Empire in Black and Gold by Adrian Tchaikovsky Page A

count as your own flesh and blood, and . . . and not . . . not me at all.’
    And so it was said, and a silence fell on them, the three of them, like cinders from a pyre. Behind Stenwold, Totho was visibly cringing, hands clenched into fists over his apron. Che realized that she was shaking, not just a little but hard enough to make her teeth rattle. Her breath was coming out in short gasps and she knew that any moment she was going to break out in tears and make everything so much worse .
    Stenwold was staring at her intently, and for a moment she thought he was really angry, angry enough to hit her, and she flinched away from him.
    But he had never struck her before, and he was not going to do so now. The expression on his face was one she had never seen previously. He had gone pale and sick-looking, and very, very sad, and full of something else: some guilt or horror of his own making. All of this was evident in his face before he turned to leave them.
    ‘I—’ she said, but he was already going, walking out past her, away. ‘Uncle . . . Please!’
    He stopped, his back still towards her, broad with sloping shoulders.
    ‘Totho,’ he said, without looking round, ‘nobody gains by any of this being repeated.’
    Totho just nodded, which Stenwold couldn’t have seen, but there was obviously an understanding between the two of them.
    ‘Uncle . . .’ Che said again. He turned, gently, slowly. His expression was still very sad, very thoughtful.
    ‘You cannot come with me, Cheerwell,’ he said. ‘I have done a great many things that I regretted when the time came. This will not be one of them. I am sorry, though. Sorry for . . . I am sorry .’
    Totho watched her dart into Stenwold’s arms, still shaking, watched Stenwold’s hurt, remorseful look. After a long while the apprentice cleared his throat, and the older man’s eyes locked onto him.
    ‘The . . . athletes will be arriving for the Games. We should . . . go and see.’
    Stenwold’s nod told of his gratitude for this diversion. ‘So we should. Come on, Cheerwell. Dry your eyes.’ He sighed again. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, you’ll see something of my purpose today. Let that something be enough for you.’
    There was a crowd the length of the Pathian Way, the great northern avenue that led to the heart of Collegium. The wealthy and the more prosperous artisans rubbed shoulders unselfconsciously, sitting on the great tiered stone steps that lined the route. The ritual of the Games and the procession of the athletes were older than the College itself. These steps had been thronged like this when the city had still been called Pathis and the Beetle-kinden were second-class citizens and slaves, back in the Bad Old Days.
    Before those comfortable steps thronged the poor, of course – standing room only – but they made up for it with noise and cheer. Being poor in Collegium was only a relative thing, for the poor of Collegium enjoyed ample work, and sewers and clean wells with pumps, and there was food to be had from the civic stores when times were lean. Governance by academics, philanthropists and the wealthy was hit or miss, but in Collegium it hit the mark more often than not. Most importantly, it had always been fashionable to be seen doing charitable work for the lower orders. Even the greediest magnate wanted to be seen to be generous, and even false generosity could fill bellies.
    There was a roar moving along the crowd, a wave of sound making a steady progress matching the speed of the athletes themselves. People began craning forward, even pushing out into the Pathian Way, though there was a scattered line of the city guard to keep them in check, mostly middle-aged men in ill-fitting chain mail. Their presence was enough, though, and every tenth man was a Sentinel wearing the massively bulky plate armour that only Beetle-kinden possessed the sheer stamina to wear. The throng of spectators eddied back into place, but the cheering grew only louder and