procurator for the Sedletz monastery, of Kuttenberg
“I am the appointed procurator for Sedletz monastery, burdened with preserving records in a town of hammers and dirt.”
Things Kunz Neumann had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday before Whitsun, at Vespers
Another piece of the ceiling has fallen upon my tithe records. I have written to the widow Eleanor three times this season demanding a carpenter, and she ignores every one. It is a profound disgrace that a woman of common extraction can dictate the comfort of the abbey's appointed man.
the feast of Saint John before the Latin Gate, at Sext
The new Pipe Master, Hannes Fuchs, is weeping by the dry fountain again. He desires the monastery's parchment plans of the conduits to find a leak. I shall certainly not surrender them to a soft stranger from Prague who lacks the dignity of a proper town officer.
The town needs water! You are a cruel and stubborn man, keeping those parchments locked away.
You town folk are all the same, fighting over water pipes while we scratch the dirt in Bylany.
Nota scribaeThe man paused twice to sigh deeply and rub his temples with his index fingers.
the third day of Easter week, at None
My clerk Gilbert and I have spent the entire day arguing over the Golden Legend. He calls the account of Saint Anne's three marriages scandalous apocrypha, ignoring Emperor Charles IV himself. The boy's stubborn ignorance is infuriating, though correcting him exercises my education.
It is apocrypha, master, and no emperor's endorsement changes the text of the scholars.
Hold your tongue and return to your copying, Gilbert.
the Wednesday after Laetare Sunday, at Terce
I walked to the edge of the abbey's holdings this afternoon, carefully avoiding the noise and dirt of the silver washing troughs. The miners here are rough, unlettered brutes who drink away their silver and cause trouble. I am profoundly thankful for my education.
We dig the silver that pays for your expensive candles and fine words, you sour old badger.
the morrow of Candlemas, at Prime
I hear Reginald the Pipe Master was killed on the Kolin road. He kept the conduit routes in his head rather than writing them down. Now I am left holding the sole copy of the deeds and the map in my iron-locked chest, safe from fools.
Reginald was a proper local man who did not put on airs. God rest him.
I curse his memory for not leaving better notes. Please, Master Neumann, I need to see the map.
Nota scribaeDictated at his desk while carefully checking the iron lock on a heavy wooden chest.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
I will move the chest away from the draughts again tonight, father.
If you paid more for the room, perhaps I would have the coin to hire a carpenter.