keeper of ledgers, of Kuttenberg
“I am a man of letters, properly recording the wealth of Kuttenberg's merchants. My mind is sharp and my ink is never dry.”
Things Heinz Torwart had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the eve of St Servatius, at Vespers
William Grey is a cook and should stick to his pots. He claims I owe him an ungodly sum from the bone cubes three nights ago. A gentleman's wager, I told him, is an investment in fate, not a debt to be whined about before the whole tavern. If my merchants hear this slander, there will be a reckoning.
Nota scribaeDictated loudly. He knocked over the inkwell halfway through.
the second day of May, at Sext
That joyless wretch Benesh Bell came to my door demanding the Quaestiunculae. Father Dominic gave me that book of rules as a gift, recognizing a fellow scholar who appreciates theology! I told him straight, I will not hand a treasure to a stranger without twenty groschen for my trouble, or a jug of mead to wet my throat.
It was a loan, you drunken fool. Father Dominic needs it back. You have no right to it.
Heinz, my friend, peace. Bring it to the tavern tonight and I will buy you that jug of mead myself.
the Tuesday after Easter, at None
My son Sebastian has a head for numbers, just like his father. He will be a great merchant one day. Every wager I make, every risk I calculate, is for his inheritance. It is a heavy burden, carrying the future of one's bloodline, but a lettered man bears it with grace. If only the dice understood mathematics.
Father, please. Do not throw the dice tonight. Stay home.
The only math the dice know is subtraction, Heinz. Heh heh.
Nota scribaeThe man wept slightly while speaking of his son.
the third day of Lent, at Prime
The roads are thick with soldiers and the price of bread is a scandal. I reviewed the ledgers for a baker yesterday and the margins are pitiful. Even a man of letters feels the pinch when Sigismund's dogs take the flour. I shall need a strong drink to settle my stomach after looking at such dismal numbers.
Aye, the toll on the road from Prague is daylight robbery. The King's peace is gone.
the eve of St Valentine, at Compline
I miss the old beadle, Joseph. We shared many a cup before he went to Prague. He understood the value of a quiet drink and a good story. Now we are left with Benesh Bell, who has all the warmth of his late mother Klara. God rest her soul, but she was a miserable wretch who never smiled.
Do not speak of my mother! She was a saint, and you are a drunkard who cannot keep his ledgers straight.
Let us pray for the dead, Heinz, and perhaps speak a little less of them when the ale is flowing.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You owe me forty groschen, Heinz. Fate didn't throw those dice, you did. Pay up before Friday.
Forty? Mein Gott, your memory is as clouded as your stew. I will see you at Havel's and we shall discuss it like lettered men.