Johannes was becoming dizzy from the pain in his leg. A black-skinned boy appeared from the shadows behind him. Johannes looked about him. The braziers were lit, but the filth-floored roadway was deserted. There had been people here before.
The boy, when he spoke, did so with the soft-water French accent of a Creole. “All alone, Tonton? Do you need a place? I’ll show you somewhere warm.” Johannes gritted his teeth and nodded. The boy took him by the hand and began to lead him forward through the leaping shadows, the flames thrown up on either side. The whistle again. Another laugh.
The door to Carmichael’s box opened, and he twisted around in his chair. Seeing the First Lord of the Admiralty enter he started to stand, but Sandwich placed one hand on his shoulder.
“No, no, Carmichael. Do not get up.” He took a seat next to him and whispered to Carmichael’s heavily rouged companion, “My dear, I have confidential business with this man. Would you be so kind?” She gave him a bold look, then smiled and cocked her head so the jewels about her handsome throat glimmered. She made her way out into the corridor. Sandwich watched her go with an appreciative eye.
“Carmichael, I congratulate you. I had no idea you could afford a whore that fine.” Then Sandwich leaned into him, murmuring, “Tell me, does she fuck your friends for tidbits useful to the French, or is she pure recreation?”
Carmichael’s arm spasmed and he tried to stand, but Sandwich had him firmly pressed to his chair. He continued in his pleasant whisper.
“No, no, my dear. Do not attempt to leave. Do you not wish to answer? No matter, we shall ask her ourselves.” Again Carmichael made an effort to stand; again he was forced down. “Really, Carmichael, be still. There is a gentleman outside the door to whom I have paid a large sum of money for his assurance that he will shoot you if you try to leave. And I think Harwood has had enough blood spilled in his theater in the past few days. Shortly we shall return to your house to discuss matters more fully, but for now, stay still. Enjoy the end of the aria. It will be the last music you ever hear, you know. He sings prettily, does he not?”
“Yes.”
“How it must have burned, to have him sent here to take control of your activities. A half-man like that, a performer. Yet he would never have tried to use your stepson to carry messages. I am sure that was your plan, and not approved. Longley was too young, too honorable; even given his debt to you and fear of you, he was bound to be too open in his ways. Manzerotti did far better with the woman who sells coffee and oranges here, and that runt Fitzraven. Did you even notice that Longley told Mrs. Westerman he was going to Harwich? You were too busy flaunting your power. Your wish to see others dance to your tune has made you a bad spy, Carmichael, and the boy is dead with some of your papers still on him. All that chatter about corruption in the Admiralty, and who in London supports the rebel cause. You did well there, I admit.”
He watched Lord Carmichael’s face for any reaction. The man did not move, but he looked as if some light had disappeared from under his skin.
“What will happen to my collection, Sandwich?” he said finally as on stage Manzerotti extended his arms to the painted skies.
“We could arrange for it to be donated to the British Museum. Anonymously, of course. In a month, Lord Carmichael, it will be as if you never existed at all.”
“This way, Tonton,” the boy said, and led him up the last few steps to the attic. “You shall be taken care of here.”
Johannes could barely see, but if it was the pain or the gloom of the place, he could not tell. He guided himself up the stairs leaning his palm on the plaster walls. The love he had given to Manzerotti was the greatest glory of his life. His own talents with the trickeries and artistry of the scene room were insignificant to him, their only merit being that they allowed him to travel at Manzerotti’s side and do his bidding. Manzerotti traded government to government across Europe, charmed them into thinking him their own creature, but never loyal to anything other than his music and himself.
There had been a hard time in Paris three years ago, when Johannes had found himself cornered and alone. He had managed to get a message to Manzerotti, but no help had come. Three days later, having freed himself and left a cellar gory by his escape, he had made his way to Manzerotti’s rooms and fallen at his feet, asking to know why he had been forsaken. Manzerotti had paused in his practice only long enough to look at him, but had made no response and recommenced his work. After an hour Johannes had crawled away and presented himself at the proper time the following day. Manzerotti had greeted him as usual and the matter was never spoken of again. His belief was that he had been tested and succeeded.
Johannes thought of the moment when he had looked up at the Christ hanging above him in the church, sad and sorry. He had realized that he had been punished for his pride, that his role in loving God was not to sing His praises but to serve His true instrument-the boy with the black eyes. The sense of complete submission filled his heart and seemed to burst it open. His love poured from the cracked vessel of his soul in a flood. It was joy, freedom, a certainty that had never left him again.
The Creole boy pushed the door open in front of him. Johannes saw a shadowy attic; at a stove in its center an obscenely fat women was staring at something in a pan. Johannes’s fear suddenly screamed through him as she turned his way. He spun around to flee but found his passage blocked. Two boys and two men had followed them silently up the stairs. One raised a rough wooden truncheon and brought it down behind his ear. He fell to the ground.
The bravos were hysterical. As Sandwich helped Carmichael to his feet, feeling the man trembling under his coat, he looked down onto the stage. Manzerotti was bowing deeply, but lifted his head and looked directly into Sandwich’s eyes. The earl did not acknowledge the look but pushed Carmichael angrily out of the box and through the empty corridor and lobby while the ecstatic yells of the crowd still echoed behind them. He paused by the man outside.
“The woman?”
“We have Mrs. Mitchell, my lord.”
“And Manzerotti?”
“It is all arranged as you requested, sir.”
“Good. I am taking Lord Carmichael home.”
Johannes awoke to find himself bound to a greasy chair. The room was full of people. He hissed at them, and one or two of the ragged boys stepped back. He picked out the witch woman and the last of her little rats. By her side stood a tall man, dressed like a gentleman. He recognized him as the one who had caught hold of his leg the previous night. He was pleased to see an ugly bruise gilding his throat.
“Let me go.” The voice was between a hiss and a croak. “Let me go, and I will not hunt each and every one of you down. You do not know with what you meddle, you filth.”
Crowther stepped forward and slapped the man across his face with enough force to swing his head around.
“Oh yes, we do, Johannes. Carmichael, Mitchell, his friends, Manzerotti-all are taken.”
Johannes laughed and shook his head. “You will never touch my master. He is beyond you.” His eyes were bright, exultant.
Crowther said calmly, “If he escapes tonight, he will be taken tomorrow. He has nowhere to hide.”
Johannes’s eye was beginning to swell. “He does not need to hide!”
Crowther hit him again, and drew a gasp. The fat woman nodded her head in approval.