"Most English understand—" Tarlac broke off. "Oh, hell, I'm starting to adapt to your speech patterns. I'm not trying to make fun of you. If I've offended, I'm sorry."
"There no offense is," Hovan said calmly. "Go on."
"Okay. Most of them understand English, and can indicate yes and no. That's about all you can expect unless one of your human or Irschchan prisoners is familiar with tongue-talk." Tarlac grinned. "We made that mistake too. We lost some time by it, but it wasn't a disaster. They may even have picked up some of your language by now. They're fast learners."
After a few quick words from Hovan, one of his men rose, dressed, and left. Tarlac gathered he was going to tell someone with more authority about the cloudcats immediately, and Hovan confirmed it.
There wasn't much talk after that, the serious questions seeming to have run out, and in the shuffle that followed of Traiti settling into their bedrolls for the night, Tarlac spent a moment considering his surprise at their action. The Traiti hadn't waited a night or even an hour to correct something which surely was not an urgent mistreatment. The cloudcats were comfortable, Hovan said, even if they were confined; the human prisoners were almost certainly confined somehow, too. Merely treating intelligent beings as nonsapient was a cause for dishonor, it seemed, which spoke well of Traiti honor. True, the dishonor might be in underestimating a possible enemy—but that didn't quite seem to fit, somehow.
When the messenger returned and had taken his place in the sleeping room, Hovan touched a control on the bulkhead to darken the room. Then he said a couple of words, and all but Tarlac joined him in what the Ranger thought could be a prayer, a chant, or a song. Whatever it was, he liked it; the sounds in the musical Traiti language evoked peace. When it was over, the room grew quiet.
By Tarlac's inner clock, though, it was still too early to sleep. And so much had happened that he wasn't sure he could have slept if it were late for him instead. So he lay there in the dark silence, hands linked behind his head, and let his thoughts wander.
He had plenty to think about, and not enough solid facts to make any conclusions reliable. Most of what he'd learned only served to raise further questions. The Ordeal was the key to the whole thing; Fleet-Captain Arjen had said as much. And it was dangerous, Arjen made no secret of that—but how dangerous? Aside from the fact that it left scars and wasn't universal, he knew little about it. Had they tested any other humans before deciding to try a Ranger? If so, what had happened? He had no way of knowing.
Then there was the evident contrast between battle-readiness in men and ship, and the obvious concern for mental comfort in the ship's decoration. Being a generalist, not a xenopsych, Tarlac could only wonder about it. Still, morale was as vital as guns, and he had to admit that the shipboard art gallery was no more unlikely than the forested recreation areas on the Sovereign-class cruisers. It was less space-consuming, as well, though to a ship the size of a battle cruiser that wasn't really significant. On the other hand, despite their designation, IBCs weren't purely battle craft, and were often sent on long-haul non-combat missions. This ship and the others in the Traiti fleet, from what he'd seen, were warships, pure and simple. If nothing else, they just didn't have the size to be either multi-purpose or long-duration.
That made him think. Unless the Traiti were a lot more fragile psychologically than any human thought, such concern with amenities on a warship was out of character. They might be more alien than other evidence indicated—or a lot more aesthetic. He couldn't believe they were all that fragile psychologically, and his current close contact was showing less, rather than more, underlying alienness. That left the last possibility, that these ferocious fighters were also artists.
If there were any parallels at all with Terra, that could be true. History showed plenty of military men, on any side in any war, who had expressed themselves through art. Tarlac could think of several offhand, just from the last World War: Hirohito, poet; Mauldin, cartoonist; Eisenhower and Churchill, both painters; and Hitler, architect. It seemed plausible that art was as important here in everyday surroundings as it seemed; he would use that as a working hypothesis unless he found evidence to the contrary.
Then there were the few hints he had about family life. It was important, that was obvious, and he couldn't help speculating, despite almost total lack of data, on what it was like. There was strong clan structure, yes, but "clan" covered a lot of territory. With the low proportion of women and the touchiness about parenthood, the setup might be like the old Arabian sheikdoms, with women belonging to the dominant males and kept in a kind of protective custody, used as breeding machines.
He didn't like that picture, though he knew a lot of human men would find it an attractive fantasy. Still, under the circumstances, it seemed like a reasonable assumption.
Then he rolled over, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders, as his thoughts went back to his earlier misgivings. Dammit, he didn't want to brood about that! Sure, bringing peace would be worth his life; plenty of others had paid that price, without the half-promise he had. He'd have to follow them into final nothingness eventually, and he'd go without protest if he knew it would mean the end of this ten-year slaughter—but it wouldn't.
He couldn't die, not if he was to bring peace. He had to live, to survive an Ordeal that sometimes killed beings as tenacious of life as the sharks they resembled. It helped, knowing that they wanted him to succeed—and why shouldn't they? It was their race's survival that was at stake, not humanity's.
If it was possible, he promised himself, he'd do it. He had a brief vision of himself at a Grand Audience afterward, approaching the Emperor accompanied by several shadowy Traiti. He was in full formal uniform, his dress cloak brushing the carpet—but his shirt was open, neatly arranged to show the four scars down his chest, and he let himself smile at the image. Wouldn't the newsies and protocol perfectionists be upset!
But that was enough of that; he really should try to rest. It had been a rough day, a strain on even a Ranger's ability to adapt. Stretched out in the dark, surrounded by the soft rhythms of breathing and the somehow reassuring smell of clean bodies, Tarlac felt his tension ease. Only then did he realize just how much the strain had fatigued him, and it wasn't long before his own breathing joined the comfortable pattern of his sleeping companions'.
Hovan touched the light control, then rolled over on his mat and looked at the human in the growing wake-light. Steve was still asleep, curled on his side, half in and half out of the blanket, and he looked incredibly vulnerable. There were scars on the man's back, Hovan noted; studying them, he decided they had been deliberately inflicted, probably by some sort of lash. Perhaps that meant the Ranger was tougher than he looked, and had a better chance in the Ordeal than was generally believed. Hovan hoped so, since he found himself beginning to like the frail-seeming human who would soon be his ruhar.
He was glad, now, that he had never voiced his private doubts about Ka'ruchaya Yarra's decision to offer adoption to an alien and enemy. He did wonder again why she had thought a human would be suitable, but she had left him no choice if he found the man worthy; to disobey her was unthinkable.
Apparently either his scrutiny or the wake-light had become too intense. Steve was beginning to stir, his eyes opening as he rolled over.
It was the light that had awakened Tarlac, to see Hovan smiling at him. He smiled back. Thin as his mat was, it was as comfortable as the bed in his apartment at the Imperial Palace in Antarctica; he'd slept well. "Morning, Hovan."
The Traiti was puzzled. "Yes, for this part of the crew."
"It's a greeting," Tarlac explained as he rose. "It doesn't mean too much any more; it's just a habit."
"I understand." Hovan was smiling again, also up now. So were the rest of the room's occupants, busy taking uniforms and gear from their lockers. Tarlac retrieved his own uniform from the cleaner in the bathing room and dressed, then returned to the sleeping room to put on his gun-and-equipment belt.
Rather to his surprise, he found the room empty except for Hovan, whose uniform shirt was folded open to expose his Honor scars. That, the Ranger already knew, wasn't standard. Gesturing, he asked, "What's up?"
Hovan motioned him to follow and led the way silently until they were on their way to the meal hall. At last, he decided how to phrase what he had to say. "After first-meal, I clan business have." He indicated the open shirt. "This shows that I with my clan status act, not with this rank." He tapped the white tabs on his collar. "This you concerns, Steve. Some clan must you adopt, and I Ch'kara offer. It not the biggest clan is, or richest, but never has it dishonored been. You will as one of us treated be, if you Ch'kara choose, and I will as your Ordeal sponsor stand."
Tarlac stopped, looking up at the serious gray face. He had the same feeling of sudden unreality he'd had when Linda extended His Majesty's invitation to join the Rangers. Adoption was a necessary prelude to the Ordeal, he knew that, but he hadn't expected it until they reached Homeworld. Yet he had no doubt that Hovan's offer was serious, and that it was as deeply significant to Hovan as it was to himself.
Looking directly into the Traiti's clear green eyes, Tarlac said, "If it won't require me to violate my oath to the Empire, I'll join Ch'kara gladly. And I'd be proud to have you as my sponsor."
"The adoption you to the clan binds, not to the military. None would you ask, your oath to break." Hovan touched the man's shoulder. "But now come. It not good is, first-meal to miss." They moved on toward the meal hall.
As before, Tarlac didn't recognize any of the plentiful food. There were different kinds of meat and two kinds of fruit, one pink and one a brilliant scarlet, all of it good. When they finished, Hovan guided Tarlac to the bridge.
One of the deck officers noticed them as they entered, and called Arjen's and Exvani's attention to the human and the open-shirted Traiti. Both Captains stood, bowing.
Tarlac was astonished at the sudden apparent reversal of rank. Granted, the Imperial military had officers whose civil rank was far higher than their military one—Life Duke/Marine Captain David Scanlon, for example—but in the Empire, it wasn't possible to go from one system to the other at will. Things had to be different here, if clan business and clan status took priority over defense and on-duty military rank. Watch and learn…
Hovan returned the two officers' bows, speaking English for Steve's benefit. "I word from Ch'kara's Mother bear, Honored Ones."
"Your Mother's words we hear, Honored One," Arjen replied formally.
"Ka'ruchaya Yarra's words to me: That I this man should judge. If he in honor came, and I him worthy found, Ch'kara's shelter was I to offer. He armed and freely came, as fighter, not captive, and I have him observed. I say she will him as clan-son accept, and I may for her his blood-oath take."
There were a few exclamations of disbelief from those of the bridge crew who understood enough English to know what had been said, but they were quickly silenced by Arjen's glare.
"Ch'kara's Ka'ruchaya generous is," the Fleet-Captain said. "But this assignment secret was. How knew she?"
"Our Speaker her informed. No breach there was."
When Arjen nodded as though that explained everything, Tarlac had to resist an impulse to shake his head violently. It felt as if it were full of cobwebs. Hovan needing his Clan Mother's permission to perform an adoption wasn't too hard to accept; at least nominally, women ran families in quite a few cultures. But a "Speaker" being able to give out classified information was damn near incredible—and having it accepted so matter-of-factly made it even worse. Still, he couldn't object; he was a guest here, and Hovan was going on. "He should a proper ceremony have, or as close as may under war conditions done be. Will you have any n'Cor'naya who free are, in the exercise hall assemble?"
"Of course, Cor'naya. In half a tenth-day?"
"Fine," Hovan said. "Afterwards, I must a message to Ch'kara's clanhome on Norvis send, clan priority."
"You will it have," Arjen replied.
"My thanks."
With that, Hovan and Tarlac left the bridge, going to the meal hall to wait the hour or so that was "half a tenth-day." Once they were settled with mugs of hot chovas, Tarlac said, "You must have one hell of a lot of clan status."
"Enough," Hovan said with a smile. "I have six younglings shared, and I have an officer been for almost a year. That does status bring, near what Ch'kara's oldest male enjoys, close to Ka'ruchaya Yarra and she who for the Lords speaks, Daria."
Well, Tarlac thought with amused chagrin, there went his last night's speculation about females being property. He must have been tireder than he'd thought—he should never have gotten that idea after Hovan had referred to a Clan Mother administering the death penalty! Oh, well. "If it's not prying, how old are you?"
"You will soon of Ch'kara be; no prying is. I thirty-five Homeworld years have, almost forty-six Imperial Standard. You?"
"Thirty-five too, but Standard."
Hovan made a quick calculation. "Twenty-seven, Homeworld. And you already a Ranger are? That hard to believe is. How?"
"It's not really a matter of age," Tarlac said. "They grab all of us young, on purpose. They got me when I applied for the Naval Academy and took that ungodly battery of tests. Those ran for a solid week, and by the time they were over I was beat—so tired it didn't even register when, late afternoon of the last day, someone knocked on the door of my room. But when the door opened anyway and I rolled over to see who the intruder was, I damn near fainted. Linda Ellman was standing in the doorway grinning at me, and I thought for a while I was dreaming. Rangers do have better things to do than show up in cadet-candidates' rooms, after all. It just doesn't happen.
"But she was there, and she invited me into the group. I'm not too sure what I said, because the next day I'd decided all over again that it was a dream. It wasn't until later in the morning, when she showed up again as we were getting ready for the swearing-in ceremony, that I started believing. Until then, I'd had every intention of staying in the Navy. When she asked if I'd reconsidered, though, I realized I couldn't pass up the chance, and I said yes.
"When I did, she smiled and said, 'We thought you would,' then pinned a badge on my cadet tunic and took me to the Palace to meet Emperor Yasunon. We were together for most of the next two years, with her giving me on-the-job training." Tarlac smiled, reminiscent. "That was a good time. But I gather things were different for you?"
"Different, yes," Hovan said. "My life for a fighter routine has been. I this life early chose, and at fourteen I was to fighter school sent. At eighteen I the final tests passed, then the Ordeal took and the ground combat service joined. From there I rank made, and last year won I these." He indicated his collar tabs again.
"Um. You all come up through the ranks, then? No direct commissions?"
"That right is. And all officers must n'Cor'naya be."
"So what's the average age for someone to make Team-Leader?"
"Between sixty and sixty-five Homeworld years."
Tarlac whistled admiringly. "And you're half that. Damn good! I can see why that'd gain you status." He hesitated, then decided to ask; Hovan had said there was no prying involved. "What about the young you shared? They gave you status too,"—Hovan had mentioned them even before his rank—"okay. But what're they like? How—"
Hovan cut the man off with a gesture, noted the expression of distaste at his extended claws, and carefully didn't smile. "The younglings you should for yourself see. They will us on Homeworld meet. Can you until then your curiosity restrain?"
"If you want me to," Tarlac said. He'd had little experience with proud parents, but was quite familiar with people wanting to show off; it was one aspect of a Ranger's job, usually boring, occasionally pleasant.
"I think you will not disappointed be." Hovan knew he was smiling. It would be good to introduce Steve to the clan, especially to Sharya and Casti. He was sure the man would find acceptance and, Lords willing, the closeness he had sacrificed for his Empire. The man could not truly miss what he had never known, growing up with only his two parents, but it was something he should have. Now, though, he had to explain what Steve was to do at the ceremony.
When they arrived at the exercise hall, half a tenth-day almost to the second after they'd left the bridge, the hall was crowded with open-shirted officers and men from the entire combined Fleet, waiting silent and expectant. Tarlac was aware of what this ceremony meant, and was determined to carry out the role Hovan had explained to him in a way that would do credit to his new family.
As soon as they had taken their places in the open area in the center of the floor, Hovan raised his arms and began a songlike chanting similar to the previous night's. This time, Tarlac knew that it was a prayer asking the Lords' blessing on his adoption. Unable to join in, knowing neither words nor music, the Ranger stood at parade rest, his head bowed. As a relaxed agnostic, he was quite willing to honor others' beliefs as far as he could.
The adoption ceremony itself was simple, an exchange of blood and oaths. When Hovan had explained it, Tarlac had wondered briefly, surprised that it was so close a parallel to some of Terra's ceremonies. He'd finally decided it was almost inevitable; an exchange of vital fluid was an obvious symbol of kinship, and the wrist was an equally obvious place to draw blood, on a humanoid.
So, when Hovan extended a claw and dug into his left arm, Tarlac used the dagger he'd borrowed from his sponsor to follow suit. They took token sips of each other's blood, and then Hovan held the cuts together while the Ranger gave his oath, including his own modification of it.
"I pledge to Clan Ch'kara that I will bring no dishonor to its name, and will defend that name and the clan's property and people to the best of my ability, so long as that involves no harm or dishonor to the Terran Empire I have also sworn to protect."
The qualification drew an unspoken sense of approval from the gathered n'Cor'naya, perhaps not surprisingly among these people. Hovan replied, "For Mother Yarra and Clan Ch'kara, I your pledge accept. Ch'kara you claims, as kin in blood and honor. The clan you guards, as you it defend."
The brief ceremony over, Hovan released his new ruhar's wrist. Tarlac grabbed it and applied pressure to stop the bleeding, noting that Hovan's wound was already closing, as he considered his new and unique position. He was a Ranger of the Empire, yet at the same time he was a member of a Traiti—until now, an enemy—clan. He had carefully qualified his oath, and he'd done everything he could for the Empire before boarding the Hermnaen. Still, the idea of owing allegiance to both sides in a war was … disquieting. He had to resolve the war now. He didn't expect to have to decide between the sides in battle; he was out of the war as an active agent. But he was going to be damned active at peacemaking!
In the meantime, most of the n'Cor'naya had closed their shirts, signifying a return to Fleet duty, and were quietly leaving the exercise hall. Only four remained, Arjen and three that Hovan introduced as members of Ch'kara; they greeted Tarlac as well as their scanty English and his non-existent Language would allow.
It was proper now for them to show concern over their ruhar's still-bleeding wrist, and they did. Tarlac understood, without quite knowing how, and appreciated it. Once the greetings were over, Hovan led Steve out of the exercise hall and deeper into the ship. "Come, ruhar. You should medical help have."
Tarlac didn't need any more than his nose, a few minutes later, to know they were nearing a medical facility. The smell of antiseptic had to be universal, at least for warm-blooded oxygen breathers like Terrans and Irschchans—and Traiti. The Ranger was willing to bet cloudcats' antiseptics would have smelled the same, if they'd had any.
The cleanliness was as characteristic as the odor, and when a Traiti in pale blue came up to Tarlac and took his arm, he didn't resist. The bleeding still hadn't stopped completely, and the medic turned to Hovan with what sounded, to the Ranger's limited experience, like an angry question. Hovan's reply changed the medic's expression. He checked the wound, cleaned it, then held the edges together and sprayed it with something cool and gray. The Traiti version of synthiskin, probably, Tarlac thought.
Afterwards the medic checked and cleaned Hovan's cut, but didn't bother with any further treatment. It looked half-healed, whether or not it was.
When the medic was done with Hovan, Tarlac spoke to him. "It feels better already. Thanks."
"He your speech knows not," Hovan told Steve, then said something to the medic in their liquid tongue. When he turned back to the Ranger, he was smiling. "He says you him too much honor give. He has never before a human treated; that you well responded only fortunate was."
"I meant what I said," Tarlac replied. "It may be a minor wound, but I know skill when I see it." He was sincere. The medic had been assured and gentle, clearly a trauma expert, and Tarlac had to assume the easing of pain in his arm could be credited to the synthiskin. That was a technique the humans had so far not developed.
"He you thanks," Hovan said after a further exchange. "But he says you should not so deep have cut. The mixing of blood now only a symbol is."
"I didn't go deep," Tarlac said. "Just enough to nick the vein. You can tell him I'll keep it in mind, though." He smiled at the medic, the only direct communication he could manage, while Hovan translated.
When they left the medical center, Hovan looked thoughtfully at Steve. The man was a guest on this ship, and he was now of Ch'kara—but he was still human, and Hovan was well aware that there were those aboard the Hermnaen who thought honor was no more binding toward humans that it was toward vermin. Steve had the freedom of the ship, and while Hovan was sure nobody would take any overt action, he was equally sure "accidents" could be easily arranged. With a human's delicate build, even a minor accident could prove fatal.
"Steve, ruhar," he said at last, "I must you caution. Not all crewmembers of this adoption approve, even though it was by the Lords decreed, and some may you ill wish. You may choose, but it would best be if you with me stay, or with my men."
Tarlac was sure he detected real concern in the deep soft voice. This time yesterday, if they'd met in battle, Hovan would have killed him without hesitation, and vice versa. Now, he realized with surprise, he was convinced the Traiti would protect him as swiftly from his own people, if necessary.
He wondered if joining Clan Ch'kara had made him closer "kin" to Hovan than non-Ch'kara Traiti were. That, he was to learn, was exactly the case, and was also the reason the military seldom allowed n'ruhar to serve closely together. Clan ties were so strong that not even the strictest military discipline could overcome them.
All the Ranger had to go on now, however, was his own judgement, and that told him to trust Hovan. "Ruhar, I don't know enough about Traiti ways to make an intelligent choice. I'll do whatever you recommend."
Hovan stopped and turned toward the green-uniformed human. "Ruhar, you do me honor. Stay, then, with me." And, gently, he touched one hand, claws fully extended, to the side of Steve's throat. His claws were to protect, not to harm, his clanmate.
Tarlac saw the gesture as it began and waited for it, unflinching. He didn't move, even at Hovan's slow smile; he sensed reassurance, not threat. Why was he adapting so quickly—so easily!—to Traiti patterns? How could he adapt so easily? Especially since he was almost totally ignorant about them? Dammit, humans and Traiti had been at war for years, and he was human in everything but the past day's experiences!
Well, he was adapting; that was another fact he had to accept. He returned Hovan's smile and touched one of the deadly claws. "I'm in your hands."
Morning at Ch'kara's main clanhome on Norvis came in the middle of Hovan's sleep period. Preferring to disturb his own rest rather than his Clan Mother's, Hovan had the duty Communications operator place his call then. Contact was almost immediate on the clan-priority call, and Ka'ruchaya Yarra must have been waiting; she was on the screen before she could have been summoned. Hovan greeted her respectfully, sure that his expression gave away his news before he could speak it.
It did. Yarra returned his greeting, then said, "We have a new ruesten, Cor'naya?"
"Yes, Ka'ruchaya. Esteban Tarlac, called Steve." Hovan gave her a brief yet complete account of everything that had happened since Steve had come aboard, finishing, "He has much to learn, Ka'ruchaya, and he may make mistakes, but he is true Ch'kara. He will not dishonor the clan."
"We can expect no more," Yarra said, smiling. "You carried out your trust as well as I was sure you would, Hovan. You have my thanks."
Hovan accepted the compliment with pleasure, then asked anxiously, "Have my n'ka'ruhar and our n'esten left yet?"
Yarra nodded reassuringly. "Do not concern yourself, ruesten. The younglings you share, and those you share them with, will be leaving for Homeworld tomorrow. I held the ship until I heard from you, to give them the news myself. They will still get to Homeworld before you do."
"I was not truly worried, Ka'ruchaya … but my thanks. It has been a long time."
"I know. And I am sure this is your sleep time. I will not keep you from your mat any longer. Dream well, ruesten."
"I will, Ka'ruchaya. Farewell."
With that, the contact ended, and Hovan went to dreams of the coming reunion that were as pleasant as anyone could wish. Most of the next week and a half saw Hovan and Tarlac together continuously, the Ranger getting a crash course in all the basics of a Traiti clan, from Language to customs and courtesies. The Ordeal was neither short nor continuous, so he would be part of Traiti society for some time, both aboard the Hermnaen and on Homeworld. The more he knew about his adopted clan and culture, the better.
Even without that consideration, Tarlac was delighted at the opportunity for such studies. An acute case of curiosity was another part of being a Ranger, and the few fragments he'd picked up at first only increased his interest. He wondered for a while at their lack of teaching tapes, which meant he had to memorize everything the hard way, but that was fairly minor. His only problem with it was that he didn't expect to have everything perfect by the time they landed. Hovan agreed, but assured him nobody would expect perfection, only that he learn enough to avoid giving serious offense.
The first lesson, reasonably enough, dealt with military customs, and Tarlac found out that wearing his gun had meant respect to the Traiti, not a threat. They had classed Rangers with the military, as fighters—and for one fighter to voluntarily meet others unarmed was a deadly insult. The Traiti were aware that there was no way Tarlac could have known that custom, but even so, the fact that he had come to them armed was seen as a good omen.
Language took more time, but was essential since not many Traiti spoke Imperial English at all, and even fewer spoke it as well as Arjen and Hovan. Tarlac found Language a challenge. English had become universal on Terra and its colonies, even where other languages were spoken; he'd never had to speak anything else, though he'd learned to read the cloudcats' tongue-talk.
And what the Traiti called simply Language had little in common with English. The most obvious difference was its tonality, much to Tarlac's frustration and Hovan's amusement. While the Ranger enjoyed and could appreciate music, he'd never done any serious singing; it took days for him to learn to make his voice do what he wanted it to.
But they didn't spend all their time working. Hovan was proud of his ship, and spent much of their leisure showing Steve the Hermnaen and its crew. Even though the flagship was considerably smaller than a Sovereign-class cruiser, there was a lot to show; it was still a full-scale battlewagon. Tarlac was particularly interested in the small, one-man harassment craft it carried, and since Hovan had flown one of them in combat several times, his interest was just as intense and far more personal. It took only one close-up look, though, for Tarlac to understand why such tiny craft were so surprisingly effective.
Barely twelve meters long, the ships humans had labelled "hornets" were nothing more than a beam weapon and its power pack, with a propulsor and basic life-support system wrapped around it and given some armor and ablative shielding. It couldn't stand up to a hit from even a secondary disruptor, so a single hornet posed only a minimal threat to any Imperial ship larger than a courier—but they were normally launched in groups, used to saturate their opponent's defenses, letting the main battlecraft use its heavier weaponry in an all-out attack.
It was an effective tactic, one which had cost the Empire far too many lives and ships. The Empire didn't know it also cost Traiti lives. Imperial experts believed the little harassment craft were computer-controlled, because of their precise maneuvering and persistent attacks. It didn't really matter; the results were all that counted. Unless, of course, the Ranger added grimly to himself, you happened to be one of the pilots.
Tarlac also found out how the fighters maintained their individual combat proficency at maximum. There was a constant series of one-on-one challenge matches that were as much entertainment as training for the crew. Every fighter on active duty, from Fleet-Captain Arjen to the lowest-ranking commando, was expected to take part, and did so with considerable enthusiasm and usually-friendly rivalry. Standings were hotly contested, and were seldom related to the participant's rank or clan status—though Hovan was rated third in the Fleet.
The matches awed Tarlac, despite what he knew of Traiti endurance and strength. They might be fought with shortswords, or knives, or teeth and claws, at the match judge's option, but rules were minimal and it was perfectly acceptable for a fighter who lost a weapon to continue the match unarmed, no holds barred, until a clear winner emerged. That seldom happened without one or both contestants being wounded, though the judge would stop a match before anyone was maimed or killed.
While he was a very interested spectator, Tarlac didn't participate in either the betting or the matches, which meant that few of the Traiti considered him a real fighter. He was regarded, he thought, as they would regard a youngling who called himself a fighter to impress his elders: with amused tolerance.
And that, Tarlac admitted to Hovan later, was very probably why he accepted when, three days out of Homeworld, a Fire Control operator named Valkan challenged him. It was the only reason he could think of for his impulsive acceptance, that he resented being treated like a child. He certainly hadn't done it because he thought he would be able to defeat his massive opponent.
By the time the match in progress was over, word of the challenge and acceptance had spread throughout the ship. The grapevine, Tarlac reflected, must be the universe's most effective communications net for Traiti as well as humans. Almost all the off-duty crew gathered in the exercise hall to watch the uneven contest. Most were silent, though a few called encouragement to one combatant or the other, and there was the usual murmur of bets being placed as Tarlac and Valkan removed their shirts and weapons belts.
Tarlac accepted the dagger Hovan offered, getting the feel of it while his sponsor and Valkan spoke to the match judge. There was no question in his mind that what he held was intended as a weapon. Its slim double-edged blade was a quarter meter long, and the hilt, despite being a bit large for his hand, settled easily into the diagonal grip that allowed maximum effectiveness. All in all, the well-balanced blade had a deadly, efficient beauty.
When the brief discussion with the judge was over, Hovan gave Tarlac his ruling. "He as I hoped decided, Steve. This will a knife fight be, since that more skill than strength requires. And for your safety, the judge has two conditions made. If you disarmed are, or if Valkan a good grip on you gets, he an automatic win earns. Otherwise you will both tournament points score, and the first to one hundred reach, wins."
The Ranger nodded. "That sounds reasonable. I'm ready." He'd noticed Hovan's failure to mention any automatic win for him, and grinned briefly at the omission. He might not be likely to win, but he was determined to give it a good try. He faced Valkan and dropped into a knife-fighter's crouch as Hovan stepped back into the audience and the match judge took his place, giving the signal to begin.
Human and Traiti circled cautiously, evaluating each other. Hovan watched, hoping the judge's precautions would be adequate, though he didn't suspect Valkan of any true hostility toward Steve—not after seeing the K'horan fighter's reaction when Steve accepted challenge. Valkan had been disconcerted, had seemed to want to call off a joke that had backfired, but he couldn't do so without loss of honor. Hovan did have some sympathy for him; he could imagine very clearly how he would be feeling in Valkan's place. He'd want to win, but without doing the human any real harm; it wouldn't be right to send anyone into the Ordeal injured. And he'd be having qualms about fighting the man at all. Steve was an adult fighter, a legal opponent—but Valkan would have to feel as if he were facing an underdeveloped youngling.
Tarlac neither knew about nor shared the Traiti's misgivings. He watched Valkan's moves closely, trying to spot a weakness. He could see none, and decided that if Valkan did have an Achilles' heel, it was psychological. The Traiti's bearing and moves were graceful—and confident.
The Ranger suppressed an urge to smile slightly at that. Of course Valkan was confident! He was taller, had a longer reach, and was accustomed to such matches. But if Tarlac could feed his opponent's confidence until it overwhelmed his caution … he'd only get one opening, at that…
He got the chance to begin putting his plan into effect almost immediately. The Traiti made the first move, lunging for Tarlac's chest. The Ranger dodged, Valkan's blade cutting air less than a centimeter from his skin. His counterattack was a split second too slow to give a disabling slash to Valkan's other arm.
It went on like that for the better part of ten minutes: the human escaping serious injury by what seemed pure luck, his attacks at most nicking his opponent. He was being steadily outpointed, and seemed to be tiring fast.
Hovan watched Steve's losing battle with concern that rapidly became dismay. If this was the Ranger's best, he would have little chance to survive his Ordeal. Granted, he was overmatched, but he shouldn't be moving so clumsily, gasping for breath, so soon!
And then Hovan saw Valkan decide to end it quickly. Steve was obviously near the end of his strength, but he continued to fight even when he had no chance of victory; that did him honor. Then the exhausted human stumbled to one knee with his head and shoulders slumped. Valkan moved in.
His breath rasping audibly, Tarlac watched legs and feet approach. When they were about a meter away, he surged into a forward lunge under the Traiti's blade, bringing his own weapon flashing up to rest with the tip just under Valkan's ribs, angled to stab unopposed into his heart.
The exercise hall was silent, the unexpected move catching even the match judge by surprise; it was a few immobile seconds before he could declare Tarlac the winner.
Breathing easily, since he no longer needed that deception, Tarlac listened to a growing murmur he wasn't quite sure was approval. He was reassured by Hovan's smile as he returned the dagger to his sponsor, then resumed his shirt and belt. He turned apprehensively to Valkan. How would this Traiti react? If he was one of those who opposed the adoption… He almost flinched when a clawed hand touched his shoulder, and the other clasped his right wrist. But there was no hostility in the soft, lilting voice that addressed him, and Valkan was smiling.
"He says that you more dangerous are than you seem," Hovan translated. "And he says that if you not Ch'kara were already, his Ka'ruchaya might have wished, you into K'horan invite."
Hovan was impressed himself. He had expected Steve to lose, if only after giving a creditable account of himself. That he had managed a win at all was barely believable; that it had happened so decisively would make this match well-remembered. And Hovan was less worried about Steve's chances in the Ordeal. Steve must truly be guided by the Lords.
Tarlac returned Valkan's wrist-clasp and replied in one of the Language phrases he'd learned. "You do me honor," he said, and Valkan had: adoptions were unusual, perhaps five to eight in a year for an average-sized clan like the fifteen-thousand-member one he now belonged to.
"But tell them all," Tarlac went on to Hovan in English, "I don't think I'd care to try it again. It's a stunt that worked once. I'm sure it'd never work a second time, and I'm not crazy enough to try it when they know what to expect."
That, when Hovan translated, drew a roar of approval. These were fighters, stark realists all, who could understand and appreciate an honest evaluation of chances. Tarlac's statement, after he'd just finished a knife match unscathed and victorious, was taken as just such an evaluation.
Those who'd bet on him had very good reason to be appreciative; they'd gotten excellent odds, and some would gain clan status for their daring in backing such an underdog. The losers were even more impressed by the human's victory. Even those spectators who still thought most humans incapable of honor were making an exception for Steve Tarlac. In a sense, after all, he couldn't really be called human any more. He'd been adopted by Clan Ch'kara and had proven himself in the matches, which was evidence enough that he was Traiti in spirit, if not in body.
Once he understood it, Tarlac appreciated the sentiment, but he didn't share it. That evening, when he and Hovan were temporarily alone in the sleep-room, he admitted as much. "Hovan, I'm doing the best I can, but I'm not a Traiti. I'm human, and after that fight, I don't know if my best is going to be good enough."
Hovan studied his human ruhar for several minutes without saying anything. He had mingled blood with this man, and though the exchange had been more symbolic that substantial, he felt oddly close to him, closer than to any but the n'ka'ruhar he had shared young with. Steve's sudden self-doubt disturbed him, given what he'd learned about the man. And an attitude of expected defeat was nothing to take into a trial as strenuous and demanding as the Ordeal. But what could he say to help? There was no denying the danger Steve faced, and trying to minimize it would be doing the man a disservice.
There was little he could say, and less he could do, to raise the man's spirits. He would be lending Steve the same kind of emotional support he had received from his own Ordeal sponsor, whenever and wherever tradition allowed it. For now, that was terribly limited, yet he would do what he could. He moved to sit close to the human, not touching him in this out-clan place, and spoke softly. "Ruhar"—the intonation meant "brother/friend"—"there no dishonor in fear, or in failure of the Ordeal, is. And I certain am that you will not fail. You Ch'kara have, whatever in this happens."
Tarlac felt his tension ease momentarily at that assurance, borrowing comfort from Hovan's nearness. It wasn't fear for himself, as much as fear for the Empire and Traiti alike, that held him. Only stubbornnness kept him from succumbing to the awful vision of a dead Homeworld, of Imperial genocide. It made him want to retreat to childhood, to find solace in his sponsor's strength as he had once found it in his father's.
He couldn't. He couldn't share what he knew, that if he died in failure the Traiti race would not long survive him.
And he was certain, without reason, that he would die.
The Hermnaen was alone when it neared Homeworld's defense perimeter. Arjen's fleet, under Acting Fleet-Captain Jannor, had returned to the combat zone, and the extra ships had been ordered back to their regular duties.
Tarlac and Hovan were seated at two of the control central supervisor consoles, watching the repeater screen. The Ranger never grew tired of watching planetary approaches, even on a screen instead of through a lander's windows. There was something awe-inspiring about watching a world grow from a featureless point to a globe boasting continents and seas—though cloud cover obscured most details on Terra-type worlds.
The Hermnaen descended slowly, gently, on null-grav, and the globe grew until it was beneath them, rather than ahead. Clouds like snow-softened mountains showed rifts, then gave way to clear skies as the flagship let down toward a city-sized spaceport. The guide beam brought them to a precision landing near the central control building.
Leave for combat crews was automatic any time a warship made friendly planetfall, and Homeworld was the only place where that meant everyone could go to his own clanhome. That it was a branch home, in most cases, didn't matter; being in-clan was what counted. Ship-Captain Exvani, as anxious as anyone to rejoin his family, had called ahead so that every clan with a member aboard the Hermnaen could send transportation, and the ship emptied without delay.
Less than ten minutes after landing, Hovan and Tarlac and the other three members of Ch'kara who'd been at the adoption were being greeted by the driver of a large cream-and-green null-grav car. She was the first Traiti female that Tarlac, and as far as he knew, any human, had ever seen.
She was only slightly less massive than the males, yet she was undeniably attractive by Traiti standards, as he knew from the art he'd studied, and she had an air of lithe grace. Tarlac, though he knew it was inappropriate, found she made him think of a Valkyrie. She was no fighter, couldn't possibly be if all he'd learned about the Traiti was correct, but she gave the impression of a warrior maiden.
Seated between the driver and Hovan, Tarlac had a sudden feeling of belonging here; despite his misgivings, he liked it. He'd already decided, since there was no way to ignore his apprehension, to refuse to let himself be distracted by his fear. He couldn't afford it. While he still knew almost nothing about the Ordeal he'd agreed to take, he had no doubt that it would call on every resource he had.
In the meantime, he'd learned enough to know that his original idea about the status of females was not just mistaken but laughable. Yes, they were only a fourth of the Traiti population, cherished and protected from any possible harm, and even a discussion of endangering one unnecessarily bordered on obscenity. But they weren't considered, as he'd wrongly speculated, either inferior in any way, or as breeding stock or valuable property. Far from it. If anything, they had more status than any males except the n'Cor'naya, the Honored Ones who'd passed the Ordeal. They were responsible for both religion and clan life, things which were far more important to the Traiti than humans had guessed.
The clans, not warfare, were the center of Traiti culture. And yet, even with females running those two vital areas, it wasn't a matriarchy. Males ran commerce and, obviously, the military; in other fields such as science or the arts, gender had no bearing. The combination made for a "government," if you felt generous about the definition, that couldn't possibly work for humans. Not even if it had been imposed by a god, as Hovan assured Tarlac it had. There were two rulers, the male Supreme who was exactly that in secular affairs, and the female First Speaker for the Circle of Lords, equally powerful in religious matters.
But those two acted only when something concerned the entire race. Everything else was handled on a clan level, from education to deep-space colonization. Despite Hovan's attempts to explain, Tarlac didn't quite understand how some of what the Traiti had accomplished could be done on such a seemingly casual basis, and he could only suppose they would find the human bureaucracy equally puzzling.
The two civilizations were most similar, ironically enough, in the structure of their military forces. Even that was largely on the surface; any military required a clear chain of command. Otherwise . . . the clans cooperated to produce both commercial ships and warcraft, and in crewing them, with the crew members supported by their individual clans. Then, under the Supreme's command, the war fleets defended the race.
Tarlac shrugged and turned his attention to his surroundings. The spaceport, so much like its Imperial counterparts, was behind them and they were approaching the capital city. Hovan had described it, so Tarlac knew what to expect: large, relatively low buildings, none over three stories high, set apart from each other in almost parklike surroundings. In several of the larger buildings they passed, females stood at the central doors; they were the clan's sub-Mothers, though rarely—when this was the clan's main home—it might be the Ka'ruchaya herself waiting to formally welcome her clan-children.
Tarlac enjoyed the drive and the scenery. It reminded him of a Terran college campus or an Irschchan town, though with a greater similarity to Terra since Homeworld's sky was blue, not green. The air smelled good, clean and alive after the flatness of recycled ship's air, and he could tell the Traiti liked it as much as he did.
They passed a shopping area, where the buildings were more brightly colored and closer together, yet still not crowded, and the Terran got his first look at groups of Traiti civilians. Most were closed-shirt males who hadn't earned Honor scars, but he saw some females, one with an infant, and a few n'Cor'naya. All wore loose-fitting, brightly colored clothing, though there was no other uniformity of dress. Styles varied by clan and by individual taste, from what most Imperials would consider barely decent to full-coverage robes.
They did have one other thing in common. Much to Tarlac's amazement, all seemed genuinely cheerful. He turned to his sponsor. "Don't they know how the war's going?"
"Of course." Hovan was surprised by the question. "Such things must in honor known be. Why? Do yours not know?"
"Sure they do," Tarlac replied. "But we're winning—we don't have any reason to be depressed."
"Sadness would no good do," Hovan said calmly. "What the Lords decree, is." He looked around. "This area familiar seems … we should the clanhome nearing be. I have only once to Homeworld been, though, so I cannot sure be."
His memory was accurate; less than a minute later, the car came to a halt in front of one of the branch clanhome buildings. It was of average size, perhaps a quarter-kilometer on a side—plenty of room for the five hundred or so who represented Ch'kara on Homeworld. It would be good, Hovan thought, simply to be back in-clan, back in the closeness and peace he valued so highly—and there was Ka'ruchaya Yarra's promise. He looked at Steve, pleased to see the man's expression was calm and interested.
Tarlac indicated the female standing motionless in front of the open door and asked quietly, "Ka'chaya Yvian?"
"Yes, of—" Hovan broke off as he glanced upward, inhaling with a hiss through surprise-thinned nostrils. "Yarra! She here came?"
Tarlac recalled one of the fine points of custom he'd learned, that the Clan Mother very rarely left the main clanhome, and then only if it was important to the clan's survival or honor. That Yarra was here, now, could only be because of him, to show she regarded her alien es'ruesten, her new clan-child, as fully one of Ch'kara.
It was something he hadn't expected; it was an honor, and it added to his determination to succeed in the Ordeal, to bring credit to his adopted clan. He climbed out of the car with the others and followed them up the steps to accept her formal welcome. The Ranger, ranking almost at the top in the Terran Empire, was the only one in the group without Honor scars, so he ranked lowest here. When the others bowed, holding out dagger hilts so the Ka'ruchaya could touch those and then her n'ruesten, Tarlac knelt as was proper for an unscarred male, drawing his blaster and extending its grip. He was pleased when she welcomed him as she had them, touching the blaster's grip and then his forehead.
Still kneeling, he looked up. "Ka'ruchaya, Hovan says you speak English, so I want you to know firsthand that I had to qualify my oath to the clan. I don't want to be accepted under the wrong assumptions. I took my oath as a Ranger of the Empire first, and that obligation will always be first for me."
"Yes, I English speak," Yarra replied, "and I your reservation understand. I that expected, in one Hovan would worthy of adoption find. You must, of course, that first oath first honor." She smiled, and raised him to his feet. "I will to you later speak, ruesten. Now come. You n'ruhar have to meet, after you are to the Lords introduced."
Tarlac holstered his blaster, following his Clan Mother and clanmates into the building. The entranceway was about ten meters square, with halls to either side and double doors straight ahead leading to the clanhome's heart, the gathering hall. When the double doors slid open, Tarlac couldn't see much except Traiti. The hall was filled with them, leaving only one open lane down the center of the room. He knew what the hall looked like, from Hovan's descriptions: a hundred meters wide by a hundred and fifty deep, and unlike the rest of the clanhome, undecorated. Its only furnishing, except for special occasions, was the silvery two-tiered altar opposite the entrance. The clan's Speaker for the Circle of Lords, Daria, waited there to introduce Tarlac to the Traiti gods.
He smiled at that. He and Hovan had, inevitably, touched on religion in their discussions, and Hovan had found his agnosticism at first baffling, then amusing. It seemed the Traiti took their gods pretty much for granted, absolutely certain of their reality but expecting nothing from them other than acceptance at death. Hovan had finally given up on that debate with the extended-claw gesture that was roughly equivalent to a shrug, saying that Steve would learn.
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 gods 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 gods— three of whom were actually, by his definition, goddesses—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 glasses 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 glasses 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 glasses 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 masses 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 glass 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 ungodly 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 reassuring 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 glass 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 assistance, 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.
Tarlac put it on, seeing immediately that his badge was already pinned to the shirt. Wearing something other than a uniform felt strange—he hadn't worn anything else in public since the war started—but one uniform certainly wouldn't last forever, and he still didn't know how long the Ordeal would take. Or what it consisted of.
The clothes fit well, though sleeves and trouser legs were a good ten centimeters too short by Terran standards. Apparently it was good style in Ch'kara, though, since Hovan's fit the same way. Tarlac's gun wasn't there, probably in storage with his uniform; instead, he'd been given a knife very similar to the one he'd used in the challenge match aboard the Hermnaen. "I gather you borrowed these from a youngling?"
"Yes. And Sandre them tailored, you to fit. Now come. Food ready for you is, then I must your education begin. Much there is you have to learn, before you the Ordeal begin."
"Such as?" Tarlac asked. Maybe he'd finally find out what he'd gotten himself into.
"Forestcraft, of course, and—" Hovan broke off. "By the Lords! I never did you tell, even of the parts I now can. I must your pardon ask."
They were out of the infirmary, walking down a wide tapestry-hung corridor. "You've got it, if you'll tell me whatever you can. Wilderness survival is part of it?"
"Yes, and you know not this world's life. Then there the Vision is, if you one granted are, and you of the Scarring know."
"Yeah, I hurt just thinking about that part. It's in that order?"
"It may be, yes. The first it not my place to discuss is, and the Scarring always last is. The other three parts may in any order be. I cannot you of one of them tell, because it would by foreknowledge influenced be."
Tarlac could understand that, though it didn't quiet his curiosity. "At least I know more about it now than I did when I agreed to take it."
"The Fleet-Captain you nothing told?"
"Oh, sure. He told me that according to the First Speaker, if I did take it and live, I'd be able to bring an honorable peace for both sides. That didn't leave me much choice."
"The Lords this of you asked?" Hovan said, impressed. "I knew that not."
"If that's what he meant, yes." Tarlac didn't believe in the Lords, but Hovan did; it wouldn't hurt to agree.
Hovan smiled widely. "So you us life in honor bring. That good is."
"If I live." Tarlac frowned. "Hovan … I don't think I will live. I haven't thought so since I boarded your ship, and since the fight, I've been certain of it. This Ordeal's going to kill me." He paused and shrugged, wondering at his own calm. "Oh, that won't keep me from trying. Maybe just trying will be enough to do what the First Speaker said, I don't know. Hell, I don't even know how I'm supposed to bring peace if I do live!"
"Since the Lords this asked," Hovan said calmly, "you should not so many doubts have. They nothing ask unless it possible is. And after you the fight won, I certain am that they intend not for you to fail."
"I won the fight by a trick," Tarlac said bleakly. "I won't live through the Ordeal by a trick."
Hovan stopped and took Steve by the shoulders. "Why did you not all this say when it first you troubled? I your sponsor am."
"I couldn't. It was something I had to come to terms with by myself." Tarlac found himself suddenly wishing he had mentioned it that night, had given in to his urge to seek comfort. "I … I've been a Ranger for fifteen years, Hovan. Almost half my life. I just … I couldn't—"
Hovan shook him with controlled ease, just enough to silence him. "You of Ch'kara now are, Steve, and in-clan. Yourself be, not another's image. That not a weakness is."
"What? I—"
"To me listen, ruhar. Everyone help needs, sometimes. That does not weakness show, or shame bring." Hovan released Steve's shoulders, and put his arms around the man instead, giving Tarlac the feeling of being held by something with the weight and patient strength of an oak tree. "Let me your troubles ease, as my sponsor mine eased."
Feeling himself part of a family for the first time since adolescence, Steve Tarlac gave in, letting loneliness and detachment melt out of him in long-delayed tears. When he couldn't push the fear aside any longer and it took over, he shook in Hovan's embrace with terror of a failure that would cost more than any mortal should be asked to bear.
He couldn't avoid the risk, or the fear; all he could do was rage at the sheer injustice of it. Part of him knew that wouldn't do any good, but he couldn't help himself. He clung to his sponsor for what felt like an eternity, buffeted by the terror and impossible conflict.
Hovan supported him, sharing what he could of the man's turbulence and offering strength to help him accept the rest. The Lords never asked the impossible—but they never asked anything easy, either, and this was only the first part of what Steve would have to endure. Still, Steve had already managed to endure loneliness a Traiti would have found unbearable, and had concealed his terror until he was urged to accept help; he would work his way through this.
Gradually, the Ranger's emotional stability returned, and he knew that was due in no little part to Hovan's support. When the worst of his internal storm had passed, he felt purged—still certain he would die, but now accepting the fear instead of ignoring it so that it ate blindly at his confidence. He rested for a moment more, then looked up at his sponsor. "It's okay now."
"You no longer alone are," Hovan said, releasing him. "As I you told when you adopted were, all Ch'kara you supports. Come now; you should something eat."
The brisk return to a favorite, and practical, Traiti subject brought Tarlac all the way back to his current surroundings. "Food?" He thought of the earlier nausea, and shook his head. "I don't know about that, just yet."
"It best for you is, after the medicine you took. Then, if you ready are, the Supreme and First Speaker will you receive."
"Okay, I'll give it a try. That's one meeting I'm really looking forward to."