Free The Black Opera by Mary Gentle

challenge.
    But Tullio will kick my arse if I don’t find out all I can before I accept . I survived the war and 1816. If it comes to being frightened off, I can weigh a danger as well as anyone.
    Conrad found the King of the Two Sicilies surveying him with a bland gaze, that gave away nothing, for an uncomfortable period of time.
    â€œAnd now, Signore Conrad—we come to the difficulties with your oath.”
    Without pausing for any response, the King strode back down the terrace to one of the French doors. It was immediately flung open from the inside, and a well-dressed footman bowed. “Sire?”
    â€œSummon a blacksmith from the royal stables. Inform Major Mantenucci that I desire to speak with him at his earliest convenience in the map room.”
    â€œImmediately, sire.”
    The King began to pace, his gaze apparently on the flagstones. Conrad didn’t think he saw them.
    The blacksmith arrived.
    Ferdinand ordered, “Strike off those chains.”
    The smith—local, by his dialect—put down a kind of miniature anvil set into a wooden block, that smelled of oiled metal. He busied himself examining the chains, close enough that black smuts from his hands rubbed off on Conrad’s coat, along with cinder-dust from the forge, and orange rust. Conrad looked away as he picked up a hammer.
    The strikes made the anvil and chains ring, vibrating through the bones of Conrad’s arms.
    It was loud enough that he missed what additional orders the King gave to the footman. From the gestures, he suspected it was an order that the man in the leather apron should be paid off well.
    Cuffs released, hinges pivoting open. Ringing coils of chain fell down on the flagstones. A final blow knocked apart the hasp of the collar, jarring Conrad’s head and neck. The man opened the collar and removed it.
    Conrad stood, stepping back.
    His whole body felt light, not just his neck and shoulders. The sea-wind blew salt against him as he breathed in. He made fists and stretched his arms, muscles cracking.
    Write a libretto? Right now, I could fly!
    The terrace door closed behind the blacksmith.
    Ferdinand Bourbon-Sicily turned away from looking, once more, at Vesuvius.
    â€œThe oath, sir.” Conrad managed to sound reasonably respectful. “Let me guess. The same atheism that makes me suited for what you want, also presents a problem? I’m an atheist, and therefore automatically a moral monster. How can I be trusted to keep my word if I don’t have God standing behind me with a big stick?”
    A quirk tugged at the corner of Ferdinand’s lips.
    â€œYou’re not a stupid man, Conrad. That’s good to know. I suppose you’ll say that men give their oaths on sacred relics every day of the week, and then break them?”
    Conrad flexed his neck, his spine welcoming the freedom from the iron. “If you want me to keep silent about what you tell me, I’ll give my word. You’ll have to judge my moral character for yourself, sir, and see if you think I’ll keep it.”
    Conrad didn’t say, Exactly as you have to do with any other man you want to trust, atheist or religious!
    He nevertheless saw recognition in Ferdinand’s gaze.
    â€œConrad, it might be considered dangerous—it seems dangerous, to me—to have only a sense of personal honour to protect one against the very tempting proposals of evil?”
    Conrad said agreeably, “It would be nice if there was something else.”
    Ferdinand pushed his hand through his hair, ruffling it more comprehensively than the wind, and did not quite laugh. “I find it’s the pressures of society that keep most young men from more than the approved vices. Without them ever thinking of religion or ethics… You’re a philosopher, Conrad. I’m told, from other sources, that you live much less well than you might, given your earnings.And that this is because you insist on paying off the