The Black Opera (102 page)

“Coming, Corrado?” Tullio reached down to the ship's boat, where they had been rowed into Palermo's keyhole-shaped medieval dock. His mouth twisted wryly. “Shall I give you a hand?”

“Fuck
you, Tullio…” Conrad caught the ex-sergeant's left hand with his right, and let himself be heaved up onto the ancient stones, feeling marginally less embarrassed at being crippled.

Palermo, between its granite hills, thick with palm trees, camellias, and every other flower, welcomed him instantly in. He was dazzled by the city whose arches
spoke of the Moors, churches of the Normans, and mosaics of the Byzantine Empire to which the island briefly belonged. He was smelling scent-laden air before he realised, and the cooking of rice with saffron—listening to a thousand competing voices as he stumbled through the crowds.

“I'm here!” Paolo-Isaura slid in beside him, smart in borrowed French navy uniform. She helped Tullio shut him off from the shoving groups—it seemed every man and woman of island-Sicily wanted news—of Naples, of mainland Sicily, of their relatives in Campania, of the likelihood of ships landing with provisions—

Tullio and Paolo manoeuvred deftly. Conrad realised they followed behind the litter in which the King had ordered the Conte di Argente transported, using that as shelter too.

He glanced over his shoulder, seeing the opera company trailing behind, spreading out. Sandrine Furino stopped to give her account of the Burning Fields—crowds gathering—and Brigida Lorenzani translated the whisper of Giambattista Velluti…

“They'll be a while,” Tullio commented. “Might as well see where we're sleeping.”

Paolo, a ship's bag of belongings over one shoulder, and Alfredo Scalese's violin in its case under that arm, linked her free hand around Conrad's elbow. She sounded worried. “Are we under house arrest, too?”

Conrad frowned, looking up the hill, past the Duomo, at the faded golden stone of the
Palazzo dei Normanni
—evidently their destination.

“I don't think so. They
will
want us to answer questions.”

It was a week before he finished repeating,
ad nauseum
, what he had seen, heard, and said.

A week without ever seeing Leonora Capiraso, Contessa di Argente.

He asked to see Leonora. He was refused.

He demanded. He was refused again.

Conrad found himself in modest rooms in the
Palazzo dei Normanni
, along with Tullio, Paolo (who continued dressing as Paolo), JohnJack, Sandrine and Velluti; those dozen bedraggled chorus singers and musicians who had followed him across the frozen lava; the Conte di Argente, and—presumably—the Contessa.

“Good God!” Paolo-Isaura exclaimed, on her way out. “Not
another
inquiry…!”

The King of the Two Sicilies convened a board—a number of boards—before which the witnesses of the eruption and the events at the Flavian Amphitheatre were called to give evidence.

Something to keep my mind off this part-hand as it heals
, Conrad told himself sternly.

A week from the day they docked, he slumped into a chair on the balcony that overlooked an inner courtyard of the palace. Built first by Palermo's
Emir
, and then by Roger the Norman, the palazzo's fretted wood and pointed arches were lost on Conrad, for all they might make a wonderful backdrop for an opera.

The King's surgeon changed the bandages on his hand. Conrad preferred to look away when that happened.

“They still won't let me see Leonora,” he growled, when the man had gone.

“They won't let
anyone
see the Contessa.” Tullio sat down beside him, carrying two glasses of wine, and passed the second one over. “You want to join the syndicate on Paolo and the boards?”

It was a worthy attempt to distract him. Conrad allowed it. With the di Galdis gone, he might have a little more income to play with; his original creditors would presumably be willing to go back to their old arrangements.

“Put me in for five
soldi
. On her continuing to get through
every
one of these testimonies without them guessing she's not a boy.” Conrad found a cause for sly humour. “Anyone who suspects it certainly won't mention it—a woman couldn't conduct an orchestra, especially not in an
opera house
…”

Tullio gave him a grin for the mock outrage.

Isaura joined them at the inner balcony an hour later, cravat untied and waistcoat unbuttoned. There was nothing about her torso specifically female. Conrad supposed that she bound her breasts, like the heroines of adventures tales; certainly it was not a thing to ask one's sister.

“I did overhear, today,” Paolo-Isaura dropped into the conversation, as they sat gazing out at the
Aeolian
Sea. “Leonora's still giving her testimony, but it's all done on her own, and only with one or two very secret boards of advisors. They don't even allow il Superbo in on all of them. I saw him when I was coming back.”

“Moping around like a wet weekend,” Tullio said, opening another bottle of the wine. “Like the
padrone
here. You and il Conte make a good pair, Corrado.”

Conrad pondered the responses that
vaffanculo!
might get, and chose to remain sullenly silent.

The following morning a page arrived to tell him he was called to the rooms which Ferdinand had chosen for his private office.

Conrad made his bow in the tall, sun-shadowed chamber before he realised that another chair was occupied besides the King's.

Roberto, Conte di Argente, did not rise as etiquette demanded.

It was not one of the Palace's gilded chairs he occupied, Conrad noted, but a wheeled invalid-chair. The chair supported his stiffly-bandaged, outstretched legs. One of the servants leaned a pair of padded crutches against the wall.

Roberto gave Conrad a reluctant nod, and said nothing.

“Signore Scalese.” The King of the Two Sicilies wore the regimental uniform of his royal guards, golden epaulettes on the shoulders of his blue coat, gold frogging across the breast. The Order of the Golden Fleece hung bright in the spotless linen at his throat.

He seems very distant from the man struggling through the crevasses of the Burning Fields, with ash-clogged boots and torn breeches, Conrad thought. He would have greeted that man without hesitation. This distant pale-featured man, he momentarily had no words for.

“Corrado!” Ferdinand stood up from the vast desk piled all over with the papers attendant on commanding the kingdom, especially in this extremity. He beckoned Conrad further into the chamber. “Come and speak with me for a moment.”

Tension left Conrad's shoulders at the lack of ceremony. “Sir.”

All the windows and shutters of the room had been flung open. The morning was early enough to be fresh. Pots of cacti and palms shaded the balconies. Ferdinand drew him out onto one balcony.

It overlooked a fountain, in another courtyard, throwing light back up to the Sun. The view of Palermo's roofs was beautiful, but irrelevant, Conrad realised.
We're out of earshot of the Conte di Argente
.

“Another board of inquiry, sir?”

Ferdinand gave his mild, compelling smile. “We're near to concluding our business. I plan to give my final judgement this morning. I wished to speak with you first.”

Panic located itself under his sternum, and churned in his stomach.
This soon? Leonora…!

“As for yourself…” Gazing at the bright falling fountain-water, Ferdinand continued. “I had wondered if you might want to take on Adriano Castiello-Salvati's role.”

“Me?
Sir,” Conrad added belatedly.

He couldn't bring himself to say
No! look what
happened
to Castiello-Salvati!

It was likely plain on his face.

“However, I realised.” Ferdinand looked warmly at him. “You're not one of nature's natural spies, Corrado. Though it's true a man who speaks his mind bluntly, against the tide of society, might be unsuspected about passing on what he hears.”

“I'd make a mess of it,” Conrad said frankly and paused. “If you want someone who can hear scandal, I recommend Signore Rossi.”

Because any preferment he can get, he'll need
.

“Rossi, I had thought to reward,” Ferdinand said. “Since he tells me he's getting married—although I'm a little confused as to who—he should be welcoming of something from the Treasury. I hope to keep him in reserve, should I at any time need a private courier to the Emperor.”

“You won't
insult
him with money. The same goes for everybody in the company.” Conrad realised he might have implied something about himself, and fell silent in confusion.

“Very well; that all seems clear.” Ferdinand waved him back inside, towards the great desk and attendant chairs, that stood under a gilded and painted ceiling.

The Conte di Argente gave Conrad a look that was all
il Superbo
.

The King seated himself, linked his fingers, and leaned forward.

“The Two Sicilies owe you much, Conrad. A great debt. It would be difficult to repay it—you won't be surprised, therefore, when I repay it by asking something more of you.”

Conrad sat down hastily, and hoped he didn't look as confused as he felt. Given Ferdinand's amusement, that was a lost hope.

Ferdinand leaned back in his gilt chair, one outstretched hand on the desk turning a pen over in his fingers. Oddly, it gave him an air not of tension, but of relaxation.

“I wish you to consent to do one thing for me, Corrado. I'd like your services as chief advisor on a board I plan to set up. It's intended to plan a scientific institute for the Two Sicilies, along the lines of those in France and England and Germany. Admittedly we don't have the reputation of being up-to-date, here in the south, but I think that might be countered in time—we have studies of the recent eruption, which justify our setting up present enquiries. By natural stages, that leads to a permanent institute.”

Conrad sat stunned for sufficiently long that Ferdinand laughed out loud.

“I won't be insulting you with riches, but I think a sinecure such as that should carry some reward. Sufficient for you to regularise your financial situation, at least.”

Nine years, and the mind grows to think of certain restrictions as permanent, like ivy growing to match the shape of a tree.

Iron bonds, when they have been on long enough, leave heavy ghosts of sensation behind them.

I'm free of my father's debt
, Conrad dimly thought. It didn't feel real.

But it will. Oh, it will!

“Corrado, do you want the position?”

“Yes! Sir,” Conrad collected himself enough to add. “Thank you.”

“Oh, don't thank me. I'm giving you his Eminence Cardinal Filippo Gattuso, Corazza's successor in the Holy Office, and all the Dominicans, to argue with… Along with every reactionary old buffer who calls himself a courtier and claims an interest in the matter! If I say I want a single-minded man with no tact whatsoever, I hope you won't feel insulted?”

Conrad ignored the friendly insult. “If this is some necessary part of court politics—Sir, is this intended to be a
genuine
scientific institute? The findings won't be watered down or censored?”