hewer in the silver workings, of Kuttenberg
“I dig silver out of the dirt so fat merchants can line their pockets, and the bosses give me nothing but barren rock for it.”
Things Alan had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
That Prague whoreson Hannes Fuchs is weeping by the dry fountain again. Sakra, it warms my heart to see him sweat. He gets a fat council wage to know his trade. If the stranger wants to know where the water comes from, he can give me ten groschen.
Nota scribaeDictated outside the tavern. The subject spat on my shoe.
the third day of Easter week, at Sext
Kunz Neumann is crying about a leaking roof at his lodging. Kurva, it is God's own judgment on a greedy scholar. He and his Sedletz monks sit fat on good land while working men starve in the dark for pennies.
My landlady Eleanor is the one at fault, you ignorant dirt-digger. And I am a procurator, not a monk.
You all look the same when you're counting our groschen, you fat leech.
the Monday after Laetare Sunday, at Compline
Since St Blaise's Day my seam has yielded nothing but barren rock. I am breaking my back for dust and the bosses pay strictly by weight. Prokop and Bartholomew deliberately put me on a dead vein, the bastards. The devil and his grandmother take them both!
Nobody put you there out of spite, Alan. It is the luck of the rock.
Keep swinging your pick or go hungry, I have no better spot for you.
Nota scribaeHe struck his own chest repeatedly while saying this, coughing up dust.
the morrow of St Matthias, at Prime
Christopher and Konrad snore loud enough to wake the dead. A man works all day in the dark and cannot even sleep on his own straw pallet without his ears ringing. I should have spent my last groschen at the alehouse instead of coming back to this crowded cellar.
If you hate it so much, go sleep in your barren mineshaft.
You were snoring just as loud after all that cheap beer, you hypocrite.
the day after Candlemas, at Terce
Old Reginald was a proper Kuttenberg man. We were drinking together on St Agnes's Eve before he took the Kolin road. He told me the Pipe Master's job would go to a local, not some outsider. Now the highwaymen have killed him and the council betrayed us all.
I meant every word, lad. Keep the secrets safe from the foreigners.
Amen. Up in heaven there'll be no Prague men troubling you, Reginald.
Nota scribaeDictated with a heavy sigh and a smell of stale beer.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
Have you no Christian charity, man? I am doing all I can. Reginald left no notes!
Keep him away from the brook at Bylany, he'll only muddy it.