by Mary Gentle
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?”
CHAPTER 34
Conrad 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 hi
s 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.
Her hand grew no hotter in his, but it was as warm as if it had lain in the summer sun. He could not help stroking it, chiefly that web of skin between the thumb and forefinger. He wondered idly, Do the Returned Dead came back with anything of interest to those who read palms?—Is there an imprint of death on them?
Stop thinking. Delaying. Find out what brings her here in such secrecy!
Conrad asked directly, “Warn me about what?”
The crease of flesh between her brows was her familiar frown. His hand moved to smooth it away with the pad of his forefinger, and he had to force it to remain still at his side. Because it’s no longer my place.
“It’s Roberto. I’ve been afraid for a while now—a long time, if I’m honest—”
“Does he hurt you?”
She blinked in the light of the oil lamps, as if the question took her completely aback.
“Oh—no. He doesn’t hit me. Roberto would never hurt me! But…”
Say “But… I want to leave him.” Say “But… I made a mistake, I want to come back to you.”
“There were always rumours about Ugo… Ugo was the Count of Argente before him…” She seemed to realise she was rambling and visibly pulled herself together. “He’s a rich man—Roberto, I mean—and one doesn’t move in those circles and meet completely honest men. I thought in the beginning that he was content to receive his rents and run his enterprises with that money. But I started to think… to look… I think that Roberto might be a member of—Well,” She finished in a rush. “Of a criminal society.”
“What?” Conrad stifled an uncontrollable laugh. “He what?—you’re serious.”
Leonora nodded, head lowered, chipped white tooth nipping at her lower lip. “I’m almost certain that Roberto is a Man of Honour.”
Her voice was a whisper.
“He has too much money. His competitors, they go out of business. No one talks of such things to a woman, socially, but because I’m what I am, they excuse a strange question here and there. Some of his dealings are not honest.”
Shocked, Conrad thought, If true, surely the King would have discovered this when he took him on?
But Roberto is the only composer he could find.
And if il Superbo has connections with crime that don’t directly interfere with the counter-opera…
Ferdinand would be prepared to ignore that.
Ferdinand would ignore anything. Mafia, Camorra, Carbonari—Freemasons—Knights of Malta—Order of the Golden Fleece—you name it! Roberto can be anything he wants, short of being one of the Prince’s Men, so long as he composes for the Two Sicilies!
Or is this just Nora being naive about how business works?
Conrad picked up Leonora’s other hand and held both of them together. It would have been so easy to put his arms around her.
She looked up, white lamp-light catching in her great blue-violet irises. Her black pupils were wide enough almost to swallow up all the colour. Conrad felt that look from his sternum to his groin. In the past, everything had been abandoned at that look, to be dealt with later, after they had gone to bed with each other.
“Nora, if you’ve suspected this for some time, why does it worry you now?”
“You need to leave Naples.” Her hands closed hard on his, her grip as strong as a man’s, though her hands were slender. “Corrado, please. Listen to me. You’ve done what the King wanted you to do. Roberto told me you’ve all but finished the book. Go. You don’t need to be here when the opera goes on. Roberto won’t be, I’ve heard him say so; nor will I.”
“He won’t?” Conrad made an abstracted mental note that choosing Isaura as the conductor had been the right decision. He was numbly aware of a feeling of betrayal—Roberto Conte di Argente should at least stay and see things through, not take his wife and flee the town—
But then, if I were Nora’s husband, I’d want to keep her safe above all else.
“The end of Act Four isn’t done,” he protested. “The finale. I’m still doing alterations for just about everybody. My cousin Paolo’s staying to conduct.”
Leonora stood, swiftly. “Never mind your cousin! She can take care of herself—”
Conrad goggled up at Leonora. She stared back, the Nora of the Accademia quarter, both fists on her hips.
“Was I supposed not to notice? Never saw a more obvious Sapphic in my life! She’s more or less said she doesn’t want to be looked after, Corrado. I’m here to talk to you. For God’s sake, leave Naples—come with us, if you wish; we have a coach, and I’ll persuade Roberto! Or take a ship. Do whatever you want, but leave.”
“Why?” he demanded.
“Because I don’t know what my husband is mixed up in, but if he’s so determined to leave Naples by the morning of the performance, then you shouldn’t stay! For all I know he’s a revolutionary. It won’t be the first time an opera’s been the sign for an uprising! The lazzaroni are a mob waiting to happen, you can hear it in the harbour and the market.”
Conrad put out a hand to stop the flow of her words. “Why me?”
She stood with an unearthly stillness, in the empty stone room, but now it had a poised quality as if she only awaited the right moment to run.
“Roberto… has too much money. Too many friends. He had you put in prison.” Her lower lashes glinted, a fine film of moisture gathering there. “He used his friends and had you put in prison without even thinking about it! I asked him not to, Conrad. He said if I ever asked him for anything else on your behalf, I wouldn’t like what he would do. If he thinks the opera doesn’t need you… I know what the Honoured Men are like! Suppose they have you killed?”
“Then I’ll come back Returned Dead and you’ll never get rid of me.”
“Che stronzo!”
The slap of her hand disrupted his attempt at a smile. Her flesh was heavy, as well as heated; he realised his cheekbone would bruise.
All her orphanage heritage was in her flashing eyes and her voice, lowered to a hiss.
“You stupid bastard! What do you think I am, some lady who knows nothing of the world? The Honoured Men took young women and boys every year from the house where I grew up; we all knew they went to rich men. We knew why. Those are people who care nothing for others and I am so afraid I was mistaken, and that Roberto is one of them—”
The Returned Dead do not cry. This is what received wisdom says.
Conrad put that information with the rest of received wisdom and stood up, enfolding Leonora in his arms. Her body quivered with anger, and she bowed her forehead against his high collar and cravat, but hardly rested there. Hot fat tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped onto the lapel of his coat.
“Roberto is a jealous man.” It seemed as if she put her life in those few words.
Her hair smelled of sunlight, where he buried his face against it.
“I don’t want him to be part of something like that. I don’t want him to hurt you.” Her eyes were shadowed as she moved back. “I don’t know what’s truly happening in Naples. I just know that Roberto thinks it’s dangerous. He’s sending me away the morning before the opera opens. You can think what you like about Roberto, but he loves me, he’d never put me in any danger. If he thinks I should leave—then I know you should leave, Corrado.”
“Because you loved me once.” He couldn’t stop himself sounding bitter.
“You complete idiot!”
She grasped the fabric of his coat as if she lacked balance.
“You can leave Naples now. Leave.”
Conrad felt as if he physically swayed where he stood. Their breathing echoed in the confined space. He fought to collect himself.
“Nora, the libretto isn’t complete. I can’t leave.”
Her fingers straightened his coat lapels, as if the precision needed for those movements could
rein in her temper. “Corrado, I am trying to… Will you please listen? I think… I think Naples will just become more and more dangerous for you.”
He put his hands over hers, stilling them. To have her adjusting his clothing with her own fingers while he remembered Venice… Too much. “I’ll leave when I can. If there’s anything I learn of your husband that you should know—I’ll warn you.”
Nora made a fist and used it to push herself away from him, swaying where she stood, face still wet. The heat of her flesh dried her tears more quickly than would have happened with a living person.
“I don’t know why I tried.” She shook her head.
I can’t believe I’m not permitted to touch her. This is Nora: my Nora.
Conrad moved forward at the exact moment that she did.
He slid his palm over the fine curls at the nape of her neck, under her bonnet; tilting her head so that she looked up at him.
She stood up on her toes, quickly, and kissed him on the mouth.
“Oh, Dio, no!” She stepped back. “I can’t—I shouldn’t—”
She slipped out, veil pulled down, the curtain barely moving at her passing.
He found Enrico Mantenucci in a confluence of dry aqueducts, in conference with the Spaniard-looking Colonel Alvarez. He waited until the two men had finished their business before approaching the Commendatore.
Enrico listened quietly.
“We checked Argente out,” he said, Conrad having told all that he remembered. “There are some Sicilian connections, yes, if you follow me. A few less than honest business connections in his banking, left over from when the previous Count Argente died—his brother Ugo.”
“So, not honest, but honest enough for us?”
Mantenucci clapped him on the shoulder. “Exactly! And since neither the Camorra nor the società onorata support the Prince’s Men in any way that we can discover, I think you can stop worrying.”
“I’m in opera; I never stop worrying!” Conrad muttered.
The iron-haired police chief gave him a slow look of appraisal, taking in the bruise under his eye.
