort of hidden motive or sentimentality whatsoever, no, not at all.
For some time nothing happened but for the sun emerging over the city wall to the East. Silence returned to the streets as it welcomed the first rays of dawn. But then the great gate opened, pulled apart by the chain-bearing men (aided by some sort of hidden machinery, doubtlessly). It came ajar with surprising smoothness, leaving just enough space for a single man to come through.
Dan Heng surveyed the man through his phone's camera. His hair was long and straight and luscious (March would like to snap yet another photo of that no doubt, he thought), but his face was bony and gaunt, and he wore a constant smirk like some sort of personal effect. His choice of clothes was less flattering: black leather over black tunic and oiled black pants. He wore on his belt a dagger and a leather flask. There were faint hints of black bags under his eyes, but only just. He must have had a white night, too.
The soldiers turned and bowed as the black-clad lord descended the structure's many steps. His body swayed with each exaggerated step, like he knew he was fabulous and was flaunting it whenever he could.
Dan Heng could not resist. He raised his phone's camera and zoomed in on the man. He snapped a photo of white-haired-prince doing his white-hair-prince things. By Akavili, March was rubbing off on him.
And with that cavalier confidence the lord approached the guards at the outer wall. He went around the checkpoint.
"Rodrik," he said, "Wyland. Hobb. Harrold. Robar. Good men. Good morning." His voice carried far in the crisp air. His gloved hand fell heavy on each armored shoulder he named, and each of the men dipped their heads a bit lower as he went past them.
One of the soldiers was already waiting at the side, holding the reins of a fiery black stallion.
"My Prince," he said. "Her Grace the Queen and Lord Hand bid you return as fast as you may."
The man gave a curt nod. His jaw hardened; he leapt on horseback with respectable agility. Off he went like the wind.
When the princeling galloped past Dan Heng's spot, he thought their eyes met. The black-clad young lord did not stop, but Dan Heng could swear he was turning towards him just then. Curiosity runs both ways.
Dan Heng hung back for a time after the prince had vanished behind the winding streets. He considered his options. His curiosity was still not sated...
… but it would be unwise to stand out too much on day one. He beat a tactical withdrawal.
By now the sun had risen high enough behind the skyline of red-tiled townhouses against the city wall afar. That part of the city had awoken. Hawkers began peddling their wares: food and drinks and craft and what-have-yous. A few wagons were rolling past Dan Heng as he hurried along. Small groups of ne'er-do-wells and gossipers were gathered here and there, speaking secrets in hushed tongues. Once every so often someone would stare at Dan Heng, and he began to regret not putting on something less conspicuous: so much for blending in. It did speak measures to his fortune, or to the general climate of anxiety about, that Dan Heng was only stared at, never accosted.
When Dan Heng returned to the dirt-packed street in front of Mysaria's brothel, the hustle and bustle had come back in full. The winesink's door was wide open enticingly before the streams of poor townsfolk going about their business.
Outside, leaning against the timber frame and the signpost, were two woman standing way out of the crowd.
"'Ey-o, we're here!" the one called out, and the other nodded. And it was all Dan Heng could do not to guffaw.
March, because it was her all right, had donned a threadbare woolen tunic and a skirt that went all the way to her ankles, and covered all her hair beneath a bulky turban-like headdress. Stelle was content with a pair of long baggy trousers and a thick shirt whose sleeves were rolled past her elbows. A hood, best described as "oat-porridge" in color, disguised her grey-white hair.
Dan Heng approached them, and put on his best stoic face.
"Gone out for a walk?" March said.
"You can say that," Dan Heng said, and blinked at her. "Mushroom March is a thing now, then?"
"Hey!" She placed her hands on her hips.
Stelle lifted the corner of her lip. "Heard this is high fashion," she said with such a voice March narrowed her eyes.
"You're supposed to be a washerwoman, you aren't supposed to be cracking jokes!" March reminded her. "And I'm a miller's wife." She scratched her head through her turban - uncomfortably. "That's the story, right?"
"And you're a mercenary," Stelle said, laying a vest of linen stuffed with so much wool on Dan Heng's arms.
And he couldn't help but smile. Well, he thought, I do live for moments like these.
