Worse, he balked at the duties of a lord. Faile knew those things exactly, as the eldest surviving child of Davram t’Ghaline Bashere, Lord of Bashere, Tyr and Sidona, Guardian of the Blightborder, Defender of the Heartland, Marshal-General to Queen Tenobia of Saldaea. True, she had run away to become a Hunter for the Horn — and then given that up for a husband, which sometimes still stunned her — but she remembered. Perrin listened when she explained, and even nodded his head in the proper places, but trying to make him actually do any of it was like trying to make a horse dance the sa’sara.

Cenn finally ran down in splutters, only just remembering to swallow the invective that bubbled behind his teeth.

"Perrin and I chose to use thatch," Faile said calmly. While Cenn was still nodding in self-satisfaction, she added, "You haven’t finished it, yet." He gave a start. "You seem to have taken on more roofs than you can handle, Master Buie. If ours isn’t done soon, I fear we will have to ask Master Hornval about his tiles." Cenn’s mouth worked in vigorous silence; if she put a tile roof on the manor, others would follow. "I have enjoyed your discourse, but I am sure you would rather finish my roof than waste time in idle conversation, however pleasant."

Lips thinning, Cenn glowered for a moment, then made a sketchy bow. Muttering something unintelligible except for a strangled "my Lady" at the end, he stalked out thumping the bare floor with his stick. The things people found to waste her time. Perrin was going to do his share of this if she had to tie him hand and foot.

The rest were not so provoking. A once-stout woman, her patched flower-embroidered dress hanging on her like a sack, who had come all the way from Toman Head, beyond Almoth Plain, wanted to deal in herbs and cures.