smelter at the ironworks, of Grunta
“I work the hearths at Grunta and try to keep my head down. The heat is terrible, but the squabbling among the lads is worse.”
Things Nicholas the Maw had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of Whitsun, at Terce
I cannot leave the hearth to give Robert water, and he is shaking worse than ever. I have a good lump of silver ore hidden in my tunic for any reliable soul who will check on him three times a day.
Nota scribaeHe looked over his shoulder twice while whispering of the hidden ore.
the feast of St Mark, at Prime
My last worn tapping bar is going to snap. If Tobias sees it break, he will cast me out with no wage. I pray Walter or Simon the Bull will finally return the rake and the bar I lent them.
I still cannot find it, Nicholas. It must be buried under the slag. Just use what you have.
I need it a few days more, lad. Stop wringing your hands over it.
But it cost me a month's work to buy, Walter, I beg you.
the second day of Easter week, at Compline
The shed is full of hoarding whoresons. Tobias says we bring our own tools or lose our wage, so now Heinz is keeping Frantishek's irons and Ernest's tongs to protect himself. I just want peace so a man can sleep without breathing black phlegm.
I am just protecting my own wages, you soft fool. Master Tobias will sack us all if we cannot work.
Tell him to give me my tongs back before I break his nose in his sleep.
Nota scribaeDictated as he was coughing a thick black substance onto the dirt floor.
the Tuesday after St Gregory, at None
Poor Robert is shivering on his pallet with a foul fever, missing his shift. I remember how the lung rot took his brother Bynyek last autumn. I will work double at the furnace so Master Tobias does not notice and sack the old man.
You are a good lad, Nicholas, but you will kill yourself working two hearths at once.
Candlemas, at Vespers
Bloody hell, the wet ore burst the secondary hearth today. Steam and cooling slag everywhere. In the blind panic, I lent my spare tapping bar to Walter and a fine slag rake to Simon the Bull. God grant we do not have another blast tomorrow.
Much obliged, Nicholas. I will hand it back when the mess is cleared up.
Aye, thanks. My own rake was buried under the stone when the hearth gave way.
Nota scribaeThe man kept wringing his blackened hands over my table while speaking.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I will do it for the silver, Nicholas. I am off shift until tomorrow.