Part 9 (2/2)

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, wis.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+rt 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.

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