hewer at the Saint Barbara shaft, of Kuttenberg
“I dig silver out of the dark. I try to keep my head above water, sakra, but men always take advantage of my good nature.”
Things Wilhelm had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Tuesday after St John before the Latin Gate, at None
These rented tools from the weighing house are costing me half my wage, and the iron is blunt as a spoon. If Markvart the Hare had a shred of Christian decency he would return my spare pick. I am swinging away in the dark earning pennies.
Nota scribaeHe knocked over the inkwell with a grand wave of his hands while dictating this.
the Friday after Easter, at Vespers
The Easter wages are late, and I have eaten nothing but crusts. At least Master Bynyek is too busy screaming at Jezhek the Gob to look at my tallies. Jezhek fell asleep on watch and cracked a timber. Christ almighty, you would think he wanted to bury us all.
I closed my eyes for a single moment, Wilhelm. You try staying awake after a double shift.
We could all have been crushed. Pay attention next time.
the feast of Saint Gregory, at Prime
Lamprecht the Hog is spitting blood from his gums again, which is foul to look at when a man is trying to eat. Not that I can eat properly anyway, since David has stolen my eating knife. He claims it is payment for one little shift.
One little shift? You were too drunk to stand up, let alone swing a pick. The knife is mine now.
I had a sickness in my stomach! It was a friendly favour, sakra!
Nota scribaeHe spent a long while smoothing his hair before speaking.
the second week of Lent, at Compline
I cannot see a bloody thing down in the shaft. Mathes has my brass lamp and refuses to give it back. I only gave it to him to hold for a few groschen so I could pay Milada's bastard nephew. I am working in pitch black.
A pawn is a pawn, but a sale is a sale. You sold it to me outright, Wilhelm. The brass shines beautifully.
Nota scribaeDictated in a high, whining voice.
the morrow after Candlemas, at Terce
Poor Milada is dead of a chest fever. God rest her soul, she always kept our bellies full. Now her whoreson of a nephew has taken the tavern and says all slates must be wiped clean by Sunday. I am ruined. The bailiff will have my hide.
She was a saint among women. Heaven will be glad of her ale.
We all owe a few pennies, lad. Just pay the man what you have.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You left it lying in the mud, sakra. I rescued the poor thing. A tool belongs to a man who respects it.
I did not leave it in the mud! Give it back, you thief.