The Black Opera by Mary Gentle Read Free Book Online

his police work seems to be gathering gossip. Or making it up, for dissemination.
    â€œI have no idea why the King would take me away from the Inquisition. Why he wouldn’t leave a blasphemy charge to the Church.”
    Luigi’s chess-playing expression disappeared. He looked faintly disappointed.
    â€œHow often have I told you, Corradino? Never volunteer information; make the other man pay for it with information of his own.”
    â€œYou don’t have any more information about this. You would have told me.”
    â€œI would? I’m going to have to start watching myself around you, I can tell…” Between Luigi’s amused, deliberate bickering, and Conrad’s effort to coil his chain neatly over one arm while answering him back, the crowded streets between the Port and the Palace passed easily. Conrad was grateful.
    They dismounted from the coach at the Palace. A strong salt wind blew off the Bay.
    Luigi led him through the opulent Byzantine corridors, on his way to a formal audience with one of the most powerful monarchs in the Italian states. A handful of police officers and courtiers trailed them, until Luigi’s offhand wave dispersed everyone.
    They passed the last door, entering an anteroom empty except for servants. Luigi clapped Conrad on the shoulder.
    â€œThat door over there. The King is waiting.”
    Conrad frowned. Two months of living back in Naples has been enough to remind him how King Ferdinand divides his time between his two capitals, Naples on the mainland, and Palermo on the island of Sicily—and remind him,too, that this is a monarch who, amazingly, kept his country intact during the recent revolutionary uprisings and wars with the Emperor, which ravaged every other Italian state.
    What follows from that?
    That Ferdinand II isn’t a stupid man.
    That I need to be very careful . Because I have no real idea why I’m here.
    Luigi Esposito regarded the door to the King’s reception rooms with visibly frustrated curiosity. “I do hope to see you for chess or backgammon soon, Corrado. I’m sure you’ll have a lot to tell me… Better not keep his Majesty waiting.”
    How do I demand that a King tells me what he wants?
    Is this just a quarrel over whether the King or the Holy Office gets the atheist to chastise?
    Conrad nerved himself to walk in, and dredged up a confident smile.
    It faded as the door opened.

    A servant ushered him through, announced him, and effaced himself as only the excruciatingly well-trained can. And made it wordlessly clear that he thought a man who wore no hat, and had no money in his pocket for the traditional tip, was even less of a gentleman than a man in shackles.
    Conrad didn’t bother to tell him that no member of the opera world— “la feccia teatrale,” as they call it; the dregs even of the demimondaine , with its claques, back-biting, scandal, and calumny—will ever be regarded as socially acceptable.
    At the far end of the sunlit chamber, French windows stood open to the air and the Bay of Naples. Conrad felt unreasonably glad to smell the February morning as it warmed. Not imprisoned yet .
    â€œSignore Scalese.”
    A man in a blue cut-away coat and white breeches turned away from watching Vesuvius. The sea air had slightly disturbed his brown hair, cut short and brushed forward in the new Classical Roman fashion. His neck-cloth was crisp and spotless, and his coat bare of all orders except the Lion and Hawk of the Sicilies. Conrad thought the man only a handful of years older than himself—thirty-five at the most. Ferdinand’s round, amiable face gave the impression of plump prosperity without intelligence.
    Which history and current circumstances argue against .
    Conrad met the King’s eyes and was pinned by an unwavering, amiable, but surprisingly keen gaze.
    This could be as dangerous as the Dominicans .
    A formal bow was difficult, chains clasped to his