Well, there was always a chance that Hovan was right. Tarlac was well aware the universe held a lot more things than he knew, but this was one he had no intention of bothering about. If the G.o.ds were interested in him, they'd shown no signs of it, and he saw no reason to change his stand on the matter unless they did.

The procession including Tarlac, Hovan and Yarra was at the altar by then, and this time the new clanmember was the only one who didn't kneel. He bowed to the green-robed Speaker standing on the dais, then, at her gesture, ascended the three steps to stand facing her. She grasped his wrist, led him to the altar, and indicated that he should place his hands on it, palms down.

Tarlac cooperated willingly, but his attention was less on what he was doing or the chant Daria had begun than the statuettes on the altar's upper tier. There were eleven of them, images of the Traiti G.o.ds-- three of whom were actually, by his definition, G.o.ddesses--as exquisitely crafted as a cloudcat-made tapestry. They were about thirty centimeters high, sculpted and colored with such artistry that they might have been miniature Traiti, perfect but unmoving.

Then Daria's chant ended. Tarlac stepped back from the altar, crossed hands over his chest, and bowed. That ended the ceremony, and started the party.

As Tarlac rejoined Hovan, he discovered there weren't as many Traiti in the gathering hall as he'd thought. The lane of bodies which was all he'd been able to see had concealed tables laden with food and drink, as well as other members of the clan.

Several females and younglings came forward carrying drinks--and something the Ranger had known only intellectually suddenly became an emotional reality to him. This was a family, as close and loving as any human family, and he was a part of it. Until now, no living human could testify to anything but Traiti enthusiasm and skill in battle.

The remains of those who'd run into Traiti suicide commandos were even more eloquent. But these adolescent females offering gla.s.ses to the five from the Hermnaen weren't fighters. They were no taller than Tarlac, and he had adapted enough, thanks to the shipboard artwork, to think of them as attractive young ladies.

The girl who approached him said something, smiling, took a sip from one of the two gla.s.ses she held and handed it to him, then touched his forehead. Hovan had told him about this; it was part of the adoption.

It wasn't essential, but it was a good way to let him meet his new relatives and vice versa--as well as being a good excuse for a party.

Tarlac took a small drink, returned the touch, and traded gla.s.ses to drink again.

Then Hovan tapped him on the shoulder, and after they traded drinks and touches--just once, this time--he introduced the girls who had served the two of them, smiling widely. "Sharya and Casti my n'ka'esten are, from one birth."

Tarlac greeted Casti as he had Sharya, impressed. Twin daughters! No wonder Hovan wanted to play the proud parent, with multiple births in any given clan averaging about a century apart. "I see why you asked me to restrain my curiosity, ruhar. It was worth the wait."

Others, three boys and five women, one carrying an infant, joined them as he was attempting a polite comment to the girls in what little Language he knew. The first one Hovan introduced was Sandre, mother of the twins and the only open-shirted female Tarlac had seen. She had Honor scars identical to Hovan's, which surprised Tarlac for a moment since he knew she couldn't have taken the Ordeal. He decided--and later learned he was correct--that they must be because she'd borne the twins. He didn't know whether it was proper or not, but it shouldn't hurt to be polite; he gave her the respectful crossed-arm bow.

It didn't. He heard approving comments, then she said one of the few things he understood: "You do me honor, ruhar," and traded drinks and touches.

Tarlac had no time to reply before he had to greet the rest of what he could only think of as Hovan's immediate family. The last he met was the youngest, and when Tarlac reached to touch the baby girl, he found out the truth of something he'd heard about babies.

They liked to taste things.

Tarlac yelped, more in surprise than pain, pulled his finger out of her grasp, and ruefully inspected the small wounds. "Hey, youngster, I thought there was only supposed to be one exchange of blood."

She gurgled happily at him while her mother spoke.

"She teething is," Hovan translated, then examined the bite himself.

"Want you medical help?"

Tarlac shook his head, grinning. "I'm not that fragile--she just startled me."

"Good. She really too young is, here to be, but I wanted you all to meet."

"I'm glad you did," Tarlac said, as the mother and baby left for the nursery. "She's a pretty little one." He meant it. She was prettier than a human at the same age, he found himself thinking. The infant Traiti seemed somehow more . . . finished, maybe because Traiti never grew noticeable hair, or maybe because he had adapted more thoroughly than he knew. Whatever the reason, the fact was undeniable. So was the fact, he thought grimly, that if he died in the Ordeal she would very probably die too, under Imperial weapons.

"You only that say, because she the first you met have who smaller than you is," Hovan said, wondering at Steve's brief frown. This was supposed to be a glad celebration--and it was all right; the man's expression was clearing.

"Well, maybe a little," Tarlac conceded. "When a teenage kid's as tall as I am and ma.s.ses at least twice as much, it's nice to see someone smaller. And speaking of size--" He held up his drink, about the tenth or twelfth gla.s.s he'd traded. "This wine doesn't have much of a kick, but even if I only take a sip every time I meet someone, it won't be long before I'm wiped out. You might stay fairly sober, but I won't be able to, even if I were used to drinking. I'll probably make an unG.o.dly fool of myself."

Hovan grinned. "Probably, and it expected is. The wine mild is because you small are. If you Traiti were, we would something stronger drinking be. No adoption party successful is, unless the new ruhar must in bed poured be."

Tarlac had to laugh. "By that standard, ruhar, this'll likely be the most successful adoption party in Traiti history! But let's not make it a success too early, okay? I'm hungry."

"Food good sounds," Hovan agreed. "And I will with you stay, in case anything must translated be. Ka'ruchaya Yarra and I the only two are, who much English speak."

Several more drink-trades later, Tarlac made it to one of the well-stocked tables and built himself a thick sandwich. That process got quite a few interested comments, but by Traiti custom none were addressed to him until he'd finished eating. When he was done, the interest in getting him drunk was replaced, at least temporarily, by inquiries about the new way of fixing something to eat. It was hard for the Ranger to believe that people as enthusiastic about food as the Traiti hadn't either stumbled across something as simple as a sandwich, or purposely developed it, but their keen attention and the eager experimentation that followed made it clear they hadn't.

Unfortunately for Tarlac's sobriety, that respite didn't last long.

Within half an hour, his n'ruhar were again introducing themselves.

Hovan wasn't needed often as a translator; with so many anxious to meet their new relative, Tarlac had very limited opportunities for conversation.

He soon lost any trace of doubt that he would live up to custom, too, whether he wanted to or not. By the time about a third of those in the gathering hall had introduced themselves, he had a distinct buzz on.

He had also come to the firm, if rather woozy, conclusion that these people, his new family, were the finest in the galaxy. Especially the big gray-skinned guy beside him, the brother he'd never had. Before.

He was never sure, later, how many more of Ch'kara he did meet. Things were getting blurry and disconnected, and never improved. He did remember singing, probably off-key, and later hanging onto Hovan's arm for support.

Hovan felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down to see a silly grin on Steve's upturned face. The man mumbled something, so slurred Hovan couldn't make it out, then released Hovan's arm and closed unfocussed eyes to slump bonelessly to the floor, still smiling.

Looking around at the n'ruhar who had seen Steve's collapse, Hovan translated the Ranger's earlier prediction aloud into Language, then smiled indulgently down at him. "And it seems he was right. He has had a very successful party. Time to pour him, as I promised, into bed." He stooped, picked up the slightly-built man with no difficulty, and turned to Yarra. "I think he'd better sleep in the infirmary tonight, Ka'ruchaya."

"I agree. And tell the nurse to let him sleep until he wakes by himself. The Supreme has said he and the First Speaker will wait until Steve is ready to see them."

"They do him much honor."

Tarlac woke up once during the night, and was vaguely aware of being helped to someplace where he vomited and afterwards collapsed. Then he was carried back to bed, where dim light showed him a rea.s.suring shark-toothed smile before a cool cloth covered his forehead and eyes and he went out again.

The next time he woke it was to lights that were too bright. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, wishing he were still unconscious.

There was a light touch on his arm, and a musical voice said something he couldn't understand but thought was sympathetic. He didn't want sympathy, he wanted to die. Well, maybe he just wanted anything that would end the misery. He recognized a hangover, though he'd never had one this bad before; while it would end in time, he wouldn't enjoy the next few hours.

Then an arm under his head and shoulders raised him and a different voice, Hovan's, said, "Drink." There was a gla.s.s at his lips; he obeyed without thought.

What he drank was almost too sour to swallow, but within a few minutes he was feeling better. A little bit. "What time is it?"

"Midday, twelve and a half hours by your timepiece."

Tarlac groaned again, forcing his eyes open. "You do this to everybody you adopt?"

"No, ruhar. You a bad reaction had, an allergy, Doctor Channath says.

You should soon better feel."

"Uhh. That'll teach me to drink Traiti liquor." Tarlac tried to sit up, refusing Hovan's a.s.sistance, noticing only then that he'd been undressed and was on a sleeping mat laid atop a platform instead of on the floor. He made it upright, but the effort brought on a wave of dizzy sickness, and standing up didn't work. His knees buckled, forcing Hovan to catch him and sit him back on the bed.

"You should in bed remain," Hovan told him, concerned. "The medicine more time than that needs."

"I have to get to the 'fresher." Tarlac tried again to stand, somewhat more successfully, and managed a couple of wobbly steps. Then Hovan's arm went around his shoulders, steadying and turning him.

"This way, ruhar. That door to the hallway leads."

"Okay." Tarlac was gratefuy for the guidance, but appreciated Hovan's simple presence and his uncritical support even more.

By the time Tarlac finished cleaning up, the dose of whatever-it-was had taken full effect and he felt considerably more able to take in his surroundings. One of the first things he noticed was that Hovan was no longer in uniform; instead, he wore civilian clothes, a silvery open shirt with bright blue trousers and quilted mid-calf boots. A chain fastened his knife to the sash that belted his trousers. He'd brought similar clothing for the Ranger, in red and gold.