The Black Opera (39 page)

At Ferdinand's gesture, Tullio's strong grip brought Conrad up onto his feet.

“He died at my request.” Conrad looked away, not able to meet either of their gazes. “It's all the worse because I could never respect him.”

Before he could formulate an objection, he was being walked smartly towards the church door. A swirl of black and white robes might have been Luka Viscardo, but if it was, the man never spoke.

“I'll take him round by way of the taverns this afternoon, sir, in places we won't be recognised,” Tullio said as they came out into the open. “So at least he can sleep.”

“I approve.” Ferdinand absently patted Conrad's shoulder. It was intended to be comforting, Conrad thought, though it made him feel more like a Labrador retriever.

Conrad allowed himself to look at King Ferdinand, weighing himself intently for any sign of resentment.

No. It was my choice to get mixed up in this. And… it was Father's, too
.

Sunlight shone on the opulent doors of the Duomo, and the women in bonnets, and men removing their top hats, filing in for their prayers to the loved dead. He and the King and Tullio—two gentlemen and their servant—were anonymous in the crowd.

Ferdinand murmured, apparently idly, “I made the voyage to island-Sicily recently. While I was there, I saw unusual amounts of smoke and steam issuing up from the crater of Mount Ætna.”

“Are you sure it was unusual?” Conrad felt his face heat, and added apologetically, “Ætna's always a lively mountain, sir.”

“I know.” Ferdinand smiled like a boy. “I'm sure. My advisors were in hysterics—I insisted on climbing some distance up the Valle de Bove.”

The King's smile faded, giving way to determination.

“There are earthquakes continually shuddering along the slopes of the mountain. Although the mountain-top is snow-covered, snow and ice have melted away from the actual crater. I saw minor eruptions. In places the earth is coloured yellow with sulphur. The air stinks.”

Conrad is for a moment back in the house owned by his Uncle Baltazar, where his mother and sister now live, watching the open cracks high up the mountain, that emit veils of smoke by day, and spitting lava by night.

“It was bound to happen.” Ferdinand looked at him as though he were missing
the obvious. “As soon as the black opera began their preliminary rehearsals.”

Conrad could find nothing to say for several minutes. The King broke the silence between them, speaking under the low murmur of the collecting congregation.

“Come in to see me tomorrow morning, Conrad. You and I must talk.”

Regret went through Conrad for the possibility of a day out with Tullio, and likely Paolo, lost to a sense of responsibility. He pushed it aside.

“Don't you think, sir, it would be better to discuss anything new now?”

Ferdinand at last nodded. “It's becoming apparent that we don't have much time.”

He summoned servants, ordering a carriage for Conrad and Tullio alone—Conrad did not object.

We need a truly private discussion, I think
.

The carriage fought its way through Naples' crowded, narrow streets; between high buildings strung with washing between balconies and open shutters. They climbed a long hill almost too steep for the horses, coming to eventual clear ground with palms, cypresses, and buds growing to excess.

Conrad recognised the half-built building site on the hill-top, and pointed it out to Tullio. “Vomero hill's new museum and observatory.”

Tullio Rossi looked under-impressed.

Conrad followed Tullio down from the carriage, Tullio having pulled down the steps to let him descend, and found himself wishing he had his boots instead of his shoes, and a heavier coat on.

The view gave them the Gulf of Naples from Sorrento and Capri over to Vesuvius. The brisk wind in the exposed place would carry any speech away. Conrad caught sight of Tullio looking about himself with a pleased expression—not so much at the sea-wind, and the scent of sulphur drifting from the Burning Fields over to the south-west, as at the distance they were above Naples' roofs, and how unlikely it was, therefore, that anyone could overhear them.

Some fifteen minutes later, King Ferdinand arrived in a coach with no royal coat of arms on the door.

“I trust you as your master does,” Ferdinand said to Tullio as he approached. “What you might hear, you'll keep silent. And it would be advisable, I think, were you to patrol these slopes, just in case there are enemies who would take advantage of us being here. Go.”

Tullio caught Conrad's eye.

He's got used to Paolo-Isaura and the opera people, and we don't treat him as a servant…

Conrad was relieved to see amusement rather than resentment.

Tullio Rossi dropped the King a salute. “Yes, sire!”

Conrad felt an arm link through his as Tullio sloped off, the very picture of a skiving servant.

The King led Conrad towards the green top of Vomero Hill. He released Conrad's arm and lifted his finger, pointing to the south, and traced an imaginary path out from the harbour, west of Sorrento and Capri, south into the Tyrrhenean Sea. It was evident he was not concerned with the shimmering Mediterranean blue, or the light here, which Conrad thought painters would avidly die to have.

“I want you to leave Naples for a while, signore.” Ferdinand's tone was equable, not condemning.

Conrad felt awkward nonetheless. “I haven't finished the libretto—”

“You've completed enough of the first two Acts that il Conte di Argente will be busy for a week setting it, and the cast rehearsing it.”

Ferdinand looked at him suddenly, his expression sympathetic.

“You need to grieve for your father. As for this business between you and the Count—I want you out of here while both you and Capiraso calm down. You
must
reach a point where you can agree to work together: that won't happen in the thick of all this. Additionally, I desire you out of the way of the Prince's Men—and if I can smuggle you out of the city quickly enough, today, you will be. When you return, I'll have defensive measures in place here, and for your family in Catania. For the moment… I would rather you were safe.”

Conrad was warmed despite himself.

“Then… where do I go?” He frowned, having a sudden suspicion. “What do I do?”

“Ah.” Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily looked very bland. “Politicians always have more than one motive… Yes, there is something I would like you to do, Conrad. If you have no objection, I should like you to act as my… diplomatic aide, shall we say?… and take a message from me to a man in exile.”

I'll have to agree or disagree based solely on this much information, that's obvious
.

“I don't blame you for not trusting me, sir,” Conrad said frankly. “Since I can't tell you if I did reveal anything to my—To Alfredo.”

There was an odd hardness in the King's gaze. “I trust you, Conrad. A man doesn't have two fathers. It's not likely that circumstance will arise again.”

Conrad found it difficult to accept the understanding in the man's gaze.

Would it be so bad if I were gone for a day or two?

If I know Roberto Capiraso, the next thing “Il Superbo” is likely to do is flaunt the fact that he's married to Leonora—bring her to rehearsals, invite us all to social dinners, offer to let us use his horses to ride… and all so that it's plain she's
at
his
side, and no one else's.

“How long will I be away from the opera, sire?”

“I would say… less than a week.”

When I get back, we'll likely be too close to deadline for il Superbo's stupid games
…

Conrad did not choose to think about Alfredo Scalese at all.

“All right—yes, sir,” Conrad corrected himself. “I'll take your message. Where am I to go?”

“You'll have sealed orders, to be opened once you're aboard ship. However, I can tell you the general nature of what you'll be doing.”

Conrad nodded. As the thought occurred to him, he added, “Will I be able to take a servant with me?”

The King looked wry. “Yes, you may bring Tullio Rossi.” The unspoken end of the sentence seemed to be
As if either of us could stop him coming with you!

“Thank you, sir.” Conrad reached up and settled his hat before the wind could send it bowling. “What am I to be doing, then?”

“We have a chance to avert another move by the Prince's Men—but this one is on a much larger scale than the attack on the rehearsal hall.”

Conrad's stomach twisted.

How did I come to be responsible for so many people's safety? Oh yes—I volunteered
.

“It concerns matters outside Naples itself.” Ferdinand glanced around, and Conrad found himself gripped by the elbow and steered towards a large rock in the lee of the half-built walls.

Without so much as looking for servants, Ferdinand dusted off the granite with his gloves. “Sit.”

The slab was a reasonable substitute for a bench. Conrad eased himself down—caught himself sitting in the presence of the monarch and half stood up—and felt Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily's hand pushing on his shoulder. The King seated himself on the same slab of rock.

In the lee of the new stonework, the wind was cut off. It felt warm enough that Conrad could feel his body unconsciously relaxing from its clenched stiffness. The sound of the wind through the bushes, and the feel of the sun on his face, somehow made it easier to regain his composure.

“Please continue, sir.”

The outdoor light made the King's round face look pallidly unhealthy—it gave Conrad cause to wonder how long the man had been in meetings and conferences, aimed at fighting the threat to his kingdom.

“I visited more than Ætna when I was absent,” Ferdinand remarked, on an apparent tangent. “On the return voyage, I also called at the island of Stromboli.”

The southern volcanic islands were not visible from here, all of them—Vulcano,
Stromboli, Salina, Lipari, Alicudi and Filicudi, and the rest—being a short distance north of island-Sicily.

Conrad found his gaze straying to mainland-Sicily's volcano, where Vesuvius breathed a haze into the upper atmosphere. “And the Stromboli volcano?”

“There was volcanic upheaval, as ever, from the Lighthouse of the Mediterranean. That's not why I went. I was… summoned.”

Startled, Conrad turned his head. Ferdinand seemed as if he tasted something bitter—as if he didn't like the implications of force, but couldn't omit them.

“In some ways, I owe this throne to the Northern Empire.” The King's mouth twisted as he gazed down on Naples. It was possible from here to pick out Egg Castle, and further along the shore, the roofs of the Palazzo Reale and the Teatro San Carlo. “You're aware of my father's… erratic politics in the last war?”

“Yes, sir.” Ferdinand appeared to require some confirmation. Conrad added, “‘Erratic' is one of the kinder terms for a man who'd sign treaties and break them before he finished the carriage-ride home…”

Ferdinand winced. “Despite that, I managed—after his death—to persuade the North to leave the Two Sicilies alone. It wouldn't have been difficult for France to put in a puppet governor in my place, or leave us to the Hapsburgs. They did neither, but they still could. So, when they give me commands, I have to agree… Shall we walk on?”

Conrad rose and dusted himself off, following the King's lead in walking around the half-risen walls of what would in time become the new museum.

“I would like to ask you for further assistance, Conrad. How much do you know about the situation in the North, after the end of the war?”

“Not much.” Since it seemed to be an afternoon for honesty, Conrad added, “After the fighting I was in, a man steers clear of the thought that it was all for nothing.”

Ferdinand snorted, but it was a noise of agreement, not derision.