The Black Opera (29 page)

The enumerating of possibilities was numbing. Conrad reached for his great-coat and hauled it on, knowing the double-breasted coat and a low-crowned hat would leave him anonymous to all except very bad luck.

Paolo objected, “They'll see
you
.”

He echoed her directly. “That's a risk we have to take… We'll split up; that's less dangerous. Let's meet on each hour at Antonio's.”

By mid-evening, Conrad's threadbare patience was nearly worn through. He sat in the ancient tavern, lost to view among other patrons, and saw Tullio close the door as he came in. The broad man braced his shoulders when he glanced across at Isaura, who accompanied him.

Not
good
news, then.

With all of them seated over wine in the packed room, heads together like every other set of conspirators or criminals in Naples, Conrad began optimistically. “You found out where the carriages were being packed for?”

Tullio shook his head. “Had a go at finding out what the gossip is.
Think
we've
got the answer. It wasn't easy…”

Tullio held out his hand significantly, as any other disreputable man in a tavern would.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Conrad couldn't help a grin. “How many ducats difficult was it?”

“Oh, nine or ten, easy…” The ex-soldier regarded the handful of small change Conrad passed over with mild disgust, and began counting the
calli
and
mezzicalli
with his hands concealed beneath the table—the
calli
being the twelfth part of a Neapolitan penny, and the other worth one-half of that.

“No carriages.” Isaura's alto was quiet, but not close enough to a whisper to attract attention. “Our friend apparently didn't leave by road.”

“He didn't?”

Tullio, still counting, spoke with absent gravity. “Word among his servants—and the people who
know
, because they packed the baggage—is that he had his wife—”

Conrad's memory supplied the name:
Queen Maria
.

“—And all their children—
and
his mother-in-law the Old Tart—”

Ferdinand's probity had been something of a shock to the rather lax court morals when he took the throne. Conrad dimly remembered hearing of it—he himself had been in Prussia at the time. Ferdinand's mother-in-law had a fondness for handsome young guardsmen, which had not endeared her to the new regime, and had gained her any number of unsympathetic nicknames. Having met her briefly at a court-attended opera, Conrad had allowed himself to be charmed by her, and rather felt Tullio would react the same way if they ever met.

“—
All
packed up and put on board ship with him,” Tullio ended.

Dragging his mind back to the current issue, Conrad demanded, “So why would he take his whole family on—”
The royal yacht—the
Guiscardo
—no—“
his—boat? Surely this isn't the time for a relaxing cruise…”

“He's not so much taking them
on
the ship, as
by
it.” Tullio leaned forward with a huge sigh. He appeared halfway drunk to a casual glance. “Seems he's taking his family to the other Sicily, to Palermo. As far as I can find out, he'll be back. But not until he's got them all settled in for a long stay. All of his family, not just the heir and spare.”

Conrad met Tullio's shrewd gaze.

“He wants them away from Naples and Vesuvius—” Conrad hesitated, and then let out his own sigh. “—And I can't fault him for that. If I could persuade you and Isaura to leave the city, I would. Things may get very dangerous here.”

Isaura quietly snorted.

Conrad looked at her.

“As if it wasn't hairy enough leaving town ahead of Papa's creditors!” she proclaimed.

Conrad smiled. “I thought you were too young to remember that. I do remember you prattling on, wide-eyed and innocent, distracting attention from whatever Papa was hiding.”

“I can still be wide-eyed and innocent,” Isaura said, somewhat sourly. “Which is how we know our friend has gone to Sicily.”

Conrad rallied his thoughts.
How long to Sicily and back?
How long will the King stay there? Will he need to call at other ports, if he hears anything about the Prince's Men?

“We should go back home.” Conrad stood.

Once in their lodgings—in what he knew was a purely illusory safety—he briefly put his arm around Isaura's shoulders, for all she was Paolo at the moment.

Taking advantage of the opportunity to speak freely, she mirrored his own thoughts exactly.

“Ferdinand may also be on the track of some move by the Prince's Men. Clearly, that's important, but it doesn't help
us
. Without specific instruction, there's no one who will authorise such a large withdrawal of money from the treasury. No one will take your word for it, brother, that the King would want them to pay off your debts.”

Conrad grunted.

“We must know somebody…” Tullio hauled his greatcoat off, movements more suited to the field than the drawing-room, and tossed it at Conrad.

The weight was surprising. Conrad looked questioningly at him.

“Got savings, padrone; they're sewn in the hem. Dunno if they come anywhere near what you need… Doubt it; sorry.”

Conrad found it on the tip of his tongue to speak a refusal—and didn't.

“I'd do the same for you,” Conrad said, with absolute honesty. “But if you've got enough money to outweigh Alfredo's gambling habits—I'd like to know how the hell you've been making it!”

Tullio grinned, and handed over the very sharp small knife with which Conrad trimmed his quills. “Tips, mostly, padrone. What I can screw out of the nobility. And no, I ain't rich, but that Count di Galdi might take it as a down-payment?”

Conrad slit the thread sewing up the coat-hem, while Isaura held her cupped hands beneath.

“If he was just concerned about money, he might…” Conrad snatched one penny out of the air before it bounced off into the shadows. “…I think this is
designed
to put me in jail.”

Isaura estimated the sum in her hands by eye as a hundred
calli
, counted it out, and proved to be almost correct. Tullio's savings were mostly small coins, with a
scudo
that Conrad thought it better not to enquire into.

Having stacked the coins into piles, they looked at each other, and Tullio set about threading a needle and sewing his savings back into secrecy.

“Nine
scudi
total isn't going to get us anywhere… The trouble is, people I know
here
are singers and crew.” Tullio shrugged. “Money comes into opera hands and goes out of opera hands just as fast. Look at Signore JohnJack.”

“Well, we won't let that stop us asking, will we?” Conrad eyed both of them with mock sternness.

“No sir, padrone!” Isaura grinned, her confidence seeming to be restored.

“No,” Tullio agreed. “You know, it's not every man who has the chance of being arrested for the second time in a week…”

“You needn't make it sound like an achievement!”

Isaura kicked off her boots and rubbed at her feet. “We're too late to do more tonight. Corradino, skip work tomorrow morning—we'll go out early, avoid di Galdi's lawyers for a bit. Catch some people before they're up and out.”

Conrad slowly nodded, and then swore.

When Tullio looked questioning, he added, “Something so simple, and it's giving us so much trouble!”

The ex-soldier continued on his way to the food cupboard, and hauled out another bottle of wine. He removed the cork and set it down on the table, with a sly smile. “Drink and you might sleep, padrone. Let's drink to God sending us stupid enemies in future, shall we?”

Sleep evaded Conrad, except for the coldest hour, before dawn. He got up from it and moved around briskly, to stir the blood. The starless grey sky felt as though it shut him in.

When the city was rousing, they put on coats and left without attempts at disguise.

“Too late for that now,” Conrad said, buttoning his coat up to his throat in the damp sea-fog. “If the Conte di Galdi expects us to be doing anything—this is what he expects. Likewise the other people.”

The swift light came, burning off the mist. Conrad abandoned caution and spent the morning attempting to find someone who might lend him what Tullio dropped into the conversation as “a ferocious amount of money.”

“That our patron will pay back within the week,” Conrad added.

Sandrine and a number of the other singers had nest eggs squirreled away, but none were sufficient.

“What about a money-lender?” JohnJack Spinelli recommended.

“No capital.”

Conrad went from there to call in on Luigi Esposito for a game of chess and an appeal.

“I may be offered a considerable number of bribes, but I'm not, in fact, that rich,” the police chief said. “Do you actually know anyone who is?”

Gianpaolo Pironti and Tullio were shown back in just as Luigi asked. A look flashed over Tullio's face as he heard the question.

“Porca vacca!”
Realisation made Conrad abruptly choke on the remainder of his wine. “Damnation!”

Luigi waved the others forward, seeming amused. “You
do
know a rich man? And that's not good news?”

“Not considering who it is!” The after-taste of the wine seemed sharply acidic. Conrad shook his head. “I only know one significantly wealthy man, Luigi, and if I tell you who it is, you'll know why I never even considered asking him.”

“Il Superbo!” Isaura exclaimed.

“Roberto Capiraso. Conte di Argente. Il Superbo. Not only would he
not
lend me money—” Conrad looked down into his empty glass. “—But right now he wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire.”

“That may be true.” Luigi had effortlessly possessed himself of the gossip about Leonora, Contessa di Argente, and in self-defence Conrad had contradicted it with the truth. “But I really don't want to have to arrest you again.”

Conrad put his head in his hands.

They always say you should ask yourself what your father would do under these circumstances.

I can't run away from Naples. I honestly can't.

I don't want to.

Paolo interrupted Conrad's thoughts. “He
is
rich.”

“I'll have to ask him,” Conrad said, sitting up.
“Il Superbo” is one of the few other people who do know what's truly at stake
. “I'm still not looking forward to it.”

Luigi clapped Conrad on the shoulder as he ushered them out of the door. “Good luck!”