The Almighty Dominance (by Sunshine) novel Chapter 789

The grey car drove north along the coast road, rain streaming down its windows, the sea black on the left. In the back, Alexander changed out of the wet waiter's jacket into plain black clothes that fitted him exactly. A flat wooden box lay beside him.

"What's in it?" he asked.

"Your face, sir," the driver said flatly, without turning round. "Mr. Moss had it bought from a black market."

Inside, on grey velvet, lay a mask of white porcelain: no mouth, two narrow slits for eyes, and a hairline crack across the brow mended with gold.

"Old," Alexander said softly.

"Three hundred years," the driver said, reading it off a card, dry as paper. "It belonged to a court physician who treated an empress and preferred not to be thanked."

"Did the empress live?" Alexander asked, curious.

"To ninety. The physician was never identified." The driver put the card away. "Mr. Moss says he'd like both of those things to happen again."

Alexander put the mask on. When he spoke again, his voice was lower and flatter, with no youth in it at all.

"Like this?" the low voice asked.

"I wouldn't know, sir," the driver said. "I just drive." It was the longest speech he made all night.

…

Greyhallow was black stone on a headland, every window lit. At the top of the stairs, Lord Ambrose Varenne stood in the Queen's doorway, a heavy man in a velvet dinner jacket, with his arms folded.

"This is him?" he sneered, looking at the plain black clothes, the wet shoes. "Four specialists from four countries have failed, and three lawyers from my own bank promise me a miracle, and they send me a man in a borrowed suit?"

"A legendary physician, my lord," the driver said calmly. "As your lawyers agreed. No name, no questions. And nobody at the palace told. Call him Ferryman."

"Then let him show me results," Ambrose snapped. "Results first. I've paid enough charlatans this month to — "

“No need to pay if no result.”

The door behind him opened. A small grey woman in black, hands folded, looked at the mask for a long time, as if reading it.

"Bring him in," said Mother Agnes quietly.

"Agnes, I haven't — " Ambrose spluttered.

"Her Majesty is dying, my lord," she said, very gently. "Your permission can wait."

…

The Second Queen lay yellow and failing among blinking machines, grey hair spread on a white pillow. Her eyes found the mask.

"So," she breathed. "You're the one... the old legendary physician." Her eyes narrowed, even now.

"I'm the one your newspaper promise was for," said the Ferryman, low and calm.

"Will I live?" she whispered.

"Nine needles," said the Ferryman steadily. "One night."

Nine needles, fine as hairs. The first went in at the base of her throat.

"What is he doing?" Ambrose demanded from the foot of the bed. "Agnes, stop him. That's not medicine, that's — "

On the third needle, the Queen's rattling breath caught, stopped, and came again, deep and smooth, all the way down.

"...Oh," Ambrose said, stunned.

"Be quiet, my lord," Mother Agnes murmured. "Watch."

On the sixth needle, colour came into the Queen's face. On the seventh, she began to murmur, the way the very sick do.

The Ferryman's hand stopped above her throat. Thinking would he safe her or kill her here.

The eighth queen had been his mother. Fourteen years ago, someone had planted a bomb under her aircraft with her seven-year-old son on board.

The boy had survived, only to be fed scraps and treated like an idiot ever since. And now, beneath his needle, lay one of the six women who might have done it.

For one long second, the needle didn't move. At the foot of the bed, Mother Agnes looked up through the mask and said nothing at all.

“Not yet,” he muttered, before he could get the real answer.

Killing these women is far too easy.

Then the eighth needle went in, exactly where it should. On the ninth, the Queen opened her eyes properly for the first time in a month.

"Who are you?" she asked, astonished.

The Ferryman said nothing.

"Take off the mask," she ordered.

"No, Majesty," he said quietly. “If I take off this mask, I have to kill you and all people here.”

“’How dare you!”

“I can walk away from here and you will never be cured.”

"I could have you — " She stopped, and laughed weakly. "No. I couldn't. Could I? Not now."

"Not with a needle still in your throat," said the Ferryman calmly.

…

"I promised a billion," the Queen said slowly, "to whoever saved me. Every newspaper printed it. I meant a famous name, with a famous face." The pen shook in her hand. "Not a mask. To whom do I pay it?"

"To someone, Majesty," said the Ferryman, and laid a slip of paper on her book. A mainland bank, and a number.

“What if I don’t send the payment?”

“Then I won't send the last pill you need to be cured,” he said. “This needle will only give you three more months. Without that pill, you'll die for real.”

For a second the Second Queen stared at the mask. Then, weakly, she laughed, and signed.

At the door, Ambrose stepped in front of the masked man. His arms weren't folded any more.

"Name a figure for you. Work for my family. A house, a title, whatever you — "

"No," said the Ferryman flatly.

Ambrose's face went red. "Do you know who you're refusing?" he growled.

"Yes," said the Ferryman, and walked round him. “’Do you know who are you going to make enemy with?”

Mother Agnes saw him to the top of the stairs. She stopped there, with her hands folded.

"Next time," she said quietly, "come in dry shoes. You left footprints on her carpet. Somebody might measure them."

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