The Black Opera (56 page)

Conrad felt chills down the hot skin at the back of his neck. They were not caused by the open windows and the swirling sea-fog.

Ferdinand finished: “I wish I thought Naples might be as lucky as Tambora.”

“Lucky?”
Conrad couldn't help but be appalled.

The King looked both sad and amused. “Remember—Tambora was
not sufficient
. Tens of thousands of deaths were not a large enough blood sacrifice to rouse their God as they desire. If it had been, we wouldn't be here now.”

Conrad bowed his head, and accepted another glass of wine.

“And Signore Rossi?” Ferdinand turned brisk. “Is he recovered enough to escort the Emperor north from Stromboli?”

“He says he is, sir.”
But that's Tullio. The idiot
.

Cautiously, Conrad added, “I've been wondering, sir. Would it be wise to have
L'Altezza
's first night on the thirteenth, instead of the fourteenth? We could
just
manage it. Then the Emperor's escape could be facilitated twenty-four hours before we have to handle the rest of this. He'd be gone before high earth-tide, when it comes down to the counter-opera against the black opera.”

When we finally discover if what we're doing is sufficient to stop them
.

“No,” Ferdinand said.

The King stood and made his way from behind the desk. Conrad followed a bemused half pace behind.

Glass doors stood thrown open, leading to a balcony that Conrad thought must overlook the old Angevin palace and the centre of Naples. The sea-mist hid everything but bare masts and round Norman towers. The city, with its narrow lanes and monumental tenement houses, might never have existed.

Ferdinand stepped out onto the balcony, fine moisture clinging to the gold silk epaulets of his coat. He stared out at the Bay as if he could pierce the cloud that lay on it.

Muted by the fog, his voice did not carry.

“We can have
one
first night, Corrado. Naples is full of double and triple agents. The Palace leaks intelligence like a sieve. The only secret we still
have
is how
L'Altezza
plays in front of an audience. Frankly, that's because, so far, even we don't know that.”

Conrad rested his hands on the stone of the balustrade, the cool dampness welcome. “But, sir, you want the Emperor to escape safely.”

“In fact—” Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily gave an amiable and rather more weary smile than before. “In fact, Conrad, the sole and only reason I'm allowing his Majesty the Emperor to come here is, so that everybody who should be watching
us
is watching
him
.”

Conrad stared. “Sir?”

“—And so that everybody who might be running around chasing us, is running around after
him
.”

Ferdinand turned his back to the Bay, his blue eyes fixed on Conrad.

“As long at his Imperial Majesty arrives in Naples and causes sufficient stir that he takes all attention away from
L'Altezza azteca
—I don't care if he gets shot in the middle of the San Carlo foyer! Just so long as the counter-opera goes on.”

I've been thinking of Ferdinand as a man, Conrad realised.

And he's not
.

He's a King
.

Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily's tone softened, but not by much. “While I hope that the Emperor does escape, I hope even more that he flees north pursued by every spy, informer, and paid murderer in Naples. And that, while they're all running around like beheaded chickens, they severely inconvenience the agents of the Prince's Men.”

A gust of wind left the King's hair wet and ruffled. He might have been any man in his thirties, except for the fine lines around his eyes.

“If all the various revolutionary societies and secret services are chasing an Emperor returning as Nemesis… Then they're
not
looking at the opera he should have attended.”

The fog, withdrawing slightly, coiled in visible granular streams at about the level of the Palace roof. Conrad felt the fine wetness on his skin. He did not look
away from the King of the Two Sicilies.

“I know you thought the mission to Stromboli a little frivolous.” Ferdinand's gaze warmed. “Believe that I did have more reasons than placating imprisoned royalty.”

I must tell Tullio
.

The worst of it is, it won't change his mind about going
.

Conrad realised he was staring. And that he should say something.

“Sir—I wouldn't like to have to take the decisions of a king.”

“No.” Ferdinand's expression quirked. He made his way back inside, to his desk; Conrad following.

“I suppose I need not ask,” Ferdinand murmured, seating himself. “The minor sabotage continues?”

“Yes, sir. Even though we made all our precautions more stringent after the attack on Alvarez's man and Tullio Rossi.”

The King's thumb tapped on the green leather top of the desk. His intelligent gaze seized on Conrad.

“Give me your view of this. We have a murder, yes. A beating. Singers and musicians frightened; Greek Fire used; stage machinery sabotaged; decoys flooding over our borders.”

Ferdinand slammed his hand suddenly flat.

“The Honoured Men would do more than
this!
The
lazzaroni
in the Port District could cause more harm! The Prince's Men
deposed
an Emperor! That they've done nothing to the monarch of the Two Sicilies… Nothing
yet
…”

Conrad felt dread collecting under his breastbone.

“Is it that we're well guarded, sir, and the Prince's Men truly can't do anything?”

Ferdinand gave a ferocious, unkingly oath. His face drew into lines that made him look fifteen years older.

“I'd like to think so. Fabrizio Alvarez does… Enrico suggests the Prince's Men are so confident we'll fail that all they need do is distract us, and I wish I thought that was just the Commendatore's usual pessimism!”

Ferdinand sighed, his expression complex. Conrad read brief amusement, determination, despair—he thought the older man looked both haunted and hunted.

“Corrado, I'd like to think the army and the security forces make us sufficiently safe. I just can't help but feel we've been running around after the Men's harassment like a kitten after a ball of string! Is this just pre-battle nerves? Or are we missing something—someone—inside the Palace—inside the counter-opera… that makes the Prince's Men absolutely sure that we can't succeed?”

C
onrad delayed returning underground.

The sun began to burn off the fog. Heated and damp, he brushed at the lapels and breast of his cutaway coat, flicking away droplets of rain. That gave him the excuse to pick up spare clean clothing from his lodgings, and to check the rooms, since they were now deserted much of the time.

It's too easy to suspect anybody!
Conrad corrected himself on the instant.
To suspect everybody!

Even isolated by his escort of Luigi's plainclothes men, walking through Naples' crowded streets—elbow to elbow with other men's arguments—still gave him the feeling he had come back into the real world. The key fit into the door of his lodgings, the lock undamaged. Entering the empty rooms already felt strange. He packed his gear quickly.

Who among us doesn't have a weakness?

It was, Conrad thought, the same as trying to ask oneself who might be a connection with the Honoured Men or the Local Racket. The Prince's Men would think that, say, Captain Luigi and Commendatore Mantenucci both knew the police not immune to corruption—and therefore a cynic would say either of
them
could be bribed, if the price was high enough, having that example in front of them. It was difficult to see what weakness Colonel Fabrizio Alvarez might have, but he would hardly be immune.
Gambling debts, perhaps?

The green-painted stairwell echoed to his footsteps, as it had to the Dominicans of the Inquisition. Conrad followed his escort towards the baker's that hid the entrance to underground Naples.

Thoughts crowded into his brain, whether he wished or not.

They could offer, say, Sandrine the life of a lady of society, when she isn't singing…
Isaura might wish for an assured post as the conductor of some opera house's orchestra. JohnJack, Estella, Bonfigli, Lorenzani—they're opera singers, the Prince's Men could make each of them darlings of some particular house in Rome, Vienna, Paris… Face it, the librettist Scalese and the composer Argente might both be thought susceptible to contracts with Barjaba or some other of the most powerful impresarios. Me for my debts, or position in society as an atheist. Roberto because, whatever he might protest, the experience of professional opera has got into his blood. Nora because she's his wife, and will go where he goes…
If I were a Prince's Man
, Conrad thought in sardonic pain, I would see that even Signore Tullio Rossi might be tempted by sufficient money that he could forget being a servant and ask Isaura Scalese to marry him.
Cazzo!
If it comes to being ridiculous, King Ferdinand might be suborned, if the Prince's Men promised him they'd somehow lessen the damage to his kingdom.

Imagine a sufficient source of power and corruption, and Diogenes' search for an honest man is over before it's started!

His footsteps echoed back at him as he made his way to his own stone chamber. He pulled the curtain closed behind him.

A disturbance in the air had him turning, pistol out of his pocket, before he could think.

He froze.

A woman in a green coat and walking gown pushed up the veil of her bonnet, where she stood by his desk.

“Nora?
Why…?”

“I
mustn't
be recognised—I couldn't even risk coming as your
recitateur
. If anyone asks, a church singer volunteered for the chorus, but she wasn't good enough. Let them think she was your whore. I had to see you—”

Leonora laughed, tone self-mocking.

“—Isn't that what every woman says?
Cazzo!
But Conrad, this isn't what you think—I have to warn you!”

Conrad took her by the arm, feeling her over-warm flesh through the velvet of her pelisse. He led her over to sit on the satin-upholstered couch, and sat down beside her, knees weak.

“You're not making any sense.” He slid his hand down to her wrist, and let that be the excuse to take her hand between both of his. He chose the right hand, not wishing to be reminded of the ring on her left. “Does Roberto know you're in here with me?”

“Oh
Dio
, I hope not!”

Conrad's heart gave a jolt in his chest.

That's too frightened for common or garden adultery
.

“Nora… Do you need to come away with me?”

She made no direct answer, only avoiding his eye. With her, that might have meant
yes, no
, or
maybe
.

“Leonora?”

“I have to warn you.” She sounded as though she were trying to convince herself.