“Don’t you teach the women that trick of concentrating?” Rand asked. “It’s cruel to make them sweat when their men don’t.”

“Most want no part of it,” Taim said curtly. “Their husbands and sweethearts try to teach them, but most refuse even to listen. It might have to do with saidin, you see.”

Rand peered into his mug at the dark wine. He had to feel his way here. No blowing up just because irritation prickled. “I’m pleased to see the recruiting going so well. You said you’d match the Tower . . . the White Tower . . .” White Tower; Black Tower. What would the stories make of that? If there were any. “. . . in less than a year, and if you keep on at this rate, you will. I don’t see how you find so many.”

“Sift enough sand,” Taim said stiffly, “and you will find a few grains of gold eventually. I leave that to others now, except for a trip or two. Damer, Grady, there are a dozen men I can trust alone for a day; they have enough years not to do anything stupid, and there are enough younger men with the strength to make a gateway, if not much more, to accompany the older who don’t. You will have your thousand before the year. What of those I send on to Caemlyn? Have you made an army of them yet? You have your thousand there, and times over.”

“I leave that to Bashere,” Rand said quietly. Taim’s mouth quirked derisively, and Rand set his mug down before it could break in his grip. Bashere was making what he could of them, he understood, in a camp somewhere west of the city; what he could considering that they were, as the Saldaean put it, a ragtag collection of penniless farmers, runaway apprentices and failed craftsmen who had never held a sword, ridden a horse with a saddle or been more than five miles from where they were born. Rand had too much to concern him to worry about the likes of that; he had told Bashere to do what he wanted with them and not bother him unless they ran riot.

Looking at Taim, who was making no effort to hide his disdain, he stuck his hands behind his back, where they clenched into fists. Lews Therin rumbled in the distance, an echo of his anger. “What has gotten into you? You’ve had a burr in your breeches ever since I put those badges on you. Is it something to do with them? If so, I don’t understand. Those men will think more of theirs for seeing you receive yours from the Dragon Reborn. For that matter, they’ll think more of you for it. Maybe you won’t have to keep discipline by clubbing men over the head. Well, what have you to say?” That began well enough, in a calm tone if not exactly mild—he had not intended it to be mild—but along the way his voice grew firmer and louder. Not to a shout, yet that final question cracked like a whip.